Violence in Islamic Thought from the Mongols to European Imperialism 9781474413008, 9781474462600, 9781474413015, 9781474413022, 1474413005

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Vi o l e n c e in I s la m i c T ho u g h t from the Mongols to European Imperialism

Edited by

Robert Gleave & István T. Kristó-Nagy

VIOLENCE IN ISLAMIC THOUGHT FROM THE MONGOLS TO EUROPEAN IMPERIALISM

Legitimate and Illegitimate Violence in Islamic Thought Series Editors: István Kristó-­Nagy and Robert Gleave This three-­volume series examines the promotion and condemnation of violence in Islamic thought from the earliest period of Islam to the present day. Asking how violence has been justified by Muslims in the past and in the present, these studies show how violence has been legitimised, normalised or censured by Muslims, tracing the history of the argumentation across time and between regions and traditions. The stale media debate about Islam as a violent or non-­ violent religion is here rejected in favour of a nuanced approach which examines a variety of intellectual disciplines and literatures, examining how violence was processed by Muslim thinkers, such as scholars of law and religion, historians, poets and artists, through time. The result is a striking variety of approaches to violence, and a diversity of conceptions of legitimate and illegitimate violent acts. The series aims to alter how the relationship between violence and Islam is characterised both within and outside of academia. Volume 1: Violence in Islamic Thought from the Qur’ān to the Mongols Volume 2: Violence in Islamic Thought from the Mongols to European Imperialism Volume 3: Violence in Islamic Thought from European Imperialism to the Post-Colonial Era

edinburghuniversitypress.com/series/livit

violence in islamic thought from the mongols to european imperialism Edited by ROBERT GLEAVE and ISTVáN T. KRISTÓ-NAGY The Legitimate and Illegitimate Violence in Islamic Thought Project (www.livitproject.net) funded by the RCUK Global Uncertainties Programme, administered through the Economic and Social Research Council

In memory of Patricia Crone (1945–2015)

Edinburgh University Press is one of the leading university presses in the UK. We publish academic books and journals in our selected subject areas across the humanities and social sciences, combining cutting-­edge scholarship with high editorial and production values to produce academic works of lasting importance. For more information visit our website: edinburghuniversitypress.com © editorial matter and organisation Robert Gleave and István T. Kristó-­Nagy, 2018, 2020 © the chapters their several authors, 2018, 2020 First published in hardback in 2018 Edinburgh University Press Ltd The ­Tun – ­Holyrood Road 12 (2f) Jackson’s Entry Edinburgh EH8 8PJ Typeset in JaghbUni by Servis Filmsetting Ltd, Stockport Cheshire, and printed and bound in Great Britain A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 1 4744 1300 8 (hardback) ISBN 978 1 4744 6260 0 (paperback) ISBN 978 1 4744 1301 5 (webready PDF) ISBN 978 1 4744 1302 2 (epub) The right of the contributors to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted inaccordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 and the Copyright and Related Rights Regulations 2003 (SI No. 2498).

Contents

Dates and Abbreviations List of Figures  1. Introduction Robert Gleave and István T. Kristó-Nagy

vii viii 1

PART I. The Mongols and their Aftermath   2. VIOLENCE AND NON-­VIOLENCE IN THE MONGOL CONQUEST OF BAGHDAD (1258) Michal Biran

15

  3. THE MONGOLS AS THE SCOURGE OF GOD IN THE ISLAMIC WORLD Timothy May

32

 4. YĀSĀ AND SHARĪ‘A. ISLAMIC ATTITUDES TOWARDS THE MONGOL LAW IN THE TURCO-­MONGOLIAN WORLD (FROM THE GOLDEN HORDE TO TIMUR’S TIME) István Vásáry   5. UNACCEPTABLE VIOLENCE AS LEGITIMATION IN MONGOL AND TIMURID IRAN Beatrice Forbes Manz

58

79

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Violence in Islamic Thought Part II. Violence in Religious Thought

  6. RECONCILING IBN TAYMIYYA’S LEGITIMISATION OF VIOLENCE WITH HIS VISION OF UNIVERSAL SALVATION Jon Hoover

107

  7. MORAL VIOLENCE IN AḤKĀM AHL AL-DHIMMA BY IBN QAYYIM AL-­JAWZIYYA Marie Thérèse Urvoy

117

  8. AL-­KARAKĪ, JIHĀD, THE STATE AND LEGITIMATE VIOLENCE IN IMĀMĪ JURISPRUDENCE Robert Gleave

125

Part III. Violence in Philosophical Thought   9. LEGITIMATE AND ILLEGITIMATE VIOLENCE IN ARABIC POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY: AL-­FĀRĀBĪ, IBN RUSHD AND IBN KHALDŪN Miklós Maróth 10. ‘SOFT’ AND ‘HARD’ POWER IN ISLAMIC POLITICAL ADVICE LITERATURE Vasileios Syros

149

165

Part IV. Representing Violence 11. OLD IMAGES IN NEW SKINS: FLAYING IN THE IRANIAN VISUAL TRADITION Iván Szántó

193

12. WARRANT FOR GENOCIDE? OTTOMAN PROPAGANDA AGAINST THE QIZILBASH Colin Imber

204

Bibliography 215 Index 235

DATES AND ABBREVIATIONS

All sole dates are according to the Christian (milādī) calendar. When in pairs, the dates are ordered hijrī/milādī, unless there is a specific reference of shamsī for a hijrī shamsī date (as SH). The various editions of the Encyclopedia of Islam (published by Brill) are abbreviated to EI1, EI2 and EI3 in the notes, with full online references (with weblinks) given in the bibliography. Encyclopedia Iranica (various publishers, but available online) is abbreviated to EIr in the notes, with full online references given in the bibliography.

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FIGURES

1  THE EXECUTION OF MANI, FROM THE GREAT MONGOL SHAHNAME, C. 1335 CE 194 2 LÉON DE LABORDE: THE CITY WALLS OF KONYA (PARIS, 1837) 200 3 GÉRARD DAVID: THE JUDGMENT OF CAMBYSES, 1498 200 4  THE FLAYING OF A POLISH WOMAN IN ISFAHAN (AMSTERDAM, 1678) 201 5 FRONTISPIECE OF JOHANN J. STRAUßENS REISEN DURCH GRIECHENLAND (AMSTERDAM, 1678) 202

CHAPTER

1 Introduction

Robert Gleave* and István T. Kristó-Nagy**

Legitimacy, when challenged, bases itself on an appeal to the past, whilst justification relates to an end that lies in the future. Violence can be justifiable, but it never will be legitimate.1

The implication of Hannah Arendt’s well-­known distinction is that legitimate action must claim to conform to a pre-­existent normative code; justification, on the other hand, is based on the action’s results, seen as serving some higher aim or objective. Her wider argument is, of co urse, that the consequentialist calculus that may justify individual acts of violence can never obliterate their fundamental moral deficiency. For Arendt, carrying out the lesser or necessary evil is never legitimate (i.e., it never conforms to her implied notion of a pre-­existence, fundamental normative code), because for her, a truly rational moral code could never describe violence as something good or just. It may be justified (or, more circumspectly justifiable), but this categorisation is always short term and results driven; it sets no precedent and it has no ‘appeal to the past’ for validation. Even in the face of a great moral evil, an act of violence can, for Arendt, never be purely good. Arendt’s contribution is a recent instalment in a longer history of the ethical evaluation of violence. In European thought, these divisions, in part at * Robert Gleave, University of Exeter, UK (Professor of Arabic Studies and Director of the Legitimate and Illegitimate Violence in Islamic Thought Project). ** István T. Kristó-­Nagy, University of Exeter, UK (2010–13, Research Fellow, Legitimate and Illegitimate Violence in Islamic Thought Project, 2013–, Lecturer in Arabic and Islamic Studies).   1. Hannah Arendt, On Violence (London, 1970), p. 52.

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Violence in Islamic Thought

least, created the twin disciplines of law and politics. The distinctions she draws between justifiable contraventions of a moral code and allowable exceptions to the law would, however, be quite familiar to the ethical discussions of medieval Muslim authors. They are mirrored, to an extent, in the difference between shar‘ (divine law) and siyāsa (pragmatic requirements of governance) in medieval Muslim discourse, where the term siyāsa brackets extra-­legal (non-shar‘) actions, justified primarily on consequentialist grounds.2 That is, they bring benefits to the community, and these must sometimes overrule the (apparent) requirements of the shar‘. It is important to remember, in contrast to Arendt’s framework, violent acts can be found in both shar‘ and siyāsa categories, and hence they may be (using her terms) legitimate or justifiable (or indeed both). This book consists of a series of studies about violent acts in Muslim contexts, whether they were carried out by Muslims or by others, whether they are postulated or actual, whether they have happened, are happening currently or they may take place in the future. The authors of the studies collected here review and analyse the descriptions and assessments of these acts using a broad historical time frame, from Mongol invasions of the thirteenth century ce, to the eve of serious European intervention in the Muslim world in the eighteenth century. Importantly, these violent acts are recorded in compositions (from prosaic documents, to scholarly texts, to works of art), and hence sometimes the discussion cannot be around violence itself alone, but must incorporate how it was represented. It has almost become a fundamental principle in humanities research, now, that the recording of an event encodes an assessment of it. For you, the reader of these studies, a fundamental research question would be whether the representation of these acts of violence (be it textually or visually) is ­special – ­by which I mean: do Muslim authors, when describing violent acts, present them as unusual, peculiar and different from other actions, and therefore subject to specific religious, moral and legal assessment? Does violence occupy a special moral category for Muslim writers through history, which sets violent acts apart from other, more commonplace activities? The possible peculiarity of Muslim assessments of violence was a preoccupation of the Legitimate and Illegitimate Violence in Islamic Thought (LIVIT) research project, of which this collection is but one product. It forms, then, the larger enquiry through which the various case-­study examples presented here can be read. There are, of course, a series of methodological assumptions within this exercise. First, the notion of what constitutes violence in any instance is left   2. See, for example, the account of F. Najjar, ‘Siyasa in Islamic Political Philosophy’, in Islamic Theology and Philosophy: Studies in Honor of George F. Hourani, ed. M. Marmura (Albany, 1984), pp. 92–110.

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Introduction3

unarticulated (although, in the first volume, we used the working definition of ‘any detrimental act performed by a living being against another living being’), and this, as we know, has been the subject of quite some debate in secondary literature from various disciplinary perspectives.3 Apart from the debate over whether the term violence always implies negativity morally (hinted at in Arendt’s discussion), there is also the breadth of the term’s application. It is generally linked to the notion of harm; primarily physical, but non-­physical forms of violence have come to the fore in discussions of late. It can also be linked, both etymologically and conceptually, to the idea of violation. That is, acts of violence illegitimately cross over a person’s natural boundary; in this sense, we can say that the victim has been violated.4 The sanctity of the individual, and the assumption of a right of personal self-­determination, underpin these notions of violence and one, perhaps questionable, result is that it becomes difficult for self-­harm to be viewed as a form of violence. Is violence restricted to physical acts, or can mental or psychological violence be included? Is sexual violence somehow distinctive from other forms of violence, and requires different moral processing? In general, we have allowed each author to work out their own use of the term, either explicitly or implicitly (i.e., through the term’s use in the course) of their analysis. We recognise, however, that the larger theoretical question remains in need of attention. Second, there is a tricky question of whether the compositions (and their creators) analysed in the following chapters themselves have a notion akin to ideas associated with the English term ‘violence’. Violence may be a useful category of analysis for contemporary academics; was it useful as a category for the creative minds with whose compositions we are engaging? Is there a danger of either the anachronistic application of the terms (and their implicit assessments) or, worse, the imposition of conceptions external to a tradition upon the tradition? Ironically, such impositions have themselves been termed intellectually ‘violent’ acts in the modern debate.5 While we have not been doctrinaire about what   3. The literature here is extensive, but interesting accessible recent contributions are by S. Zizek, Violence: Six Sideways Reflections (London, 2008) and R. Bessel, Violence: A Modern Obsession (London, 2015). See also the engaging project www.historiesofviolence.com (accessed 14 December 2016) where the key areas of the current debate are communicated through lectures, podcasts and literature reviews.   4. This is most extensively explored in relation to sexual violence, which deserves extensive and separate treatment on its own, and forms one element of the forthcoming Understanding Shari’a: Perfect Past Imperfect Present project (2016–18) funded by Humanities in the European Research Area ‘Uses of the Past’ Programme, based at the University of Exeter.   5. The most obvious example of the expansion of violence along these lines is G. Spivak’s

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Violence in Islamic Thought

counts as violence, there remains the question of whether violence, however we describe it, can be usefully employed within the study of Muslim civilisation, given that there is no obvious term or notion in the intellectual milieu we address in this volume. We will return to this issue in the introduction to the third and final volume in the series. One could add that the notions of legitimate and justifiable, as used by Arendt and others, reflect a broader tradition of debate around law, expediency and the state that does not neatly fit with the world view of the writers, theologians, historians and artists analysed in the following chapters. Finally, the periodisation used here is, in some ways, synthetic; are the Mongol invasions an artificial initiating point for such a collection? Is there something methodologically suspect in first creating a time period and then enforcing a unified framework for the analysis of these violent phenomena? These are important questions, and addressing them simply by appealing to convenience (‘well we had to begin and end somewhere’) may be in part true, but it is not necessarily justifiable. The framework of the series (Qur’ān–Mongols; Mongols–European– Imperialism; ‘Modern’) is like Marshall Hodgson’s periodisation in its division into three parts,6 but unlike it in that our focus is on violence. These are certainly handy for us: we had funding for three conferences; we had a publishing contract for three books; and we had three sets of ­papers – ­the periodisation naturally fell into place. But there is also a more conceptual ­justification – ­the marker points for beginnings and ends of the three volumes represent disputed, but nonetheless emblematic acts of violence: the career of the Prophet and the early Muslim conquests, the Mongol invasions and the onset of European imperialism. Violence was hardwired into the process of political change, and hence had to be incorporated into the new cultural landscape that flowed from it. It seems defensible (perhaps even appropriate) then to identify these events of political, violent change as the time markers for a collection such as this. This is particularly true given that a major focus of the first section of this volume is how Muslim writers, historians and others came to terms with the transformation effected by the Mongols. This may not constitute a full justification, but it does establish the time-­markers we have chosen as at least potentially appropriate. While the questions raised by this (and the other) assumptions may not be resolved in the

use of the term ‘epistemic violence’ in her ‘Can the Subalterns Speak?’, in Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, eds Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg (Urbana, 1988), pp. 271–313.   6. Marshall Hodgson’s three-­part text book Venture of Islam (Chicago, 1974) argued for an integration of ‘Islamic history’ into the general religious history of the world (see E. Burke, ‘Islamic History as World History: Marshall Hodgson, “The Venture of Islam”’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 10.2 (1979), 241–64.

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Introduction5 studies collected here, there is at least an awareness of how they may limit the applicability of the conclusions reached in the following chapters. RG Exeter December 2016 * * * * ‘We are with the winners.’ Ibn ‘Umar (d. 73/693)7

This second volume of our series investigates change and continuity in attitudes towards violence in Islamic thought after the Mongol conquest. The latter clearly brought change. Previously, Muslims had considered the miraculous military success of their armies a proof of the veracity of their religion and a sign of God’s support. While Shī‘ism and Khārijism were (in the main) characterised by anti-­establishment sentiments and managed to develop ideological frameworks for both the situations of power and out of it, Sunnīs mostly saw themselves as the victorious community of God. Sunnism (that is, the Ahl al-­Sunna wa-­ l-Jamā‘a) was also seeking the unity of the Muslim community and tended to legitimise rulers of any origin in order to maintain peace and the established order. The Mongols, however, were not Muslims, and their conquest of more than half of the lands that had been under Muslim rule produced for Muslims an existential fear and a deep ideological crisis. Massacres were anything but unseen in Islamic history, but the magnitude and systematic character of those carried out by the conquering Mongol army was shocking even for historians. The descriptions of the events reflect a monumental case of collective post-­traumatic stress disorder in history, and the reports ­affected – ­and were meant to ­affect – ­their contemporary and future readers. The accounts also show psychological responses to trauma. After such carnage, the instinct for survival and the drive for revival have to overcome the survivors’ feeling of guilt. They need to shape their own perception and memories8 in order to deal with the

  7. Quoted in P. Crone, Medieval Islamic Political Thought (Edinburgh, 2004); published in the US with the title: God’s Rule: Government and Islam: Six Centuries of Medieval Political Thought (New York, 2004), p. 137.   8. The question of shaping memories was also in the focus of a study of the first volume of our series; see S. B. Savant, ‘Shaping Memory of the Conquests: The Case of Tustar’, in Violence in Islamic Thought from the Qur’ān to the Mongols, eds R. Gleave and I. T. Kristó-­Nagy (Edinburgh, 2015), pp. 70–89.

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Violence in Islamic Thought

unacceptable events. They have to make sense of the senseless death and life and rationalise what is beyond or below reason, but is emotionally unbearable. The trauma was absurdly real. The behaviour of both Mongols and Muslims was, however, complex since the very start of their interaction, and textual sources show different and changing perceptions of the conquest and the Mongol rule. Michal Biran’s chapter (‘Violence and Non-­Violence in the Mongol Conquest of Baghdad (1258)’) demonstrates that the conquest of Baghdad (656/1258), in spite of being a rather violent event, was less apocalyptic than as described in later sources, which mythicised it for their own ideological purposes. Collaboration between the conquerors and the vanquished was already present during the very days of the conquest of the city. As with the Arab-­Muslim conquerors six centuries earlier, the Mongols also needed and made use of the expertise of the intelligentsia and of the service p­ roviders – i­ncluding scholars and a­ rtists – o­ f the vanquished; many of the latter were quite ready to serve the new rulers. Our sources were written by the literati, thus ­peasants – ­and common people in ­general – ­are rarely their focus, but the maintenance of control over them was a shared interest of both the old and new elites. The acceptance of the victory of armies of Evil is not, however, easily accommodated in a religion based on the belief of the omnipotence of a just and good God.9 Their conquest and rule needed legitimisation, allowing Muslim subjects to accept them, and Muslim elites to join their rule. An alternative explanation was required in order to rationalise the situation, making it compatible with the idea of God’s justice and the practical fact of the Mongols’ lasting rule. The solution was the Sunnī adoption and adaptation of the idea that God’s punishment of unfaithful c­ ommunities – w ­ hich had been a fundamental theme

  9. It was in fact a point of the criticism formulated by dualists against monotheism. We read this in Fragment XIX of a text refuting Islam attributed to Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘ (d. by 140/758 at the latest): .‫ضاللته إال أقلّھم‬ َ ‫فصارت ال َغلَبة للشَيطان بان تبِعه الخالئق على‬ ‘But the victory went to Satan, because the creatures followed him in his error with very few exceptions.’

See I. T. Kristó-­Nagy, La pensée d’Ibn al-Muqaffa‘: Un « agent double » dans le monde person et arabe (Versailles, 2013), pp. 446–7, or idem, ‘A Violent, Irrational and Unjust God: Antique and Medieval Criticism of Jehovah and Allāh’, in La morale au crible des religions, ed. M.-T. Urvoy (Versailles, 2013), p. 158. For monotheists’ violent reaction to the dualists’ criticism, see I. T. Kristó-­Nagy, ‘Denouncing the Damned Zindīq! Struggle and Interaction between Monotheism and Dualism’, in Accusations of Unbelief in Islam: A Diachronic Perspective on Takfīr, eds C. Adang, H. Ansari, M. Fierro and S. Schmidtke (Leiden and Boston, 2016), pp. 56–81.

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Introduction7 of the ­Qur’ān – ­could be inflicted on the Muslim umma as well, when it needed cleansing due to the sins of its members and leaders. The sinful of the community were conveniently identified with Muslim groups that rivalled or were opposed to that of the author of any such justification. The Mongols were seen as God’s tool and this promoted the interests of both the new rulers and their subjects looking for consolidation. Timothy May’s chapter (‘The Mongols as the Scourge of God in the Islamic World’) analyses the matching of interests and conceptual framework behind the depiction of the Mongols as the ‘Scourge of God’. The focus of István Vásáry’s chapter (‘Yāsā and Sharī‘a: Islamic Attitudes towards the Mongol Law in the Turco-­Mongolian World (from the Golden Horde to Timur’s Time)’) is also on Islamic attitudes towards the violence of the Mongol conquerors. As the Mongols did not bring a new religion with universal proselytising ambition, eventually they converted to Islam. They brought, however, their law, the yāsā. Law (the sharī‘a) also played a central part in most trends of Islam, however, the ‘ulamā’ (the ‘knowers’ of the sharī‘a) of the subjugated lands had no choice but to find a modus vivendi with the presence or indeed dominance of the Mongols’ non-­Islamic yāsā. The chapter analyses how these two law systems, which were also ideologies, were able to co-­exist in the Mongol states of the Golden Horde and Īl-­Khānid Iran, despite their antagonisms. Necessity knows no law; force teaches one to accept even two. Beatrice Forbes Manz’ chapter (‘Unacceptable Violence as Legitimation in Mongol and Timurid Iran’) compares the accounts of the Mongol conquests by historians in the service of the consequently established Mongol rule, and reports by their counterparts working for the Mongols’ enemies. Interestingly, the pro-­Mongol al-­Juwaynī (d. 681/1283) describes the violence of the conquest at least as vividly as Ibn al-­Athīr (d. 630/1233), and al-­Jūzjāni (d. after 664/1265) who both wrote for the anti-­Mongol dynasties. The magnitude of the Mongols’ carnage served them not only as a deterrent from resistance to them, but its ‘supernatural’ character was used to demonstrate its divine character and, thus, paradoxically, provided legitimisation of their conquest. The underlying idea was that their bloodshed went beyond to be conceivable simply as a sin against God’s will; it could be only the proof of the Mongols being the instrument of God’s wrath, and – for those who had to accept their c­ ontrol – c­ hosen by Him to rule. This successful model was intentionally imitated by Temür (Tamerlane) (d. 807/1405). In contrast with Chinggis Khan (d. 1227), Temür was, however, a Muslim, and justified his conquests by claiming to wage war for the faith and for protecting the sharī‘a. Consequently, pro-­Timurid historians had make the dishonesty of his enemies and God’s will responsible for such massacres and destructions as that of Damascus and Baghdad, which were both former capitals of the caliphate. They also describe Temür as sparing the life

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Violence in Islamic Thought

of scholars and craftsmen, but deporting them to where he needed them. He is not only presented as a destructor but as a constructor of the same superhuman magnificence. ­Meanwhile – ­similarly again to the case of the Mongol ­conquest – ­historians inimical to the Timurids presented Temür as a vicious and treacherous unbeliever, and emphasised atrocities his armies committed against the weak: women, elderly and children. The fact that the Mongol conquerors were not Muslims presented a challenge to the Muslim elites, similar to that faced by the elites of defeated late antique empires after the Muslim conquest. In a monotheistic or dualistic framework, the invading enemy is logically identified with the forces of evil, as long as the resistance is meaningful. This was in fact the case of those Muslims who fought the Mongols, and perceived them as a lethal threat for Islam. Even after the Mongols’ conversion to Islam, Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328), who lived under the rule of their Mamlūk rivals, maintained that they had to be fought. Fear and frustration tend to induce aggression. The fear from and hatred against the Mongols certainly played an important role in the more violent attitude of thinkers like Ibn Taymiyya against any ‘otherness’. Violence is more often countered by violence than anti-­violence and, as it is demonstrated in Jon Hoover’s chapter (‘Reconciling Ibn Taymiyya’s Legitimatization of Violence with his Vision of Universal Salvation’), Ibn Taymiyya’s views on universal salvation were not at all in contradiction with his propagation of the use of legitimate violence. As abusing adults have often a history as abused children, traumatised communities often inflict trauma on minorities under their dominance. Crisis fuels intolerance, and when establishments experience insecurity, minorities are commonly regarded as internal enemies and subjected to harsh treatment. This phenomenon is also recurrent in the history of Islam. Marie-­Thérèse Urvoy’s chapter (‘Moral Violence in the Aḥkām al-­Dhimma of Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya’) presents the brutally oppressive views of Ibn Taymiyya’s most famous pupil, Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya’s (d. 751/1350), on the ways he thought Muslims had to deal with Christians. The treatment of non-­Muslim enemies outside of the area under Muslim dominium unavoidably involves the much-­discussed term jihād. In his chapter, Robert Gleave (‘Jihād, the State and Legitimate Violence in Imāmī Jurisprudence’) tests the extent to which a theory of jihād (as found in works of law) reflects the political context in which it was written (in this case, early Safavid Iran). The work of the most famous early Safavid jurist, ‘Alī al-­ Karakī (d.940/1534), who had strong ties to the early Safavid Shahs, actually held back on according them full legal legitimacy in their acts of ­conquest – ­they were not, in purely religious terms, acts of jihād, neither for him, nor for many Shī‘ī scholars who came after him.

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Introduction9

Ibn Khaldūn (d. 784/1382) was a contemporary of the Mongol Sultan Temür (Tīmur), and the philosopher-­historian-­Mālikite scholar met the conqueror during the latter’s besiege of Damascus (803/1401).10 Ibn Khaldūn’s al-Muqaddima (Introduction to History) applies the methods of Islamised Greek philosophy on historiography. While philosophy does not always provide a natural focus in a study of violence, political philosophy is rich in theoretical explorations of violence. Miklós Maróth’s chapter (‘Legitimate and Illegitimate Violence in Arabic Political Philosophy: Al-­Fārābī, Ibn Rushd and Ibn Khaldūn’) in this present volume compares Ibn Khaldūn’s views on violence with those of two earlier prominent figures in the history of Islamic and universal history: al-­Fārābī (d. 339/950) and Ibn Rushd (Averroes) (d. 595/1198). All three thinkers agree that violence is part of nature, but it is legitimate only when it leads to the rule of the right religion. The chapter demonstrates the continuity of Islamic philosophy regarding violence, but also shows how key philosophers embedded similar thoughts in their different theories. Political advice ­literature – ­a sort of ‘Political Philosophy for Rulers’ – was arguably one of the most pragmatic and transcivilisational segments of human culture. The European label for such works is ‘Mirrors for Princes’, but they were not all addressed to rulers, or to rulers only. Each such text is embedded in its cultural and historical context, and more or less infused with moral, religious, legal or philosophical elements, but their core concern is the nature and ­practice of power. Vasileios Syros’ chapter (‘ “Soft” and “Hard” Power in Islamic Advice Literature’) centres on Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s al-Fakhrī (translated as: On the Systems of Government and Muslim Dynasties) written in 701/1302 Mosul. This text demonstrates well both the transcivilisational character of political advice literature, and the individual quality of the authors in ­applying age-­old wisdom in a new situation. Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s thoughts echo former similar Islamic ­treatises, which were introduced into Islamic civilisation by such authors as Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘ (d. by 140/758 at the latest), and were rooted in antique traditions that can be summarised as Indian, Iranian and Greek, but they can also be compared to ideas of Machiavelli (d. 1527), or recent theories such as Joseph Nye’s distinction between ‘soft’ and ‘hard’ power. Ibn al-­ Ṭiqṭaqā’s main originality lies in his systematic use of history in illustrating his statements about rulership, and in his portrayal of the ­Mongols – ­recently converted to I­ slam – a­ s the peak of the history of rulership. Success is the best legitimacy.

10. Ibn Khaldoun, Le voyage d’Occident et d’Orient: autobiographie, trans. Abdesselam Cheddadi (Paris, 1980), pp. 238–49.

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In the final section, representations of violence are explored in detail through two case studies: on Safavid Iran and Ottoman Turkey. Iván Szántó’s chapter (‘Old Images in New Skins: Flaying in the Iranian Visual Tradition’) deals with the portrayal of violence in visual images. Violent acts, in and of themselves, are ­instructive – ­they teach a lesson not only the victims, but to the wider world; and the message portrayed in these images concerns public order and the s­uppression of heresy. They can have a power beyond their immediate effects by being used to convey broader, almost ideological, messages. Combining pictorial and literary sources, starting from the Antiquity and reaching until the end of the pre-­modern times, Szántó analyses the different legal, cultural and political contexts of a peculiar tradition centred in Iran. The object of this study is a demonstratively cruel way of execution, whose victims were flayed alive, and their skin was put on display (occasionally after being stuffed). Examples include a number of textual reports, as well as the depiction of the execution of Mānī the prophet of Manicheism (ca. 272–6 ce) in the Great Mongol Shāhnāma, dated to the 1330s ce, Gérard David’s oil painting The Judgment of Cambyses (1498) and The Flaying of a Polish woman in Isfahan, an ­engraving in Johann J. Straußens Reisen durch Griechenland, Moscau, Tarterey, Ostindien, und andere Theile der Welt (published in 1678). The use of such extreme violence in art conveys a particular message about the establishment and maintenance of public order. Finally, Colin Imber’s chapter (‘Warrant for Genocide? Ottoman Propaganda against the Qizilbash’) examines the Ottoman accusation of heresy against the Safavids, using the Qizilbash as a foil for their imperial enemies. The religious edicts (fatwās) analysed in Imber’s chapter demonstrate how description of heresy can act as a pretext for war, whether that war is classed as a jihād or merely as a means of punishing deviancy. These last two chapters highlight then a theme that appears and reappears within this volume. The medieval Muslim intellectual milieu in which violence was discussed and processed aimed to overlay the physical and historical events with an understanding drawn from the rich reservoir of ideas and symbols explored in the first volume of our series.11 In that sense, the themes explored here are extensions of those already discussed there. Violence is somehow normalised by being worked into a world ­view – ­seen as an act of God, or an act of evil forces, justified for the elect, but unjustified when perpetrated by the deviants. In this, the theologians, artists and philosophers of this so-­called Muslim

11. R. Gleave and I. T. Kristó-­Nagy, eds, Violence in Islamic Thought from the Qur’ān to the Mongols (Edinburgh, 2015).

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Introduction11 ‘middle’ period are quite typical; their sophistication and inventiveness when making sense of violent acts is at the same time unique and commonplace: unique in the sense that each historical manifestation is unlike any other, commonplace in that their depictions and judgements on violence are consonant with contemporary ideas elsewhere. IKN Exeter December 2016 * * * * ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The LIVIT project, and its successor project Islamic Reformulations: Belief, Violence and Governance, were funded by the Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC) as part of the Research Councils UK Global Uncertainties programme. This programme was transformed during the life of the Islamic Reformulations project into the Partnership for Conflict, Crime and Security Research (PaCCS), also led by the ESRC. The bulk of the work for this volume was carried out under the auspice, and funded by, these two projects and funded by these two programmes. We are extremely grateful to the ESRC and their dedicated staff for funding these ­projects – ­which demonstrate the Council’s strong commitment to interdisciplinary scholarship. Thanks are due to Dr Tayyeb Mimouni and Dr Bianka ­Speidl – ­since the publication of volume 1 in this series, they have completed their PhD theses and moved on to exciting new projects. Ms Jane Clark administered both projects in the Institute of Arab and Islamic Studies in the University of Exeter. Jane played a special role in keeping the projects on track financially, administratively and socially. She has also moved on to pastures new. Finally, we mention the sad passing of Professor Patricia Crone towards the end of the ­project – s­ he had hoped to contribute to the projects in the early stages, but this soon proved impossible. Apart from her vast scholarly legacy, we remember her enthusiasm for all fields of enquiry, her encouragement of emerging scholars and her many individual acts of kindness. All this was combined with an unrelenting attention to scholarly standards. Her work for us, as for so many in the field of Islamic Studies, forms a fundamental component of our study. RG and IKN Exeter December 2016

Part I

. . .

the mongols and their Aftermath

Chapter

2 VIOLENCE AND NON-­V IOLENCE IN The Mongol Conquest of Baghdad (1258)

Michal Biran*

The Mongol conquest of Baghdad in 656/1258 has often been described as a medieval holocaust, an extremely violent act, which led not only to the collapse of the ‘Abbāsid caliphate (750–1258) and the city of Baghdad, but to the decline of Islamic civilisation as a whole. Clichés such as: ‘If the Mongols had not burnt the libraries of Baghdad in the 13th century, we Arabs would have had so much science, that we would long since have invented the atomic bomb’1 can still be heard in the Arab world. Moreover, this anachronistic view has been revived in the last decade when the Mongol conquest of Baghdad became a favourable metaphor for the American occupation of 2003. Descriptions of the fall of Baghdad as an act of infidels’ vandalism directed against Islamic or Iraqi civilisation or as a burst of violence that took centuries to overcome prevail in contemporary Arabic literature and in Muslim Internet sites, as well as in some of the Western general surveys that seek to explain Iraq from Chinggis Khan to Saddam Hussein and after.2  * The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Israel. The research leading to these results has received funding from the European Research Council (ERC) under the European Union’s (EU’s) Seventh Framework Programme (FP/2007–13)/ERC Grant Agreement n. 312397. An earlier version of this paper was published as ‘The Mongol Conquest of Baghdad Revisited: Violence and Restoration according to Contemporaneous Biographical Sources’, in Chinggis Khan and Globalization, eds Ts. Tserendorj and N. Khishigt (Ulaanbaatar, 2014), pp. 321–7.   1. Cited from ‘a high Syrian official’ in the late 1950s in B. Lewis, ‘The Mongols, the Turks and Muslim Polity’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 5th series, 18 (1968), p. 49.   2. E.g., R. al-­Sargānī, Qiṣṣat al-Tatār (Cairo, 2006); Aḥmad Manṣūr, Qiṣṣat suqūṭ Baghdād

15

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This chapter aims to look afresh at the question of violence in the conquest of Baghdad. While not denying that the conquest was a violent occupation, it highlights the non-­violent means that were involved in it, and the ways in which such violence was understood and legitimised by the contemporaneous Muslim writers. On the basis of biographical literature from both the Īl-­Khānate and the Mamlūk sultanate, it argues that the violence was not addressed towards the Islamic civilisation as a whole, and that the non-­violent means and Baghdad’s swift and overall successful restoration contributed significantly to the legitimation and marginalisation of the violence involved in the conquest in the collective memory of the Eastern Islamic world until the rise of nationalism.3 As a starting point I would like to refer to a unique and highly personal eye-­witness account of the conquest, which is quite different from its conventional descriptions. The evidence in question is that of ‘Abd al-­Mu’min b. Yūsuf b. Fākhir Ṣafī al-­Dīn Urmawī, one of the more illustrious musical artists and theoreticians  in the Muslim world. Born in Urūmiya (a city in modern-­day Iran), he arrived in Baghdad as a young boy. Urmawī launched a career as a Shāfi‘ite lawyer at the newly established Mustanṣiriyya College, but in addition to his expertise in Shāfi‘ite and comparative law, he was also well-­versed in calligraphy, Arabic language, poetry, history, mathematics and, of course, music. By the age of twenty-­one he had already completed his magnum opus, Kitāb al-adwār (The book of cycles), a systematic exposition on the modal system, which became one of the most influential works on Islamic music theory. In addition, he was also an accomplished singer and lute player. Urmawī was first employed at the court of the last ‘Abbāsid Caliph, al-­Musta‘ṣim bi-­Allāh (r. 640–56/1242–58) as a calligrapher, responsible for the Caliph’s library. With the recommendation of one of his students, the Caliph’s favourite songstress Luḥāẓ, his musical talents were brought to the Caliph’s attention and he was appointed as a court musician, earning a generous salary, becoming a close companion of the Caliph and his ministers and tutoring the Caliph’s son.4 (Beirut, 2003); W. R. Polk, Understanding Iraq: The Whole Sweep of Iraqi History, from Genghis Khan’s Mongols to the Ottoman Turks to the British Mandate to the American Occupation (New York, 2005).   3. For the impact of nationalism on the Mongols’ image in the Muslim world see M. Biran, Chinggis Khan (Oxford, 2007), pp. 127–36.   4. On Urmawī, see M. Biran, ‘Music in the Conquest of Baghdad: Safi al-­Din Urmawi and the Ilkhanid Circle of Musicians’, in The Mongols and the Transformation of the Middle East, eds B. De Nicola and Ch. Melville (Leiden, 2016), pp. 133–54; see also, e.g., E. Neubauer, ‘Ṣafī al-­Dīn Urmawī’, in EI2; al-­Kutubī, Fawāt al-wafayāt (Beirut, 2000), 2, pp. 31–2; al-­Ṣafadī, al-Wāfī bil-wafayāt (Beirut, 1987–91), 19, pp. 342–3; al-­‘Umarī, Masālik al-abṣār wa-mamālik al-amṣār (Beirut, 2010), 10, pp. 350–1; Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā,

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The Mongol Conquest of Baghdad17

Urmawī’s experience during the Mongol conquest of Baghdad is recorded in the volume on musicians of the encyclopaedia Masālik al-abṣār fī mamālik al-amṣār (Paths of Discernment into the Kingdoms of the Lands), which was compiled by the Mamlūk historian, administrator and encyclopaedist Shihāb al-­Dīn al-­‘Umarī (d. 749/1349), one of the most knowledgeable Mamlūk historians about the Mongols.5 His account is based on the testimony of al-­‘Izz al-­Irbilī, alias al-­Ḥasan b. Aḥmad b. Zafar (d. 726/1326), a physician and historian who migrated to Damascus from the Īl-­Khānate during or after Ghazan’s reign, and is famous for his unique biographical information.6 The story is worthy of being quoted in full, but as this has been done elsewhere,7 I will only give a summary of it below. According to Urmawī, during the conquest Hülegü summoned the city’s leaders and asked them to divide Baghdad’s quarters and the residences of its people of means among his commanders. He then allotted the various al-Fakhrī fī al-ādāb al-sulṭāniyya wa-l-duwal al-islāmiyya (Paris, 1895), pp. 74, 449–50. Available (with missing pages) at: https://archive.org/details/alfakhrhistoire00deregoog (accessed 20 January 2016); and Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā, Al Fakhrī, trans. Charles E. J. Whitting (London, 1947), pp. 49, 317. On his stature in the field of Islamic music, see, e.g., A. Shiloah, Music in the World of Islam: A Socio-Cultural Study (Detroit, 1995), pp. 55–8, 111–23; O. Wright, ‘A Preliminary Version of the kitāb al-Adwār’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 58.3 (1995), 455–78.   5. On al-­‘Umarī, see K. S. Salibi, ‘Ibn Faḍl Allāh al-­‘Umarī’, in EI2; and Lech’s introduction in Ibn Faḍl Allāh al-­‘Umarī, Das Mongolische Weltreich: al-‘Umarī‘s Darstellung der mongolischen Reiche in seinem Werk Masālik al-abşār fī mamālik al-amşār = vol. 3 of Masālik al-abṣār, ed. and trans. K. Lech (Wiesbaden, 1968), esp. pp. 13–16.   6. On al-­‘Izz al-­Irbilī, see al-­Ṣafadī, A‘yān al-‘aṣr wa-a‘wān al-naṣr (Beirut and Damascus, 1998), 2, pp. 188–9; al-­Ṣafadī, al-Wāfī, 12, p. 239; Ibn Ḥajar, al-Durar al-kāmina (Cairo, 1966), 2, p. 92; and Ibn Kathīr, al-Bidāya wa-l-nihāya (Beirut, 1993), 14, p. 144. For al-­ Irbilī as a source for information about the Īl-­Khāns, see al-­Ṣafadī, A‘yān, 4, pp. 9, 14, 43; and al-­‘Umarī, Masālik, 10, p. 193.   7. For the complete translated text, see Biran, ‘Music’, pp. 135–9; also G. J. H. van Gelder, ‘Sing Me to Sleep: Safi al-­Din al-­Urmawi, Hulegu, and the Power of Music’, Quaderni di Studi Arabi n. s. 7 (2012), 1–9. The text appears in al-­‘Umarī, Masālik, 10, pp. 353–6; or the facsimile edition by F. Sezgin with A. Jolhosha, E. Neubauer: al-‘Umarī, Masālik al-abṣār fī mamālik al-amṣār, 30 vols in 27, eds F. Sezgin with A. Jolhosha and E. Neubauer (Frankfurt am Main, 1988–2001). Al-­‘Umarī’s text is quoted, with minor changes, in Ibn Ḥijja al-­Hamawī (d. 837/1434), Thamarāt al-awrāq (Cairo, 1971), pp. 461–6. The story is cited in ‘A. ‘Azzāwī, al-Mūsīqā al-‘Irāqiyyah fī ‘ahd al-Mughūl wa-l-Turkmān (Baghdad, 1951), pp. 27–31; and N. Ma‘rūf, Tārīkh ‘ulamā’ al-Mustanṣiriyya (Cairo, 1976), 1, pp. 270–4. A slightly confused Hebrew summary, based on ‘Azzāwī’s work, is included in A. S. Abu Rukun, ‘The fall of Abbasid Baghdad (658H/1258) as reflected in Arabic historiography and the Arab literature’ (unpublished PhD thesis, Bar-­Ilan University, Israel, 2010), pp. 117–20.

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neighbourhoods to his commanders, giving them permission to kill, capture, and loot for one to three days according to their ranks. Urmawī’s quarter was allotted to a commander of 10,000 riders, named Bānū (probably Baiju) Noyan,8 who was granted a three days’ ‘looting span’. The commander arrived at the quarter with his troops, and stopped at its gate, which was barricaded with wood and earth. He knocked on the gate, shouting: ‘Open the gate and obey us, and we will give you safe conduct (amān). And if not, we will burn the gate and kill you.’ Urmawī went out, terrified for his life. He identified himself as the neighbourhood’s leader and said he would bring whatever the commander asked for in order to save the quarter. He invited the commander to stay at his house while his troops plunder the other neighbourhoods, and hosted the commander and his retinue in great pomp, sitting them on silken carpets embroidered with gold, serving them delicious food and wine in gilded vessels, and arranging the neighbourhood’s women singers to give a special concert for the conquerors. The Mongol commander, animated by the music, hugged a songstress he liked, and had intercourse with her (wāqa‘ahā) during the assembly, while the crowd was watching. According to Urmawī, ‘His day came to a close in the best possible way.’ By the evening, the commander’s troops arrived with loot and prisoners from the other neighbourhoods. Before they left, Urmawī brought them presents of gold and silver dishes, coins, cash and splendid cloths. Apologising for the dearth of gifts, however, he promised the Mongol commander that he would get better treatment tomorrow. After Baiju was gone, Urmawī gathered the quarter’s people of means, explained that they still had to host the Mongol noble for two more days and that they should double the presents each day. The Baghdadis collected all kinds of gold, precious cloths and arms worth 50,000 dinars, and when Baiju returned early the next day he was amazed by the assembled wealth. On the third day, again after presenting Baiju with various precious offerings including the Caliph’s jennet, Urmawī told him: ‘This quarter is already under your command; and if you grant its people their lives, he

  8. Noyan in Mongolian means noble. Baiju (often rendered Bājū in Arabic sources, fl. 625–57/1228–59) was the Mongol general and military governor in north-­western Iran and Anatolia under the United Mongol Empire. When Hülegü advanced westward, Baiju was among the generals under his command. He distinguished himself in the Baghdad campaign, as his forces subdued the western part of the city, but was executed shortly afterwards. See P. Jackson, ‘Bāyjū’, in Encyclopaedia Iranica. Available at: www. iranicaonline.org/articles/bayju-­baiju-­or-­baicu-­mongol-­general-­and-­military-­governor-­ in-­northwestern-­iran-­fl (accessed 12 December 2015).

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The Mongol Conquest of Baghdad19

(i.e., Hülegü) will be blameless in the eyes of God and men, for all that is left to them is their souls.’ Baiju answered: ‘I know this. From the first day I gave them their souls, and my soul did not tell me to kill or capture them. But before doing anything else, you should come with me to see the Khan.’ The terrified Urmawī, afraid for his life, tried to avoid the meeting, but Baiju promised him that he would be safe and added, ‘Hülegü is a man who likes the men of talents (ahl al-faḍā’il).’ Once more Urmawī collected from his neighbours gold, silver and cash. From his own house, he brought the best food and wine in exquisite dishes, chose a few beautiful songstresses to accompany him and put on his best suit. When the commander saw him, he was impressed and Urmawī explained: ‘Indeed, I am the caliph’s singer and his companion, but so long as I feared you, I wore those tattered and filthy clothes. When I became [one of] your subjects, my status was restored and I felt secure. Hülegü is a great king, greater than the caliph, and I can only enter his presence with courtliness and dignity.’ The commander liked his answer. When they reached Hülegü’s camp, Urmawī won his favour both by the magnificent presents he brought and by his musical skills: when Hülegü, after making sure that Urmawī indeed had been the Caliph’s singer, asked him, ‘What is the best thing you know in the science of music (‘ilm al-ṭarab)?’ Urmawī answered that it was ‘a song that I sing which causes the listener to fall asleep’. Upon Hülegü’s request, Urmawī and his accompanying songstress sang a lullaby to the Khan, and made him fall asleep (with the help of a few cups of wine that the musician encouraged him to drink first). The impressed Hülegü allotted to Urmawī a generous annual ­stipend – ­twice the one that the Caliph bestowed upon ­him – ­and, in response to Urmawī’­s ­request, a garden (bustān) that belonged to the ­Caliph – ­noting that had the musician asked, he could have gotten a whole city or a fortress. The Khan ordered not to harm the musician’s quarter, and sent him back with fifty riders, who guarded the neighbourhood until Hülegü left Baghdad. * * * * While it is difficult to verify the details in Urmawī’s vivid account, its main contours seem plausible enough, as they echo Īl-­Khānid sources,9 and many of the   9. A less heroic version of the story appears in the history of Waṣṣāf; according to him, as the Mongols were occupying Baghdad, Urmawī appeared on the threshold of Hülegü’s tent and began playing music. Amid the chaos, he performed from morning to evening, but nobody paid any attention. When Hülegü was informed of the situation, he summoned the musician, praised his performance and took him under his aegis. Urmawī was granted

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elements dovetail neatly with other contemporaneous descriptions of Baghdad’s fall. As for Urmawī, after the conquest he received a lucrative job in Mongol administration in Iraq, remained in contact with Hülegü, and later became a protégé of the Juwaynīs.10 He continued to teach and study music in Baghdad and was considered one of the most prominent scholars in the reign of Hülegü’s son, Abaqa (r. 663–81/1265–82).11 For the question of the violence practiced in the conquest of Baghdad, its alternatives and legitimation, the story is instructive in several ways: first, even this story, that highlights the non-­violent alternative offered to certain Baghdadi groups, attests for the high amount of violence involved in the conquest. The Mongols plundered various Baghdadi neighbourhoods and did not hesitate to rape a songstress at their host’s house. Moreover, their reputation for violence was well known in the city, as attested by Urmawī’s frequent references to his fear throughout his account.12 However, the sack of Baghdad as displayed in Urmawī’s story was not an outburst of barbarism, but a meticulously organised campaign of systematic and controlled violence, the application or cessation of which was based on the strict discipline of the Mongol troops to Hülegü’s orders.13 Urmawī’s accounts an annual pension of 10,000 dinars (twice the amount of his caliphal stipend) from the government’s revenues of Baghdad, a pension that was supposed to be conferred on his descendants as well. Waṣṣāf, Ta’rīkh-i Waṣṣāf = Tajziyat al-amṣār wa-tazjiyat al-a‘ṣār (Bombay, 1852–3 [1269]; repr. Tehran, 1959–60 [1338 shamsī]), pp. 42–3, 55; ‘Abd al-­ Muḥammad Āyatī, Taḥrīr-i ta’rīkh-i Waṣṣāf (Tehran, 1346 shamsī /1967), pp. 23, 33; for latter variants see Khwāndamīr, Ta’rīkh-i ḥabīb al-siyar (Tehran, 1333 shamsī/1955), 3, p. 107; Wheeler M. Thackston, trans. Ḥabīb al-siyar (Cambridge, MA, 1994), 3, p. 60; Ḥājjī Khalīfa [Kātib Čelebi], Kashf al-ẓunūn ‘an asāmī al-kutub wa-l-funūn (Istanbul, 1941–55), 1, p. 874; Biran, ‘Music’, p. 140. 10. The Juwaynī brothers held important administrative positions in the Īl-­Khānate: ‘Alā’ al-­Dīn ‘Aṭā Malik (623–81/1226–83), the famous historian, was the Mongol governor of Baghdad, and is mentioned below; Shams al-­Dīn (d. 682/1284), served as the chief financial minister (ṣāḥib dīwān) of Hülegü and his successor, Abaqa. Both were also great patrons of scholars. See, e.g., G. Lane, Early Mongol Rule in Thirteenth Century Iran: A Persian Renaissance (London and New York, 2003), pp. 177–212. 11. Waṣṣāf, Ta’rīkh-i Waṣṣāf, p. 55; Āyatī, Taḥrīr-i ta’rīkh, p. 32; and see Biran, ‘Music’, pp. 140, 144-­5. 12. Al-­‘Umarī, Masālik, 10, pp. 6–353; see also the quote from al-­‘Umarī/Lech, Das Mongolische Weltreich, p. 102 below. 13. This is apparent in other sources as well: see, e.g., J. A. Boyle, ‘The Death of the Last ‘Abbasid Caliph: A Contemporary Muslim Account’, Journal of Semitic Studies 6 (1961), 160 (retrieving Naṣīr al-­Dīn Ṭūsī’s account); Ibn al-­Fuwaṭī (Pseudo), Kitāb al-Ḥawādith (Beirut, 1997), p. 360 and H. Gilli-­Elewy, ‘Al-­Ḥawādiṯ al-­ǧāmi‘a: A Contemporary Account of the Mongol Conquest of Baghdad, 656/1258’, Arabica 58.5

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The Mongol Conquest of Baghdad21

also attest that the war was not total: this was true both for the ­Mongols – ­as both Hülegü and his commander found time to hear concerts during the warfare before the city was fully ­subjugated – ­and for the Baghdadi population, for whom death and violence were not the only option. Hülegü’s commanders were assigned ‘looting spans’ of one to three days, a description that supports the contention that the sack of Baghdad lasted for a week, as opposed to those sources claiming that it dragged on for thirty to forty days.14 Despite the need to obey Hülegü’s orders, the leading ­commanders – ­or at least the commander in this ­case – ­had a certain freedom of action according to their grasp of the situation, so that they could replace the plunder with ‘tribute’ from the residents. The ability of the commanders (both Hülegü and Baiju) to enjoy a concert before the city was fully subdued (as the caliph was probably still alive), attest to their confidence in the outcome of the campaign. As for the Baghdadi population, Urmawī’s example implies that certain groups and individuals managed to survive the conquest by a combination of submission, payment and skills. The alternative to violence was proposed by the Mongol commander, who suggested a safe conduct to those who would surrender and eventually buy their life. Although the tactic of foisting a ‘pay or die’ proposition on the defeated populace was not alien to the Mongols, Urmawī is the only one to bluntly note that it was imposed on the residents of Baghdad after the conquest: if the Mongols proposed such an option, it was usually before they attacked the city and only if the city offered no opposition.15 That said, certain other Baghdadi groups are known to have received safe conduct (amān) from Hülegü, (2011, October), p. 367; Rashīd al-­Dīn, Jāmi‘ al-tawārīkh, ed. B. Karīmī (Tehran, [1338] 1960, repr. 1983), 2, p. 713 and Rashīd al-­Dīn, Jāmi‘ al-tawārīkh [written as Rashiduddin Fazlullah, Jami‘u’t-Tawarikh: Compendium of Chronicles], trans. W. M. Thackston (Cambridge, MA: Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations, Harvard University, 1998–9), 3, p. 498; al-­Nuwayrī, Nihāyat al-arab fī funūn al-adab (Cairo, 1984), 23, p. 234; Waṣṣāf, Ta’rīkh-i Waṣṣāf p. 43; and Āyatī, Taḥrīr-i ta’rīkh, p. 23. 14. The sources according to which the plunder lasted a week are, e.g., Boyle, ‘The Death’, p. 160; Bar Hebraeus, The Chronography of Gregory Abū’l-Faraj the Son of Aaron, the Hebrew Physician, Commonly Known as Bar Hebraeus, trans. E. A. W. Budge (repr. London, 2003), p. 431; Rashīd al-­Dīn, Jāmi‘, 1, p. 713 and Rashīd al-­Dīn/Thackston, Jami‘u’t-Tawarikh, 2, p. 498; Nuwayrī, Nihāyat al-arab, 27, p. 383. Those ranging from 30 to 40 days include, among others, Kitāb al-Ḥawādith, p. 359; Ibn al-­Sā‘ī (Pseudo), Kitāb muḥtaṣar akhbār al-khulafā’ (Cairo, 1891), p. 136; Ibn Kathīr, al-Bidāya, 13, p. 236; Waṣṣāf, Ta’rīkh-i Waṣṣāf, p. 42; and Āyatī, Taḥrīr-i ta’rīkh, p. 23. 15. See, e.g., R. Amitai, ‘Im Westen nicht Neues? Re-­examining Hülegü’s Offensive into the Jazira and Northern Syria in Light of Recent Research’, in Historicizing the Beyond: The Mongolian Invasion as a New Dimension of Violence?, eds F. Krämer, K. Schmidt and J. Singer (Heidelberg, 2011), p. 88.

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often in return for exorbitant sums of money. While the details vary from source to source, most of them agree that amān was granted to the city’s Christians, the Shī‘ites from Ḥilla (a town between Baghdad and Kūfa), merchants from Khurāsān (who already had relations with the Mongols) and several Muslim notables.16 The Shī‘ites, merchants and perhaps others indeed secured their lives at considerable cost.17 In all these instances, neighbours flocked to those who received protection, in the hope of saving their own lives. In the Shī‘ites’ case, their leader, Ibn Ṭāwūs, attested that all together the safe conduct enabled about 1,000 men (naf s) to find refuge with him.18 As in the case of Urmawī’s quarter, Mongol commanders were dispatched to guarantee the safety of the newly submitted groups, at least in the cases of the Christians and merchants.19 Another way to avoid violence was by skills: there are several other cases in which ‘men of talent’ like Urmawī received a safe conduct and an office in the Īl-­ Khānid administration. One of them is Falak al-­Dīn Muḥammad b. Sayf al-­Dīn Aydamīr al-­Musta‘ṣimī (639/1240–710/1310), a mamlūk of the last ‘Abbāsid Caliph who became a notable ‘Abbāsid commander and scribe (amīr kātib), and is described as an expert in calligraphy, belles letters and horsemanship, and was also famed for his beauty. When Baghdad was conquered he ‘remained with the King of the Georgians (Malik al-Kurj, probably the commander of the Georgian troops that fought with Hülegü). Then he was brought to Hülegü, who appointed him as the supervisor (shiḥna) of the the wise men (ḥukamā’) who found refuge in his court and were dealing with chemistry’.20 This seems like a case similar to Urmawī’s, in which the skills of the conquered subject impressed both the local commander and Hülegü and led to the subject’s joining the future 16. For example, see Kitāb al-Ḥawādith, pp. 359, 360 and Gilli-­Elewy, ‘Al-­Ḥawādiṯ’, pp. 367, 368; Boyle, ‘The Death’, p. 159. According to Ṭūsī, scholars, sheikhs and whoever offered no resistance to the Mongols were offered amān. He also claims that this option was suggested at the early stages of the conquest. Such an option is also mentioned by Rashīd al-­Dīn (Rashīd al-­Dīn, Jāmi‘, 1, p. 710, and Rashīd al-­Dīn/Thackston, Jami‘u’t-Tawarikh, 2, p. 496) as offered to qāḍīs (judges), scholars, shaykhs, ‘Alids, Nestorian priests and ‘persons who do not combat against us’. Christians were spared according to Bar Hebraeus, Chronography, 1, p. 431, and according to the Arabic version of his work, Christians, Shī‘ites and scholars avoided the sword: Ibn al-­‘Ibrī (Bar Hebraeus), Ta’rīkh mukhtaṣar al-duwal, 3rd edn (Beirut, 1992), p. 271. Ibn Kathīr notes that the Jews were saved as well; Ibn Kathīr, al-Bidāya, 13, p. 235. 17. The following sources refer to the Shī‘ites: Kitāb al-Ḥawādith, p. 360 and Gilly Elewy, p. 368; ‘Alī b. Mūsā Ibn Ṭāwūs, Iqbāl al-a‘māl (Beirut, 1996), pp. 63, 65. For the payment exacted from the merchants, see Ibn Kathīr, al-Bidāya, 13, p. 235. 18. Ibn Ṭāwūs, Iqbāl, p. 63. 19. Kitāb al-Ḥawādith, p. 359; and Gilli-­Elewy, ‘Al-­Ḥawādiṯ’, p. 367. 20. Ibn al-­Fuwaṭī, Talkhīs majma‘ al-udabā’ (Tehran, 1995), 3, p. 281.

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The Mongol Conquest of Baghdad23

Īl-­Khānid administration. No payment is mentioned here, but it may have been part of the deal. This story also suggests that other ‘wise men’ were employed in Hülegü’s court, a fact referred to by various sources, most bluntly by Rashīd al-­Dīn, who says, ‘A great lover of wisdom, [Hülegü] encouraged the learned to debate the basic sciences and rewarded them with stipends and salaries. His court was adorned by the presence of scholars and wise men (‘ulamā’ wa-ḥukamā’).’21 The fate of the famous Baghdadi ­caligrapher – ­and Urmawī’s ­student – ­Yāqūt al-­Musta‘ṣimī, also a mamlūk and close companion of the last ‘Abbāsid Caliph, may have been another example of this pattern. When the conquest began, Yāqūt was hiding from the Mongols in a minaret. He took out a towel over which he wrote a few words in extremely beautiful hand writing.22 We do not know what happened next, but certainly Yāqūt continued to be active under the Īl-­Khāns and won great fame: he is considered one of the top scholars of Abaqa’s reign together with Urmawī.23 Thus, we have here two or three examples of extremely talented Muslims, all of whom closely connected to the ‘Abbāsid court, who won Hülegü’s grace. This was also true for some other famous Baghdadi functionaries who sided with Hülegü during the siege, such as the famous vizier Ibn al-­‘Alqamī who retained his post (but died a few months after the conquest), the Caliph’s ṣāḥib al-dīwān (chief financial minister), Faḥr al-­Dīn b. al-­Dāmghānī and Ibn Darnūs. The two last mentioned persons served as the Caliph’s messengers to Hülegü and after the conquest were appointed by him as the ṣāḥib al-dīwān and the artisans’ supervisor, respectively.24 A few lesser Muslim functionaries

21. Rashīd al-­Dīn, Jāmi‘, 2, p. 734 and Rashīd al-­Dīn/Thackston, Jami‘u’t-Tawarikh, 2, p. 513 (although he translates ‘ulamā’ wa-ḥukamā’ as philosophers and scientists. See also Ṭūsī’s reference to this trait of Hülegü in J. A. Boyle, ‘The Longer Introduction to the Zīj-i Īlkhānī of Naṣīr ad-­Dīn Ṭūsī’, Journal of Semitic Studies (1963) 8.2, 246; Ṣafadī, al-Wāfī, 27, pp. 399–400. For more examples see Ibn al-­Fuwatī, 4, p. 203; and R. Amitai, ‘Hülegü and His Wise men: Topos or Reality’, in Politics, Patronage and the Transmission of Knowledge in 13th–15th Century Tabriz, ed. J. Pfeiffer (Leiden and Boston, 2014), pp. 15–34. For Hülegü as a humanist and patron of scholars see also Lane, Early Mongol Rule, esp. pp. 255–61. 22. V. Minorsky, trans., Calligraphers and Painters: A Treatise by Qādī Aḥmad, Son of MīrMunshī (circa a.h. 1015/a.d. 1606) (Washington, 1959), pp. 57–60. 23. On Yaqūt, see, e.g., al-­‘Umarī, Masālik, 10: 348; al-­Dhahabī, Ta’rīkh al-Islām (Beirut, 2003), 60, pp. 373–4; al-­Kutubī, Fawāt, 2, pp. 592–3; and S. R. Canby, ‘Yāḳūt al-­ Musta‘ṣimī’, in EI2. 24. Kitāb al-Ḥawādith, pp. 361, 443, 443 and Gilli-­Elewy, ‘Al-­Ḥawādiṯ’, p. 369; ‫‏‬Juwaynī, Ta’rīkh-i-Jahān-Gusha, ed. M. Qazwīnī (Leiden: Brill, 1912, 1916, 1937) (hereon Juwaynī/Qazwīnī), 3, pp. 291–2 and Boyle, ‘The Death’, p. 160.

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who met Hülegü also received administrative posts.25 More revealing, the chief judge (qāḍī al-qudāt) of Baghdad, al-­Bandanījī, newly appointed by al-­ Musta‘ṣim in 655/1257, also went to see Hülegü ‘when Baghdad fell’, and secured his continuous e­ mployment – ­he held the position until his death in 667/1269.26 In this respect, it is worthwhile referring to another passage of ‘Umarī that appears in his history of the Īl-­Khānate, a part of the volume he devoted to the Mongols in the same encyclopaedia from which Urmawī’s story was taken. After describing how the Mongols of Iran married the Persians (a‘ājim) and assimilated with them until in most cases the Mongols acted ‘according to the customs of the Caliphs and Maliks while their own (Mongol) laws were set aside’, he says: When Hülegü conquered Baghdad at first he meant to leave things as they were (i.e. not to destroy the city), but he was unable to do it due to the forcefulness/ violence (shidda) of the Mongols who were with him, and the excessive fear (ifrāṭ takhawwuf) of the people from them (the Mongols). Because they were so afraid of him they refused to meet him, while he wanted to convince them by obedience and payment not by eliminating the land. Yet the verdict of destiny is impossible to change.27

I will return to this paragraph below, for its fatalism, and while it may generally refer to Hülegü’s pre-­conquest expectations that the Caliph would surrender peacefully and save him the need to destroy Baghdad, it also fits nicely with Urmawī’s description of obedience and payment as ways to avoid destruction after the conquest. While the text suggests that some of the Mongol troops and commanders were less inclined towards non-­violent means, our previous examples show that those who dared to meet Hülegü often secured their life and positions. What was the benefit of the Mongols from the non-­violent arrangements? Financially, the gifts and payments were useful not less than the plunder and more easily attained (Urmawī estimated his investment in Hülegü as worth 60,000 ­dinars – ­six or twelve annual pensions, that is, a quite considerable sum).28 Moreover, like former imperial conquerors, the Mongols needed the expertise of the 25. Kitāb al-Ḥawādith, p. 361 and Gilly Halevy, ‘Al-­Ḥawādiṯ’, p. 369. 26. Ibid.; Ibn al-­Fuwaṭī, Talkhīs majma‘ al-udabā’, 1, p. 87; Rashīd al-­Dīn, Jāmi‘, 1, p. 714 and Rashīd al-­Dīn/Thackston, Jami‘u’t-Tawarikh, 2, p. 499. 27. Al-­‘Umarī/Lech, Das Mongolische Weltreich, p. 102. 28. Al-­‘Umarī, Masālik, 10, p. 356.

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The Mongol Conquest of Baghdad25

conquered elites for consolidating their rule.29 The retained administrators secured a certain stability in the devastated city and enhanced its restoration, to which the continuous functioning of the religious institutions also contributed. Furthermore, the submitted people enabled the Mongols to receive legitimation at least from certain segments of the population, some of them quite influential in the Baghdadi public opinion. Thus, Ibn Ṭāwūs (d. 667/1266), who led the Shī‘ites’ surrender to Hülegü, is the one said to have given the famous fatwā (legal opinion) on the question: ‘Who is preferable, an infidel ruler who is righteous, or a Muslim ruler who is unjust?’, stating that a just infidel was preferable to an unjust Muslim.30 Even if we doubt the credibility of this story, mentioned only by Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā in about 701/1302, Ibn Ṭāwūs’ refererence to Hülegü as ‘the King of Earth’ (malik al-arḍ), certainly suggests an acceptance of the latter’s authority.31 Moreover, the Shī‘ites brought to fore the tradition, ascribed to ‘Alī b. Abī Ṭālib that compared the Mongols with the sons of Qantūra, Abraham’s wife and mother of the Turks, who were said to replace the Arabs (or the ‘Abbāsids) as rulers.32 This tradition, with its apocalyptic and less apocalyptic versions, certainly helped the Mongols to portray themselves as God’s messengers, a position that, as will be discussed below, was highly instrumental in legitimising their violence. As for the men of talents, they not only entertained Hülegü, but also bolstered his kingly reputation among contemporaneous rulers, Mongols and non-­Mongol alike. The fact that these men were closely connected to the ‘Abbāsid court was probably an additional bonus, as Hülegü could ascribe to his court some of the caliphate’s cultural grandeur. All these advantages, however, do not mean that Hülegü was softened or that Mongol violence ceased. Certainly, the Mongols’ basic policy, (namely ‘those 29. For the Arabs use of the Sāsānian elites see, e.g., I. T. Kristó-­Nagy, ‘Conflict and Cooperation between Arab Rulers and Persian Bureaucrats at the Formation of the Islamic Empire’, in Empires and Bureaucracy in World History: From Late Antiquity to the Twentieth Century, eds P. Crooks and T. Parsons (Cambridge, 2016), pp. 54–80 and I. T. Kristó-­Nagy, ‘Marriage after Rape: The Ambiguous Relationship between Arab Lords and Iranian Intellectuals as Reflected in Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘’s Oeuvre’, in Arabic Literary Culture: Tradition, Reception, and Performance, eds M. Larkin and J. Sharlet (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, forthcoming). 30. Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā, p. 21 and trans. Whitting, p. 14. 31. Ibn Ṭāwūs, Iqbāl, pp. 63, 65. 32. Ibid.; al-­‘Allāma al-­Ḥillī, Kashf al-yaqīn (Najaf, 1961), p. 28; Waṣṣāf, Ta’rīkh-i Waṣṣāf, pp. 19, 36; Lane, p. 33; Abu Rukun, pp. 112–13 (and see there for other variants including a similar apocalyptic tradition ascribed to ‘Abd Allāh b. ‘Abbās); J. Pfeiffer, ‘ “Faces Like Shields Covered with Leather”: Keturah’s Sons in the Post-­Mongol Islamicate Eschatological Traditions’, in Horizons of the World: Festschrift for İsenbike Togan, eds İ. E. Binbaş and N. Kılıç-­Schubel (Istanbul, 2011), pp. 557–94, esp. pp. 561–3.

