Arabic Humanities, Islamic Thought: Essays in Honor of Everett K. Rowson 9004343296, 9789004343290

Table of contents :
Contents
Editors’ Preface
List of Contributors
Tabula Gratulatoria
Publications of Everett K. Rowson
1 From Breath to Soul: The Quranic Word Rūḥ and
Its (Mis)interpretations
2 The Wiles of Women, The Guile of Men:
Re-reading Kayd in Sūrat Yūsuf
3
Some Ḥanbalī Views on Secret Marriage
4 Anta anā wa-anā minka (“You are me, and I am from you”): A Quasi-Nuṣayrī Fragment on the Intellect in the Early Ismāʿīlī Treatise
Kitāb Ta ʾwīl ḥurūf al-muʿjam
5 The Crucified Speaks: ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm on His
Day-Long Exposure at Nishapur
6 Man is Not the Only Speaking Animal: Thresholds
and Idiom in al-Jāḥiẓ
7 Beyond the Known Limits: Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī’s
Chapter on “Intermedial” Poetry
8 Foul Whisperings: Madness and Poetry in
Arabic Literary History
9
Music for the Body, Music for the Soul
10
Zoroaster’s Many Languages
11
Song and Punishment
12
Fathers and Husbands
13
Writing the Past: Ancient Egypt through the Lensof Medieval Islamic Thought
14 “The Mosul Stand-Up, or a Riff on a Stiff”:
Al-Hamadhānī’s Maqāma of Mosul
15 An Edition of Al-Hamadhānī’s Al-Maqāma
Al-Mawṣiliyya
16 Sucker of One’s Mother’s Clitoris: A Study of a
Classical Arabic Insult
17 Commentators, Collators, and Copyists: Interpreting Manuscript Variation in the Exordium
of Al-Ḥarīrī’s Maqāmāt
18 Going the Extra Mayl: Two Texts on Medieval
Dynamics in the Islamic World
19 “Extremely Beautiful and Extremely Long”
Al-Qīrāṭī’s Exuberant Letter from the Year 761/1360
20 Enterprising Sultans and the Doge of Venice: Political Culture and the Patronage of Science and
Philosophy in the Fifteenth-Century Mediterranean
21 Contextualizing Muḥammad ʿAbduh’s Views on the
Family, Marriage, and Divorce
22 “Go directly home with decorum”: Conduct Books
for Egypt’s Young, ca. 1912
23
When Jews Attack: Toward a Social Psychology ofInter-Communal Violence in Yemen
24 Scope for Comparatism: Internationalist and Surrealist Resonances in Idwār Al-Kharrāṭ’s
Resistant Literary Modernity
25 Securing Consent: Islamic Development and the
Movement to Transform Egypt
Index of Quran Citations
General Index

Citation preview

Arabic Humanities, Islamic Thought

Islamic History and Civilization studies and texts

Editorial Board Hinrich Biesterfeldt Sebastian Günther Honorary Editor Wadad Kadi

VOLUME 141

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/ihc

Everett, Ann, Poly and Dora, New York, 2016. credit: Ann Macy Roth

Arabic Humanities, Islamic Thought Essays in Honor of Everett K. Rowson Edited by

Joseph E. Lowry Shawkat M. Toorawa

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Cover illustration: Safavid lacquer work illustrating a physician taking the pulse of a patient. From a 17th-century copy of Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine. Wellcome Library, London.

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 0929-2403 isbn 978-90-04-34324-5 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-34329-0 (e-book) Copyright 2017 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents Editors’ Preface ix List of Contributors xiii Tabula Gratulatoria xvii Publications of Everett K. Rowson xx 1 From Breath to Soul: The Quranic Word Rūḥ and Its (Mis)interpretations 1 Sarra Tlili 2 The Wiles of Women, The Guile of Men: Re-reading Kayd in Sūrat Yūsuf 22 Zainab Mahmood 3 Some Ḥanbalī Views on Secret Marriage 35 Susan A. Spectorsky 4 Anta anā wa-anā minka (“You are me, and I am from you”): A Quasi-Nuṣayrī Fragment on the Intellect in the Early Ismāʿīlī Treatise Kitāb Taʾwīl ḥurūf al-muʿjam 50 David Hollenberg 5 The Crucified Speaks: ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm on His Day-Long Exposure at Nishapur 67 David Larsen 6 Man is Not the Only Speaking Animal: Thresholds and Idiom in al-Jāḥiẓ 94 Jeannie Miller 7 Beyond the Known Limits: Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī’s Chapter on “Intermedial” Poetry 122 Lara Harb 8 Foul Whisperings: Madness and Poetry in Arabic Literary History 150 Geert Jan van Gelder

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CONTENTS

9

Music for the Body, Music for the Soul 176 Hans Hinrich Biesterfeldt

10

Zoroaster’s Many Languages 190 Kevin van Bladel

11

Song and Punishment 211 Dwight F. Reynolds

12

Fathers and Husbands 233 Adam Talib

13

Writing the Past: Ancient Egypt through the Lens of Medieval Islamic Thought 256 Tara Stephan

14

“The Mosul Stand-Up, or a Riff on a Stiff”: Al-Hamadhānī’s Maqāma of Mosul 271 Michael Cooperson

15

An Edition of Al-Hamadhānī’s Al-Maqāma Al-Mawṣiliyya 276 Bilal Orfali

16

Sucker of One’s Mother’s Clitoris: A Study of a Classical Arabic Insult 279 John Nawas

17

Commentators, Collators, and Copyists: Interpreting Manuscript Variation in the Exordium of Al-Ḥarīrī’s Maqāmāt 295 Matthew L. Keegan

18

Going the Extra Mayl: Two Texts on Medieval Dynamics in the Islamic World 317 Jon McGinnis

19

“Extremely Beautiful and Extremely Long” Al-Qīrāṭī’s Exuberant Letter from the Year 761/1360 338 Thomas Bauer

CONTENTS

vii

20 Enterprising Sultans and the Doge of Venice: Political Culture and the Patronage of Science and Philosophy in the Fifteenth-Century Mediterranean 361 Ali Humayun Akhtar 21

Contextualizing Muḥammad ʿAbduh’s Views on the Family, Marriage, and Divorce 375 Kenneth M. Cuno

22

“Go directly home with decorum”: Conduct Books for Egypt’s Young, ca. 1912 393 Marilyn Booth

23

When Jews Attack: Toward a Social Psychology of Inter-Communal Violence in Yemen 416 Mark S. Wagner

24 Scope for Comparatism: Internationalist and Surrealist Resonances in Idwār al-Kharrāṭ’s Resistant Literary Modernity 425 Hala Halim 25 Securing Consent: Islamic Development and the Movement to Transform Egypt 469 James Toth Index of Quran Citations 497 General Index 499

Editors’ Preface In 1964, a graduating high school senior by the name of Everett Keith Rowson was one of three students selected to represent Missouri in the first annual cohort of 121 Presidential Scholars. During his visit to Washington, D.C., the young Everett shook hands with President Johnson, picnicked on the White House lawn, and spoke briefly with then Attorney General Robert Kennedy and composer Leonard Bernstein. Everett went on to obtain a B.A. in Classics from Princeton University in 1968 and then to pursue graduate studies at Yale University, where he received an M.Phil. in 1973 and a Ph.D. in 1982 under the supervision of Franz Rosenthal. In 1982 Everett Rowson was named Assistant Professor at Harvard University. Many of the students he taught and mentored there went on to become prominent in the fields of Arabic, Islamic studies, and Middle East studies. In 1991 he moved to the University of Pennsylvania as Associate Professor in the Department of Oriental Studies (later Asian and Middle East Studies, now Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations), where he also served as Director of the Middle East Center. Since 2003 he has taught in the Department of Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies at New York University, which he also chaired from 2010 to 2013. Everett has served as President of the American Research Center in Egypt, Director and Chair of the Islamic Near East section of the American Oriental Society, and as officer of the American Institute of Yemeni Studies. He is a frequent visitor to Egypt, in the company of his wife, Egyptologist Ann Macy Roth, and a regular attendee of the annual meetings of the American Oriental Society and of the Middle East Studies Association of North America. Everett Rowson’s major scholarly works include a critical edition of a work on the soul by the 10th-century philosopher al-ʿĀmirī; a monograph analyzing al-ʿĀmirī’s thought; two volumes produced with Seeger Bonebakker as part of the Onomasticon Arabicum; the Marwānid Restoration volume of the 38-volume translation of the History of the early 10th-century historian al-Ṭabarī; supervision of the preparation of the indices to the entire Ṭabarī translation project; a co-edited volume on homoeroticism in classical Arabic literature; a series of much-cited articles on sex and sexuality in early and medieval Arabic and Islamic literature; a series of recent articles on late medieval literary writing and culture; and numerous reviews of secondary literature in both Arabic and Western European languages, as well as reviews of critical editions of Arabic texts. Everett is a lead editor of the project to translate al-Yaʿqūbī’s history, and an executive editor of Brill’s monumental resource,

x

EDITORS ’ PREFACE

Encyclopaedia of Islam Three. His reputation as an Arabist is quite simply second to none, and his work commands international attention. Indeed, the number of academic fields and subfields in Arabic and Islamic studies in which Everett is at home is unusually large—the reception of Hellenistic philosophy in Arabic, erotic literature in Arabic, Arabic historiography, Arabic poetry, classical Arabic literature, post-classical Arabic literature, and Egyptian colloquial Arabic, among many others. This scholarly breadth is reflected in the essays that appear in this volume, all of which amply testify to the fact that we are not alone in our deep appreciation of Everett Rowson—so many have benefitted from his teaching, scholarship, mentoring, collegiality and friendship, that the idea for this volume, a collection of studies in honor of him, practically suggested itself. We were thus very gratified, but hardly surprised, that so many colleagues responded positively to our invitation to contribute. The result is a volume which in its breadth and depth mirrors the scholarly range and ability of its honoree.