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Violence in Islamic Thought

who do not obey us will be destroyed’) continued to be practised quite cruelly in the Mongol advance from Baghdad, into al-­Jazīra and Syria during the conquest of Mayyāfāriqīn and Aleppo. These areas, despite the Baghdadi example, refused to submit immediately.33 Yet, Hülegü’s arrangements in Baghdad, hardly look like an attack on Islamic civilisation. Instead, it can be argued that Hülegü, while punishing the city for the Caliph’s stubborn behaviour and his refusal to submit, was attempting at maintaining the city’s stability and, furthermore, sought to enhance his kingly reputation by appropriating to his court some of the main representatives of ‘Abbāsid glory. It may be worth adding that another reason for doubting the alleged anti-­ Islamic character of the conquest of Baghdad is the fact that many ­Muslims – ­mostly ­Sunnīs – ­took part in Hülegü’s troops. This is best manifested in the newly discovered and published chronicle ascribed to the polymath Quṭb al-­Dīn Shīrāzī (634–710/1236–1311), according to which Hülegü’s troops included segments sent ‘from Turkestan and Transoxania, the Atabegs of Fārs, the Sultans of Rūm (Anatolia), and the kings of Khurāsān, Sīstān, Māzandarān, Kirmān, Rustamdār, Shirwān, Gurjistān, Iraq, Adharbaijan, Arrān and Lūristān’,34 namely all the places already conquered by the Mongols. Apart from the Georgians, these troops were all or mostly Muslim. How was the violence legitimised?

If we start again with Ṣafī al-­Dīn Urmawī, while there is no doubt that he was scared to death of the Mongols’ reputed cruelty, he refers to Mongol violence as a fact of life: Urmawī nonchalantly sent the Mongols to loot and capture the residents of other quarters, and he did not condemn the rape that was perpetrated at his home. The Mongols’ actions were considered as a hateful but familiar prerogative of the conquerors, and did not prevent Urmawī from throwing his lot with them. This mundane description of the violence derived from the fact that the invaders were perceived as divine punishment, as part of God’s plan.35 This view can also explain the relatively matter-­of-­fact character of early descriptions of

33. Amitai, ‘Im Westen nicht Neues?’, pp. 83–96. 34. Quṭb al-­Dīn Shīrāzī, Akhbār-i Mughūlān (Qum, 2010), pp. 23–4. 35. On this attitude as generally characterizing the Medieval attitude to foreign conquerors and to the Mongols see D. Baraz, Medieval Cruelty: Changing Perceptions, Late Antiquity to the Early Modern Period (Ithaca, 2003), pp. 91–113; see also al-­‘Umarī / Lech, Das Mongolische Weltreich, p. 102 quoted above and the citation from Ibn al-­ Fuwaṭī below.

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The Mongol Conquest of Baghdad27

the conquest, such as those of Abū Shāma (d. 665/1268), Ṭūsī (d. 672/1274) or al-­Kāzarūnī (d. 697/1298)36 as opposed to its later, more elaborated reconstructions. Certainly, the Mongols embraced this view, presenting themselves as the wrath of God in their letters to the Caliph and to Muslim and Christian rulers that they contacted before and after Baghdad.37 After the conversion of the Mongols to Islam, their violence received a more thorough justification, or God’s plan became clearer.38 Yet in Baghdad’s case the legitimacy of Mongol violence must have been also related to the quick pace of 36. Abū Shāma, Tarājim rijāl al-qarnayn al-sādis wa-l-sābi‘ al-ma‘rūf bil-dhayl ‘alā al-rawḍatayn, ed. M. Kawtharī (Cairo, 1947), p. 198; Kāzarūnī, Mukhtaṣar al-ta’rīkh min awwal al-zamān ilā muntahā dawlat Banī al-‘Abbās (Baghdad, 1970), pp. 270ff; Boyle, ‘The Death’, pp. 151–61; and Juwaynī/Qazwīnī, 3, pp. 283–92; Cf. S. Conermann, ‘Die Einnahme Bagdads durch die Mongolen im Jahre 1258: ­Zerstörung – ­Rezeption – Wiederaufbau’, in Städte aus Trümmern. Katastrophenbewältigung zwischen Antike und Moderne, eds A. Ranft and A. Selzer (Göttingen, 2004), pp. 54–100; F. Krämer, ‘The Fall of Baghdad in 1258: The Mongol Conquest and Warfare as an Example of Violence’, in Historicizing the ‘Beyond’: The Mongolian Invasion as a New Dimension of Violence?, eds F. Krämer, K. Schmidt and J. Singer (Heidelberg, 2011), pp. 97–116. 37. See, e.g., R. Amitai-­Preiss, Mongols and Mamluks: The Mamluk–Īlkhānid War, 1260– 1281 (Cambridge and New York, 1995), pp. 22–4; W. Brinner, ‘Some Ayyūbid and Mamlūk Documents from Non-­archival Sources’, Israel Oriental Studies 2 (1972), 127–36; P. Meyvaert, ‘An Unknown Letter of Hulagu, Il-­Khan of Persia, to King Louis IX of France’, Viator 11 (1980), 245–59; and see Timothy May’s chapter ‘The Mongols as the Scourge of God in the Islamic World’ in this volume. 38. This is best expressed by Rashīd al-­Dīn in his beginning of the story of Chinggis Khan: May it not remain concealed from those of thought and contemplation that every destruction of a country or dispersal of a people that occurs through changeability and mutability in the world of generation and corruption is caused by divine grace and justice and contains within its folds great and magnificent godly wisdom. The carrying out of God’s fiat in creating infinite beings necessitates that, since with the passage of eons all things must fall into lassitude, and with the turning of days and nights nations and realms must fall into ruin, in every epoch a great and mighty lord of fortune be singled out by heavenly assistance and garbed in a raiment of power in order to do away with that lassitude and degeneration and to endeavor mightily with his glittering sword to lay anew the foundation and base, to cleanse the field of realms, which has become a snare of destruction, of the defilement of all types and sorts of evil and self-­serving men, and to cause the dust of sedition and corruption to settle.

Rashīd al-­Dīn/Thackston, Jami‘u’t-Tawarikh, 1, pp. 141–2; Rashīd al-­Dīn, Jāmi‘, 1, pp. 213–14. This goes much deeper than the general legitimation of violence as God’s plan apparent in the former quotes. In fact, it even brings to mind Sahlins’ modern concept of the Stranger King, used for justifying colonial rule. (M. Sahlins, ‘The Stranger King’, Indonesia and the Malay World 36.105 (July 2008), pp. 177–99; I thank Dr Yoni Brack for this reference.)

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the post-­conquest restoration. For this I would like to cite another evidence, from the biography of ‘Imād al-­Dīn Qazwīnī, the deputy of the first Mongol governor of Iraq, which is brought in Ibn al-­Fuwaṭī’s biographical dictionary, Talkhīs majma‘ al-udabā’. Ibn al-­Fuwaṭī (d. 723/1323) personally experienced the fall of Baghdad, lost quite a few relatives there and was himself taken captive. Later, he was bought and released by Naṣīr al-­Dīn Ṭūsī, who brought him to Marāgha. After an illustrious career as a librarian in the Marāgha observatory, in 679/1280–1 he returned to Baghdad, where he served as the librarian of the Mustanṣiriyya College.39 In the biography of ‘Imād al-­Dīn he says: When God performed his verdict and ability (qadā’ahu and qadarahu) and killed the Caliph, when Baghdad was devastated, its central mosque burned, and the houses of God deserted, then Allah showed his grace, causing the appointment of ‘Imād al-­Dīn. He came [to Baghdad and] built mosques and colleges, and restored the shrines and hospices. He gave salaries to scholars, lawyers and sufis from the endowments of these places, and the glory of Islam came back to the city of peace.40

The annihilation of the Caliph and the devastation of Baghdad are ascribed here not to Hülegü or the Mongols but to God himself, namely Mongol violence is part of a divine plan. Moreover, ‘Imād al-­Dīn Qazwīnī who received this generous credit died in 660/1262, i.e. less than four years after the Mongol conquest. According to Ibn al-­Fuwaṭī, these four years were enough time for restoring the city to its former religious glory. Undoubtedly, this positive attitude has a lot to do with the Mongols’ decision to leave the city’s endowments intact, thereby continuing to subsidise lecturers and students. They used their investment in scholarly institutions as a powerful tool for co-­opting the religious and social elites whose members tend to write histories and lead the public opinion.41 Of course, contradicting evidence that stress the magnitude of the massacre and devastation and their endurance can easily be found in other sources, but I tend to accept the version of Ibn al-­Fuwaṭī, who was by far one of the best-­informed

39. On Ibn al-­Fuwaṭī see, e.g., F. Rosenthal, ‘Ibn al-­Fuwaṭī’, in EI2; M. R. Shabībī, Mu’arrikh al-‘Irāq Ibn al-Fuwaṭī (Baghdad, 1950). 40. Ibn al-­Fuwaṭī, Talkhīs majma‘ al-udabā’, 2, pp. 125–6. 41. This Mongol policy is comparable to the rights conferred in Yuan China upon the Confucian households (ru), that also received pensions for continuing their studies. See M. Biran, ‘Libraries, Books, and Transmission of Knowledge in Ilkhanid Baghdad’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient, forthcoming.

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The Mongol Conquest of Baghdad29

authorities on Īl-­Khānid Baghdad. Moreover, the impression from my work in progress that reconstructs the cultural life in Īl-­Khānid Baghdad, is much closer to his description (even if it is a bit exaggerated for the pace of the restoration) than to the elegies on the city’s being deserted and empty, that were usually written by people much farther from the city in time and place. The restoration, which Hülegü had ordered to start even before he left the city in 656/1258, was physical, economic, religious and cultural, including the rebuilding and establishment of mosques, colleges and libraries.42 Most of the renovation was performed by the Mongol-­appointed Muslim officials like the above-­mentioned ‘Imād al-­Dīn and mainly his rival, the historian ‘Alā’ al-­Dīn Juwaynī, the governor of Baghdad under Mongol rule, whose long tenure (657–81/1259–83) certainly benefited the city. However, that the Baghdadi chronicle describes Hülegü’s successor, the Īl-­ Khān Abaqa, as ‘a just ruler who cherished the building of cities’, 43 suggests that the local population was aware of the role of the Mongols, and not only the officials appointed by them, in the restoration process. Again, this became clearer in the post-­Islamisation period, when Baghdad became a popular winter pasture of the Īl-­Khāns, and was described, under Oljeitu, as ‘heaven upon earth’.44 Moreover, as I have shown elsewhere,45 at least in the specific case of ­music – ­an art favoured by the ­Mongols – ­the Īl-­Khānid period was one of great advance and splendour. While benefiting both from Īl-­Khānid patronage (Abū Sa‘īd, the last Īl-­Khān, was a noted musician himself) and the open world of the empire that enabled artistic and cultural contacts with China, India, Europe, Egypt and Syria, Īl-­Khānid science of music was mainly based on the achievements of the ‘Abbāsid school, among which Urmawī’s compilations continued to play a leading role. Namely, in the field of music, ‘Abbāsid culture did not decline but strived after the Mongol conquest. In this respect, it is worth mentioning that references to cultural ­trauma – ­as opposed to the physical or political traumas of the ­conquest – ­are extremely rare in the sources and mainly appear in the mid–late fourteenth century onwards.46 42. See M. Biran, ‘The Fall and Rise of Baghdad under Mongol Rule: Between History and Memory’, paper read at the Winter Academy: Collapse, Jerusalem, 9–15 December 2012. 43. Kitāb al-Hawādith, p. 453; For Baghdad’s quick restoration see also H. Gilli-­Elewy, Bagdad nach dem Sturz des Kalifats. Die Geschichte einer Provinz unter ilhanischer Herrschaft (Berlin, 2000), p. 33; Biran, ‘The Fall and Rise’. 44. Ibn al-­Fuwatī, Talkhīs majma‘ al-udabā’, 2, p. 433. 45. Biran, ‘Music’, pp. 144–50. 46. Notable examples are Ibn al-­Sā‘ī (Pseudo), Kitāb mukhtaṣar akhbār al-khulafā (Cairo, 1891), p. 137 that claims that the Mongols built horse-­feeders from the books of the Baghdadi ‘ulamā’ (the fact that Mongol horses were usually fed on pasture, without feeders, does not give much credibility to this description); al-­Subkī, Ṭabaqāt

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This is also the period in which the most a­ pocalyptic – a­ nd nowadays often q­ uoted – ­descriptions of Baghdad fall were composed at the Mamlūk ­sultanate – ­by people like al-Dhahabī (d. 749/1349), al-Subkī (d. after 769/1368) and Ibn al-Kathīr (d. 774/1373).47 Perhaps after the Īl-­Khānate’s fall, when the Mamlūks had no real enemy vis-­à-vis they can define their identity, they tried to magnify the fall of Baghdad in order to boost their subsequent victory in ‘Ayn Jālūt, where they defeated the Mongols in 658/1260.48 Soon afterwards, however, the great historian Ibn Khaldūn (d. 808/1406), while lamenting Baghdad’s fall, saw it as a natural phase in history, which brought to the fore the rise of the Mamlūk Turks, who revived the ‘Abbāsid caliphate and saved Islam from both the Mongols and the Franks.49 In the Turco-­Persian medieval and early modern world, not only the references to the conquest’s cultural traumas are few, but the Īl-­Khānate’s cultural splendour is highlighted: in the Ṣafawid and Ottoman periods the Īl-­Khānate is remembered mainly due to its ‘men of talents’. The Ṣafawid historian Khwāndamīr finished his description of the ‘Abbāsid caliphate not with the death of the last Caliph but with Hülegü’s revival (nahḍat-i Hülegü), praising the many scholars who were active under the Īl-­Khānate (many of them Baghdadi figures al-Shāfi‘iyya al-kubrā (Aleppo, 1964), 8, pp. 271–7, who brings plenty of anecdotes of the Mongol anti-­Islamic behaviour, e.g., that ­they – ­or their Christian ­troops – ­forced the Muslims to drink wine and eat pigs in the month of Ramaḍān (p. 271; as the conquest took place in Muḥarram, nine months before Ramaḍān, this is not too credible either; wine was quite common in Baghdad anyhow as is clear from Urmawī’s description); and Ibn Khaldūn, Kitāb al-‘ibar (Beirut, 1957), 3, p. 1106; 5, p. 1155, who says that the Mongols threw the Muslim scientific books (kutub al-‘ilm) from Baghdad’s libraries into the Tigris, just like the Muslims did with the Persian books when they conquered al-­Madā’in (in the seventh century). Ibn Khaldūn, however, did not think that the Persian culture was ruined after the Arab conquest. 47. Subkī, Ṭabaqāt, 8, pp. 268–77; Dhahabī, Tārīkh, 56, pp. 372–7; Ibn Kathīr, al-Bidāya, 13, pp. 233–7. 48. I owe this explanation to Richard Bulliet’s comment during the third Legitimate and Illegitimate Violence in Classical Islamic Thought conference at the Institute of Arab and Islamic Studies, University of Exeter, 2012. For ‘Ayn Jālūt see Amitai-­Preiss, Mongols and Mamluks, pp. 26–48. For a description of Baghdad as a prelude to ‘Ayn Jālut see, e.g., U. W. Haarrmann, ‘Ideology and History, Identity and Alterity: The Arab Image of the Turk from the ‘Abbasids to Modern Egypt’, International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 20.2 (1988), 181–2. 49. Ibn Khaldūn, Kitāb al-‘ibar, 3, pp. 1106–7; see also A. Pistor-­Hatam, ‘Ursachenforschung und Sinngebung. Die mongolische Eroberung Bagdads in Ibn Ḫaldūns zyklischem Geschichtsmodell’, in Die Mamlūken. Studien zu ihrer Geschichte und Kultur. Zum Gedenken an Ulrich Haarmann (1942–1999), eds S. Conermann and A. Pistor-­Hatam (Hamburg, 2003), pp. 313–34.

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The Mongol Conquest of Baghdad31

such as Yāqūt or Urmawī),50 and Hülegü’s patronage of scholars is brought as an important part of his legitimation by Muḥammad ‘Alī Pasha, the Ottoman historian.51 In retrospect the violence of the Mongol conquest was replaced with the brilliance of rulership and Īl-­Khānid cultural splendour, although this was at least partially because the annihilation of the caliphate facilitated the ability of both Ṣafawids and Ottomans to gain legitimation as rulers. In conclusion, the violence in the Mongol conquest of Baghdad was less total than previously thought and could have been spared by a combination of payment and/or skills. The violence was not directed specifically against Islamic religion or civilisation, the best representatives of which were quite respected by the Mongols. Moreover, even in the Arab world, Mongol violence was understood as ­legitimate – ­a hatred right of the ­conquerors – ­and as manifesting God’s will. Furthermore, the quick restoration and intellectual growth of Īl-­ Khānid Baghdad, followed by the conquerors’ later conversion to Islam and the Ilkhanate’s cultural splendour, made the violence of the conquest not only legitimate but also rather marginalised in the historical memory of the Turco-­Iranian world. It was depicted in apocalyptic light mainly by some historians of the Mamlūk sultanate, especially from the mid-­fourteenth century, namely after the fall of the Īl-­Khānate, and due to the Mamlūks’ need of legitimation. However, even in the Arab world, the violence of the conquest was eventually downplayed up to the rise of nationalism in the nineteenth century and the upheavals of the early twenty-­first century.

50. Khwāndamīr, Ḥabīb al-siyar, 2, pp. 338–41. 51. C. H. Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual in the Ottoman Empire: The Historian Mustafa Ali (1541–1600) (Princeton, 1986), pp. 283–4.

Chapter

3 The Mongols as the Scourge of God in the Islamic World

Timothy May*

When Chinggis Khan (1162–1227) ascended the minbār at the Friday Mosque in Bukhāra in 1221 he announced, presumably through an interpreter, ‘O People, know that you have committed great sins, and that the great ones among you have committed these sins. If you ask me what proof I have for these words, I say it is because I am the punishment of God.1 If you had not committed great sins, God would not have sent a punishment2 like me upon you.’3 It was a powerful and dramatic speech made by a terrifying figure at the pulpit. Chinggis Khan rationalises his invasion and destruction of the Khwārazmian *

University of North Georgia, USA. I would like to thank the participants of the third Legitimate and Illegitimate Violence in Classical Islamic Thought conference at the Institute of Arab and Islamic Studies, University of Exeter, 2012, for their useful comments and suggestions. They have inevitably made this paper better, although any errors remain my own. Also, I thank Scott Jacobs for his support of my research.   1. man khudā ‘azāb ām.   2. ‘azāb.   3. Juvaini (hereon Juwaynī), Genghis Khan: The History of the World Conqueror, trans. J. A. Boyle (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1997), p. 105; ‫‏‬Juwaynī, Ta’rīkhi-Jahān-Gusha, ed. M. Qazwīnī (Leiden, 1912, 1916, 1937), p. 81 and Wheeler M. Thackston, trans., Rashīd al-­Dīn, Jāmi‘ al-tawārīkh [written as Rashiduddin Fazlullah, Jami‘u’t-Tawarikh: Compendium of Chronicles] (Cambridge, MA, 1998–9), p. 247; Rashīd al-­Dīn, Jāmi‘ al-tawārīkh, ed. B. Karīmī (Tehran, 1983), p. 361; Khwāndamīr, Ḥabīb al-siyar [written as Khwandamir, Habibu’s-Siyar: The History of the Mongols and Genghis Khan], vol. 2, Classical Writings of the Medieval Islamic World: Persian Histories of the Mongol Dynasties, trans. Wheeler M. Thackston (London, 2012), p. 16. Hereon, these sources will be referenced as Juwaynī/Boyle, Juwaynī/Qazwīnī, Rashīd al-­Dīn/Thackston; Rashīd al-­Dīn/Karīmī, Khwāndamīr/Thackston respectively.

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Mongols as the Scourge of God33

Empire because he is the Scourge of God sent by God because of the populace’s sins and the even greater sins of their leaders. To substantiate his claim, Chinggis Khan further explains through a syllogism that if not for their sins then why would God send a calamity such as the one that befell Bukhāra? When reading this passage in Juwaynī, which later authors used as well, one must question whether or not Chinggis Khan actually uttered these words. For someone with limited contact with Islam, his explanation fits quite patently into Islamic thought, particularly regarding the legitimisation of authority and a fatalistic explanation of why bad things happen. Yet, did Chinggis Khan actually say or mean this? Or, rather, was it a simply a method by which medieval Muslims rationalised the violence that upturned Dār al-Islām? Certainly, other writers also wrote in similar veins, recognising that suddenly the Islamic world was threatened by a menace like no other. Other motifs were soon attached to the Mongol invasion, transforming the destruction from an expansive steppe empire into an apocalyptic nightmare, and Juwaynī was not alone in his penitential response to the Mongol invasion.4 The origin of the Bukhāra speech is well known and merits but a brief explanation. Having absorbed the ruins of the Kara Khitai Empire (1131–1218) in 1218, the Mongol Empire now bordered the Khwārazmian Empire, another dynamic state in the early thirteenth century. Indeed, the Mongols arrival at the Syr Darya frontier of the Khwārazmian Empire had much to do with the   4. Devin DeWeese, ‘ “Stuck in the Throat of Chingīz Khān”: Envisioning the Mongol Conquests in Some Sufi Accounts from the 14th to 17th Centuries’, in History and Historiography of Post-Mongol Central Asia and the Middle East, eds Judith Pfeiffer and Sholeh A. Quinn (Wiesbaden, 2006), pp. 25–6. DeWeese calls Juwaynī’s description of Chinggis Khan’s invasion of the Middle East and the ultimate fall of Baghdad (since al-­Juwaynī was writing from Baghdad in 1260), ‘penitential’ explanation. Some other writers in Baghdad prior to the Mongol invasion also ascribed apocalyptic ties to the Mongols such as Najm al-­Dīn Rāzī (d. 654/1256). DeWeese, p. 26, writes: Such penitential interpretations are potentially more instructive about the Muslim– Mongol interaction than is at first apparent, although their very abundance may obscure their value. That is, while we might be inclined to dismiss such penitential responses as simply meaningless, proforma evocations of a stock religious rhetoric when faced with the devastations of war or famine or plague, particular cases of the penitential response may be revealing not only with regard to the religious attitudes of those who formulated them and thereby ‘used’the Mongol attack to advance a particular vision of Islam, but also with regard to internal divisions within Muslim societies: as is evident from Rāzī’s use of the Mongol threat, an outwardly ‘penitential’ response, after all, is often not really critical of Muslim society as a whole, or of the writer’s own community, but is transparently aimed at some other group whose differing moral, ritual, or doctrinal stance could be blamed for bringing on God’s wrath.

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expansion of the Khwārazmian Empire. In 1141, when Yelü Dashi (r. 1131–43), the Gur-­Khan of the Kara Khitans, defeated the Saljūq Sultan Sanjar (r. 1118– 57) at Qatwān Steppe, the province of Khwārazm became part of the Kara Khitai Empire.5 Although it often acted independently and took advantage of the chaos in Iran and Khurāsān during the death knells of the Saljūq Empire, it remained a vassal of the Khitans until the advent of the Mongol Empire. In 1204, the Mongols defeated the Naiman confederation in western Mongolia, resulting in Chinggis Khan’s establishment of the Mongol Empire. Not all of the defeated, however, accepted this situation gracefully. Refugees, such as Güchülüg (d.1218), a Naiman prince, fled with many followers along with Merkit allies, another defeated group. The Mongols defeated the Naiman and Merkit alliance again at the Irtysh River in 1208, shattering them. The survivors once again fled but in different directions. While the Merkit fled and took refuge among the Ölberli nomads north of the Aral Sea, the Naiman found refuge in Kara Khitai, which had ties to many of the tribes of the Mongolian steppes. Eventually, Güchülüg’s ambition led him to conspire with Muḥammad II Khwārazmshāh (r. 1200–20), the sultan of Khwārazm, to split the Kara Khitai Empire between them. Their coup was successful but not without friction as the two quarrelled over Samarqand and Transoxiana in general. Ultimately, however, Muḥammad gained the region for his own as Güchülüg soon discovered that the Mongols had not forgotten about him either. In 1218, an army led by the Mongol general Jebe pressured Güchülüg to flee throughout his empire to avoid capture. As his brief rule had been unpopular, he found no safe haven and a local ruler led the effort in hunting him down, turning the body over to Jebe. With Güchülüg’s death and the more favourable policies of the Mongols regarding religion and taxes, Kara Khitai disappeared from history and became the western appendage of the Mongol Empire. The Mongols did not pose a threat to the Khwārazmian Empire, at least initially. By 1218, the Mongols were engaged in a protracted war with the Jin Empire of northern China, more than a thousand miles away. Chinggis Khan showed no interest in invading Central Asia. His operations in the west at this point had been to hunt and destroy refugees from Mongolia who could be potential rivals to his rule. He did, however, have a keen interest in promoting trade with the Khwārazmian Empire. To that end, Chinggis Khan sponsored a caravan to travel to Central Asia and encouraged other leading figures to invest in the caravan as well.

  5. For more on Kara Khitai, see Michal Biran, The Empire of the Qara Khitai in Eurasian History (Cambridge, 2005).

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Mongols as the Scourge of God35

Unfortunately, the trade mission did not fare well. Chinggis Khan’s diplomacy lacked tact and insulted the Khwārazmshāh, and the avarice of the governor of Otrār, a relative of Muḥammad II Khwārazmshāh, led to the massacre of the caravan on charges of espionage. While his accusation was probably correct, his actions crossed the line in any era.6 When the news reached Chinggis Khan, he attempted to resolve the problem diplomatically by asking for the return of his goods as well and that the governor of Otrār be handed over to him. Muḥammad II’s response was the execution of Chinggis Khan’s ambassador and the singeing of his guards’ beards. This drew an immediate reaction from the Mongol ruler.7 He held his anger in check initially due to the war against the Jin Empire as well as a rebellion in Siberia. The murder of his envoy violated Mongol and steppe sensibilities. While the caravan massacre merited retaliation, the merchants were not agents of the Mongol Empire. The Mongol ruler had invested wealth into the caravan, but not people beholden to him. The envoy, however, was his representative. Thus, the execution of the envoy was the same as murdering Chinggis Khan. Furthermore, an envoy was a guest to which one was obligated to provide hospitality and protection. Execution violated both traditions, thus meriting and necessitating retaliation. Leaving a token force under his capable lieutenant Muqali, Chinggis Khan took the majority of the Mongol army and traversed the distance from his southeastern frontiers to his southwestern border faster than anyone could have anticipated.8 Yet even before invading, Chinggis Khan sent a letter indicating   6. Juwaynī/Boyle, pp. 79–81; Juwaynī/Qazwīnī, pp. 61–2; Minhāj al-­Dīn Jūzjānī, Ṭabaqāti-Nāṣirī [written as T̤abaḳāt-­i-Nāṣirī], trans. H. G. Raverty (London, 1881, repr. New Delhi, 1970). Available at: https://archive.org/search.php?query=tabakat-i%20nasiri (accessed 28 March 2018), pp. 272, 966–7; Minhāj al-­Dīn Jūzjānī, Ṭabaqāt-i-Nāṣirī, ed. A. Habībī (Kabul Afghānistān 1963–4), vol. I., 311, vol. II, pp. 103–4 (hereon Jūzjānī/ Raverty and Jūzjānī/Habībī, respectively); al-­Nuwayrī, Nihāyat al-arab fī funūn al-adab (Cairo, 1975), pp. 257–8.   7. Al-­Dhahabī, Kitāb Duwal al-Islām (Les Dynasties de L’Islam), trans. Arlette Nègre (Damascus: Institut Français de Damas, 1979), pp. 203–4; Muḥammad b. Aḥmad al-­ Nasawī, Sīrat al-Sulṭān Jalāl al-Dīn Mankubirtī (Cairo, 1953), pp.86–7; translated as Mohammed En-­Nesawī, Histoire du Sultan Djelal ed-Din Mankobirti, trans. O. Houdas (Paris, 1895). Available at: https://archive.org/stream/histoiredusultan00nasa#page/n7/ mode/2up (accessed 16 December 2015), pp. 60–1 (hereon al-­Nasawī and al-­Nasawī/ Houdas, respectively). To be fair, Muḥammad could not turn over Inal Khan, the governor of Otrār, as he was a relative and much of the army came from the same tribe as Inal Khan. To turn him over, risked rebellion. Furthermore, if he did turn Inal over to Chinggis Khan, it was likely that Inal would inform the Mongol ruler that Muhammad had ordered him to massacre the merchants as spies.   8. Ibn Abī al-­Hadīd, Sharh Nahj al-Balāgha (Beirut, 1963), pp. 70, 72.

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that he was left with no choice but war and listed the murder of the envoy and merchants as well as the pilfering of his goods as the casus belli.9 Hitting Otrār with the full force of the Mongol military machine, the Khwārazmian Empire cracked like a nut. Within a span of three years, the once formidable and sizeable Khwārazmian Empire was erased from the map. Indeed, for much of the population of the empire, when the Mongols departed the regions south of the Amu Darya/Amu River, it must have been as if they woke from an extended nightmare. Of course, the Muslims were not the only group that viewed the Mongols as divine punishment. Christians of all sects also interpreted the Mongols’ actions in this manner. The most well-­known is the desultory lamentation found in the Rus’ chronicles after the Battle of Kalka River in 1223: In such a way did God bring confusion upon us, and an endless number of people perished. This evil event came to pass on the day of Jeremiah the prophet, the 31st day of May. As for the Tatars, they turned back from the Dnieper, and we know neither from whence they came nor whither they have now gone. Only God knows that, because he brought them upon us for our sins.10

And even if the Rus did not know who they were, they soon created an explanation that fit an apocalyptic ideology.11 The monophysite Armenians also wrote of the Mongols in the same vein, more or less transforming Chinggis Khan into a Christian king and instrument of God. According to Grigor of Akanc, an angel appeared before Chinggis Khan and presented him with the Yasa, the laws

  9. Ibn Abī al-­Hadīd, Sharh Nahj al-Balāgha, p. 71. 10. Serge A. Zenkovsky, Medieval Russia’s Epics, Chronicles, and Tales (New York, 1974), p. 196; Ermonlinskaia Letopis’, ed. A. I. Tsepkov (Riazan’, 2000), pp. 100–1; In Serge A. Zenkovsky, ed. The Nikonian Chronicle, vol. 2, trans Serge A. and Betty Jean Zenkovsky (Princeton, 1984), p. 290, the bookmen of the Nikonian Chronicle wrote a slightly different lamentation: ‘No one knows whence came the Tatars or whither they went. This was the first appearance of Tatars in Russia. They were light, unhampered by any heavy supplies; they could run and then return, and were as criminal as devils.’ This is obviously different from the more famous quote above, which came not from the Nikonian Chronicle but Novgorodian Chronicle, which provides an apocalyptic explanation compared to the Nikonian Chronicle’s more mundane explanation. 11. Peter Jackson, ‘Medieval Christendom’s Encounter with the Alien’, in Travellers, Intellectuals, and the World beyond Medieval Europe, ed. James Muldoon (Burlington, VT, 2010), p. 41. They were seen as the ‘harbingers of the Last Things’. According to Julian of Hungary, a Dominican missionary in the Kipchak Steppe, the Rus’ established that the Mongols were Ishmaelites, specifically Midianites, ibid.

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Mongols as the Scourge of God37

of the Mongols12 as well as the title of Khaghan and ordered him to rule over many lands. Furthermore, Grigor wrote, ‘Thus this wild folk not only once brought the cup, but also the dregs of bitterness upon us, because of our many and varied sins, which continually roused the anger of the Creator our God at our deeds. Wherefore the Lord roused then in his anger as a lesson to us, because we had not kept his commandments.’13 Western Christendom was remote to the nomadic world and found them alien as they had no agriculture and ate unclean food such as raw meat and koumiss. For the purposes of this study, Peter Jackson summarises Western Christendom’s response best: However, the advent of a race from the east which was much more powerful and destructive than other steppe peoples naturally touched the apocalyptic sensitivities of medieval Christians, and in their attempts to make sense of the cataclysm, they turned to the historical and geographical material found in Scripture and Classical writings, as mentioned above. The dimension of this response should not be exaggerated. Gog and Magog did not necessarily carry any apocalyptic associations, although the same cannot be said for the Ishmaelites. Neither the letters of Popes Gregory IX and Innocent IV nor those of the Emperor Frederick II deploy any apocalyptic terminology; and indeed many annalists dismiss the Mongol invasion in one brief sentence or, in keeping with their habitually parochial outlook, neglect to mention it at all. It is surprising that Albert of Stade, whose annals had earlier included references to Pseudo-­Methodius, makes no connection whatever between the latter and the Mongols. The restraint of the chronicler of St. Pantaleon at Cologne is especially marked. He has heard about the origins, religion and diet of this barbarian race, he says, much that is incredible and utterly inhuman; but since it is not yet known for certain he will refrain from inserting it here.14

12. For more on the Yasa and the debate over its existence see David O. Morgan, ‘The “Great Yasa” of Chinggis Khan Revisited’, in Mongols, Turks, and Others: Eurasian Nomads and the Sedentary World, eds Reuven Amitai and Michal Biran (Leiden, 2005), pp. 291–308. 13. Grigor of Akanc, ‘The History of the Nation of the Archers by Grigor of Akanc’, trans and eds R. P. Blake and R. N. Frye, Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 12 (1949), 290–1. Also see Zaroui Pogossian, ‘Armenians, Mongols and the End of Times: An Overview of 13th Century Sources’, in Caucasus during the Mongol Period – Der Kaukasus in der Mongolenzeit, eds Jürgen Tubach, Sophia G. Vashalomidze and Manfred Zimmer (Wiesbaden, 2012), pp. 169–98. Pogossian reviews the Armenian sources and their views while also discussing the transformation of this view from one of the apocalypse to the Mongols being protectors and benefactors. 14. Jackson, ‘Medieval Christendom’s Encounter’, p. 37.

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Thus, while some writers in Christendom considered the Mongols as the flagellum dei, an idea that had lingered since Attila’s invasions, by no means was it universal. Indeed, for some (both Jewish and Christian) writers the Mongols were the Lost Tribes of Israel, despite the Mongols’ ignorance of Hebrew and Mosaic Law.15 Rational explanations, however, were not needed, as the invasion did fit a penitential explanation quite nicely and apparently fit into an explanation of Christian guilt for treatment of Europe’s Jewish population. Unfortunately, Christendom responded curiously. Rather than atoning for their sins and seeking forgiveness, pogroms against German Jews resumed with the culprits justifying their actions on the grounds that they were in league with the Mongols and planned to avenge themselves against Christian persecution.16 Of course, the idea that the European Jewry were shipping weapons to the Mongols is ludicrous in hindsight, considering the Mongols’ weapon-­manufacturing capabilities.17 Furthermore, the annalists seem to overlook the irony of the German reaction to the possibility that the Jews sought vengeance for earlier persecution and that pogroms would only encourage an alliance with the Ten Lost Tribes or whomever the new mysterious invaders were. This concept of revenge did not escape the European Jews, either. As Peter Jackson has demonstrated, Hebrew sources indicate that the invasions caused a stir among the Jews as 1240 marked the year 5000 in the Judaic ­calendar – a­ year ripe with millenarian expectations.18 Jackson also noted that in the Relatio de Davide rege ‘King Israel’ is referred to as the father of the eponymous King David. The latter is the leader of the forces indicated in the Relatio de Davide rege, that is, the Mongols. King Israel, being his alleged father, indicates the assumption that he and the Mongols he leads are Jewish. As this work circulated in 1221, it may have promoted some messianic beliefs and perhaps influenced a prophecy in 1241 that predicted ‘inter alia the Jews’ deliverance from captivity. Even as late as 1250–60, at the time of the Mongol advance under Hülegü towards Palestine, there were still Jewish writers who thought the Mongols were the Lost Tribes.’ 19 15. Sophia Menache, ‘Tartars, Jews, Saracens and the “Jewish-­Mongol Plot” of 1241’, in Travellers, Intellectuals, and the World Beyond Medieval Europe, ed. James Muldoon (Burlington, VT, 2010), p. 263. 16. Menache, ‘Tartars, Jews, Saracens’, p. 263; Jackson, ‘Medieval Christendom’s Encounter’, p. 38. As Menache comments, ideas of vengeance for the pogroms that took place during the First Crusade still existed in the European Jewry of the mid-­thirteenth century. 17. Timothy May, The Mongol Art of War (London, 2007), 63–5. 18. Menache, ‘Tartars, Jews, Saracens’, p. 262; Jackson, ‘Medieval Christendom’s Encounter’, p. 38. 19. Jackson, ‘Medieval Christendom’s Encounter’, p. 38. Also see Menache, passim. As

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Mongols as the Scourge of God39

Needless to say, not all Jews believed that the Mongols were coming to save them or were the Ten Lost Tribes.20 The same lack of consensus existed in in the Islamic world. Indeed, even within the penitential explanation of the Mongol invasions, not everyone was in agreement as to the exact details. The matter of sin is a curious one, as not everyone agreed as to whether it was a collective sin or just certain people who sinned and caused the invasion regardless of location. In the more selective case, the Mongols could be viewed as avenging angels. Many Sufis initially viewed the Mongols in this manner. Many Kubrāwiyya Sufis saw the Mongol invasions of Khwārazm and the Central Asia as a result of ninety years of mis-­rule by non-­Muslims (the Kara Khitai) and persecution of Sufis by the Muslim Khwārazmshah. According to the Sufis, the execution of Majd al-­Dīn Aḥmad ibn ‘Umar Baghdādī by Sultan Muḥammad II in 1219 was the true cause of the invasions.21 It was expected that through the invasions, the other meaningless forms of Islam would disappear and the insincere believers and hypocrites such as Muḥammad Khwārazmshāh would be eradicated as infidels.22 Mawlawiyya Sufis viewed the Mongols in a similar manner as well, telling potential oppressors that the Mongols would punish them. This idea continued well past the initial Mongol invasion. In one anecdote from Aflākī’s Manāqib al-‘ārifīn, the Saljūq administrator Sulaymān Mu‘īn al-­Dīn Parwāna (d.1277) asked Rūmī when the Mongol rule would come to an end. The Parwāna also emphasised that Rūmī referred to the Mongols as ‘Our Army’. Rūmī replied: When the great Master [Bahā’ al-­Dīn]23 – God be pleased with h­ im – b­ ecame sore at heart because of the Khvārazamshāh’s disagreeable behavior which had taken a bad form, and being very annoyed, departed from Balkh, he invoked God in accordance with His name the Avenger to take revenge on those innovators on the road of the sharī‘at, for God is All-powerful, the Avenger.24 When God Most High had brought forth the enormous Mongol army from the east, they destroyed the capital city Balkh, as well as Khorasan. Menache indicates, the stories of King David became fact in the minds of many Christians, and with slight alteration, for many Jews as well, particularly with King David being recognised as an ancestor of the Messiah in Jewish tradition, which then gave the Mongols the status of ‘God’s emissaries’. 20. Menache, ‘Tartars, Jews, Saracens’, p. 264. 21. Leonard Lewisohn, ‘Overview: Iranian Islam and Persianate Sufism’, in The Legacy of Medieval Persian Sufism, ed. Leonard Lewisohn (London and New York, 1992), p. 30. 22. Leonard Lewisohn, Beyond Faith and Infidelity: The Sufi Poetry and Teachings of Mahmud Shabistari (Richmond, 1995), pp. 57–8. 23. Rūmī’s father. 24. Q 3:3, 5:96.

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He then recited a hadīth where God tells Muḥammad, I possess an army which I have given an abode towards the east, and I have called them the Turks. I created them with (both) My wrath and My anger, and I will inflict them upon which ever of My bondsmen and bondswomen neglects my command, and I will take revenge on the latter by means of them.25

Rūmī continued to explain to the Parwāna that the Mongols would eventually fall, but only when they neglected God’s ­command – ­primarily that they will show disdain for Rūmī’s offspring (Sufis, Mawlawiyya Sufis in particular). Hagiographers such as Aflākī then point to this prophecy as to why the Īl-­Khānid state ­ended – ­persecution of the Mawlawiyya order.26 Yet, at the same time, Aflākī wrote the Mānaqib al-‘ārifīn from the perspective that the Mongols would convert to Islam over time.27 Thus, their prophesised ‘disdain’ for the Sufis was not due to their pagan identity but the hubris of the secular sultans and the Caliphs who frowned upon Sufism, ultimately reflecting back upon Muḥammad Khwārazmshāh’s actions towards Sufis. It is apparent, however, that some Sufis, in later periods, appeared to have qualms about encouraging the Mongol invasions. Although various Sufi sects still claimed a connection to the Mongols’ arrival, their interaction was defensive against the Mongols. Rather than bringing the Mongols in as a punishment, it is because of the Khwārazmshāh’s actions that the Sufis can no longer restrain the Mongols with their spiritual power as his persecutions of Sufism hamper their activities. Other instances exist as well. Often the circumstance was not due to the failing power of the Sufi, but because custom and propriety forces the Sufi to conform to the dictates of society rather than focusing on what was truly important. In a story involving Najm al-­Dīn Kubrā, the founder of the Kubrāwiyya Sufi order, a group of people enter his house with the saint Shaykh Maṣlaḥat Khujandī. Najm al-­Dīn is sitting on the floor with one foot extended out towards Turkistan. He is urged to stand up in the august presence of Khujandī. Najm al-­Dīn comments that he has been holding a dog off by keeping his foot in its mouth, but if he must stand because of decorum, he will. A few months later the released dog, Chinggis Khan, invaded.28 25. John Dechant, ‘Depictions of the Islamization of the Mongols in the Manāqib al-‘ārifīn and the Foundation of the Mawlawī Community’, Mawlana Rumi Review 2 (2011), 158–9; italics in the original. 26. Dechant, ibid., p. 158. 27. Dechant, ibid., p. 142. 28. DeWeese, ‘Stuck in the Throat of Chingīz Khān’, pp. 50–1. On this symbolic story, see also below, pp. 15–16.

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Mongols as the Scourge of God41

From the perspective of the later Sufis such as Rūmī, but not just the Mawlawiyya, the destruction wrought by the Mongols was offset by the role played by the Sufis in converting the Mongols to Islam. In the opinion of Devin DeWeese, the death and destruction was further mitigated ‘precisely for the destructive impact of the Mongol conquest upon the institutional structures of the Muslim world’.29 Indeed, in another story concerning Najm al-­Dīn Kubrā, he foresaw the Mongol invasion, which was due to Majd al-­Dīn’s execution, and sent his disciples out of the region. He remained behind and died as a martyr fighting the Mongols, but, before his death, the Mongols, impressed by his piety, gave him an opportunity to leave. Kubrā rejected it and said, ‘I will attain the blessing of holy war and martyrdom from you, and you will obtain the blessing of Islām from us.’30 This is usually accepted as a prophecy that the Mongols will convert to Islam. Thus, by punishing both the temporal and religious authorities for their treatment of the Sufis, everything else that the Mongols did was justified, for that damage was fleeting compared to the long-­term achievements of Sufism. In some Sufi accounts, the Mongols not only invade to punish those who have oppressed Sufis, but they are also led by Sufis and could not be defeated because they were under the protection of Sufis.31 DeWeese notes that this motif is extended further and that mere mortal Sufis, awliyyā’ Allāh though they may be, are not those leading the Mongols, but the Khiẓr who, as DeWeese describes him, is ‘the immortal prophet of the unseen world’.32 The use of the Khiẓr as well as other unseen people (rijāl al-ghayb) in conjunction with the infidel Mongols to kill and punish the wicked Muslims, who are, as DeWeese indicates, still considered as belonging to the Muslim community, is part of a larger penitential explanation of the Mongol invasions.33 Furthermore, the style that many of these accounts are written in the late thirteenth century and the fourteenth are deliberately crafted to legitimate not only the conquests but the role and importance of the Sufis. Often, they include passages in Arabic placed in a Persian text, a style not dissimilar to Juwaynī’s which by virtue of the language ‘lends an air of divine authority and quasi-­Qur’ānic sanction to the legitimacy of the Mongols’ destructive impact’.34 Other chroniclers had difficulty accepting the calamity and that God had sent a punishment such as the Mongols, but gradually rationalised it by recognising 29. DeWeese, ‘Stuck in the Throat’, p. 24. 30. Kubrā cited in DeWeese, ‘Stuck in the Throat’, pp. 42–3. 31. DeWeese, ‘Stuck in the Throat’, pp. 32, 34. 32. DeWeese, ‘Stuck in the Throat’, pp. 36–7. 33. DeWeese, ‘Stuck in the Throat’, p. 41. 34. DeWeese, ‘Stuck in the Throat’, p. 41.

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Q 13: 11, ‘When God wills evil to a people, there is no averting it and they have no protector other than Him.’35 Even so, Ibn al-­Athīr appears to have great difficulty rationalising the Mongol irruption. Shortly before he cites the Qur’ān, he refers to the Tatars (the Mongols) and then writes, ‘God damn them.’36 Thus, he is tacitly damning the instrument of God. His difficulty in rationalising the conquests continues as he states that he has delayed writing about it because it horrified him too much and that he had no desire to write the obituary of Islam, that he wished that he had never been born.37 His melodramatics continued, stating that nothing like this calamity had occurred before in history and it was unlikely that anything such as this would appear again until the end of the world. Ibn al-­Athīr’s distress is so great that he gives the Anti-­Christ (al-Dajjāl) a more favourable review, stating ‘that even the Antichrist spares those who follow him and destroys those who oppose him, but these did not spare anyone’.38 This statement is magnified, as it directly contradicts a ḥadīth in which the Prophet Muḥammad states, ‘No tribulation on earth since the creation of Adam will be worse than the tribulation of the Dajjāl.’39 Ibn al-­Athīr’s account is not mere hyperbole. Ibn Kathīr (1301–73), while not writing explicitly about the Mongols, did write extensively on apocalyptic ­topics – ­possibly, but not ­conclusively – ­influenced by Ibn al-­Athīr and others who experienced the Mongol conquests. Furthermore, as a former student of Ibn Taymiyya and a resident of Damascus in the Mamlūk Sultanate, the ardent foes of the Īl-­Khānid Mongols, it is doubtful that he viewed the Mongols at any stage in a positive light. Nonetheless, his writings do shed light on a larger Muslim perspective of apocalyptic events. In Ibn Kathīr’s work, it is easy to see how the Mongols could be connected to Ya’jūj (Gog) and Ma’jūj (Magog). While never directly tying the Mongols to Gog and Magog, he includes ḥadīths that provide foreshadowing of their appearance. In one ḥadīth from the Bukhārī’s Kitāb al-Fitan, ‘Zaynab bint Jaḥsh said, ‘The Prophet got up from his sleep; his face was flushed and he said, “There is no god but Allah. Woe to the Arabs, for a great evil which is nearly approaching them. Today a gap has been made in the wall of Gog and 35. Ibn al-­Athīr, Kitāb al-Kāmil fī l-Ta’rīkh = Ibn-el-Athiri Chronicon quod perfectissimum inscribitur, ed. C. J. Tornberg, vol. 12 (Leiden, 1853, repr. Beirut, 1966 and 1979).), p. 361; Ibn al-­Athīr, The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athīr for the Crusading Period from al-­ Kāmil fī’l-­ta’rīkh, Part 3, trans. D. S. Richards (Aldershot, Hants; Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2008), p. 204 (hereon Ibn al-­Athīr and Ibn al-­Athīr/Richards, respectively). 36. Ibn al-­Athīr, p.360; Ibn al-­Athīr/Richards, p. 204. 37. Ibn al-­Athīr, p. 358; Ibn al-­Athīr/Richards, p. 202. 38. Ibn al-­Athīr, pp. 358–9; Ibn al-­Athīr/Richards, p. 202. 39. Ibn Kathīr, The Signs before the Day of Judgment, 2nd edn, trans. Huda Khattab (London, 1992), p. 56. Ibn Kathīr attributes this ḥadīth to Abū Umāma al-­Bāhilī.

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Mongols as the Scourge of God43

Magog.” Someone asked, “Shall we be destroyed even though there are righteous people among us?” The Prophet said, “Yes, if evil increases.”’40 Yet at the same time, Ibn Kathīr records a ḥadīth that can tie the Mongols to Dajjāl. ‘The Prophet said, “The Dajjāl will emerge in a land in the east called Khurāsān. His followers will be people with faces like hammered shields.’”41 While this ḥadīth could easily fit the Turks, during the era of the Mongol irruption into the Dār al-Islām (Abode of Islam) one does not need to stretch their imagination to see the connection with the Mongols. Furthermore, the wall of Ya’jūj and Ma’jūj also fits nicely into the ultimate cause of the Mongol ­invasions – ­the actions of Muḥammad II Khwārazmshāh. The Khwārazmshāh, of course, offended Chinggis Khan by massacring his caravan, but in the eyes of many this is not what ultimately triggered the invasion. While the apocalyptic Sufi stories indicate his execution of a Sufi, other stories hint at his other grave sin. If one recalls the tale of Najm al-­Dīn Kubrā, in order to behave according to accepted decorum, he had to stand to meet a visiting saint, removing his foot from the maw of a dog.42 Najm al-­Dīn’s efforts at staving off the dog carry additional meaning in connection with the wall of Ya’jūj and Ma’jūj. In the popular mind, this wall did not exist as a true physical manifestation, but rather was represented by the empire of Kara Khitai. While this imagery was most likely hindsight, several compared the Kara Khitans to the wall of Dhū al-­Qarnayn, which protected Dār al-Islām from Ya’jūj and Ma’jūj.43 Although the Kara Khitans were Buddhists and thus infidels, the overall impression of their rule was that they were just and held at bay the pagan hordes of the steppe who would otherwise overrun the Islamic World. Thus, when Muḥammad Khwārazmshāh, in conspiracy with Güchülüg, overthrew the Kara Khitai Empire, they essentially toppled the Wall of Dhū al-­Qarnayn. Indeed, Güchülüg’s rapacious behaviour once in power verified this opinion in much of the former Khitan territory. His presence also opened the door for the Mongols to enter the region as he was a refugee from Mongolia and a potential threat to Chinggisid authority still. This then set the stage for the Otrār massacre. As a result, apocryphal stories arose in connection to this. The tale of Najm al-­Dīn Kubrā and the dog may be viewed in this sense, but other more obvious ones also existed. A popular tale was that Tekish Khwārazmshāh (r. 1172–1200), Muḥammad II’s father, warned his sons never to war with the Khitans as they 40. Ibn Kathīr, The Signs, p. 25. 41. Ibn Kathīr, The Signs, p. 66. 42. DeWeese, ‘Stuck in the Throat’, pp. 50–1. See above, note 25, for more details. 43. See Michal Biran, ‘ “Like a Mighty Wall”: The Armies of the Qara Khitai (1124–1218)’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 25 (2001), 44–91.

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were a wall that protected them.44 Juwaynī also cites that Kara Khitai was like the wall of Dhū al-­Qarnayn.45 As Peter Jackson indicates, although Juwaynī relates that his cousin told him this prior to the Mongol invasion, Juwaynī wrote his chronicle in about 1260, so it cannot be certain that this imagery existed prior to the Mongols. Nonetheless, it certainly existed prior to Juwaynī recording it. Jackson writes that ‘it first surfaces in the lost memoirs of ‘Abd al-­Laṭīf ­al-­Baghdādī, known as Ibn al-­Labbād (d. 1231–­2), who travelled in eastern Anatolia and northern Syria in 1221–2. It is noteworthy that Ibn al-­Labbād already speaks of the Kara Khitan as a barrier opened by the Khwārazmshāh.’46 Furthermore, the theme resurfaces, as when the Mongols invade Transcaucasia in 1231 in pursuit of Muḥammad II’s son, Jalāl al-­Dīn (r. 1220–31), the last Khwārazmshāh. Jalāl al-­Dīn attempted to forge an alliance with the Ayyūbids and the Saljūqs of Rūm and compared himself to the Wall of Alexander. Unfortunately for Jalāl al-­Dīn, his eloquence failed to rally an alliance as his previous behaviour made the Ayyūbids and Saljūqs view him as a nuisance and a larger danger than the Mongols.47 While it is clear that Ibn al-­Athīr is overwhelmed by the events and ascribes it to the will of God, it is perhaps only reluctantly and only because he can find no other explanation. His account of the sack of Bukhāra differs from that of Juwaynī. While the details of the military actions are similar, Ibn al-­Athīr does not mention any speech by Chinggis Khan in which he claims that he is the Scourge of God or any other representative of God. In Ibn al-­Athīr’s account, Chinggis Khan’s only announcements declared that people either had to show their wealth or take part in the actions against the Bukhāran citadel or risk the consequences. Indeed, Chinggis Khan’s wrath against Bukhāra in particular is due to his belief that Muḥammad Khwārazmshāh stored the loot from the Otrār caravan there.48 Jūzjānī, who fled to Delhi during the invasion, also tied the Mongols to a sign of the end of the world and that their coming into Dār al-Islām triggered the 44. Jackson, ‘Medieval Christendom’s Encounter’, pp. 42–3. 45. Juwaynī/Qazwīnī, p. 80; Juwaynī/Boyle, p. 347. 46. Jackson, ‘Medieval Christendom’s Encounter’, pp. 42–3. Also see Biran, ‘Like a Mighty Wall’. 47. Juwaynī/Qazwīnī, p. 183; Juwaynī/Boyle, p. 452. In 1230, Jalāl al-­Dīn attempted to conquer Akhlāṭ, which was claimed by both the Saljūqs and Ayyūbids. While the Ayyūbids and Saljūqs disagreed over ownership, they both agreed that Jalāl al-­Dīn was a threat and joined forces to defeat him in 1230. Furthermore, his predations in Georgia and Armenia demonstrated the extent of the danger. Meanwhile, they viewed the Mongol presence a distant threat and only caused by Jalāl al-­Dīn. 48. Ibn al-­Athīr, pp. 365-­7; Ibn al-­Athīr/Richard, pp. 207–9.

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Mongols as the Scourge of God45

beginning of the end.49 He does not appear, however, to subscribe to the concept that the Mongols were the punishment of God, particularly since he cannot mention a Mongol’s name without also damning him to hell. Indeed, Jūzjānī’s description of Chinggis Khan’s rise to power begins with ‘When the father of the Chingiz Khan went to hell’ (bidozakh raft).50 The rest of the work follows in the same vein. Chinggis Khan is often referred to simply as The Accursed. Nonethless, Jūzjānī did accept that the success of Chinggis Khan was due to the will of heaven and attributed to destiny,51 although again he was not happy about it. It should be noted that the Mongols were not the first invasion viewed as divine punishment. The ‘Abbāsid Revolution was viewed in this way for the sins of the Umayyad Dynasty (661–750).52 In addition, Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt, almost five hundred years after the Mongols, received a similar treatment.53 Nonetheless, the Mongol invasion was of a different sort. While the ‘Abbāsids (750–1258) toppled the Umayyads, they were at least Muslims. While Napoleon was not a Muslim, he was at least not a pagan. The savagery of the Mongols along with the fact that they were a new entity altogether in the region added to the consternation. Furthermore, the Qur’ān is replete with warnings that a punishment would be sent to those who forgot God or ignored his Prophet.54 Q 7: 4–5, in particular, fits the Mongols’ modus operandi: 49. Jūzjānī/Ḥabībī, vol. 2, pp. 97–8; Jūzjānī/Raverty, p. 935. In relation to the wall of Dhū al-­Qarnayn, Jūzjānī refers to the reign of the Ghūrid Sultan Ghāzī Muḥammad Sām. 50. Jūzjānī/Ḥabībī, vol. 2, p. 99; Jūzjānī/Raverty, p. 937. 51. Jūzjānī/Ḥabībī , vol. 2, p. 90; Jūzjānī/Raverty, p. 869. 52. Moshe Sharon, Black Banners from the East, vol. 2, Revolt: The Social and Military Aspects of the ‘Abbāsid Revolution (Jerusalem, 1990), pp. 187–8, 199–200. 53. Al-­Jabartī, Napoleon in Egypt: Al-Jabartī’s Chronicle of the French Occupation, 1798, trans. Shmuel Moreh (Princeton: Markus Wiener Publications, 1993, originally published Leiden, 1975), p. 24. In his initial communication to the Egyptian populace, Napoleon does not claim to be the punishment of God, but uses phrases that invoke this idea. The document starts with the sentences: ‘In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate. There is no god but God. He has no son, nor He has an associate in His Dominion.’ Then follows Bonaparte’s message: ‘[T]he Ṣanjaqs who lorded it over Egypt have treated the French community basely and contemptuously and have persecuted its merchants with all manner of extortion and violence. Therefore the hour of punishment has now come.’ Thus, Napoleon invoked the idea of Judgment Day without explicitly stating it. He then continues how the Mamlūks have become corrupt and ‘the Lord of the Universe, the Almighty, has decreed the end of their power’. Al-­Jabartī dissects Napoleon’s letter and it is quite clear in his dismissal of it that he, and most likely the majority of Egyptians, did not view Napoleon as an instrument of God (see pp. 29–33), while also having difficulty in rationalising Napoleon’s success (p. 30). The French continued to use the concept of God’s intervention throughout their campaign (pp. 101–12, 113–14). 54. See, for instance, Q 32:14. ‘So taste [punishment] because you forgot the meeting of this,

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Violence in Islamic Thought And how many cities have We destroyed, and Our punishment came to them at night or while they were sleeping at noon. And their declaration when Our punishment came to them was only that they said, ‘Indeed, we were wrongdoers!’

Thus, we have this curious conflict for Jūzjānī, similar to that of Ibn al-­Athīr – ­how does one rationalise the Mongol invasion and the resulting destruction of much of the Islamic world by a clearly pagan army when one also accepts that Islam is the true faith and that God is compassionate and merciful, even when the Qur’ān is quite explicit about sending a punishment? From the writings of all of the authors, it is clear that it was not a rationalisation that came easily and without considerable thought. At some point, Jūzjānī, like Ibn al-­Athīr, came to terms with the tragedy and realised that God moves in mysterious ways, so to speak. As stated above, Jūzjānī initially does not appear to accept the Mongols at the punishment of God. In his introduction to the section on the Mongol irruption this is not mentioned. Yet, there is a slight change of heart once he gets to the section dealing with the Otrār incident. Here he accepts that the Khwārazmians acted in a perfidious, and thus sinful, manner. Like others, he rationalises the subsequent events by intermixing Qur’ānic verses with his prose. Jūzjānī wrote ‘and as Almighty God had so willed that this treachery should be the means of the ruin of the empire of Islām, it became evident that “the command of God is an inevitable decree”, and the instruments of the predetermined will of fate became ­available – ­From Thy wrath preserve us, O God!’55 Indeed, his seemingly reluctant acceptance of the Mongols as the Scourge of God or Punishment of God aligns with Q 17: 58: ‘And there is no city but that We will destroy it before the Day of Resurrection or punish it with a severe punishment. That has ever been in the Register inscribed.’ Just as it also aligns with: Q 18: 58–9: ‘And your Lord is the Forgiving, full of mercy. If He were to impose blame upon them for what they earned, He would have hastened for them the punishment. Rather, for them is an appointment from which they will never find an escape. And those your Day; indeed, We have [accordingly] forgotten you. And taste the punishment of eternity for what you used to do.’ Also see Q 73: 15–18. ‘Indeed, We have sent to you a Messenger as a witness upon you just as We sent to Pharaoh a messenger. But Pharaoh disobeyed the messenger, so We seized him with a ruinous seizure. Then how can you fear, if you disbelieve, a Day that will make the children white-­haired? The heaven will break apart therefrom; ever is His promise fulfilled.’   Hereon in this chapter all translations from the Qur’ān are from The Qur’ān: With Sūrah Introductions and Appendices: Saheeh International Translation. Available at: www.quran.com (accessed 31 December 2015). 55. Jūzjānī/Ḥabībī, vol. 2, p. 104; Jūzjānī/Raverty, p. 967.

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Mongols as the Scourge of God47

c­ ities – ­We destroyed them when they wronged, and We made for their destruction an appointed time.’ In essence, he has accepted the idea that events were predetermined by God’s decree, perhaps as a lesson concerning ­treachery – ­a very harsh lesson one may argue. Nonetheless, the concept of predetermination is a handy and convenient salve to apply to a world turned upside down. At the same time, Jūzjānī does not view the course of history as being purely deterministic nor, should we say, pre-­deterministic. Indeed, he allows for the hand of God to work in mysterious ways as he records a scenario where Chinggis Khan had a dream about wrapping a turban. When it was interpreted, it was revealed that the turban represented that the Muslim lands would come under his control and it was because of this dream that he decided to conquer Dār al-Islām.56 Thus, it appears that Jūzjānī coyly rejects that the Mongol invasion was God’s will without directly saying it and even as his own writing aligns with verses from the Qur’ān. Unlike most authors, Jūzjānī merely mentions the destruction of Bukhāra in a few scant lines with virtually no detail and quickly moves on to other events. For Jūzjānī, the Mongols were dreadful and damned to hell upon their death, but he does not necessarily view them as the Scourge of God, except where he must fit this trope in according to the historical writing style of the era. Of these authors, only the one that works for the Mongols records Chinggis Khan’s speech. Another who also worked for the Mongols, Rashīd al-­Dīn, and who also reused much of Juwaynī in his own work, also recorded it. This raises suspicion about the motives of Juwaynī. Yet, at the same time, Juwaynī did have access to Mongols who may have been there. So, is it possible that Chinggis Khan provided a message similar to the one that Juwaynī indicated that he preached from his pulpit on that fateful day in Bukhāra? Not those exact words that were placed in purple prose by his interpreter for his learned audience or even by Juwaynī, whose own eloquence is reflected throughout his work, but rather something similar to what may be found in The Secret History of the Mongols? Pragmatic and direct. My thought would be something along the lines of ‘your rulers committed crimes against me, because of that I have come to punish them’. This seems in line with Chinggis Khan’s policy that if a city surrendered, it would be spared. He informed the citizenry of Bukhāra that this fight was between him and the Khwārazmshāh. If they wronged him, then they should expect retaliation; if they remained out of the feud, they would then be spared. Furthermore, this interpretation fits into the Mongol modus operandi. The Mongols were known to punish those who transgressed them. There are

56. Jūzjānī/Ḥabībī, vol. 2, pp. 101–2; Juzjani/Raverty, pp. 974–5.

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numerous reasons for the invasion of the Jin Empire, but one of the most important was ­vengeance – ­when the Altan Khan (the Jin Emperor) tortured and killed the Mongol Khan Ambaqai by impaling him on a wooden donkey.57 Although Ambaqai’s death occurred before Temüjin’s birth,58 it still weighed in the back of the Mongol mind as a wrong that needed righting, although the Mongols did pillage part of the Jin Empire not long after the event.59 The Mongols also invaded the Jin Empire again in 1215 when the Jin Emperor Zhenyu, reign name Xuanzong (1213–17), moved his capital from Zhongdu to Kaifeng.60 The move made perfect sense from the Jin perspective as, at this time, Zhongdu was no longer defensible and too close to the Mongols. From Chinggis Khan’s perspective, it was the violation of the peace treaty. By moving, it indicated that the Jin still viewed the Mongols with hostility and that the Emperor prepared for some sort of action against the ­Mongols – ­for if there was truly peace between the two rulers, then the Jin emperor should feel secure in Zhongdu. Finally, the ruler of Xi Xia, Xiangzong (r. 1206–11) submitted to the Mongols in 1209. He remained a client and provided tribute to the Mongols as well as troops for the war against the Jin. Nonetheless, Xi Xia rebelled after the death of the Mongol general Muqali in 1223. It is because of this violation of a treaty that Chinggis Khan ended his war in the Khwārazmian Empire. Again, we see one party wrong the Mongols and then Chinggis Khan seeking justice. The punishment was typically harsh due to the violation of an agreement or established custom. In many ways, the question of the Bukhāra speech is one of the chicken and the egg. Did Islamic thought influence the Mongols’ conception of divine rule? I have argued elsewhere that Chinggis Khan had no intention of conquering the world and that his empire was often one of happenstance. Indeed, the fact that Chinggis Khan sought to resolve the Otrār incident through diplomacy and compensation and even maintain ties suggests that Chinggis Khan did not seek

57. The Secret History of the Mongols: A Mongolian Epic Chronicle of the Thirteenth Century. ed. and trans. Igor de Rachewiltz (Leiden, 2004), §53. The mention of the wooden ass comes from Rashīd al-­Dīn. See Rashīd al-­Dīn/Karīmī, p. 194 and Rashīd al-­Dīn//Thackson, p. 129. Altan Khan (Golden King) was the title used by the Mongols for the Jin Emperor. Jin, the dynastic name taken by the Jurchen who defeated the Liao Dynasty, meant ­Gold – ­the imperial colour in Inner Asia symbolism. At the time of Ambaqai’s death, the Altan Khan was Dading, who ruled with the reign title of Shizong (1161–90). 58. The official date as established by the Mongolian government is 1162, although some scholars believe it could be 1165 or 1167. 59. Rashīd al-­Dīn/Karīmī, p. 194; Rashīd al-­Dīn/Thackston, p. 129. 60. The reign name of Xuanzong was used by three successive Jin Emperors: Zhenyu (1213– 17), Xingding (1217–22) and Yuanguang (1222–4).

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Mongols as the Scourge of God49

to conquer the world. As Thomas Allsen has indicated, ‘[I]t was at bottom a pocket book issue.’61 Other scholars have also noted that, at least in the case of Khwārazm, the Mongols had no desire to take over the world.62 Rather, it was Ögödei or at least during Ögödei’s reign that the Mongols took stock of the situation and saw what they had accomplished under Chinggis Khan and rationalised their empire as being the will of heaven. What this conferred on Chinggis Khan, and what he subsequently bequeathed to his successors, was universal in its character. Under this ideology, the Mongols customarily sent orders of submission to neighbouring countries prior to initiating hostilities as the Mongols claimed to have the right, if not the duty, to extend their sway over the entire world. All peoples outside their frontiers were considered members of the Mongols’ ‘World Empire-­in-­the-­making’, and all, after appropriate and formal notification, were required to acknowledge Mongolian suzerainty without hesitation or question. As the Mongol expansion was decreed by heaven, anyone who refused to submit, therefore, was in rebellion against heaven and merited punishment.63 And, in this sense, the Mongols thus were the Scourge of God. The Mongols always justified their conquests in letters, and this demonstrates that, as Shagdaryn Bira indicated, their campaigns ‘were ideologically and politically motivated actions similar to those which, in different aspects, happened until recently rather often in world history’.64 In addition to the well-­known letters from Güyük (r. 1246–8) to Pope Innocent IV, correspondence between Hülegü (d. 1265) and King Louis IX (r. 1226–70) in 1262 also demonstrates that the Mongols still held this view over time and space.65 Bira also viewed the 61. Thomas T. Allsen, ‘Mongolian Princes and Their Merchant Partners, 1200–1260’, Asia Major 2 (1989), 92. 62. David Morgan, The Mongols, p. 69; Luc Kwanten, ‘The Career of Muqali: A Reassessment’, The Bulletin of Sung and Yuan Studies 14 (1978), 33. 63. Thomas T. Allsen, ‘Guard and Government in the Reign of The Grand Qan Möngke, 1251–1259’, Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 46.2 (December 1986), 495–6. 64. Shagdaryn Bira, ‘Mongolian Tenggerism and Modern Globalism. A Retrospective Outlook on Globalisation. A Lecture Given at the Royal Asiatic Society on 10 October 2002. By Sh. Bira on the Occasion of His Receiving the Denis Sinor Medal’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 3rd series 14.1 (April 2004),  7. 65. Güyük, ‘Guyuk Khan’s Letter to Pope Innocent IV (1246)’, English version based on the trans. by D. A. Maitland Muller (see p. xxxix), in Mission to Asia, ed. Christopher Dawson (Toronto, 1980), p. 85; the facsimiles of the original letter are available at: http:// www.asnad.org/en/document/249/ (accessed 16 December 2015); Hülegü, ‘Hulegu, Mongol Il-­Khan of Persia, to Louis IX, King of France (1262). Maragha’, in Letters from the East: Crusaders, Pilgrims and Settlers in the 12th–13th Centuries, trans Malcolm Barber and Keith Bates (Burlington, VT, 2010), p. 157.

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Mongol campaigns as being those in which those who resisted were rebels. He wrote: In the opinion of the imperial Mongols, whoever did not accommodate themselves to the Divine order (the order of Tenggeri) were rebels (bulqa irgen), not only against the khan but also against Tenggeri. Therefore, Mongols had a divine right, as well as an obligation, to punish people who were against them and to unite them under the rule of their khans. In this way, as correctly pointed out by Antti Ruotsala, the Mongols legitimated their expansion on sacred grounds, just as the Western Christians did for their crusades and the Muslims for their jihad.66

So, did the Mongols truly believe that they were the instruments of heaven? Without question. Not only did they tell other rulers that Tengri sanctified their rule and use their conquests as evidence, but they themselves also subscribed to the idea. The usual justification of this is the prophecy of the shaman Teb Tengri found in The Secret History of the Mongols.67 While The Secret History was classified material meant for the ruling elite, it was clear that the Chinggisid princes learned their history and indeed were indoctrinated in the ideals of the Mongols’ supremacy not only through empirical evidence of conquests, wealth and territory, but also through the power of prophecy. Writing from Maragha in 1262 to King Louis IX, Hülegü revealed the prophecy of Teb Tenggeri to Louis IX in which Tenggeri instructed Teb Tenggeri to inform Chinggis Khan: I alone am the Almighty God on high and I have set thee over the nations and over the kingdoms to be king of all the world, to root out and to pull down and to destroy and to throw down, to build and to plant. I tell you to announce my command to all the nations, tongues and tribes of the east, the south, the north and the west, to promulgate it in all the regions of the whole world where emperors, kings, and sovereigns rule, where lordships operate, where horses can go, ships sail, envoys reach, letters be heard, so that they who have ears can hear, those who hear can understand and those who understand can believe. Those who do not believe will later learn what punishment will be meted on those who did not believe my commands.68

In the same letter, Hülegü indicates that Baghdad fell for the same reason even though the Caliph claimed his descent from Muḥammad and that God had created 66. Bira, ‘Mongolian Tenggerism’, p. 7. 67. The Secret History of the Mongols, §244. 68. Hülegü, pp. 156–7.

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the world for the Muslims. Despite the claims of divine legitimisation, through the force of arms the Mongols proved which side heaven truly supported.69 This belief continued even after the dissolution of the Mongol Empire, as evinced in the Īl-­Khānid-­Mamlūk wars.70 The use of the Teb Tenggeri prophecy to legitimise the Mongol Conquests, however, is a bit disingenuous. Teb Tenggeri’s prophecy reads as ‘tende Teb Tenggeri Chinggis Khaghan-a ügülerün mongke tenggeri-yin jarliq qan ja’arit ügülemü niken-te Temüjin ulus barituqai’, which translates as, ‘Then Teb Tenggeri said to Chinggis Khan, the decree of the eternal Heaven (tenggeri) concerning the ruler, one will be that Temüjin will seize the nation (ulus).’71 Ulus was used to refer to the Mongol state at all times. People who were not part of the Mongol power were typically called irgen (such as the Hoy-in Irgen or Forest People). Once the Mongols conquered a group, particularly nomads, and incorporated them into the Mongol ulus they were considered part of it and no longer irgen.72 Furthermore, the title of Chinggis Khaghan is a posthumous promotion for Chinggis Khan. During his lifetime, his title was simply Chinggis Khan, thus, this line was at least slightly redacted from Chinggis Khan’s own lifetime. We see that in later periods Teb Tenggeri’s prophecy is expanded to suit the new reality of the Mongol world, one in which other world views needed to fit into a framework that was ruled by the Yeke Monggol Ulus. Furthermore, the revised and expanded prophecy (or Prophecy 2.0) was supported by undeniable empirical evidence, as the Mongols had indeed conquered virtually everything. Defeats or setbacks, such as with the Mamlūks at ‘Ayn Jālūt, were seen as mere impediments that would be overcome as the will of heaven.73 Thus, the Mongols as the ‘Scourge of God’ served not only to later justify and explain Mongol success for the Mongols, but also served as a psychological crutch for the Muslims of the Khwārazmian Empire. Only a decade before, Sultan Muḥammad II appeared as a second Alexander with a massive army. Even though the decisions that led to the Otrār incident makes one question Muḥammad’s ability to lead, this is hindsight. At the time, he ruled a vast empire with no significant challenges to his rule. The distant Mongol threat

69. Hülegü, pp. 157–8. 70. Reuven Amitai-­Preiss, ‘Mongol Imperial Ideology and the Ilkhanid War against the Mamluks’, in The Mongol Empire and Its Legacy, eds Reuven Amitai-­Preiss and David O. Morgan (Leiden, 2001), pp. 63–9. 71. The Secret History of the Mongols, §244. 72. Lhamsuren Munkh-­Erdene, ‘Where Did the Mongol Empire Come From? Medieval Mongol Ideas of People, State and Empire’, Inner Asia 13 (2011), 213–15. 73. Hülegü, p. 159.

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was not credible at the time. Furthermore, they did not seem much different from the type of threat posed by ­Güchülüg – ­a danger but not durable. Indeed, prior to the arrival of the Mongols in Kara-­Khitai, it was questionable as to just how long Güchülüg could maintain his own power there as the Qarluqs and the Uighurs had already revolted and sought protection under Chinggis Khan. Others near the Khwārazmian borders may have considered a similar plan with Sultan Muḥammad. Although the Mongols did appear in Bukhāra suddenly, it was not or should not have been completely unexpected. After all, once the Mongols declared war, Muḥammad, his son Jalāl al-­Dīn and others considered various plans for the upcoming war.74 The fact that Muḥammad augmented all of his garrisons and strengthened the fortifications of Samarqand also indicates that the Mongols were not unexpected.75 In a sense, although the Mongols’ victories were crushing, there appears to be little doubt that the Khwārazmians prior to the invasion did not expect to lose, although they also realised that they may lose some territory. In conclusion, if one can be made, it is unlikely that Chinggis Khan’s sermon in the mosque ever took place or at least not the speech that Juwaynī ascribes to him. It is quite possible that he said something but, according to Ibn al-­Athīr, Chinggis Khan entering Bukhāra claimed, ‘I want from you the bullion that Khwārazm Shāh sold you, for it is mine; it was taken from my followers and you have it.’76 The Punishment of God is certainly more dramatic, but does not appear to fit with Chinggis Khan’s own actions and behaviour. Nonetheless, the speech does, however, fit in with later Mongol rhetoric and reflects an effort by not only Juwaynī to revise the events of Chinggis Khan’s life to fit into the now expanded prophecy of Teb Tenggeri that the Mongols (and certainly not the meek) had inherited the earth. At the same time, Juwaynī is also working within an Islamic framework in which the Mongols had to serve as some function in

74. Juwaynī/Qazwīnī, pp. 106–8; Juwaynī/Boyle, pp. 376–7. Khwārazm planned for war with the Mongols. 1) Some advised the Sultan to give up Transoxiana as they did not think that it was possible to hold but to retreat to Iraq and Khurāsān and gather armies and use the Amu Darya as a moat. 2) Flee to Ghaznīn and gather forces there while using using India as a rampart. Muḥammad liked this idea the best and even proceeded to Balkh. 3) Jalāl al-­Dīn wanted to gather the armies and advance and suggested that if Sultan did not want to do it, then he would lead them to the frontier while the Sultan went to Iraq. 4). Retreat to Iraq in order to buy time and space, gather troops and then come against the Mongols. Eventually, the Sultan went with ‘Imād al-­Mulk’s advice to go to Iraq, but it was not clear if Muḥammad was following plan one or four as by then the Mongols had arrived. 75. Al-­Nasawī, pp. 87–8; al-­Nasawī/Houdas, pp. 62–3. 76. Ibn al-­Athīr, p. 366; Ibn al-­Athīr/Richard, p. 208.

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God’s plan. In the rest of his writings he will demonstrate how Ögödei was truly a just ruler although a pagan and that Muslims were much better off being ruled by the Mongols rather than unjust tyrants such as Muḥammad Khwārazmshāh. Yet, even for those who may question the idea that pagans who pillaged and plundered the faithful were the instruments of God, the idea gained credence over time. This is demonstrated by Aflākī in his Manāqib al-‘ārifīn, where he writes that the pagans did not need to be aware of God’s plans; He set them in motion.77 Furthermore, even as Juwaynī tacitly accepts that the Mongols are just rulers compared to Muḥammad Khwārazmshāh, he also ties the concept of promoting good and forbidding evil to the Mongols through Chinggis Khan as the Scourge of God. The concept of promoting good and forbidding evil was tied to what a just ruler did. Indeed, the punishment of wrongdoing was symbolised in the role of the Caliph, as evinced by an Umayyad coin in which the Caliph ‘Abd al-­Malik’s hand rests on his sword hilt, ready to behead a transgressor. His image promises threat rather than protection.78 Indeed, Juwaynī incorporates the concept of the just ruler enjoining good and forbidding evil throughout his work, particularly with Ögödei Khan. Juwaynī is not alone in demonstrating the Mongol leaders as enjoining good. The Chishtī shaykh, Niẓām al-­Dīn Awliyā, told an apocryphal story that can be dated from 25 Jumādā I 708/15 November 1308 about a Chishtī Sufi, Khwāja ‘Alī, who was captured by the Mongols during their invasion of the Khwārazmian Empire. Khwāja ‘Alī happened to be brought before Chinggis Khan for judgement while another Chishtī Sufi was present. This Sufi recognised Khwāja ‘Alī and informed Chinggis Khan that Khwāja ‘Alī’s father was a saint (mardī-yi buzurg) and very charitable to the poor. He also urged Chinggis Khan to release him. The Mongol Khan then asked his Chishtī advisor whether or not he gave food to his own people or strangers. The Sufi responded that he gave food to strangers and added, ‘Everyone gives food to his own people, but this man’s father gave food to strangers.’79 Chinggis Khan was pleased and affirmed, ‘It was a good person indeed who gave food to the people of God.’ He then released him and gave him a new cloak while asking Khwāja ‘Alī for his forgiveness. According to DeWeese, Shaykh Niẓām al-­Dīn concluded that this story demonstrated that

77. Dechant, ‘Depictions’, pp. 149–51. 78. My thanks to István Kristó-­Nagy for mentioning this coin, of which an example I later inspected at the British Museum in London. To my knowledge, he is the only one who has interpreted the coin’s image in this manner. Judging from the baleful glare and the posture of the figure, I believe it is clear that the coin represents the Caliph as the dispenser of punishment with his hand resting on his sword hilt. 79. DeWeese, ‘Stuck in the Throat’, pp. 28–9.

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providing food to the poor and strangers ‘is praised in all doctrines’.80 It is also a clear demonstration of Chinggis Khan enjoining good as well as showing his respect for Sufis. His peers, of course, would disagree with Juwaynī’s assessment of the Mongols as just rulers as well as perhaps being chosen instruments of God as they wrote safely out of reach of the Mongols. This idea was further complicated by the fact that even if the Mongols were not the Scourge of God, then they could be associated with Gog and Magog. The connection to Gog and Magog was clear as it was assumed that they were race descended from Noah’s son Yāfith (Japeth), the father of the Turks in Islamic lore.81 This interpretation also fit into Christian interpretations of the Mongol invasions as well. Christians and Muslims alike attributed Alexander the Great (Dhū al-­Qarnayn) with sealing Gog and Magog behind a wall that would last until the end of days. For Muslims, this was even revealed in the Qur’ān in detail.82 Then the wall will finally collapse due to their eternal efforts to escape, and when it did collapse, they would then spread across the earth, slaying and destroying all before them and uprooting plants.83 This motif of rampant destruction with the touch of uprooting plants, which should be construed as perhaps turning farmland into pasture, certainly seemed to describe the Mongols to all those who experienced the Mongol invasions. Indeed, Matthew Paris recorded their invasions along these lines: Roving through the Saracen territories, they razed cities to the ground, burnt woods, pulled down castles, tore up the vine trees, destroyed gardens, and massacred the citizens and husbandmen; if by chance they did spare any who begged their lives, they compelled them, as slaves of the lowest condition, to fight in front of them against their own kindred.84

And a survivor of Bukhāra also described the Mongol actions along similar lines.85 Nonetheless, through the intercession of ‘Īsā (Jesus), the hordes of Gog and Magog would finally be defeated, including in one account a particularly

80. DeWeese, ‘Stuck in the Throat’, p. 29. 81. Ibn Kathīr, The Signs, pp. 77–8. 82. Q 18: 84-­100. 83. Ibn Kathīr, The Signs, pp. 77–8. 84. Matthew Paris, English History, trans. J. A. Giles (New York, 1968), vol. 1, p. 312. 85. Juwaynī/Qazwīnī, p. 83; Juwaynī/Boyle, p. 107. This survivor, when asked what happened, replied, ‘They came, they sapped, they burnt, they slew, they plundered and they departed.’

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grisly fate through a worm that will burrow into their necks.86 Curiously, among some in Europe, this story took a strange twist with Alexander the Great sealing the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel behind the wall rather than Gog and ­Magog – ­hence why the Ten Lost Tribes wanted vengeance, although why they specifically wanted vengeance against Christians when a pagan Macedonian committed the act is another question.87 Still, some Latin writers found ways to reconcile the Ten Lost Tribes with Gog and Magog by determining that the offspring of Gog and Magog were actually Jewish. He did this based on their writing, determining that the Uighur script was Hebrew and they were taught it by Pharisees and ­Sadducees – a­ n attempt to explain Uighur Buddhist monks and other functionaries who entered Mongol service.88 Yet, the tendency of Muslim authors to tie the Mongols to Gog and Magog is not without problems, as it is clear in both the Qur’ān as well as in commentaries and a ḥadīth that Gog and Magog would only appear after the appearance and defeat of al-­Dajjāl, who was prophesised to appear only after the fall of Constantinople.89 So why did so many disregard this chronology? Another ḥadīth recorded by Ibn Kathīr may have contributed to it the idea that the Mongols were connected to al-­Dajjāl even though it confirms that al-­Dajjāl would only appear after the capture of Constantinople. The ḥadīth in question comes from Faṭima bint Qays: The Dajjāl will be permitted to appear at the end of time, after the Muslims have conquered a Roman city called Constantinople. He will first appear in Iṣfahān, in an area known as the Jewish quarter (al-­Yahūdiyyah). He will be followed by seventy thousand Jews from that area, all of them armed. Seventy thousand Tatārs and many people from Khurāsān will also follow him. At first he will appear as a tyrannical king, then he will claim to be a prophet, then a lord. Only the most ignorant of men will follow him; the righteous and those guided by Allah will reject him. He will start to conquer the world country by country, fortress by fortress, region by region, town by town; no place will remain unscathed except Makkah and Madīnah. The length of his stay on earth will be forty days: one day like a year, one day like a month, one day like a week, and the rest of the days like normal days, i.e. his stay will be approximately one year and two

86. Ibn Kathīr, The Signs, p. 77. 87. Menache, ‘Tartars, Jews, Saracens’, p. 260. 88. Jackson, ‘Medieval Christendom’s Encounter’, pp. 39–40. 89. Ibn Kathīr, The Signs, p. 36.

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The inclusion of the Tatars, as the Islamic authors referred to the Mongols, leads one to question if the ḥadīth truly came from the era of the Prophet. Other ḥadīths from the era include mention of the Turks; Tatār, however, was used to refer to Mongols. The term Tatār was first recorded in the Orkhon Inscription from the eighth century in Mongolia. Although Chinese sources begin to refer to Tatārs by 842, the earliest known mention in Islamic sources are in the Ḥudūd al-‘ālam, written in the late tenth century and also Maḥmūd al-­Kāshgharī’s Dīwān al-lughāt al-turk written in the late eleventh century.91 Considering that contact with the Turks occurred earlier in the Transoxiana, it is possible that Muslims knew of the Tatārs prior to the tenth century, but unlikely. Furthermore, it is quite evident that the ḥadīth had changed by the time that Ibn Kathīr encountered it. Thus, even though Constantinople was not conquered in Ibn Kathīr’s era, the rest of the account could apply to the Mongols, particularly with the mention of the Tatars and that many people from Khurāsān would join them although the Mongols did not capture Iṣfahān until 1237. Furthermore, in the thirteenth century and even in the fourteenth century there was anxiety that the Mongols would attack Mecca and Medina. This ḥadīth and others, however, indicate that al-­Dajjāl would never enter Mecca and by the time of Ibn Kathīr’s writings, the Mongol threat to the Holy Cities was non-­existent. The Īl-­Khānid king-­maker, Choban, had participated in the Ḥajj and even restored a well and built his tomb there.92 Finally, in times of anxiety, it is not uncommon to select the parts of prophecy and scriptures that fit the situation and ignore the larger context that otherwise casts doubt on efforts to understand a divine plan. One very likely reason is that regardless of whether adhered to the Sufi interpretation, penitential explanations or the ideas of the ‘ulamā’, there were simply so many prophecies and stories about the Mongols connecting them in both word and deed to an apocalyptic vision that even the most resistant writers could not ignore them. Regardless of whether the Mongols were the Scourge of God, the hordes of Gog and Magog or the agents of al-­Dajjāl, what mattered to most was that the Mongols were a force of unparalleled destruction and they came from the east, which fit a ḥadīth related by Ibn ‘Umar, who said, ‘I heard Allah’s Messenger on the pulpit saying, “Verily, afflictions (will start) from 90. Ibn Kathīr, The Signs, p. 77. 91. P. G. Golden, ‘Tatar’, in EI2. 92. Anne Broadbridge, Kingship and Ideology in the Islamic and Mongol Worlds (Cambridge, 2008), pp. 115–16, 125. For the other ḥadīths, see Ibn Kathīr, The Signs, pp. 68–9.

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here,” pointing towards the east, “whence the side of the head of Satan comes out”.’93 Furthermore, with the gradual conversion of many of the Mongols to Islam, this further justified their actions. It is significant that Juwaynī’s account of Chinggis Khan’s speech in Bukhāra became the standard interpretation of events over Ibn al-­Athīr’s and consequently appears in the Rashīd al-­Dīn and Khwāndamīr’s accounts.94 While not a salve for the conscious, Islamic writers wrestled with the concept of the overwhelming destruction to the Abode of Islam by infidels, and tacitly accepted the violence perpetrated by the Mongols as the will of God. Even if they did not fully like the idea, no other explanation provided a satisfactory cause.

93. This ḥadīth has many variants. This one is in al-­Bukhārī’s Ṣaḥīḥ, see M. M. Khan (trans.), The Translation of the Meanings of Sahîh al-Bukhâri, Arabic-English (Riyadh, 1997), vol. 4, p. 441 Kitāb al-manāqib, Book of virtues 61/21, ḥadīth 3511. Available at: http:// sunnah.com/bukhari/61/21 (accessed 6 January 2016). 94. Juwaynī/Boyle, p. 105; Juwaynī/Qazwīnī, p. 81; Rashīd al-­Dīn/Thackston, p. 247; Rashīd al-­Dīn/Karīmī, p. 361; Khwāndamīr/Thackston, p. 16.

Chapter

4 Yasa AND SharI-‘ a. Islamic Attitudes towards the Mongol Law in the Turco-­ Mongolian World (FROM THE GOLDEN HORDE TO TIMUR’S TIME)

István Vásáry* PRELUDE

A. ‘Within Muslim discourse, sharī‘a designates the rules and regulations governing the lives of Muslims, derived in principle from the Ḳur’ān and ḥadīth’ (N. Calder and M. B. Hooker, ‘Sharī‘a’, in EI2). B. ‘[T]he Yasa as a ­whole . . . ­was Mongol imperial law as formulated by Chinggis-­Khan; the Mongols themselves considered it in this light. For them it was the collected wisdom of the founder of their empire’ (G. Vernadsky, The Mongols and Russia, p. 100). SHARI ¯‘A

The above-­quoted commonplace wisdoms have dominated the scholarly field for long, with the added wisdom that, from the 1300s onward, the majority of the Tatar (Turco-­Mongol) population in the Golden Horde as well as in Īl-­ Khānid Iran embraced Islam, and subsequently lived under the obligations of Islamic law, sharī‘a and Turco-­Mongolian imperial (and/or customary) law, yasa / yasaq.1 Up to now, most pieces of research have been characterised by the antithesis   * Eötvös Loránd University, Budapest, Hungary.   1. In what follows, as well as in the title of this chapter, I uniformly adopt the form yasa, since this became firmly rooted in the European scholarship in the nineteenth to twentieth centuries; this is despite the fact that the form yasaq is equally, if not in ­fact – ­as I will demonstrate ­later – ­actually the more correct rendering.

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Islamic Attitudes towards the Mongol Law59 or rather contrastive juxtaposition of these two notions, without giving any specification of the common and converse traits in these two law codes. In this chapter, I attempt to analyse how these two ideologies were able to co-­exist in the Mongol states of the Golden Horde and Īl-­Khānid Iran, despite their occasional antagonisms. In doing so, special emphasis will be laid on one aspect of these systems: their attitude towards violence. The encounter of two world views, religions and political ideologies is a well-­known and common phenomenon in human history. Yet the encounter of the rising Mongol world power with the Islamic world in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries provides a unique example, if for nothing else than the extension and dimensions of the conflict. For the Islamic civilisation it was the first existential shock that changed its course for good: the Mongol period marks a real watershed in Islamic history. In retrospect, we may rightly apply the modern, Huntingtonian term ‘clash of civilisations’ to the events of thirteenth-­century Eurasian history. Let us recapitulate in brief what made this encounter unique for the Islamic world. Prior to this point it had not been uncommon for societies of nomadic, mainly Turkic, warriors to conquer sedentary, Islamic populations, but the invaders usually came to adopt Islam and the dominant Islamic culture of the conquered land, or otherwise were already Muslims at the moment of conquest, so their acculturation proceeded smoothly. Suffice it to mention here the obvious examples of the Karakhānids, the Saljūqs or the Turks of Khwārazm. Even the eighty-­year rule of the Buddhist and shamanistic Qarakhitays of Mongol descent (1141–1211) did not essentially change the life of Muslim Central Asia, given the lack of any real imperial ideology of the Qarakhitays. So Islamic civilisation, in spite of temporary nomadic incursions, had always preserved its dominance and always gained the upper hand in the long run. The turning point was 1258, the fall of Baghdad at the hands of the Mongols. After more than 500 years of existence the Islamic Caliphate collapsed and was subjugated by a non-­Muslim force. This was not just an eventual happening, say, a lost battle after which the Islamic order could have been soon restored. Islam, as a victorious world view pretentious to rule the whole world, was not prepared for such an experience. The basic attitude, inherent in Islam from the moment of its inception in its founder’s mind, was exclusivity and an aspiration to world rule: Islam is destined to triumph in this world. Nothing was further from Islam than the Christian concept of the spiritual Kingdom of Heaven. Islam was deemed to rule and be in power, and had no explanation and consolation for a situation in which Muslims were subjects and had to obey their infidel lords. The unexpectedly speedy Mongol conquest baffled the Muslims and filled them with deep frustration. How, they wondered, was it possible that Allāh should allow the disbelievers to

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triumph over Muslims when the Qur’ān says: wa-lan yaj‘ala Allāhu li l-kāfirīna ‘alā al-mu’minīna sabīlan (‘and never will Allah give the disbelievers over the believers a way [to overcome them]’) (Q 4: 141).2 According to the Qur’ān, the only possible position of non-­Muslims in relation to Muslims can be subjection: qātilū alladhīna lā yu’minūna bil-lāhi wa-lā bil-yawmi l-ākhiri wa-lā yuḥarrimūna mā ḥarrama ’llāhu wa-rasūluhu wa lā yadīnūna dīna l-ḥaqqi min alladhīna ūtū l-kitāba ḥattā yu‘ṭū al-jizyata ‘an yadin wa-hum ṣāghirūna (‘Fight those who do not believe in Allah or in the Last Day and who do not consider unlawful what Allah and His Messenger have made unlawful and who do not adopt the religion of truth from those who were given the Scripture – [fight] until they give the jizyah willingly while they are humbled’) (Q 9: 29). Muslim disillusionment was exacerbated by the fact that the new conquerors did not even belong to the ‘People of the Book’ (ahl al-kitāb) but were pagan disbelievers (kāfirs) of the worst sort. At this juncture, before turning our attention to yasa/yasaq, the law code of the conquering Mongols, we may review shortly the Islamic conception of violence in the sharī‘a. First, we must emphasise that sharī‘a, as a concept of Islamic law in the broadest sense, is not a formal, written law code or a precisely formulated set of regulations as the term ‘law code’ would suggest.3 A whole branch of learning, namely Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh), works on the interpretation of the two unalterable, basic sources of Islamic law, the Qur’ān and the Sunna. Although the latter two are unalterable and infallible, fiqh is regarded as changing and fallible. This dialectic distinction of these terms enabled Islam to preserve the semblance of an unalterable divine truth and, simultaneously, to be very flexible and adaptable to everyday life. But the modern researcher must always bear in mind that the unalterable divine revelation often makes several interpretations possible (that is true, mutatis mutandis, of all holy texts of religions), even if the interpreters tend to make us believe that theirs is the only acceptable solution. Consequently, Islam, like all world religions, must be viewed in the context of its diversity, and one must abstain from stereotypes and haphazard conclusions. One such stereotype is the idea that Islam is an inherently violent religion: an idea that is just as misleading as the tendency of Islamic apologists to present it instead as a religion purely of peace and love.   2. In this chapter, all translations from the Qur’ān are from The Qur’ān: With Sūrah Introductions and Appendices: Saheeh International Translation. Available at Saheeh International Translation English (accessed 31 December 2015).   3. Hamilton Alexander Rosskeen Gibb, Mohammedanism – An Historical Survey (Oxford, 1970), p. 68; Ianin Hunt and Andre Kahlmeyer, Islamic Law: The Sharia from Muhammad’s Time to the Present (Jefferson, NC and London, 2007), p. 3.

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Hasty generalisations lead n­ owhere . . . ­A recent study expresses the best course to follow if someone wants to avoid the pitfalls of radical and biased thinking in either sides: ‘Although it would be a mistake to think that Islam is inherently a violent religion, it would be equally inappropriate to fail to understand the conditions under which believers might feel justified in acting violently against those whom their tradition feels should be opposed.’4 In addition, one must stress that the treatment and analysis of the ideas and principles of a religion must be kept apart from that of its historical realisation throughout the centuries at different times and places. A Muslim author is right in asserting that ‘the history of Islam has certainly not been witness to any more violence than one finds in other civilizations, particularly that of the ­West . . . ­it is the Islamic religion in its principles and ideals with which we are especially concerned and not particular events or facts relating to the domain of historical contingency belonging to the unfolding of Islam in the plane of human history.’5 If we look closer at the religious doctrines of the three great monotheistic religions from this angle, the following general picture can be gained. As is well known, the notion of legitimate violence was not alien to Judaism. In the Old Testament, it served the survival of God’s chosen people, the Jews. Since ancient Judaism was an ethnic religion without missionary activities, territorially confined to the Middle East, its prescriptions were valid only for Jewry, and its motifs and potentials were limited to fighting the outside world of the Gentiles. Christianity, which grew out of Judaism, made some radical changes. Following its founder’s clear instructions, the first Christians never wanted to occupy the state and found an earthly kingdom instead of the Kingdom of Heaven. Of the monotheistic religions, the principles of Christianity are the most peaceful; one cannot put forward any statement of Christ in which he would encourage the use of any sort of violence. The most ‘violent’ statement attributed to Christ is in Matthew 10: 34–9: 34 Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword. 35 For I am come to set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter in law against her mother in law. 36 And a man’s foes shall be they of his own household. 37 He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me: and he that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me. 38 And he that taketh not his cross,   4. Ralph W. Hood, Peter C. Hill and Bernard Spilka, The Psychology of Religion: An Empirical Approach (New York and London, 2009), p. 257.   5. Seyyed Hossein Nasr, ‘Islam and the Question of Violence’. Available at: http://www. al-­islam.org/al-­serat/islamandviolence.htm (accessed 30 December 2015).

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He is rather quoted as dissuading everyone from using even legitimate violence.7 Jesus was the first ‘secularist’ who secluded religion from state (one thinks of his injunction to yield what is Caesar’s unto Caesar), and his teachings cannot be blamed for historical Christianity’s departure so many times in history from the pacifism of its founder. So, on the potential level, Christianity has been less liable to justify any sort of violence. Finally, Muḥammad, the founder of Islam, heavily drew on both Judaism and Christianity, but placed all those motifs in a different setting without transplanting the original teachings and spirituality of either Judaism or Christianity. The formal legal concept of Muslim jurisprudence owes much to the spirit of Judaism while the universal claim for Islam as a world religion was taken over from Christianity. So the Muslim demand for universal acceptance coupled with its innate inclination for violence inherited from Judaism, have made Islam a world religion that, not only in practice, like many other religions and ideologies, but also on the theoretical level, was more liable to violence than the others. This is a very important aspect that we must stress, since this inclination towards violence derives from the holiest texts of Islam, above all from the Qur’ān itself, which is the infallible and unchangeable basic document of Islam. So any contemporary, albeit most sincere, Muslim attempt to present Islam not as a bellicose but as a profoundly peaceful religion comes up against the barriers of the Holy Scripture of Islam itself. Before investigating the Islamic concept of violence let us elucidate exactly what we mean by violence. According to the Oxford dictionary definition, violence is a ‘behaviour involving physical force intended to hurt, damage, or kill someone or something’.8 The word violence has a negative undertone in English and in many other languages, so I think to speak of legitimate violence, as we do, is a bit contradictio in adiecto, since a violent act, once used and practised legally, say by state power, immediately loses its violent character since its main

  6. In this chapter, all biblical quotes are from the King James Bible. Available at: http:// www.kingjamesbibleonline.org/ (accessed 31 December 2015).   7. Cf., for instance, Matthew 5: 39: ‘But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.’; or (Matthew 26: 51–2) quoting Jesus’ words when he was betrayed by Judas: ‘And, behold, one of them which were with Jesus stretched out his hand, and drew his sword, and struck a servant of the high priest’s, and smote off his ear. Then said Jesus unto him, Put up again thy sword into his place: for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.’   8. https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/violence.

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Islamic Attitudes towards the Mongol Law63 aim is coercion or punishment, and, consequently, it becomes force or strength realised by means of violence. So, instead of ‘legitimate violence’, it would be preferable to speak of ‘legitimate coercion or compulsion’. I do hope that no one will deem the above argumentation a conspicuous sign of my scholastic pedantry but will, rather, understand it as an introduction to the semantics of ẓulm, which is the Arabic term for ‘violence’. The term ẓulm (derivative of the verb ẓalama) denotes ‘violence, oppression, tyranny, exploitation, cruelty, wrongdoing’ and hence ‘injustice, injury’ as well, while ẓālim is a person who commits any kind of ẓulm, that is, a ‘wrong-­doer’. To some extent it seems strange that both ẓulm and ẓālim are used in the text of the Qur’ān nearly exclusively for the worst sort of wrong-­doing and wrong-­ doers, that is, for polytheism and polytheists. While the word ẓulm occurs twice altogether in the Qur’ān, ẓālim (generally in the plural form as ẓālimūna) appears 122 times. 1. Alladhīna āmanū wa-lam yalbisū īmānahum bi-ẓulmin ūlā’ika la-humu l-amnu wa-hum muhtadūna (‘They who believe and do not mix their belief with injustice [specifically, the association of others in divinity with God] – those will have security, and they are [rightly] guided’) (Q 6: 82). 2. Wa-idh qāla Luqmānu li-ibnihi wa-huwa ya‘iẓuhu yā bunayya lā tushrik billāhi inna l-shirka la-ẓulmun ‘aẓīmun (‘And [mention, O Muhammad], when Luqman said to his son while he was instructing him, “O my son, do not associate [anything] with Allah. Indeed, association [with him] is great injustice”’) (Q 31: 13). 3. The closing sentence of a verse speaking of the regulations of divorce is: wa-man yata‘adda ḥudūda Allāhi fa-ūlā’ika humu al-ẓālimūna (‘And whoever transgresses the limits of A ­ llah – i­t is those who are the wrongdoers’) (Q 2: 229). 4. Yā ayyuhā alladhīna āmanū lā tattakhidhū al-yahūda wa-l-naṣārā awliyā’a ba‘ḍuhum awliyā’u ba‘ḍin wa-man yatawallahum minkum fa-innahu minhum inna Allāha lā yahdī al-qawma al-ẓālimūna (‘O you who have believed, do not take the Jews and the Christians as allies. They are [in fact] allies of one another. And whoever is an ally to them among ­you – ­then indeed, he is [one] of them. Indeed, Allah guides not the wrongdoing people’) (Q 5: 51). After an overview of the 122 occurrences of the word ẓālim(ūna) in the Qur’ān, one can summarise its usage as follows: (1) ẓālimūna are all the non-­ Muslim disbelievers (polytheists), Christians included (cf. Q 5: 51, above), and, in this sense, it tends to be a synonym of kāfirūna; and (2) ẓālimūna are those who transgress the laws and prescriptions of Islam, faithful Muslims included.

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Consequently, all non-­Muslims and the bad Muslims are ẓālimūna, that is, wrong-­doers and Allāh’s enemies who will be subjected to punishment. Judging by the frequency of the occurrence of the word and the predilection with which it is used in the Qur’ān, it must be an important keyword in understanding Islam. Sometimes one has the impression that ẓālimūna has become sort of a swear word in Islam if a person had to be condemned, part of the Islamic hate speech, that is, verbal violence that could so often and easily lead to actual violence.9 Finally, when treating the concept of violence in Islam we must not pass by in silence the question of jihād, which is closely connected with the problem of legitimate violence. Although its undisputed primary meaning is ‘struggle, striving in the way of God’, it soon came to mean ‘a religious war with those who are unbelievers in the mission of ­Muhammad . . . ­enjoined especially for the purpose of advancing Islam and repelling evil from Muslims’.10 According to Bernard Lewis, in the ḥadīth and the classical manuals of Islamic jurisprudence, jihād was used in a military meaning in the preponderant majority of cases.11 Although several examples can be put forward to demonstrate that there are passages in important Islamic texts in which jihād refers to a believer’s spiritual effort to live up to the expectations of Islamic prescriptions and to comply with the requirements of Muslim piety, these texts are far less than those having a military connotation and, what is more, the military interpretation is more in line with the general belligerent character of Islamic thinking. Despite the efforts of numerous Islamic scholars to prove the contrary, jihād, even if only for practical reasons, denotes principally ‘holy war against the infidels (that is, non-­ Muslims)’. Moreover, my understanding is that jihād as a holy war is the most apposite example for ‘legitimate violence’ (or rather ‘legitimate force’) in Islam. YASA

The investigation of yasa, the Mongol law of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, goes back to very early times in European scholarship. François Petit de la Croix (1653–1713), the famous French orientalist, was the first to treat the

  9. Cf. Jesus’ strict admonition in the Sermon on the Mount in which he condemns not only actual violence but mental violence such as anger as well: ‘Ye have heard that it was said of them of old time, Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment: But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment’ (Matthew 5: 21–2). 10. Diane Morgan, Essential Islam: a Comprehensive Guide to Belief and Practice (Santa Barbara, 2010), p. 87. 11. B. Lewis, The Political Language of Islam (Chicago, 1988), p. 72.

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Mongol law in his History of Chinggis Khan.12 Since then an extended literature has come about on Mongol yasa. I would especially underline the importance of the contributions of V. A. Riasanovsky, G. Vernadsky, I. de Rachewiltz, D. Ayalon, D. Morgan and, recently, D. Aigle.13 Up to the 1970s, common wisdom, shared by most scholars of the field, stated that in the assembly (quriltai) of 1206 in which the foundations of the recently united Mongol state were laid, Chinggis promulgated a new law code based on Mongol customary law and complemented by his new decrees and regulations. This law code was called yasa(q), and the written copies of which were preserved in the treasuries of the Mongol princes for consulting in case of necessity. No complete copy of this Mongol law code has come down to us in its entirety, but it can reliably be restored on the basis of its fragments to be found in different sources. Since the word yasa(q) could equally refer to one imperial ordinance, the original Chinggissian law code then was often labelled as the Great Yasa by later research. Our presumed knowledge of the yasa is thus premised on the following three assumptions: Chinggis made a written law code compiled in the quriltai of 1206, the entirety of which has been lost but it can reliably be reconstructed drawing on the extant fragments preserved in various non-­Mongol (mainly Arabic and Armenian) sources. It was first Ayalon who subjected the old wisdom to a new and painstaking analysis, and in his wake David Morgan wrote a splendid article coined ‘iconoclastic’ by Denise Aigle.14 First, Morgan crushes the belief that there are compelling data at our disposal to assume that the yasa was compiled in the quriltai of 1206. The two sources used 12. François Petit de la Croix, Histoire du grand Genghizcan (Paris, 1710); English translation: idem, The History of Genghizcan the Great (London, 1722), pp. 78–9. (I used the English edition.) 13. V. A. Riasanovsky, Fundamental Principles of Mongol Law (Bloomington and The Hague, 1965); G. Vernadsky, ‘The Scope and Contents of Chingis Khan’s yasa’, Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 3 (1938), 337–60; Igor de Rachewiltz, ‘Some Reflections on Činggis Qan’s ǰasaγ’, East Asian History 6 (December 1993), 91–103; de Rachewiltz, The Secret History of the Mongols; D. Ayalon, ‘The Great Yāsa of Chingiz Khān: A Re-­ examination’, Studia Islamica (in four parts) 33 (1971), 97–140 [A]; 34 (1971), 151–80 [B]; 36 (1972), 113–58 [C1]; 38 (1973), 107–56 [C2]; D. Morgan, ‘The “Great Yāsā of Chingiz Khān” and Mongol Law in the Īlkhānate’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 49 (1986), 163–76; idem, ‘The Great Yasa of Chinggis Khan revisited’, in Mongols, Turks and Others: Eurasian Nomads and the Sedentary World, eds R. Amitai and M. Biran (Leiden and Boston, 2005), pp. 291–308; idem, The Mongols (Oxford, 1986); D. Aigle, ‘Le grand jasaq de Gengis-­Khan, l’empire, la culture mongole et la sharī‘a’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 47.1 (2004), 31–79. 14. Morgan, ‘The “Great Yāsā of Chingiz Khān”’; Aigle, ‘Le grand jasaq de Gengis-­Khan,’ 45 (‘un article iconoclaste’).

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to that end state much less. The Secret History of the Mongols asserts that in this first quriltai, Šigi Qutuqu was appointed the chief judge (ǰarγuči) of the nascent Mongol Empire, and that he was commissioned to compile the Blue Book (kökö debter) to register the judicial decisions as a collection of precedents and make a census of the conquered peoples and lands in order to apportion them to the members of the royal house.15 Likewise, Rashīd al-­Dīn’s meagre and laconic data cannot be used to demonstrate that the creation of the Mongol law code took place in the quriltai of 1206.16 Ayalon successfully proved that out of the numerous sources comprising fragments and titbits of the Mongol law (Maqrīzī, ‘Umarī, Bar Hebraeus and Juwaynī) only Juwaynī can be used as a primary source, since ‘Umarī and Bar Hebraeus heavily drew on him, and Maqrīzī derived his information mainly from ‘Umarī.17 So the earliest and basic source for studying the genesis of yasa is Juwaynī’s Ta’rīkh-i Jahāngushā. The second chapter of its first book is entitled ‘Of the Laws Which Chingiz-­Khan Framed and the Yasas (yāsā-hā) Which He Promulgated After His Rise to Power’. In this chapter the following description is given of the genesis of the Mongol law: In accordance and agreement with his own mind he established a rule18 for every occasion and a regulation19 for every circumstance; while for every crime he fixed a penalty. And since the Tartar peoples had no script of their own, he gave orders that Mongol children should learn writing from the Uighur; and that these yasas and ordinances20 should be written down on rolls. These rolls are called the Great Book of Yasas21 and are kept in the treasury of the chief princes. Wherever a khan ascends the throne, or a great army is mobilized, or the princes assemble 15. ‘Divide up all the subject people and apportion them to Our mother, to Us, to Our younger brothers and sons according to the name of the people, . . . Further, he entrusted Šigi Qutuqu with the power of judgement over ­all . . . ­Furthermore, writing in a blue-script register all decisions about the distribution and about the judicial matters of the entire population, make it into a book.’ For §203 of The Secret History of the Mongols, see L. Ligeti (ed.), Histoire secrète des Mongols (Budapest, 1971), pp. 173–4; for its translation and the commentaries thereof, see de Rachewiltz, The Secret History of the Mongols, vol. I, pp. 135–6; vol. II, pp. 767–75. For Šigi Qutuqu in more detail, see P. Ratchnevsky, ‘Šigi-­qutuqu, ein mongolischer Gefolgsmann im 12.–13. Jahrhundert’, Central Asiatic Journal 19 (1965), 88–120. 16. Morgan, ‘The “Great Yāsā of Chingiz Khān”’, pp. 164–6. 17. Ayalon, ‘The Great Yāsa of Chingiz Khān’ [A], 139. 18. Qānūn. 19. Dastūr. 20. Aḥkām. 21. Yāsā-nāma-i buzurg.

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Islamic Attitudes towards the Mongol Law67 and begin [to consult together] concerning affairs of state and the administration thereof, they produce these rolls and model their actions thereon; and proceed with the disposition of armies or the destruction of provinces and cities in the manner therein prescribed. At the time of the first beginnings of his dominion, when the Mongol tribes were united to him, he abolished reprehensible customs22 which had been practised by those peoples and had enjoyed recognition amongst them; and established such usages as were praiseworthy from the point of view of reason. There are many of these ordinances that are in conformity with the Shari‘at.23

So the Mongolian yasa as such can be regarded as a loose set of laws and regulations based on Chinggis Khan’s ordinances and the Turco-­Mongolian customary law. Seemingly, the description of yasa as a distinct law code written on scrolls and bound in volumes, is an abstraction of the contemporary Muslim authors who imagined it as a direct Mongolian equivalent of sharī‘a. In certain respects they can be juxtaposed since both of them are made up of regulations and rules, but their character and genesis differ a great deal.24 But what we said of the Muslim perception of yasa is true the other way round: namely the Mongols, in the period when the conversion of the Mongol elite began,25 also regarded the Muslim sharī‘a as a counterpart of their yasa. In this regard, a very poignant example can be cited from Qāshānī’s Ta’rīkh-i Uljāytū Sulṭān. After Toqta Khan’s death (1312) his nephew Özbek was a candidate for the khan’s throne and his inclination towards Islam was well-­known to all. The chief of the amīrs warned him: ‘O pādshāh, you demand Islam (musalmānī) from us, but how can we obey and comply with this demand? What complaint have we with the yāsā and yosūn of Chinggis Khan that you summon us to the old sharī‘a of the Arabs?’26 Then Özbek killed his rebellious amīr on the spot. The same story is reflected in Ḥāfiẓ-­i Abrū’s work in which the amīr reproaches Özbek in the following manner: ‘You are hoping for our submission and obedience; what 22. Rusūm. 23. Juwaynī, The History of the World-Conquerors (Manchester, 1958), hereon trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 25. 24. Denise Aigle (‘Le grand jasaq de Gengis-­Khan’, pp. 31–79) nicely demonstrates how the Muslim authors interpreted the yasa from the conceptual framework of sharī‘a, and consequently they often misinterpreted and did not understand the real meaning of it. 25. Concerning the conversion of the Turco-­Mongol elite of the Īl-­Khānid Iran and the Golden Horde, a great deal of valuable contributions have come out during the past few decades, cf. notes 69–74, further below. 26. . . . chi mā-rā az yāsā wa yīsūn-i Chingiz khān chi shikāyat ki bi-sharī‘at-i kuhna-yi a‘rāb da‘wat mī-kunī? (Qāshānī, Ta’rīkh-i Uljūytū Sulṭān (Tehran, 1969), p. 145).

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business of yours is our religion and faith? And why would we abandon the tūra and yāsāq of Chingīz Khān to enter the Arab religion?’27 A few words must be pronounced on the term yasa, which in this form seems to be used only by the Muslim authors. The Mongol word ǰasaγ was formed of the verb ǰasa- ‘to construct, arrange, set in order’. Both words, ǰasaγ and ǰasa-, did not appear in Turkic before the thirteenth century, and they are evident borrowings from Mongol. In the thirteenth to fourteenth centuries, the majority of the Turks were conquered by and subjected to the Mongols who, being nomads very much of the same breed as the Mongols, readily took over the Mongol administrative system and terminology, among others ǰasa- and ǰasaγ, in the forms yasa- and yasaq. But, later, first in the Golden Horde and subsequently in Īl-­Khānid Iran, a process began whereby the Mongol elite became Turkicised, and the outside Muslim world got to know the Mongol terms in a Turkic garb. This happened also to ǰasaγ, which was used in the Muslim sources exclusively in its Turkic form yasaq. Moreover, a special abbreviated form yasa came about in Persian that was alternatively used with yasaq. For example, in Rashīd al-­Dīn the ratio of occurrence of yasaq and yasa is approximately fifty–fifty. Turkic sources never use the term in the form yasa but, later, the word yasa had a strange career in modern Turkish.28 As was seen above, yasa was the name of each single law in the concrete sense29 as well as the whole law code in an abstract and virtual sense. Later

27. V. G. Tizengauzen, Sbornik materialov, otnosĭashchikhsĭa k istorii Zolotoĭ Ordy. Tom II: Izvlecheniĭa iz persidskikh sochineniĭ. (Moscow and Leningrad, 1941), vol 2, p. 141 [trans.], p. 244 [text] cf. also Devin DeWeese, Islamization and Native Religion in the Golden Horde: Baba Tükles and Conversion to Islam in Historical and Epic Tradition. (University Park, 1993), p. 108 and n. 92. 28. For yasaq, see G. Clauson, An Etymological Dictionary of Pre-Thirteenth-Century Turkish (Oxford, 1972), p. 974. In modern Turkish, an interesting phenomenon occurred since both yasa and yasaq were renewed during the Turkish language reform movement in the twentieth century. Yasa was introduced and spread as a substitute for Arabic qānūn used throughout the Ottoman period for ‘law’, whereas yasaq was renewed in the sense ‘forbidden’ to substitute Arabic mamnū‘ (hence Ottoman memnu). 29. I provide a few more examples from Juwaynī and Rashīd al-­Dīn, to show that sometimes yāsāq means simply ‘order, ordinance, decree’ without any direct reference to the Chinggisian Law as a whole: 1. ‘Another yasa is that no man may depart to another unit than the hundred, thousand or ten to which he has been assigned, nor may he seek refuge elsewhere’ (Juwaynī, trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 32); 2. ‘There are many yasas to record each of which would delay us too long; we have therefore limited ourselves to the mention of the above’ (Juwaynī, trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 34); 3. On speaking of the origins of the Qarluq, Rashīd al-­Dīn recounts that on account of the snow a few households lagged behind when the Oghuz tribes returned home from Ghor: ‘Since it had been

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Islamic Attitudes towards the Mongol Law69

European scholarship tried to draw a distinction between the two by using for the law code as a whole the term ‘Great Yasa’. While it may have some practical justification, one must stress that no sharp distinction was made in contemporary Mongol and Turkic usage. There are altogether two examples in our sources that may show that the imperial Mongol law constituted by Chinggis Khan was called ‘great’. Juvaynī Juwaynī once calls the law code in its entirety as ‘the Great Book of Yasas’ (yāsā-nāma-i buzurg),30 while the phrase yāsāq-i buzurg, which lay foundation of the widespread term ‘great yasa’ in the later scholarly literature, occurs just once in Rashīd al-­Dīn’s text. In 1303, upon the return from the Syrian campaign in Ujan, a trial (yārghū) was held and two military leaders ‘were executed31, and all that was required by the great Yasa was put into practice’.32 Presumably the synonyms of yāsāq-i buzurg ‘the Great Yasa’ were the phrase yāsā-yi qadīm – ‘the ancient yasa’33 – and yāsāq-i pīshīne in ‘the ancient Yasa required’.34 At this juncture it is worth noting that the attribute ‘great’ may refer not only to the ‘imperial, majestic’ but also the ‘ancient, pristine’ character of these laws. By way of analogy, see, for example, the medieval Western terms magnus/magna – ‘great’ – and maior – ‘greater’ that designated also ‘ancient, original’ (cf. Magna/Maior Bulgaria, Magna/Maior Hungaria and so forth). The Arabs and Persians understood the term yasa(q) both in the concrete and abstract senses of the word, and generally did not translate it since it was a technical term of the Mongol Empire. Once it is translated or rather explained in these languages it is interpreted as the Mongol law embodied in the imperial decrees and ordinances. One of the most clear-­cut definitions of yasa(q) we find in the work of Jūzjānī, who writes as follows: ‘To these aḥkām35 they have given the name yasa, which means ḥukm va farmān in ordered that no one should lag behind, Oghuz was displeased’ (Rashīd al-­Dīn, Jāmi‘altawārīkh (Tehran, 1994/5), hereon ed. Tehran, vol. 1, p. 5323 = Rashiduddin Fazlullah, Jami‘u’t-Tawarikh: Compendium of Chronicles (Cambridge, MA, 1998–9), hereon trans. Thackston, vol. 1, p. 30); 4. Or, Qubilai appointed Sämäkä Bahadur the leader of the army against Nankiyas ‘because his ordinance was severe . . . [che yāsāq-i ū sākht būd]’ (trans. Thackston, vol. 2, p. 439 = ed. Tehran, vol 2, p. 89813). 30. Juvaynī, trans. Boyle vol. 1, p. 25. 31. bi-yāsā rasānīdand. 32. va ānche mūjib-i yāsāq-i buzurg būd dar har bāb taqdīm peyvast. Rashīd al-­Dīn, ed. Tehran, vol. 2, p. 131516 = trans. Thackston vol 3, p. 657. 33. Rashīd al-­Dīn, ed. Tehran vol. 1, p. 6917 = trans. Thackston, vol. 1, p. 39; ed. Tehran, vol. 2, p. 105919 = trans. Thackston, vol. 3, p. 517. 34. Yāsāq-i pīshīne ān būd ki. Rashīd al-­Dīn, ed. Tehran, vol 2, p. 14536 = trans. Thackston, vol. 3, p. 718. 35. He is referring to Chinggis Khan’s prohibition of telling lies, committing adultery, washing in running water and so forth.

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the Mongol language.’36 The yasa, constituted and created, and later at least unanimously attributed to Chinggis Khan by the Mongols and Turks, was unalterable according to the intentions of the founder of the Mongol Empire. Having made his will apparent to his sons, Chinggis said, ‘After me, you must not change my Yasaq.’37 Accordingly, to change the yāsā or act contrary to it38 was considered a crime.39 The concrete implementation of the yāsā, the Chinggisian Law, that is, the lawsuits, were also designated by that name. The Persian phrase yāsā dādan means ‘to dispense justice, to administer the law, to judge cases, to give an order/ verdict’. Thus, for example, having been sent by his father Chinggis Khan to Khorezm to reconcile his three quarrelling brothers (Cha’adai, Ögödei and Jöchi), Tolui fulfilled his task and he ‘also worthily undertook to direct military affairs and administered the law’.40 Since the yasa was a less sophisticated set of laws and prescriptions than the Islamic sharī‘a, its main item of penalty being death (there were no provisions for imprisonment or mutilation), it is only natural that the Persian phrase bi-yāsā rasānīdan came to mean ‘to execute’. Thus, Rashīd al-­Dīn, discussing a certain Iqbāl from the Jalāyir tribe, remarks: ‘The Padishah of Islam [Ghazan] had him executed41 after establishing his guilt.’42 In all successor states of the Mongol Empire the term yasaq survived to designate the Chinggissian law code. Suffice it here to cite two examples from a sixteen-­ century native Turkic source, the Ta’rīkh-i Dost Sulṭān of Ötemish Ḥājjī (1551): 1. After a quarrel between Orda and Batu, sons of Chinggis over the succession to the throne in the westernmost Mongol ulus, Chinggis Khan holds an 36. Īn aḥkām-rā yasa nām nihāde and ya‘nī bi-zabān-i mughulī ḥukm wa farmān (Jūzjānī, Ṭabaqāt-i-Nāṣirī (Kabul, 1963–4), vol. 2, p. 152; T̤abaḳāt-i-Nāṣirī, trans. H. G. Raverty, vol. 2, p. 1108. (Cf. also Morgan, ‘The “Great Yāsā of Chingiz Khān”’, p. 171). 37. Yāsāq-i ma-rā digargūn nakonīd. Rashīd al-­Dīn, ed. Tehran, vol. 2, p. 5397 = trans. Thackston, vol. 2, p. 262. 38. Yāsā digargūn kardan. 39. Rashīd al-­Dīn, ed. Tehran, vol. 1, p. 6917 = trans. Thackston, vol. 1, p. 39. 40. Rashīd al-­Dīn, ed. Tehran, vol. 1, p. 51416 = trans. Thackston, vol. 2, p. 254; here Th. translates yāsā dād, I think erroneously, as ‘[he] put the Yasa on a firm footing’. At another place (Rashīd al-­Dīn, ed. Tehran, vol. 1, p.13 = trans. Thackston, vol. 2, p. 257) Thackston’s translation as ‘gave an order’ is correct. 41. bi-yāsā rasānīd. 42. Rashīd al-­Dīn, ed. Tehran, vol. 1, p. 6813 = trans. Thackston, vol. 1, p. 39. – For further examples of bi-yāsā rasānīdan ‘to execute’ in Rashīd al-­Dīn, see trans. Thackston, vol. 1, p. 148 = ed. Tehran, vol. 1, p. 3034; trans. Thackston, vol. 2, p. 354 = ed. Tehran, vol. 1, p. 72810; trans. Thackston, vol. 2, p. 438 = ed. Tehran, vol. 2, p. 89723; trans. Thackston, vol. 3, p. 634 = ed. Tehran, vol. 2, p. 12705.

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Islamic Attitudes towards the Mongol Law71 audience in which ‘[Chinggis] khan said: “Sayin [Batu] says words that are in accordance with the yasaq.”’43 2. Among Tokhtamish Khan’s donations to Arab-­oghlan we find: ‘and all slaves wherever they fled from their lords, and all people wherever they fled from the yasaq’.44

The Chinggissian law code comprising the traditional customary law (yosun) of the Mongols45 as well, is often referred to in the Persian sources with the binomial yāsā yōsūn or yōsūn yāsā (sometimes connected with the Arabic-­Persian conjunction wa). For example, when Abaqa, upon his father Hülegü’s death in 1265, wavers to accept the offer to become the khan, he is encouraged by his supporters as follows: ‘You are here, you are the eldest of all the sons, you know well the customs and ancient yosun and yasa,46 and Hülegü Khan made you heir designate during his lifetime.’47 In the following I put forward a few more examples for the usage of the binomial term yasaq yosun culled from Rashīd al-­Dīn’s Jāmi‘ al-tawārīkh. Before the campaign against the Khwārazmshāh in 1219–20, Chinggiss Khan assembled a quriltai and ‘he laid down new regulations’.48 After ‘subjugating many of the realms of the world in a short time, he had 43. Ḫan aydı: «Ṣayın yosaqlı söz ayta turur. Ötemish Ḥājjī, C˘ ingīz-nāma (Tokyo, 2008), hereon ed. Tokyo, pp. 11, 70; Ötemish Ḥājjī, Chingiz-name (Alma-Ata, 1992), hereon ed. Alma-­Ata, p. 122. Ĭudin’s Russian translation is: ‘[Чингиз] хан сказал: «Саин говорит слова, соответствующие йасаку.»’ = Ötemish Ḥājjī, ed. Alma-­Ata, p. 93). – The strange Turkic form yosaq, unattested elsewhere, is either a scribal error, or, what is more plausible, a contamination from yasaq and yosun. For the latter term, see further below. 44. wa har qayda ḫoǰasıdın qačğan qul wa yasağdın qačğan el bolsa (Ötemish Ḥājjī, ed. Tokyo, pp. 46, 100; Ötemish Ḥājjī, ed. Alma-­Ata, p. 145). – Ĭudin’s Russian translation is: ‘и где бы ни находился раб, бежавший от своего хозяина, и эль бежавший от йасака’ (Ötemish Ḥājjī, ed. Alma-­Ata, p. 118). 45. For yosun ‘custom’, see G. Doerfer, Türkische und Mongolische Elemente in Neupersichen (Wiesbaden, 1963/1965/1967/1975), vol. 1, pp. 555–7 (No. 408); Etimologicheskiı˘ slovar’ tiurkskikh ˘ıazykov, eds E. V. Savortı˘an and L. S. Levitskaı˘a, vol. 4 (Moscow, 1989), pp. 31–2 (s.v. җошун, somewhat confused and mingled with yasaq). The form ǰosun is an original Mongolian word that found its way into Turkic only in the Mongol period in the form yosun. The first occurrences are from the Uighur judicial documents of the fourteenth century (cf. Clauson, An Etymological Dictionary, p. 975). As was the case with yasaq, here, too, the Turkic form yosun is reflected in the contemporary Arabic and Persian sources. 46. rusūm va yōsūn yāsā-yi qadīm va ḥadīth-i nīkū mī-dānī. 47. Rashīd al-­Dīn, ed. Tehran, vol. 2, p. 105919 = trans. Thackston, vol. 3, p. 517. 48. az naw āyīn va yōsūn yāsāq bunyād nihād. Rashīd al-­Dīn, ed. Tehran, vol. 1, p. 4884 = trans. Thackston vol. 2, p. 241.

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the customs and laws of the imperial yasaq [ordinance] and yosun [custom]49 arranged and codified, and he put into practice customs of spreading justice / and nurturing subjects’.50 Udachi of the Hoyin Uriangkat tribe was also the head of the hazara of that tribe. They ‘guard the yasaq and yosun of the great ghoruq [sanctuary]51 in Burqan Qaldun, and they do not go out on campaign’. 52 In the story on Ananda, Qubilai’s grandson, who was the ruler of the Tangut country, Rashīd al-­Dīn, relates that the Tanguts resemble the Chinese in many respects, among others: ‘Their manners, customs, ordinances, and habits are similar to each other’s.’53 In enumerating the merits of Ghazan Khan and praising him with flattering words, Rashīd al-­Dīn, in his Preface, says: ‘He propagates the Yosun and Yasaq54 and patronizes the arts.’55 After his ascension to the throne in 1304, Ölǰeitü (the Īl-­Khānid Muḥammad Khudābanda) ‘had an investigation made of his brother Sulṭān Sa‘īd Ghāzān Khan’s yasaq and yosun, of his customs and habits,56 and a review of his issuance of orders was made’.57 The latter citation clearly demonstrates that despite Chinggis Khan’s grim determination, the yasa, a collection of his ordinances and decrees, were not so immobile and eternal, ‘carved into stone’ as intended by the founder of the empire, but functioned rather as a modern constitution does: yasa was a flexible set of basic laws applied continually to the new situation in each period. Finally, may I put forward a conjecture in the mirror of the data cited so far: for the Muslim authors, the two footings of Mongol law, the imperial ordinances and the customary law, may have dimly resembled the twofold sources of sharī‘a, the Holy Qur’ān and the Sunna, and that is why they adopted the term yasa yosun with such ease. In addition to, and sometimes in lieu of, the term yasa yosun, in some of the sources another binomial term was used, namely yasa(q) töre (written yāsāq wa tūra). The word töre is the Old Turkic term for the ‘traditional, customary, 49. rusūm va qavānīn-i yāsāq va yōsūn-i pādshāhī. 50. Rashīd al-­Dīn, ed. Tehran, vol. 1, p. 28821 = trans. Thackston, vol. 1, pp. 141–2. 51. yāsā va yōsūn-i ghorūq-i buzurg. 52. Rashīd al-­Dīn, ed. Tehran, vol. 1, p. 6031 = trans. Thackston, vol. 2, p. 278. 53. Āyīn va rusūm va yāsāq va yōsūn-i īshān bi-ham mānanda. Rashīd al-­Dīn, ed. Tehran, vol. 2, p. 9515 = trans. Thackston, vol. 2, p. 465. 54. yōsūn yāsāq. 55. Rashīd al-­Dīn, ed. Tehran, vol. 1, p. 2914 = trans. Thackston vol. 1, p. 16. 56. yāsāq va yōsūn va ‘ādāt va rusūm. 57. Rashīd al-­Dīn, ed. Tehran, vol. 1, p. 714 = trans. Thackston, vol. 1, p. 6.

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Islamic Attitudes towards the Mongol Law73 unwritten law’, and is attested in the form törü from the time of the Orkhon Turkic inscriptions (eighth century).58 This Turkic term must have been borrowed into Mongolian and, in the form törö/töre, was used to denote the same as yosun, especially in the Timurid period. We have seen above (note 26) a passage from Ḥāfiẓ-­i Abrū’s work in which he speaks of ‘the tūra and yāsāq of Chingīz Khān’. Another author, Mu‘īn al-­Dīn Naṭanzī (1409–14), one of the minor historians of the early Timurid period, used the term in abundance, which can partly be ascribed to the fact that he heavily drew on native Turkic, oral historiography.59 Two examples taken from Naṭanzī are presented here:

1. After Toqtaqiya’s death, Temür-­bek became the khan, but because of his addiction to alcohol, state affairs were neglected and the country fell into total disarray ‘and the rules of the mighty tūra were put aside and abandoned’.60 2. During Shādibeg Khan’s reign (r. 1399–1407), ‘since Edigü set up fine regulations (tūra) and great laws (yāsāq) and the ­people . . . ­Shādibeg wanted to liquidate him secretly’.61 Finally, in treating yasaq we must not omit the Turco-­Mongol terminology and attitude towards violence, be it legitimate or not. First, unlike in Arabic (quwwa and ẓulm), in Turkic and Mongol terminology there was no distinction between ‘strength’ and ‘violence’. Both notions were expressed by the same term: küč in Turkic, and küčü(n) (an early Turkic loanword) in Mongol, both meaning 1. ‘strength in the physical or abstract sense, force, power, might’ and 2. ‘violence, oppression’.62 The strength and power of the Eternal Heaven as well as the ­illegitimate violence 58. For the Turkic data, see ED, pp. 531–32. – Basically, it was the customary law (e.g., Kāshgharī translates it with Arabic al-rasm ‘customs’), but from the Mongol period onward sometimes the meaning of yasaq ‘state law’ also radiated into it; e.g., Chag. töre ‘‘ādat wa qānūn [custom and law]’ or Mam. Kipchak (14th c.) ‘al-­sharī‘a wa-­l-uslūb [a code of law and conduct]’ (Idrāk). 59. The term töre (tūra) occurs in his work more than a dozen times (Naṭanzī, Extraits du Munta­ khab al-tavarikh-i Mu’ini (Tehran, 1957), pp. 29, 47, 93, 99, 103, 103, 106, 111, 125, 131, 145, 206, 291, 318, 332, 402, 403), while he uses Mongolian yosun altogether twice (pp. 71, 222). 60. qawā‘id-i tūrā-i qāhira bi-l-kulliya masdūd wa matrūk shud (Naṭanzī, ed. Aubin, p. 93); ‘правила могущественного закона (тура) были совершенно оставлены а заброшены’ (V. G. Tizengauzen, Sbornik materialov, vol. 2, p. 131). 61. Chūn Īdikū tūrāhā-yi bārīk wa yāsāqhā-yi buzurg bunyād nihāda būd (Naṭanzī, ed. Aubin, p. 99); ‘Так как Идигу установил тонкие обычаи (тура) и великие законы (ясак) и люди из привольности попали в стеснение, то Шадибек тайно хотел уничтожить его’ (V. G. Tizengauzen, Sbornik materialov, vol. 2, p. 131). 62. Clauson, An Etymological Dictionary, p. 693; G. Clauson, ‘The Concept of “Strength” in Turkish’, in Németh Armağanı (Ankara, 1962), pp. 93–101.