...

The two of us were at the University of Pennsylvania in the 1980’s, and earned a J.D. and A.M. and a B.A. and A.M., under the guidance of Roger Allen and George Makdisi. We both took brief hiatuses from our studies, one to pursue a career in law, the other to help with the family business. By the time we returned to Philadelphia to continue our doctoral studies, Everett had come to Penn from Harvard and generously agreed to supervise our doctoral research. We had each met Everett in various contexts and although we had heard the boundlessly positive, enthusiastic, and admiring reports of friends at Harvard about Everett’s knowledge, rigor, and kindness, we did not fully realize then how fortunate we were to have the opportunity to learn from him. We now know that we owe much of what we have made of our careers, interests, and such ability as we possess to our advisor, teacher, colleague, and friend.

...

We wish to express our gratitude to Kathy van Vliet and Joed Elich, to the editors of Islamic History and Civilization (IHC) for welcoming this volume into their very fine series, and to Pieter te Velde and the entire production team at Brill.1 Our thanks go especially to Teddi Dols for shepherding us through the 1  We have adhered to the IHC style and transliteration guidelines throughout, except in a small number of cases where authors requested a different scheme.

EDITORS ’ PREFACE

xi

entire process of commissioning and production; to Laylan Saadaldin for expert copyediting; to Alex Popovkin for preparing the indices; and to the outside reviewers for extremely helpful feedback. We extend our thanks to those listed in the Tabula Gratulatoria, and offer special gratitude to the contributors— their promptness, cooperation, and indulgence is deeply appreciated, and their wide-ranging and incisive scholarship is a fitting tribute indeed to a scholar’s scholar. Joseph E. Lowry Philadelphia

Shawkat M. Toorawa New Haven

figure 2 17-year old Everett Rowson, Presidential Scholar, shaking hands with President Lyndon B. Johnson, 1964. credit: Personal collection of Everett K. Rowson

List of Contributors Ali Humayun Akhtar is Assistant Professor of Religious Studies and of Classical and Medieval Studies at Bates College. Thomas Bauer is Professor of Islamic and Arabic Studies at the University of Münster. Hans Hinrich Biesterfeldt is Professor Emeritus of Islamic Studies at Ruhr University Bochum. Kevin van Bladel is Associate Professor of Near Eastern Languages and Cultures at The Ohio State University. Marilyn Booth is Khalid bin Abdullah Al Saud Professor for the Study of the Contemporary Arab World at the University of Oxford and Fellow of Magdalen College. Michael Cooperson is Professor of Arabic at the University of California, Los Angeles. Kenneth M. Cuno is Associate Professor of History at the University of Illinois. Geert Jan van Gelder retired as Laudian Professor of Arabic at the University of Oxford and is Fellow of St. John’s College. Hala Halim is Associate Professor of Comparative Literature and of Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies at New York University. Lara Harb is Assistant Professor of Near Eastern Studies at Princeton University. David Hollenberg is Associate Professor of Arabic and Islamic Studies at the University of Oregon.

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Matthew L. Keegan is a doctoral candidate in Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies at New York University. David Larsen is Clinical Assistant Professor of Liberal Studies at New York University. Joseph E. Lowry is Associate Professor of Arabic and Islamic Studies at the University of Pennsylvania. Zainab Mahmood is a doctoral candidate in Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies at New York University. Jon McGinnis is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Missouri-St. Louis. Jeannie Miller is Assistant Professor of Near and Middle Eastern Civilizations at the University of Toronto. John Nawas is Professor of Arabic and Islamic Studies at the Catholic University of Leuven. Bilal Orfali is Professor of Arabic Studies at the American University of Beirut. Alex Popovkin is a Field Botanist, editor and translator in Bahia, Brazil. Dwight F. Reynolds is Professor of Religious Studies at the University of California, Santa Barbara. Susan A. Spectorsky is Associate Professor Emerita of Arabic and Islamic Studies at Queens College of the City University of New York.

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

xv

Tara Stephan is a doctoral candidate in Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies at New York University. Adam Talib is Assistant Professor of Classical Arabic Literature at the American University in Cairo. Sarra Tlili is Associate Professor of Arabic Language and Literature at the University of Florida. Shawkat M. Toorawa is Professor of Arabic at Yale University. James Toth is Associate Professor of Anthropology at Zayed University. Mark S. Wagner is Associate Professor of Arabic at Louisiana State University.

Figure 3

Everett with his cat Shadiya on a Cairo balcony, 1982. credit: Ann Macy Roth

Tabula Gratulatoria Ali Humayun Akhtar Ismail Fajrie Alatas Mahmoud Al-Batal Roger Allen Ellen Amster Sinan Antoon Jere L. Bacharach Thomas Bauer Peri Bearman Adam Becker Gary Beckman Joel Beinin Gregory J. Bell Zvi Ben-Dor Benite Monique Bernards Hans Hinrich Biesterfeldt Kevin van Bladel Maurits van den Boogert Marilyn Booth Ross Brann Julia Bray Kristen Brustad Michael G. Carter Ayesha Chaudhry Niall Christie Paul M. Cobb Michael A. Cook Michael Cooperson Dale J. Correa Kenneth M. Cuno Hans Daiber Virginia Danielson Humphrey Davies Teddi Dols Robin Dougherty Joed Elich Ahmed El Shamsy

Josef van Ess Kate Fleet Katherine Fleming F. Barry Flood Bruce Fudge Supriya Gandhi Geert Jan van Gelder Linda George Alma Giese Michael C. Gilsenan Linda Greene Frank Griffel Beatrice Gründler Peggy Guinan Muhammet Günaydin Li Guo Sebastian Günther Dimitri Gutas Hala Halim Lara Harb Alan Hartley Irfana Hashmi David Hollenberg Jon Hoover Brian Johnson Wadad Kadi Deborah Kapchan Marion H. Katz Matthew Keegan Philip F. Kennedy Arang Keshavarzian Alexander Key Ruqayya Khan Mohammed Mehdi Khorrami Nuha N. N. Khoury Hanaa Kilany Gudrun Krämer

xviii Margaret Larkin David Larsen Todd Lawson Zachary Lockman Joseph E. Lowry Zainab Mahmood Alex Mallett Richard C. Martin Denis Matringe E. Ann Matter Jon McGinnis Christopher Melchert James E. Montgomery Jeannie Miller Diane Moderski Suleiman Mourad Suneela Mubayi Elias Muhanna John Nawas Kristina Nelson Amy Newhall Felicitas Opwis Bilal Orfali Abdurraouf Oueslati Wen-chin Ouyang Leslie P. Pierce Maurice Pomerantz Alex Popovkin Tahera Qutbuddin Intisar A. Rabb A. Kevin Reinhart

TABULA GRATULATORIA

Dwight F. Reynolds Chase Robinson Jonathan Rodgers Barbara Romaine Walid Saleh Paula Sanders Arie Schippers Sabine Schmidtke Heather Sharkey Susan A. Spectorsky Tara Stephan Suzanne Stetkevych Devin J. Stewart Tony Street Adam Talib Helga Tawil-Souri Abedel Tayyara Sarra Tlili Shawkat M. Toorawa Deborah Tor James Toth Alexander Treiger Eve Troutt-Powell Kelly Tuttle Sufia Uddin Nader Uthman Kathy van Vliet Mark S. Wagner David J. Wasserstein Elizabeth Wickett Travis Zadeh

Figure 4

Everett in front of bookcases. credit: Ann Macy Roth

Publications of Everett K. Rowson 1979 Abū l-Ḥasan Muḥammad ibn Yūsuf al-ʿĀmirī al-Nīshābūrī, al-Amad ʿalā l-abad, edited by E.K. Rowson, with an Introduction, 7–42 (Silsilah-i dānish-i īrānī, 22a), Beirut, Dār al-Kindī, 1979, 42, 165 pages. 1980 (with Seeger A. Bonebakker), A Computerized Listing of Biographical Data from the Yatīmat al-Dahr by al-Ṯaʿālibī, with an introductory essay by Everett K. Rowson (Onomasticon Arabicum, Série Listing 3), Paris, Institut de Recherche et d’Histoire des Textes, and Los Angeles, University of California, 1980, 103 pages. Al-ʿĀmirī, in Encyclopaedia of Islam, ed. H.A.R. Gibb et al., new [2nd] edition, Supplement, fasc. 1–2, Leiden, E. J. Brill, 1980, 72–73. 1982 Al-ʿĀmirī on the Afterlife: A Translation with Commentary of His al-Amad ʿalā al-abad, Ph.D. dissertation, Yale University, 1982, 552 pages. 1983 Cant and Argot in Cairo Colloquial Arabic, in American Research Center in Egypt Newsletter 122 (Summer 1983), 13–24. 1984 An Unpublished Work by al-ʿĀmirī and the Date of the Arabic De Causis, in Journal of the American Oriental Society 104/1 (1984) (Franz Rosenthal Festschrift), 193–99.