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committed against the privileged people (tarkhans) were equally signified by küč (in Turkic) and küčü(n) (in Mongol). The famous introductory formula of the Mongol diplomas, which can be found also on numerous ĪI-­khanid coins, ‘by the strength of Eternal Heaven’, sounds almost the same both in Mongol (möngke tenggeri-yin küčün-dür) and in Turkic (mängü tängrining küčündä). Having made a short survey of the major characteristics of Islamic law – sharī‘a – and Turco-­Mongolian law – yasa – the question may be raised as to whether these two systems were compatible or totally antagonistic. Neither of these statements can be fully corroborated or rejected. At the level of everyday life the customs of the Islamic peoples and the Mongols differed widely: but Islam has always been very flexible in digesting and incorporating foreign customs in an Islamised form into its own system. In practical terms, there were only two aspects of the Mongol dietary customs which were incompatible with Islamic rules, at least on the theoretical level: the Mongolian way of slaughtering animals and the consummation of alcoholic drinks. But moderate Islam has always been adroit in tacitly taking cognisance of and winking at undesirable phenomena. Take the question of alcohol drinking that is strictly forbidden (mamnū‘) in the Islamic law, yet is practised in numerous countries of the Islamic world. To my mind, there was only one point in which the two systems were really incompatible and antagonistic, and that is the question of religious tolerance and supremacy. Actually the tragically bloody first decades of Islamic and Mongol encounters and clashes derived from their different attitudes towards religius tolerance and dominance. Juwaynī in his Ta’rīkh-i Jahāngushā gave a classical description of Chinggis Khan’s religious world view that makes us better understand the Mongol attitude towards religion. ‘Being the adherent of no religion and the follower of no creed, he eschewed bigotry, and the preference of one faith to another, and the placing of some above others; rather he honoured and respected the learned and pious of every sect, recognising such conduct as the way to the Court of God. And as he viewed the Moslems with the eye of respect, so also did he hold the Christians and idolaters in high esteem. As for his children and grandchildren, several of them have chosen a religion according to their inclination, some adopting Islam, others embracing Christianity, others selecting idolatry and others again cleaving to the ancient canon of their fathers and forefathers and inclining in no direction; but these are now a minority. But though they have adopted some religion they still for the most part avoid all show of fanaticism and do not swerve from the yasa of Chingiz-­Khan, namely, to consider all sects as one and not to distinguish them from one another.’63

63. Juwaynī, trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 26.

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Islamic Attitudes towards the Mongol Law75

From Mongol tolerance towards all religions and confessions arose their clement policy towards religions: no taxes or duties were levied on church people and religious dignitaries and personnel. But one must not be deceived by this rosy picture of Mongol tolerance since it was limited in scope: that is to say, such tolerance applied only to those who acknowledged the rule and supremacy of Chinggis, his dynasty and the Mongols. Chinggis and his house had a heavenly mandate to rule the world: this was the will of the ‘eternal heaven’ (möngke tenggeri). For the rest of the world there were only two choices, either to accept Chinggis’ rule and live peacefully as subjects of his realm or face destruction and extermination. Both choices were tried by the peoples and countries that were to encounter the Mongol forces. For submission and accepting Mongol rule, the Uighurs of Turkestan are the most apposite example. Chinggis was benignant to them ­and – a­ s J. R. Hamilton put ­it – ­they became the educators of the Mongols. In contrast, the Islamic world could not but resist. Islam confessed its own exclusivity based on strict monotheism. In questions of faith there could be no compromise. As was seen, Muslims were confident that Islam was deemed to be dominant in all societies and their belief is the only right one superior to all other in the world, and, consequently, they must not bow their heads to the disbelievers (kāfirs). This inherent implacability and inflexibility caused Islam to undergo the terrible shock of Mongol storm, first in Central Asia, and then in the Middle East. Once the Eastern, major part of the Islamic world were destructed and humiliated by the Mongols, the Muslims came to understand that they had to find a modus vivendi with the horrible disbelievers if they wanted to survive. Finally, we may ask: What was the Islamic reaction to the Mongol violence? The answers vary according to the position of the Muslim population. I think it became obvious from what has been said so far that Islamic thinking made any compromise with the violent Mongol conquerors impossible. Consequently, Muslims living outside the scope of Mongol conquest, thus unaffected by it, were fervent opponents of the Mongols and their law as incompatible with Islam. So the violence of the Mongols was categorically rejected and condemned by the Muslims of India and of the Mamlūk territories. For the former the best example is Minhāj-­i Sirāj Jūzjānī (c. 1193–1259) who fled to India with his migrant family from the Ghūrid territory in Afghanistan and always viewed the Mongols with a glowing hatred.64 For the latter, the best-­known example is the Damascene Taqī al-­Dīn ibn Taymiyya (1263–1328), representative of a later generation,

64. For Jūzjānī, see A. S. Bazmee Ansari, ‘al-­Ḏjūzḏānī’, in EI2, and Timothy May in this volume.

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who in his famous fatwās against the Mongols, passionately argues that even the conversion of the Mongols to Islam cannot be accepted and taken seriously. In December 1299 he himself was member of the delegation that was sent to meet Ghāzān Khan, who was attacking Syria at that time. The audience took place at a village called Nabk, and this time the Īl-­Khānid reprieved the inhabitants of Damascus. Ibn Taymiyya, a notorious radical of his age and fervent propagator of all sorts of jihāds, was similarly unforgiving towards Ṣūfism, the Shī‘ite doctrines and Christianity. Similarly, his anti-­Mongol fatwās were heated with the same hatred and fanaticism. To wage war (jihād) against the Mongols is the holy duty of all Muslims since the Mongols, although many of them embraced Sunnite Islam by that time, cannot be regarded as true Muslims. His main argument against their Islam is that the Mongols are primarily subject to human-­ made laws (that is, the yasa), instead of observing the divine law of the sharī‘a. In other words, they live in jāhiliyya, the pre-­Islamic ignorance of the pagans.65 But the majority of Muslims had to resign to and accept the Mongol rule together with its yasa, if they wanted to survive. The best example is again the brilliant Persian politician and historian of the Mongol period, Atā’ Malik Juwaynī (1226–83), who was born one year before the death of the world-­ conqueror Chinggis Khan and died one year after the death of Chinggis Khan’s great-­grandson, Īl-­Khānid Abaqa. He belonged to the generation that had to find a modus vivendi with Mongols in order to survive. He faithfully served the Mongols (sometimes with flattering enthusiasm) and he wrote the first, most authentic and best history of the world-­conqueror Chinggis Khan. In his Ta’rīkh-i Jahāngushā he made the first steps towards a reconciliation of Islam with the new pagan conquerors. Whether his praise of the Mongols and compromising effort was sincere or not, only Allāh or the Eternal Heaven can tell. He is the first to make steps to reconcile sharī‘a with the yasa. When speaking of Chinggis Khan who abolished some old customs and created some new ones, Juwaynī adds: ‘There are many of these ordinances that are in conformity with the Shari‘at.’66 The last sentence speaks for itself. At another juncture he praises Chinggis Khan’s resoluteness, faith and trust in God, corroborating his statement with a Qur’ān citation, and, moreover, tries to justifies his conquest as totally legal and in conformity with the Qur’ān: ‘In the messages which he sent in all directions calling on the peoples to yield him allegiance, he never had recourse 65. For the latest, good analysis of Ibn Taymiyya’s Mongol fatwās, see D. Aigle, ‘The Mongol Invasions of Bilād al-­Shām by Gāzān Khān and Ibn Taymīyah’s Three “Anti-­ Mongol” Fatwas’, Mamluk Studies Review 11.2 (2007), 89–120. Available at: http:// mamluk.uchicago.edu/MSR XI-­2 2007-­Aigle.pdf (accessed 2 January 2016). 66. Juwaynī, trans. Boyle, vol. 1, p. 25.

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to intimidation or violent threats, as was the custom with the tyrant kings of old, who used to menace their enemies with the size of their territory and the magnitude of their equipment and supplies; the Mongols, on the contrary, as their uttermost warning, would write thus: “If ye submit not, nor surrender, what know we // thereof? The Ancient God, He knoweth.” If one reflects upon their signification, [one sees that] these are the words of them that put their trust in ­God – ­God Almighty hath said “And for him that putteth his trust in Him God will be all-sufficient”67 so that of necessity such a one obtains whatever he has borne in his heart and yearned after, and attains his every wish.’68 After the Mongol generations of Chinggis Khan’s sons had passed away, the first conversion to Islam began within Chinggis’ family and Mongol elite. But these first conversions were sporadic and incidental, decisions of personal will, and in accordance with the general principle of religious tolerance they left the basis of Mongol life, the Chinggissian yasa, unaltered. To this category belong the conversions of Berke Khan (d. 1266),69 Töde Mengü Khan (d. 1283) and Amir Noghay (d. 1299) in the Golden Horde, and the conversions of the Īl-­ Khānids Aḥmad Teküder (d. 1284)70 and Baydu (d. 1295) in Mongol Iran. But the real breakthrough happened later, both in the Golden Horde and Iran. It was in the third and fourth generation of the Chinggisids that the Islamic conversion of the rulers launched the process of total, large-­scale Islamisation of Mongols both in the Golden Horde and Iran. In Iran it was Ghāzān Khan (d. 1304) who embraced Islam in 1295,71 Ölǰeitü accepted the Shī‘ite branch of Islam72 and in

67. Q 65: 3. 68. Juwaynī, trans. Boyle, vol. 1, pp. 25–6. 69. I. Vásáry, ‘ “History and Legend” in Berke Khan’s Conversion to Islam’, in Aspects of Altaic Civilization III, ed. Denis Sinor (Bloomington, 1990), pp. 230–52; A. N. Ivanov, ‘K voprosu o prichinakh prinĭatiĭa islama zolotoordynskim khanom Berke’, in Zolotoordynskaĭa tsivilizatsiĭa, ed. I. M. Mirgaleev, vol. 2 (Kazan, 2009), pp. 103–7; G. M. Davletshin, ‘Musul’manskoe bogoslovie v Zolotoĭ Orde (istoricheskiĭ aspect)’, in Zolotoordynskaĭa tsivilizatsiĭa, ed. I. M. Mirgaleev, Vypusk 2 (Kazan, 2009), pp. 27–38. 70. Reuven Amitai-­Preiss, ‘The Conversion of Ahmad Tegüdar’, Jerusalem Studies of Arabic and Islam 25 (2001), 15–43. 71. Charles Melville, ‘Padshah-­i Islam: The Conversion of Ghazan Khan to Islam’, Pembroke Papers 1 (1990), 159–77; Reuven Amitai-­Preiss, ‘Ghazan, Islam and Mongol Tradition: A View from the Mamlūk Sultanate’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 59 (1996), 1–10; idem, ‘Sufis and Shamans: Some Remarks on the Islamization of the Mongols in the Ilkhanate’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 42.1 (1999), 27–46. 72. J. Pfeiffer, ‘Conversion Versions: Sultan Öljeytü’s Conversion to Shi‘ism (709/1309) in Muslim Narrative Sources’, Mongolian Studies 22 (1999), 35–67.

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the Golden Horde Özbek Khan was the initiator of Islamisation (1310s).73 In the Chagatay ulus the conversion to Islam took place even later, during Tarmashīrīn Khan’s time (d. 1334).74 So it took a hundred years after the great conqueror Chinggis Khan’s death (1227) for Islam to become firmly rooted also among the conquering Turco-­Mongol tribes. But Mongol yasa did not disappear at once but has long survived in all three Mongol successor states. By way of bringing my chapter to a conclusion let me quote the first four introductory lines of a diploma (yarlïq) issued by the Chinggisid Ḥāǰǰi Giräy Khan, first ruler of the independent Crimean Khanate in 1453.75 These lines demonstrate, perhaps in a more eloquent manner than we find expressed in any other source, the way in which Islam and the Mongol tradition of yasa co-­existed for long in the Islamised Mongol states: 1. Bi-’smi ’llāhi ’l-raḥmāni l-raḥīm. In the name of Allāh, the merciful and compassionate. 2. Bi-l-quwwati l-aḥadiyya wa-l-mu‘jizāti l-Muḥammadiyya. By the strength of the One (God) and the miraculous deeds of Muḥammad. 3. Mängü tängri küčündä, Muḥammad rasūlullāh vilāyätindä. By the strength of the Eternal Heaven (God) and the authority of Muḥammad, envoy of God. 4. Ḥāǰǰi Giräy sözim. Ḥāǰǰi Giräy, my word. In sum, even after the embrace of Islam by the Turco-­Mongolian elite of the Golden Horde, Īl-­Khānid Iran and the Chagatay ulus in the fourteenth century, the Muslim native populations had to acquiesce that Mongolian yasa and Muslim sharī‘a continued to exist side by side, both mentally and institutionally. Moreover, in the age of Timur and the Timurids (1350s–1500), who were indisputably Muslims, a new revival of the Turco-­Mongol traditions, among others the yasa, began. But this is already another story.

73. DeWeese, Islamization and Native Religion. 74. M. Biran, ‘The Chagadaids and Islam: The Conversion of Tarmashirin Khan (1331–34)’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 122.4 (2002), 742–52. 75. A. N. Kurat, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Arşivindeki Altın Ordu, Kırım ve Türkistan hanlarına ait yarlık ve bitikler (Istanbul, 1940), p. 64.

Chapter

5 Unacceptable Violence as Legitimation in Mongol and Timurid Iran

Beatrice Forbes Manz*

In their great conquests, Chinggis Khan (Chingīz Khān) and Tamerlane (Tīmūr, Temür) exhibited a level of violence that elicited expressions of disgust and despair from their contemporaries. The famous historian Ibn al-­Athīr starts his account of the Mongol conquest with a lament: Who is there who would find it easy to write the obituary of Islam and the Muslims? For whom would it be a trifling matter to give an account of this? Oh, would that my mother had not given me birth!1

The carnage of these conquerors’ campaigns is recounted in riveting detail in medieval histories, and not only in those written for inimical regimes. What is striking is that slaughter and destruction are central in the histories written for the Mongol and Timurid rulers, aiming to glorify and legitimate their rule. One may argue that in these medieval societies violence was not seen as a fault. However, the historians reporting these acts often describe them as calamities and indeed as atrocities. At the same time, rather than playing down such acts, they showcase them. Several of the histories I shall examine here were written twenty to thirty years after the end of the conquest, during periods of government consolidation and economic restoration. Many of their readers would have experienced the events described; others would have been relatives or descendants of victims. These histories thus both revived living memories and preserved them for future

 * Tufts University, Massachusetts, USA.   1. Ibn al-­Athīr, The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athīr (Farnham, 2008), 3, p. 202.

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generations. There must have been some advantage for the dynasty, not only in the violent acts themselves, but in memorialising them. Indeed despite, or because of, their destructiveness, both Chinggis Khan and Tamerlane became central figures in the legitimation of later Muslim dynasties. One can trace a continuous line of legitimacy starting from Chinggis Khan and continuing through successive states into the nineteenth century. The stature of Chinggis Khan and Temür was recognised not only by the Turco-­Mongolian population; it was also widely accepted by the Persian elite. When the Mongol Īl-Khānid Dynasty ended in 1335, both the Persian and Turco-­Mongolian dynasties contending for power first ruled through puppet khāns, and after abandoning these khāns, still traced their rule back to Mongol connections. Temür, coming to power in 1370, followed the example of his predecessors in connecting himself to the descendants of Chinggis Khan. As a great conqueror, Temür in his turn became a dynastic founder and a source of legitimacy for later dynasties. The Timurids were both Turco-­Mongolian and Muslim; in this way, they created a synthesis of Mongolian and Perso-­Islamic traditions that gained great popularity. The dynasty itself had a second life in the Mughal Dynasty of India, founded in 1526 by the Timurid prince Babur who was descended from both Tamerlane and Chinggis Khan.2 The Safavid Dynasty that followed the Timurids in Iran found it useful to create a historical connection to Tamerlane who was reported to have visited the shaykh of the Safavid order and to have seen him in visions.3 After the end of the Safavid Dynasty in the eighteenth century, the Turkmen warlord Nādir Shāh evoked both Chinggis Khan and Tamerlane, naming his grandson after Tamerlane’s son Shāhrukh, and claiming to have discovered Tamerlane’s sword.4 The image that established Chinggis Khan and Temür as founding fathers and figures of lasting charisma was certainly not one of conventional moral superiority. Violence lies at the centre of their mystique and it is transgressive violence. At the same time, such transgression remains blameworthy. The question I want to explore is how violence can be unacceptable and nonetheless

  2. Broadbridge, Kingship and Ideology, pp. 8–11; Denise Aigle, ‘Les transformations d’un mythe d’origine. L’exemple de Gengis Khān et de Tamerlan,’ in Figures mythiques des mondes musulmans, ed. Denise Aigle, Revue des mondes musulmans et de la Méditerranée, 89-­90 (2000), pp. 153, 158–9.   3. Sholeh A. Quinn, Historical Writing during the Reign of Shah ‘Abbas: Ideology, Imitation and Legitimacy in Safavid Chronicles (Salt Lake City, 2000), pp. 86–9.   4. Ernest S. Tucker, Nadir Shah’s Quest for Legitimacy in Post-Safavid Iran (Gainesville, 2006), pp.10-­13.

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help to legitimate Mongol and Timurid rule. In this paper, I will examine how destructive acts are portrayed in dynastic and in inimical histories to form the image of a supremely powerful figure, whether hero or villain. I shall not attempt to include all important histories, but instead focus largely on a few particularly influential accounts. DESCRIPTIONS OF THE MONGOL CONQUEST

When we look at the histories of the Mongol conquest we find that those written for the Mongols put no less emphasis on deeds of carnage than do those written for inimical regimes. Indeed, our most vivid images of the Mongol conquest in the Middle East are based on the Tārīkh-i Jahāngushāy of ‘Alā’ al-­Dīn ‘Aṭā Malik Juwaynī, a Persian historian serving the Mongol leadership. Without this work, accounts of the conquest would be much duller; we would know that the Mongols perpetrated massacres and destroyed cities, but we would have almost none of the great set pieces that have formed our picture of the conquest. Medieval historians serving dynasties threatened by the Mongols described the same events and frequently expressed their horror of the Mongols, but they provided little detail. The first of the inimical accounts is al-Kāmil fī al-ta’rīkh, by Ibn al-­Athīr (555/1160–630/1233), written while the conquest was still going on and ending with the year 628/1230–1. Ibn al-­Athīr and his family served the Zangid Dynasty of Mosul and the historian also enjoyed the patronage of the Atabeg of Aleppo. Thus, he was reporting the conquest largely from hearsay, from the point of view of rulers whose region was likely to be threatened.5 He characterised the Mongol campaigns as the greatest of human disasters. Chinggis Khan was worse than Nebuchadnezzar and the Antichrist, since they chose their victims, while Chinggis killed everyone, even splitting the bellies of pregnant women to kill the foetuses.6 The second work I examine is the Ṭabaqāt-i Nāṣirī, written about 1260 by Minhāj al-­Dīn ‘Uthmān Jūzjānī (c. 589/1193-­after 664/1265), a scholar serving the Delhi Sultans, to whom the Mongols posed a continuous threat. Jūzjānī was himself a refugee from the Mongol conquest; he originated in the region of Ghūr and spent his early life in the service of its local rulers, leaving only a few years after Chinggis Khan’s conquests. He and his brother were both eyewitnesses to the Mongol siege of fortresses within Ghūr.7 Jūzjānī is much more   5. Ibn al-­Athīr, Chronicle 1, ‘Introduction’, pp. 1–4.   6. Ibn al-­Athīr, Chornicle 3, p. 202.   7. A. S. Bazmee Ansari, ‘al-­Djūzdjānī,’ EI2; Minhāj al-­Dīn ‘Umar Jūzjānī, T̤abaḳāt-i-Nāṣirī:

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knowledgeable about the Mongols than Ibn al-­Athīr, and distinguishes among individuals and periods; Ögedei is praised as a just ruler and a friend to Muslims. On Chinggis Khan himself and on the conquest, Jūzjānī is uniformly negative. Chinggis Khan is ‘the accursed’, and the author prays for the extermination of the infidel horde.8 Despite his general interest in the Mongols, in his description of the conquest Jūzjānī focuses most of his attention on Ghūristān, the area of greatest interest to the Delhi sultans. Bukhāra, Samarqand and the great cities of Khurāsān receive brief mention, while attacks on the forts of Ghūr are discussed in considerable detail. However, the emphasis is on the defenders and their actions; only in one or two cases does he describe Mongol actions after the surrender of a fortress. The famous historian Juwaynī began his history in 1252, shortly after the accession of the great Khān Möngke, and he finished it in 1260 after the conquest of Iran by Hülegü Khān. He came from a bureaucratic family of long standing; his grandfather had served the Khwārazmshāh, while the author, his father and his brother all worked for the Mongols.9 The livelihood of the Juwaynī family depended on the Mongol state, and it is clear that one theme of the history is the legitimacy of Chinggisid rule. The Mongols are presented as supremely powerful, chosen by God to rule the world and to punish the sinful.10 However, Juwaynī does not hesitate to criticise the behaviour of the Mongols. His central theme is the overwhelming power of the Mongols, but he goes beyond this to describe and to underline acts that are specifically transgressive. Most accounts of the Mongol campaign centre on the conquest of cities, in which the Mongols displayed exceptionally systematic and consistent methodology. Before beginning their attack, they offered cities a choice; they could submit and be spared, or resist and be annihilated. This was not a simple choice, however. Most Islamic cities were divided into two parts: the citadel defended by professional soldiers attached to the regional ruler and the main section of the city, defended by its population under the leadership of the city notables. The A General History of the Muḥammadan Dynasties of Asia, including Hindustan, from a.h. 194 [810 a.d.] t o a.h. 658 [1260 a.d.] and t he Irrupt ion of t he Infidel Mughal s int o Islām, trans. H. G. Raverty (London, 1881), hereon Jūzjānī, T̤abaḳāt-Nāṣirī pp. 1006–7; Jūzjānī, Ṭabaqāt-i-Nāṣirī, ed. ‘Abd al-­Ḥayy Ḥabībī (Kabul, 1343/1964) hereon Jūzjānī, Ṭabaqāt-i-Nāṣirī, 2, p. 113; Peter Jackson, The Delhi Sultanate: A Political and Military History (Cambridge, 1999), pp. 103–6.   8. Jūzjānī, T̤abaḳāt-Nāṣirī, pp. 869, 935, 1008, 1106–10; Jūzjānī, Ṭabaqāt-i-Nāṣirī 2, pp. 90, 97, 114, 151–3.   9. Hashem Rajabzadeh, ‘Jovayni Family’, EIr. 10. David Morgan, ‘Persian Historians and the Mongols’, in Medieval Historical Writing in the Christian and Islamic Worlds, ed. David O. Morgan (London, 1982), pp. 116–17.

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notables often submitted without resistance, but the garrison troops were likely to put up a fight. The Mongols then took the citadel by force and often killed its remaining soldiers. They usually herded the population out of the city, dividing them into categories; young men were taken as levies for the army, a number of women as slaves, and artisans for Mongol workshops. The population was also often taxed, and the city looted while they were absent. Fortifications were systematically destroyed.11 Not all of this was new with the Mongols; at least some looting was often allowed to a victorious army, and among armies in foreign areas, particularly of different religions, massacres were not uncommon.12 The Mongols stood out in their greater brutality, and equally for the exceptional discipline of their troops and the systematic nature of their destruction. The other Mongol departure from the norm was in the monumental punishment of cities that offered determined resistance or rebelled, in which the population was divided up among the Mongol army to be killed, while the city was largely destroyed. I will start my analysis with one of the most famous moments of the ­conquest – ­the taking of Bukhāra, the first of the major Muslim cities that the Mongols attacked. The earliest account of the Mongol conquest of Bukhāra is that of Ibn al-­Athīr, who gives a fuller description of events there than he does for most other cities. The population of the city made terms with the invaders, while a detachment of the Khwārazmshāh’s soldiers resisted the Mongols within the citadel. The Mongols entered the city and did not harm the population, but ordered them to give up their possessions and to fill in the moat around the citadel. The Mongol army also worked at filling the moat, taking minbārs and Qur’ān stands to throw in. After several days, the Mongols took the citadel and killed all within it. The inhabitants were then commanded to leave the city, taking only the clothes they were wearing, and the soldiers plundered the town, killing anyone they found still inside. Those who had left the city were divided up among the soldiers, amidst the weeping of men, women and children. The women were handed over to the soldiers who committed horrid acts with them while people looked on and wept. They tortured inhabitants to extract money. A few people refused to accept the Mongols’ acts and were killed; two examples are given, both of religious figures. Then the army set fire to the city, its madrasas and mosques.13 Jūzjānī’s account of the taking of Bukhāra is more extreme but very terse. He states simply that the Mongols took the city and fortress, expelled all inhabitants – ‘noble and common, ‘ulama’ and sayyids (ashrāf), men and women’, and martyred them, 11. Biran, Chinggis Khan, pp. 57, 60. 12. For contemporary examples of massacres, see Ibn al-­Athīr, Chronicle 3, pp. 240, 258, 270, 283. 13. Ibn al-­Athīr, Chronicles 3, pp. 208–9.

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burned and destroyed the entire city and all the libraries, and took only a few people captive.14 Juwaynī’s description of the taking of Bukhāra has been repeated in every modern account of the conquest. Like Jūzjānī, he begins his account with the submission of the city. Chinggis Khan entered to inspect the town and citadel. He rode into the congregational mosque right up to the maqṣūra, and after learning that this was not the palace, but a place of worship, he mounted the pulpit and ordered that grain be fetched for the horses. The Qur’āns were emptied out in the courtyard and their cases used as mangers. Then, the Mongols began drinking wine and sent for girls to sing and dance for them, singing songs in their own language. While this was going on, the imams, shaykhs, sayyids and scholars were keeping watch over the horses in the stable. After a couple of hours, Chinggis and his following left, trampling the pages of Qur’āns in the dust under their feet and the horses’ hooves. Like many historians, Juwaynī uses religious figures to point out the moral of his story. The chief sayyid of Transoxiana, Jalāl al-­Dīn ‘Alī b. al-­Ḥasan Zaydī, turned to the learned imām Rukn al-­Dīn Imāmzāda, asking, ‘What state is this?’ The Imam replied, ‘Be silent, it is the wind of God’s omnipotence.’15 The next event is Chinggis’s addressing the population from the pulpit of the Muṣalā and stating that he is the Scourge of God, come to punish them for their sins.16 Thus, having deliberately desecrated a place of worship, Chinggis Khan declares the population guilty, and himself an instrument of God. This is a very odd story and it is not clear that we should believe all of it. Ibn al-­Athīr has certainly suggested that mosques may have been despoiled, since he mentions religious objects being used to fill up the moat. The destruction of mosques in the course of conquest is not surprising. However, the deliberate desecration of a place of worship and the pointed humiliation of men of religion does not fit in with the usual behaviour of the Mongols towards the religious establishment.17 Even if the story is true, Juwaynī was under no compulsion to report it, yet he has chosen to do so in detail. Finding that the garrison in the citadel could not be easily defeated, Chinggis ordered the city set on fire and soon most of the town was destroyed. The people

14. Jūzjānī, T̤abakāt-Nāṣirī, p. 978; Jūzjānī, Ṭabaqāt 3, p. 106. 15. ‘Alā’ al-­Dīn ‘Aṭā Mālik Juwaynī [‘Ala’ al-­Din ‘Ata Malik Juwayni], The History of the World Conqueror, trans. J. A. Boyle (Manchester, 1958), hereon Juwaynī History, pp. 103–4; ‘Alā’ al-­Dīn Juwaynī, Tārīkh-i Jahāngushāy (London, 1912) hereon Jūzjānī, Tārīkh, 1, pp. 80–1. 16. Juwaynī, History, p. 105; Juwaynī, Tārīkh 1, pp. 81–2. 17. Peter Jackson, ‘The Mongols and the Faith of the Conquered,’ in Mongols, Turks and Others: Eurasian Nomads and the Sedentary World, ed. Reuven Amitai and Michal Biran (Leiden, 2005), pp. 245–90.

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of Bukhāra were driven against the citadel as the battle raged from both sides. The moat became filled up, partly with living beings and the bodies of Bukhārans and levies, thus making it possible for the Mongols finally to take the citadel despite the heroic resistance of its defenders, now slaughtered to the last man. Children and women were made slaves. The rest of the population was spared but men fit for service were levied for the attack on Samarqand. In his account of the treatment of the general population Juwaynī departs from Jūzjānī and Ibn al-­Athīr both for better and for worse. He states that the Mongols demanded payment from the elite of the town, but where Ibn al-­Athīr suggests that torture was used, Juwaynī reports that the notables were not ill-­treated. While the population was taken out of the city and divided, this was done systematically, and those taken were the able-­bodied men useful for service. The mistreatment and rape of women included in the accounts of Ibn al-­Athīr are not found in Juwaynī.18 One conquest of noted brutality was that of Marw. The city first submitted to the Mongols, but later became a centre of resistance and therefore was subjected to a punitive massacre by Chinggis’s son Tolui, who was sent to attack Khurāsān in 1221. Juwaynī devotes a long chapter to Marw and describes the events leading up to Tolui’s conquest in considerable detail. When the troops of the region had been defeated by the Mongols the town surrendered, and being reassured by the attackers, sent a delegation to Tolui in person. Tolui asked for a list of wealthy people, who were brought and questioned; Juwaynī gives no details, but suggests strong methods. After this, all inhabitants were driven out on to the plain and for four nights and days the exodus continued, while Mongols separated men from women. Juwaynī gives a lament: Alas! How many peri-like ones did they drag from the bosoms of their husbands! How many sisters did they separate from their brothers! How many parents were distraught at the ravishment of their virgin daughters!19

The Mongols ordered the whole of the population killed, with the exception of artisans and a few children they bore off into captivity. The people of the city were divided among the army, with each soldier assigned to kill 300 or 400 people. When the army had finished their task, they moved on, leaving governors in charge. The few survivors had begun to emerge from hiding when a Mongol rear-­guard arrived and wanted their share of slaughter; they ordered each person to bring a skirtful of grain to the plain for their horses, and put 18. Juwaynī, History, pp. 105–9; Juwaynī, Tārīkh 1, pp. 82–5. 19. Juwaynī, History, pp. 161–2; Juwaynī, Tārīkh 1, pp. 126–7. (Here and elsewhere, the translation is Boyle’s.)

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them to death when they arrived. Later, yet another contingent arrived and ‘put balm on their wounds’, killing yet more. A group of notables, including one of the great sayyids of the region, ‘Izz al-­Dīn Naṣṣāba, spent thirteen days counting the dead who were lying in plain sight and came to a figure of more than 1,300,000.20 Two elements of this account are unusual for Juwaynī: the first is the suggestion of deceit on the part of the Mongols, when they reassured the population and then massacred them and later when the population was lured out into the fields and killed. The other is the mention of rape, although we should note that this is mentioned in a lament, not described directly within the narrative. The extraordinarily high figure of dead, however, is typical of Juwaynī’s history. Jūzjānī’s description once again consists of only a few lines, and need not be repeated here. When we turn to the narrative of Ibn al-­Athīr, we find deceit and rape given full play, but the figure for the dead is much lower. According to him, the Mongols sent an envoy to state that they would give safety to the commander of the citadel and reinstate him if he submitted. The commander came and they invested him with a robe of honour, and then asked him to bring his troops before them to be reviewed and granted land for service. When the troops were brought, their hands were tied, they were forced to give a list of wealthy people and artisans, and then, as Tolui sat on a golden throne, he had the soldiers decapitated. After this came the torture of people to extract wealth and the massacre of the entire population. The dead are numbered at 700,000, about half Juwaynī’s figure.21 The differences I have indicated among these accounts are found in several other instances. In both Jūzjānī and Ibn al-­Athīr, rape and mistreatment of women are highlighted, and Jūzjānī, in one of his few substantive descriptions of Mongol actions in defeated cities, repeats a report that after the conquest of Khwārazm the women whom the Mongols did not want to take for themselves were divided into two groups, stripped of their clothes and ordered to fight each other with their fists. Armed Mongol soldiers were stationed around them to keep them from escaping. Elsewhere, Jūzjānī relays a story from northern China of a scene of intense desolation, full of bones and rotting human fat, the remains of thousands of maidens who had thrown themselves from the ramparts to avoid Mongol captivity.22 The three works I have discussed all describe the violence of the Mongol 20. Juwaynī, History, pp. 162–4; Juwaynī, Tārīkh 1, pp. 127–8. 21. Ibn al-­Athīr, Chronicle 3, pp. 226–7. 22. Ibn al-­Athīr, Chronicle 3, pp. 210, 220; Jūzjānī, T̤abaḳāt-Nāṣirī, pp. 965, 1100–1; Jūzjānī, Ṭabaqāt, pp. 102–3, 149–50.

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conquest as overwhelming but they portray it differently, both in style and in kind. Although he conveys the din and confusion of the conquest, Juwaynī shows the Mongols as systematic in both their opening negotiations with cities and in the later destruction. In his accounts, the Mongols begin by offering a choice of submission and safety or resistance and destruction.23 Thus, Mongol violence is selective. Negotiations with cities are less frequently mentioned by Ibn al-­Athīr and Jūzjānī, who generally present Mongol violence as universal and unavoidable. In recounting the treatment of conquered cities, Juwaynī also stresses ­method – ­the division of the population into sections, the selection of craftsmen and military levies for use. In the case of massacres, he sometimes mentions the number of people assigned to each soldier to kill.24 Here again, Jūzjānī and Ibn al-­Athīr present less detail; they may mention the division of men and women or the gathering of levies, but usually the impression they give is of undifferentiated slaughter. In one aspect, Ibn al-­Athīr does suggest planning and system on the part of the Mongols, and that is trickery, not surprising in an inimical historian. We have seen his description of Mongol deceit in the case of Marw, and similar tales also appear in relation to other cities.25 Juwaynī thus presents Mongol atrocities as monumental and transgressive, but likewise as systematic and selective. Inhabitants of cities, towns and forts are given a choice between submission and survival or resistance and annihilation. He does not pretend that submission brought safety and comfort; his description of the extraction of wealth and of permitted looting is not pretty. Although Juwaynī may celebrate Mongol ferocity, he does not suggest that he approves it. When he recounts the Mongol conquest of the great cities of eastern Iran, he evokes sadness and horror and he uses his considerable rhetorical skills to heighten the emotional impact of his tale. His introduction to the account of Tolui’s campaign in ­Khūrāsān – ­Juwaynī’s native ­region – ­is a stark description of ruin: With one stroke a world which billowed with fertility was laid desolate, and the regions thereof became a desert, and the greater part of the living dead, and their skin and bones crumbling dust; and the mighty were humbled and immersed in the calamities of perdition. And though there were a man free from preoccupations, who could devote his whole life to study and research and his 23. See, for example: Juwaynī, History, pp. 99, 101, 117, 129; Juwaynī, Tārīkh 1, pp. 76–8, 92, 102. 24. I have mentioned this above for Marw; in Khwārazm Juwaynī states that each soldier was to kill twenty-­four people. (Juwaynī, History, p. 127; Juwaynī, Tārīkh 1, p. 101.) 25. See, for example, Ibn al-­Athīr, Chronicle 3, pp. 209–10, 216, 222.

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The framing of Juwaynī’s accounts of Mongol attacks on major cities is consistent and telling; most begin with an evocation of a place that used to be flourishing and end with a picture of desolation. We can take the story of Samarqand as an example. The chapter opens in this way: It was the greatest of the countries of the Sultan’s empire in width of territory, the most pleasant of his lands in fertility of soil and, by common consent, the most delectable of the paradises of this world among the four Edens. If it is said that a paradise is to be seen in this world, then the paradise of this world is Samarqand. O thou who comparest the land of Balkh therewith, are colocynth and candy equal to one another?27

He ends the chapter with a description of the desolation of town and citadel and the increasing depopulation due to continued conscription of troops, leading to reflections on deceitful destiny, the trickery and cruelty of the revolving wheel and the need to recognise that this world is transient and metaphorical.28 Clearly one of Juwaynī’s messages is the uselessness of resistance to the overwhelming power of the Mongols. I would argue that there is another ­purpose – ­to present the Mongols as larger than life, placing them outside the usual rules of human conduct. This helps to mark them as instruments of God’s will chosen by God to rule, according to the Qur’ānic statement that God gives sovereignty to whom he chooses and takes it from whomever he chooses (Q 3: 26). Juwaynī goes even beyond this to suggest that the Mongols were sent, 600 years after the Prophet, to upset the current, corrupt balance and usher in a new age: [W]hen one ­considers . . . ­how to-day the waters of prosperity flow in the rivers of their desire and the army of affliction and sorrow has fallen upon the stations and relays of opponents and insurgents, which same were mighty Chosroes and illustrious kings; and in what manner fate has shown herself kind to that people 26. Juwaynī History, p. 152; Juwaynī, Tārīkh 1, p. 118. 27. Juwaynī, History, pp. 115–16; Juwaynī, Tārīkh 1, p. 90. For other examples see Juwaynī, History, pp. 97–8, 123, 153, 169; Juwaynī, Tārīkh 1, pp. 75–6, 96–7, 119, 123. 28. Juwaynī, History, pp. 122–3; Juwaynī, Tārīkh 1, pp. 95–6.

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and how the world was stirred up by them, prisoners becoming princes and princes prisoners.29

The fact that the Mongols transgressed, not only against humanity, but also against Muslim holy places, becomes a proof of their power, favour and exceptionality. If this was Juwaynī’s purpose, it seems to have worked. His descriptions of the conquest are repeated in simpler prose by Rashīd al-­Dīn, whose history was written when the Mongols were Muslim. Like Juwaynī’s history, Rashīd al-­Dīn’s work became enormously popular. By the fourteenth century, Chinggis Khan had entered the world of Persian myth and history as a figure eliciting awe and admiration as well as fear. 30 This attitude was not limited to those loyal to the Mongols. One can see the signs of it even in the inimical Jūzjānī, who is sure that Chinggis Khan has gone to hell, but also recounts his remarkable character and supernatural deeds.31 THE CONQUESTS OF TEMÜR

The violence of Temür’s campaigns is almost uncannily like that of the Mongol conquests, and not by chance. To some extent, Temür’s violence was ­derivative – ­a deliberate echo of Chinggis Khan. For a Turco-­Mongolian ruler of Temür’s time, a connection to the Chinggisid line was an absolute necessity. Temür used the classic strategies of connection through marriage ties and the use of a Chinggisid puppet khān. However, Temur aspired not only to rule but to found a dynasty and to figure in the historical record among the great rulers. He thus went beyond the formal strategies and invoked the person of Chinggis Khan through the imitation of his acts. One of the most striking aspects of this move was a massive increase in selective and extreme violence. Temür showed this particularly in his conquest of cities, patterned on Mongol usage, with a choice given between submission and annihilation and the systematic division of city peoples, separating out artisans and the religious classes.32 Even after voluntary submission, Temür used strong methods on cities to extort wealth but reserved extreme violence for cities that rebelled. Such cities were

29. Juwaynī, History, p. 20. See also pp. 16–19; Juwaynī, Tārīkh 1, p. 15, and pp. 12–14. 30. Biran, Chinggis, pp. 110–24. 31. Jūzjānī, T̤abaḳāt-Nāṣirī, pp. 1077–9; Jūzjānī, Ṭabaqāt 3, pp. 144–5. 32. Beatrice F. Manz, ‘Mongol History, Rewritten and Relived’, in Figures mythiques des mondes musulmans, ed. Denise Aigle, Revue des mondes musulmans et de la Méditerranée 89–90 (2000), 137–41; Sharaf al-­Dīn ‘Alī Yazdī, Ẓafarnāma, ed. Muḥammad ‘Abbāsī, (Tehran, 1336 shamsī/1957) 1, pp. 220–1.

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subjected to general massacres of the population, in which Timurid soldiers, like their Mongol predecessors, were given quotas of people to kill. Religious scholars and craftsmen were shielded from the violence, although they were often deported to serve the Timurids elsewhere. As with the Mongols, such spectacular punishment was used on a relatively small number of cities.33 Temür was a master of display, highly conscious of his image and of his place in history. In architectural and artistic patronage, he is known for his preference for the monumental, 34 and his conquests were likewise organised with spectacle in mind; part of the effect was achieved through size, and part through deliberate and excessive ferocity. His successors refined and embellished his image for their own purposes, presenting him as the founder of an independent and brilliant dynasty. Although Temür’s methods of conquest resembled those of the Mongols, they were carried out under very different circumstances. The Mongols came in as outsiders and conquered a region with which they shared neither history nor religion. Their massacres were extreme, but could be fit within a pattern set on the Christian and Hindu frontiers. Temür, on the other hand, was a Muslim, campaigning largely within Islamic regions. Furthermore, he justified a number of his major campaigns with the claim to be protecting the Shari‘a. His campaign to India was declared a war for the faith.35 The ferocity of his actions could therefore be used against him by his Muslim adversaries, to question his standing as a Muslim ruler. When we compare the accounts of Timurid dynastic historians with those of outside and inimical powers, we see a number of the same themes I have discussed for the Mongol period, but there is an additional defensiveness in the Timurid histories and a need to justify the destruction of great Islamic cities. Despite this concern, Temür continued both to practice and to celebrate violence against city populations and, like Juwaynī, Timurid historians gave destruction a central place in their histories. This did not change under Temür’s successors, and indeed later historians often added new and horrifying detail to earlier accounts.

33. Jean Aubin, ‘Comment Tamerlan prenait les villes’, Studia Islamica 19 (1963), 112–17. Notable examples of punished cities include Herat, Ṭūs, Isfizār, Isfahan and Baghdad. 34. Thomas Lenz and Glenn Lowry, eds, Timur and the Princely Vision: Persian Art and Culture in the Fifteenth Century (Los Angeles, 1989), p. 30; Lisa Golombek, ‘Tamerlane, Scourge of God’, Asian Art (spring 1989), 32–51. 35. Beatrice F. Manz, ‘Tamerlane and the Symbolism of Sovereignty’, Iranian Studies 21.1–2 (1988), 111–12; Michele Bernardini, Mémoire et propagande à l’époque timouride (Paris, 2008), pp. 97–8.

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Unacceptable Violence as Legitimation91 TIMURID HISTORIANS AND OUTSIDE ACCOUNTS

Temür’s desire to justify his conquests in the name of Islam made him vulnerable to outside criticism. His adversaries within the Islamic world had no desire to consider him a guardian of the faith. The Ottoman sultan Bayazid vaunted his superior claim to the title of Ghāzī, and the Mamlūks, who made the protection of religion a cornerstone of their legitimation, proclaimed Temür an unbeliever. Rulers whom he threatened seized on his violence against Muslims and portrayed it as un-­Islamic. The exchange of letters between him and the Mamlūk sultan Barqūq in 796/1394 illustrates the terms of the controversy. Temür sent to Barqūq a letter copied in part from a missive that the Īl-Khān Hülegü had sent to the Mamlūks that displayed Temür’s power and ruthlessness, incidentally recalling his Chinggisid connections: Know ye that we are God’s troops, created of His ire, sent to rule over those deserving of his ­anger – ­we shall neither compassionate those who moan, nor pity the tears of those who groan. For God has torn mercy from our every heart; so alas! alas! For those who did not take our part! And because of us the waste of lands is achieved, children of parents are bereaved, and earth’s ruin is perceived.36

Barqūq turned Temür’s language back against him to show him as Satanic: Your letter gives us ­information . . . ­of the fact that ‘you are created of God’s ire, sent to rule over those deserving of his anger, and that you do not pity those who groan, and have no mercy for the tears of those who moan; that God has torn mercy from your every heart’ – and that is the gravest fault on your part; it is, indeed, a satanic trait, not one which is in sultans innate.37

It was not only rulers who were shocked by Temür’s actions, and there is evidence that rumours circulating especially in the western Islamic regions spread reports of atrocities even greater than those he had committed. Temür was willing neither to give up his theatrical punishments nor to stop publicising

36. Abū al-­Maḥāsin Ibn Taghrībirdī, History of Egypt 1382–1469 a.d., trans. William Popper (Berkeley, 1954), 1, p. 141 (translation Popper’s). See also Broadbridge, Kingship and Ideology, pp. 182–3. 37. Ibn Taghrībirdī, History, 1, pp. 142–3. Qāḍī Burhān al-­Dīn of Sīwās allied with the Mamlūks against Temür, citing his destructiveness, which went against the tenets of Islam. (Broadbridge, Kingship and Ideology, p. 174; ‘Azīz Astarābādī, Bazm wa razm, ed. Kilisli Rifat (Istanbul, 1928), pp. 457–8.)

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them, but it is clear that his reputation as a Muslim mattered.38 A comparison of Timurid and outside sources illustrates the tension between the charismatic power of transgression and the opprobrium due to acts that violated social and religious norms. When we look at the histories, we see that scholars writing for the Mamlūk sultanate and other outside powers describe Temür’s destructive behaviour in stronger language than the Timurid ones, and they differ even more clearly in the type of behaviour they emphasise.39 Like Ibn al-­Athīr and Jūzjānī on the Mongols, outside sources give an important place to deliberate cruelty towards the ­weak – ­women, children and old people. The Timurid sources take care to show that the cities they punished had been given the opportunity to submit and be spared, while the outside sources often suggest that these offers were made in bad faith. As we have seen, histories inimical to the Mongols portrayed them as deceitful. In the case of Temür, accusations of deceit are used on each side against the other. The Timurid historians find it in the actions of rulers and governors whose cities they destroyed, and the Mamlūk historians in the actions of the Timurid army. TIMURID AND OUTSIDE SOURCES

Three Timurid histories have been influential in creating Temür’s historical persona. The first, written near the end of Temür’s career, is the Ẓafarnāma of Niẓām al-­Dīn Shāmī. After Temür’s death, Shāmī’s work was adapted by two other historians, Ḥāfiz-­i Abrū and Sharaf al-­Dīn ‘Alī Yazdī. Since I shall be analysing these historians in relation to each other in a later section, I shall not describe them fully here. We are fortunate also to have a number of sources that preserve contemporary judgements on Temür’s actions from outside his realm. One of these is the Persian history of ‘Azīz b. Ardashīr Astarābādī, Bazm wa Razm, which was written in 800/1397–8 for the ruler of Siwas, Qāḍī Burhān al-­Dīn, a Mamlūk ally and staunch opponent of Temür.40 There are likewise a few accounts by Europeans living or travelling in the region during Temür’s life.

38. Broadbridge, Kingship and Ideology, pp. 189, 191. 39. I have not attempted a systematic analysis of Mamlūk sources, and have limited myself to two sources available in translation: Ibn ‘Arabshāh and Ibn Taghribīrdī. For Damascus, I have also used the useful summary of source information provided by Walter J. Fischel in his book, Ibn Khaldun and Tamerlane: Their Historic Meeting in Damascus, 1401 a.d. (803 a.h.): A St udy Based on Arabic Manuscript s of Ibn Khal dūn’s ‘Aut obiography,’ with a Translation into English, and a Commentary (Berkeley, 1952). 40. Yuri Bregel, C. A. Storey, Persidskaia literatura: bio-bibliograficheskiĭ obzor (Moscow, 1972), 2, p. 1253; Bernardini, Mémoire, pp. 80–1.

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What makes the European works particularly valuable is the fact that they are independent both of each other and of the Arab and Persian histories. Unlike the dynastic historians, these men had no access to formal documents or historical sources; what they report therefore is what was being said about Temür towards the end of his career.41 One of these works is a report of Tamerlane’s conquest of Syria by the Italian merchant Mignanelli, who lived in Damascus both before and after Temür’s conquest, which he did not witness personally. We also have the memoirs of the Bavarian soldier Johannes Schiltberger, who was captured by the Ottomans probably at the Battle of Nicopolis in 1396 and served in the armies of several rulers in Anatolia, Azarbaijan and Syria before escaping and returning to Germany in 1427. Finally, there is an account of Temür’s character and career by the French Domincan Jean, archbishop of Sulṭāniyya, who was briefly in Temür’s retinue in the winter of 1401–2 and wrote his work in 1403. Despite the separate origins and divergent experiences of their authors, their accounts share several stories; these must therefore have circulated widely and may have been known to Temür and his historians. For the Mamlūk record of Temür’s career I have also used two somewhat later works available in translation, by the scholars Ibn ‘Arabshāh and Ibn Taghrībirdī. The longest account, if not the most informative, is Ibn ‘Arabshāh’s defamatory biography, the ‘Ajā’ib al-maqdūr fī nawā’ib Tīmūr, written in the 830s/1426–36. Ibn ‘Arabshāh was captured at the age of eleven at Temür’s conquest of Damascus. He was taken to Samarqand and remained in the region until 811/1408–9, and then spent some years in the Golden Horde and the Ottoman realms, and moved to the Mamlūk Sultanate in about 1421. It was here that he wrote his scholarly works.42 Ibn ‘Arabshāh was best known for his mastery of ­rhetoric – ­fully on display in his h­ istory – ­and his work gives us considerable insight into what actions may be considered most blameworthy and damaging to Temür’s memory. The other history I have used is that of Abū al-­Maḥāsin Ibn Taghrībirdī, who began his chronicle al-Nujūm al-zāhira fī mulūk Miṣr wa-l-Qāhira in the 1440s; this is a history of Egypt and Syria from the Islamic conquest.43 Ibn Taghrībirdī

41. Beatrice F. Manz, ‘Johannes Schiltberger and Other Outside Sources on the Timurids’, in España y el Oriente islámico entre los siglos XV y XVI: Imperio Otomano, Persia y Asia central: actas del congreso Università degli Studi di Napoli ‘l’Orientale’ Nápoles 30 de septiembre – 2 de octubre de 2004, eds Pablo Martín Asuero and Michele Bernardini (Istanbul, 2007), pp. 53–62. 42. Robert D. McChesney, ‘A Note on the Life and Works of Ibn ‘Arabshāh’, in History and Historiography of Post-Mongol Central Asia and the Middle East: Studies in Honor of John E. Woods, eds Judith Pfeiffer and Sholeh Quinn (Wiesbaden, 2006) pp. 205–49. 43. W. Popper, ‘Abu ’l-­Maḥāsin Djamāl al-­Dīn Yūsuf b. Taghrībirdī’, EI2.

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includes considerable information on Temür, focusing largely on his Syrian campaigns but also covering the conquest of Baghdad. This is a history based on earlier chronicles and documentary evidence, presenting a sober and standard account of Temür’s conquests of the Syrian cities. It is clear from both Timurid and outside sources that the destruction of the great historical cities of Damascus and Baghdad in 1400–1 was an act that required justification. The Timurid histories show defensiveness and an eagerness to disclaim full responsibility for events. The destruction of Baghdad could be explained by its rebellion against Temür because it had been several years under Timurid rule but then had returned its allegiance to its former ruler, now under Mamlūk protection. On the other hand, Baghdad had a special place as the former seat of the caliphate. The Timurid histories report that Temür hesitated to destroy the city and when he arrived he offered its commander, Faraj, the chance to submit. Faraj is represented as a deceitful upstart. He had received orders to give up the city to the Timurid army only if Temür was personally present but when Temür himself came to invest the city, Faraj refused to accept his identity. A trustworthy man who had seen Temür himself was sent out as envoy and well received by Temür, but on his return Faraj still denied the truth and put the envoy in captivity. Even so, Temür held back for some time from a complete assault, saying that the population should have time to repent and that he did not want to destroy a city like Baghdad.44 Not surprisingly, Ibn ‘Arabshāh presents events quite differently, suggesting that Temür deliberately brought a small army to Baghdad to deceive Faraj into believing that he was not personally present.45 Temür’s treatment of Damascus was exceptionally brutal for a city that had not actually rebelled. The Timurid histories bring up two Mamlūk actions that could serve to justify Temür’s behaviour. They state that in the guise of envoys, the Mamlūk sultan had sent fidā’īs with poisoned daggers to attack Temür during their audience but due to God’s protection the plot was discovered. Later, after a battle of the advance guard, the two armies came to terms but when Temür decided to move his army to better pastures on the other side of the city the forces in the city took the opportunity to mount a surprise attack, hoping to catch the army in disarray.46 Both the Mamlūk sources and the merchant Mignanelli find

44. Niẓām al-­Dīn Shāmī, Histoire des conquêtes de Tamerlan intitulée Ẓafarnāma par Niẓām al-Dīn Šāmī, ed. Felix Tauer (Prague, 1937), 1, pp. 239–40; 2, p. 166; Yazdī, Ẓafarnāma, 2, pp. 259–63. 45. Aḥmad b. Muḥammad Ibn ‘Arabshāh, Tamerlane or Timur the Great Amir, trans. J. H. Sanders (London, 1936), p. 167. Ibn Taghrībirdī suggests that Temür’s attack on Baghdad was a surprise move (Ibn Taghrībirdī, History 2, p. 60). 46. Shāmī, Histoire 1, pp. 230–2; Yazdī, Ẓafarnāma 2, p. 230.

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deceit on the other side, showing Temür as promising safety to the Damascus notables on the payment of a city ransom, but then repeatedly increasing his demands to sums quite impossible for the city to pay. The result in Damascus, as in other cities, was extortion through torture.47 During the siege, Damascus caught fire and a considerable portion of the city was destroyed, including parts of the Umayyad Mosque. It appears that rumours at the time portrayed this as a deliberate act by Temür or by his army. Many Mamlūk historians present the fire in the city as deliberate, and Ibn ‘Arabshāh ascribes the burning of the mosque to the Shī‘ites within Temür’s army.48 Both Schiltberger and Jean of Sultaniyya relay a story that probably circulated orally. In their account Temür told the religious scholars of the city to take refuge in the Umayyad Mosque, and then set it on fire.49 This act of trickery is not reported in the formal Arabic sources as far as I know, and it seems an unlikely tale, given Temür’s care to spare religious classes. It is interesting that a similar story appears in Mignanelli’s account applied not to Damascus, but to the Jews and the synagogue in Aleppo.50 It seems probable that the reaction to the burning of Damascus and the stories told about it were known at the Timurid court, and that they were considered damaging. Although Timurid historians usually describe the destruction of cities as purposeful, they are at pains to explain that the fire in Damascus broke out by accident. Niẓām al-­Dīn Shāmī, who wrote during Temür’s lifetime, states that Temür, not wanting the Umayyad mosque to be damaged, had appointed people to guard it. However suddenly and without warning fire spread to the city. This, he explains, was not an uncommon occurrence since the upper stories of most buildings in Damascus were made of wood. Usually the people of the city were able to extinguish fires but at this moment of crisis they could not organise to do so.51 Sharaf al-­Dīn ‘Alī Yazdī adds more detail to the story, explaining that one of Temür’s most prestigious emirs, Shāhmalik, was assigned to protect the mosque but because its roof was wood encrusted with ­lead – ­and because God sent the sparks of his wrath on the ­region – ­the fire 47. Fischel, Ibn Khaldun and Tamerlane, pp. 92–6; Walter J. Fischel, ‘A New Latin Source on Tamerlane’s Conquest of Damascus (1400–1401)’, Oriens 9 (1956), 219–24. 48. Ibn ‘Arabshāh, Tamerlane, p. 158; Fischel, Ibn Khaldun and Tamerlane, pp. 96–7. 49. Jean of Sultaniyya, ‘Mémoire sur Tamerlan et sa cour par un Dominicain, en 1403’, ed. H. Moranvillé, Bibliotèque de l’École des Chartes 55 (1984), pp. 455–6; Manz, ‘Johannes Schiltberger’, p. 59. 50. Mignanelli, ‘A New Latin Source’, pp. 14–15. 51. Shāmī, Histoire 1, p. 236. The fire in Delhi after its submission is also described as an accident, although in that case it was due to Timurid soldiers disobeying orders. (Shāmī, Histoire 1, pp. 192–3.)

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reached the mosque. The hand of God is further shown by the fact that although the stone segment of the mosque was destroyed by fire, the Mīnār ‘Ārūs, on which Christ will land at his second coming, survived despite being built of wood and plaster.52 According to the Timurid account, at the end Temür took pity on the population of Damascus, who were collected outside on the plains. The army was forbidden to harm them and they were returned to the city; craftsmen and ‘ulamā’ as usual were transported to Temür’s dominions.53 Here the Timurid histories differ from Ibn Taghrībirdī, who states that the only people left in Damascus on Temür’s departure were small children; all others had been killed or taken prisoner.54 While the Timurid histories attempt to justify the destruction of certain cities, they do not attempt to deny or downplay it. On other aspects of violence, particularly the treatment of women and children, they differ more from outside authors. Violence towards these two groups was a common theme among inimical writers. Ibn ‘Arabshāh includes such acts in a rhetorical introduction to his account of Temür’s punishment of Isfahan: Satan puffed up his [Temür’s] nostrils and he forthwith moved his camp and drew the sword of his wrath and took arrows from the quiver of his tyranny and advanced to the city, roaring, overthrowing, like a dog or lion or leopard; and when he came in sight of the city he ordered bloodshed and sacrilege, slaughter and plunder, devastation, burning of crops, women’s breasts to be cut off, infants to be destroyed, bodies dismembered, honour to be insulted, dependants to be betrayed and abandoned.55

Describing Temür’s campaign in Syria, Ibn Taghrībīrdī gives prominence to the mistreatment of women, writing that Temür’s army would seize women everywhere and rape them in public, in the mosques and in front of their husbands and families; this occurred also while the ransom money was being extorted by force. Astarābādī includes the dishonouring of women in his description of the Baghdad conquest.56

52. Yazdī, Ẓafarnāma 2, p. 246. 53. Shāmī, Histoire 1, p. 237; Yazdī, Ẓafarnāma 2, p. 246. 54. Ibn Taghrībirdī, History 2, pp. 50–1. 55. Ibn ‘Arabshāh, Tamerlane, p. 45. 56. Ibn Taghrībirdī, History 2, pp. 38–9, 50; Astarābādī, Bazm wa Razm, p. 19. One should note that the description of public rapes is strikingly similar in unfriendly accounts of Mongol and Timurid campaigns; there is no reason to believe that rapes did not occur, but the description may well be a trope.

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Violence towards children was another accusation levelled against Temür by his detractors. The only detailed anecdote that Ibn ‘Arabshāh provides in his description of the conquest of Isfahan is about children. An emir in Temür’s army was asked by the Isfahanis to show mercy and advised them to take some infants up to the hill in the hope that Temür when he passed would be softened by the sight of them. Later riding past this hill, the emir brought Temür’s attention to the children, calling on him for pity. Instead, Temür spurred his horse towards the children with the army following him, and all were trampled underfoot.57 It seems likely that this was a story current at the time among Temür’s western neighbours, since it is also found in Schiltberger’s memoirs, written before Ibn ‘Arabshāh’s biography and based largely on hearsay.58 There is also an account of Temür’s soldiers purposely riding over children in a local history describing a massacre in Sistan, and a report of a massacre of children in an Armenian chronicle.59 When accounts of killing of children are found in the Timurid sources on the other hand they are presented as part of general carnage and confusion, either in the attack on the city, or during the frenzy of a punitive massacre.60 The treatment of violence towards women is similar. Although the Timurid sources give less prominence to the rape and killing of women than do Ibn ‘Arabshāh and Ibn Taghrībirdī, they do not entirely omit it. In retailing the horror of punishment meted out to rebellious cities, the treatment of women is sometimes included. Ḥāfiz-­i Abrū, describing punishment of Ṭūs, the destruction of Khwārasm in 790/1388 and the pillage of Aleppo, includes the armies’ actions against women.61 When it comes to other forms of cruelty, however, the Timurid sources are much less embarrassed. We see this particularly in the construction of minarets out of severed heads, which seems to have come into its own during this period and that the Timurid histories report in detail. As far as we know, this practice was not part of the Mongol massacres, but it was known to the Timurids from the Kartid Dynasty of Herat, who created minarets out of the heads of defeated nomads of the Ulus Chaghatay in 1340s. Temür’s son Amīrānshāh, governor of Khurāsān, copied the practice after putting down a rebellion in Herat in 784/1383, presumably as an answer to the Kartid’s earlier action against his people. The display was immediately repeated and became a hallmark of Timurid punishments. On some occasions, extra touches were added to enhance the effect. In 57. Ibn ‘Arabshāh, Tamerlane, pp. 45–6. 58. Manz, ‘Johannes Schiltberger:’ pp. 57, 59. 59. Aubin, ‘Comment’, p. 117. 60. Aubin, ‘Comment’, pp. 116–17. 61. Aubin, ‘Comment’, pp. 107, 166; Shāmī, Histoire 2, pp. 67–8, 87, 160.

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rebellious Isfarā’īn, the towers were built not just of heads but of living people encased in clay, while in Aleppo, heads were positioned to face outwards so that the eyes could be seen. As they decomposed they glowed at night.62 We see then that Timurid and outside sources both emphasise the violence and the horror of Temür’s conquests. To both, the Timurid army, when unloosed, could be a force of wanton destructiveness. The difference between them lies in what is considered systematic and what was contingent. For the Timurid sources destruction was the result of misbehaviour on the part of cities attacked, or at least of their rulers. Temür held a fund of violence within himself and in his army, but would not unleash it without justification. Once the process began, excess and transgression were part of ­it – ­the countryside would be pillaged, people would be trampled under the feet of advancing cavalry, the city would be looted and, if a city was rebellious, its population and buildings destroyed. Only the religious classes were exempt. In describing these events, the later sources in particular sometimes include women, children and the aged among the victims; their sufferings serve to emphasise the inescapable and inexorable punishment of those who resisted the great conqueror. The fires of Damascus and Delhi are shown as accidents, but still as illustrations of the grandiosity of Temür’s career. THE MEMORY OF TEMÜR’S CONQUESTS

The rulers and bureaucrats of the medieval Middle East, both Turk and Tajik, had a strong historical consciousness; they viewed their own actions both in relation to earlier dynasties and in light of how they would be viewed by the generations that followed them. While he was alive Temür commissioned several histories of his reign and after his death the memorialisation of his life immediately became a concern for his successors. There was a need both to possess the figure of Temür and to shape it to fit new needs. The more formal aspects of Temür’s Chinggisid legitimacy were played down, while the exceptionality of his personality was emphasised.63 Temür’s son and successor Shāhrukh was a person of great personal piety who proclaimed the primacy of the Shari‘a and presided over a period of exceptional peace and prosperity within Iran. One may therefore expect an attempt to downplay the recent slaughter of fellow Muslims. That did not happen. Shāhrukh continued to glorify the person of his father, and the works written during his reign give even greater attention to the violence of Temür’s conquests than the histories written during his lifetime. Where acts of 62. Aubin, ‘Comment’, pp. 118–19, 91; Yazdī, Ẓafarnāma 2, p. 263. 63. Beatrice F. Manz, ‘Tamerlane’s Career and Its Uses’, Journal of World History 13.1 (2002), 6–7.

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carnage were not fully described in the earlier history, they are often filled out in the later ones. We will compare three Timurid histories here. The first surviving account of Temür’s career is that of Niẓām al-­Dīn Shāmī, a scholar probably of Azarbaijani origin who came into Temür’s service on his conquest of Aleppo in 1401 and seems to have been present on subsequent campaigns. At Temür’s explicit request he wrote a relatively brief history in an unadorned style, which he completed in 806/1404.64 Shāmī’s work formed the basis for two major works written independently of each other during the reign of Shāhrukh. The Majma‘ al-tawārīkh of Ḥāfiẓ-­i Abrū was written for Shāhrukh in 1427. Ḥāfiẓ-­i Abrū was a bureaucrat scholar from eastern Iran who served first Temür and then Shāhrūkh. His account of Temür’s life was part of a general history in which he incorporated Shāmī’s work with interpolations of his own.65 The most popular work of the period was the Ẓafarnāma of Sharaf al-­Dīn ‘Alī Yazdī, written for Temür’s grandson Ibrāhīm Sulṭān, governor of Fars in the 1420s to 1430s.66 Yazdī was a scholar, philosopher and poet of great renown, who wrote his history in an elaborate literary style reminiscent of Juwaynī. Both Yazdī’s and Ḥāfiẓ-­i Abrū’s works include a programme of legitimation for the Timurid Dynasty, presenting a genealogical myth connecting Temür’s ancestors with service to the house of Chinggis Khan and containing a new emphasis on Tamerlane as a dynastic founder in his own right. The latter theme is particularly strong in Yazdī’s work. Here we find the beginning of stories of Temür’s childhood, showing signs of his future destiny.67 Yazdī presents Temür as a ruler connected with the divine, whose actions are clearly backed by the will of God.68 We have seen this earlier in his description of the burning of Damascus. In the two later histories, especially that of Yazdī, Temür emerges as a figure larger than life. When they fill out the narrative of Shāmī’s history, they add detail to Shāmī’s laconic account, and among other things complete the description of the punishments Temür meted out to the cities that opposed him. In several narratives, Ḥāfiẓ-­i Abrū adds descriptions of the mistreatment of women and children to Shāmī’s earlier account.69

64. John E. Woods, ‘The Rise of Tīmūrid Historiography’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 46 (1987), 83–7. 65. Woods, ‘The Rise’, pp. 86, 97. 66. Ilker Evrim Binbaş, ‘The Histories of Sharaf al-­Dīn ‘Alī Yazdī: A Formal Analysis’, Acta Orientalia 16.4 (2012), 412–13. 67. Manz, ‘Tamerlane’s Career’, p. 7. 68. Binbaş, ‘Histories’, p. 414. 69. See footnote 62 above.

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An early example of this tendency is the account of the conquest of Urgench in 781/1379. The description of destruction in Shāmī’s Ẓafarnāma is brief and limited to standard language; Temür’s army pillaged the countryside before attacking the city, gathering horses and sheep. Shāmī states simply that after taking the city Temür’s army plundered the citadel, took prisoners and destroyed the area; this language could have been used to described almost any city conquest.70 Ḥāfiẓ-­i Abrū repeats most of Shāmī’s text verbatim but adds a passage at the end describing the politics within Urgench and the deportation of scholars and craftsmen to Temür’s birthplace at Kish.71 Yazdī adds considerably to Shāmī’s text and dwells more on the destruction of the city. In describing the pillage of the countryside, he adds women to the booty taken. The city was levelled as if by an earthquake and opened to looting. Several lines of poetry are inserted to describe the destruction, and Yazdī then goes on to recount the gathering and deportation of scholars and craftsmen.72 Thus, in the later histories, the generic description of a city taken by siege becomes a scene reminiscent of the Mongol conquest. There is a similar change in the account of the conquest and punishment of Baghdad in 803/1401. Here Shāmī’s description of the carnage is quite harrowing, but he leaves out one aspect of it: building minarets of heads. In Yazdī’s later account, the minarets are described, with their function as warning to potential miscreants.73 The story of Ṭūs, which suffered a spectacular punishment in 791/1388, is omitted from Shāmī’s account, mentioned in passing by Yazdī and given a full account in Ḥāfiẓ-­i Abrū’s history.74 One major event described in the three Timurid histories is the punishment of the city of Isfahan. Isfahan, always contentious, was taken in 789/1387 and after an uprising against the soldiers sent to collect payment it became the site of one of Temür’s most spectacular massacres. This is recounted in a few strong lines by Shāmī, who reports that Temür ordered the population killed and that 70,000 heads were gathered together outside the city; the scene resembled the Day of Judgement.75 In his account, Ḥāfiẓ-­i Abrū adds a personal element to the story. He was present at the city and with a religious scholar he went along half of Isfahan’s wall on the outside, where heads had been formed into minarets. On that one side they counted twenty-­eight towers, estimating that each was made

70. Shāmī, Histoire 1, pp. 80–1. 71. Shāmī, Histoire 1, p. 44. 72. Yazdī, Ẓafarnāma 1, pp. 216, 220–1. 73. Shāmī, Histoire 1, pp. 239–42; Yazdī, Ẓafarnāma 2, p. 265. 74. Shāmī, Histoire 2, pp. 75–93; Yazdī, Ẓafarnāma 1, p. 337. The difference between Ḥāfiẓ-­i Abrū and Yazdī here may be due to the former’s specialized knowledge of Khurāsān. 75. Shāmī, Histoire 1, p. 105.

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up of approximately 1,500 heads. There were similar minarets on the other side of the city, suggesting a total of more than 80,000 dead.76 Yazdī’s account is the longest and most vivid. He describes the uprising, stating that about 3,000 of Temür’s people were killed by the Iṣfahānī insurgents. Temür’s world-­burning wrath flared up, he retook the city, arranged for the protection of men of religion along with those who had not participated in the uprising and ordered a general massacre. Each troop contingent was assigned a number of heads. It was reported that some soldiers who did not want to kill for themselves bought heads from other soldiers and handed them in. At the beginning a head cost twenty kepekī dinars but at the end when everyone had handed in his assigned share the price had dropped to a half dinar, no-­one was buying and the soldiers were killing everyone they found. A number of people who had managed to escape the slaughter decided to flee during the night. As fate decreed, snow had fallen and their footprints remained, so the next day the avengers found their hiding places, brought them out and killed them. A Qur’ānic quotation makes the moral clear: ‘So that God could accomplish what he had decreed’ (Q 42:44, referring to the Battle of Badr).77 In all three of these histories the slaughter in Isfahan is described both as horrible and as the will of God. What the two later histories add is the details that make it emerge as a real event. In Yazdī particularly we are given a sense both of the army as actors and of the victims as people, thus heightening the sense of the ruthlessness of Temür’s orders. We should remember that this was an act committed by Muslims against Muslims and written for an audience close culturally and politically to the victims. CONCLUSION

The historians I have examined most closely ­here – ­Juwaynī, Sharaf al-­Dīn ‘Alī Yazdī and Ḥāfiẓ-­i Abrū, composed their works for second- or third-­generation rulers. One goal of these histories was to present their ­subject – ­whether Chinggis Khan or ­Tamerlane – a­ s the founder of a legitimate dynasty within the Islamic world. In doing so the historians chose to describe the horrors of conquest in vivid detail. As I have shown, the authors themselves showed distress at the actions they described, many of which clearly violated the ethics of the Perso-­Islamic society for whom they wrote. Nonetheless, their histories helped to establish Chinggis Khan and Tamerlane as rulers of enormous prestige. The nastiness, the excess and the blameworthy conduct are part of what makes these figures worthy of fame

76. Shāmī, Histoire 2, pp. 61–2. 77. Yazdī, Ẓafarnāma 1, pp. 312–14.

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greater than that of more ordinary mortals. Destructiveness is the obverse side of constructive ­abilities – ­the rise and organisation of the Mongols under Chinggis Khan, the power of his sons, the order and magnificence of Temür’s realm, all likewise described by their historians. Juwaynī makes the balance explicit: [T]hat He should prepare a certain person, and make his nature the receptacle of all kind of dominion, and impetuosity, and transgression, and vengeance, and then by means of praiseworthy qualities and laudable properties bring it into a position of equilibrium.78

As scholars have pointed out, one purpose of describing the full destructive force of Chinggis Khan and Tamerlane was to present them as the Scourge of God.79 Juwaynī describes Chinggis proclaiming this at the Muṣalā outside Bukhāra, and Mignanelli quotes Temür making the same claim at Damascus.80 Yazdī frequently invokes God’s will when describing the destruction of cities. The inimical historians also view the Mongol and Timurid conquests as God’s will; there was no other way to explain events of such magnitude, reminiscent of the Day of Judgement.81 However, the success of Chinggis Khan and Tamerlane showed them as more than instruments of God; in both the Islamic and Turco-­ Mongolian traditions such success indicated that these men were chosen by God to rule.82 Both conquerors stressed their connection to the supernatural. Temür could not claim sovereign power or use the titles attached to it, but he did claim the epithet ṣāḥib-qirān, Lord of the Fortunate Conjunction, and asserted that he communicated with God through an angel.83 The extent of the devastation these men caused could be seen as a measure of their ­power – ­a power granted them by God. We can see the same tendency in the proofs often given to show the divinely assisted power of Sufi shaykhs, whose miracles include the destruction of their enemies.84 78. Juwaynī, History, p. 19; Juwaynī, Tārīkh 1, p. 13. Here the translation is mine; I want to thank Wheeler Thackston for his help. 79. Golombek, ‘Tamerlane’, pp. 31–2. 80. Mignanelli, ‘A New Latin Source’, p. 227. 81. See, for example, Ibn al-­Athīr, Chronicles 1, pp. 204, 208, 307; Ibn ‘Arabshāh, Tamerlane, p. 157; Mignanelli, ‘A New Latin Source’, pp. 225–6. 82. In the correspondence between Temür and Barqūq, both leaders invoked the principle that God gave success and rule to those he favoured. (Ibn Taghrībirdī, History 1, pp. 141–2.) 83. Biran, Chinggis, p. 45; Bernardini, ‘Mémoire’, pp. 53–6; Jean of Sultaniyya, ‘Mémoire’, p. 447. 84. See, for example, Simon Digby, ‘The Sufi Shaikh as a Source of Authority in Medieval India’, in Islam and Society in South Asia, ed. Marc Gaborieau (Paris, 1986), pp. 57–77.

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The authority of destructive power should not be understood as something culturally specific; scriptures and myths of many cultures are full of illustrations of the punishing might of God or gods. Transgression and threat could likewise enhance the stature of exceptional humans; the great heroes of Greek literature, for instance, were associated with extraordinary courage and strength, but also with danger to others, with anger, with wind, fire and destruction.85 In the modern world, the figures of both Hitler and Stalin continue to fascinate and to attract followers. Perhaps, therefore, we should not be surprised that the appalling acts of Chinggis Khan and Tamerlane should have placed them into the pantheon of great historical rulers, promoting acceptance of their rule and that of their descendants.

85. Gregory Nagy, The Best of the Achaeans: Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek Poetry (Baltimore, 1999), pp. 317–47.

PART II

. . .

VIOLENCE IN RELIGIOUS THOUGHT

Chapter

6 reconciling Ibn Taymiyya’s Legitimisation of Violence with His Vision of Universal Salvation

Jon Hoover*

INTRODUCTION

Ibn Taymiyya is notorious as the ‘spiritual father of Modern Muslim terrorism’.1 This reputation derives from the fact that some modern Muslim perpetrators of violence, most famously the assassins of Egyptian President Anwār al-­Sādāt in 1981 and more recently Usāma b. Lādin (Osama Bin Laden), have appealed to Ibn Taymiyya’s anti-­Mongol fatwās to justify their acts.2 These fatwās advocated jihād against the Mongols who invaded Syria at the turn of the fourteenth century. Although the Mongols had recently converted to Islam, Ibn Taymiyya deemed them beyond the pale of true religion and maintained that they thus had to be fought.3 It is not clear that Sadat’s assassins and their ilk can reasonably turn to Ibn Taymiyya to support attacks against their own governments. Ibn Taymiyya was hardly a revolutionary, and he never rebelled against his own Mamlūk rulers. Moreover, it has been argued that even though he did justify   * University of Nottingham, UK.   1. Johannes J. G. Jansen, ‘Ibn Taymiyyah and the Thirteenth Century: A Formative Period of Modern Muslim Radicalism’, Quaderni di Studi Arabi 5–6 (1987–8), pp. 391–6, 393.   2. Johannes Jansen, The Neglected Duty: The Creed of Sadat’s Assassins and Islamic Resurgence in the Middle East (New York, 1986); Rosalind W. Gwynne, ‘Usama bin Ladin, the Qur’an and Jihad’, Religion 36 (2006), 61–90; and Osama Bin Laden, Messages to the World: The Statements of Osama Bin Laden, ed. Bruce Lawrence and trans. James Howarth (London, 2005), see index for Ibn Taymiyya.   3. Denise Aigle, ‘The Mongol Invasions of Bilād Al-­Shām by Ghāzān Khān and Ibn Taymīyah’s Three “Anti-­Mongol” Fatwas’, Mamlūk Studies Review 11.2 (2007), pp. 89–120.

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violence against open and inveterate deviants, he was generally forbearing with the sins of the morally lax and religiously ill-­informed and he wrote his anti-­ Mongol fatwās merely to mobilise Syrians against a foreign invader.4 Be that as it may, what appears to make best sense of Ibn Taymiyya’s thought on violence is a distinction between political and theological conflict. He completely rejected involvement in political violence. Muslims should not engage in armed rebellions because their benefits never outweigh their harm, and they should not support rulers in quelling rebellions either. Only theological rebellion and religious error should be opposed with force.5 So, in addition to his anti-­Mongol fatwās, Ibn Taymiyya wrote fatwās declaring the Nuṣayrīs of Syria the worst of heretics and apostates to support the squashing of Nuṣayrī resistance in Syria,6 and he was especially rigorous in prescribing the death penalty for grievous religious offences. A Muslim who deifies a human being, prays to the dead or gives saints priority over the Prophet Muḥammad and refuses to repent should be beheaded,7 and ­anyone – ­Muslim or non-­Muslim – ­who curses the Prophet Muḥammad should be killed without further recourse.8 Alongside Ibn Taymiyya’s reputation for justifying religious violence, recent research has made apparent that he also set forth arguments for universal salvation. The mainstream view of his day was that Muslims would attain Paradise, perhaps after some time in Hell-­Fire to expiate their sins, while unbelievers would spend eternity in the Fire as just retribution for their unbelief. Against this, Ibn Taymiyya argued that God’s mercy would overtake God’s justice such that chastisement in the Fire would eventually come to an end for all human beings. Unbelievers and polytheists would certainly spend some time in the Fire, but even they would eventually enter Paradise. Ibn Taymiyya’s foremost student Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya expanded these arguments, and in more recent times the prominent Qatari-­based scholar Yūsuf al-­Qaraḍāwī has endorsed them.9

  4. Yahya Michot, Ibn Taymiyya: Muslims under Non-Muslim Rule (Oxford, 2006), pp. 45–58; and Yahya Michot, Ibn Taymiyya: Against Extremisms (Beirut, 2012), pp. 47–50.   5. Khaled Abou El Fadl, Rebellion and Violence in Islamic Law (Cambridge, 2001), pp. 271–9.   6. Yaron Friedman, ‘Ibn Taymiyya’s Fatāwā against the Nuṣayrī-­‘Alawī Sect’, Der Islam 82.2 (2005), 349–63.   7. Michot, Ibn Taymiyya: Against Extremisms, p. 30.   8. Yohanan Friedmann, Tolerance and Coercion in Islam. Interfaith Relations in the Muslim Tradition (Cambridge, 2003), pp. 149–52.   9. Mohammad Hassan Khalil, Islam and the Fate of Others: The Salvation Question (Oxford and New York, 2012), pp. 74–102 (on Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-­Qayyim); Jon Hoover, ‘Islamic Universalism: Ibn Qayyim Al-­Jawziyya’s Salafī Deliberations on the

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To modern ears the combination of Ibn Taymiyya’s legitimisation of violence against heretics and his vision of universal salvation often appears incongruous. Take, for example, a 2008 opinion piece in the American online magazine Religion Dispatches by the progressive Muslim writer Svend White. White’s main purpose in writing is to criticise dispensationalist currents in American Christian eschatology. However, he also observes along the way that while most Muslim scholars have held that unbelievers will suffer punishment eternally in Hell, a few have argued against this view from the Qur’ān and the Ḥadīth. Among these few scholars, White notes, Ibn Taymiyya was perhaps the most famous. White continues that Ibn Taymiyya’s belief in universal salvation is ‘an ironic fact, given the role played by other aspects of his thought in inspiring modern extremist movements not exactly known for their ecumenical leanings’.10 The reason that White finds this ironic is that he associates belief in universal salvation with an ecumenical spirit. Presumably there is warrant for linking universalism with open-­mindedness and tolerance towards those who differ. However, White finds this openness lacking in Ibn Taymiyya’s modern heirs and those aspects of his thought that inspire them. So, is there then a contradiction in Ibn Taymiyya’s thought between his universalism and his legitimisation of violence against heretics, or has he perhaps been radically misunderstood on either one or the other? Both Ibn Taymiyya’s universalism and his justifications of violence have been well documented and studied, and they cannot be dismissed easily as misapprehensions of the historical evidence. Nor, I want to argue, is it especially ironic or inconsistent that Ibn Taymiyya should adhere to both in his thinking. As I intend to show, this is because a consequentialist and rehabilitative theory of punishment stands behind both Ibn Taymiyya’s eschatological universalism and his legitimisation

Duration of Hell-­Fire’, The Muslim World 99.1 (2009), 181–201; Hoover, ‘Against Islamic Universalism: ‘Alī al-­Harbī’s 1990 Attempt to Prove that Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya Affirm the Eternity of Hell-­Fire’, in Islamic Theology, Philosophy and Law: Debating Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn Qayyim Al-Jawziyya, eds Birgit Krawietz and Georges Tamer (Berlin, 2013), pp. 377–99; Hoover, ‘A Muslim Conflict over Universal Salvation’, in Alternative Salvations: Engaging the Sacred and the Secular, eds Hannah Bacon, Wendy Dossett and Steve Knowles (London, 2015), pp. 160–71; Yūsuf al-­ Qaraḍāwī, ‘Allāh lam yakhluq al-­insān li-­yu‘adhdhibahu.. wa-­lan takhlud al-­nufūs fī al-­nār’, Al-Ahrām al-‘arabī, 29 July 2002, 36–7; ‘Ā’isha bint Yūsuf al-­Mannā‘ī, ‘‘Aqīdat fanā’ al-­nār bayna Ibn ‘Arabī wa-­Ibn Taymiyya wa-­Ibn al-­Qayyim’, Majallat markaz buḥuth al-sunna wa-l-sīra (University of Qatar) 11 (2004), 85–141 (also on al-­Qaraḍāwī). 10. Svend White, ‘Blessed Be the Warmakers’, Religion Dispatches, 20 February 2008, www.religiondispatches.org/archive/culture/88/blessed_be_the_warmakers (accessed 2 December 2015).

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of violence in temporal affairs. In both this world and the next Ibn Taymiyya is convinced that violent punishment and the threat thereof are effective means for improving the human religious condition. This result undermines White’s ready correlation of universalism with ecumenism. While that linkage may seem intuitive to many in modern liberal culture and may often hold true, Ibn Taymiyya shows that open-­mindedness and tolerance does not follow from belief in universal salvation with any kind of logical necessity. A rehabilitative approach to punishment can in fact lead in the opposite direction. To elaborate the argument, I will first examine Ibn Taymiyya’s universalism and its theological roots and then his justifications for the use of violence. IBN TAYMIYYA’S UNIVERSALISM

Ibn Taymiyya’s universalism has been a source of consternation to some of his recent admirers because it undermines the mainstream Muslim view that the just retribution for unbelief is eternal Fire. A few scholars have tried to absolve him of having written in support of universal salvation by pointing to a lack of evidence for the doctrine in his writings and marginalising reports of it in later polemical literature.11 However, this strategy is no longer tenable in view of the 1995 publication of his treatise on the very issue, which I have dubbed Fanā’ al-nār (Annihilation of the Fire) for short.12 The origins of Fanā’ al-nār lie in Ibn Taymiyya’s relationship with his student Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, who once asked him what he thought about the everlasting chastisement of unbelievers in the Fire.13 Ibn Taymiyya observed that the question was great and did not venture a reply. It appears that he was not sure what to think. Later, Ibn al-­Qayyim came across a report from the second Sunnī caliph ‘Umar b. al-­Khaṭṭāb in a commentary by the ninth-­century scholar ‘Abd b. Ḥamīd [or Ḥumayd] al-­Kissī. ‘Umar’s report reads, ‘Even if the People of the Fire stayed in the Fire like the amount of sand in ‘Ālij, they would have, despite that, a day in which they would come out.’ ‘Ālij is a large sand tract near Mecca, and the meaning is that no one will remain in the Fire forever even if they may remain in it for a very long time. Given that classical Sunnī eschatology relegates unbelievers to Hell-­Fire eternally, ‘Umar’s

11. Hoover, ‘Against Islamic Universalism’, examines one attempt to exonerate Ibn Taymiyya of this belief. 12. Ibn Taymiyya, Al-Radd ‘alā man qāla bi-fanā’ al-janna wa-l-nār [hereon Fanā’ al-nār], (Riyadh, 1415/1995). 13. See Hoover, ‘Islamic Universalism’, pp. 182–91, for documentation and elaboration of what follows here on Fanā’ al-nār and its reception by Ibn al-­Qayyim and Taqī al-­Dīn al-­Subkī.

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Ibn Taymiyya’s Legitimisation of Violence111 statement naturally perplexed Ibn al-­Qayyim. So, he sent ‘Abd b. Ḥamīd’s book to Ibn Taymiyya, who was then enduring his final imprisonment in the Citadel of Damascus. In response, Ibn Taymiyya wrote Fanā’ al-nār, the last work that he composed before he died in 728/1328. Among other things, Fanā’ al-nār discusses texts touching on the duration of the Fire, the mainstream argument for eternal Fire from consensus (ijma‘), and theological considerations. I will take these up in turn. Ibn Taymiyya examines a number of Qur’anic texts and early reports that admit of an end to chastisement in the Fire. He notes, for example, that ‘Abd b. Ḥamīd quotes ‘Umar’s report about the sand in ‘Ālij to elucidate the Qur’ān’s statement that those in Hell will remain therein ‘for long stretches of time’ (lābithīna fīhā aḥqāban) (Q 78: 23). While ‘long stretches of time’ may indicate a very long span of time, it will not last forever, which supports the limited duration of the Fire. Ibn Taymiyya does acknowledge that the Qur’ān often says that unbelievers will ‘abide in [the Fire] forever (khālidīn fīhā abadan)’ (Q 33: 65, see also 2: 39, 3: 116, 4: 169 and so on). He counters, however, that such statements must not be taken absolutely and without qualification. They mean simply that unbelievers will remain in the Fire as long as it lasts. These verses do not preclude an end to unbelievers’ chastisement. Beyond the many Qur’ānic verses suggesting eternal Fire for unbelievers, the bedrock of the classical Sunnī case for eternal Fire for unbelievers is consensus. The argument is that the Muslim scholars have come to a consensus that Hell is eternal for unbelievers. Ibn Taymiyya rejects on principle a consensus reached later than the Salaf, the first two or three generations of the Muslim community, as simply too difficult to verify. He also denies that the Salaf had come to a consensus on this particular issue one way or the other. They certainly had not reached a consensus that chastisement of unbelievers in the Fire was eternal. Most decisive in Fanā’ al-nār are Ibn Taymiyya’s theological arguments. He explains that the paradisiacal Garden flows naturally from God’s attribute of mercy while Hell-­Fire follows from God’s wrath. Now, as it says in the Ḥadīth, God’s mercy will overcome His wrath. Thus, the Garden of Paradise will endure forever, while the Fire will not. The predominance of God’s mercy precludes everlasting punishment. Additionally, Ibn Taymiyya argues that God in His wise purpose could have no good reason for chastising someone forever. Chastisement is for a limited time only, and its purpose is to purify and cleanse even unbelievers. Ibn Taymiyya’s vision of Hell-­Fire is thoroughly therapeutic and ­rehabilitative – ­retribution for unbelief is not the main p­ oint – a­ nd in the mid-­740s/1340s Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya elaborated the arguments for this reformative vision and graced it with some vivid metaphors. The Fire is the great remedy for the worst

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of human maladies and the post-­mortem whip that God uses to bring unbelievers into line and make them fit for Paradise. It also appears that Ibn al-­Qayyim brought Taymiyyan argumentation for the limited duration of Hell-­Fire to wider public attention. His theologising on this and other matters clashed with the dominant Ash‘arī theology of the day and drew strong reactions from the powerful Shāfi‘ī chief judge of Damascus Taqī al-­Dīn al-­Subkī (d. 756/1355), including a refutation of Ibn Taymiyya’s Fanā’ al-nār in 748/1348.14 The refutation does not mention Ibn al-­Qayyim explicitly, but he is the obvious target of al-­Subkī’s ire, seeing that Ibn Taymiyya had died twenty years earlier. Al-­Subkī castigates Ibn ­Taymiyya – a­ nd Ibn al-­Qayyim by ­implication – f­ or breaking with the consensus of the Muslim community that unbelievers would spend eternity in the Fire, and he lists numerous Qur’ānic verses that he believes support this. In the classical Sunnī doctrine that al-­Subkī defends, believers in one God will all reach Paradise eventually, but some of them may first need to undergo a period of punishment and purification in the Fire. However, unbelievers can have no hope of leaving the Fire, and they face everlasting chastisement as retribution for their unbelief. TOWARDS SQUARING UNIVERSALISM AND THE LEGITIMISATION OF VIOLENCE

Let us return now to the dilemma with which we started: how can Ibn Taymiyya’s vision of universal salvation be squared with his justification of violence against heretics and religious deviants? Given the fact that Ibn Taymiyya’s Fanā’ al-nār was the last thing that he wrote, one could suggest that he mellowed with the passing of years. His latest anti-­Mongol fatwā dates to 1312–13,15 and the last of his anti-­Nuṣayrī fatwās appears to have been written in 1317.16 So, it could be argued that, by 1328, when Ibn Taymiyya wrote Fanā’ al-nār, he had moderated his hostility towards heretics and unbelievers and even countenanced their eventual salvation in God’s mercy. There is unfortunately little further evidence to support this hypothesis, and there is a more persuasive solution at hand. Rather than imagining Ibn Taymiyya’s journey towards universal salvation as a change of heart towards heretics, it is more plausible to see his universalism as a logical outworking of his longstanding theological vision, a ramification of his

14. On Ibn al-­Qayyim’s conflict with al-­Subki, see Caterina Bori and Livnat Holtzman, eds, A Scholar in the Shadow: Essays in the Legal and Theological Thought in Ibn Qayyim al-Ğawziyyah (Rome, 2010), pp. 22–6; and Hoover, ‘Against Islamic Univeralism’. 15. On the dating of this fatwā, see Aigle, ‘The Mongol Invasions’, 117–20. 16. Friedman, ‘Ibn Taymiyya’s Fatāwā’, pp. 359–60.

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pervasive theological optimism, which simply required a prompt or two from a student like Ibn al-­Qayyim to think through. Ibn Taymiyya’s theology differs substantially from classical Ash‘arism in which God wills and creates all things, human acts included, without cause or purpose such that God’s justice in what He does cannot be called into question. For Ash‘arīs God is perfectly just to create evil without reason and to punish acts of disobedience that He wills. His theology also differs from the retributivism of Mu‘tazilism. According to the Mu‘tazilīs, God creates the world for the purpose of providing human beings opportunity to earn reward through free acts of obedience, and God’s justice consists in meting out reward for obedience and punishment for disobedience in perfect proportion and compensating those who suffer unfairly. Ibn Taymiyya rejects the Ash‘arī view of God as capricious and the Mu‘tazilī view of God as unworthily tied down to human notions of retributive justice. In Ibn Taymiyya’s theology, the logic of retribution is subordinated to a teleology of worship. The whole aim of God’s creation is love and worship of God alone, and God has a wise purpose (ḥikma) in everything that He creates such that this is the best of all possible worlds. Nothing lies outside of God’s creative power, and God creates even evil to purify, educate and motivate human beings for exclusive worship of Him.17 From this perspective, Hell-­Fire is simply one of several means at God’s disposal to achieve this aim. In the imagery of Ibn al-­Qayyim, the Fire is God’s whip and God’s remedy to make unbelievers fit for the Garden of Paradise. Or more positively, God in His love, mercy and wise purpose will not fail to bring creation to its perfect fulfillment. God in his wise purpose could have no good reason for consigning some creatures to the Fire forever. Rather, God will prevail in turning all creation around to worship Him alone, and Hell-­Fire is God’s tool of chastisement to cleanse and rehabilitate unbelievers to that end. Universal salvation is the logical culmination of Ibn Taymiyya’s grand theological vision of God’s creative purposes for the world. Ibn Taymiyya’s vision of Hell-­Fire as purification and rehabilitation for even unbelievers stands in sharp contrast to the mainstream Muslim view that unbelief deserves eternal damnation. The root of this vision is found in his view of God’s punishing activity in the Hereafter as decidedly consequentialist rather than retributivist. When we move to the level of this-­worldly affairs, we find the same logic of punishment at work in his justifications of violence. The primary purpose of violent punishment in this life is to promote exclusive worship of God, not mete out due recompense.

17. Jon Hoover, Ibn Taymiyya’s Theodicy of Perpetual Optimism (Leiden, 2007), especially chapters 1, 5 and 6.

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To examine how Ibn Taymiyya rationalises and legitimises violence as punishment, I turn to his major work on Sharī‘a guided public policy Al-Siyāsa al-shar‘iyya (hereon Siyāsa).18 Congruent with his theology more generally, Ibn Taymiyya observes in Siyāsa that the ultimate aim of humanity is to devote religion to God alone, and he adds that the purpose of rulers is to bring their followers to this end. Their role is to ‘reform the religion of the people’ (iṣlāḥ dīn al-khalq) and reform those worldly affairs essential to the establishment of religion.19 To aid this effort, God sent messengers with books to show the way of justice, and He sent iron, that is, the sword, to correct those who deviate from what has been revealed. As Ibn Taymiyya puts it, ‘The establishment of the religion is by the Book (musḥaf) and the sword.’20 Ibn Taymiyya divides punishments (‘uqūbāt) into two kinds in Siyāsa: those inflicted upon people who live under Muslim rule and those inflicted upon defiant groups that cannot be subdued without a fight.21 The first category includes the ḥudūd punishments for wine drinking, adultery, theft and highway robbery, as well as discretionary punishment (ta‘zīr) for other offences. While noting the expiatory and retributive functions of the ḥudūd punishments, Ibn Taymiyya is most concerned with their role as a deterrent, and he decries the practice of public officials accepting payments to forgo implementation of the ḥudūd because it reduces their deterring effect and spreads corruption.22 Under the first 18. Ibn Taymiyya’s Al-Siyāsa al-shar‘iyya is found in Majmū‘ fatāwā Shaykh al-Islām Aḥmad b. Taymiyya (hereon MF), 37 vols. (Riyadh, 1961–7), vol. 28, pp. 244-­397. The reprint of MF (Medina: Mujammā‘ al-­Malik Fahd, 2004) available at www.archive.org/details/ mfsiaitmmfsiaitm is set in slightly different type but retains the pagination of the original. For an English translation of Al-Siyāsa al-shar‘iyya, see Omar A. Farrukh, Ibn Taimiyya on Public and Private Law in Islam (Beirut, 1966). For exposition and analysis of Ibn Taymiyya’s Al-Siyāsa al-shar‘iyya, as well as his related treatise on the inspection of public spaces Al-Ḥisba, MF, vol. 28, pp. 60–178, see Baber Johansen, ‘A Perfect Law in an Imperfect Society: Ibn Taymiyya’s Concept of “Governance in the Name of the Sacred Law”’, in The Law Applied: Contextualizing the Islamic Shari‘a. A Volume in Honor of Frank E. Vogel, eds Peri Bearman, Wolfhart Heinrichs and Bernard G. Weiss (London, 2008), pp. 259–94. An English translation of Ḥisba is found in Ibn Taymiya, Public Duties in Islam: The Institution of the Ḥisba, trans. Muhtar Holland (Leicester, 1985). 19. Siyāsa, MF, vol. 28, pp. 262–3, quote on p. 262. Ibn Taymiyya outlines the same rationale for temporal authority at the beginning of Ḥisba, MF, vol. 28, pp. 61–5. 20. Siyāsa, MF, vol. 28, p. 264. 21. Siyāsa, MF, vol. 28, p. 349. 22. Siyāsa, MF, vol. 28, pp. 299–306, 318, 347. On the deterrent function of the ḥudūd, see also Siyāsa MF, vol. 28, pp. 313, 329.

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category also fall discretionary punishments imposed to enforce performance of religious duties and omission of forbidden acts.23 In the worst case, anyone who refuses to practice a religious duty such as ritual prayer or deem it not binding should be killed as an unbeliever (kāfir).24 Ibn Taymiyya also prescribes killing the wine drinker on the fourth offence to cut off the perpetration of corruption.25 Under the second category of punishments noted in Siyāsa, punishments applying to those who cannot be subdued without a fight, come jihād against the unbelievers until they submit to the authority of Islam and putting down rebels like the Khārijīs and those who reject religious laws. The main purpose in fighting is quelling open defiance and rebellion against religion. Deviance kept out of the public eye poses far less danger. Ibn Taymiyya explains that the preacher of innovation (bid‘a) must be punished much more severely than the unbeliever who does not impede Islam because the latter harms no one but himself.26 The category of rebels who compromise the religion of Islam is where Ibn Taymiyya classifies the Mongols and the Nuṣayrīs in his various fatwās justifying jihād against them.27 Generally speaking, according to Ibn Taymiyya in Siyāsa, ‘Punishing omission of religious obligations and commission of forbidden acts is the purpose of jihād in the path of God’,28 and the primary aims of this punishment are deterring potential offenders, reducing corruption in society and promoting greater obedience of God. This consequentialist and especially rehabilitative approach to punishment becomes even more distinct in the images with which Ibn Taymiyya illustrates it. He compares the ruler punishing a criminal to a father disciplining his son in order to correct him and keep him from corruption. He also compares the ruler to a doctor who prescribes a disagreeable remedy for his patient. The patient endures the misery caused by the medicine to find healing. The just ruler’s intention in executing punishment is to reform his subjects, and this in itself is an act of worship just like undertaking jihād in the way of God.29 23. Siyāsa, MF, vol. 28, pp. 359–60. 24. Siyāsa, MF, vol. 28, pp. 308, 359–60. 25. Siyāsa, MF, vol. 28, pp. 336, 347. Ibn Taymiyya writes in Ḥisba, MF, vol. 28, p. 108, ‘When someone who spreads corruption in the earth cannot be repelled except by killing, he is killed.’ 26. Siyāsa, MF, vol. 28, pp. 349–59. At MF, vol. 28, p. 181, Ibn Taymiyya explains that open offenders are punished more severely than the more discrete in order to protect the religious and mundane spheres. 27. Aigle, ‘The Mongol Invasions’, pp. 97–103; Friedman, ‘Ibn Taymiyya’s Fatāwā’, pp. 351, 355–60. 28. Siyāsa, MF, vol. 28, p. 308. 29. Siyāsa, MF, vol. 28, pp. 329–30.

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Ibn Taymiyya’s views on punishment in Al-Siyāsa al-shar‘iyya may appear severe and idealistic, but he is also exceedingly pragmatic in his counsel to rulers seeking the greater good of Islam. He counsels rulers to be gentle in prodding their subjects to do things that they dislike and to be attentive to the pleasures that human beings need in order to endure difficulty.30 He permits buying off highway robbers with zakāt funds instead of fighting them if the ruler deems that to be the most effective means of bringing public order.31 Additionally, while Ibn Taymiyya criticises rulers who put their own interests before religion, he also allows use of public funds to win people of influence over to the cause of religion, and he criticises rulers who may be too pious or fastidious to employ such techniques. In Ibn Taymiyya’s pragmatic political vision, the ruler should take a middle path between excessive scrupulousness and raw self interest in the advancement of religion.32 The ruler must weigh up the benefits and detriments in every action and choose the most beneficial course overall.33 CONCLUSION

To recapitulate the argument of this essay, a consequentialist theory of punishment strongly focused on rehabilitating human beings and bringing them around to worshipping God alone, informs both Ibn Taymiyya’s vision of universal salvation and his legitimisation of violence. In this temporal world, violent punishment in the hands of the ruler deters wrongdoing, reduces corruption and increases obedience to God’s law. In the hereafter, Hell-­Fire purifies and chastises even unbelievers until it has achieved its purposes in God’s mercy, and all are made fit for Paradise. This reformist and therapeutic view of Hell differs distinctly from the classical Muslim doctrine of the Fire as eternal retribution for unbelief. While it may be attractive to see in Ibn Taymiyya’s universalism a turn towards a tolerant ecumenism, there is little historical evidence to warrant this conclusion and, more significantly, there is nothing that necessitates it theologically. On the contrary, Ibn Taymiyya’s vision of universal salvation coheres well with his legitimisation of violence in that both reflect confidence that violent ­punishment – ­whether by the sword or the ­Fire – ­is among the means for realising the goal of God’s creation: exclusive worship of God.

30. Siyāsa, MF, vol. 28, pp. 364–70. 31. Siyāsa, MF, vol. 28, p. 322. 32. Siyāsa, MF, vol. 28, pp. 293–5. 33. Siyāsa, MF, vol. 28, p. 284. See Ḥisba, MF, vol. 28, pp. 129–31 for a full statement on weighing up benefits and detriments.

Chapter

7 Moral Violence in AHk ¯ A m ahl · al-Dhimma by Ibn Qayyim al-­J awziyya

Marie Thérèse Urvoy*

It is fitting first to note that since the Arabic equivalent of the term ‘violence’, ‘unf, and its derivatives exist in the Quranic text, the same is true for Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya’s Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma.1 Only the manifestations of violence are evoked, particularly in five cases: the punishment of crimes, murder, oppression and corruption and, finally, aggression, which Muslim legislators have methodically classified in order to be able to apply legal statutes (aḥkām) to them. Lawful violence was in their view represented on the one hand by the application of Quranic punishment and on the other by the jihād, the specific fight against not only infidels but renegades, rebels and brigands (highwaymen). The theorisation of legitimate violence is a perfect illustration of the Islamic conception of the universe and of life based on the close and ontological relationship between religion and power. The work of Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya (b. 691/1292, d. 751/1350) on the   * Institut Catholique de Toulouse (Catholic University of Tolouse), France.   1. The work will be quoted here according to the edition by Ṣubḥī Ṣāliḥ, Damascus, 1381/1961 in 2 vols (pages numbered in unbroken sequence). This text has been, since recently, re-­edited repeatedly in Saudi Arabia, distributed on a large scale throughout the Islamic world and among minorities in the Islamic diaspora. The work is composed of a long introduction and of six large parts: 1. the statutes ruling business, churches and hermitages; 2. a report of what dhimmīs say is considered blameworthy and practices that are forbidden; 3. a report of the means by which dhimmīs must be set apart from Muslims (mount, garments . . .); 4. transactions between Muslims and dhimmīs, the types of licit associations . . .; 5. the rules on the hospitality that dhimmīs legally owe Muslims; and 6. the enumeration of what causes prejudice or damages to Muslims and to Islam on the part of dhimmīs.

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legal statutes of dhimmīs (non-­Muslims under protection, that is ‘people of the Book’), although the work of a Ḥanbalite, has the documentary advantage of ­assembling – e­ ven if only for possible d­ iscussion – t­he various opinions on the matter emitted by jurists of the whole classical period. It is an eloquent example of the functioning of the very relationships of Islam to man. Indeed, the word ‘violence’, which usually means ‘abuse of force’, takes on a moral connotation when it is given the meaning of ‘constraint exercised upon a person in order to obtain his consent to a juridical act’. It is this transposition of meaning that allows the editor of the text, Ṣubḥī Ṣāliḥ, to state in his preface that ‘the work, read diligently, increases comprehension of the benevolent generosity of Islam in its treatment of dhimmīs’. Let us see just what the case is. At the beginning of the work, a passage is devoted to a detailed commentary of Q 9: 29 regarding the obligation of the jizya and particularly its last words ‘wa-hum ṣāghirūn’. He shows how effective violence, from which theoretically people under protection are excluded, is substituted by moral violence. Indeed, jizya is defined as being ‘a tribute (kharāj) which strikes the heads of infidels to humiliate them and submit them’, that is to say ‘until they give the tribute to save the napes of their necks’2. The word jizya would spring from al-jazā‘, that is, the ‘price’ of their impiety. That is why it is levied ‘when they are humiliated’. For Ibn al-­Qayyim, one would have said ‘gently’ if that tribute had been ‘in virtue of the fact that we trust them’, which is not the case. One cannot confuse the jizya with a ‘ransom’ (fidya) either, as the former is a punishment. The words of the verse ‘with their own hands’ (‘an yadin) are explained as meaning that it must be given when ‘degraded and conquered’.3 For ‘certain people’ the word ‘being humiliated’ implies ‘that they pay standing, while the receiver is s­eated . . . ­The dhimmī shall bring it himself, on foot, ­unmounted . . . ­He shall wait for a long time s­tanding . . . ­He shall be brutally dragged to the place of payment. His hand shall be pulled forcefully and he shall be insulted.’4 Thus, the word jizya has been assimilated to al-ṣaghār, the substantive of ṣāghirūn. Ibn al Qayyim objects, however, that this is not the meaning of the verse, for it is not a ‘transmission’ (naql) according to the prophet or his companions; the true meaning is that dhimmīs are obliged to suffer the application of the statutes concerning them decreed by the community, and thus to give the jizya. It is this obligation that is designated by the word ‘al-ṣaghār’. ‘Ibn Ḥanbal said, ‘They were dragged by their hands and marked on the neck if they   2. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 23. ‘Umar would have written to his governors that they should order the nape of dhimmīs’ necks to be ‘sealed’ (an yukhtam).   3. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 23.   4. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 23.

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did not pay al-ṣaghār. It is God who says “when they are humiliated”’.’5 For Ibn al-­Qayyim that indicates that if the dhimmī pays what he owes and fulfils his obligation of the ṣaghār, there will be no need to pull him by the hand or to beat him. Nevertheless, he also quotes a certain Muḥannā b. Yaḥyā who specifies: ‘one finds it good that they should toil for the acquitting of the jizya’ and ‘another one’ who adds: ‘one has not wished to torture them nor charge them beyond their possibilities, but one has wanted to show them disdain and to humiliate them’.6 Concretely, this humiliation should be manifest in the following way. Since the hand that gives is placed above and the hand that takes is below, the imāms have seen to it that such would not be the case for the jizya. Thus, they arranged it so that the hand of the giver should be underneath that of the ­receiver – ­which causes qāḍī Abū Ya‘la to say that this is indeed the proof that when Christians manage the affairs of those in power, they show superiority and tyranny towards the Muslims; thus, if there was no pact of protection (dhimma) for them when they collected the taxes, this would render the shedding of their blood licit.7 Ibn al Qayyim approves this idea,8 arguing that God himself extended the duty of combat until the payment of the jizya by the dhimmī in a state of humiliation. Thus, if a Christian or any other dhimmī behaves in a way that is contrary to humiliation or abasement, there is no longer immunity (‘iṣma) neither for his blood nor for his property, and there is no more protection (dhimma) for him.9 Thus, the jizya was indeed decreed to lower and humiliate infidels, and not as a rent for a dwelling. It will be further specified that all sums levied on dhimmīs to avoid that their ‘blood should flow’ is counted as jizya.10 Throughout the work, ambiguity is maintained because the term ‘infidel’ (kāfir) is always confused with the term dhimmī. Thus, for example, it is said that he who kills on order someone he believes to be an infidel, does not have to pay any blood money (diyya). The justifying reasoning is the following qiyās: the infidel cannot inherit from a Muslim since he is ḥarbī (an inhabitant of ‘abode of war’), that is, an enemy of Muslims, and the inheritance cannot be linked with either manifest or active hostility; now dhimmīs are non-­combating enemies, but enemies nonetheless.

  5. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 24.   6. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 23.   7. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 23.   8. Ibn al-­Qayyim even thinks that the prophet having said, ‘We shall ask a mushrik ­[associator/idolater/polytheist] for no help whatsoever’, it is forbidden to employ Jews and Christians in the governing of Muslims and their concerns. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 211.   9. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 23. 10. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 80.

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Consequently, at the end of the work, a chapter is devoted to the suppression of the jizya in case of conversion to Islam. A series of measures is detailed, aiming at simplifying this passage, and is counterbalanced by the enumeration of threats of retaliation concerning dhimmīs in the event of the non-­respect of the laws concerning them. The chapter has as a sub-­title the expression aslama, yaslam (he has become a Muslim, he is safe). Islam annihilates the degradation of the jizya and its humiliation. The aim is to attract people willingly into friendly relations with Islam.11 The criterion of the hierarchical superiority of the Muslim as such is central. It justifies all the well-­known forms of discrimination. The prophet having reserved for his followers the wearing of the turban and beard, these are forbidden to dhimmīs.12 From the second caliph ‘Umar, it was ordered that the forelock of dhimmīs be shortened and that they gird themselves with kustijāt, that is to say with coarse cords. This belt should be visible on the garment, not underneath.13 They may not wear precious garments proper to nobles and to dignitaries, notably silk, which is what honourable people wear who have power.14 The dhimmī must confine his walking to narrow streets and may not walk in a wide street unless there are few Muslims there; he should not go to the believers’ baths,15 or he must wear a bell around his neck so that people may know what he is.16 He may not go on horseback as the Muslims do, and he does not have the right to use a mule or a donkey unless he has the permission of the imām. This mount should have no harness or saddle embellished with gold or silver.17 He does not have the right to purchase or to pre-­empt any property if a Muslim wants the same object, for the aim of the ‘message’ is that the word of God should always remain prevalent.18 He may not bear a first name considered as ‘Islamic’19 and so on. These forms of discrimination (by clothing, headdress, mount and so forth) are completed by that of language20 for those whose mother tongue is not Arabic, because Arabic is the language of revelation, of praise rendered to the prophet 11. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 973. 12. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 745. 13. ‘Ibn Ḥanbal said: ‘[P]eople of the dhimma must be made to wear belts which will humiliate them’.’ Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 744. 14. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, pp. 762–3. In addition to that is the ban on wearing striped or yellow material, for the prophet wore such materials. 15. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 758. 16. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 763. 17. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 761. 18. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 291. 19. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 768. 20. Ibn al-­Qayyim quotes with praise the ban decreed by ‘Umar on Christians from Shām and

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and even that of paradise, which makes it in fact the ‘glorification of Arabs’.21 With all the more reason the dhimmī’s cult must not be perceptible to Muslims: public processions and all sonorous forms such as the chime of bells or the blow of shofar are forbidden; raising one’s voice in prayer is forbidden;22 and it is forbidden to light candles or torches and to feast as Muslims do on their feast days. A dhimmī, being ‘the enemy of God’, cannot be greeted with the ‘salutation of peace’.23 He must not pronounce, before a Muslim, words that would indicate pride in his own religion and he should not be congratulated upon the occasion of his holidays and fast days.24 A Muslim may not visit a sick dhimmī unless he proposes Islam to him and the invalid accepts. A Muslim cannot hire his services out to a dhimmī for ‘in that, one finds a sort of humiliation for the Muslim and an injury to him on the part of the infidel’. On the contrary, there is nothing wrong with a Muslim’s hiring the services of a dhimmī, but that becomes illicit if it is a task that ‘glorifies the religion’ of the latter.25 A Christian woman who dies while pregnant by a Muslim will be buried in the Muslim cemetery because of her foetus but only in a corner, and she will lie on her left side with her back to the Ka‘aba, so as to allow the face of the foetus, which is against his mother’s back, to be turned towards the Ka‘aba.26 A Muslim, whose Christian mother dies, shall mount a mule and shall walk in front of the coffin for, being on the mule and before his mother; he is not with her.27 Muslims cannot follow a Christian coffin, for Christians have not got the right to conduct their funeral convoy through Muslim markets, nor through the wide streets where Muslims walk; they must go from the Jazīra to speak Arabic, so that they should not resemble Muslims in language. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 766. 21. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 766. 22. Some [authors] extend this ban to the inside of houses, the general condition being that dhimmīs should never show their impiety before Muslims, under pain of severe punishment. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 720. 23. Ibn al-­Qayyim argues in this sense by repeating that the prophet never addressed the king of infidels with al-salām ‘alaykum, but always with ‘hail to those who follow guidance’; thus, he would have said, concerning people of the Book, ‘Never begin with them by a salutation.’ Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 197. 24. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 205. 25. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 275. 26. This point goes beyond the case of dhimmītude to join the general question of the status of women, a mother being considered with respect to her child as no more than ‘a box in which he is deposited’. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 206. As for Ibn al-­Qayyim, he seems to have preferred the burying of the mother outside the Muslim cemetery, but he also mentions the solution indicated here because ‘Umar said ‘she shall be buried with Muslims because of her child’. 27. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 203.

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through isolated places where they cannot be seen by Muslims.28 The tombs of Christians must be situated far from those of Muslims because they are places of torment and divine anger, while the latter are places of divine mercy; laying them together wrongs Muslims.29 As to exchanges of condolences, the formulas are fixed and cannot be the Islamic ones; the Muslim shall thus say only: ‘may God multiply your goods and your descendants and prolong your life’.30 A Christian may not give alms, because it is an act of purification and he is not worthy of it.31 The dhimmī is forbidden to wear a sword, for these objects are ‘pride and authority for those who carry them; has the envoy of God not said: “I have been sent sword in hand until Allah alone be adored without any god associated with him. He made my fortune under the shadow of my lance and ordained that humiliation and submission be for him who disobeys my order.”’32 That obviously supposes that dhimmīs be truly maintained in a state of general inferiority. There are thus adjustments to certain of the preceding rules. Thus, if, in spite of everything, a Muslim has the misfortune to have to congratulate infidels, in order to avoid an evil he redoubts on their part, he can go towards them and say only good things, wishing them success and good fortune.33 Confronted with a transgression of these restrictions by a dhimmī, the Muslim has all the rights. If he sees someone wearing a forbidden material, he should confiscate it to his own profit.34 If he succeeds in seizing objects the showing of which is forbidden (such as bells or crosses), the takings are his.35 Residing in the Hijaz being forbidden to a dhimmī, he does not have the right to remain there more than three days when he goes for purposes of commerce and he may not go in unless he is the bearer of things or objects useful to Muslims, on condition he gets the local imām’s authorisation and on condition that he retains only a small part of the profit.36 In the conjugal relationship, the interest of the Muslim husband takes absolute precedent. Always referring to the qiyās on inheritance, not only is he not obliged to pay a nafaqa (legally required financial support) to his dhimmī wife, because of the difference of religion, but also his sexual demands take precedent 28. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 726. 29. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 726. 30. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 205. 31. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 140. 32. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 761. Generally speaking, dhimmīs are forbidden to bear arms of any kind for that would allow them to unite against Muslims. 33. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 206. 34. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 763. 35. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 719. 36. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 184.

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over everything else. If it is prescribed that the husband may order his dhimmī wife to wash away her menstrual blood before intercourse, it is not so much for reasons of purity but so that his enjoyment of his wife be complete, and that nothing be lacking in his rights over her.37 Too much hair, of any kind, or overly long nails, shall be forbidden by the husband if that lessens his enjoyment of his dhimmī wife.38 Likewise, if he cannot forbid her to drink wine, he must forbid her to get drunk and can oblige her to wash her mouth, not for moral reasons but because that harms him personally, for fermented drink is a defilement (najs) that would make it impossible for him to kiss her on the mouth and thus to enjoy her to the full.39 Again, in order to ensure his complete pleasure, he will forbid her to eat leeks or garlic.40 Finally, a Muslim who has a Christian wife will not allow her to attend Christian feasts, nor go to church. Ibn al-­Qayyim gives two reasons for this: in the first place, he emphasises that that would reduce the exercise of his right to take his pleasure with her whereas that right is permanent for him at all times; and it is only in the second place that he notes that, in that way, he does not encourage her to practice impiety.41 On the other hand, he cannot keep his wife from fasting, even if that makes him miss his enjoyment of her during that time.42 The interest of the Muslim community in its entirety also intervenes. Not only is it advised not to buy slaves from the dhimmīs, for, since dhimmīs pay the jizya for their slaves, that would deprive the Muslims, but also it is advised not to buy dhimmīs’ land, for that would deprive the Muslims of the kharāj.43 Ibn al-­Qayyim even defines the right of spoils explicitly: ‘If Christians have become few and that their churches are many, most of them will be taken away from them, just as what constitute damage (maḍarra) for the Muslims will be taken. What Muslims need to take is taken. But if Christians are numerous in a town and if they have an old church that one does not need to take and which presents no interest, it must be left to them. The prophet and his successors left them the churches they needed, and then took some of them away again.’44 Christians cannot boast of the hospitality they show Muslims in their churches for it is their due, and Christians have only the use of the churches, Muslims being owners of all parts of conquered lands; it is not like their houses that one

37. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 237. 38. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 437. 39. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 439. 40. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 440. 41. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 438. 42. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 441. 43. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, pp. 131–5. 44. Ibn Qayyim al-­Jawziyya, Aḥkām ahl al-Dhimma, p. 687.

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cannot enter without their permission. As to knowing whether a Muslim can pray in a church or a synagogue, some consider them to be pure places because they are part of Muslim properties, and they invoke the example of companions who have done it, while others consider that they are places of God’s anger and they refer to the ban decreed by the Prophet to pray in the land of Babel; but in no case should it be a question of asking permission from dhimmīs. What we have just enumerated calls for several observations: 1. Upon reading it, one is struck by the intensive use of sophistic rhetorical argumentation, playing on lexical rebounds; one does not want to harm them but one wants to humiliate them totally. There is always a but. 2. The work is constructed according to a method designed to convince the reader of the legitimacy of what is asserted: at the head of each chapter figures the quotation of a formula supposedly said by ‘them’ (wa-qawluhum) and the fatwā is thus formulated in response not to facts stated by the muftī but by engagements declared by the dhimmīs. To back up each fatwā, a crescendo gradation is observed in the sources: isolated names (‘Umar and so on), the Companions (Ṣaḥāba), ‘Ā’isha, God and his prophet. 3. The vocabulary, which is not necessarily Quranic, does not undergo any evolution. 4. There is a constant assimilation between ‘word of God’ and Islam in its historical realisation, in perfect equivalence. 5. The work expresses a moral that was specifically designed and adapted to the customs of the community, breaking with all that is not the community, and that entails a grave failure to recognise ‘the other’ whom one is talking about. 6. The work’s vision of the person is totally utilitarian, most particularly in what concerns women. 7. There is a systematic confusion between the notions of ‘people of the Book’ (ahl al-Kitāb) and that of ‘infidels’ (kuffār, sing. kāfir) and ‘polytheists/idola ters’ (mushrikūn).45

45. Let us add that the violence of certain bans is such that the editor of the text, Ṣubḥī Ṣāliḥ, has felt the need for explanatory footnotes, some of them justifying the rigour manifest in the work, by the fact that dhimmīs sometimes defied Islamic sentiment, others trying to prove the ‘tolerance of Islam’ in spite of it all (ex. p. 762, n. 5; p. 763, nn. 4 and 8).

CHAPTER

8 Al-­K arakI ¯, JihA ¯d, the State and Legitimate Violence in ImA ¯mI ¯ Jurisprudence

Robert Gleave*

Jihād has become the archetype of Muslim violence in much contemporary commentary; recent scholarship has done much to bring a more precise description of the concept and to set current debates in context.1 Nevertheless, the technical nature of the fiqh discussions of jihād inevitably leave them open to selective citation, and hence distortion. My approach here is to try to understand the complex of regulations around jihād in a late classical Imāmī fiqh text as an instance of legal discussion. I argue that the proper backdrop to understanding the discussion is not primarily the military activity contemporary with the work’s composition, but rather greater theological and legal principles that are worked out in the tradition of scholarship, of which the work analysed in this chapter was just the latest instalment. This may make the legal handbook a less useful source of dynastic history, but it does, I argue, give us a fuller understanding of the intellectual framework in which justifications for military action, and the inevitable violence entailed by it, appear. When reviewing the works of jurisprudence (fiqh), jihād invariably receives its own separate ‘chapter’ (Kitāb al-jihād), and the topic discussed is almost exclusively jihād as military action (fighting – qitāl – and the support for that activity). The fiqh writers were not unaware of the other notions of jihād (such as the so-­called greater, ‘spiritual’ jihād of the believer against the lower self), but in a legal context, jihād is overwhelmingly used to refer to a struggle using military means in order to bring the physical realm more closely in tune with God’s   * Institute of Arab and Islamic Studies, University of Exeter, UK.   1. M. Bonner, Jihad in History and Doctrine (Princeton, 2004); D. Cook, Understanding Jihad (Berkeley, 2005) among other more detailed studies.

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intended law. Given this legal context, when jihād is permitted (or recommended or obligatory), what actions are permitted within a jihād and the benefits accruing to the one who fights (mujāhid) become prime instances of justified violence in Islamic legal thinking. They are not the totality of such instances: punishment of offenders and disciplining one’s children, wives and slaves provide other examples; however, jihād does constitute an important, and controversial, case that can illustrate how violence was processed in Islamic legal discourse. It should not, of course, be confused with the rather unanswerable question of when and how ‘Islam’ approves of violence; writers in the legal tradition sometimes claim a level of authority that permits them to speak for ‘Islam’, but law can only ever be one element in a general description of how violence was understood in Muslim societies over time. As has been extensively discussed by others, the issue of jihād theory is one area of jurisprudence where Imāmī Shī‘ī works display a particular and distinctive dynamic.2 This is brought on, predictably, by the occultation of the twelfth Imam and the ensuing technical illegitimacy of all political power structures, given that legitimate political power flows from the Imam alone for Shi‘ites generally. Finding a legitimate declaring authority for a jihād, then, in the absence of the infallible Imam, is the most pressing issue for any Imāmī jurist wishing to sanction a jihād. The problem was not solely about jihād – a clutch of other areas of the law were identified as problematic in the occultation (ghayba – including the institution of Friday prayer, the implementation of ḥudūd punishments and the collection of religious taxes). Of all the areas in which the Imam’s absence proved problematic in legal terms, the legitimation of jihād proved the most intractable; only in the nineteenth century, and then only with extreme caution, did the Shī‘ī fuqahā’ develop a sketchy (and, it should be said, ambiguously expressed) argument that the military actions of a political power (namely, the Qajar’s conflict with the Russians) was a form of jihād.3 Even then there was a   2. The first serious studies in English were Ann K. S. Lambton. ‘A Nineteenth Century View of Jihād’, Studia Islamica 32 (1970), 181–92; and E. Kohlberg, ‘The development of the Imāmī Shī‘ī doctrine of jihad’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 126 (1976), pp. 64–86; and this has been followed by A. Sachedina, The Just Ruler in Shiite Islam (Oxford, 1988), pp. 100–12.   3. R. Gleave ‘Jihād and Religious Legitimacy in the Early Qajar State’, in Religion and Society in Qajar Iran, ed. R Gleave (London, 2004), pp. 41–70; I discuss the more technical elements of Imāmī law on jihād in R. Gleave, ‘Jihad, Khums and Legitimacy in Pre-­Qajar Iran’ in Proceedings: Association des Chercheurs Iraniens, ed. R. Kashefi (Paris, 1998), pp. 5–17 and R. Gleave, ‘Muḥammad al-­Akhbārī’s Kitāb al-jihād’, in Le Shi’isme Imamite Quarante Ans Apres: Hommage à Etan Kohlberg, eds. M. Bar Asher and A. Amir Moezzi and Simon Hopkins (Turnhout, 2009), pp. 209–24.

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series of limitations, and subsequent Imāmī jurists (until the Iran–Iraq War in the 1980s at least) were more cautious about giving any military action religious legitimacy by labelling it as a jihād. The Safavid Empire, which proclaimed itself from an early period as Shī‘ī (and more specifically when in power as Twelver), was developed through military conquest and, as has been described by numerous commentators, recruited Shī‘ī scholars in order to establish Twelver (Imāmī) Shi‘ism as the imperial religion in the newly conquered teritory.4 Was there to be any legal discussion over whether Safavid military exploits were, like later Qajar wars, jihād (in legal terms)? There is, interestingly, little evidence of any discussion around this point among the Shī‘ī fuqahā’. What discussion there is of jihād remains, in all the texts I have consulted to date, firmly within the established Shī‘ī legal framework. For example, the treatment of these issues in the Kitāb al-Jihād of al-­‘Allāma al-­Ḥillī (d. 726/1325) in his Qawā‘id al-Aḥkām (discussed in more detail below),5 includes the stipulation that a Muslim can defend himself from attack for reasons of personal preservation, and this self-­defensive act can be classed as a jihād; in circumstances of dire need, the jihād is individually obligatory (farḍ al-‘ayn) since Muslims are required to preserve their own life. There is debate around whether this individual obligation extends to protecting one’s property; there is a common implicit (and sometimes explicit) acceptance that the individual obligation kicks in to protect the community of Muslims. Furthermore, there is even an acceptance that an individual Muslim can work with illegitimate (non-­Muslim) military power to defend their illegitimate rule if doing so is the only means of protecting his own life. In doing so, al-‘Allāma states, he is not fighting a jihād for the illegitimate authorities, but fighting to preserve his own life. Political authorities should not, it is implied, gain any authentic legitimacy from the fact that the individual fights with them. Their wars are not jihāds in the political sense; they are simply a series of individual self-­defensive jihāds by Muslims seeking to protect themselves. This sums up the position in post-­Mongol Imāmī legal thought, and I have not come across

  4. Whether these scholars were imported (from Arab lands) or home-­grown has been a matter of some scholarly dispute (see A. J. Newman, ‘The Myth of the Clerical Migration to Safawid Iran: Arab Shiite Opposition to ‘Alī al-­Karakī and Safawid Shiism’, Die Welt des Islams 33.1 (April 1993), 66–112). What is clear is that the Iranian ‘ulamā’ either converted to Shi‘ism or left Iran, and that there were serious propaganda efforts to embed Shi‘ism among the population in the early Safavid dynasty. See R. Abisaab, Converting Persia: Religion and Power in Safavid Iran (London, 2004).   5. Al-­‘Allāma al-­Ḥillī, Qawā‘id al-Aḥkām fī ma‘rifat al-ḥalāl wal-ḥarām (Qum, 1994–5), 1, p. 478.

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evidence of any fundamental variance from this position in Safavid legal texts. In this chapter, I examine the legal exposition of the doctrine of jihād of perhaps the most prominent supporter of the early Safavid imperial project from among the Imāmī fuqahā’ – ‘Alī b. al-­Ḥusayn al-­Karakī (d.940/1533); doing so will, I hope, facilitate an understanding of how jihād, as an act of military violence, was legally categorised and analysed, and the extent to which the emerging political context of a developing, expanding and (militarily) successful Shī‘ī Empire impacted on Karakī’s discussions within the Imāmī fiqh tradition. AL-­KARAKI ¯ AND SAFAVID LEGITIMACY

The activities of ‘Alī b. al-­Ḥusayn al-­Karakī, also referred to as al-­Muḥaqqiq al-­ Thānī (‘The Second Investigator’), have received quite extensive coverage in the secondary literature.6 The editor of his Jāmi‘ al-Maqāṣid, Jawād al-­Shahristānī, gives a comprehensive account of al-­Karakī’s life using the sources of both the Imāmī tradition and Safavid history.7 Others have provided additional details, and it is not necessary to repeat all the details here. Some basic facts, however, are necessary to understand his importance in both Imāmī and Safavid history. Al-­Karakī was born into a clerical family in Jabal ‘Āmil, today in Lebanon. Specifically, he grew up in Karak-­Nūḥ (hence his title al-­Karakī) in the Beka valley, then under Ottoman control. After initial studies there, he travelled to Egypt, and then later to Najaf. Controversially, he entered Iran to work with the first Safavid Shah Ismā‘īl, probably in late 916/1504.8 The chronicles record him as one of the major Arab Shi‘ite scholars who were invited to Iran by the Safavid Shahs, in order to inculcate the population with Twelver belief and practice. These scholars, mainly Lebanese ‘ ‘Āmilīs’ (that is, from Jabal ‘Āmil),

  6. References articles include: R. Abisaab, ‘Karakī’, EIr, Vol. XV, Fasc. 5, pp. 544–7 and W. Madelung, ‘Karakī’, EI2, IV, p. 610. Other studies include Said Amir Arjomand, The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam: Religion, Political Order, and Societal Change in Shi‘ite Iran from the Beginning to 1890 (Chicago, 1984), pp. 125–34; Said Amir Arjomand, trans. and ed., ‘Two Decrees of Shah Tahmasb Concerning Statecraft and the Authority of Shaykh ‘Ali al-­Karakī’, in Authority and Political Culture in Shi‘ism, ed. S. A. Arjomand (Albany, 1988), pp. 250–62; Rasūl Ja‘fariyān, Naqsh-i Khāndān-i Karakī dar ta’sīs va tadāvum-i dawlat-i Ṣafavī (Tehran, 1387 shamsī/2008); Rula Jurdi Abisaab, ‘The Ulama of Jabal ‘Amil in Safavid Iran, 1501–1736: Marginality, Migration and Social Change’, Iranian Studies 27 (1994), 103–22.   7. ‘Alī b. al-­Ḥusayn al-­Karakī, Jāmi‘ al-Maqāṣid fī sharḥ al-Qawā’id (Beirut, 1991), 1, pp. 27–44.   8. Devin Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy: Twelver Shiite Responses to Responses to the Sunni Legal System (Salt Lake City, 1998), pp. 83–4.

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who migrated to Safavid Iran from Ottoman lands, are said by some to have made a major contribution to the ‘Shi‘itisation’ of the Safavid state.9 That is, they brought the state structure more into line with broadly Shi‘ite legal principles, they offered legitimacy to the Safavid Shahs in their early years and they attempted to inculcate Shi‘ism among the confessionally mixed (and broadly ‘unorthodox’) Iranian population. There is some debate among the scholars about how many such Arab scholars there were, and their level of influence, but al-­Karakī and others certainly brought a level of external, orthodox Shī‘ī sanction to the Safavids. In return for this work, he received gifts from the court, including funds for seminary activities and the profits from lands. This favour survived the first Shah, and al-­Karakī continued to have a close relationship with the Safavid state under the successor Shah Tāhmāsp. Al-­Karakī held various positions in the court, and was, by all accounts, adept at court politics. He schemed to get his opponents removed from office and his students and supporters appointed to positions of influence. The literature on his relations with other Shī‘ī theologians, lawyers and philosophers includes tales of conflicts and personal arguments. His dispute with Ibrāhīm al-­Qaṭīfī (d. after 951/1544) is well known; most famously, while al-­Karakī upheld the legality of land tax (kharāj) during the occultation, al-­Qaṭīfī viewed it as illegitimate.10 His argument with the philosopher and sometime Safavid ṣadr Ghiyāth al-­Dīn al-­Dashtakī (d.948/1541) was clearly part-­intellectual, part-­personal.11 Many Shī‘ī scholars were uneasy about his promotion of clerical authority during the occultation of the Imam, and this was clearly linked to his own political power. He was awarded the titles of ‘Delegate of the Imam’ (nā’ib al-imām) and ‘Seal of the Legal Experts’ (khāṭam al-mujtahidīn) by Shah Tāhmāsp, and though these were obviously honorific, they do represent a level of personal aggrandisement. His close identification with the Safavids is perhaps what he is best known for, particularly in a tradition where relations with ruling dynasties during the occultation of the Twelfth Imam were legally problematic for the reasons already outlined.

  9. A. Newman, ‘The Myth of the Clerical Migration to Safawid Iran: Arab Shiite Opposition to ‘Alī al-­Karakī and Safawid Shiism’, Die Welt des Islams 33.1 (April 1993), 66–112; Devin Stewart, ‘Notes on the Migration of ‘Āmilī Scholars to Safavid Iran’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 55 (1996), 81–103. 10. Wilfred Madelung, ‘Shiite Discussions on Legality of the Kharaj’, in Proceeding of the Ninth Congress of the Union Europeene des Arabisants et Islamisants, ed. R. Peters (Leiden, 1981), pp 193–202; Hossein Modarressi Tabataba’i, Kharaj in Islamic Law (London, 1983). 11. See A. Newman, ‘Daštakī, Ḡīāṯ-­al-­Dīn’, EIr.

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Al-­Karakī’s legal literary production is, when viewed as a whole, impressive. Apart from jurisprudence, he also wrote works on hadith, a refutation of the Sufis, and some short works on theological topics. The primary discipline in which he wrote was, however, law: treatises, commentaries and legal manuals. His promotion of ijtihād as a method of deriving legal rules was in tune with the orthodox legal doctrine of the day, at least since the time of al-­‘Allāma al-­Ḥillī. Al-­Karakī died in Najaf in 940/1534 during the reign of Shah Tāhmāsp, and even his funeral was a controversial affair, with some major scholars refusing to attend. AL-­KARAKI ¯’S JA ¯MI‘ AL-MAQA ¯S·ID

The Jāmi‘ al-Maqāṣid, thirteen volumes in its printed edition, is a commentary on the Qawā‘id al-Aḥkām of the great fourteenth-­century jurist al-­‘Allāma al-­ Ḥillī. It is al-­Karakī’s most expansive work, written in the 1520s (that is, after Shah Tāhmāsp had come to power), and covering much of the material in the Qawā‘id in great detail. It was, however, unfinished at the end of al-­Karakī’s life (unfinished, in the sense that certain sections of al-­‘Allāma’s work are not subjected to commentary). It was clearly written over a long period, and it is difficult to determine when elements were completed. Even the order in which commentaries on the various sections of al-­‘Allāma’s works were composed is not obvious, since there is every possibility that different sections were written at different points. At least two Safavid jurists subsequently offered a commentary (ta‘līqa) and a completion (tatmīm) of the Jāmi‘; these works remain unpublished to my knowledge.12 The Jāmi‘ was subjected to some criticism by both contemporary and later scholars.13 As a commentary, the Jāmi‘ has certain generic features including: explanatory gloss of obscure phrases, insertion of references omitted from the original work and situating the work in the spread of opinion within the Imāmī school. The art of commentary, as has been mentioned by others, was a crucial element of the developed intellectual tradition; in the legal sciences, the commentarial form was maximally exploited, becoming perhaps the primary mechanism for

12. ‘Abd Allāh b. al-­Ḥusayn al-­Tustarī (d. 1021/1612), a teacher of Muḥammad Taqī al-­ Majlisī, composed Jāmi‘ al-Fawā’id fī sharḥ al-Qawā‘id wa tatmīm Jāmi‘ al-Maqāṣid – as referenced in Āghā Buzurg Ṭihrānī, al-Dharī‘a ilā tasanīf al-Shī‘a (Beirut, 1984), 5, pp. 65–6, n. 260 and al-­Shaykh Luṭfallāh al-­Maysī (d. 1032/1622–3) (the scholar linked with the iconic Isfahan Mosque that bears his name) wrote a ‘ta‘līqa’ (marginal comments) on the Jāmi‘ al-Maqāṣid (see Ṭihrānī, al-Dharī‘a, 6, p. 56). 13. For example, his contemporary Jamāl al-­Dīn Muḥammad al-­Astarābādī; see Abisaab, ‘Karakī’.

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scholarly advancement.14 Reacting to a core curriculum text fulfilled a number of functions within the developed tradition. Among these were, first, commentaries confirmed the author’s allegiance to the tradition through affirming the centrality of the texts selected as the tradition’s canonical representation. Second, it masked any originality within a scholar’s framework by presenting it as simply an interpretation of an accepted fundamental element of the tradition, rather than a deviation from it. Linked to this, the commentary provided sufficient scope for the development of new ideas. It was not always clear whether the commentator was aiming to re-­express the text in his own words, to explain the text in the context of the wider discipline or to use the text as a springboard for his own views on the topic of the text. Finally, a commentary grew out of, and was a literary expression of, the prevalent pedagogic method (that of textual study in small discussion circles). Commentaries provided the material from which a discussion may be initiated in the teaching context, and also may be a record of those discussions. With this in mind, it is not always straightforward to use a commentary as an indication of a scholar’s personal view, since they may avoid presenting them in bald fashion. With this in mind, however, it is clear from al-­Karakī’s commentary that he not only wishes to explain what he thinks al-­ ‘Allāma’s position may be when it is not clear from the text; he also sometimes interjects his own opinion into the comments, as it concurs with, deviates from or modifies al-­‘Allāma’s view. Al-­Karakī’s close association with the emerging Safavid Empire, and his central role in establishing Imāmī Shi‘ism as the doctrinal orthodoxy enforced by the governmental apparatus, has already been outlined. Internal references in the Jāmi‘ al-Maqāṣid indicate that it was composed between 928 (1521 at the earliest) and 935 (1529 at the latest), when al-­Karakī was well-­established as the premier jurist supporting Safavid rule. Against this background, one may expect this pro-­Safavid sentiment to be evident in the discussion of jihād and legitimate violence in the Jāmi‘ al-Maqāṣid, particularly given the wars of expansion waged by Shah Ismā‘īl and Shah Tāhmāsp, and the doctrinal issues raised by an avowedly Shī‘ī state during the occultation of the Imam. In other works, al-­Karakī seems to provide, quite adventurously, legitimacy to the Safavid state. His work on the land tax is well known, having been subjected to detailed scrutiny by Modarressi; al-­Karakī’s promotion of the authority of the clergy and the validity of certain political structures during the occultation has been tackled by Arjomand.15 He is generally seen as pushing the boundaries 14. See the collection of articles in the journal Oriens, 42.3–4 (2014) (particularly the introduction by Ahmed and Larkin). 15. See above n. 6.