PUBLICATIONS OF EVERETT K. ROWSON

xxi

Review of Hans Daiber, Aetius Arabus: Die Vorsokratiker in arabischer Überlieferung, Wiesbaden, 1980, in Journal of the American Oriental Society 104/2 (1984), 387–88. (with Seeger A. Bonebakker), Notes on Two Poetic Anthologies: Ṯaʿālibī’s Tatimma and Bāẖarzī’s Dumya (Onomasticon Arabicum 7), Paris, Institut de Recherche et d’Histoire des Textes, and Los Angeles, University of California, 1984, 73 pages. 1987 Review of Felix Klein-Franke, Die klassische Antike in der Tradition des Islam, Darmstadt, 1980, in Journal of the American Oriental Society 107/1 (1987), 187–88. Review of W.F. Ryan and Charles B. Schmitt (eds.), Pseudo-Aristotle, The Secret of Secrets: Sources and Influences, London, 1982, in Journal of the American Oriental Society 107/1 (1987), 188–89. Religion and Politics in the Career of Badīʿ al-Zamān al-Hamadhānī, in Journal of the American Oriental Society 107/4 (1987), 653–73. 1988 A Muslim Philosopher on the Soul and Its Fate: Al-ʿĀmirī’s Kitāb al-Amad ʿalā l-abad (American Oriental Series 70), New Haven, Conn., American Oriental Society, 1988, 381 pages. 1989 The History of al-Ṭabarī, volume 22, The Marwānid Restoration: The Caliphate of ʿAbd al-Malik A.D. 693–701/A.H. 74–81, translated from the Arabic and annotated by Everett K. Rowson (SUNY Series in Near Eastern Studies), Albany, State University of New York Press, 1989, 244 pages. 1990 The Philosopher As Littérateur: al-Tawḥīdī and His Predecessors, in Zeitschrift für Geschichte der arabisch-islamischen Wissenschaften 6 (1990), 50–92.

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1991 The Categorization of Gender and Sexual Irregularity in Medieval Arabic Vice Lists, in Julia Epstein and Kristina Straub (eds.), Body Guards: The Cultural Politics of Gender Ambiguity, New York and London, Routledge, 1991, 50–79. The Effeminates of Early Medina, in Journal of the American Oriental Society 111/4 (1991), 671–93. 1992 Review of Carole Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality in Crusader Times: The Early Artuqid State, Istanbul, 1990, in Al-ʿArabiyya: Journal of the American Association of Teachers of Arabic 25 (1992), 143–48. The Theology of Aristotle and Some Other Pseudo-Aristotelian Texts Reconsidered (review article of Jill Kraye, W.F. Ryan and C.B. Schmitt [eds.], Pseudo-Aristotle in the Middle Ages: The Theology and Other Texts, London, 1985), in Journal of the American Oriental Society 112/3 (1992), 478–84. 1993 ‘Memoirs of a Street Tough,’ translation of selections from Yūsuf Abū Ḥaggāg, Mudhakkirāt futuwwa, in Donna Lee Bowen and Evelyn Early (eds.), Everyday Life in the Muslim Middle East, Bloomington, Indiana University Press, 1993, 38–46. 1994 Review of Ian Richard Netton, Al-Farabi and His School (Arabic Thought and Culture), London and New York, 1992, in International Journal of Middle East Studies 26/2 (1994), 338–41. Al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, in Encyclopaedia of Islam, ed. H.A.R. Gibb et al., new [2nd] edition, viii, Leiden, E. J. Brill, 1994, 389–90. Review of Paul Kahle (ed., with critical apparatus by Derek Hopwood), Three Shadow Plays by Muḥammad ibn Dāniyāl, Cambridge, 1992, in Journal of the American Oriental Society 114/3 (1994), 462–66.

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Review of Shmuel Moreh, Live Theatre and Dramatic Literature in the Medieval Arabic World, New York, 1992, in Journal of the American Oriental Society 114/3 (1994), 466–68. 1995 Middle Eastern Literature: Arabic, in Claude J. Summers (ed.), The Gay and Lesbian Literary Heritage, New York, Henry Holt, 1995, 481–85. Review of Benjamin F. Hary, Multiglossia in Judeo-Arabic: With an Edition, Translation and Grammatical Study of the Cairene Purim Scroll, Leiden, 1992, in Al-ʿArabiyya 28 (1995), 47–52. Review of Ludwig Ammann, Vorbild und Vernunft: Die Regelung von Lachen und Scherzen im mittelalterlichen Islam, Hildesheim, 1993, in Journal of the American Oriental Society 115/3 (1995), 491–93. Review of Ulrich Marzolph, Arabia Ridens: Die humoristische Kurzprosa der frühen adab-Literatur im internationalen Traditionsgeflecht, Frankfurt, 1992, in Journal of the American Oriental Society 115/3 (1995), 493–96. 1996 Al-ʿĀmirī, in Seyyid Hossein Nasr and Oliver Leaman (eds.), History of Islamic Philosophy, 2 vols. (Routledge History of World Philosophies), London and New York, Routledge, 1996, i, 216–221. al-Sajʿ bayn al-Tawḥīdī wa-muʿāṣirīhi [Rhymed prose in the works of al-Tawḥīdī and his contemporaries], in Fuṣūl 14/4 (Winter 1996), 316–19. In Encyclopaedia of Islam, new [2nd] edition, ix, Leiden, E. J. Brill, 1996: Shubha, 492–93, al-Sīm, Lughat, 611. Arabic Poetics in Hebrew Poetry of the Golden Age, review of Arie Schippers, Spanish Hebrew Poetry and the Arabic Literary Tradition: Arabic Themes in Hebrew Andalusian Poetry, Leiden, 1994, in Prooftexts 16/1 (1996), 105–11. Review of Herbert A. Davidson, Alfarabi, Avicenna, and Averroes, on Intellect: Their Cosmologies, Theories of the Active Intellect, and Theories of Human Intellect, Oxford, 1992, in Jewish Quarterly Review 86/3–4 (1996), 488–92.

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1997 Homoeroticism in Classical Arabic Literature, edited by J.W. Wright Jr. and Everett K. Rowson, New York, Columbia University Press, 1997, 239 pages. Two Homoerotic Narratives from Mamlūk Literature: al-Ṣafadī’s Lawʿat al-shākī and Ibn Dāniyāl’s al-Mutayyam, in J.W. Wright, Jr. and Everett K. Rowson (eds.), Homoeroticism in Classical Arabic Literature, New York, Columbia University Press, 1997, 158–191. (with Hassan Gadalla, Hanaa Kilany et al.), CALLHOME Egyptian Arabic Transcripts, Philadelphia, Linguistic Data Consortium, 1997 Reprint of The Effeminates of Early Medina, in Gary David Comstock and Susan E. Henking (eds.), Que(e)rying Religion: A Critical Anthology, New York, Continuum, 1997, 61–88. 1998 In Julie Scott Meisami and Paul Starkey (eds.), Encyclopedia of Arabic Literature, 2 vols., London and New York, Routledge, 1998: Abū l-Faḍl al-Mīkālī (d. 436/1044), i, 30, Abū l-Fatḥ al-Bustī (335–400/946–1009), i, 32, Badīʿ al-Zamān al-Hamadhānī (358–98/968–1008), i, 123–24, al-Bākharzī, ʿAlī ibn al-Ḥasan (c. 418–67/c. 1027–75), i, 129, Ghaznavids, i, 251–52, Ghulāmiyyāt, i, 254, al-Ghuzūlī (d. 815/1412), i, 254, Ibn al-ʿAmīd (d. 360/970), i, 309–10, Ibn Bābak (d. 410/1019), i, 316, Ibn Dāniyāl (d. 710/1310), i, 319–20, Ibn Hindū (d. 420/1029), i, 334, Ibn Sūdūn (c. 810–68/c. 1407–64), i, 376, Ibn Sukkara al-Hāshimī (d. 385/995), i, 376, Ibn Wakīʿ al-Tinnīsī (d. 393/1003), i, 382–83, al-Khubzaruzzī (d. c. 327/938), 443, Khurasan, ii, 444–46, Khwārazm, ii, 449–50, al-Khwārazmī, Abū Bakr (323–83/934–93), ii, 450, mujūn, ii, 546–48,

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Muḥammad ibn ʿAbd al-Malik, known as Ibn al-Zayyāt (173–233/789–848), ii, 544, al-Nafzāwī (fl. ninth/fifteenth century), ii, 572–73, al-Qāḍī al-Fāḍil (529–96/1135–1200), ii, 626–27, Rayy, ii, 647–48, al-Ṣābiʾ, Abū Isḥāq Ibrāhīm ibn Hilāl (313–84/925–94), ii, 671–72, al-Ṣābiʾ, Hilāl ibn Muḥassin (359–448/969–10556), ii, 672, al-Ṣāḥib ibn ʿAbbād (326–85/938–95), ii, 675–76, Sajʿ, ii, 677–78, Sāmānids, ii, 684–85 al-Shābushtī (d. 399/1008 or somewhat earlier), ii, 700, al-Shirbīnī (late eleventh/seventeenth century), ii, 715 sukhf, ii, 743, Ṭāhirids, ii, 753 al-Tawḥīdī, Abū Ḥayyān (c. 315–411/c. 927–1023), ii, 760–61, al-Thaʿālibī (350–429/961–1038), ii, 764–65, al-Tifāshī (580–651/1184–1253), ii, 772, al-ʿUtbī (d. 413/1022), ii, 798, al-Wahrānī (d. 565/1179), ii, 802. In Encyclopædia Iranica, ed. Ehsan Yarshater, viii, Costa Mesa, CA, Mazda Publishers, 1998: Ebrāhīm Mawṣelī, 73–74, Esḥāq Mawṣelī, 596–97. Review of Shaun Marmon, Eunuchs and Sacred Boundaries in Islamic Society, Oxford, 1995, in  Journal of Ritual Studies 12/1 (1998), 68–70. 1999 al-Thaʿālibī, in Encyclopaedia of Islam, ed. H.A.R. Gibb et al., new [2nd] edition, x, Leiden, E. J. Brill, 1999, 426–28. Prolegomenon and chapters 1–3 from al-Iʿlām bi manāqib al-islām (An Exposition on the Merits of Islam), and chapter 1, 3, and 4 from al-Amad ʿalā’ l-abad (On the Soul and Its Fate), by Abū l-Ḥasan ʿĀmirī, translated by E.K. Rowson, in Seyyed Hossein Nasr with Mehdi Aminrazavi (eds.), An Anthology of Philosophy in Persia, New York and Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1999, i, 135–159, and 160–168. Introduction to the Kitāb al-taḥṣīl (The Book of Exposition) by Bahmanyār ibn Marzbān, translated by E.K. Rowson, in Seyyed Hossein Nasr with Mehdi

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Aminrazavi (eds.), An Anthology of Philosophy in Persia, New York and Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1999, i, 333–350. 2000 Review of Mawil Izzi Dien, The Theory and the Practice of Market Law in Medieval Islam: A Study of Kitāb Niṣāb al-Iḥtisāb of ʿUmar ibn Muḥammad al-Sunāmī ( fl. 7th–8th/13th–14th Century), Warminster, 1997, in Middle East Studies Association Bulletin 34/1 (2000), 83–84. 2001 Chapter VII from Aʿ lām al-nubuwwah (Signs of Prophecy) by Abū Ḥātim Rāzī, translated by E.K. Rowson, in Seyyed Hossein Nasr with Mehdi Aminrazavi (eds.), An Anthology of Philosophy in Persia, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2001, ii, 139–172. Review of Arnoud Vrolijk, Bringing a Laugh to a Scowling Face: A Study and Critical Edition of the “Nuzhat al-nufūs wa-muḍḥik al-ʿabūs” by ʿAlī Ibn Sūdūn al-Bašbuġāwī (Cairo 801/1407–Damascus 868/1464), Leiden, 1998, in Edebiyât 12/1 (2001), 128–38. 2002 The Encyclopaedia of the Qur’ān, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe, Leiden, Brill, ii (2002): Gossip, 343–44; Homosexuality, 444–45. Gender Irregularity As Entertainment: Institutionalized Transvestism at the Caliphal Court in Medieval Baghdad, in Sharon Farmer and Carol Braun Pasternack (eds.), Gender and Difference in the Middle Ages, Minneapolis, University of Minnesota Press, 2003, 45–72. 2003 An Alexandrian Age in Fourteenth-Century Damascus: Twin Commentaries on Two Celebrated Arabic Epistles, in Mamluk Studies Review 7 (2003), 97–110.

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Review of Geert Jan van Gelder, Of Dishes and Discourse: Classical Arabic Literary Representations of Food, Richmond, 2000, in Middle Eastern Literatures 6/1 (2003), 117–19. 2004 Homosexuality. II. In Islamic Law, in Encyclopædia Iranica, ed. E. Yarshater, xii, fasc. iv, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 2004, 441–45. Homosexuality, in Encyclopedia of Islam and the Muslim World, ed. R.C. Martin, New York, Macmillan Reference USA, Thomson Gale, 2004, i, 316–17. Review of al-Ṣafadī, al-Kashf wa-l-tanbīh ʿalā l-waṣf wa-l-tashbīh, edited by Hilāl Nājī and Walīd ibn Aḥmad al-Ḥusayn ibn ʿAbdallāh al-Zubayrī, Leeds, 1999, and Nabīl Muḥammad Rashād, al-Ṣafadī wa-sharḥuhu ʿalā Lāmīyat al-ʿajam, Cairo, 2001, in Mamlūk Studies Review 8/1 (2004), 315–23. 2005 Abū l-ʿAtāhiya, in Michael Cooperson and Shawkat M. Toorawa (eds.), Arabic Literary Culture, 500–925 (Dictionary of Literary Biography, 311), Detroit, Thomson Gale, 2005, 12–20. 2006 Arabic: Middle Ages to Nineteenth Century, in Encyclopedia of Erotic Literature, ed. Gaëtan Brulott and John Phillips, New York, Routledge, 2006, i, 43–61. Review of John C. Lamoreaux, The Early Muslim Tradition of Dream Interpretation, Albany, 2002, in Journal of Near Eastern Studies 65/1 (2006), 64–66. Review of al-Ṣafadī (attributed), Lawʿat al-shākī wa-Damʿat al-Bākī, ed. Muḥammad ʿĀyish, Damascus, 2003, in Mamlūk Studies Review 10/1 (2006), 222–26.

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2007 The History of al-Ṭabarī, volume 40, Index: comprising an index of proper names and subjects and an index of Qur’ānic citations and allusions, prepared by Alex V. Popovkin under the supervision of Everett K. Rowson (SUNY Series in Near Eastern Studies), Albany, State University of New York Press, 2007, 674 pages. Encyclopaedia of Islam Three, eds. Kate Fleet, Gudrun Krämer, Denis Matringe, John Nawas and Everett Rowson, Leiden, Brill, 2007– Review of Ze’ev Maghen, Virtues of the Flesh: Passion and Purity in Early Islamic Jurisprudence, Leiden, 2005, in Islamic Law and Society 14/1 (2007), 130–36. 2008 Homoerotic Liaisons among the Mamluk Elite in Late Medieval Egypt and Syria, in Kathryn Babayan and Afsaneh Najmabadi (eds.), Islamicate Sexualities: Translations across Temporal Geographies of Desire (Harvard Middle Eastern Monographs 39), Cambridge, Mass. and London, Distributed for the Center for Middle Eastern Studies by Harvard University Press, 2008, 204–38. The Traffic in Boys: Slavery and Homoerotic Liaisons in Elite ʿAbbāsid Society, in Devin Stewart and Shawkat M. Toorawa (eds.), Arabic Literature before al-Muwayliḥī, special issue of Middle Eastern Literatures 11/2 (2008), 193–204. Review of David Semah and George J. Kanazi (eds.), Rawḍat al-Qulūb wa-Nuzhat al-Muḥibb wal-Maḥbūb, by ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Naṣr al-Shayzarī, Wiesbaden, 2003, in Journal of the American Oriental Society 128/2 (2008), 380–82. 2009 al-Ṣafadī, in Joseph E. Lowry and Devin J. Stewart (eds.), Essays in Arabic Literary Biography, 1350–1830 (Mîzân: Studien zur Literatur in der Islamischen Welt), Wiesbaden, Harrassowitz, 2009, 341–57. The Aesthetics of Pure Formalism: A Letter of Qābūs b. Vushmgīr, in Lale Behzadi and Vahid Behmardi (eds.), The Weaving of Words: Approaches to Classical Arabic Prose (Beiruter Texte und Studien, 112), Beirut, OrientInstitut Beirut in Kommission Ergon–Verlag Würzburg, 2009, 131–49.