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of Imāmī ­jurisprudence with regard to political legitimacy, as having worked within the Safavid state controlling religious appointments at the highest level and as having been rewarded with (lucrative) recognition and patronage from both Shah Ismā‘īl and Shah Tāhmāsp. The central question is whether Karakī’s assertion of the limited legitimacy of the Safavid Dynasty in his legal and other writings extends to permission to the state to engage in acts of military violence. That is, is there any indication from al-­Karakī that a political power (in his case, the Safavid Dynasty) can engage in jihād? And, if so, under what circumstances and restrictions? And, crucially, what does this reveal about the legitimate and illegitimate use of violence in Imāmī Shī‘ī legal thinking? I return to these questions in my conclusions below. AL-­KARAKI ¯’S KITA ¯B AL-JIHA ¯D IN HIS JA ¯MI‘ AL-MAQA ¯S·ID

The chapter on Jihād in al-­‘Allāma’s Qawā‘id al-Aḥkām controls al-­Karakī discussion, and that is divided into five ‘aims’ (maqāṣid), some with explicitly labelled subsections: 1. Those for whom it is obligatory to carry out jihād 2. Those against whom it is obligatory to fight 2.1 Non-­Muslims/Polytheists (ḥarbī) 2.2 Protected people who do not abide by (i.e., break) the covenant (al-dhimmī) 2.3 Rebels (al-bughāt) 2.4 Conditions of protected status 3. The practice of conflict 3.1 Identifying which enemy to fight 3.2 Enslavement 3.3 Booty 3.3.1  Meaning of ‘booty’ and its three types 3.3.2  The division of booty 3.3.3  Questions around these issues 4. Cessation of fighting 4.1 Peace treaty and its constituent elements 4.2 On the poll-­tax (jizya) 5. Commanding the Good and Prohibiting the Evil.16

16. The section can be referenced as follows: Those for whom it is obligatory to carry out jihād (Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 365); Those whom it is obligatory to fight (p. 376); The

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Some sections are subject to yet further subdivisions by al-­‘Allāma. For example, the section on the poll tax (technically, the second section – faṣl – of the fourth ‘aim’ – maqṣad – 4.2 in the above schema) consists of five ‘topics’ (maṭlab), the fourth of which is divided into four subsections, the second of which consists of ten smaller units in which laws relating to an armistice (hādina) are outlined. Necessarily, al-­Karakī’s discussion of these topics follows al-­‘Allāma’s structure, and he adds yet further subdivisions, as the subject of jihād is broken down into its constituent elements since al-­Karakī aims to cover all situations and their attendant norms (and the debates around those norms). The result is a complex and fine-­grained taxonomy of the rules associated with legitimate conflict. The fifth section on ‘Commanding the Good and Prohibiting the Evil’ (al-amr bil-ma‘rūf wal-nahy ‘an al-munkar) is positioned as a subsection of the Kitāb al-Jihād. Al-­‘Allāma’s positioning of his discussion of ‘commanding the good and prohibiting the evil’ here (that is, within the Kitāb al-Jihād) is not so surprising. It was the most common location in Imāmī fiqh works before al-­ ‘Allāma, and remained so in Imāmī fiqh works written in the period between him and al-­Karakī. However, it was not always so positioned in fiqh works. It was, on occasions, given a separate chapter (kitāb or bāb, depending on the nomenclature of the work) and, on a few occasions, the discussion would constitute the main section of the Kitāb al-Ḥisba. Furthermore, discussions of this topic were not exclusively matters of fiqh – one finds them in works of legal theory (uṣūl al-fiqh), theology (kalām and uṣūl al-dīn), Quranic exegesis (tafsīr, apud Q 3: 110) and in separate treatises on the duties of a judge (qāḍī) and the virtue inspector (or ‘market inspector’ – muḥtaṣib). Locating the chapter on ‘commanding the good’ in the Kitāb al-Jihād (as is the case here and elsewhere) demonstrates how the maintenance of public order and ensuring that the Sharī‘a is respected (even by those of protected status) was considered by most Imāmī jurists a form of jihād.17 This location may be the result of Imāmī minority status; since the public sphere is, for Imāmīs, irretrievably deficient (as it is not under the control of the Imam), there is less of a categorical difference between enemies external to the area under Muslim control (Dār al-Islām) and internal enemies. Hence, the public sphere in a Sunni-­ dominated political context was, for minority Imāmīs, as much the ‘abode of War’ (Dār al-Ḥarb) as Mongol or Christian lands. Notwithstanding their differences, both areas are characterised by an illegitimacy and hence there are practice of conflict (p. 381); Cessation of fighting (p. 428); Commanding the Good and Prohibiting the Evil (p. 483). 17. M. Cook, Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong in Islamic Thought (Cambridge, 2000), p. 252 n. 2.

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cognate rules around establishing the supremacy of God’s rule in both circumstances. Both, if you like, are sites of jihād – hence the bracketing of the two duties together. By writing a commentary on al-­‘Allāma’s Qawā‘id, al-­Karakī is forced to subscribe to the base text’s format; it does not necessarily mean, however, that he is tied to al-­‘Allāma’s views. As we shall see, he deviates, sometimes subtly, sometimes more brazenly, from al-­‘Allāma’s formulation of the law. What he does share with al-­‘Allāma, however, is a tendency to talk of the rules around jihād in abstract. Only occasionally does he reference a contemporary situation, and even then, the reference is not explicit. It is, perhaps useful, for the purposes of outlining the rules around jihād here, to bracket discussions around particular salient issues that underpin al-­Karakī’s analysis. These, as I see them, are three: 1. What Jihād is Not 2. The Equivalence of Defensive and Offensive Action 3. The Precondition of the Imam’s Presence I deal with these in turn, although the most involved discussion relates to the third of these discussions. (1) What Jihād is Not Al-­Karakī’s concern in the opening passages is to ensure that his readers are aware of what is and what is not jihād in the legal sense of the term. He opens his commentary with an etymological definition of jihād (fī’l-lugha) and a legal definition (fī’l-shar‘). The latter is, of course, what concerns him in this work and that is defined as ‘exertion’ and ‘toil’ in ‘fighting the unbelievers (kuffār), and their ilk, in order that the word of Islam might be elevated’. This definition, for al-­Karakī, appears to exclude other forms of ‘fighting against the unbelievers’ (qitāl al-kuffār): [Jihād] in the legal sense is ‘[exertion] in fighting the unbelievers and their ilk in order that the word of Islam might be elevated.’ To be distinguished from this is fighting the unbelievers for the sake of commanding the good. That is indeed an ‘“elevating” of the word of Islam’ but here what is meant by ‘elevating the word of Islam’ is the establishment of the confession of faith. Hence, the jihād against the rebels is excluded from it.18

18. Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 365.

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The duty to ‘command the good’, as outlined above, is more like control (be it state operated or vigilante) within the area under Muslim domination, by which Shari‘a norms are respected, particularly in the public domain. Similarly, fighting against rebels is the suppression of an insurgency. Both these cases involve ‘elevating the word of Islam’, but they are, for al-­Karakī, distinct from fighting an external enemy. Fighting an external enemy is purely initiated to establish the word of Islam over them; fighting internal rebels, miscreants and communities is not, it appears, in his view the primary legal meaning of jihād. In presenting this view at the outset, al-­Karakī is, obliquely, criticising the inclusion of ‘commanding the good and forbidding the evil’, or perhaps even the discussion of rebels (bughāt) in a Kitāb al-jihād. The standard Imāmī inclusion of these discussions in chapters on jihād in works of fiqh most likely stems from the general rejection of governmental legitimacy during the occultation of the Imam. As indicated above, when all areas are equal, in the sense that they fall short of the ideal implementation of the Shari’a, the whole notion of internal and external enemies becomes irrelevant. For al-­Karakī, however, the different forms of fighting have different intentions. Fighting other Muslims within the area under Muslim control is to establish correct belief and practice; fighting an external enemy in a jihād is to expand the area under God’s rule. It is possible that in this gloss, al-­Karakī is highlighting this distinction between internal Muslim rebels and external non-­Muslim enemies. By doing this, he would be undermining the notion that the illegitimacy of all occultation governments necessarily implies a uniform body of rules concerning conflict. This compromise may seem trivial, but it alters the juristic discourse around whether any governmental power during the occultation has legitimacy, and hence in what ways they may suppress rebellions within their area of power.19 On occasions, al-­‘Allāma states explicitly that a particular (military) action is not jihād, although it may nonetheless be justified. For example, an individual may somehow be caught between two warring enemy parties (that is, two sections of the dār al-ḥarb are at war). In such a circumstance, the individual is permitted to fight for one of the ­parties – ­provided that by doing this he is defending himself and not defending the party for whom he is working. This action, however, is not jihād (lā yakūn jihādan). Al-­Karakī adds that this permission to fight alongside the non-­Muslim force only applies to internal conflicts within the Dār al-Ḥarb. If 19. Having said that, there is little indication in the section on ‘rebels’ (bughāt) that al-­Karakī explicitly wishes to alter the terms of the debate. Inevitably, the phrase imām ‘ādil (‘a just leader’) is central to discussions: al-­‘Allāma states ‘Anyone who sets out against a just leader is a rebel’ (kull man kharaja ‘alā imāmin ‘ādilin fa-huwa bāghin). On the term imām ‘ādil see below, n. 31.

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one of the forces was Muslim, the individual is not permitted to fight for the non-­ Muslim force, even if he is in fear of his life or property. Second, when al-­‘Allāma stipulates that ‘this is not a jihād’, this means (according to al-­Karakī) that the special rules concerning the treatment of the one who dies in combat (for example, the lack of need for ritual washing before burial), and the prohibition on fleeing from the battlefield, do not apply. Only in jihād do these special rules apply, and participating in an enemy’s battle, albeit to defend one’s self, is not a jihād. (2) The Equivalence of Defensive and Offensive Action It should be said at the outset that there is little recognition of a distinction between defensive and offensive jihād in either al-­‘Allāma or al-­Karakī’s discussions. This distinction, commonplace in contemporary legal discussions of jihād, has perhaps become increasingly prevalent due to international legal norms. There, the notion of self-­defence as a justifying cause of conflict is accepted, while aggression is condemned. For many pre-­modern authors (al-­‘Allāma and al-­Karakī included, one suspects), there is a perpetual state of war with those outside of Islam. This does not necessarily mean a perpetual state of conflict; rather there is an ongoing state of potential conflict, and a fundamental (but theoretical) irreconcilability between the ‘land of Islam’ and the ‘land of war’. Hence, al-­‘Allāma makes the statement ‘[Jihād] is obligatory in a collective sense every year once, unless it is necessary’ – a brief statement in need of elaboration, in al-­Karakī’s view. Hence, al-­Karakī glosses it thus: When necessary, it is not obligatory to do [jihād] just once a year at ­all – ­it might be obligatory to do it more than once, and the basis for this is both textual and consensus.20

The necessity here is, one imagines, because of attack, or the threat of attack, from the enemy; however, this is not expressed by al-­Karakī in terms of defence, but simply as an increase in the number of times one has to carry out jihād. Similarly, later in the chapter, there is a discussion about who is obliged to fight when the land of Islam is attacked. Al-­‘Allāma states: If the unbelievers enter the Land of Islam, it is obligatory for every capable person to fight them, including the slave and the woman.21

20. Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 365. 21. Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 371.

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Al-­Karakī feels the need to offer no explanatory gloss here. An attack changes the balance between the collective and the individual obligation to ­fight – ­but it does not shift the jihād to a different category (for example, from offensive to defensive conflict). Similarly, when the threat is personal (rather than collective), there is no meaningful discussion of a different defensive category of jihād. Say an individual fears for his or her personal safety (bil-khawf ‘alā nafsihi muṭlaqan), then Al-­ ‘Allāma states that jihād becomes a personal obligation in such circumstances. Al-­Karakī’s commentary is less concerned with the idea of ‘defensive’ jihād as a different mode of conflict, and he only makes comment on the technical question of whether the rule applies only to the threat to one’s person, or whether it may be extended to a threat to one’s property. Al-­Karakī says that the explicit reference of al-­‘Allāma to ‘one’s person’ or ‘oneself’ (‘alā nafsihi) means that jihād cannot be extended to defence of one’s property.22 In the case of personal defence, al-­Karakī is also keen to delimit the force that is threatening the individual. That force, he argues, must be a non-­Muslim, illegitimate force (ahl al-ḥarb). ‘Accordingly, if the Muslims attack him, then he has no defence (laysa lahu al-mudāfa‘a).’ This is, in part, a logical ­point – ­two enemies cannot be engaged in a jihād against each other simultaneously; there can only be one legitimate jihād in any conflict.23 From these specific legal discussions, al-­‘Allāma and al-­Karakī have ample chance to make a distinction between a defensive and an offensive jihād. However, the distinction seems to play no role in the legal or moral discussions around the justification for violence. Offensive jihād is justified in as uncomplicated manner as defensive jihād, although precisely who must fight is dictated by the magnitude of the task. Furthermore, it should be noted that there is no clear concession or reference to contemporary conflicts, despite the fact that the work was composed in the midst of Safavid imperial expansion by a scholar at the heart of the machinery of government.

22. ‘Jihād becomes individually obligatory when one fears for one’s person, without any ­preconditions . . . ­Know that when the author specifies “fear for one’s person”, he is indicating that fear for one’s property is not a reason [to make jihād obligatory].’ Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 371. 23. ‘In the passage from al-­Shaykh (al-­Ṭūsī) he specifies that the enemy who launch a surprise attack are the Ahl al-Ḥarb because they are unbelievers; and so if the Muslims launch a surprise attack, then this is not defence. [Al-­‘Allāma’s] statement in the Taḥrīr [a reference to al-­‘Allāma’s Taḥrīr al-aḥkām al-shar‘iyya] says the same thing, as it is in the Muntahā [a reference to al-­‘Allāma’s Muntahā al-Maṭlab fī Taḥqīq al-Madhhab]. Reports [from the Imams] indicate this as well.’ Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 371.

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Violence in Islamic Thought (3) The Precondition of the Imam’s Presence

For a jihād to become obligatory on an individual, al-­‘Allāma sets out a series of conditions. These are well-known from discussions of jihād in fiqh works, and are not, perhaps, very remarkable (the mujāhid must be adult, sane, male and so forth). At the end of the list of preconditions for the individual obligation to engage in the jihād, al-­‘Allāma writes: It is only obligatory on the condition of the Imam, or his deputy (wa-innamā yajib bi-sharṭ al-imām aw nā’ibihi).24

So, jihād generally, depends on the Imam or his deputy. But in what sense? There is an ambiguity h­ ere – d­ oes it mean simply the presence of the Imam (or his deputy), or more explicitly their sanction or permission? My preference is to read al-­‘Allāma as referring to the permission/leadership of the Imam, although this is not resolved in his text. Here, al-­‘Allāma is stipulating the general condition under which jihād could be collectively ­obligatory – ­implicit is the question: Under what conditions could jihād be a collective duty (wājib kifā’ī)? ‘Al-­Allāma deals with individual obligation next: [Jihād] only become individually obligatory (wa-innamā yata‘ayyin) when the Imam or his deputy specify either a benefit (maṣlaḥa – from performing the jihād), or because without them specifying it, those resisting an attack would be vulnerable, or because of a vow or such like, or because of fears for oneself.25

Jihād only becomes individually obligatory (that is, all the community must participate, ‘even women and slaves’, he goes on to say) when the Imam or his deputy has stipulated it to be so for one of three reasons: 1. That there is a benefit to be accrued from stipulating it to be an individual ­obligation – ­this appears as a catch-­all phrase. 2. That those repelling an attack are vulnerable, and hence there is a need for a great number of fighters. 3. That the individual has made a vow, and is therefore individually obliged to join the fighting.

24. Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 371. 25. Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, pp. 370–1.

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Al-Karakī, Jihād, the State and Legitimate Violence139 The phrase ‘deputy of the Imam’ (nā’ib al-Imām) has received extensive comment in the secondary literature, and al-­Karakī himself is seen as a pioneer of a more ‘general’ deputyship of the ‘ulamā’ during the occultation of the Imam. Whatever al-­‘Allāma may mean by the phrase in this passage, al-­Karakī himself, despite his reputation for a general deputyship, restricts the application of the term to the time of the Imam’s presence: He [that is, al-­‘Allāma] means [by nā’ibuhu – ‘his deputy’] the one who is specifically designated as such by the Imam, during the time of his manifestation, and his establishment (in power), not [a deputy] in an unrestricted manner. Al-murād nā’ibuhu al-manṣūb bi-khuṣūṣihi ḥāl ẓuhūr al-imām wa-tamakkunihi lā muṭlaqan26

The deputy is a functionary of the Imam’s ­rule – ­that is, he has been specifically designated by the Imam to perform the task of conducting the jihād. Crucially, the deputyship does not extend to periods outside of the Imam’s presence and establishment in power. One can see no general licence for jihād (offensive or defensive) in al-­Karakī’s exposition here. The use of the term zuhūr al-imām, for me at least, restricts al-­Karakī’s discussion here to the time when the sinless Imam is not only present, but also in a position of power and authority. In Imāmī fiqh terms, al-­Karakī’s discussion seems quite usual, operating within the same parameters as previous Imāmī legal discussions. One thing is left unclear from al-­‘Allāma’s text. Must the Imam or his deputy announce the jihād to be an individual obligation for it to be so? Must he also announce the reason why it has become an individual obligation? Or, alternatively, does the individual obligation kick in when one of these circumstances occurs? Al-­Karakī recognises these lacunae, and goes someway to answering them in his commentary: The obvious meaning of [al-­‘Allāma’s words] is that the Imam makes it an individual obligation on account of a benefit, or the vulnerability [of the defenders]. One might oppose this reading by saying that when he makes it individually obligatory because of the weakness [of the defenders] he is in fact making it so for a benefit.27

That is, al-­‘Allāma appears to distinguish two categories: a general unspecified benefit, and specific circumstances (‘the weakness of the defenders’). For 26. Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 370. 27. Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 370.

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al-­Karakī, the latter specific circumstance is merely an instance of the former, and hence there is no need for this distinction. For al-­Karakī, then, there is a potential problem in the text. He gives his own reading: The preferred [understanding] is that [al-­‘Allāma’s] meaning is jihād becomes an individual obligation for different reasons: one of them is that Imam has declared it so; another is that the defenders might be weak; another is a v­ ow – a­ nd so on. He means by this that jihād becomes specific to the individual legal subject (al-mukallaf) since it has become individually obligatory (wājib ‘aynī) for these reasons. This is a specification by an accidental property [of jihād]; the collective obligation (wājib kifā’ī), which adheres to [an action’s] essence can be specified by the accident.28

This dense passage needs some explication. Al-­Karakī sees the transfer from collective obligation to perform jihād to individual obligation to occur through a number of mechanisms, first of which is the explicit declaration of this by the Imam himself. Other reasons do not require the Imam’s declaration but can be triggered by circumstances (the weakness of the defenders, an individual’s vow and so on). However, these instances in which jihād becomes individually obligatory are accidental characteristics of the obligation (bil-‘āriḍ). The fundamental nature of the jihād obligation is that it is collective; in certain restricted circumstances, it may become individual. The use of the standard philosophical distinction between essence and accident is noteworthy, of course, demonstrating how for some writers the boundaries between genres are porous, allowing concepts to be introduced into novel generic contexts. In sum, however, al-­Karakī’s position appears to be that the Imam can declare jihād to be individually obligatory, and for that there may be a benefit, although there appears to be no need for him to declare the benefit as such. Also, it may become individually obligatory automatically (without the Imam’s declaration), so to speak, for circumstantial reasons (vulnerability, a vow and so forth). For the latter, however, it should be noted that the jihād must already be legitimate (that is, was dependent upon the Imam’s declaration) for it to qualify for the shift from collective to individual obligation. Al-­Karakī does not appear to stray too far from the standard Imāmī fiqh discourse around jihād (requiring, for example, the Imam’s permission, presence and empowerment). This is also the case in his discussion of ‘rebels’ (bughāt): there is little here to indicate that al-­Karakī explicitly wishes to alter the terms of the existing Imāmī fiqh debate. Inevitably, the phrase imām ‘ādil (‘a just leader’)

28. Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 370.

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is central to these discussions: al-­‘Allāma states, ‘Anyone who sets out against a just leader is a rebel’ (kull man kharaja ‘alā imāmin ‘ādilin fa-huwa bāghin). Does the term imām ‘ādil here refer to any morally upright Muslim political authority or does it, effectively, mean a ‘legitimate’ imām (in Imāmī Shi‘ism, referring to an Imam designated to be so by an infallible source, and who is, himself, infallible)? Does the lack of a definite article (‘a just leader’, rather then ‘the just leader’) indicate that anyone with the right moral qualities (without the requisite designation) could be awarded the title? There has been some debate about the use of the term imām ‘ādil in Imāmī juristic literature, and quite some discussion in the secondary literature.29 Perhaps the most that can be said about al-­Karakī’s commentary on the above-­cited sentence is that any ambiguity (intentional or otherwise) in al-­‘Allāma’s text over the referent for the term imām ‘ādil is preserved in the commentary. Al-­Karakī makes no effort to specify what the intended referent of the term may be. He merely makes the following points: – What is meant by ‘setting out’ (khurūj) here is setting out ‘by the sword’ (bilsayf). That is, fighting the Imam’s rule. – The term ‘anyone’ (kull man) does not imply that the rebel must be on their ­own – ­it applies to groups of rebels who set out against the imam as well. – There is debate about whether the ‘setting out’ is against the Imam, or is ‘setting out’ to leave the areas under the power of the Imam (that is, whether abandoning the Imam’s rule is, in effect, declaring oneself a rebel). – The order to fight the rebels depends on them having a doctrine that in their view permits them to rebel (ta’wīl sā’igh ‘indahum). They should be fought only after asking them about this, and attempting to demonstrate how their view is false. Without this doctrine, the rebels are simply brigands (quṭṭā‘ ṭarīq).

As we have seen, elsewhere in al-­Karakī’s discussion on jihād the term imām is unambiguously a reference to the sinless hidden Imam. As an aside, he uses the prayer ‘upon him be peace’ after the mention of the Imam and his role, a practice reserved for the sinless Imams and Prophets in Shī‘ī juristic works.30 In other

29. Wilferd Madelung, ‘A Treatise of al-­Sharīf al-­Murtaḍā on the Legality of Working for the Government’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 43 (1980), 30; Norman Calder, ‘Legitimacy and Accommodation in Safavid Iran: The Juristic Theory of Muḥammad Bāqir Al-­Sabzavārī (D. 1090/1679)’, Iran 25 (1987), 91; Khaled Abou El Fadl, Rebellion and Violence, p. 301. 30. I recognise that such prayers may have been inserted at copying or editorial stages. There is some discussion about the case when a member of the protected religious group

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areas (such as Friday prayer), the term imām ‘ādil is used exclusively and unambiguously for the sinless Imam.31 Of course, these do not establish with absolute certainty that the sinless Imam is the referent here in the section on r­ ebels – b­ ut such features are strong evidence. I would argue then that the phrase is unlikely here to be used as a reference to any contemporary (or post-­occultation) ruler. Furthermore, the distinction between offensive and defensive jihād (with the latter being permitted without the sinless Imam’s presence) was certainly present in Imāmī fiqh works after al-­Karakī, but it does not appear to be a significant distinction in al-­Karakī’s commentary on al-­‘Allāma’s text. It is, I would argue, important to bear in mind that at those points where law meets political theory in Imāmī fiqh writings, the language is not necessarily that of religious devotions (where the Imam would be surrounded by honorifics) or even theology. Rather, the discussions are of a legal office (the Imam), who has certain properties (sinlessness, membership of the Prophet’s family, designation by God through the Prophet and successive designations). The anonymity of the terminology does not necessarily indicate that this office is generally available to ­anyone – ­it remains reserved to those who fulfil the prerequisites. This is further confirmed by other discussions in the Kitāb al-Jihād. An example of this concerns whether the opinions of one Imam restrict the decisions of the next. Say an Imam makes a ruling on, for example, the tax payment of the

(dhimmī) abandons the covenant and aligns himself with the enemy. When he dies, is his property still sacrosanct? Al-­‘Allāma states that it is, and when he dies, it can be inherited by his non-­Muslim relatives inside the land of Islam (dhimmī) and outside of it (ḥarbī). If the property remains in Islamic territory, it continues to be protected by the covenant. However, when [the property] is transferred to the one outside of Islamic territory (ḥarbī), the covenant of protect over it is nullified. (Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, pp. 479–80)

Al-­Karakī explains: Each one of them [the dhimmī and the ḥarbī) are eligible to inherit, both jointly and individually. However, when it is transferred to the ḥarbī, the covenant is nullified and it is for the ­Imam – ­upon him be ­peace – ­just as he [al‘Allāma] states . . . (Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 480)



The insertion of the prayer, makes it clear this is no ordinary political leader, but it is the legitimate, sinless Imam. As soon as the property is outside the lands where the dhimmī contract holds fast, it can be captured in a jihād and would, then, belong to the ­imam – ­here meaning not the political governor, but the sinless Imam. 31. In the conditions for Friday prayer being convened, al-­‘Allāma places the condition of ‘al-sulṭān al-‘ādil’ (the just ruler). Al-­Karakī glosses this, ‘For Friday Prayer to be obligatory, the sulṭān ‘ādil is a precondition, and he is the sinless Imām’ (Karakī, Jāmi‘, 2, p. 371).

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Al-Karakī, Jihād, the State and Legitimate Violence143 non-­Muslim minorities (jizya). Must the next Imam abide by those rulings? For al-­‘Allāma, it all depends on the stipulation of the first Imam. If he stipulated the arrangements to be permanent, then the second Imam cannot change them. If he made no such condition (law aṭlaqa al-awwal), the second Imam can change them ‘if there is a benefit in doing so’ (bi-ḥisb al-maṣāliḥ). Al-­Karakī’s comment on this passage is as follows: It might be said that [even in cases of a stipulation of permanence], there would be a benefit in changing [the terms of the jizya]; hence it must be permitted [to make changes].32

This would be the position of someone who saw the holder of the office of Imam as an ordinary political leader. This is explicitly not al-­Karakī’s position: We reply that the Imam stipulated permanence knowing that there would be no difference in ­benefit – ­because he is free of error (ma‘ṣūm) – which is distinct from when he placed no such stipulation.33

Here, al-­Karakī makes the starkest differentiation between his (Shī‘ī) interpretation of the Imam and others. It may be argued that one Imam’s personal interpretation (ijtihād) may be over-­ruled by ­another – ­since ijtihād is merely a personal ruling by an expert (even if that earlier Imam stipulated that they should remain in form in perpetuity). For al-­Karakī this cannot be applied to the Imam in his discussions of jihād. For him, a later Imam is necessarily bound by the decisions of an earlier Imam, if the earlier Imam stipulated that they were permanent. The earlier Imam, being immune from error (ma‘ṣūm), cannot have decisions he decreed to be permanent overturned by a later Imam, even if it may appear that there is benefit in overturning them. There are, however, some forms of jihād (according to al-­‘Allāma) that do not depend upon the presence of the Imam. He describes the category of military activity known in fiqh works as murābiṭa – a border-­guard-­cum-­proselytiser on the edges of the Dār al-­Islām. For al-­‘Allāma, murābiṭa does not require the presence of the Imam ‘because it does not involve ­fighting – ­only guarding and declaring [Islam]’. The implication here is that the Imam’s presence (and permission) is necessary to legitimise ‘fighting’ (qitāl), indicating a distinctive Imāmī sensitivity to violence and its justification.34 32. Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 458. 33. Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 458. 34. The one who carries out murābiṭa is rewarded ‘with the reward of the mujāhids’. That

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Murābiṭa is not an obligation for the individual believer, but it is a meritorious act and it can become obligatory if one promises it in a vow. For al-­‘Allāma ‘whether the Imam is available or hidden (ẓāhiran aw mastūran)’,35 fulfilling this vow is obligatory; the use of this phrase would indicate that the referent is the sinless, designated Imam, and not merely any political leader, just or otherwise. For al-­Karakī, al-­‘Allāma’s view is the sounder opinion (al-aṣaḥḥ), and he lists the reasons: 1. Murābiṭa is a recommended action, without any conditions or caveats (muṭlaqan). 2. A vow to carry out a recommended action creates a general requirement (‘umūm al-amr) to fulfil that vow and perform the action. 3. Therefore, the Imam’s presence or absence cannot be a precondition of the obligation to fulfil the vow. The view that one could, when the Imam was in hiding, abandon one’s duty to fulfil the vow is rejected as ‘unproven by the [Imams’] reports’. Furthermore, in the section on the cessation of fighting through a peace treaty agreement, al-­‘Allāma set out the requirements of the treaty in general terms. The crucial element is that there must be a benefit (maṣlaḥa) by concluding the treaty (such as to allow the Muslim army to rest or to arrange their affairs). There is also the condition that the agreement must ‘eliminate evil’ (intifā’ al-mafsida). It may be argued that if you stipulate that the treaty must produce a benefit, you do not need another stipulation that it eliminates evil. Al-­Karakī writes: It could be said that when you stipulate that the [treaty] must bring a benefit in order to be valid, you necessarily require it to eliminate evil. is, jihād and murābiṭa are religiously equivalent, although it is unclear whether murābiṭa is a type of jihād, or is simply an action equivalent to it (and therefore dealt with in the same chapter). In this sense, it may be similar to ‘commanding the good and forbidding the evil’, whose presence in a jihād chapter may indicate that this is not a separate duty but one way of carrying out jihād. 35. Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 375. Al-­‘Allāma’s use of the term ‘hidden’ (mastūr) rather than the more technical ‘in occultation/absent’ (ghā’ib) is probably just one instance of how Imāmī fiqh discourse can, sometimes, be stripped of the theological stringency of Imāmī belief. The theoretical question of whether the legitimate leader of the Muslims is manifest or hidden, and whether this affects the operation of Shari’a is, of course, one that not only Imāmīs were concerned about. The expression here is a rather neutral (almost non-­ sectarian) way of phrasing the fiqh issue.

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Al-Karakī, Jihād, the State and Legitimate Violence145 The answer to this is that the presence of a benefit [in a thing] does not contradict there being an evil in it from another perspective.36

That is, an action may be good in certain aspects, and bad in others. One suspects here that the view is underpinned by the established Imāmī position of the objective qualities of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ being externally present (and hence irremovable) from a specific action. Al-­Karakī continues: It is possible to say, ‘If there is in the treaty both benefit and evil, one should base one’s actions upon the preponderant.’ Whichever of the two [viz. benefit and evil] is reduced when set alongside the other, or appears to be so, then that should be the selected course of action. There is no doubt that this rule, and ones like it, are only for the Imam’s deputy. The ­Imam – ­upon whom be ­peace – ­is the source of the rulings without any inconsistency, and any [contradictory] ruling. The utility of this rule [concerning the treaty], and others like it, is to know what the indicator ­necessitates – ­and it indicates that the Imam’s choice is such-­and-­ such a ruling and not any other.37

Here we have al-­Karakī’s response to the natural question, ‘If jihād is entirely under the direction of the Imam, and the Imam is sinless, why bother elucidating the rules of jihād in a work of fiqh?’ If one has an area of law that is dependent upon the Imam’s presence, and falls directly under his leadership, in a sense, anything he decides is the law. Fiqh is for jurists (and through them the rest of the community); it should guide them in their decision making about the application of the law. Surely here there is no need for such guidance since anything the Imam decides is the law. One may have here the beginnings of a sort of antinomianism, by which one may argue that since the law requires the Imam, and the Imam is absent, one can abandon any legal adherence entirely. Al-­Karakī’s answer is twofold. First, these rules apply to the Imam’s deputy, giving guidance to him if he was to make a peace treaty, having been designated to do so by the Imam. These rules are designed to guide, or explain his decision. Second, the exposition of the ruling here by al-­‘Allāma (and further elaborated by al-­Karakī) is to know ‘what the indicator necessitates’ (mā yaqtaḍiyuhu al-dalīl). The indicators here are the (interpreted) reports of the Imams; through them, one gains an understanding of what the Imam’s choice (ikhtiyār al-Imām) is, and his choice is the law. In fiqh, one is attempting to recreate the reasoning

36. Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 430. 37. Karakī, Jāmi‘, 3, p. 430.

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in the Imam’s mind, and thereby understand his ­choices – ­one is not questioning his choice, but postulating its justification. The Imam is, then, a sinless mujtahid, who performs comprehensible legal reasoning, but always arrives at the correct ruling. The sources, and the deductive work of the jurists in analysing them, reveal what that reasoning may be. CONCLUSION

In the above complex discussions, there seems little recognition of the Safavid context in al-­Karakī’s fiqh exposition, a point also made by Ranjbār.38 Al-­Karakī appears to view the Safavids as insufficiently legitimate to wage a jihād, although their temporal power may be recognised as preferable to anarchy or even Sunni rule. In relation to sanctioning the violence necessary to establish and maintain Safavid dynastic rule, al-­Karakī seems reluctant to do so in a technical work of ­jurisprudence – ­although he may have been quite happy in other contexts to sanction Safavid military exploits. In order to qualify for the premium class of religious legitimacy for any military conflict, the presence and empowerment of the sinless Imam remains necessary for al-­Karakī. This is not to say that other violent acts carried out by individuals (and the Safavid Shah is, ultimately, just an individual mukallaf like any other) may be justified on an ad hoc basis. These do not, however, fulfil the textually required criteria of jihād. In a strange reversal of Hannah Arendt’s famous dictum,39 for al-­Karakī (and in this, he does not appear unusual among Imāmī jurists), acts of military violence may well be justified, but without the Imam’s presence, they can never be legitimate.

38. Muḥammad Taqī Ranjbār, ‘Muvājahah-­yi muḥaqqiq-­i Karakī bā istiqrār-­i ḥukūmat-­i Ṣafavī dar ‘aṣr-­i Shāh Ismā‘īl-­e Avval (907–930ah)’, Pizhūhishhā-yi Tārīkhī 2.4 (1389Sh), 107–36; see particularly p.115. Ranjbar likes to characterise the relationship between al-­Karakī and the later Safavid state as one of muwājaha (‘opposition’; ‘face-­to-­ face against’), although this perhaps is too confrontational. 39. ‘Violence can be justifiable, but it never will be legitimate.’ Arendt, On Violence, p. 52.

PART III

. . .

VIOLENCE IN PHILOSOPHICAL THOUGHT

Chapter

9 Legitimate and illegitimate Violence in Arabic Political Philosophy: al‑FA ¯rA ¯bI ¯, Ibn Rushd and Ibn KhaldU ¯n

Miklós Maróth*

AL-­F¯RA A ¯BI ¯

Al-­Fārābī (d. 339/950) was a scholar in the history of the Islamic philosophy whose thoughts give guidance to solving the problems of certain fields even in the twentieth century. For example, by describing the system of sciences he guided the librarians of the twentieth century to create an Arabic library cataloguing system. This observable fact may motivate the researcher of violence and conversion to examine what his opinion was about the role of political violence and the method of conversion. Obviously as a political philosopher he had to explain the practice of Islam differently from what a legal expert, a theologian or a poet would write, but as a thoughtful Muslim he was not able to ignore the real circumstances he was living in. Reading his writings in the area of politics we often find trends of thoughts that deal with these questions. In his book The Views of the Inhabitants of the Perfect State, when he talks about the inhabitants of the faulty and imperfect state, he introduces their views this way: ‘The faulty and imperfect state comes into existence when their religion is based on the wrong views of the elders.’1 This sentence indicates that the views expressed in the following passages do not represent al-­Fārābī’s opinion, but is his account of opinions that he does not believe to be true. The fact that   * The Avicenna Institute of Middle Eastern Studies, Piliscsaba, Hungary.   1. Al-­Fārābī, Kitāb ārā’ ahl al-madīna al-fāḍila = Idées des habitants de la cité vertueuse, eds and trans Y. Karam, J. Chlala and A. Jaussen (Beyrouth, 1986), Chapter 34, p. 131 of the Arabic text.

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the doctrines he ascribes to the virtuous city in the previous chapters of the book are in the spirit of the Platonic and Aristotelian tradition of the Neo-­Platonic philosophy warns the reader that the ‘wrong views of the elders’ are the claims of another Greek philosophical school. The essence of these views is summarised briefly by the following sentences: Many of these things are provided with means to overpower everything which obstructs them and the relation of each opposite to each opposite and to everything other than it is made in this way, so that it may seem to us that any of them is just the only one intended exclusively to attain the most noble condition. Therefore it is provided with means to press into service what is useful for reaching its best condition. Thus we see that many animals attack many other animals, and seek to ruin and destroy them, without gaining any apparent benefit from it, as if it were arranged by nature that nothing else but this particular animal should exist in the whole world or that existence of any other animal would be regarded as harmful, its very existence being arranged with this purpose in view, although there is actually no other harm in the other animal apart from the mere fact of its existence. Moreover even if the other animals do not have this intention, it tries none the less to enslave others in so far as it can use them. This is the way in which the relation between the different species is arranged, and in many cases the relation between different individuals of one and the same species is arranged in the same way. These existents are then let loose to try to overpower others and to fight each other, and the most able to overpower other counts as the most perfect. The victor will always either attempt to destroy the other, because it is in the other’s nature that his existence is detrimental and harmful for his own existence, or to press him into service and enslave him, because he considers that the other exists for his own sake only. We also see things occurring without order, we see that the established ranks of the existents are not kept, we see many single things connected closely with some being or non-­being without deserving it. They said: This and the like of it is evident in the existents which we observe and come to know. Some people said after that: This state is natural for the existents and this is the nature with which they are endowed; and what natural bodies do by their very nature ought to be done through acts of choice and will by those living beings which are free to choose and trough deliberation by those which can deliberate. Therefore they held that cities ought to overpower and to fight each other, there being neither any ranks nor any established order, nor any place of honour or something else reserved for one and nobody else in particular according to merit; and that every man should keep any good he has to himself exclusively and seek to gain by force every good owned by another, and that the

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Violence in Arabic Political Philosophy151 man who is most successful in overpowering whoever rises against him is most happy.2

As R. Walzer proves in his commentary3 on the work, the text refers to the well-­ known philosophical theorem by Heraclitus which claims that the observable facts of the world are characterised by opposites. Instead of the word ‘opposite’ he used the metaphoric expression ‘war’. Here it is enough just to mention two of his fragments: 1. It is necessary to know that the war is common and justice is strife and that all things happen in accordance with strife and necessity.4 2. The war is the father of all, and king of all.5 Obviously in his work Heraclitus wanted to claim that opposites form unity, but he expressed this view in a way that let his words be misinterpreted in later times, for example, in the works of Plato and Aristotle and their students.6 In al-­Fārābī’s text we recognise this Heraclitus who had been misinterpreted in later times. In the meantime, we can observe that we do not find the quoted sentence among the wise quotes by Heraclitus appearing in the works of Arabic doxographists. In those works, there are completely different fragments under his name. So we also need to state that quoting Heraclitus’ characteristic sentence al-­Fārābī did not use Arabic doxography sources but evidently he used a later Greek work (as Walzer also assumes). In the work of al-­Fārābī we can find Heraclitus of the classical works of late antiquity; his knowledge of the ‘wrong views of the elders’ is based on indirect sources in his works. The sentence ‘furthermore, above all, we see that the observed things are in opposite and each trying to destroy one another’ correctly summarises one of the most important teachings of Heraclitus, but while summarising Heraclitus’ teaching the text mentions the word ‘species’, which on the other hand is an anachronism. Using this word in this context again refers to the use of a later created indirect source.   2. Al-­Fārābī, Mabādi‘ ārā’ ahl al-madīna al-fāḍila =Al-Fārābī on the Perfect State, ed. and trans. R. Walzer (Oxford, 1985), pp. 287–91.   3. Al-Fārābī, Mabādi‘ ārā’, pp. 481–503, especially pp. 482–3.   4. ‘Heraclitus’, in Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker: griechisch und deutsch, eds H. Diels and W. Kranz (Berlin, Weidmann, 1934–7), B 80: εἰδέναι χρὴ τὸν πόλεμον ἐόντα ξυνόν, καὶ δίκην ἔριν, καὶ γινόμενα πάντα κατ’ ἔριν καὶ χρεών.   5. ‘Heraclitus’, B 53: πόλεμος πάντων μὲν πατήρ ἐστι, πάντων δὲ βασιλεύς, κτλ.   6. G. S. Kirk, J. E. Raven and M. Schofield, The Presocratic Philosophers, 2nd edn (Cambridge, 1985), pp. 185–6.

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However, in the next step writing about the concept of war, al-­Fārābī sees that it can be found among the animals, too; the animals are all fighting against one another and they are trying to destroy one another. The example taken from the animal world is again typical of Greek philosophy. In Greek philosophy, it is commonplace that everything that is typical for the animals and is applied to them is also typical for and applied to humans, because it is a law of nature.7 In al-­Fārābī’s text we can see the conclusion: ‘This state is natural for the existents and this is the nature with which they are endowed.’ So, the wrong view that is believed by inhabitants of the faulty state is exactly this: the humans and the animals are all using violence against one another in order to maintain themselves. Thus, there is violence in politics and in private life, too, but it should be condemned as it is typical just for the faulty state. Meanwhile, reading al-­Fārābī’s book it can be clear for anyone that the ideal state is rather a goal to achieve, a non-­existent ideal, opposite to the reality8 that can be found in the book in the description of the imperfect cities whose violence reflects that of the society around al-­Fārābī. If we read the whole book we can see that according to their nature and because of the process of emanation, humans form a hierarchical order and, in this way, they fit into the hierarchical order of the cosmos that was formed by emanation, too. The harmony and peace of this order is opposed to the disorder resulting in conflict, war and anarchy. This truth is not recognised by the fools who follow the views of some ancient Greek philosophers propagating the omnipotence of war, egoism and contest. The difference between the Neo-­ Platonic philosophy, which is for al-­Fārābī the standard to follow, and the old, Pre-­Socratic philosophy is also manifest in his attribution to the inhabitants of the imperfect state the idea that with ‘things occurring without order, we see that the established ranks of the existents are not kept’. The cities and the individuals must fight because ‘there being neither any ranks nor any established order’ every individual stands alone, and has to try to use his possessions in order to defeat everyone else, for ‘the man who is most successful in overpowering whoever rises against him is the most happy’.9 By this we have arrived at the point where Plato starts the discussion of his

  7. For an example, see G. Watson, ‘Natural Law and Stoicism’, in Problems in Stoicism, ed. A. A. Long (London, 1971), pp. 216–38, especially pp. 229–30.   8. This is explicitly stated in al-­Fārābī, Falsafat Aflāṭūn wa-ajzā’uhā wa-marātib ajzā’ihā ilā ākhirihā, in Platon en pays d’Islam. Textes publiés et annotés par Abdurrahman Badawi (Tehran, 1974; repr. Beirut, 1980), p. 23.   9. Al-­Fārābī, Idées des habitants de la cité vertueuse, Chapter 27, pp. 105–6, Chapter 34, pp. 132–3 of the Arabic text.

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ideal state: the ethics of power of the Pre-­Socratean philosophy, which is represented by Trasymakhos and then refuted in Plato’s Republic, and to the character of the tyrant. This is not surprising, as I tried to prove elsewhere that continuing the tradition of late antiquity the Arabic philosophical tradition adopted Plotinus’ metaphysics, Plato’s state theory and Aristotle’s logic and ethics. In this canon, it is no surprise that in al-­Fārābī’s works we observe the effect of Plato’s political philosophy and the Neo-­Platonic metaphysics. Al-­Fārābī also followed the tradition of the Neo-­Platonic school in authoring a short work titled Falsafat Aflāṭūn wa-ajzā’uhā wa-marātib ajzā’ihā ilā ākhirihā in which he described briefly Plato’s views, mentioning also where Plato had explained them. He also produced an Epitome to Plato’s Laws (Talkhīs Nawāmīs Aflāṭūn) in which after presenting Plato’s political beliefs he also expresses those of his own. In the former al-­Fārābī claims that in a faulty state the philosopher must withdraw himself from society because following the rules of the state he would not be able to live a life worthy of a human. If he wants to reach perfection (which is to be happy) then he must remain away from everything; if he does not, he will either die or never reach perfection.10 According to al-­Fārābī this view is expressed in two dialogues of Plato, the Apology of Socrates and Phaedo.11 Plato who is featured in Epitome of Plato’s Laws explains that the good laws are in accordance with common sense and urge people to cooperation. He expresses this view explicitly, not only by allusions, when he states that we are only able to know the real nature of laws and every other thing by the knowledge of logic and by practising its use. That is why it is compulsory for all people to know logic and to absorb it; even though they cannot see its usefulness at first, practising logic will become useful for them later.12 The interest of humans is not to fight against one another but to cooperate in harmony with common sense. For this, humans must fight a battle even against themselves to reach cooperation or to defeat or to suppress (violently) every bad thing (qam‘ al-shurūr) that can be found in the state in order to make the cooperation possible.13

10. Al-­Fārābī, ‘Falsafat Aflāṭūn’, p. 23. Obviously, reaching perfection must be understood in the meaning of the Aristotelian telos. 11. Al-­Fārābī, Falsafat Aflāṭūn, p. 22. 12. Al-­Fārābī, ‘Talkhīs nawāmīs Aflāṭūn’, in Platon en pays d’Islam. Textes publiés et annotés par Abdurrahman Badawi (Tehran, 1974; repr. Beirut, 1980), p. 43. Obviously, a reference to logic in case of the real Plato would be an anachronism. 13. Al-­Fārābī, ‘Talkhīs Nawāmīs Aflāṭūn’, p. 38.

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In fact, in the Laws Plato clearly states that a man’s best state is the peaceful life. The wise people live in peace and understanding with the help of good laws.14 Violence is a way of life that is the opposite of this and it can take the form of war or civil war. Al-­Fārābī, however, puts this Platonic idea into a new frame. As we could see, he agrees that a peaceful life that is controlled by good laws is a desirable goal but he adds that in order to achieve this violent suppression (qam‘ al-shurūr)15 of evil, injustice and sins are needed. Humans need peace, but they have a strong tendency to the ­opposite – ­to war, to seeking advantage. Only restoring peace by suppressing evil can give a valid reason for war and violence, which has to be controlled by laws.16 Thus, war controlled by laws is a lawful means of violence performed for the good. Studying another passage of al-­Fārābī’s, we come to a similar conclusion. The text discusses the relationship between fathers and their underage sons (ṣabī) at great length. In their case we may observe that often what is considered good by the underage son is not considered as such by his father. The latter prays for Allah to enlighten his son’s mind. Later it does happen that by becoming older and changing their minds, the young do not find good what they found good ­before – e­ ven though the things themselves have not changed. The example shows clearly that the judgement of things does not depend on the things, but on the maturity and mental ability of the judging man. That is why it is understandable that idiots and the immature judge many things differently to how they are judged by mature people. From this it is obvious that only sensible people’s judgement matters in deciding what is right or wrong in a state.17 In a state without doubt there are leaders and followers. According to the previous remarks, the leaders can be the sensible and mature with the right experience of life; on the other hand, the followers consist of the underage and the ignorant.18 Considering all this, we can come to the conclusion that according to al-­Fārābī the state must be led by the sensible, intelligent and experienced people (though not those philosophers we know from Plato’s State). They are the ones who may judge right in the questions of beauty and goodness ­and – ­because of their developed rational abilities, knowledge of logic and excellence in its practice manifested in their ability to make right d­ eductions – ­they are able to set the laws of the state right. 14. Plato, Laws, 628 C–E. 15. Al-­Fārābī, ‘Talkhīs Nawāmīs Aflāṭūn’, p. 38. 16. Al-­Fārābī, ‘Talkhīs Nawāmīs Aflāṭūn’, p. 39. 17. Al-­Fārābī, ‘Talkhīs Nawāmīs Aflāṭūn’, p. 54. 18. Al-­Fārābī, ‘Talkhīs Nawāmīs Aflāṭūn’, p. 55.

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This is reflected in fact by two of al-­Fārābī’s works. These two works are similar in their content and also widely known. One of them is Ideas of the Citizens in the Virtuous City; the other is Political Regime. In both books, the author discusses first the world above the senses and proceeds by describing the heavenly world and then nature, and applies the rules deduced at these levels as he moves towards the description of humans and later human societies. With this, he proves in practice that the law-­maker must have a right idea of all the beings of the whole spiritual and material world if he wants to define the laws of political communities. The laws of state must be in accordance with the rational order that is observable in the natural and supernatural world. Moreover, the description of this order can be found in the subdisciplines of philosophy. After all, behind al-­Fārābī’s wise and experienced law-­maker we can find Plato’s philosopher. In the meantime, we cannot forget that for the Muslim al-­ Fārābī, the perfect law-­maker is no one else but the Prophet Muḥammad. The two figures, philosopher and prophet, blend in his works. This is referenced by another point in al-­Fārābī’s Falsafat Aflāṭūn. Here al-­ Fārābī discusses how a city can perish. He sees two possibilities for this. One is when the inhabitants do not mind their laws. In this case, they do not exploit the possibilities offered by the city and its institutes, and, therefore, their state starts to decline and the inhabitants leave. The other is when one or several foreign states attack and conquer it together. The attack of the outside force can appear in two forms. In one of the cases the goal is exactly that meaningless struggle that is considered to be the general law of egoism by the inhabitants of the imperfect city; in the other case, it is the passing of the divine law on to the citizens of the conquered city.19 Namely, as we may see from another location in the text, it is a very important feature of a city that it has a ‘divine leader’ (mudabbir ilāhī) whose aim is not only to make citizens obey the laws but is also to form right morals among the inhabitants.20 This can be achieved by the ruler sometimes through verbal persuasion but sometimes only through violence and coercion (qahr).21 Fighting over a city and subjugating it is bad when it comes to the ruler’s conceited personality, but they are good if they serve the improvement of morals by giving divine laws (sunan mā huwa ilāhī) to the city. Even if the law-­maker (wāḍi‘

19. Al-­Fārābī, ‘Falsafat Aflāṭūn’, p. 53. 20. Al-­Fārābī, ‘Falsafat Aflāṭūn’, p. 57. 21. Muhsin Mahdi, La cité vertueuse d’Alfarabi; La fondation de la philosophie politique en Islam (Paris, 2000), pp. 191 sqq.

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al-sunan) has to come to power by combat, he has the possibility to improve the people in a very short time.22 It is worthwhile observing al-­Fārābī’s wording. In Epitome of Plato’s Law he claims that a fight with the motivation of (tribal, national, institutional and so forth) clannishness (‘aṣabiyya), hatred (baghḍā’) or the intention for enslavement (qahr), is not lawful (nāmūsiyya).23 If we read the corresponding part of Plato’s Laws24 we can instantly see that two kinds of war are discussed there. One of them is civil war, which Plato believes to be wrong; the other is the war between cities that are states. Al-­Fārābī speaks, however, about such wars between cities that are motivated by the clannish solidarity of a city, their hate against another city and their will to enslave them. Compared to Plato, these thoughts fit into a new system: al-­Fārābī does not talk about civil war and war between states; he only writes about good and bad war. The unlawful war is bad war, and it does not have any gains, as we can see from the quoted passage. Therefore, there is unlawful war that is fruitless and, evidently, there is lawful war, which is fruitful and results in gains. Muhsin Mahdi comes to a similar conclusion in his book written about the political philosophy of al-­Fārābī, however, he does not prove his findings with any reference to sources.25 He also believes that the natural state of human is the general peace ‘la paix universelle constitue l’état naturel de l’homme, et la coexistence pacifique la seule voie de conduite juste’ ­but – ­according to the other view that can be found in al-­Fārābī’s ­works – ­due of his nature man tries to conquer others and rule them, so the war is the natural way of behaviour for humankind ‘par conséquent, la guerre est la seule voie de conduite universellement juste’. Because of this double human nature, we may find two kinds of state: the tyrannical state of the ignorant and faulty and the peace-­loving state of the people having correct views. Luckily, in al-­Fārābī’s Selected Aphorisms we can find a chapter dedicated to the question of war.26 In this, al-­Fārābī states that, on the one hand, the reason of war is to avert outside danger, and, on the other, it is to get some kind of advantage. After this he gives many examples to exemplify the second case. One of them is the war that can be used to force a people (qawm) to what is useful and good for them if they do not recognise it themselves or they do not follow the one who knows it and warns them in vain. The term qawm here is uncertain: it can mean another nation, but also a section of the inhabitants of one’s own state. War 22. Al-­Fārābī, ‘Falsafat Aflāṭūn’, p. 58. 23. Al-­Fārābī, ‘Falsafat Aflāṭūn’, p. 53. 24. Plato, Laws, 627 A–630 D. 25. Mahdi, La cité vertueuse d’Alfarabi, pp. 192–3. 26. Al-­Fārābī, Fuṣūl muntaza‘a, ed. Fawzī Mitrī Najjār (Beirut, 1971), pp 76–8.

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may serve noble cases: for example, restoring justice, or revenging a committed sin, so that it would not be repeated again. Even the total annihilation of another state, which means danger for the city, can be classified under the category of fighting for some kind of good as opposed to the other, illegitimate, kinds of war fought in order to conquer, to force others to obey, to acquire rule and leadership over others or simply to feel victorious, to satisfy vindictiveness and so forth. These kinds of wars are for tyrannical reasons, so they are illegitimate wars. Al-­Fārābī keeps the differentiation of good and bad war from Plato’s teachings, but the difference between them is not in the duality between the defence against the outside enemy or the civil war inside the city. He judges war to be moral or immoral on the grounds of the reason for the war. War motivated by egoism is bad, but war for guiding another nation to the right way, making them accept the divine law, is good. Al-­Fārābī’s reinterpretation of Plato’s thoughts reflects his views on jihād. We need to fight a war against ourselves27 on the one hand and against the unbelievers and errants on the other. (Nowadays, the former is called the ‘greater jihād’ and the latter is called the ‘lesser jihād’.) We need to defeat evil in ourselves and in them, too. War in general is meaningless, but it can be beneficial when its goal is to guide people to the right way. It becomes legitimate when a wise, enlightened, divine leader who recognises the divine laws of the universe and society (who is a prophet)28 uses it in order to save human souls. As a matter of fact, war was the most important means to expand the rule of Islam for many centuries. This is how Plato’s philosophy became a support for jihād through al-­Fārābī’s philosophical legitimisation of war, promoting the divinely inspired law, and this is how Islam became the framework for interpreting Plato. IBN RUSHD (AVERROES)

Al-­Fārābī’s loyal follower, Ibn Rushd (d. 595/1198), in his paraphrase of Plato’s State29 – using the parts known from al-­Fārābī’s philosophy30 – elaborates a hypothesis that fits into a unified system about the role of violence in the life of society. This work of his is precious for us, because in his oeuvre, which we

27. Al-­Fārābī, Talkhīs nawāmīs Aflāṭūn, p. 38. 28. Mahdi, La cité vertueuse d’Alfarabi, pp. 196–8. 29. Ralph Lerner (trans.), Averroes on Plato’s Republic (Ithaca and London, 1974). Lerner’s Preface – pp. VII–­IX – ­introduces the manuscript tradition that served as the basis for the English translation and the philological background for the history of the text. 30. Miklós Maróth, ‘Die Wurzel der Veritas duplex-Lehre’, Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 39.1–4 (1999), pp. 203–13, and the above mentioned.

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inherited in fragments only, this is the only ­book – ­left to us in Latin and Hebrew ­translation – t­hat conveys his views on violence. According to him it is important to develop virtues in the citizens of the state in the interest of society. This goal can be reached in two ways: by persuasion or by force. Again, persuasion has two ways: scientific syllogisms can be used for the scientifically prepared, but for the majority who are ignorant it is necessary to use poetical and rhetorical devices to make them accept the thoughts they need to have. These means are sufficient for the education of the ideal state whose citizens have been conditioned to morals. These two ways of persuasion and education must be considered natural. There is, however, another way of education, but this is for the inhabitants of the imperfect state, or for the enemies of the perfect state and this is violence. This also has two ways. If certain people do not listen to convincing arguments, they must be guided back to the right way with violence and beating. Beating is known to the citizens of the perfect state only from military exercise, but apart from that, violence is the most powerful means against any ignorant or deliberately resistant person. That is why the inhabitants of the non-­ideal state are usually punished with beating, flogging or execution when it comes to weeding out evil from the life of the state. On the other hand, the only tool that can be used against the inhabitants of the non-­good and non-­human cities is war. Nothing else can help against such states. The perfect state would never start a war for power but only for enforcing justice and morality.31 Obviously, the text implicitly presumes that an ideal state would never wage war against another ideal state (that is, an Islamic state against another Islamic state). Ibn Rushd’s equation between the ideal and the Islamic state can be recognised by his remark that on the way to God the divine l­aw – j­ust like the human ­law – ­permits two means: verbal persuasion, and war.32 In fact, these words state what the author has already generally said from the Muslim community’s point of view. The text starts to discuss the question of war in more detail. War may have a primary and a secondary goal. A primary goal can be to take from a hostile city something that is disdained by the people of the virtuous city (money, for example) or to follow some necessity. To reach some kind of good can be also a primary goal. The secondary goal can be to preserve the safety of the state against an outside threat.

31. Lerner, Averroes on Plato’s Republic, pp. 10–12. 32. Lerner, Averroes on Plato’s Republic, p. 12.

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But according to Plato, a condition for this is that at least a part of the citizens of the state must possess the necessary moral qualities and theoretical capabilities.33 To fight war, it is necessary to have the virtue of courage in people. This virtue is accompanied by the knowledge of the art of war, which means that just as in everything else, a virtue is required for a craft and a craft is required for a virtue. Of course, the virtuous city possesses the virtue of courage together with the other virtues.34 Another passage of the book allows us to deduce what Ibn Rushd thought to be unjust, in other words, evil war. Writing about the education of guards he explains why they cannot have wealth. If they have wealth, they may misuse their own pugnacious nature in order to enlarge their wealth and this is unacceptable as the motivation for their deeds. They would turn against the citizens of their own state, neglecting their duties in the defence of the city.35 Talking about the imperfect, degenerate city, Ibn Rushd draws on Plato’s theory and he introduces the timocracy – without mentioning its name in this passage. Although he sees this governmental form as a mixture of good and bad, he remarks that in this city war serves the desire for power. In this, he follows al-­Fārābī, even though he does not mention him, as the aforementioned thought appears in Ibn Rushd’s commentary on a passage from Plato’s State in which Plato does not mention anything about war and the deeds of guards. However, Ibn Rushd does name explicitly timocracy when, in concordance with Plato, he describes how this form of government turns into oligarchy. In oligarchy, the utmost value is wealth, but this makes people on the one hand rich and mean and, on the other, sybaritic. Because of the first reason, they do not hire mercenaries because they fear them and because of the second reason they cannot fight themselves. Consequently, as is shown by many historical examples, they flee and their state collapses.36 Here Ibn Rushd does not make any remark about the nature of war, but it is clear from the text how much he condemns this ­system – ­for many reasons, including that it cannot wage war (even for good cause) when it is needed. That can result in the brave poor simply chasing away the rich who have been ruling them.37 This means that the transition from oligarchy to democracy happens through war, but this war happens for menial causes, for money and power. Ibn Rushd does not state this, but it can be understood clearly from his words. 33. Plato: State, 435 E–436 A. 34. Lerner, Averroes on Plato’s Republic, p. 12. 35. Lerner, Averroes on Plato’s Republic, pp. 38–9. 36. Lerner, Averroes on Plato’s Republic, pp. 121–3. 37. Lerner, Averroes on Plato’s Republic, 126–7.

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To sum up Ibn Rushd’s views on violence, we can state that he does not say anything new compared to what we found in al-­Fārābī, but his message is summarised in a unified system and that is new. According to him, war is inevitable and the ideal state fights wars but for good causes. As he writes, in a degenerate city nobody has to do (useful) civil trade, be it warlike, peace-­like or any other, so such a state collapses easily.38 In another passage of the book, Ibn Rushd states that if the inhabitants of a city have not been trained in virtue from a young age, at their mature age it would no longer be possible. However, if it is not possible to bring somebody to a certain degree of virtue, that person must be killed or enslaved and, as such, people are no more than ignorant animals.39 In summary, war and violence in society are not bad or good per se. Whether violence is to be praised or condemned depends on its legitimate or illegitimate purpose, whether it is moral and right, or it is evil. This example clearly shows what the criteria are for the legal or illegal use of violence. IBN KHALDU ¯N

Ibn Khaldūn (d. 784/1382) was one of the most influential thinkers of the Islamic world.40 In his works, which draw strongly on the works of Arabic philosophers,41 he dedicates a great deal of interest to the question of violence and especially war. He takes his teachings from the philosophical theories of Aristotle and Ibn Sīnā (Avicenna). According to him, as we may know from Aristotle’s Politics, people form communities by their nature.42 This partnership is the source of the positive and friendly feelings, as well as some of the negative, hostile feelings.43 It is the basis of the feeling of solidarity (‘aṣabiyya) that holds the society

38. Lerner, Averroes on Plato’s Republic, p. 128: ‘Since in this city no one is compelled to undertake any of the (useful) civic matters (such as) wars, peace, and the rest, it easily comes to ruin.’ 39. Lerner, Averroes on Plato’s Republic, pp. 14–15: ‘It also is not impossible that many of those who have passed the years of youth should receive the virtues to some extent, in particular those who have not been raised under a governance close to a very virtuous governance. Could this [degree of virtue] not be established in them, they would be worthy of being either killed or enslaved, and their rank in the city would be that of the dumb brutes.’ 40. Yves Lacoste, Ibn Khaldoun. Naissance de l’Histoire, passé du tiers monde (Paris, 1998), p. I. 41. Miklós Maróth, Die Araber und die antike Wissenschaftstheorie (Leiden, 1994), pp. 222–6. 42. Aristotle, Politics, 1252 a 24–b 31. 43. Muhsin Mahdi, Ibn Khaldûn’s Philosophy of History (London, 1957), p. 175.

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together but also causes the hatred and hostility that is shown towards foreigners. The former helps the group to gain victory and power over foreigners (ghalba, ri’āsa), and the latter fuels the desire to suppress and enslave (qahr) them.44 This desire lives in the human soul, more precisely in its middle part, the animal soul where the facultas irascibilis (al-quwwa al-nuzū‘iyya, explained in Ibn Sīnā’s psychology) is rooted.45 Therefore, both the love for one another and the hate for one another come from the human soul, which means they are part of human nature, so they are natural and inevitable. This explains why Ibn Khaldūn dedicates a whole chapter to the question of war in his famous al-Muqaddima (Introduction to History) and to categorising war into several subtypes.46 In this chapter, he states that there have always been wars, and their root is the vindictiveness of people. When a group of men who are bound together by the group-­like solidarity (‘aṣabiyya) meet another similar group of men, and they have fanaticised themselves enough, then one group will try to take revenge, and the other will try to defend themselves. This is the reason for war. ‘It [war] is something natural among human beings. No nation and no race (generation) is free from it’ – we read in the text.47 After describing the essence of war, Ibn Khaldūn establishes the many kinds it may have, as defined by their causes. According to him, war can be a result of 1. envy and hatred 2. looting 3. hatred against God (Allah) and His religion 4. hatred against royal authority or the aspiration to found a kingdom. Therefore, war can have four different kinds. The first kind usually breaks out between neighbouring families, tribes or peoples. The second kind is waged by wild peoples living in the desert (Arabs, Turks, Turkomans and Kurds) against the settled, civilised, richer and less belligerent people living in civilisation (khaḍāra), in order to acquire necessities by arms, divesting them of their possessions. The third kind is the holy war waged for religion (jihād). The fourth kind is the war fought for the interest of the country against external aggressors,

44. Mahdi, Ibn Khaldûn’s Philosophy of History, p. 178. 45. Mahdi, Ibn Khaldûn’s Philosophy of History, pp. 183, 198. 46. Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima (Cairo, n. d.), Book 3, Chapter 37, pp. 270–9. 47. Ibn Khaldūn, The Muqaddimah: An Introduction to History, trans. Franz Rosenthal (London, 1967), vol. 2, pp. 79–89, especially p. 73.

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or internal rebels. The first two kinds of war are unjust; the latter two are holy and just.48 We can understand better this typology about war in the light of other passages of Ibn Khaldūn’s al-Muqaddima. The author starts his discussion of history by ­stating – f­ ollowing ­Aristotle – ­that humans forming partnerships with others is part of human nature and thus man is a ‘political animal’, zóon politicon (‫)االنسان مدني بالطبع‬.49 From the partnership comes group solidarity (‘aṣabiyya) and hostility on account of the need to protect one another against outside dangers. This task can only be fulfilled by a well-­organised community, so the aim of the ‘aṣabiyya is to form a kingdom (mulk).50 If the kingdom has been formed, the reasons for the different kinds are as described above. We already saw that al-­Fārābī considered war natural and also identified ‘aṣabiyya as its cause. Ibn Khaldūn relied on the teachings of earlier philosophers in this substantial question, too. At the same time, we must also see that he included the thoughts found in earlier philosophers within the framework of a new theory that he was the first to formulate. Ibn Khaldūn created an axiomatic51 philosophy of history, which is an axiomatically built scientific system whose axioms (muqaddimāt) included, for example, that human is a political animal, zóon politicon, so by his nature he forms partnerships with others. This theory had its terms and definitions, such as the already mentioned ‘aṣabiyya, ri’āsa, qahr, khaḍāra (civilisation) and mulk.52 In this axiomatically built philosophy of history earlier concepts gained new meanings within the system. The concept ‘aṣabiyya, which can be found in al-­ Fārābī, remained in Ibn Khaldūn’s philosophy of history, too, but it became an efficient cause (the Aristotelian kinoun) in history and by this it gained a new meaning.53 Similarly, the old, innocent concepts of mulk and ri’āsa acquired new meaning as well and they became final causes (the Aristotelian telos) with significant meaning in the new system.54 Solidarity (‘aṣabiyya) and hostility became the rules of derivation as the author uses them to explain events. 48. Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, pp. 270–1. 49. Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, al-­Kitāb al-­awwal, al-­bāb al-­awwal, p. 41. 50. Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, al-­Kitāb al-­awwal, al-­bāb al-­thānī, Chapter 17, p. 139: ‫الغاية‬ ‫التي تجري اليها العصبية هي الملك‬. 51. In an Aristotelian sense. The meaning of the term ‘axiom’ is different in other Greek philosophical schools. 52. Maróth, Die Araber und die antike Wissenschaftstheorie, pp. 234–48. 53. Mahdi, Ibn Khaldûn’s Philosophy of History, p. 269. 54. Cf. above, n. 50, and ibid ‫فالتغلب الملكي غاية للعصبية‬. F. E. Peters, Greek Philosophical Terms: A Historical Lexicon, London; New York, 1967, p. 16; Aristotle, Physics 194 b–195 a; Metaphysics 1,013 a–1,014 a.