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Reveal Or Conceal: Public Humiliation and Banishment As Punishments in Early Islamic Times, in Maribel Fierro and Christian Lange (eds.), Public Violence in Islamic Societies: Power, Discipline, and the Construction of the Public Sphere, 7th–19th Centuries CE, Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press, 2009, 119–29. 2010 In Christian-Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, ii (900–1050), ed. David Thomas and Alex Mallett, Leiden, Brill, 2010: Al-ʿĀmirī, 485–87; Al-iʿlām bi-manāqib al-Islām (‘Information about the virtues of Islam’), 488–89; Al-ibāna ʿan uṣūl al-diyāna (‘An elucidation concerning the principles of religion’), 489–90; Al-irshād li-taḥqīq al-iʿtiqād (‘Guidance on the verification of belief’), 490. Review of Muḥammad Āyish (ed.), al-Faḍl al-Munīf fī l-Mawlid al-Sharīf wa-yalīhi ʿIbrat al-Labīb bi-ʿAthrat al-Ka‌ʾīb by al-Ṣafadī, Beirut, 2007, and Samīḥ Ibrāhīm Ṣāliḥ (ed.), Lawʿat al-Shākī wa-Damʿat al-Bākī by Zayn al-Dīn al-Ḥarīrī, Damascus, 2005, in Mamlūk Studies Review 14 (2010), 233–45. 2015 (Translation into Turkish of The Effeminates of Early Medina, 1997) İlk Dönem Medîne’de Efemineler, translated by Ahmet Hakkı Turabi and Erhan Özden, in RAST Müzikoloji Dergisi/RAST Musicology Journal 3/1 (2015), 1–31. (Translation into Italian of Homoerotic Liaisons, 2008) Omoerotismo ed élite mamelucca tra Egitto e Siria nel tardo medioevo, in Umberto Grassi and Giuseppe Marcocci (eds.), Le trasgressioni della carne, Rome, 2015, 23–51. 2017 The Works of al-Yaʿqūbī: a Translation, ed. Matthew Gordon, Michael Fishbein, Chase Robinson and Everett Rowson, Leiden, Brill, 2017–.

Figure 5

Everett with a hawk in Lincoln, 2013. credit: Ann Macy Roth.

CHAPTER 1

From Breath to Soul: The Quranic Word Rūḥ and Its (Mis)interpretations Sarra Tlili A certain theologian (baʿḍ al-mutakallimīn) was asked in my presence about the meanings of the words nafs and rūḥ to which he gave the answers: nafas (breath) and rīḥ (wind), respectively. “Based on what you say,” the theologian’s interlocutor commented, “every time a person breathes (tanaffasa) his soul (nafs) exits his body, and every time he breaks wind (ḍaraṭa) his spirit (rūḥ) does the same.”1 This anecdote, told by the prominent author Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī (d. 400/1010), is probably meant to illustrate the absurdity of this mutakallim’s claims, but like many others, it also points to an underlying controversy. In this case, the controversy revolves around the terms rūḥ and nafs, particularly whether they refer to the perceived entity that supposedly animates the human body. The understanding of rūḥ and nafs as “soul” has long been established in Islamic thought and is generally believed to stem from, or at least to be consistent with, the Quran. Yet the anecdote shows also that even as late as the fourth/tenth century these assumptions were questioned by some, and for that matter, by a mutakallim, not an aḥmaq (fool) or an otherwise unserious contender. In this essay, I wish to explore part of this controversy by studying the word rūḥ in the Quran and related texts not only with the aim of understanding its meanings, but also of understanding the intellectual context in which it has been debated. A closer look at the Quran reveals that it does not use the words rūḥ and nafs interchangeably to suggest any synonym, and that, indeed, rūḥ “never occurs in the Ḳur’ān with the meaning of ‘soul,’ ” as Duncan Macdonald points out.2 More importantly, a diachronic study of commentaries on this word reveals a trend of growing anthropocentrism in Islamic thought that is worth exploring. To provide some context for this discussion, I will first give a brief overview of the development of the notion of soul among some schools of Islamic thought. Second, I will examine the treatment of the r.w.ḥ root, from 1  Al-Tawḥīdī, al-Baṣāʾir wa-l-dhakhāʾir i, 123. 2  Macdonald, Development of the idea of spirit 26.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_002

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which the word rūḥ is derived, in the Arabic dictionary Lisān al-ʿArab. Third, I will discuss the word rūḥ in the Quran. Finally, I will survey Quran commentaries from different historical periods to highlight the diachronic progression and the anthropocentric overtones in the treatment of this notion.

Conceptions of Human Nature in Early Islamic Tradition

Several modern scholars have noted that the body-and-soul conception of the human being emerged somewhat late in Islamic thought, around the second century of Islam.3 Prior to this, as Ismaʿil Fārūqī explains, Muslims were not yet exposed to the array of ideas that both triggered and shaped discourses about human nature and related philosophical matters.4 This is not to suggest that to pre-Islamic Arabians and early Muslims the human being was no more than the sum of her physical self; but earlier conceptions of the non-physical dimension of the human being in the Arabian context were rather unsophisticated.5 When Muslims started pondering the incorporeal nature of humans during Islam’s formative centuries, the body-and-soul dualism was not the only model they adopted. Early Ashʿarīs and many Muʿtazilīs conceived of the human being primarily in terms of atoms and accidents. Humans, similar to other created beings, were believed to consist of collections of atoms that served as seats for a multitude of accidents. Attributes such as life, perception, and knowledge, which later became the domain of the soul, were conceived of as accidents that were directly placed in or attached to the atoms of the body.6 Death did not always involve a spirit or a soul that survived the deceased, but could simply mean that a person ceased to exist,7 or that the accident of death replaced the accident of life.8 Therefore, the soul metaphor was not a prerequisite even for a more sophisticated understanding of human nature. Notwithstanding this, many Muslims still accepted the notion of a soul. Ayman Shihadeh attributes this to the necessity of accounting for scriptural themes, maintaining that since “the Qurʾān and Ḥadīth contain frequent 3  See, for example, Homerin, Soul, in EQ v, 80. 4  Fārūqī, Self in Muʿtazilah thought 367. 5  Pre-Islamic society seems to have held the view that when someone is killed, a bird—which they called ṣadā or hāma—comes out of that person’s head and hovers over the grave, remaining there until the person is avenged. See Ibn Qutayba, al-Maʿānī l-kabīr ii, 951. 6  Shihadeh, Ashʿari anthropology 465. 7  Vasalou, Subject and body 292. 8  Shihadeh, Ashʿarī anthropology 447.

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and often vivid depictions of the rūḥ and nafs of individual beings.”9 It was therefore the need “to account for these scriptural depictions, rather than to explain any properties of man that remained unaccounted for by the standard means of accidents” that Muslim theologians accepted the notion of the soul, Shihadeh argues.10 The supposed specifically quranic depiction of rūḥ, however, becomes less vivid as one studies the relevant passages closely. Indeed, as Shihadeh seems to imply in a footnote, early Muslim theologians’ understanding of the quranic word rūḥ as “soul” rested on two flawed premises. First, they assumed that rūḥ and nafs were homonyms (ism mushtarak); second, they discounted or deemphasized several senses in which the word rūḥ occurs in the Quran.

Rūḥ in Arabic Lexicons

Toshihiko Izutsu observes that Arabic dictionaries and Quran commentaries are valuable sources for the study of the Quran, but they can, nonetheless, “prove more misleading than enlightening, unless we are very cautious in availing ourselves of the evidence they afford.”11 The earliest dictionaries were composed in the second century of Islam, when the notion of the soul was already becoming prevalent. It is therefore hardly surprising that the primary definition of the word rūḥ, including in the Kitāb al-ʿAyn attributed to al-Khalīl ibn Aḥmad (d. 170 or 175/786 or 791), is generally “the soul by which the body lives (al-nafs allatī yaḥyā bihā l-badan).”12 The author of the Kitāb al-ʿAyn, however, much like later lexicographers, fails to cite any similar usage of the word rūḥ from pre- or early Islamic poetry to corroborate this definition. This is not a minor point. Arabic lexicographers and grammarians depended heavily on pre- and early Islamic language to determine the “correct” (i.e. early) meanings of Arabic words and structures. Their scholarly endeavors were primarily motivated by the wish to record the Arabic language that was in use around the time and place of revelation to make sure that later generations continued adequately to understand the Islamic scripture. These linguists were aware that the rapid social, linguistic, and intellectual changes taking place at the time could affect people’s understanding of 9  Shihadeh, Ashʿarī anthropology 465. 10  Shihadeh, Ashʿarī anthropology 465. 11  Izutsu, Ethico-religious concepts 15. 12  Al-Khalīl ibn Aḥmad, Kitāb al-ʿAyn, s.v. r.w.ḥ. On the authorship of the Kitāb al-ʿAyn, see Talmon, Kitāb al-ʿAyn.

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the Quran, and their strategy in addressing this challenge depended heavily on the citation of early material. The failure to provide early illustrative examples in support of the rūḥ-qua-soul interpretation thus warrants skepticism. Considering that the soul connotation crept into the meaning of the word rūḥ around the same time or even before the field of Arabic lexicography emerged, a diachronic study of this word in Arabic dictionaries would not be the most fruitful course. Arabic lexicons occasionally reflect uncertainty regarding the rūḥ-qua-soul interpretation, but this reflection does not lead to a systematic investigation.13 Thus, instead of a diachronic study, I propose a close reading of the relevant material in Ibn Manẓūr’s (d. 711/1311) dictionary, Lisān al-ʿArab. A thorough analysis of the r.w.ḥ entry in this dictionary, as in many others, reveals important misconstructions and interpretative leaps which should caution us against accepting all propositions at face value.14 The semantic field of the r.w.ḥ/r.y.ḥ roots in Lisān al-ʿArab revolves primarily around the idea of “moving air.” The word rīḥ means wind, yawm rāḥ means a windy day, marwaḥa means desert (mafāza), thus called because it is a place traversed by wind (al-mawḍiʿ alladhī takhtariquhu l-rīḥ), and mirwaḥa is a fan. Another air-related connotation is “smell,” something that is carried to the olfactory bulbs through the air. Arwaḥa l-laḥm is thus said of spoiled meat when it emits a foul odor and the verb istarwaḥa means “to smell s.th.” (al-tashammum). In addition, this root has connotations of pleasantness, happiness, comfort, rest, vastness, and generosity, which seem to be linked to the good sensation resulting from breezes. Therefore, the adjective aryaḥ describes any spacious thing (al-wāsiʿ min kulli shayʾ) whereas aryaḥī describes a big-hearted person who is inclined toward good deeds (wāsiʿ al-khuluq, al-munbasiṭ ilā l-maʿrūf ). Moving to the notion of rūḥ, Ibn Manẓūr draws on kalām al-ʿarab (Arabs’ speech), the Quran and the Ḥadīth, and the views of several linguists and grammarians to elucidate its meanings. From early Arabic sources he cites a verse belonging to the Umayyad poet Dhū l-Rumma (d. 117/735) in which this poet addresses a companion, telling him to kindle fire with his rūḥ. This, according to Ibn Manẓūr’s explanation, means “enliven the fire with your blown breath (aḥyihā bi-nafkhik).” This lexicographer reports a similar usage from Abū l-Duqaysh al-Aʿrābī, a major informant on the Arabic language who, according to the biographer al-Ṣafadī (d. 764/1363), counted among his students the 13  See for example, Ibn Durayd, Jamharat al-lugha i, 526. Ibn Durayd (d. 321/933) writes, “The ‘rūḥ’ of the human being is his soul (nafsuhu) by which his body lives, though some say that ‘rūḥ’ is different from ‘nafs.’ ” 14  Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān al-ʿArab ii, 455–68.

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linguists Abū ʿUbayda (d. 209/824), al-Aṣmaʿī (d. 216/831), and al-Khalīl ibn Aḥmad. Abū l-Duqaysh is reported to have said: “one of us filled a water skin from his rūḥ (ʿamada minnā rajulun ilā qirbatin fa-mala‌ʾahā min rūḥihi).”15 Ibn Manẓūr explains that rūḥ here means “wind and breath (rīḥ wa-nafas).” In both examples, therefore, this word means “blown breath,” which, consistent with other derivations of the root, is a type of moving air. Ibn Manẓūr provides an additional set of meanings derived from the Quran and the Ḥadīth. In this set, rūḥ is defined as “revelation” (al-waḥy), the “command of prophethood” (amr al-nubuwwa), “mercy” (al-raḥma), God’s “rule and command” (ḥukmuhu wa-amruhu), the archangel Gabriel and other metaphysical beings, and “soul” (al-nafs). In noting the rich semantic horizon of the quranic word rūḥ, Ibn Manẓūr stresses that the word occurs mostly (al-ghālib) with the meaning of “soul.” Interestingly, this assumption leads him to reinterpret the word in Dhū l-Rumma’s verse to suggest that it is used figuratively. Blown breath (al-nafkh) can be called rūḥ, he explains, because it is “wind that comes out of the soul (li-annahu rīḥ yakhruju min al-ruḥ).” Two features of Ibn Manẓūr’s treatment of this word are noteworthy. First, the meanings he includes in this list do not seem particularly related to the r.w.ḥ root. It is possible to sense the positive connotation that is often associated with this root in words such as “mercy” and, through a somewhat stretched analogy, “revelation” (revelation is often equated with guidance and mercy), but it is not clear how individuals such as the archangel Gabriel would fit here. More importantly, the “blown air” connotation can hardly be detected from this list. The point of this comment, however, is not to question Ibn Manẓūr’s entire list (indeed, most of the meanings he suggests seem to be supported by quranic context), but rather to point out that in treatments of the word rūḥ, there is often little effort to examine the ways in which this quranic word fits in its general semantic field as detected from its root and from extra-quranic uses in pre- or early-Islamic Arabic. This point is relevant to my general argument, and I will return to it below. The second noteworthy feature is the way Ibn Manẓūr accounts for the rūḥqua-soul meaning. Strangely, in support of this interpretation he adduces verse 85 of Sūrat al-Isrāʾ (17:85), “They ask you [Muḥammad] about the rūḥ, say, ‘the rūḥ is of God’s affair/from God’s command (qul al-rūḥu min amri rabbī).’ ” To provide additional corroboration for this interpretation, Ibn Manẓūr quotes al-Farrāʾ (d. 207/822), who affirms that “rūḥ is the (substance) by which the human being lives,” adding that “God has not taught any of His subjects what 15  Al-Ṣafadī, al-Wāfī bi-l-wafāyāt xiv, 16.

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this substance is.” Ibn Manẓūr also cites Abū Bakr ibn al-Anbārī (d. 328/940) and al-Naḍr ibn Shumayl (d. 203/819), who subscribe to the same interpretation. These interpretations are problematic on several fronts. First, the rūḥ-quasoul meaning does not sit well with other derivatives of the r.w.ḥ root. This root, as noted earlier, revolves mainly around the idea of moving air and the related sense of pleasantness. In fact, in view of this root’s semantic field, rūḥqua-blown-breath in Dhū l-Rumma’s verse appears more appropriate than the rūḥ-qua-soul interpretation proposed by Ibn Manẓūr. Second, the soul connotation, anomalously, appears only with the noun rūḥ and its nisba-adjective, rūḥānī. If the soul connotation were indeed an essential semantic component of this root, one would have expected it to emerge in more than two words, as is the case with other derivatives. Third, Ibn Manẓūr’s supporting evidence of the rūḥ-qua-soul interpretation consists mainly of commentaries on the Quran drawn from the works of grammarians and lexicographers who lived from the second half of the second century of Islam onwards. One of the first among these, al-Farrāʾ, was already well versed in Muʿtazilī thought and the discipline of falsafa with its sub-fields of astrology and medicine.16 Considering that there is hardly any trace of the rūḥ-qua-soul connotation in early Arabic sources, it is justified to argue that al-Farrāʾ internalized this conception from his study of these disciplines. The dichotomy between the quranic and extra-quranic meanings of the word rūḥ, to which I referred earlier, is not unique to Ibn Manẓūr. The same position is reflected in the works of other lexicographers, and more recently in a view expressed by Michael Sells, who affirms that in pre-Islamic poetry this word refers to a blowing or breathing whereas in the Quran it appears “in the sense of spirit rather than of blowing.”17 Situating this change in meaning with the Quran, however, is problematic. It is not implausible, of course, to suggest that the Quran would add new nuances to a word or disregard some of its common connotations. Since this scripture introduces many new ideas and often discusses aspects of the metaphysical realm which the Arabic language may not be equipped to convey, it is not surprising that the Quran would coin new words or imbue existing ones with new connotations. However, to disregard the main or sole meaning of a word that is already in use and replace it with a new meaning seems inexplicable. Indeed, it seems like an unjustifiable linguistic statement, as if this scripture is telling Arabs what the meaning of a given word should be rather than using it in ways that would make sense to them and which would enable them to understand the larger message of 16  Ḍayf, al-Madāris al-lughawiyya 192. 17  Sells, Spirit, in EQ v, 114.

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which it is a part. The unlikelihood of this prescriptive approach to language warrants skepticism. This, again, is not to deny that the quranic word rūḥ is far more complex than mere blowing of breath as experienced by humans, but it is to argue that the quranic and extra-quranic rūḥ in early sources must have at least something in common.

Rūḥ in the Quran

Out of its twenty-one occurrences, the quranic word rūḥ appears five times with the verb nafakha (to blow), which indicates that, at least, it has something to do with “blowing.” Furthermore, its mention is associated with peace (Q Qadr 97:4), assistance (Q Mujādila 58:22; Q Baqara 2:87), and life (Q Ḥijr 15:29). The positive connotation that is part of the root’s semantic field is thus present in the Quran. Additionally, whether in the Quran or in the two early examples cited by Ibn Manẓūr, the blowing associated with rūḥ generates an impact: outside the Quran it enlivens fire and inflates a water skin, in the Quran it seems to infuse inanimate matter with life and to perform other tasks. The level at which the quranic rūḥ performs these tasks, however, is by no means comparable to anything known to Arabs or, for that matter, any humans. It crosses inconceivably long distances and time spans (it ascends to the heavens in a day that is fifty thousand years long) and animates inanimate matter. The complex and elusive manifestations of the quranic rūḥ pose another challenge. In some contexts, rūḥ is depicted as a person who stands in obedience to God, brings down what appears to be revelation, and assists believers; in others it appears as a general concept, in particular as revelation that God inspires to Muḥammad. As a person, rūḥ takes several forms. More often it refers to a metaphysical being akin to an angel, but it can take human shape, as is the case with the anthropomorphized rūḥ who interacts with Mary. In one instance the Quran even describes Jesus as rūḥ. The Quran also refers to rūḥ in several ways: rūḥ al-qudus, al-rūḥ al-amīn, al-rūḥ, and My/His (God’s) rūḥ. It is unclear whether these are references to the same or different individuals/concepts. In short, an Arab who understands the word rūḥ merely as “blown breath” would find the quranic rūḥ utterly mysterious. This is part of the reason why Muḥammad’s audience asked him about the meaning of rūḥ, as reported in Sūrat al-Isrāʾ.18

18  Muḥammad’s audience could also have been baffled by the fact that the Quran’s use of the word rūḥ was similar to its use by some Jews and Christians.