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The lawful or unlawful nature of violence is determined by Ibn Khaldūn within the framework of this unique new system and although the outcome is similar to the one we saw in al-­Fārābī and Ibn Rushd, there are also significant differences. In contrast with al-­Fārābī, Ibn Khaldūn does not speak of the hierarchic structure of society and examining his classification we can see that the two kinds of war that serve the cause of civilisation are legitimate, whereas the other two that do not serve it, are illegitimate. Thus, we cannot ignore the fact that Ibn Khaldūn sees the most permanent aspect of history in civilisation and in its development (and forgets about the theory of emanation, serving as a background theory for al-­Fārābī); so he believes the wars serving the development of civilisation to be the legitimate form of violence. The kingdom that he counts as ‘natural rule’ (mulk tabī‘ī) whose only aim is the nomads’ extortion of the goods they need from the settled (that is, civilised) population or simply to use the group’s natural solidarity in their interests against others, is considered as the illegitimate form of violence.55 We can gather, however, from another passage in Ibn Khaldūn’s al-Muqaddima that the royal ­authority – w ­ hich was mentioned above in point four of the list of the causes of ­war – i­s a rational system that is characteristic for man.56 What is bad in human society comes from the work of the animal soul, but a kingdom is formed by the human nature (which is his rational intellect). The war of a human community based on rationality, that is, a kingdom, is a legitimate form of war as its reason is to create or spread a rational system;57 therefore, in the end it serves the interest of civilisation. War (violence), as a service rendered to civilisation, is the new criterion of legitimacy in Ibn Khaldūn’s philosophy of history. The same is true for the war waged in the interest of religion, that is, to protect or to spread it. It is a legitimate form of violence, as was the case for al-­Fārābī or Ibn Rushd.58 CONCLUSION

We can see that the views of the philosophers about legitimate violence concur on several points. One of them is the naturalness of violence. Violence has always existed and will exist, as it is part of life, including human life.59 It has

55. Mahdi, Ibn Khaldûn’s Philosophy of History, pp. 264–6. 56. Ibn Khaldūn, al-Muqaddima, al-­Kitāb al-­awwal, al-­bāb al-­thānī, Chapter 20, pp. 142–3. 57. Mahdi, Ibn Khaldûn’s Philosophy of History, pp.266–7. 58. Mahdi, Ibn Khaldûn’s Philosophy of History, pp. 263, 267–8. 59. See István T. Kristó-­Nagy, introduction to this series, ‘Violence, Our Inherent Heritage’, in Violence in Islamic Thought from the Qur’ān to the Mongols, eds Robert Gleave and István T. Kristó-­Nagy (Edinburgh, 2015), pp. 2–17.

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two forms: legitimate violence and illegitimate violence. The most frequent form of both is war, although war can occur between states, smaller communities and individuals. If the violence leads to the rule of religion (that is, the right religion, Islam) or to the rule of reason (which is presumably the same) then it is permitted. In other cases, it is not. The same view appears embedded in different theories. Al-­Fārābī takes the Neo-­Platonic theory of emanation as a starting point for his discussion of the subject, and comes to the conclusion that the (not yet existing) ideal state (the state of Islam) will be free of all kinds of violence. Violence, however, is a concomitant feature of the ignorant, errant and consequently imperfect political regimes. Ibn Rushd comments on Plato’s political theory, and states accordingly that all existing states are imperfect and, consequently, due to human nature, war and violence is present in all societies. The only question to be answered is how one can define the criteria of its legitimacy. The basic criterion is its main purpose: the establishment of good or bad morals. Ibn Khaldūn sees that states and empires come and go; the only permanent factor of history is the continuous development of human culture. Creating a new, axiomatically argued theory of philosophy he comes to the conclusion that violence and war are legitimate, if they serve the development of culture, and illegitimate, if they impede its development, or if they destroy it.

Chapter

10 ‘Soft’ and ‘Hard’ Power in Islamic Political Advice Literature

Vasileios Syros*

The recent spread of violence and terrorist acts orchestrated by the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant (ISIL) in both the Middle East and Europe have led to renewed debates about violence as an intrinsic aspect of Islam conceived of as a religious or cultural tradition founded on values, principles and ideals different from or even diametrically opposed to and irreconcilable with those prevailing in the West. Although violence has been a persistent feature in the political life of many Muslim majority states, Islamic political discourse on the nature, scope, purpose and limits of legitimate rulership is characterised by a high degree of sophistication.1 A considerable number of medieval Islamic treatises of political   * Columbia University, New York, USA. I wish to thank Abdessamad Belhaj, Paul Heck, István T. Kristó-­Nagy, Roy Mottahedeh, Marinos Sariyannis and Miguel Vatter for their input and helpful comments on earlier versions of this chapter.   1. See, in general, Stefan Leder, ‘Sultanic Rule in the Mirror of Medieval Political Literature’, in Global Medieval: Mirrors for Princes Reconsidered, eds Regula Forster and Neguin Yavari (Cambridge, MA, 2015), pp. 94–111; Patricia Crone, God’s Rule: Government and Islam: Six Centuries (New York, 2004), published simultaneously in the UK under the title Medieval Islamic Political Thought (Edinburgh, 2004); Aziz Al-­Azmeh, Muslim Kingship: Power and the Sacred in Muslim, Christian, and Pagan Polities (London, 1997); idem, ‘Monotheistic Kingship’, in Monotheistic Kingship: The Medieval Variants, eds Aziz Al-­Azmeh and János Bak (Budapest, 2004), pp. 9–29; Tilman Nagel, Staat und Glaubensgemeinschaft im Islam: Geschichte der politischen Ordnungsvorstellungen der Muslime (Zurich and Munich, 1981). Earlier literature on Islamic mirrors for princes and advice literature is referenced in Vasileios Syros, ‘Behind Every Great Reformer There is a “Machiavelli”: al-­Maghīlī, Machiavelli, and the Micro-­ politics of an Early Modern African and an Italian City-­state’, Philosophy East and West

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and ethical advice, for instance, are devoted to the origins and manifestations of ẓulm, a term loaded with a constellation of meanings associated with ‘repressive’, ‘tyrannical’, ‘illegitimate’ or ‘arbitrary’ rule2 and the ways in which a ruler, a minister or a government official can avoid tampering with his authority and crossing the thin line that separates righteous and salutary government from malfeasance and the misuse or abuse of power. While one could possibly argue that the medieval Islamic political tradition never articulated a fully fledged or powerful doctrine about the right of disobedience, resistance or rebellion, the deposition of an unrighteous ruler, or tyrannicide, as compared to those formulated by Latin/Western European authors, such as John of Salisbury (d. 1180) and the Monarchomachs in sixteenth-­century France,3 in Islamic political writing on the illegitimate use of power and violence is almost unequivocally condemned as anathema to the existence of a peaceful, just and prosperous society and a stable civil order. On the other hand, although the notion of human nature underpinning Islamic political thought is very different from that of the Western tradition coloured by Augustine’s doctrine of original sin, Muslim political authors are not oblivious to the importance of the application of physical force not only in warfare, but also at the domestic level, especially when dealing with malefactors, evildoers and agencies attempting to foment factionalism and disorder, subvert the political order and engineer political and social fragmentation. A notable specimen of early Islamic literature dealing with these questions is the work al-Fakhrī (roughly translated as On the Systems of Government and Muslim Dynasties)4 written by Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā (fl. late seventh/late thirteenth– 65.4 (2015), 1119–48; Linda T. Darling, ‘Mirrors for Princes in Europe and the Middle East: A Case of Historiographical Incommensurability’, in East Meets West in the Middle Ages and Early Modern Times: Transcultural Experiences in the Premodern World, ed. Albrecht Classen (Berlin and Boston, 2013), pp. 223–42, is also germane.   2. For a brief discussion and references, see Bernard Lewis, The Political Language of Islam (Chicago, 1988), p. 155, n. 30.   3. See, e.g., Bettina Koch, Patterns Legitimizing Political Violence in Transcultural Perspectives: Islamic and Christian Traditions and Legacies (Berlin, 2015); Mario Turchetti, Tyrannie et tyrannicide de l’Antiquité à nos jours (Paris, 2001; repr. with updated bibliography, 2013); Cary J. Nederman, ‘A Duty to Kill: John of Salisbury’s Theory of Tyrannicide’, Review of Politics 50 (1988), 365–89; Julian H. Franklin, trans. and ed., Constitutionalism and Resistance in the Sixteenth Century: Three Treatises by Hotman, Beza, & Mornay (New York, 1969); Oscar Jászi and John D. Lewis, Against the Tyrant: The Tradition and Theory of Tyrannicide (Glencoe, IL, 1957). Compare Khaled Abou El Fadl, Rebellion and Violence in Islamic Law (Cambridge, 2001).   4. For this essay two editions of the Arabic text and an English translation based on them have been used: Al-Fakhrî. Histoire du khalifat et du vizirat, depuis leurs origines jusqu’à

­

‘Soft’ and ‘Hard’ Power in Islamic Political Advice Literature167 early eighth/early fourteenth century), a low-­ranking government official, in 701/1302, during a sojourn in Mosul, for the local ruler Fakhr al-­Dīn ‘Īsā b. Ibrāhīm. Al-Fakhrī is a richly documented history of various Islamic dynasties and a neglected, but highly interesting, source of insights into the dynamics of effective political action. The objective of this chapter is to offer an analysis of Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s ideas on the interface of a benign or benevolent style of rule with the application of violence and the criteria for the legitimate use of force. I argue that, at a deeper level, al-Fakhrī projects a favourable image of Mongol rule that contrasts forcefully with the denunciation of the Mongol invasion that occurs in many of the works of Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s contemporaries, such as Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328),5 and is partly embedded in the endeavour to diagnose the factors that led to the erosion of ‘Abbāsid imperial power and, ultimately, provide a cautionary tale inspired by the failings and depredations of ‘Abbāsid rule and the ailments of ‘Abbāsid society. Additionally, this chapter is the first sustained attempt to look at medieval Islamic ideas on good political leadership from the viewpoint of recent debates on ‘soft’ and ‘hard’ power and to look at how and to what extent Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s political theory can be incorporated into a broader narrative about Islamic and Western European ideas on violence. The interface of soft and hard power forms an important strain running jusqu’à la chute du khalifat ‘Abbaside de Bagdâdh (11–656 de l’hégire=632–1258 de notre ére), avec des prolégomènes sur les principes du gouvernement, ed. Hartwig Derenbourg (Paris, 1895). Available (with missing pages) at https://archive.org/details/ alfakhrhistoire00deregoog (accessed 1 December 2017) (hereon al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg); Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā, Al-Fakhrī fī al-ādāb al-sulṭāniyya wa-al-duwal al-islāmiyya (London and Cairo, 1921) (hereon al-Fakhrī/ London; Cairo); Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā, Al Fakhri: On the Systems of Government and the Moslem Dynasties, trans. Charles E. J. Whitting (London, 1947; repr. Karachi, 1977) (hereon al-­Fakhrī/Whitting). There is also a French translation: Al-Fakhrî; histoire des dynasties musulmanes depuis la mort de Mahomet jusqu’à la chute du khalifat ‘Abbāsīde de Bagdâdz (11–656 de l’hégire = 632–1258 de J.-C.). Avec des prolégomènes sur les principes du gouvernement, trans. Émile Amar (Paris, 1910). Available at: https://archive.org/details/alfakhrhistoir00muamuoft (accessed 1 December 2017). On al-Fakhrī, see Joseph A. Kéchichian, ‘Mirrors for Princes’, in The Oxford Encyclopedia of Islam and Politics, ed. Emad El-­Din Shahin, vol. 2 (Oxford and New York, 2014), pp. 62–3; Charles Melville, ‘The Royal Image in Mongol Iran’, in Every Inch a King: Comparative Studies on Kings and Kingship in the Ancient and Medieval Worlds, eds Lynette Mitchell and Charles Melville (Leiden and Boston, 2013), pp. 362–3. Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s political theory has not received the scholarly attention that it merits. A brief discussion is included in Erwin I. J. Rosenthal, Political Thought in Medieval Islam: An Introductory Outline (Cambridge, 1958; repr. Westport, CT, 1985), pp. 62–7.   5. For Arab perceptions of the Mongols and further references to the sources and secondary literature, see the chapters by Timothy May, Michal Biran, István Vásáry and Jon Hoover in this volume.

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through Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s interpretation of Islamic history and his exposition of the principles and components of successful leadership. Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā shares a set of concerns with Niccolò Machiavelli (d. 1527), a more widely recognised political writer, who a few centuries later theorised the configuration and delicate balance between soft co-­optive and hard command or coercive power, represented by love and fear in Machiavelli’s lexicon, respectively. By using Machiavelli as a template to look at Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s ideas in a comparative context, this essay aims to add historical depth to present-­day discussions about leadership and, ultimately, revisit and interrogate certain ideas about Islamic exceptionalism that have long distorted the study of the evolution of Islamic political thought. MODERN PERSPECTIVES ON SOFT AND HARD POWER

The distinction between ‘soft’ and ‘hard power’ has been proposed by Professor Joseph Nye, Jr of Harvard University in the context of his endeavour to dissect the various leadership styles, skills and competencies related to modern democratic societies and organisations.6 Hard power, according to Nye, entails a coercive component embodied in police power, financial power and the ability to hire and fire, all of which are instantiations of command power that can be employed to compel others to change their positions, and operate through inducements or rewards (carrots) and threats (sticks). Soft power, in contrast, entails determining the framework and delineating the parameters of a debate and then appealing to, attracting and co-­opting others without payments or threats. Soft power requires the capability to mould the behaviour, attitudes and preferences of others, by inducing them to strive for the same things as the leader and leading by example.7

  6. Joseph S. Nye Jr, The Powers to Lead (Oxford, 2008), p. 52. See also the following studies by Nye: ‘Soft Power, Hard Power and Leadership’ (Harvard Kennedy School of Government, 27 October 2006). Available at: http://www.hks.harvard.edu/netgov/ files/talks/docs/11_06_06_seminar_Nye_HP_SP_Leadership.pdf (accessed 1 December 2017); Soft Power: The Means to Success in World Politics (New York, 2004), esp. pp. 5–18, 25–30. A synopsis of Nye’s ideas on the various kinds of leadership is included in Joseph S. Nye Jr, ‘Power and Leadership’, in Handbook of Leadership Theory and Practice: An HBS Centennial Colloquium on Advancing Leadership, eds Nitin Nohria and Rakesh Khurana (Boston, 2010), pp. 305–32.   7. Nye, The Powers to Lead, p. 29. The term ‘soft power’ was introduced by Nye in his work Bound to Lead: The Changing Nature of American Power (New York, 1989), pp. 31–3, 188. Consider also idem, The Future of Power (New York, 2011), pp. 20–24, 81–109, 228–9. Since then it has enjoyed wide application, especially in the study of inter-­state relations, and has been used extensively by political dignitaries, editorial writers and

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Nye believes that leaders in authoritarian regimes can exercise coercion and force and issue orders and commands. Statesmen in democratic settings rely more on the right mix of inducement and attraction and, in this regard, soft power constitutes a dominant feature of daily democratic politics. Co-­optive or indirect power behaviour, which aims at shaping what others want and aspire to, is founded on the attractiveness of one’s beliefs, values, attitudes and goals or the capacity to set the agenda of political preferences and choices. These choices derive from assets that are often intangible, for instance, an attractive personality, culture, principles and moral authority.8 Soft power ought not to be equated with persuasion or the ability to move people by argument, although these are crucial aspects. More importantly, it signifies the capability to entice and attract, because attraction often leads to acquiescence.9 Following Max Weber (d. 1920), Nye distinguishes three ideal types of authority: traditional authority, under which one person follows another because the latter is a ruler, king or emperor by right of a traditional process such as heredity; rational or legal authority, which is exercised by a person who acts as a president, director or chair and has been appointed through an election process or rational criteria; and charismatic authority, under which one person follows another because the latter embodies a gift of grace or radiates exceptional ­magnetism.10 According to Nye, there are various manifestations of personal attraction. People can find others appealing thanks to both their intrinsic ­qualities and the effect and impact of their communication. At the heart of Nye’s notion of soft power lies the concept of charisma construed as the emotional or magnetic quality of inherent attraction.11 Charisma is a special power by virtue of which a person can engender fascination and loyalty. Charismatic leaders are often portrayed as being self-­confident, and animated with strong convictions and enthusiasm, which they infuse in others; they also have the ability to manipulate symbols as insignia of power and success in order to

scholars around the globe, although it has often been distorted and misapplied, see Nye, Power in the Global Information Age: From Realism to Globalization (London and New York, 2004), p. 5.   8. Nye, The Powers to Lead, p. 30.   9. Nye, The Powers to Lead, p. 31. 10. Nye, The Powers to Lead, p. 37. On Weber’s taxonomy of the various types of rule, see Max Weber, Political Writings, eds Peter Lassman and Ronald Speirs (Cambridge and New York, 1994), pp. 311–16. For further discussion, consider Edith Hanke and Wolfgang J. Mommsen, eds, Max Webers Herrschaftssoziologie: Studien zu Entstehung und Wirkung (Tübingen, 2001). 11. Nye, The Powers to Lead, pp. 38–9.

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generate emotional attraction.12 The strength of charismatic leaders derives from personal and inspirational power resources rather than power associated with an official status and position of authority, such as the office of a king or president, although sometimes the power with which such offices are vested produces an aura of charisma. Charismatic leaders are adept at communication, vision and confidence; they serve as a model and manage the impressions that they create.13 While Nye’s attempt to address the interplay between soft and hard power is programmatically confined to the sphere of liberal democracy, the intent of this present paper is to assess the applicability of this distinction as a conceptual tool for exploring the evolution of Islamic political thought, focusing on medieval Islamic ideas around the relationship between diverse leadership strategies designed to sustain and conserve political power or royal authority on the basis of personal charisma, on the one hand, and the application of violence or deployment of military power, on the other. This is new territory, given that Western scholarship has traditionally ascribed a certain degree of exceptionalism to non-­ Western modes of political theorising and regime forms, often precluding the application of conceptual categories used in the analysis of Western forms of government to other cultural or civilisational spheres. ‘SOFT’ AND ‘HARD’ POWER IN THE ISLAMIC TRADITION

The distinction between soft and hard power employed by Nye in his endeavour to dissect the mechanics of political power and complexities of leadership is prefigured in one of the foundational texts of Islamic advice literature, the Kitāb al-Adab al-kabīr,14 a treatise on courtly conduct by Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘ (d. c. 140/757), and further discussed by Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā. Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘, a seminal intellectual figure of the early Islamic period, who served as secretary (kātib) of various Umayyad officials and later of the ‘Abbāsid Dynasty, composed a number of translations of Persian works into Arabic that were instrumental in the dissemination of ancient Iranian, Indian and Greek political ideas in the Islamic world. According to Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘, the ruler, in the administration of

12. Nye, The Powers to Lead, p. 55. 13. Nye, The Powers to Lead, p. 58. 14. Concerning the title of this work, see István T. Kristó-­Nagy, La pensée d’Ibn al-Muqaffa‘. Un «agent double» dans le monde persan et arabe (Versailles, 2013), p. 181; idem, ‘On the Authenticity of Al-Adab al-ṣaġīr Attributed to Ibn al-­Muqaffac and Problems Concerning Some of his Titles’, Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 62.2 (2009), 213–16.

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‘Soft’ and ‘Hard’ Power in Islamic Political Advice Literature171 temporal affairs, can employ two approaches: one operates with force (strength/­ steadfastness) and allows him to solidify his authority; the other embellishes his power by enhancing his popularity and securing the people’s goodwill and allegiance. Force is, at least at the outset, more expedient and preferable, whereas the latter helps the ruler make his power sweet, appear benign and induce and cultivate followership. Ultimately, however, Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘ argues, both types of political conduct are inextricably intertwined and feed into each other, since force emanates from popularity and vice versa.15 An interesting corollary of Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘’s pragmatic approach to the art of rulership is the notion that religion constitutes one of the main tools of ‘soft power’.16 Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘ formed the groundwork for subsequent discussions in the Islamic tradition that encapsulate the distinction between ‘soft’ and ‘hard power’ in the context of the relationship between the pen (the learned men) and the sword

15. Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘, ‘Kitāb al-Adab al-kabīr’ (under the title al-Durra al-yatīma aw al-Adab al-kabīr), in Rasā’il al-Bulaġā’, ed. Muḥammad Kurd ‘Alī, 3rd edn (Cairo, 1365/1946, reprinted in the 4th edn, 1374/1954), p. 54; Geert Jan van Gelder, trans., Classical Arabic Literature: A Library of Arabic Literature Anthology (New York and London, 2013), p. 175; Jean Tardy, ‘Traduction d’al-Adab al-Kabīr d’Ibn al-­Muqaffac’, Annales Islamologiques 27 (1993), p. 191, § 32; Oskar Rescher, trans., ‘Das kitâb “el-­adab el-­ kebîr” des Ibn el-­Moqaffa‘’, Mitteilungen des Seminars für Orientalische Sprachen an der Königlichen Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität zu Berlin 20.2 (1917), 46–7. On this passage, consider the remarks by Mohamed Mahassine, ‘Deux genres d’autorité vus à travers les oeuvres d’Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘. L’autorité fondée sur la religion et l’autorité fondée sur la fermeté’, Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 14.1 (1991), 89–120. On Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘’s political ideas, see the following studies by István T. Kristó-­Nagy: La pensée d’Ibn al-Muqaffa‘; idem, ‘Who Shall Educate Whom? The Official and the Sincere Views of Ibn al-­Muqaffac about Intellectual Hierarchy’, in Synoptikos. Mélanges offerts à Dominique Urvoy, eds Nicole Koulayan and Mansour Sayah (Toulouse, 2011), pp. 279–93; idem, ‘Reason, Religion and Power in Ibn al-­Muqaffac’, Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 62.3 (2009), 285–301; idem, ‘Marriage after Rape: The Ambiguous Relationship between Arab Lords and Iranian Intellectuals as Reflected in Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘’s Oeuvre’, in Tradition and Reception in Arabic Literature, eds Margaret Larkin and Jocelyn Sharlet (Wiesbaden, 2019), 161–88; as well as Andras Hamori, ‘Prudence, Virtue, and Self-­respect in Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘’, in Reflections on Reflections: Near Eastern Writers Reading Literature, eds Angelika Neuwirth and Andreas Christian Islebe (Wiesbaden, 2006), pp. 161–79; Mirella Cassarino, L’aspetto morale e religioso nell’opera di Ibn al-Muqaffa‘ (Soveria Mannelli [Catanzaro], 2000); Said Amir Arjomand, ‘‘Abd Allah Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘ and the ‘Abbasid Revolution’, Iranian Studies 27 (1994), 9–36; Francesco Gabrieli, ‘L’opera di Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘’, Rivista degli studi orientali 13 (1932), 197–247. 16. Kristó-­Nagy, ‘Reason, Religion and Power in Ibn al-­Muqaffac’; idem, ‘Marriage after Rape’.

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(the military).17 For instance, in the Kitāb al-Ishāra ilā maḥāsin al-tijāra wama‘rifat jayyid al-a‘rāḍ wa-radī’ihā wa-ghushūsh al-mudallisīn fīhā (Book of Knowledge of the Merits of Trade and Distinction of Good and Bad Merchandise and the Defrauders’ Falsifications in Them), a guidebook on trade, al-­Dimashqī (fl. sixth/twelfth century) suggests that government revolves around the sword and the pen. The power of the sword is exercised, for instance, by kings, princes, and military commanders, whereas the power of the pen pertains to ministers, secretaries, judges and preachers. The ‘men of the sword’ are the protectors and the ‘men of the pen’ act as the service providers.18 Al-­Dimashqī follows a line of tradition that reaches its culmination in the Muqaddima (Introduction to History) of the great historian Ibn Khaldūn (d. 808/1406), who looks at the formation, growth and decline of various dynasties from the perspective of the struggles and power relations between the learned men (‘men of the pen’) and the military (‘men of the sword’).19 IBN AL-­T ¯ ON GOOD LEADERSHIP · IQT · AQA

Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s political theory is rooted in a long tradition of writing in the Islamic tradition about the relationship between the study of history and government. Some of the very first specimens of Arabic prose literature sought to ground ethical-­political wisdom in a historical framework: these works include the (fictitious) correspondence between Aristotle and Alexander the Great, translated into Arabic most probably by Sālim Abū al-­‘Alā’, a secretary of the Umayyad caliph Hishām (r. 105–23/724–43), and Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘’s translations, such as the 17. For further discussion and the interpretation of the conflict between the pen and the sword as a ‘literary debate,’ see Geert Jan van Gelder, ‘The Conceit of Pen and Sword: On an Arabic Literary Debate’, Journal of Semitic Studies 32 (1987), 329–60. 18. For the Arabic text and a French translation, see al-­Dimashqī [written as Abû al-­Fadl al-­Dimashqî], Eloge du commerce, trans. Youssef Seddik (Tunis, 1995) [Arabic section] pp. 34–5/[French trans.] p. 51; for the English translation, see al-­Dimashqī [written Abū al-­Faḍl Ja‘far ibn ‘Alī al-­Dimashqī], The Indicator to the Virtues of Commerce, trans. Adi Setia (Kuala Lumpur, 2011), p. 81; Helmut Ritter, ‘Ein Arabisches Handbuch der Handelswissenschaft’, Der Islam 7 (1917), 47–8. On al-­Dimashqī, see Yassine Essid, A Critique of the Origins of Islamic Economic Thought (Leiden and New York, 1995), pp. 220–8; Georges-­Henri Bousquet, ‘L’Économie politique non européano-­ chrétienne. L’exemple de Dimachqî’, Revue d’histoire économique et sociale 35 (1957), pp. 5–23; and Claude Cahen, ‘A propos et autour d’Ein arabisches Handbuch der Handelswissenschaft’, Oriens 15 (1962), 160–­71 – ­repr. in idem, Les peuples musulmans dans l’histoire médiévale (Damascus, 1977), pp. 91–104. 19. See also Louise Marlow, Hierarchy and Egalitarianism in Islamic Thought (Cambridge, 1997), pp. 168–73 (on Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā, p. 171).

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Kalīla wa-Dimna, a collection of animal fables and stories that were originally written in Sanskrit under the title Panchantra (Five Discourses) and translated into old Persian (Pahlavi) in the sixth century and encapsulate various pieces of practical advice about the conduct of government and the moral edification of the ruler, as well as of the Tansarnāma (Letter of Tansar).20 Ibn Miskawayh (d. 421/1030), a secretary, a librarian and an author of numerous philosophical and historical treatises, witnessed the decay of ‘Abbāsid caliphal power and the apogee of the authority of the Būyid military overlords.21 In the preface to his Tajārib al-umam (The Experiences of Nations), a narrative of the history of the world from the Flood extending to 372/982, anticipated subsequent usage of episodes and examples of virtues and vices from Islamic and Persian history in the context of competent leadership. He contends that by studying the histories of various nations and the lives and deeds of distinguished rulers and past models of behaviour, he learned about events that can recur in similar ways as well as about how to respond to such phenomena and manage contingencies. In Ibn Miskawayh’s view, historical works are a valuable source of political and moral lessons because human history is determined by common patterns, such as the rise and fall of states and kingdoms. Relevant to all this are policies intended to promote the prosperity of countries, secure social cohesion and harmony, engender goodwill among armies and reveal tactics employed in warfare and machinations that were successful or failed.22 20. See also Kristó-­Nagy, ‘Marriage after Rape’, and in general, Olga M. Davidson, ‘Aetiologies of the Kalīla wa Dimna as a Mirror for Princes’, in Global Medieval, pp. 42–57. 21. According to Mohammed Arkoun, ‘Miskawayh’, in EI2, the correct version of the name of this author does not include ‘Ibn’, but Clifford E. Bosworth, ‘Meskavayh’, in Encyclopaedia Iranica. Available at: http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/meskavayh-­ abu-­ali-­ahmad (accessed 1 December 2017) suggests that the version with ‘Ibn’ is probably more correct. 22. Miskawayh [written as Ibn Miskawayh], The Tajârib al-umam, vol. 1: To a.h. 37, ed. Leone Caetani (Leiden and London, 1909), pp. 1–2. Miskawayh’s ideas on history are discussed in Mohamed S. Khan, Studies in Miskawayh’s Contemporary History (340–369 a.h.) (Ann Arbor, 1980); Bakhtiar Husain Siddiqui, ‘Miskawayh on the Purposes of Historiography’, Muslim World 61 (1971), pp. 21–7; Mohammed Arkoun, ‘Ethique et histoire d’après les Tajârib al-Umam’, in Atti del terzo Congresso di studi arabi e islamici (Naples, 1967), pp. 83–­112 – ­repr. in idem, Essais sur la pensée islamique, 3rd edn (Paris, 1984), pp. 51–­86 – ­Eng. trans. by Mohamed S. Khan, ‘Ethics and History According to the Tajârib al-umam of Miskawaih’, Islamic Culture 75 (2001), 1–40. On early Islamic historiography in general, see, e.g., Chase F. Robinson, Islamic Historiography (Cambridge and New York, 2003); idem, ‘Islamic Historical Writing,

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Like Ibn Miskawayh, Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā suggests that historical learning is beneficial to both young and old, to those who aspire to leadership as well as to scholars and those who wish to serve as the aides, advisors and companions of rulers. In the preface to al-Fakhrī, Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā promises to investigate the circumstances of various dynasties and political affairs drawing on material related to the lives and deeds of distinguished rulers, caliphs and ministers. His work is divided into two sections, the first of which includes ruminations on the requirements for vigorous royal rule and the attributes that set a skilful ruler apart from the common people, as well as his duties towards his subjects and vice versa. The second part features a historical narrative of the emergence and decline of various dynasties from the time of the ‘Rightly Guided’ caliphs (seventh century) to that of the ‘Abbāsids (eighth century). Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā observes that a profound knowledge of history adorns rulers more than it adorns the common folk: the most useful subjects for a king to engage with include the principles of government, biographies and historical material that contains remarkable stories and anecdotes.23 Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s professed aim in al-Fakhrī is to offer an exposition of the characteristics of good leadership and political organisation that will be indispensable to rulers and administrators in the hope that people will recognise its value and urge their children to learn it by heart and meditate on its content and ideas. Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā explains that his goal is not to elucidate the genesis or

Eighth through the Tenth Centuries’, in The Oxford History of Historical Writing, vol. 2: 400–1400, eds Sarah Foot and Chase F. Robinson (Oxford, 2012), pp. 238–66; Konrad Hirschler, ‘Islam: The Arabic and Persian Traditions, Eleventh–Fifteenth Centuries’, ibid., pp. 267–86; Andrew Marsham, ‘Universal Histories in Christendom and the Islamic World’, ibid., pp. 431–56; Tayeb El-­Hibri, Reinterpreting Islamic Historiography: Hārūn al-Rashīd and the Narrative of the ‘Abbāsid Caliphate (Cambridge, 2000); Tarif Khalidi, ‘Premodern Arabic/Islamic Historical Writing’, in A Companion to Global Historical Thought, eds Prasenjit Duara et al. (Malden, MA, 2014), pp. 78–91; idem, Arabic Historical Thought in the Classical Period (Cambridge and New York, 1994); Albrecht Noth, The Early Arabic Historical Tradition: A Source-Critical Study, 2nd edn in collaboration with Lawrence I. Conrad, trans. from the German by Michael Bonner (Princeton, 1994); ‘Abd al-­‘Azīz al-­Dūrī, The Rise of Historical Writing among the Arabs, ed. and trans. from the Arabic by Lawrence I. Conrad (Princeton, 1983); Franz Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Historiography (Leiden, 1952; 2nd rev. edn, 1968). The usage of introductions in Arabic writing is discussed in Peter Freimark, ‘Das Vorwort als literarische Form in der arabischen Literatur’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Münster, 1967). 23. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 6, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, pp. 2–3, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 3.

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ponder the nature of power, religious and temporal leadership as exemplified by the caliphate, sultanate, emirate, governorate and the like, whether sanctioned by the divine law or not, as well as the interpretations of the jurists concerning the imamate. Rather, his primary objective is to deal with various types and systems of government and norms or conventions that are useful in current affairs, in the rule of subjects, the security of the realm and improvement of manners and conduct.24 As will be shown later, Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā draws upon the diverse strands of ancient political wisdom introduced into Islamic thought and developed by Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘ and other writers and, like Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘, reinterprets and applies previous ideas on the conduct of government to the analysis of the political realities that prevailed in his own time. Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā also intersects with authors of advice literature, such as Niẓām al-­Mulk (d. 485/1092), whose chief concern is to come to grips with the existing social and political arrangements and formulate prescriptions for successful political practices rather than engage in the quest for an optimal type of political organisation, the evaluation of other forms of government, the systematic investigation of the factors leading to social evolution or the theoretical discussion of the ends of human society.25 The practical realism that permeates Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s thinking stands in sharp contrast with a tradition, particularly strong among early Islamic political philosophers such as al-­Fārābī and Ibn Sīnā, which prescribes a universal course of studies for rulers. Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā notes that the education of rulers differs according to their specific dispositions and conditions. The Persian kings devoted themselves to laws, moral precepts, literature, history and geometry. Muslim rulers studied philology, grammar, lexicography, poetry and history and laid such great stress on ensuring the correct use of language that a mistake in speech was taken as one of the worst failures of royal dignity and a single anecdote, verse of poetry or idiomatic word would suffice for someone to be promoted to a higher rank. The Mongols followed a different path, rejecting the studies cultivated by earlier rulers. They prioritised instead economics, accountancy, the skills necessary for

24. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 6, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, pp. 9–10, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 14. 25. The differences between the various strands of Islamic political writing are particularly well brought out in Charles E. Butterworth, ‘State and Authority in Arabic Political Thought’, in The Foundations of the Arab State, ed. Ghassan Salamé (London and New York, 1987; repr. London, 2002), pp. 99–102. Consider also Massimo Campanini, Oltre la democrazia: Temi e problemi del pensiero politico islamico (Milan, 2014), pp. 27–30; Norbert Compagna, ‘Islamische Staatsdiskurse im Mittelalter’, in Staatsverständnisse in der islamischen Welt, eds Holger Zapf and Lino Klevesath (Baden-­Baden, 2012), pp. 35–55, esp. 38–45.

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the administration of the finances and the calculation of revenues and expenses, medicine as the science that would help ensure bodily health and astrology for choosing the right occasion and literature.26 The ruler’s major duties are, according to Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’, to redress grievances, protect and aid the vulnerable members of society, prevent the strong and powerful from harming and oppressing the weak and uphold the rule of law.27 They extend further to protection of the capital, defence of the borders, fortification of the frontiers, safety of the roads and restraint of wrongdoers, malefactors and subversives.28 The key tasks of rulership are to avert bloodshed, prevent disaster and havoc, defend property, protect morals, punish evildoers and mitigate the results of political and social unrest and war.29 One of the pillars of good government is knowledge, which derives from intelligence that allows the ruler to set right goals, discern what can be harmful and dangerous and avoid errors in his judgements and decisions. Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā explains that knowledge does not comprise solving difficult problems or immersing oneself in the study of arcane subjects. Rather, it indicates that a ruler has sufficient knowledge to communicate and converse with experts and solicit their counsel and aid in resolving various problems.30 The authentic ruler should entertain lofty ideals, be large-­hearted and genuinely interested in leadership, devise plans to acquire leadership, expand his realm and augment the greatness of his state, while resisting the temptations of pleasure and luxury.31 Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā exhorts the ruler to display reliability and fidelity to commitments, to maintain a clear head and stout heart and to endow his subjects with confidence when they are afraid as well as confidence to seek safe conduct or when negotiating a treaty. Such negative qualities and character traits as disgust, weariness and ennui pose great threats to his position. The subjects’ loyalty and obedience are the foundations of public welfare and allow the ruler to enforce justice between the powerful and the weak.32 Resentment is the most harmful thing in the ruler; most proper are clemency, and forgiveness. It is essential that the sovereign improve sentiments and foster reconciliation. Moreover, generosity

26. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 23, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 11, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 16. 27. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 46, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 22, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 31. 28. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 44, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 22, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 30. 29. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 30, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 14, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 20. 30. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, pp. 21–2, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 10, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, pp. 14–15. 31. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 51, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 25, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 34. 32. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, pp. 35–6, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 17, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 24.

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‘Soft’ and ‘Hard’ Power in Islamic Political Advice Literature177 generosity is a key condition for political success and is the basis for reconciliation, receiving good advice and enlisting the services of notables.33 Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā also warns the ruler not to interact with or befriend ignorant persons, since their low speech and vile ideas abases his rank and tarnishes his reputation. In contrast, association with noble persons elevates ideals, hones the wits, broadens the mind and facilitates expression. Ignoring this piece of advice led to the demise of many previous rulers, including all the caliphs, who admitted commoners into their company and service.34 The ruler should not take personal pride in the benefits associated with royalty, his possessions or the precious treasures and novel acquisitions he has accumulated, because all these are trifles, not realities; nor should he boast of his lineage and ancestors. He should only take pride in the merits and skills he has cultivated, the culture he can make use of and the instruments he has at his disposal and can perfect.35 The cardinal principles of effective leadership are epitomised by persons equipped by nature with the abilities that are advantageous to the proper exercise of power: the excellent ruler should possess knowledge of the vicissitudes of various eras and political events that occurred in the past and know how to cajole his enemies and fathom their secrets. He should also supplement and enhance his judgement with the insights of others, meditate on the merits of various viewpoints and be firm and resolute if there is a conflict of interest until the truth emerges. Willpower and determination are the foundations of the security of the state. The true ruler acts according to his judgement rather than his desires, his deeds reflect his intentions, his will does not run counter to his fortune, nor does anger or rage interfere with astuteness. He is also able to foresee dangers, emergencies and all occurrences that can imperil his rule. A perspicacious ruler constantly engages in self-­scrutiny and seeks to acquire self-­knowledge to such an extent that nobody else knows his weaknesses and faults better than himself. More importantly, he has the ability to exercise what, in Nye’s analysis of power, would amount to inspirational leadership and soft or attractional behavioural power, by mobilising support and motivating and disposing his subjects to internalising his own manners, by showing kindness, empathy and affability, and by using all possible methods to sway them to his habits and objectives. In this way, as soon as the subjects conform to the habits of the ruler and orient their conduct 33. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 29, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, pp. 13–14, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 19. 34. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 48, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, pp. 23–4, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, pp. 32–3. 35. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, pp. 67–8, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 33, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 45.

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towards his manners, they approve his conduct and deeds and comply with his policies, since they follow his example and align themselves with his way of life. But if their natures and dispositions differ from or are incompatible with his, they will tend to vilify him and discredit his actions.36 THE FOUNDATIONS OF POLITICAL LEGITIMACY: SOFT AND HARD POWER AT WORK

Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s ideas about the relation between soft and hard power are encapsulated in the idea that the realm is guarded by the sword but administered by the pen. Often the sword and the pen are on the same footing, mutually complementary. In some cases, the pen is superior to the sword, which serves as the guardian and servant of the former. In other cases, the sword has the upper hand, and the pen performs an auxiliary function and provides for the remuneration of the soldiers.37 Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā advocates a leadership style that is elastic and allows the ruler to adapt his strategies and resources to changing circumstances, attend to the needs and competing demands of the various segments of society and successfully apply and combine hard and soft power skills: the ruler is exhorted to interact with the higher strata with a light touch, nobility of character and gentleness. Treating the middle classes calls for the right mix of interest and fear. The common folk are best administered by fear, severity and intimidation, with force being necessary to compel them to follow the right path.38 Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā also counsels the ruler to honour his commitments and promises and be like earth in concealing secrets and practising patience, operate 36. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, pp. 80–1, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, pp. 39–40, al-Fakhrī/ Whitting, pp. 53–4. 37. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 70, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 34, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, pp. 46–7. 38. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 55, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 27, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 37. An interesting precedent of Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s discussion of the various modes of dealing with the various segments of society appears in the Kitāb al-Siyāsa (Book of Government) by Abū al-­Qāsim al-­Maghribī, known as ‘al-­Wazīr al-­Maghribī’ (d. 418/1027), most probably written for the Kurdish Marwānid local ruler of Diyarbakir. See Marlow, Hierarchy and Egalitarianism in Islamic Thought, pp. 129–33; and, in general, Majid Khadduri, The Islamic Conception of Justice (Baltimore, 1984). Similarly, the famous legal scholar Māwardī (974?–1058), in his Kitāb Adab al-dunyā wa-al-dīn (Book of the Right Conduct in This World and in Religion), suggests that the good ruler should uphold the right balance between the various sections of society by garnering knowledge about the proper use of enticement and intimidation. On this point, see Paul L. Heck, ‘Māwardī and Augustine on Governance: How to Restrain the Restrainer?’ Studies in Christian Ethics 29 (2016), 161–2, 165–6.

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like fire when dealing with evildoers, be like water in showing gentleness to ­whosoever treats him gently, hear better than the horse, have better vision than the eagle, have a better sense of direction than the sandgrouse, be more alert than the crow, be more courageous than the lion and be stronger and faster than the lynx. He should not solely rely on his own judgement but in complex matters should consult the distinguished and most sensible of the people, indeed anyone whom he finds to be keen-­witted and generous and to have the ability to make good judgement. The power associated with royal authority should not hinder him from cultivating intimacy with the people whom he consults and from trying to secure their loyalty so that they can proffer sound advice.39 Central to Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s delineation of a capable ruler is a notion akin to Nye’s idea of charismatic attraction, conceived of as the ruler’s ability to influence the attitude and demeanour of his subjects.40 Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā suggests that 39. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 44, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 22, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 21. 40. The idea of the divine aura or ‘charisma’ of the ruler occurs in many civilisations, particularly in ancient Egypt and Iran, and forms part of the traditions of steppe peoples. In Islamic political thought, it is often associated with the ancient Iranian concepts kwarnah and farr, which literally mean ‘glory’, but have also been construed as carrying associations to ‘grandeur’, ‘splendour’, ‘(good) fortune’, ‘divine favour’, ‘divine effulgence’ or ‘prosperity’, which are enshrined in the term dawla in medieval Arabic. For further discussion, see Gherardo Gnoli, ‘Farr(ah)’, in Encyclopaedia Iranica. Available at: http:// www.iranicaonline.org/articles/farrah (accessed 1 December 2017); Jacob Lassner, ‘The ‘Abbasid dawla: An Essay on the Concept of Revolution in Early Islam’, in Tradition and Innovation in Late Antiquity, eds Frank M. Clover and R. Stephen Humphreys (Madison, WI, 1989), pp. 247–70; Said Amir Arjomand, The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam: Religion, Political Order, and Societal Change in Shi‘ite Iran from the Beginning to 1890 (Chicago; London, 1984), pp. 89–100; Roy P. Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society (Princeton, 1980), pp. 132, 185; Peter Calmeyer, ‘­Fortuna – ­Tyche – Khvarnah’, Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 94 (1979), 347–65; Alessio Bombaci, ‘Qutluγ bolzun! A Contribution to the History of the Concept of ‘Fortune’ among the Turks’, Ural-Altaische Jahrbücher 36 (1965), 284–91; 38 (1966), 13–43. Islamic political discourse on charismatic authority revolves around the image of the ruler as God’s ‘shadow’ on earth. On this, see Vasileios Syros, ‘Shadows in Heaven and Clouds on Earth: The Emergence of Social Life and Political Authority in the Early Modern Islamic Empires’, Viator 43.2 (2012), 377–406. Consider also the application of Weber’s concept of the ‘routinisation of charisma’ in the study of the evolution of Timurid political culture by Maria Subtelny, Timurids in Transition: Turko-Persian Politics and Acculturation in Medieval Iran (Leiden and Boston, 2007) (esp. the discussion on pp. 11–13); as well as the references to the various meanings of the term qut (heavenly fortune), which is one of the salient features of Turko-­Mongol visions of ‘charismatic’ authority, in Peter Golden, ‘Courts and Court Culture in the Proto-­urban and Urban Developments among the Pre-­Chinggisid Turkic Peoples’, in Turko-Mongol

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exposure to the ruler is the source of pride, haughtiness and courage. Any person through his interaction with the ruler always feels encouraged and reinvigorated without necessarily having received any specific benefit from him, whereas when the ruler expresses aversion towards a particular person, that person feels fear, without having been harmed by the ruler.41 The ability of the ruler to inspire respect, awe and loyalty in his subjects and subordinates makes them recognise his importance in both thought and action to such an extent that this process becomes an entrenched habit, and they train their children to do the same.42 A further important piece of advice included in the al-Fakhrī is that the ruler should strive to command the reverence, admiration and affection of his subjects, which are the guarantee of political order and protection against the ambitions and plots of potential rivals. Rulers in the course of history have employed all possible means to gain the commitment and win the trust and support of their constituency: tying up lions, elephants and leopards; sounding large bugles; and using other techniques and insignia.43 The hallmark of desirable rulership is the very ability to pursue manners that the people themselves strive to adopt and with which they gradually become infatuated. When the ruler likes something, the people will like it, too; when he dislikes something, the people will detest it as well; and when he adores something, the people will follow suit either in a natural manner or by pretending in order to ingratiate themselves with him. Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā adduces the Mongol example again to illustrate the value of soft power skills: as soon as the present dynasty rose to power, the people sought to emulate the manners of their rulers and changed and adopted theirs in all respects, especially their speech, dress, etiquette and various conventions, being aware of the fact that their previous mores and social practices were objectionable in the eyes of the rulers and opposed to the preferences of the new dynasty. This process occurred in a natural way, without the rulers having to impose their

Rulers, Cities and City Life, ed. David Durand-­Guédy (Leiden and Boston, 2013), p. 42. Some interesting observations about how and to what extent certain concepts introduced by Max Weber are applicable to the study of Islam can be found in, e.g., Michael Curtis, Orientalism and Islam: European Thinkers on Oriental Despotism in Middle East and India (Cambridge, 2009), ch. ‘Max Weber: Patrimonialism as a Political Type’, pp. 258–98; Toby E. Huff and Wolfgang Schluchter, eds, Max Weber & Islam (New Brunswick, 1999); Bryan S. Turner, Weber and Islam: A Critical Study (London and Boston, 1974; repr. 1998). 41. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 34, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 16, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 23. 42. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, pp. 42–3, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 21, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 29. 43. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 30, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 14, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 20.

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own habits or commanding or forcing the people to transform or abandon their existing customs.44 In order to illustrate the importance of the right mix of soft and hard power as an essential prerequisite for stable and lasting rule, Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā parallels the relationship between the ruler and his diverse constituencies to that between a physician and his patient: when the latter’s constitution is feeble and delicate, the physician opts for an anodyne therapy, injects heavy medicine into delicious things and uses all possible means to deceive the patient and cure him. If the patient’s constitution is strong, the physician uses bitter and potent medicine. Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā infers from this that different conditions call for the use of different skills; they call for perception, sound judgement, clear thinking, vigilance and perfect comprehension. The ruler needs the knowledge and capability to determine which type of person will respond to a simple threat, rendering incarceration unnecessary, and which type will best respond to incarceration, rendering physical punishment unnecessary. The ruler does not need to resort to threats if a person is amenable to instruction merely through expressions of disapproval. He does not need to incarcerate someone for whom a threat would suffice. He should refrain from inflicting physical punishment on someone for whom imprisonment is enough. There is no need to execute with the sword a person who can be chastised with a stick. Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā cautions against hasty judgement and unnecessary cruelty. He instructs the ruler to be circumspect in commanding execution and sentencing people to death and to carefully deliberate before taking a person’s life, waiting until he has sound evidence about someone’s culpability.45 Similarly, in the enforcement of justice, the ruler should adopt a flexible code of conduct, by considering various kinds of punishment and determining how to operate in different situations. But in general he should be loath to inflict punishments and to derive any pleasure from them. He should try not to be hasty or vindictive and not use them to pursue his personal interests or vent his fury or ire and take revenge, or mandate them unless there is a pressing emergency and no alternative.46 In pronouncing punishments, the ruler is advised to verify the information communicated by informers and calumniators, who may try to turn

44. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, pp. 33–4, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 16, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, pp. 22–3. 45. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, pp. 55–7, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 27, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, pp. 37–8. For further discussion of the use of medical metaphors in Islamic political thought, see Vasileios Syros, ‘Galenic Medicine and Social Stability in Early Modern Florence and the Islamic Empires’, Journal of Early Modern History 17.2 (2013), 161–213. 46. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 60, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 29, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 40.

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him against a specific person who is innocent, confuse his judgement and lead him to sentence an innocent person to death, something that he will later regret and feel remorse about.47 The ruler should mete out punishments in the right measure, avoiding the mistakes of past rulers who, driven by their zeal and desire to gain the reputation of being resourceful, strong and firm, ordered executions with excessive ease in order to instil fear, warn others and enhance their authority. Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā also expects the ruler to ponder the consequences of his decision to sentence people to death: he should avoid doing so unless the death penalty is absolutely necessary, and in that case he should command it with determination and proceed in an assertive and resolute manner and without procrastination. For the immediate execution of one person is preferable to delaying it until the execution of five persons becomes necessary, and the execution of five persons is recommended if otherwise discord and disorder are likely to beset the state and necessitate the execution of 100 persons.48 A competent ruler should pay proper attention to affairs requiring secrecy, keeping them secure and preserving them from being publicised or disclosed; otherwise, a leaked secret could ruin the entire realm. A secret should be divulged to only one person, so that the likelihood of it being revealed due to greed or fear is minimised and also because, if it is divulged, the ruler will immediately be able to identify the source of the disclosure. If a number of people know about the secret and it eventually gets divulged, they will inculpate and accuse one another, and if the ruler punishes them all, he will end up inflicting wrong on all of them rather than on just the one who divulged the secret. If he does not punish them, they will not hesitate to disclose other secrets that he has entrusted to them. In case the ruler needs to disclose a secret to a number of individuals, he is enjoined to confide it to each one of them separately and request him to conceal it, making him believe that he is the only person who knows about it.49 Political legitimacy hinges, according to Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā, on the ruler’s capability to varnish his public image through the right selection of aides and government officials. A skilful leader should have the sound ability of choice. Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā mentions as an example the ‘Abbāsid caliph al-­Nāṣir (r. 575– 622/1180–1225), who displayed the unique skill in his choice of his aides while taking the pulse of the people. One practice that al-­Nāṣir employed to measure 47. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, p. 89, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 43, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 59. 48. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, pp. 58–9, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, p. 28, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, p. 39. 49. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, pp. 82–4, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, pp. 40–1, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, pp. 55–6.

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the temperature of public opinion when he was uncertain was to announce his intention to appoint specific persons to various offices but then delay implementing his decision for a few days. As a result, rumours circulated, and the people were of two minds about the prospective appointee, some extolling his excellent qualities and endorsing the decision, while others pointing to his weaknesses and criticising the caliph for his decision. The caliph planted informers and spies among the people to gather intelligence and report to him on the various reactions his decision had elicited, which allowed him, thanks to right judgement, to gauge public sentiment, ascertain which option weighed more and had more adherents in his constituency and decide whether or not to proceed with the appointment.50 The Mongols possessed unprecedented military might, while being able to command civil obedience and secure and retain popular support. The Persian Kisrā (Sāsānian) Dynasty, despite all its size and power, never managed to reach such a high level of glory and grandeur. It was exposed to disobedience, as evidenced by the case of the last Lakhmid ruler al-­Nu‘mān III (r. 580–602 ce), who was appointed deputy over the Arabs but constantly challenged the authority of the rulers, behaved in a derogatory and deferential manner when visiting the court and when rebelling against the central authority found safe haven in the desert. Likewise, none of the Muslim dynasties would be comparable to the Mongols; the first four caliphs behaved like spiritual rather than temporal leaders, and their comportment and conduct resembled the manners of the prophets.51 The Umayyads attained great power but never managed to elicit such strong political support, and when they were based in Damascus, the Hāshimites in Medina showed contempt towards their authority. The ‘Abbāsids, despite the duration of their empire for more than five centuries and extending their rule over the greater part of the world, were never able to secure popular support to the same degree as the Mongols. Although they levied taxes on and received revenue from prosperous regions and their power grew, their rule was not immune to weaknesses and various challenges, such as continual military conflicts with the Byzantine Empire and a series of uprisings that sapped central rule and sparked political turbulence, social unrest, struggles for power and civil wars. The area under the control of the last ‘Abbāsid caliph was confined to the region of Iraq, but even it was never absolutely secure; Irbil, an otherwise small, poor and 50. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, pp. 52–3, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, pp. 25–6, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, pp. 35–6. 51. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, pp. 36–8, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, pp. 17–1­8, al-Fakhrī/Whitting, pp. 24–5.

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insignificant region, constantly rebelled until at some point the dynasty sent the army to suppress dissent, celebrating the campaign as a great military success. Later Muslim dynasties of the Būyids and Saljūqs amassed great power, but neither controlled a large territory, nor was their rule inclusive and broadly recognised. Finally, Khwārazm, despite having built an effective army, never expanded its rule beyond the regions adjacent to the seat of power.52 MACHIAVELLI ON SOFT AND HARD POWER

The repercussions of violence are a central theme in medieval and early European political advice manuals and mirrors for princes, especially in Machiavelli’s The Prince. In chapter VIII, Machiavelli expatiates on the process of accession to power through the use of cruelty, invoking the example of Agathocles the Sicilian who rose to power from a humble background to become King of Syracuse.53 After joining the army, rising through its ranks and becoming praetor (that is, head of the army) of Syracuse, Agathocles conceived a plan to take over power by resorting to violence. One morning he gathered the Senate and the people of Syracuse, using as a pretext the need to deliberate on certain affairs concerning the Republic. At a signal, his soldiers murdered all the senators and the richest of the people. In this way, Agathocles managed to seize and wield power without causing political unrest or facing any resistance. Although Machiavelli acknowledges Agathocles’ skills and valour, he unequivocally denounces a code of conduct that involves killing fellow citizens, deceiving friends or breaking faith, since such methods can be conducive to political success but do not guarantee glory. Although Agathocles’ would deserve praise thanks to his bravery in dealing with and enduring various dangers and hardships, the excessive cruelty that he exhibited did not permit him to enjoy posthumous glory.54 As mentioned previously, the emphasis on the relevance of both historical learning and the practice of the art of war to good leadership is a salient feature 52. al-Fakhrī/Derenbourg, pp. 38–42, al-Fakhrī/London; Cairo, pp. 18–21, al-Fakhrī/ Whitting, pp. 25–9. 53. See, for further discussion, John P. McCormick, ‘Machiavelli’s Inglorious Tyrants: On Agathocles, Scipio and Unmerited Glory’, History of Political Thought 36 (2015), 29–52; Victoria Kahn, ‘Revisiting Agathocles’, Review of Politics 75 (2013), 557–72; eadem, ‘Virtù and the Example of Agathocles in Machiavelli’s Prince’, Representations 13 (1986), 63–­83 – ­repr. in Machiavelli and the Discourse of Literature, eds Albert Russell Ascoli and Victoria Kahn (Ithaca, 1993), pp. 195–217. 54. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. VIII. I have consulted the English translation in Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince, translated with an introduction by Harvey C. Mansfield, 2nd edn (Chicago and London, 1985).

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of Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s analysis of the political and military accomplishments of the Mongols and, more broadly, of the ways in which the ruler can garner knowledge of the various applications of soft and hard power by looking at concrete historical examples. Machiavelli, similarly, exhorts the prince to immerse himself in the study of history and of the deeds of outstanding men, of their conduct in wars and of the causes of their achievements, victories and pitfalls, in order to be able to avoid their failures and emulate their achievements.55 Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s advice to rulers also parallels Machiavelli’s treatment of military virtue. According to Machiavelli, the prime concern of the ruler should be to practice and cultivate the art of war and study its orders and discipline. The art of war is, in his view, the only art relevant to the one who commands, and it is so useful that it enables hereditary rulers to stay in power, as well as possibly facilitating the rise of men of private fortune to power. Oftentimes, however, rulers are more preoccupied with comfort and tend to neglect the art of war and, as a consequence, they lose power.56 Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘’s, Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s and Machiavelli’s pragmatic orientation and overall approaches to political power form a striking contrast to the political and ethical theories of earlier philosophers who advocate a utopian vision of leadership, Plato and al-­Fārābī being prominent examples. Machiavelli’s major concern is to explore the mechanics of leadership; more specifically, as he phrases it, to offer something useful to whomever comprehends it and to lay out the truth rather than imagine things. Many have envisioned fictive republics and principalities that have never been seen or known to exist in reality, since there is a fundamental difference between how one lives and how one ought to live. As a result, when someone disregards what is done and focuses instead on what should be done, he ends up learning how to destroy rather than protect and maintain himself. A person who wants to do good in all respects will inevitably come to ruin among so many who are not good. Machiavelli infers from this that a ruler who aspires to hold on to power also needs to cultivate the ability not to be good and use it or not according to the circumstances.57 Machiavelli writes that all human beings, especially princes, since they enjoy an elevated status, are characterised by certain qualities that are the source of praise or blame, such as liberality or meanness, generosity or rapacity, cruelty or mercifulness, fidelity or the lack of it, effeminacy or pusillanimity, valour or courage, humanness or pridefulness, lasciviousness or chastity, honesty or astuteness and piety or impiety. But because a ruler cannot epitomise all the good 55. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. XIV. 56. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. XIV. 57. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. XV.

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personality traits and virtues or practice them entirely, it is necessary for him to be prudent and discern how to carefully avoid the infamy of those vices that could potentially erode his power and lead to his demise. He should not worry about gaining the reputation of possessing those vices that are conducive to the maintenance of his dominion. For certain things that are considered to be beneficial and virtuous, if pursued, can have deleterious effects and result in the ruler’s downfall, whereas other things that are deemed to be vicious can potentially contribute to princely success.58 Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘’s, Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s and Machiavelli’s analyses of power are based on a set of important distinctions and ideas that converge in the question of whether it is preferable for the ruler to be loved or feared. Given that it is difficult to be both, Machiavelli considers it more beneficial to be feared than loved. In his view, most human beings are ungrateful and fickle; they pretend, feign, seek to evade dangers, crave for gain and have fewer qualms about turning against someone who makes himself loved than one who is feared. Love is secured and nurtured by a chain of obligation that, given the frailty and depravity of human nature, can be broken at any moment for the sake of expediency, whereas fear can be maintained by a constant dread of punishment.59 Unlike many early humanist political writers who express aversion to the use of force (vis) in the conduct of government and prioritise instead the pursuit of virtue, Machiavelli vindicates its value as one of the essential tools of princely leadership.60 However, he remarks that the ruler should make himself feared in such a way that if he does not generate love, he at least does not incur resentment or hatred. In case he opts to take someone’s life, he must do it only when there is sufficient justification and a real cause for such action.61 If the people are hostile and resent him, the ruler will suspect and fear everyone and everything. A crucial ingredient of successful government is therefore the capacity not to alienate the great or make them feel desperate, while trying to satisfy and cater to the needs and desires of the people.62 Machiavelli highlights the importance for the prince to be willing to adjust 58. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. XV. Consider also ibid., chap. XVIII. 59. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. XVII. 60. On this point, see Quentin Skinner, ‘Political Philosophy’, in The Cambridge History of Renaissance Philosophy, eds Charles B. Schmitt et al. (Cambridge, 1988), pp. 414–15, 426, 432; idem, The Foundations of Modern Political Thought, vol. 1: The Renaissance (Cambridge, 1978), pp. 129–31; Felix Gilbert, Machiavelli and Guicciardini: Politics and History in Sixteenth-Century Florence (Princeton, 1965), pp. 154–5. 61. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. XVII. See also ibid., chap. XIX. 62. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. XIX. Intriguingly, Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘, driven by aversion to the common folk, recommends the opposite course of action. See Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘, ‘Kitāb

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his conduct as the wins of fortune and changing circumstances impel him, trying not to deviate from good conduct, but being capable, whenever necessary, of committing misdeeds.63 Every ruler should strive to be considered merciful and not cruel but at the same time make sure to use mercy in the right way. Cesare Borgia, for instance, was generally believed to be cruel, but thanks to his ferocity he managed to restore and unify the Romagna, being in fact much more benign and compassionate than the Florentine people who, trying to escape the reputation of being cruel, let Pistoia be brought to ruin due to dissension and factionalism. A ruler who strives to keep his subjects united and loyal should not care about the reputation of cruelty; for he will most probably end up being more merciful than those who in their zeal to display too excessive benevolence or mercy allow disorders to grow, give rise to robberies or murders and, ultimately, harm the entire community, whereas the executions ordered by the prince affect only one person.64 Like Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘ and Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā, Machiavelli urges the balanced and proportionate use of violence and cautions against the proliferation of acts of brutality and viciousness and the unscrupulous use of force and strength. The proper use of cruelty involves applying it at a stroke for the sake of the security of the ruler, whereas in the case of excessive or unjustified use of cruelty the prince performs few cruel deeds at the beginning, which multiply over time and lead to his demise.65 One of the merits of Alexander the Great was, according to Machiavelli, that during the fourteen years of his rule he never sentenced anyone to death without a proper trial.66 Machiavelli also asserts the need for the ruler to cultivate the reputation or image of a great man in all his deeds.67 He should be slow to believe rumours or take evidence at face value and should proceed with caution, moderation, prudence and humanity so that overconfidence does not make him impetuous or incautious and distrust does not make him unbearable.68 As indicated earlier, Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s exposition of the principles of sound administration is partly embedded in his effort to identify the sources of ‘Abbāsid decline. In a similar vein, the Florentine writer advocates that the ruler should scrupulously avoid any actions that could arouse the subjects’ hatred and contempt, especially by

al-Ādāb al-kabīr’, pp. 52–3; van Gelder, trans., Classical Arabic Literature, p. 175; Tardy, ‘Traduction d’al-Adab al-Kabīr d’Ibn al-­Muqaffac’, p. 190, § 26. 63. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. XVIII. 64. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. XVII. 65. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. VIII. 66. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. XIX. 67. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. XXI. 68. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. XVII.

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tampering with the property of his subjects or assaulting their women. As long as he does not take away the property or tarnish the honour of his subjects, they are likely to be satisfied, and the only threat to his rule consists in the aspirations of a small fraction of the population, which can be restrained in a variety of ways and rather easily. In particular, the prince should avoid giving the impression of being unstable, pusillanimous, irresolute or indecisive, and should instead make sure that his comportment exudes greatness and spiritedness and reflects firmness. A ruler who earns such a reputation is immune to conspiracies and can effectively tackle the two major challenges posed to his rule: an internal one associated with the behaviour of his constituency, and external menaces. The best way to repel external menaces is to have a strong army and forge close and solid alliances. Domestic stability is secured by protection against external enemies, unless a conspiracy occurs. The best way for the ruler to avert sedition is to avoid incurring resentment or contempt and by securing the goodwill and loyalty of his people.69 Machiavelli, like Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘ and Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā, sees the ruler’s function as that of upholding order and ensuring the optimal operation of the state by harnessing the strengths of diverse groups and catering to the needs and claims of the different elements of society. Rulers who acquire a principality on the basis of virtue are confronted with difficulties and challenges that partly emanate from the new orders and modes that they are compelled to design and introduce in founding their state and guaranteeing its security and longevity. In seeking to initiate and effect political and societal changes, they need to deal with all those who are beneficiaries of the old order and resist the establishment of new order. They must also confront those who aspire to benefit from the new order but only provide tepid support because they are afraid of potential enemies who can use the laws and because they tend to be incredulous, entertain doubts and are not genuinely convinced about novelties unless they have a sound experience with them. As a result, those who oppose the new order attack with zeal when given the opportunity, while the supporters of the innovator put up a lukewarm defence, thus jeopardising the entire enterprise.70

69. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. XIX. 70. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. VI. Compare Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘’s set of counsels for the ruler of a new dynasty, especially in a setting characterized by unreliable or feckless supporters: Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘, ‘Kitāb al-Adab al-kabīr’, pp. 50–1; van Gelder, trans., Classical Arabic Literature, pp. 173–4; Tardy, ‘Traduction d’al-Adab al-Kabīr d’Ibn al-­Muqaffac’, pp. 188–9, §§ 18, 20. Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘’s political programme for the new ‘Abbāsid dynasty is outlined in his Risāla fī l-Ṣaḥāba, ed. and trans. by Charles Pellat, Ibn al-Muqaffac: (mort vers 140/757), « Conseilleur » du calife (Paris, 1976).

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Finally, Machiavelli concurs with Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā on the idea that the founder of a new order is more likely to succeed and secure his power base if he relies on his own resources and has the ability to apply force. Echoing Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s discussion of the factors conducive to the political success of the Mongols, Machiavelli suggests that as soon as new leaders overcome the initial difficulties and eliminate those who envied them for their skills then they can maintain a firm grip on power and command respect.71 In a manner reminiscent of Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s references to the Mongols, Machiavelli outlines the benefits associated with the attempt to innovate or reform a political order as compared to hereditary rule: prudent conduct makes a new prince appear ancient and guarantees the stability of his rule. A new prince is more likely to garner the goodwill of his constituency than a hereditary one: as soon as he is reckoned to be virtuous, he will more easily manage to elicit the loyalty of his subjects; for human beings are much more preoccupied with the present than with the past. Therefore, as long as they feel that the present is a source of benefits, they cherish it, are content, and will defend and render every possible support to a new ruler. In this way, a new prince will attain the double glory for having founded a new principality and for having adorned and secured it with good laws, a solid military organisation and allies.72 CONCLUSION

This chapter introduced a new perspective on Islamic debates on violence by focusing on Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s political teachings, as formulated in his al-Fakhrī. I argued that Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s work merits further scholarly attention as a veritable source of insights into the principles and features of good government and the origins and effects of oppressive or arbitrary rule. Written in the context of the expansion of Mongol rule, al-Fakhrī is animated by the aspiration to chart the process of political disintegration of the ‘Abbāsid Empire. At the same time, Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā offers a series of instructions and counsels about the proper conduct of ruling distilled from his profound knowledge of Islamic history and experiences with the Mongol political and military organisation and from his insights into the political realities in the Arab world during the twelfth and thirteen centuries. In my discussion of Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s political theory, I deployed the distinction between ‘soft’ and ‘hard’ power as a heuristic device to explore Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s views on the successful conduct of government. In addition to

71. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. VI. 72. Machiavelli, The Prince, chap. XXIV.

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relating Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s thought to recent scholarship in political theory and international relations, I attempted to situate his ideas on violence in broader debates on this topic and undertook a comparison with Machiavelli’s views on this topic, as encapsulated in The Prince. Both Machiavelli’s analysis of the art of rulership and Nye’s distinction between soft and hard power are, in a sense, adumbrated in the writings of early Islamic political theorists, including Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘ and Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā. I also demonstrated that Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘, Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā and Machiavelli present elaborate discussions of the various qualities required for skilful leadership, distinguishing between hard and soft power and assessing the effectiveness of each type. They share many common assumptions about human nature and the fluid character of political power. The eclipse of communal rule and the rise of the signoria in many of the Italian cities in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries led to the redefinition or reinterpretation of political virtues, as evinced in Machiavelli’s thinking. Similarly, Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s work mirrors the traumatic experiences of the Islamic world with the fall of the Umayyads and the establishment of the ‘Abbāsid Caliphate that Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘ witnessed and contributed to, and the dissolution of the latter and the emergence of the Mongols as a world power. Both Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā and Machiavelli specify a similar set of desirable leadership attributes and personality traits and underscore the importance of historical learning and the art of war for political success. The findings and insights derived from a comparative study of Ibn al-­Muqaffa‘’s, Ibn al-­Ṭiqṭaqā’s and Machiavelli’s ideas point to remarkable analogies between Western and non-­Western modes of political theorising and provide testimony to the existence of common conceptual categories in both Western European and Islamic discussions of various types of rule and styles of leadership that prevailed in the pre-­modern era.

PART IV

. . .

REPRESENTING VIOLENCE

CHAPTER

11 Old Images in New Skins: Flaying in the Iranian Visual Tradition

Iván Szántó*

Throughout its universal history, art has often been used as a vehicle for the visualisation of violence. Judging by the myriad examples of military and execution scenes that were created between the seventh and nineteenth centuries ce, Islamic figurative art, for example, seems to have found almost boundless inspiration in violent events. Military accounts and legal issues serve as the core of many widely illustrated literary forms, including historiography and belles-­lettres, which are accompanied by portrayals of the just ruler and the punishment of the sinful. It can be assumed, on the other hand, that the visual arts of any pre-­industrial society offer a rather narrow range of brutal imagery. Mostly these depict physical aggression, occurring in war or in the context of law enforcement.1 From the monotonous sequence of hanging, stabbing, beheading, stoning and dismemberment scenes, this essay picks a rare case in which the convicted is flayed alive and then his or her skin is put on display as a memento. The key example comes from a dispersed manuscript of the Shāhnāma of Firdawsī, which is variously referred to as the Demotte or Great Mongol Shāhnāma, dated to the 1330s ce, and attributed to Tabriz (fig. 1).2 It depicts the execution of Mānī

  * Eötvös Loránd University, Budapest, Hungary, and Institut für Iranistik, Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Wien, Austria. This study was supported by the János Bolyai Research Scholarship of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences and the Hungarian National Research Fund (OTKA no. 83166).   1. Hunting scenes that depict human violence towards animals, and scenes of combating animals where both the aggressor and its victim are animals, are also common themes but in this study only aggression between humans is considered.   2. O. Grabar and S. S. Blair, Epic Images and Contemporary History: The Illustrations

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Figure 1  The Execution of Mani, from the Great Mongol Shahname, c. 1335 ce (Reza Abbasi Museum, Tehran, Iran; image courtesy of the Reza Abbasi Museum)

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(c. 272–6 ce), the founder and prophet of Manichaeism, by order of the Sasanian shah (variously identified as Shāpūr I or Bahrām I). Based on the account of al-­ Ṭabarī, Firdawsī’s text elaborates the events in the following way: [Shapur] said: ‘The world is no place for this image maker; he has disturbed the peace long enough. Let him be flayed and his skin stuffed with straw so that no one will be tempted to follow his example.’ They hung his body from the city gates, and then later from the wall in front of the hospital. The world praised Shapur and men flung dirt on the corpse of Shapur.3

According to al-­Ṭabarī, all this occurred in the south-­west Iranian city of Jundīshāpūr.4 The example set by the display of the stuffed skin of Mānī was meant to be more than just a deterrent. Although this is not mentioned in the text, the anachronistic presupposition of its Muslim author is obviously that the arch-­ heretic must have been punished in this particular way in order to mock his promulgation of idolatry (shirk). Earlier, during his theological discourse with the Zoroastrian chief priest, the latter attacked the false prophet, saying: Images are multiple, but God is one, and you have no choice but to submit to him. If you could make your images move, then you could say that this is a demonstration of the truth of what you say. But don’t you see that such a demonstration would fail?5

Mānī’s remains, hanging motionless on the wall, served as a counter-­ demonstration, in support of the chief priest’s words. The Īl-­Khānid painting takes liberties with the narrative: the body of Mānī lies in the foreground, while his stuffed skin is shown hanging not on the city gate but on a palm tree besides a one-­storey building, which may be the ­hospital. Behind the corpse, the executioner and three gesticulating ­persons – ­one in Persian, two

of the Great Mongol Shahnama (Chicago and London, 1980), no. 46; L. Komaroff and S. Carboni, eds, The Legacy of Genghis Khan. Courtly Arts of Western Asia, 1256–1353 (New Haven and London, 2002), p. 111.   3. D. Davis, Sunset of the Empire: Stories from the Shahnameh of Ferdowsi (Washington, D C, 2004), vol. 3, p. 201; cf. Firdawsī, Shāhnāma-ye Firdawsī, ed. J. Mohl (Tehran, 1991), pp. 1557–8.   4. Th. Nöldeke, trans., Geschichte der Perser und Araber zur Zeit der Sasaniden. Aus der arabischen Chronik des Tabari (Leiden, 1879), p. 48.   5. Davis, Sunset, p. 201.

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in Mongol ­robes – ­are depicted; one of the latter is pointing to the hanged skin as if to explain its meaning. This can be regarded as the earliest occurrence of the scene in Persian painting; the sporadic later examples from illustrated Shāhnāma editions that were made between the Jalāyirid and the Ṣafawid periods do not feature the hanging of the skin. It is noteworthy that non-­Muslim authors do not mention the act of flaying, and even Muslim accounts disagree in this detail. Ibn al-­Balkhī (twelfth century ce), for instance, claims that Mānī was the first person to be flayed and stuffed and that this practice became the preferred form of punishment of arch-­heretics.6 While Ibn al-­Balkhī condemns Mānī as the originator of the heresies of his own time, he does not emphasise shirk. The most accurate and balanced early Muslim authority on Manichaeism, Ibn al-­Nadīm (c. 932–90 ce), narrates three different accounts of the prophet’s death.7 Although the religious background of Ibn al-­Nadīm fundamentally differs from that of Ibn al-­ Balkhī, it is of note that he likewise makes no mention of Manichaean idolatry. It seems that during the early 1300s, that is, the Il-­Khānid period, the execution of Mānī conveyed a specific significance, as suggested by another depiction, this time with no flaying, in the Edinburgh copy of al-Āthār al-Bāqiyya of Abū al-­Rayḥān Bīrūnī, datable to c. 1308 and likewise attributable to Tabriz.8 While the inquisitiveness of the Īl-­Khāns towards world religions is well known, the significance of Mānī’s exposed skin is not clear. Abolala Soudavar in his study on the Demotte illustrations has suggested that every scene may have contemporary overtones. On the basis of this presumption, he linked the pictorial cycle that depicts the early Sasanian–Parthian rivalry with the internal strife between the Pro-­Īl-­Khānid Amīr Chūpān and his opponent, Amīr Irinjīn.9 According to Soudavar, the hanging scene may allude to the execution of Irinjīn’s two followers, although the corresponding account of Ḥāfiẓ-­i Abrū does not mention that their corpses were flayed.10 Soudavar cites an additional painting detached from a Jalāyirid manuscript that is closer to the description of Ḥāfiẓ-­i Abrū, but given   6. Ibn al-­Balkhī, The Fársnáma of Ibnu’l-Balkhí, trans G. Le Strange and R. A. Nicholson (London, 1962 [1921]), pp. 64–5.   7. Ibn al-­Nadīm, The Fihrist of Al-Nadīm: A Tenth-Century Survey of Muslim Culture, ed. and trans. B. Dodge, 2 vols (New York, 1970), vol. 2, p. 794.   8. Edinburgh, University Library, Ms. Arab 161; see P. P. Soucek, ‘An Illustrated Manuscript of al-­Bīrūnī’s Chronology of Ancient Nations’, in The Scholar and the Saint: Studies in Commemoration of Abu’l-­Rayhan al-­Bīrūnī and Jalal al-­Din al-­Rūmī, ed. P. J. Chelkowski (New York, 1975), pp. 103–68.   9. A. Soudavar, ‘The Saga of Abu-­Sa‘id Bahādor Khān. The Abu-­Sa‘idnāmé’, in The Court of the Il-Khans, 1290–1340, eds J. Raby and T. Fitzherbert, Oxford Studies in Islamic Art XII (Oxford, 1996), pp. 143–9. 10. Soudavar, ‘The Saga’, 146–7.

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that the scene depicts two hanged bodies and none of them is flayed, this painting may not represent the execution of Mānī.11 The Muslim texts that describe pre-­Islamic occurrences of flaying did so reflecting the concerns of their own times and we cannot be sure whether the authors merely reinterpreted an actual event in their own terms or the event itself was also their invention. Be that as it may, flaying was applied both before and after the Muslim conquest and its continuation may be a case of the practice of ‘urf, an Arabic term for custom, integrated into Early Islamic jurisprudence.12 However, it was never systematically practised; rather, as the posthumous fate of Mani shows, it was associated with the exemplary punishment of capital offenders, such as zindīqs or apostates, as a deterrent. The concentrated occurrence of this otherwise rare image during the later Īl-­Khāns reflects the re-­ assertion of Islam in the 1300s after decades of persecution and the parallel renouncement of the early Īl-­Khānid religious pluralism. Although the Shāhnāma and other literary works routinely mention the act of flaying (in fact ‘pūst kandan’ is a commonly used expression in Modern Persian for playful threatening), I do not know any more depictions.13 In illustrated Shāhnāma manuscripts the only related image may be the punishment of Shāpūr II Dhū al-­Aktāf by the Roman emperor. The story, also mentioned by al-­Ṭabarī, relates how Shāpūr was captured and sewed up in a donkey’s (or, in the account of Ṭabarī, a bull’s) flayed skin.14 He then reportedly languished in a dungeon until a beautiful damsel, of Persian royal blood, brought him warm milk, so she could soak the donkeyhide in it, thus softening it. After two weeks, the hide was soft enough for the king to emerge. Then he vowed revenge on the emperor and eventually captured him, making the emperor his servant and threatening him with flaying his skin.15 The narrative apparently conflates the stories of more than one Persian king and Roman emperor. In fact, most historical accounts agree that it was Shāpūr I who punished the Emperor Valerian by making the latter his 11. Istanbul, Topkapı Saray Museum, H. 2153, f. 113r. Soudavar ‘The Saga’, fig. 42a. On the problem of this painting, see E. J. Grube, Miniature islamiche nella collezione del Topkapi Sarayi Istanbul (Istanbul and Padua, 1975), cat. no. 12, n. 2. 12. See J. Schacht, ‘Pre-­Islamic Background and Early Development of Jurisprudence’, in Law in the Middle East, eds M. Khadduri and H. J. Liebesny, (Washington, DC, 1955), pp. 28–56, esp. p. 35. 13. Hushang flays the Black Dīw, and Zahhāk kills some of his victims in this way. Afrāsiyāb suffers from a nightmare in which he sees himself flayed. 14. Firdawsī, Shāhnāma-ye Firdawsī, pp. 1538–45. 15. According to Firdawsī, the emperor spent his remaining years in captivity, but he was not flayed. After his death, his body was sent back to Rome; Firdawsī, Shāhnāma-ye Firdawsī, pp. 1548–52.

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servant after his capture in 260 ce. This widely circulated story has multiple versions. Most accounts mention that the shah used Valerian ignominiously as his footstool, but only Western authors go on to say that after Valerian’s death he was unfleshed, stuffed and put on permanent display.16 Lactantius, writing about sixty years after the events, adds that the flayed skin was reddened by vermilion.17 This puzzling detail has only two distant parallels. One, cited by Erica Reiner, goes back to as early as the Neo-­Assyrian period, when King Sargon II (721–705 bce) is reported to have reddened the skin of his defeated opponent, King Ilubi’di of Hamath.18 The other, equally obscure and distant, occurrence brings us forward to the early Islamic period, as Niẓām al-­Mulk in his Siyāsatnāma recounts the death of the anti-­Muslim rebel Bābak Khorramdīn whose limbs were severed one by one, whereupon he rinsed his own blood from his face with his remaining right hand.19 He did so to hide his face, which was as pale as death, and show himself to be a brave man. But, in the end, he died of suffocation as his mutilated body was sewn in an ox hide. While these diverse stories span a vast temporal range, they clearly show a continuation of ancient traditions surviving until Islamic times. Flaying does not seem to have been officially regulated by Islamic penal law, but these examples show that it was integrated into customary law. It clearly belonged to the category of discretionary punishments (ta‘zīr), which could be dispensed by individual judgement.20 Regardless of time and space, it was widely employed across the Islamic world, although its occurrence remained rare, used as an exemplary punishment of glaring crimes. It continued to be used as a form of execution of heretics, including the followers of Mansūr ­al Ḥallāj and Ḥurūfīs, like the poet ‘Imād al-­Dīn Nasīmī, who was flayed alive in 807/1417 in Aleppo.21 Those who were flayed alive, stuffed and displayed are

16. See E. Reiner, ‘The Reddling of Valerian’, The Classical Quarterly 56 (New Series) 2006, pp. 325–9. 17. Lactantius, De Mortibus Persecutorum, chap. 5. 18. Reiner, ‘The Reddling’, pp. 325–9. 19. Niẓām al-­Mulk [written as Nizam al-­Mulk], The Book of Government or Rules for Kings, trans. H. Darke (London, Henley and Boston, 1978), p. 236. 20. S. Zubaida, Law and Power in the Islamic World (London, 2003), p. 113. Concerning capital punishment, Zubaida argues that ‘the death ­penalty . . . ­was not confined to shari’a provisions, and the sultan and his officers could issue death sentences for many offences, sometime quite ­arbitrarily . . . ­A whole range of punishments and fines were specified in the qanun-­name which were classified as siyaset, administration, as distinct from shari’a.’  21. L. Massignon, La passion d’al-Ḥallāj (Paris, 1922), pp. 289, 305; cf. Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt al-A‘yān (Cairo, 1949), p. 186. On the execution of Nasīmī, see A. Gölpınarlı, Nesimi – Usuli – Ruhi. Hayatı, Sanatı, Şiirleri (Istanbul, 1953), p. 6.

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remembered as al-maslūkh, ‘the flayed one’.22 In Muslim India, captured rulers and defenders of cities were often flayed, with the skins hung up on the city walls or gates, although there is no painting known to me showing this.23 Similar practices are also reported from North Africa.24 Many of these examples suggest that, in addition to the practice of flaying itself, the displaying of the stuffed skin can also be observed in Pre-­Islamic as well as Islamic times. In those cases where the body is exhibited on a permanent display, it is turned into an artefact, while the surrounding space can be considered as a precursor of art galleries. It may be presumed that the placement of skins on city walls or gates parallels the similar usage of war-­booty or spolia. There are numerous instances of demonstrative displays of Pre-­Islamic artefacts outside Muslim cities and these included corporal objects as well. Up until the late nineteenth century, for instance, a large headless Hellenistic marble statue of a youth guarded the Seljuk walls of Konya, unconsciously echoing the words of Firdawsī: ‘Images are multiple, but God is one, and you have no choice but to submit to him’ (fig. 2).25 In early Ottoman Istanbul, an entire church, the Hagia Eirene, was converted into a deposit of the abolished symbols of Constantinople and Christian relics, including the bones of John the Baptist.26 The Hagia Eirene was incorporated into the newly built Topkapı Saray complex, thus it was taken hostage by the conquerors, who symbolically used it to incarcerate the trophy taken from Byzantium. If the temple of Shāpūr where the shah displayed the body of Valerian was real and not just the figment of Lactantius’s or his informants’ imagination, it may have a similar function. The Persian tradition of displaying the flayed body or the act of flaying itself as a symbol of jurisdiction has survived into more recent times and had global repercussions. One of the best examples is a double painting by the Netherlandish painter Gérard David (c. 1460–1523 ce) showing the Judgment of Cambyses (1498 ce, Groeninge Museum, Bruges) (fig. 3).27 Deriving from the Histories of Herodotus, the story relates that upon learning that the judge Sisamnes had accepted bribes from a litigant, King Cambyses II ordered the 22. A. Schimmel, Islamic Names (Edinburgh, 1989), p. 59; cf. C. Funck-­Brentano, ‘Al-­ Manṣūr, Aḥmad b. Muḥammad’, in EI1, vol. 5, p. 251. 23. A. S. Bazmee Ansari, ‘Djahāngīr’, in EI2, 381. 24. Funck-­Brentano, ‘Al-Manṣūr’, p. 251. 25. W. M. K. Shaw, Possessors and Possessed: Museums, Archaeology and the Visualization of History in the Late Ottoman Empire (Berkeley, 2003), p. 40. 26. Shaw, Possessors, pp. 31–44. 27. For the interpretation of this painting and its antecedents, see H. J. van Miegroet, ‘Gerard David’s Judgment of Cambyses: Exemplum Iustitiae or Political Allegory?’, Simiolus. Netherland’s Quarterly for the History of Art 18.3 (1988), pp. 116–33.

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Figure 2  Léon de Laborde: The City Walls of Konya, etching published in A. and L. de Laborde, Voyage de l’Asie Mineure (Paris, 1837)

Figure 3  Gérard David: The Judgment of Cambyses, oil on canvas, 1498 (Groeningemuseum, Bruges, Belgium; image courtesy of the Groeningemuseum)

judge to be skinned and his chair upholstered with the skin to constantly remind future judges of their duty. The first painting shows the arrest of the purple-­robed Sisamnes (with the act of bribery in the background), while on the second panel we see the punishment, as the judge is bound to a wooden table and his skin is

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Figure 4  The Flaying of a Polish woman in Isfahan, engraving in Johann J. Straußens Reisen durch Griechenland, Moscau, Tarterey, Ostindien, und andere Theile der Welt (Amsterdam, 1678)

being slit to reveal the true purple colour of his flesh. In the background of this painting the son and successor of Sisamnes, Otanes, is shown, sitting on the judge’s bench, now covered with the skin. The brutality of the scene emphasised the commitment of the Bruges City Council, where the painting was originally located, to deliver uncompromising justice in its fight against corruption. Its cruelty notwithstanding, in Renaissance Flanders the medium for announcing this message could have been oil and canvas only; whereas in Iran the even more direct communication, using straw and skin, still prevailed. A Dutch traveller, Jan Janszoon Struys, reports that during his voyage to Isfahan in the 1670s, a nobleman flayed a Polish Christian woman who had attempted to escape from his harem with the help of the Polish ambassador.28 After her arrest, she was stripped of her clothes and flayed alive in front of the eyes of the other wives of the man, and the skin was displayed on the wall of the harem (fig. 4).

28. J. J. Struys, Johann J. Straußens Reisen durch Griechenland, Moscau, Tarterey, Ostindien, und andere Theile der Welt (Amsterdam, 1678), pp. 154–5.

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Figure 5  Frontispiece of Johann J. Straußens Reisen durch Griechenland, Moscau, Tarterey, Ostindien, und andere Theile der Welt (Amsterdam, 1678)

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The engraving that accompanies the description shows a lingering awareness of the pictorial tradition of the Bruges painting.29 In particular, the diptych structure and the flaying scene with the disjected slippers and robes of the convicted reveal close similarity. Indeed, we may also detect an indirect but noteworthy relation between the Mānī painting and the left side of the engraving that depicts the husband as he is showing the flayed skin of the Polish woman fixed on to the ­wall – ­like a ­painting – ­to his remaining wives. Unlike, however, the Īl-­Khānid miniature and Gérard David’s painting, here the judgement carries a negative undertone, conforming to the seventeenth-­century framework of Christian– Muslim conflict. Of the harsh, yet just punishment of the ancient king, only the cruelty remains in Persia, as seen from a contemporaneous Western European perspective. Struys, who was more of an adventurer than an explorer, went even further when, on the title page of his book, he depicted himself in the pose of St Sebastian, in reference to ­the – ­slightly ­surreal – ­torments he reportedly withstood in Daghestan (fig. 5).30 Over this introductory scene a human skin ­hovers – ­no doubt, that of the Polish woman – on which the book’s headline appears ‘tattooed’. Thus, despite all the sensationalism of this book, the introductory motif is a faithful remainder that flaying in the Persian tradition has never been a mere execution; with creating its own monument, this act was able to re-­animate, and even immortalise, the victim as a messenger of the power of law.

29. Recently published in E. Brancaforte, Visions of Persia: Mapping the Travels of Adam Olearius (Cambridge, MA, 2003), p. 104, fig. 3.12. 30. Brancaforte, Visions, p. 103, no. 3.11.

CHAPTER

12 Warrant for genocide? Ottoman Propaganda against the Qizilbash

Colin Imber*

The hostility between the Ottoman and Safavid dynasties arose in what w ­ as – ­to a ­degree – ­a shared cultural space, with the consequence that winning the allegiance of the populations of Anatolia and Azerbaijan, and identifying their followers and enemies within them, was a major concern of both dynasties. During the wars of the sixteenth century, the Ottoman sultans attempted to exploit the precarious loyalties of the ḳızılbaş amīrs and their retinues in Iran, while the Safavid shahs attempted to foment rebellion among the ḳızılbaş villagers and tribesmen in Ottoman Anatolia, who professed allegiance to the shah. The Ottoman solution to the ḳızılbaş problem was to persecute suspect groups and execute their leaders, and to try to eradicate the sect altogether by defeating and killing the shah in battle: the mirage of a second battle of Chaldiran was constantly before the sultan’s eyes. The goal, in effect, was to eliminate the shah and his followers. This required a definition of the ḳızılbaş heresy that would identify its adherents, justify their persecution and legitimise war against their leader, the Safavid shah.1 This undertaking was not entirely straightforward since the shah and his adherents professed to be Muslims, and the beliefs and rituals of ḳızılbaş-ism must have had much in common with the doctrines and practices of other heterodox groups in Anatolia that presented no threat to Ottoman dynastic rule. It was, furthermore, hard to justify warfare against Muslims and difficult to counteract   * Reader in Ottoman Studies (emeritus), The University of Manchester, UK.   1. For an introduction to Ottoman anti-­Safavid polemic, see Elke Eberhard, Osmanische Polemik gegen die Safawiden im 16. Jahrhundert nach arabischen Handschriften (Freiburg im Breisgau, 1970).

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Ottoman Propaganda against the Qizilbash205 the shah’s charisma and appeal to popular religious sentiments. It was equally difficult to motivate soldiers, many of whom harboured ḳızılbaş sympathies, to fight either against the shah himself or against his followers within Ottoman borders. The first person to provide a coherent definition of the heresy was, it seems, the otherwise unknown mufti Sarı Görez. His fatwa, apparently issued for Selim I before the Chaldiran campaign of 1514, is important, since it is likely that at the time of its issue the Ottoman authorities had little idea of what the ḳızılbaş actually believed, and Sarı Görez was the first to enumerate the ways in which they deviated from orthodoxy: 1. They deride the sunna and sharī‘a of the Prophet. 2. They declare ḥarām to be ḥalāl. 3. They despise and burn the Qur’ān and books of fiqh. 4. They insult the ‘ulemā and the pious. 5. They destroy mosques. 6. They set up their leader [Shah Ismā‘īl] as an object of worship and prostrate themselves before him. 7. They curse Abū Bakr and ‘Umar and deny their Caliphates. 8. They intend to abolish the sharī‘a and Islam.

As evidence for his claims, the mufti says that it is known by tawātur: the testimony comes from so many witnesses as to be indisputable. The charges against the ḳızılbaş are, therefore, proven, and the next stage is to pronounce the verdict: it is, in the mufti’s opinion, wājib – that is, canonically ­obligatory – ­to kill them and to scatter their communities, and Muslims who die in battle against them are martyrs. The sultan should distribute their women and children among the ghāzīs, and their repentance should not be accepted after capture. In particular, he singled out for execution anyone who was captured when travelling to the shah.2 However unsophisticated, Sarı Görez’s fatwa provided a clear definition of the heresy and, by treating it within the framework of fiqh and applying to its adherents the classically sanctioned terms for unbelievers, heretics and troublemakers – kāfir, mulḥid, ehl-i fesād – it provided a legal justification for Selim I’s attack on Shah Ismā‘īl and the persecution of his followers in the Ottoman Empire. Sarı Görez’s list of the distinguishing marks of ḳızılbaş-ism was perhaps known to Kemālpaşazāde3 who, in the late 1520s, in a short account of the rise of Shah Ismā‘īl, produced a different list of the shah’s deviations from orthodoxy:   2. Text of fatwa in Selahattin Tansel, Yavuz Sultan Selim (Ankara, 1969), pp. 35–6, n. 61.   3. Polymath and Mufti of Istanbul, 1526–36. For a summary of his fatwa against the ḳızılbaş, see Elke Eberhard, Osmanische Polemik, pp. 164–5.

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1. He snared the common people, who are ‘more erring than cattle’. 2. He was excessive in his love of ‘Alī and hatred of the other Rightly Guided Caliphs and Imāms. 3. He openly cursed the Companions. 4. He inflicted excessive punishment on anyone who did not follow him with sincere belief. 5. His followers are an insect-­like rabble. 6. They have the outward appearance of ­Sufis – ­a reference to the shahs as leaders of a ṭarīqa – but they are inwardly impure.4 Like Sarı Görez, he singled out as ‘the heads of sedition’ the shah’s ḫalīfes, that is, his followers who travelled to Iran from the ḳızılbaş communities of Anatolia. Adding to Sarı Görez’s descriptive terminology, Kemālpaşazāde declared that the shah manifested ‘libertinism’ (ibāḥa) and invited the people to error (ḍalāla). He also attacked the shah for propagating the ‘the baseless madhhab of the shī‘a’. This, however, was a claim that the mufti Ebū’s-­su‘ūd5 was later to reject. In a series of fatwas from 1548, justifying war against Shah Ṭahmāsb as jihād, there is one in response to the question: ‘[Since the ḳızılbaş] claim to be from the shī‘a, what is it that makes this degree [of punishment] obligatory?’ In his answer, he states bluntly: ‘They are not from the shī‘a’, and instead comes up with a new definition of the sect’s beliefs. He begins with the ḥadīth that there are seventy-­ three sects, all of which, apart from the sunnīs (ahl al-sunna wa-l-jamā‘a), are in the Fire. The ḳızılbaş, he says, have taken some evil from each of these and from this concocted (iḫtirā‘) an entirely new sect. Then, in describing their particular beliefs and practices, he simply repeats Sarı Görez’s list, but adds the phrase ‘because they bring shame upon the Prophet, they have committed sabb al-nabī (“abusing the prophet”)’. By accusing the ḳızılbaş of this specific, legally defined offence, Ebū’s-­su‘ūd is able to give an answer to the question of what their punishment should be. Unlike Sarı Görez, he does not make it ‘obligatory’ (wājib) to kill them: rather killing them is mubāḥ (‘permitted’). On the question of whether their repentance is acceptable, he gives the sultan the option by quoting two different opinions: Abū Ḥanīfa, Awzā‘ī and Sufyān al-­Thawrī permit repentance after capture. Mālik, Shāfi‘ī, Ibn Ḥanbal and others do not. The sultan, Ebū’s-­su‘ūd says, may act according to either opinion. That is the legal position. Ebū’s-­su‘ūd follows this statement, which effectively allows the sultan to do what he wants, by giving   4. Kemālpaşazāde, Histoire de la Campagne de Mohacz, ed. Pavet de Courteille (Paris, 1859), pp. 14–15.   5. Mufti of Istanbul, 1545–74.

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practical advice. Soldiers who fight and ‘those who go back and forth’ – meaning ḫalīfe­s – ­should be killed. On the other hand, those who ‘keep themselves in righteousness in towns and villages; are free of these people’s qualities and deeds; and whose external (ẓāhir) appearance points to their uprightness; and whose lies are not evident’ should be spared.6 Unlike Sarı Görez, Ebū’s-­su‘ūd does not condone a massacre. The sultan, in his view, should kill only ḳızılbaş soldiers and ringleaders. The remainder, he implies, should be unmolested, provided they conform outwardly to orthodox practice. His answer is more sophisticated than Sarı Görez’s and, unlike Sarı Görez, he allows the sultan considerable freedom of action. Ebū’s-­su‘ūd had also to counter the Safavid shahs’ claim to be descendants of the Prophet, an assertion that seems to have had a strong appeal to their kızılbaş followers. He had two ripostes. The first was to state that the genealogy was false. Shah Ismā‘īl had compelled the sayyids at the shrines of the Imams to add his own line of descent to the prophetic genealogy. They had done so under duress, but to make the falsification clear, they had traced the Safavid line back to a sayyid who was known to have had no offspring, so that anyone with sufficient knowledge would recognise the forgery. More convincingly, perhaps, he showed that descent from a Prophet was not a guarantee against infidelity. As proof of this, he cited Noah’s son, whom God, with the declaration that ‘he is not of your family’7, did not save from the Flood. Furthermore, he said, if descent from a prophet were a guarantee of true religion, ‘no infidel would be punished in this world or the next’, since all of humankind is descended from the Prophet Adam. Hence, even if the shah were a descendant of the Prophet, he would still be an infidel.8 The fatwas of Sarı Görez and Ebū’s-­su‘ūd and, to a lesser extent Kemālpaşazāde’s account of Shah Ismā‘īl’s heresy, provided a repertory of themes available for use in anti-­Safavid polemic that finds a place in the correspondence of Süleymān I and his vezirs with Shah Ṭahmāsb. The earliest letter is Celālzāde’s9 tehdīdnāme, despatched presumably after the accession of the boy shah in 1524. Echoing Sarı Görez, the letter states that the shah’s failure to

  6. M. Ertuğrul Düzdağ, Şeyhülislam Ebussuud Efendi Fetvaları Işığında 16. Asır Türk Hayatı (Istanbul, 1972), pp. 110–11. See also Elke Eberhard, Osmanische Polemik, pp. 166–7.   7. Qur’ān 11:46.   8. M. Ertuğrul Düzdağ, Şeyhülislam Ebussuud Efendi Fetvaları, pp. 109–10. See also Elke Eberhard, Osmanische Polemik, pp. 165–6.   9. Chief Clerk (re’īsü’l-küttāb) to the Imperial Dīvān, 1525–34; Chancellor (nişāncı), 1534–57, 1566–7.

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turn away from ‘error and perversity’ (ḍalāla vü leccāce) makes it obligatory (mūcib ü bā‘is) to launch a campaign against him. Like Kemālpaşazāde, it also acknowledges the shah as a Sufi, admonishing him to ‘remove the crown of ilḥād’ – a reference to the ḳızılbaş tāj – and retreat ‘to a zāviye of dervish-­hood and poverty and to a tekke of humility’. This, however, is a theme that disappears in later correspondence.10 A more developed polemic appears in the letter to ­Ṭahmāsb – ­evidently the work of ­Celālzāde – ­written from Kars in July 1554, at the outset of the Nakhichevan campaign, and in the correspondence that the grand vezir Ahmed Pasha conducted with Ṭahmāsb during the retreat from Nakhichevan in August–September. In the letter from Kars, Celālzāde dismisses as unhistorical the assertions of enmity between ‘Alī and ‘the Two Sheykhs and Two Vezirs’ and then develops Ebū’s-­su‘ūd’s formulation of ḳızılbaş-ism as a ‘concocted’ (iḫtirā‘) religion. He draws a historical comparison between the followers of the shah and the ‘infidels’ and ‘hypocrites’ and their seditious followers who had emerged at the time of the Prophet and the Orthodox Caliphs: by means of calumnies and misrepresentations, and by following their own whims, these had invented new interpretations of the Qur’ān and ḥadīth. Each of them had followed their own path and become ‘misguided sects’ (firāq-i ḍālla), allowing ­Celālzāde – ­again following Ebū’s-­su ‘­ūd – ­to recall the Prophet’s words that all sects, apart from the ahl al-sunna wa’l-jamā‘a are ‘in the Fire’. The shah’s sect is like these. In his summary, he draws on and adds to the vocabulary of earlier polemic, describing ḳızılbaş-ism as a ‘false madhhab’ that the ‘people of bid‘a’ (ehl-i bida‘) and error (ḍalāl)’ have concocted (iḫtirā‘). The ‘promptings (vesvese) of Satan’ are its guide, and it is ‘certain and proven that this Satan-­led path is in conformity with the irreligious lusts of the flesh’. The shah, Celālzāde asserts, follows this path. He does not follow the precepts of the Qur’ān, whereas to the discerning eye, the distinction between the true religion and the ‘crooked (nā-mustaḳīm) shī‘a’ is immediately obvious. Here, unless the term ‘shī‘a’ has the meaning simply of ‘sect’ in a general sense, Celālzāde’s polemic departs from Ebū’s-­su‘ūd’s fatwa, which had summarily dismissed the idea that the ḳızılbaş were shī‘a. So far Celalzade has confined himself to generalities. In the next section of the letter, he responds to the specific claim of the Safavids to belong to the Prophet’s family and to believe (i‘tiḳād) in the Qur’ān. In answer to the second question, he states simply that they believe ‘outwardly’ in the Qur’ān and ‘pass themselves off as Muslims’ (ehl-i selām geçinürler): his description of their

10. Feridun Beg, Münşe’ātü’l-selātīn (Istanbul, 1857), pp. 541–3.

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Ottoman Propaganda against the Qizilbash209 false religion has already made it clear that in fact they are not Muslims and they abjure the Holy Book. When dismissing their claims to be sayyids, he ignored Ebū’s-su‘ūd’s arguments, instead opening his statement with the remark that the ‘strangest of strange things about this new phenomenon is that a senseless (lā ya‘ḳil) gang (ṭā’ife) should [claim to] belong to the Pure Line of the Prophet’. He refutes their assertion by contrasting them with ‘the pure bodies that for nine-­hundred years have set out for the Gardens of Paradise and shared the state and the dust of the Prophet’. There is no reason, he says, why ‘these people who accompany Iblīs’ should set out on the path of error and curse the sinless. His refutation of the Safavid claim to belong to the Prophet’s family is less cogent than Ebū’s-­su‘ūd’s, but has the merit of highlighting the kızılbaş practice of cursing the Orthodox Caliphs and Companions. This, in Ottoman eyes, was their major distinguishing mark and major offence The following section of the letter is a simple recapitulation of the by now familiar list of the shah and his followers’ deviations from true religion, with a few generalities added, omitting however, Qur’ān-­burning. Since this was not true, it would be out of place in a letter written to the shah himself: 1. Day by day they stoke the fires of sedition (fesād). 2. They occupy themselves with carnal goals. 3. They curse the Noble Companions of the Prophet. 4. They have built cities of rifż and ilḥād. 5. They have abolished ezans and the five daily prayers. They have abandoned the obligatory (mafrūḍa) prayers laid down in the sunna (masnūna). 6. They have destroyed mosques and turned masjids into stables. 7. They have made ḥalāl ḥarām and ḥarām ḥalāl. 8. They have made unjust killing (bi-gayr-i haḳḳ ḳatl-i nüfūs) mubāḥ. 9. They have raised the standards of rebellion (baghy) and banners of sedition and revolt (ṭughyān). The list is in the direct line of descent from Sarı Görez, adding only the legal offences of apostasy (irtidād) and baghy – rebellion against the Muslim ­sovereign – ­and the less specific accusations of sedition and the pursuit of carnal goals to the established inventory. Since the letter was a prelude to the invasion of the shah’s realms, Celālzāde concludes with a justification for war. The shah had ignored numerous letters from the sultan intended to guide him on the right path and quench the fire of sedition. The infidelity (küfr) and apostasy (irtidād) of his seditious followers are clear. By changing ‘the manifest religion’ and ‘altering the rites of the sharī‘a’, he had departed from the ‘circle of justice’ (dā’ire-yi inṣāf). In particular, the

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four madhhabs declare ‘cursing the Two Sheykhs’ to be infidelity and error and, since the fuqahā have declared the lives and property of people who destroy the foundations of religion to be licit (mubāḥ), the sultan, in conformity with the command of the Almighty and the precepts of the sharī‘a, is leading a jihād against the infidel lands (diyār- küfr-şi‘ār) in the east. The letter, in brief, provides a legal justification for war against Ṭahmāsb, adding much rhetoric but little of substance to Sarı Görez’s and Ebū’s-­su‘ūd’s fatwas. 11 The letter was a prelude to the invasion. The letters that Celālzāde composed for the grand vezir Ahmed Pasha came in its aftermath. The purpose of the correspondence was to lay the ground for negotiating a peace with the shah, but in a letter dated 9 August 1554, Ahmed Pasha continues the sectarian polemic, answering in detail Ṭahmāsb’s rebuttal of the Ottoman muftis’ judgement that the soldiers and re‘āyā of Persia (vilāyet-i ‘Acem) are infidels and that their lives and property are licit. How, the shah had asked, could people who profess God’s unity and acknowledge the Prophethood of Muhammad be infidels? And how could no thought be given to the āya: ‘Whoever kills a Believer deliberately, his punishment is Hell for all eternity?’12 In reply to the question, Celālzāde acknowledges the truth of the āya, but denies that the shah and his followers are Believers and, in support of his claim, lays out the practices that distinguish true Muslims: 1. In lands where monarchs are believers (īmān ehli), there are mosques and masjids. 2. Muslims perform prayer five times a day with a congregation and an ezan. 3. They perform Friday Prayer and khuṭbas are read from the minbars. 4. Prayers are offered to the Prophet and salutations to the Noble Family and Companions. This list of what distinguishes a Muslim from an infidel simply reverses items from the list of what distinguishes a ḳızılbaş from a Muslim. He then poses Ṭahmāsb a rhetorical question: ‘Does your behaviour have any trace of Islam?’ and answers it with a list of the shah’s sins of commission. These are by now very familiar: 1. He practices rifż and ilḥād. 2. He claims to be a sayyid. 11. Celālzāde Mustafā, Geschichte Sultan Süleymān Kānūnīs oder Ṭabaḳāt ül-Memālik ve Derecāt ül-Mesālik, ed. Petra Kappert (Wiesbaden, 1981), pp. 459a–460b. 12. Qur’ān 4: 93.

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Ottoman Propaganda against the Qizilbash211 3. He curses (sebb ü la‘n) the great vezirs of the age of the Prophet and curses the Companions of the Prophet at their tombs. 4. He condones the sedition of those who curse (tabarrā’ī),13 whose place is in Hell. There follows a list of questions and rhetorical statements for the shah, which clearly aim to substantiate the Ottoman mufti’s judgement that he is an unbeliever (kāfir). 1. In a land where the sharī‘a is not practised, and whose rulers and inhabitants condone unbelief, are they not all unbelievers? If not, who is? 2. If infidels are simply those people who have churches, you do not even have a church. 3. You do not know what Islam is. Can a person become a believer (mu’min) simply by saying, ‘We are a Muslim’? If Ṭahmāsb thinks of himself as a believer and has ‘ulema who issue fatwas, he should send them to debate with the Ottoman ‘ulema. Then it would become clear which side was right. 4. It is 961 years since the appearance of the religion of the Prophet. The rite (āyīn) that you have invented has not lasted for more than 50. Are they not infidels who follow a new (ḥadīs) and invalid (bāṭil) religion that is contrary to the sharī‘a of the Prophet? Are you not ashamed before God? What will be your answer on Judgement Day?

The last point is simply a re-­statement of Ebū’s-­su‘ūd’s statement that kızılbaşism is a concocted religion. In his correspondence, Ṭahmāsb had also, evidently in answer to the sultan’s boasting, referred to the Day of Judgement and the transience of worldly government. To this, Celalzade replied simply that the Caliph (ḥażret-i ḫilāfetpenāh) – that is, the Ottoman ­sultan – ­had the transience of the world constantly before his eyes, adding that ‘we have no need of preaching and admonition on this score, particularly when you are the preacher and admonisher’. The shah had also accused the ‘people of Rūm’ – that is, the sultan’s ­subjects – ­as being notorious for ‘fraud and deception’, an assertion that Celālzāde answered with a flurry of rhetoric: in the days of the Caliph (ḥażret-i ẓıll Allāh), Rūm14 is a home of ghāzīs, flourishing with the laws (şerā’i‘) of the Prophet. It is the people of 13. The tabarrā’īs were men employed by the Safavid shah to curse Abū Bakr, ‘Umar and ‘Uthmān and to curse the Ottomans. See Michele Membré, Mission to the Lord Sophy of Persia (1539–1542), trans. A. H. Morton (Warminster, 1993), pp. 20, 24, 41, 52. 14. i.e., the Ottoman realms.

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Persia (‘acem) who are the fraudsters and deceivers, persisting in sedition and mischief (fitne vü fesād). 15 Both the fatwas of Sarı Görez and Ebū’s-­su‘ūd, and Celālzāde’s letters composed for the sultan and his grand vezir Ahmed Pasha, date from periods of active hostilities between shah and sultan. The final letter that Celālzāde presents he composed for despatch to the shah at the conclusion of peace negotiations at Amasya in 1555. The tone of the letter is obviously more pacific, and clearly intended, despite the failure of all three Süleymān’s campaigns against the Safavids, to signal the victory of the sultan over Ṭahmāsb and, with this, the victory of Sunnism over Shī‘ism. The sultan declares that although God is the ‘owner’ (mālik al-milk) of the world, by making the sultan Caliph in accordance with the āya ‘We have made you Caliph on earth’ (innā ja‘alnaka khalīfatan fī’larḍ)16, he has given (tefvīż) him the governorship (taṣarruf) of the entire earth.17 He follows this with the statement that, with the blessings of the Prophet’s family and Companions, and of the Four Caliphs, it his intention to advance the welfare of the Muslims. It is in this context of the triumph of Sunnism under the rulership of the sultan that he refers to the concession that Ṭahmāsb has made: the shah’s ambassador had reported that it was the shah’s intention to forbid tabarrā, that is, cursing Abū Bakr, ‘Umar and ‘Uthmān. He reinforces this point by referring to the praise that the shah had heaped on ‘Alī in his letter with the comment that acknowledging ‘Alī’s exalted position does not entail hating the other Companions. In support of the Sunnī position, he quotes the Prophet’s words: ‘My Companions are like stars. Whichever one of them you follow, you are rightly guided.’18 The sultan’s letter was a fiction. Neither Ṭahmāsb nor his successors recognised the Ottoman sultan as Caliph or the triumph of Sunnism, nor did the practice of tabarrā come to an end. The lasting effect of the Treaty of Amasya was to establish a boundary between the Ottoman and Safavid Empires that remains, more or less, the boundary between predominantly Shī‘ī Iran and the predominantly Sunnī lands to the west. The fatwas of Sarı Görez and Ebū’su‘ūd, like Celālzāde’s letters, were

15. Celālzāde Mustafā, Ṭabaḳāt ül-Memālik, pp. 465b–467a. 16. Qur’ān 38:26. 17. Making the legal distinction between ‘ownership’ (milk) and ‘use, occupancy’ (taṣarruf). Ebū’s-­su‘ūd had devised the term tefvīż to describe the ‘sale’ and transfer of land in the Ottoman Empire that, because the occupants did not own the land, they could not in principle sell. The image is of God transferring the use and occupancy of the earth to sultan Süleymān. 18. Celālzāde Mustafā, Ṭabaḳāt ül-Memālik, pp. 495a–496b.

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Ottoman Propaganda against the Qizilbash213 intended for the elite. The letters draw very heavily on the fatwas, adapting their material as circumstances required and presenting it in an inflatedly rhetorical style, while adding very little of substance. In his Ṭabaḳātü’l-Memālik, however, alongside copies of the correspondence with the shah, Celālzāde includes several stories that he perhaps intended for circulation among the common people as a warning against ḳızılbaş-ism. Two of these appear in the context of his account of the negotiations at Amasya. The first tells how a merchant returning to Rūm from Māzandarān visited a house where everyone was blind. His host explains that they were all Sunnīs and true believers, but when they came to Māzandarān, they abandoned Sunnism and followed ‘Alawī-­ism (‘alevīlik), cursing the Prophet and the Imams and cultivating rifż and ilḫād. One night he had a terrifying dream of a tumult resembling Judgement Day. From out of the tumult a luminous figure appeared, carrying water. When the host asked him, ‘Are you Ḫıżır İlyās carrying the water of life?’ he replied that he was the Caliph of the Apostle of God, Abū Bakr. In his stubbornness, the host was about to say that he was his enemy in the world and would never accept even the water of life from his hand. Then ‘Umar appeared and the host gave the same reply, and then ‘Uthmān. Finally, ‘Alī appeared and asked why he had not accepted water from the others. He replied that he was burning with zeal for him and would not accept water from the hands of enemies. ‘Alī replied, ‘O eternally cursed and eternally rejected one’ and poked him in both eyes. At this point, he woke up to find that he was blind in both eyes. In the following days, everyone in the house had the same dream with the same results, and since then they have repented of their rifż and become Sunnīs.19 The second story relates to the time when the sultan was over-­wintering in Iraq in 1535, after the occupation of Baghdad. A group of travellers were going from Baghdad to Basra when they noticed the names of Abū Bakr and ‘Umar imprinted in the sand. Realising from this that the group in front of them were rafiżīs who had the names of the Caliphs written on the soles of their boots, one of the travellers went ahead and ‘sent their souls to hell’. As he turned back, four terrifying riders appeared from the desert and, noticing that he had blood on his clothes, asked if he had killed a man: if he did not tell the truth, they would exact qiṣāṣ. To save his life the man told a lie: he had encountered some pigs in the desert and killed them. At this, the men demanded that he show them the pigs and, fearing for his life, the traveller offered prayers to God, saying that what he had done was out of zeal for the Prophet and his Companions. He became more downcast as they approached the spot, only to find that there were indeed a lot of

19. Celālzāde Mustafā, Ṭabaḳāt ül-Memālik, pp. 488a–489b.

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pigs lying there, formed from contorted human limbs. It was then that the four riders revealed themselves as the four Orthodox Caliphs and, telling the traveller that he had performed a ghazā and calling down God’s mercy and forgiveness on him, vanished.20

20. Celālzāde Mustafā, Ṭabaḳāt ül-Memālik, pp. 489b–490b.

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Index

The editors are extremely grateful to Mr Mohammad-Payam Saadat Sarmadi for preparing this index. Proper names are listed by transliterated name, surname or most common appellation (kunya or laqab). Technical terms are listed under their transliterated spelling, with cross-references to standard English translations where relevant. Abaqa Il-Khan, 20, 29, 71, 76 ‘Abbasids, 15–16, 45, 167, 170, 173–4, 182–3, 187, 189–90 ‘Abd al-Ḥamīd al-Kissī, 110–11 Abode of Islam see Dār al-Islām Abū al-‘Alā’, Sālim, 172 Abū Bakr, 205, 208, 212–13 Abū Ḥanīfa, 206 Abū Sa‘īd Il-Khān, 29 Abū Shāma, 27 Abū Ya’lā, 119 Adharbaijan, 26 Aflākī, 39, 40, 53 Agathocles the Sicilian, 184 Aḥkām, 117 Ahl al-kitāb, 60, 118, 124 Ahmad Teküder, 77 Ahmed Pasha, 208, 210, 212 Aigle, Denise, 65 ‘Ā‘isha, 124 ‘Alā’ al-Dīn al-Juwaynī see Al-Juwaynī Albert of Stade, 37 Aleppo, 26, 81, 95, 97–9, 198 Alexander the Great, 44, 51, 54–5, 172, 187 ‘Alī b. Abī Ṭālib, 25, 208, 212–13 Al-‘Allāma al-Ḥillī, 127, 130–45 Allsen, Thomas, 49

Altan Khan, 48 Amān, 18, 22 Amasya, 212–13 Ambaqai, 48 Amīr kātib, 22 Amir Noghay, 77 Amirānshāh, 97 Amr bil-ma‘rūf wal-nahy ‘an al-munkar, 133; see also Commanding the good Anatolia, 204, 206 Anti-Christ see Al-Dajjāl Anwar al-Sādāt, 107 Arabic, 120–1 Aristotle, 151, 153, 160, 172 Arjomand, 131 Armistice, 133 Arran, 26 Arendt, Hannah, 1, 3–4, 146 ‘Aṣabiyya, 156, 160–2 Ash‘arism, 112–13 Ashrāf, 83 Assyrians, 198 Astarābādī, 92, 96 Atabeg, 81 Attila, 38 Augustine, 166 Awzā‘ī, 206

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Ayalon, D., 65, 66 ‘Ayn Jālūt, 30, 51 ‘Azīz b. Ardsashīr Astarābādī see Astarābādī Bābak Khorramdīn, 198 Babel, 124 Babur, 80 Badr, Battle of, 101 Baghdad Mongol conquest of, 6–7, 17–21, 24, 26, 28–9, 50, 59 Ottoman occupation of, 213 Timür’s conquest of, 94, 96 Bahrām I, 195 Bar Hebraeus, 66 Barquq, 91 Bayāzīd, 91 Baydu, 77 Berke Khan, 77 Bid‘a, 115, 208 Bira, Shagdaryn, 49 Biran, Michal, 6 Buddhists, 43, 59 Al-bughāt (sing. Al-bāghī) see Rebels Bukhārā, 32, 44, 47, 52, 54, 57, 82 Conquest of, 83–5, 102 Bukhārī, 42 Būyid, 173, 184 Byzantine, 183, 199 Calder, Norman, 58 Cambyses II, 199 Celālzāde, 207–13 Cesare Borgia, 187 Cha’adai, 70 Chagatay, 78 Chaldirān, 204–5 Chinggis Khan, 7, 15, 32, 34, 43–5, 47–8, 52–4, 57–8, 65, 67, 70–2, 74, 76–7, 79–82, 84, 89, 99, 101–3 Chistī Ṣufī, 53 Choban, 56 Christians, 22, 36–8, 54–5, 61–2, 74, 109, 119, 121–3, 199, 201, 203 Commanding the good, 133–5 Commentary, Art of, 130–1 Companions of the Prophet, 206, 209–13; see also Ṣaḥāba Constantinople, 55, 199 Crimean Khanate, 78

Al-Dajjāl (Anti-Christ), 42, 55–6, 81 Damascus, 7, 76, 93, 111–12, 183 Timür’s Conquest of, 9, 94–6, 98–9, 102 Dār al-Islam (Abode of Islam), 33, 43–4, 47, 57, 133, 136, 143 Al-Dashtakī, Ghiyāth al-Dīn, 129 David, Gerard, 199, 203 De la Croix, François Petit, 64 Delhi, 98 Delhi Sultanate, 81–2 Democracy, 159, 169–70 DeWeese, Devin, 41, 53 Al-Dhahabī, 30 Dhimma, 119 Dhimmī, 118–24, 132 Dhū al-Qarnayn, 43, 54 Al-Dimashqī, 172 Diyya, 119 Ebu’s-su‘ud, 206–7, 209–12 Fakhr al-Dīn ‘Isā b. Ibrāhīm, 167 Al-Fārābī, 9, 149–57, 159–60, 162–4, 175, 185 Fars, 99 Fatalism, 7, 24, 28, 32–3, 36, 45–7, 57, 99, 101–2 Fatwā, 10, 25, 76, 107–8, 112, 115, 124, 205–6, 210–11 Fidā’ī, 94 Fidya, 118 Fiqh, 60, 125, 128, 133, 135, 138–40, 142–3, 145–6, 205 Firdawsī, 193, 195, 199 Forbes Manz, Beatrice, 7 Frederick II, 37 Friday prayer, 126, 142 Fuqahā’, 126, 128, 210; see also Mujtahid; ‘Ulamā’ Ghayba, 126; see also Occultation Ghāzān, 17, 70, 72, 76–7 Ghāzī, 205, 211, 214 Ghūr, 75, 81–2 Gleave, Robert, 8 Gog and Magog see Ya‘jūj and Ma‘jūj Goldon Horde see Mongols Good government, 176, 189 Gregory IX, 37 Grigor of Akanc, 36–7 Güchülüg, 34, 43, 52

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Index237 Gurjistān, 26 Gur-Khan, 34 Güyük, 49 Ḥadīth, 42–3, 55–6, 130, 206, 208 Hāfiẓ-i Abrū, 67, 92, 97, 99–101 Hagia Eirene, 199 Ḥajj, 56 Ḥāǰǰi Giräy Khan, 78 Al-Ḥallāj, Manṣūr, 198 Hamilton J. R., 75 Ḥanbalī, 118 Ḥarbī 119, 132–3, 135–7 Al-Ḥasan b. Aḥmad b. Zafar see Al-‘Izz al-Irbilī Hāshimite, 183 Hell-fire, 108–13, 116, 206, 208, 210–11 Heraclitus, 151 Herat, 97 Herodotus, 199 Hidden Imām see Twelfth Imām Hijāz, 122 Ḥikma, 113 Ḥilla, 22 Al-Ḥillī, al-‘Allāma see Al-‘Allāma al-Ḥillī Hishām, 172 History, study of, 173, 175, 184–5, 190 Hitler, Adolf, 103 Hodgson, Marshall, 4 Hooker, M. B., 58 Hoover, Jon, 8 Ḥudūd, 114, 126 Hülegü, 17–19, 21, 23, 25–6, 49, 50, 71, 82, 91 Ḥurūfī, 198 Ibn al-‘Alqamī, 24 Ibn ‘Arabshāh, 93–7 Ibn al-Athīr, 7, 42, 44, 52, 57, 79, 81–7 Ibn al-Dāmghānī, Fakhr al-Dīn, 24 Ibn Darnūs, 23 Ibn al-Fuwaṭī, 28 Ibn Ḥanbal, 118, 206 Ibn al-Kathīr, 30, 42–3, 55–6 Ibn Khaldūn, 9, 30, 160–4, 172 Ibn al-Labbād, ‘Abd al-Latīf al-Baghdādī, 44 Ibn Miskawayh, 173–4 Ibn al-Muqaffa‘, 9, 170–2, 175, 185–8, 189 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, 8, 108, 110–13, 117–19, 123

Ibn Rushd, 9, 157–60, 164 Ibn Sīnā, 160–1, 175 Ibn Taghrībīrdī, 93, 96–7 Ibn Ṭāwūs, 22, 25 Ibn Taymiyya, 8, 42, 75, 107–16, 167 Ibn al-Ṭiqṭaqā, 9, 25, 166–8, 170, 172, 174–82, 185–90 Ibn ‘Umar, 5, 56 Ibrahim Sultan, 99 Ijmā‘, 111 Ijtihād, 130, 143 Il-khānid see Mongols ‘Imād al-Dīn Nasīmī, 198 ‘Imād al-Dīn Qazwīnī, 28–9 Imām, 84, 120, 122, 126, 206–7 Imāmī, 125–8, 130, 132–3, 135, 139–42, 145 Imber, Colin, 10 Innocent IV, 37, 49 Iran–Iraq War, 127 Iraq, 26 Irbil, 183 Isfahan, 55–6, 96–7, 100–1, 201 Isfarā’īn, 98 ISIL (Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant), 165 Ismā‘īl I, Shāh, 128, 131–2, 205 Istanbul, 199 ‘Izz al-Dīn Nassāba, 86 Al-‘Izz al-Irbilī, 17 Jabal ‘Āmil, 128 Jackson, Peter, 37–8, 44 Jāhiliyya, 76 Jalāyirid, 196 Jalāl al-Dīn ‘Alī b. al-Ḥasan Zaydī, 84 Jalāl al-Dīn Khwarazmshāh, 44, 52 Jean (Archbishop of Sulṭāniyya), 93, 95 Jesus (Christ), 54, 61–2 Jews, 38, 55, 61, 95 Jihād, 8–10, 76, 107, 115, 117, 125–8, 131–43, 145–6, 161, 206, 210 Defensive vs aggressive, 127, 135–7, 142 Definition of, 134 Individual vs collective obligation, 127, 137–8, 140, 142 Spiritual vs military, 64, 125, 157 Jin Empire, 34, 48 Jizya, 118–20, 123, 132–3, 143 Jöchi, 70 John of Salisbury, 166

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John the Baptist, 199 Jundishāpūr, 195 Al-Juwaynī, 7, 29, 44, 52–3, 57, 66, 69, 74, 81–2, 84–8, 101–2 Al-Jūzjānī, 7, 44–7, 69, 75, 81–3, 86–7, 89 Ka‘ba, 121 Kāfir, 60, 75, 115, 119, 124, 205, 209, 211 Kalka River, Battle of, 36 Kara Khitai Empire, 33–4, 43–4 Al-Karakī, 8, 128–37, 139–46 Kartid, 97 Al-Kāshgharī, Maḥmūd, 56 Al-Kāzarūnī, 27 Kemālpașazāde, 205–8 Khāghān, 37 Kharāj (land tax), 118, 123, 129, 131 Khārijī, 5, 115 Khiẓr (Arabic: Khiḍr), 41 Khujandī, Shaykh Maṣlaḥat, 40 Khurāsān, 22, 26, 55–6, 82, 85, 87, 97 Khwāja, ‘Alī 53 Khwandamīr, 30, 57 Khwārazmian, 32–4, 36, 48, 52, 184 Khwārazmshāh see Muḥammad II Khwārazmshāh Kirmān, 26 Kīsh, 100 Ḳızılbaș, 204–11, 213 Konya, 199 Kubrāwiyya Ṣūfī, 39–40 Kufr see Kāfir Kustijāt, 120 Lactantius, 198–9 Lakhmid, 183 Leadership, 168–70, 173–7, 184–6, 190 Lewis, Bernard, 64 Louis IX, 49–50 Luḥāẓ, 16 Luristān, 26 Machiavelli, Niccolò, 168, 184–90 Maḍarra, 123 Madhhab, 206, 208, 210 Majd al-Dīn Aḥmad ibn ‘Umar Baghdādī, 39, 41 Mamlūk, 8, 16, 22–3, 30, 31, 51, 91–4, 107 Mānī, 10, 195–7, 203 Manicheanism, 10, 195–6

Maqrīzī, 66 Marāgha, 28, 50 Maróth, Miklós, 9 Marw, 85–7 Maṣlaḥa (benefit), 138–9, 143–5 Mawlawiyya Ṣūfī, 39–40 May, Timothy, 7 Mayyāfāriqīn, 26 Māzandarān, 26 Mignanelli, 93–5, 102 Modarressi, 131 Monarchimachs, 166 Möngke, 82 Mongols, 6–8, 15, 21, 24–6, 33, 44–50, 56, 59, 65, 82–3, 86, 102, 107, 115, 167, 175–6, 180, 183, 185, 189 Conquest of Baghdad see Baghdad Conquest of Bukhārā see Bukhārā Conquest of Marw see Marw Conversion to Islam, 8–9, 27, 31, 41, 56–7, 67, 76–8, 107 Customs, 74–5 Defeat at ‘Ayn Jālūt, 30, 51 Golden Horde, 7, 58–9, 68, 77–8, 93 Governance, 28–9 Il-Khānid, 7, 16, 29–31, 40, 51, 58–9, 68, 74, 77–8, 80, 195–6, 203 Law see Yasa Morgan, David, 65 Mosul, 9, 81, 167 Muftī, 124, 205, 210–11 Mughals, 80 Muḥammad, Prophet, 40, 42, 62, 108, 120, 122–4, 155, 210 Muḥammad II Khwārazmshāh, 34–5, 39, 43, 44, 51–3, 71, 82–3 Muḥammad ‘Alī Pasha, 31 Muḥammad Khudābanda see Ölǰeitü Muḥannā b. Yaḥyā, 119 Al-Muḥaqqiq al-Thānī, 128 Muḥtasib, 133 Mu‘īn al-Dīn Naṭanzī, 73 Mujāhid, 126, 138 Mujtahid, 146; see also Fuqahā’; ‘Ulamā’ Muqali, 35, 48 Murābiṭa, 143–4 Mushrik, 124 Mustanṣiriyya College, 16, 28 Al-Musta‘ṣim bi-Allāh, 16, 24 Al-Musta‘ṣimī, Falak al-Dīn Muḥammad, 22

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Index239 Al-Musta‘ṣamī, Yāqūt see Yāqūt Mu‘tazilism, 113 Nādir Shāh, 80 Nafaqa, 122 Najm al-Dīn Kubrā, 40–1, 43 Najs, 123 Nakhichevan, 208 Napoleon, 45 Naql, 118 Al-Nāṣir, 182 Nebuchadnezzar, 81 Neo-Platonism, 150, 153, 164 Nicopolis, Battle of, 93 Niẓām al-Dīn Awliyā, 53 Niẓām al-Dīn Shāmī, 92, 95, 99–100 Niẓām al-Mulk, 175, 198 Al-Nu‘mān III, 183 Nuṣayrī, 108, 112, 115 Nye, Joseph, 9, 168–70, 177, 179, 190 Occultation, 126, 135, 139, 142 Ögödei, 49, 53, 70 Oligarchy, 159 Ölǰeitü, 29, 73, 77 Osama Bin Laden, 107 Ötemish Ḥājjī, 70 Ottomans, 10, 31, 93, 199 Relations with Safavids, 204–14 Özbek, 67, 78 Paris, Matthew, 54 Peace treaty, 144 People of the Book see Ahl al-kitāb Plato, 151–7, 159, 164 Political theory, 126, 132, 142, 165–7, 170, 189–90 Power, hard vs soft, 9, 155, 167–71, 177–8, 180–1, 184, 189 Qāḍī, 119, 133 Qāḍī Burhān al-Dīn, 92 Qaḍī al-quḍat, 24 Qahr, 155–6, 161 Qājār, 126–7 Al-Qaraḍāwī, Yūsuf, 108 Qāshānī, 67 Al-Qatīfī, Ibrāhīm, 129 Qazwīnī, ‘Imād al-Dīn see ‘Imād al-Dīn Qazwīnī Qitāl, 125, 143

Qiyās, 119, 122 Qizilbāsh, 10; see also Ḳızılbaș Qutb al-Dīn Shirāzī, 26 Ranjbar, 146 Rashīd al-Dīn, 23, 57, 66, 68–2, 89 Rebels, 132, 135, 140–1, 209 Reiner, Erica, 198 Renaissance, 201 Rightly Guided Caliphs, 174, 206, 208–9, 212–14 Rukh al-Dīn Imāmzāda, 84 Rūmī, 39–40 Rutamdar, 26 Sabb al-nabī, 206 Saddam Hussein, 15 Safavids, 8, 10, 31, 80, 127–32, 137, 146, 196 Relations with Ottomans, 204–14 Al-saghār, 118–19 Saḥāba, 124; see also Companions of the Prophet Ṣāḥib al-dīwān, 24 Saljūq, 184, 199 Samarqand, 52, 82, 85, 88, 93 Sarı Görez, 205–7, 210, 212 Sanjar, Sultan, 34 Sargon II, 198 Sāsānian, 183, 195–6 Sayyid, 83–4, 86, 207, 209–10 Schiltberger, Johannes, 93, 95, 97 Selīm I, 205 Seljuk see Saljūq Shāfi‘ī, 206 Shāfi‘ite, 112 Shāhmalik, 95 Al-Shahristānī, Jawād, 128 Shāhrukh, 98–9 Shāpūr I, 195, 197, 199 Shāpūr II Dhū al-Aktāf, 197 Sharaf al-Dīn ‘Alī Yazdī, 92, 95, 99, 101 Sharī‘a, 7, 39, 58, 60, 66, 74, 76, 78, 90, 98, 114, 133, 205, 209–11 Shiḥna, 23 Shī‘a, 5, 8, 22, 77, 95, 126–9, 132, 141, 143, 206, 208, 212 Shirk, 195–6 Šigi Qutuqu, 66 Sisamnes, 199–201 Sīstān, 26, 97

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Siyāsa, 2 Stalin, Joseph, 103 Struys, Jan Janszoon, 201, 203 Ṣubḥī Ṣāliḥ, 118 Al-Subkī, Taqī al-Dīn, 30, 112 Sūfī, 28, 39–41, 53–4, 102, 130, 206, 208 Sufyān al-Thawrī, 206 Sulaymān I, 207 Sulaymān Mu‘īn al-Dīn Parwāna, 39 Sulṭāniyya, 93 Sunnī, 5–6, 26, 110–12, 146, 206, 212 Syros, Vasileios, 9 Szántó, Iván, 10 Tabarrā, 212 Al-Ṭabarī, 195, 197 Tabrīz, 193, 196 Ṭahmāsp I, Shāh, 129–32, 206–8, 210–11 Tamerlane see Timür Tatars, 56, 58 Tawātur, 205 Ta‘zīr, 114, 198 Teb Tenggeri, 50–2 Tekish Khwārazmshāh, 43 Timocracy, 159 Timür, 7–9, 58, 78, 79–80, 89, 91–2, 94–103 Conquest of Baghdad see under Baghdad Conquest of Damascus see under Damascus Timurids, 73, 78, 80, 90, 92, 97, 99, 102 Töde Mengü Khan, 77 Tolui, 85, 87 Toqta Khan, 67 Ṭū, 97, 100 Ṭūsī, Naṣīr al-Dīn, 27, 28 Twelfth Imām, 126, 129, 141 ‘Ulamā’, 7, 205, 211; see also Fuqahā’; Mujtahid ‘Umar b. Khaṭṭāb, 110–11, 120, 124, 205, 208, 212–13 Al-‘Umarī, Shihāb al-Dīn, 17, 24, 66 Umayyad, 45, 53, 172, 183, 190 Umayyad Mosque, 95

‘Unf, 117 Universal salvation, 8, 109–10, 112–13, 116 ‘Uqūbāt, 114 Urgench, 100 Urmawī, Ṣafī al-Dīn, 16–20, 25–6, 30, 31 Urvoy, Marie-Thérèse, 8 Usāma b. Lādin see Osama Bin Laden Uṣūl al-Fiqh, 133 Valerian, 197–9 Vásáry, István, 7 Violence, As punishment, 107–16, 176, 181–2, 186, 193, 198 Between animals, 150–2 Mongol understanding of, 73 Mystique of, 80, 89, 98, 101–3 Political versus theological, 108 Representation of, 2, 193–203 Semantics of, 3, 62–3, 118 see also War Vow 138, 140, 144 Walzer, R., 151 War, Art of, 184–5 Kinds of, 154, 156–7, 161, 163–4 Weber, Max, 169 White, Svend, 109–10 Xiangzong, 48 Xuanzong, 48 Ya‘jūj (Gog) and Ma‘jūj (Magog), 42–3, 54–6 Yāqūt al-Musta‘ṣimī, 23, 31 Yasa (yasaq), 7, 36, 58, 60, 64–74, 76, 78 Yosun, 71–2 Yelü Dashi, 34 Zakāt, 116 Zangid, 81 Zhenyu see Xuanzong Zoroastrian, 195 Ẓulm, 63, 166