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The answer “qul al-rūḥū min amri rabbi” (Say, ‘the rūḥ belongs to God’s affair/is from God’s command’) has often been interpreted as meaning, “do not meddle with rūḥ.” This is a plausible interpretation, since one of the possible meanings of the word amr is “affair.”19 The meaning of this verse could thus be: “Say, the rūḥ is of God’s affair,” implying, “do not ask!” Another meaning of the word “amr,” however, is “command”/ “order.” If this is the implied meaning, then this statement could be more informative than it is generally assumed. If Muḥammad’s inquirers were perplexed by the fact that a mere breath could generate life, acquire human shape, and perform the various deeds ascribed to it, this answer may have been a type of reassurance: The quranic rūḥ is capable of performing such extraordinary acts because it is of God’s, not anyone else’s, command. God, being omnipotent, can cause a mere breath to perform such acts. This interpretation seems to correspond to the opinion of the early exegete al-Ḍaḥḥāk (d. 105/723), who interprets the word rūḥ as “omnipotence,” as we will see. It should also be noted that the fact that the ascription of agency and attributes to a seemingly inanimate entity is not restricted to rūḥ in the Quran. Another seemingly inanimate being, Moses’ staff, turns into a snake and devours all the snake-like ropes of Pharaoh’s magicians. The Quran’s seemingly inanimate entities do not even need to be transformed into something different to acquire agency and personhood. The earth and heavens are depicted as persons when they are ordered to “come willingly or unwillingly” to which they reply “we come in submission” (Q Fuṣṣilat 41:11). The quranic idea of personhood may thus be far more encompassing than the human understanding of this notion. Thus, even if the attributes and capabilities of the quranic rūḥ are by far superior to blown breath as experienced by humans, its depiction fits in the quranic cosmology and is consistent with quranic depictions of other seemingly mundane beings that acquire supernatural capabilities or which possess attributes that humans are incapable of perceiving or experiencing. Another possible meaning of the sentence “Say, ‘the rūḥ belongs to God’s command’ ” could be that God should not be imagined in anthropomorphic terms. Whereas humans blow air by exhaling it from their lungs, God blows breath by command. This answer is still too elusive to be informative, but this is perhaps to be expected, since the context is too metaphysical for humans to be able to imagine it. By adding that “of knowledge you have been given but a little” the Quran perhaps seeks to highlight that human beings do not possess the necessary knowledge, tools, or experience that would enable them to imagine the quranic rūḥ in clearer terms. Nonetheless, use of the word rūḥ in 19  For a detailed discussion of the word ‘amr’ in the Quran, see, Baljon, The ‘amr of God.’

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this passage perhaps justifies the assumption that the metaphysical rūḥ shares at least some traits with the worldly one.

Rūḥ in Quranic Exegesis

The genre of quranic exegesis (tafsīr) is more suited than the genre of Arabic lexicography for a diachronic study of the word rūḥ, mainly because of its wider analytical lens. The challenge in this case results from the scarcity of documentary sources from the first two centuries of Islam, but a way around this difficulty is not unworkable. As Wadad al-Qadi has shown, accessing early exegetical material is still possible mainly thanks to the documentary efforts of al-Ṭabarī (d. 310/923). “Modern research,” al-Qadi points out, “has shown that Ṭabarī was both copious and exact in reproducing the sayings of the early commentators he chose to cite.”20 Although in his treatment of rūḥ al-Ṭabarī turns out to be less “copious” than one would have wished, it is still clear that he does not forge opinions to fit particular agendas, and even his silences can be informative. When approached critically, therefore, al-Ṭabarī’s material can provide a valuable window into the genre’s early stage. In addition to al-Ṭabarī’s early authorities, I will discuss the views of al-Ṭabarī himself, al-Qurṭubī (d. 671/1273), and the modern Tunisian exegete al-Ṭāhir ibn ʿĀshūr (d. 1393/1973).

Rūḥ in Early Tafsīr

Al-Ṭabarī’s early authorities understand the quranic rūḥ primarily as a reference to the archangel Gabriel; almost any time the context does not explicitly preclude this interpretation, at least one of them proposes this interpretation. Overwhelmingly, this angel is identified with rūḥ al-qudus (Q Baqara 2:87 and 253, Q Māʾida 5:110, Q Naḥl 16:2), al-rūḥ al-amīn (Q Shuʿarāʾ 26:193), the anthropomorphized rūḥ who visits Mary (Q Maryam 19:17) and through whom the inbreathing of Jesus takes place (Q Taḥrīm 66:12), the rūḥ who stands up with angels in a metaphysical setting (Q Naba‌ʾ 78:38), the rūḥ who ascends to the heavens (Q Maʿārij 70:4), and the rūḥ who descends to earth on the Night of Power (Laylat al-Qadr, Q Qadr 97:4). Rūḥ is interpreted as Gabriel even when the context does not seem to support this interpretation, as when the Quran says, “The Messiah, Jesus son of Mary, is God’s messenger, His Word, which He sent to Mary, and a Rūḥ from Him” (Q Nisāʾ 4:171). Although it seems clear that 20  Al-Qadi, The Term ‘Khalīfa’ 395.

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rūḥ in this verse describes Jesus, some argue that it refers to Gabriel, albeit via a tortuous interpretative process.21 Insistence on identifying rūḥ with Gabriel even when such interpretation is implausible suggests that to some early exegetes the primary signification of the quranic word rūḥ was indeed Gabriel. The “Gabriel” interpretation is sometimes accompanied by other alternatives. For example, Ibn Zayd (d. 153/770) interprets rūḥ al-qudus as the Gospel,22 whereas Ibn ʿAbbās (d. 68/687) interprets it as the “word with which Jesus used to revive the dead.”23 In many others, however, rūḥ is understood exclusively as Gabriel. No alternative interpretations are offered for example of the rūḥ who interacts with Mary, al-rūḥ al-amīn, the rūḥ who ascends to the heavens, or the rūḥ who visits earth on the Night of Power. The contexts that seem to preclude the Gabriel interpretation are those in which the Quran treats rūḥ as an abstract notion, as when it says, “Thus, we revealed to you a rūḥ of Our command” (Q Shūrā 42:52). In this case, the word rūḥ receives diverse, though interrelated, interpretations. Ibn ʿAbbās interprets it as “revelation,”24 Qatāda (d. 118/737) proposes both “revelation” and “mercy,”25 al-Suddī (d.128/745) also chooses “revelation”26 but adds “prophethood,”27 and al-Ḍaḥḥāk and Ibn Zayd opt for “Scripture” and the “Quran.”28 In all these interpretations, therefore, rūḥ is consistently associated with revelation. One particularly noteworthy interpretation is proposed by al-Rabīʿ ibn Anas (d. 137 or 139/754 or 756) who says, “Every word our Lord utters is a rūḥ from Him (kullu kalimin takallama bihi rabbunā fa-huwa rūḥun minhu).”29 Besides identifying rūḥ with revelation, this interpretation seems also an attempt to rationalize the quranic rūḥ in human terms. Since in human experience the utterance of words involves the exhalation of air, conceptualizing the quranic rūḥ in terms of divine speech seems to be a reasonable solution. This is not to suggest that the quranic context endorses this interpretation or establishes a clear link between the concepts of “word” and rūḥ, but rather to point out how the prior understanding of rūḥ as “blown breath” seems to have informed al-Rabīʿ’s interpretation. 21  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān ix, 422. 22  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān ii, 321. 23  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān ii, 321. 24  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xvii, 263. 25  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xvii, 265. 26  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xxiii, 600. 27  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xxiii, 328. 28  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xxiii, 328. 29  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xvii, 265.

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The word rūḥ occurs with the verb nafakha (to blow) in five verses: twice when the Quran refers to Mary’s virginal conception of Jesus (Q Maryam 19:17, Q Taḥrīm 66:12) and three times when God breathes from His rūḥ into the prehuman clay (Q Ḥijr 15:29, Q Sajda 32:9, Q Ṣād 38:72). Early commentaries on the word rūḥ in these verses are surprisingly scanty. With regard to the Mary-related verses, al-Ṭabarī simply asserts that ahl al-ta‌ʾwīl (exegetes) identify rūḥ here as Gabriel;30 in the remaining verses, he reports a single comment consisting of one word. He says that al-Ḍaḥḥāk defined rūḥ here as qudra (omnipotence).31 This quasi-complete silence is surprising. If any context in the Quran could potentially justify the rūḥ-qua-soul interpretation, this would be the one, yet, none of al-Ṭabarī’s authorities propose this interpretation here and, even more strangely, al-Ṭabarī himself is suspiciously silent. Rather than explaining the nature of the rūḥ from/of which God blows in the pre-human clay (whether it is soul, breath, or something else),32 al-Ṭabarī merely points out that through this blowing, Adam “became a living human being ( fa-ṣāra basharan ḥayyan),”33 and “a living, speaking creature/a living rational creature ( fa-ṣāra ḥayyan nāṭiqan).”34 This is one of the rare times al-Ṭabarī glosses over the meaning of rūḥ in such a manner. In other instances, if he desists from elaborating on something it is to avoid repetition, as he would have addressed the same point elsewhere. It is therefore clear that al-Ṭabarī is deliberately choosing not to comment on the word rūḥ here, which raises the question: why? It should be noted also that the rūḥ-qua-soul definition is reflected elsewhere in early quranic exegesis, as I elaborate later. This raises another question. If some early exegetes did understand rūḥ as soul, how come this understanding is not reflected where it would fit best? The rūḥ-qua-soul interpretation appears three times in early tafsīr. First, in reference to the primordial covenant of the “Day of Alastu” (Q Aʿrāf 7: 172),35 a report attributed to the Prophet’s companion Ubayy ibn Kaʿb (d. 21 or 30/642 or 650) states, 30  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xxvi, 150. 31  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xxiii, 161. 32  The Quran’s phrasing is ‘nafkhatu fīhi min rūḥī.’ The particle ‘min’ means both ‘from’ and ‘of.’ 33  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xvii, 161. 34  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xxi, 685. 35  ‘And when your Lord took from the children of Adam, from their loins, their descendants, and made them testify, “Am I not [a-lastu] your Lord?” They testified, “Indeed! We testify that you are.” ’ (Q Aʿrāf 7:171). On the ‘Day of Alastu,’ see, for example, Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions 24.

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God took the seeds of the children of Adam, turned them into souls, fashioned them, then exacted from them the covenant. The soul of Jesus was one such soul. This is the soul that God sent to Mary. It talked to her then entered her (womb), thus her pregnancy.36 The attribution of this report to Ubayy, a companion renowned for his good grasp of the Quran,37 seems to lend it credibility, but close scrutiny shows that this attribution is questionable. First, it seems odd that the rūḥ-qua-soul interpretation fails to appear in the contexts where it would fit best, and yet it appears here. The theological content of the verse where this interpretation appears (Q Nisāʾ 4:171), which challenges the Christian principles of the trinity and Jesus’s divinity, may well have something to do with this appearance. The proposition that a theological concern looms over commentaries on this verse gains support from the fact that the rūḥ-qua-breath interpretation also appears only here. This suggests that someone felt the need to invoke extraquranic material to bolster the interpretation of the word rūḥ, a need that is not detected elsewhere. The fact that the Gabriel interpretation is also proposed here in spite of its implausibility further substantiates this proposition. It suggests that interpreters here are not listening closely to the context, but rather thinking of the possible theological implications of calling Jesus a rūḥ. One should also remember that this understanding of rūḥ is anomalously expressed by Ubayy ibn Kaʿb. If Ubayy truly conceived of rūḥ as soul, this conception would have been common at his time, and it would have appeared more frequently than it actually does. These factors militate against taking this report at face value. The second and third occurrences of the rūḥ-qua-soul interpretation occur in commentaries on the metaphysical scene where “the rūḥ and the angels stand in rows” (Q Naba‌ʾ 78:38) and the verse “They ask you about rūḥ” (Q Isrāʾ 17:85). On both occasions this interpretation is attributed to Ibn ʿAbbās, the renowned “father” of quranic exegesis. But in addition to this position, two more are attributed to Ibn ʿAbbās in commentaries on the same verses: rūḥqua-angel and abstention from interpreting rūḥ (hādhā mimmā kāna yaktumuhu Ibn ʿAbbās).38 It is implausible that Ibn ʿAbbās both provided definitions for and concealed the meaning of rūḥ. The mutually exclusive nature of these positions is sufficient to invite caution.

36  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān ix, 421–422. 37  About Ubayy, see for example al-Dhahabī, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalāʾ i, 389–402. 38  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xxvii, 50.

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It is also important to note the differences between the positions reflected in commentaries on Q Nisāʾ 4:171, where Jesus is described as rūḥ, and the position reflected in commentaries on Q Isrāʾ 17:85 and Q Naba‌ʾ 78:38, where conflicting views are attributed to Ibn ʿAbbās. In the latter case, the rūḥ-qua-breath interpretation does not feature, the rūḥ-qua-angel is heavily emphasized, and a third position—abstention from interpreting rūḥ—emerges. This is not to suggest any particular diachronic progression, as it is not clear which commentaries precede the others, but these differences are important to note even if they cannot be situated in time. Understanding Rūḥ in al-Ṭabarī’s Tafsīr Al-Ṭabarī clearly understands the word rūḥ primarily as soul. Analysis of his commentary on a verse that deals with the ideas of life and death without bringing up the word rūḥ can illustrate this point. One such verse is “How can you disbelieve in God, knowing that you were dead, then He brought you to life, then He will cause you to die then He will bring you to life” (Q Baqara 2:28)? As usual, al-Ṭabarī first cites early commentaries then follows up with his own views. A look at his early sources shows that none of his early authorities uses the soul image to account for the stages of life and death mentioned in this verse. For them, the first death is when humans were nothing (lam takūnū shayʾan), dust (turāb), or when they were in their fathers’ loins (aṣlāb ābāʾihim). The first life is when God creates them or when they are born in this life. The two next stages are regular death followed by resurrection. These authorities use verbs such as amāta (to cause to die), aḥyā (to revive), khalaqa (to create), and rajaʿa ilā l-ḥayāt (to return to life) to express these ideas.39 In his attempt to elucidate these ideas, al-Ṭabarī rewrites these interpretations by inserting the soul image in them. The description of the first death as “existence in the loins of one’s father,” he explains, refers to the stage when humans existed only as sperm, before ensoulment (ʿanā bi-dhālika annahum kānū nuṭafan lā arwāḥa fīhā).40 The first life is when God blows the souls into human bodies, the second death is when God seizes the souls, and the final life is when God re-blows the souls into bodies on the day of resurrection. This “rewriting” of early interpretations shows that soul-body dualism has become an integral part of not only al-Ṭabarī’s thinking, but also of the thinking of his audience, for whom he feels the need to “translate” older notions 39  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān i, 418–420. 40  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān i, 422.

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using the new soul image. Yet, when al-Ṭabarī comments on the rūḥ verses, he does not define rūḥ as soul even once! The closest he comes to this interpretation is when he seeks to account for other interpretations, as when he explains why nafkha (blown breath) can be called rūḥ (he gives the same explanation offered by Ibn Manẓūr, to the effect that breath comes from the soul), or when he accepts the ambiguous status of this word. In this case, not only does he admit that no one other than God knows what rūḥ really is and that there is no evidence to corroborate any given interpretation, but he also notes that keeping this matter unresolved is not harmful.41 Al-Ṭabarī seems to have at least partial awareness of the tension between his own and the quranic conceptions of rūḥ. This, probably, is the reason why he abstains from defining the quranic rūḥ as soul and why he glosses over the three verses discussing the blowing from/of rūḥ in the pre-human clay. It is also highly unlikely that the host of early exegetes he consulted had only one word to say about the blowing from/of rūḥ scene which features three times in the Quran. Al-Ṭabarī probably thought it wise to cite the only uncontroversial word in this context—qudra (omnipotence)—leaving out options he deemed to be sensitive, whatever these might have been.

Rūḥ in the Tafsīr of Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Qurṭubī (d. 671/1273)

Similar to earlier exegetes, al-Qurṭubī understands the quranic rūḥ mostly as a reference to Gabriel or other angels, but he departs from them when it comes to the rūḥ from which God blows in the pre-human clay. In this case, al-Qurṭubī affirms that rūḥ and nafs are synonyms (al-rūḥ wa-l-nafs ismāni limusamman wāḥid), that rūḥ is a subtle body ( jism laṭīf ), and that “God habitually creates life in the (physical) body by joining it to this (subtle) body.”42 The views that seem to be hovering over al-Ṭabarī’s treatment of the quranic rūḥ without being expressed are spelled out here. Al-Ṭabarī, it should be remembered, did understand the word rūḥ as soul, but refrained from applying this understanding to the quranic rūḥ, leading him at times to opt for silence. This silence is broken by al-Qurṭubī. Al-Qurṭubī reads the quranic sentence nafakha fīhi min rūḥihi (He/God blew in him/Adam from/of His rūḥ” as “He/God instilled the soul in him/ Adam” (rakkaba fīhi l-rūḥ), but this reading is inconsistent with the quranic phrasing. The Quran does not say that God “blew His rūḥ in” the pre-human 41  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xxvii, 51. 42  Al-Qurṭubī, al-Jāmiʿ li-aḥkām al-Qurʾān xii, 208.

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clay, but rather that He “blew from,” or, “blew of His rūḥ” in this clay. The particle min here can either mean “from,” indicating that the rūḥ is the origin of blowing, or “some of,” indicating that part of the rūḥ enters the human body. Either way, the quranic rūḥ in its entirety does not become part of the human being. The limit of what one can make of this sentence is that a part of this rūḥ enters the human body. Al-Qurṭubī does not address this point. Al-Qurṭubī’s main concern, however, is not to argue about the meaning of rūḥ—this seems unproblematic for him—but rather to assert the nondivinity of rūḥ. Time and again he reiterates that rūḥ is a creature like any other, and that it should not be conflated with God. Rūḥ belongs to God in the same sense that any other creature does. One can thus speak of God’s rūḥ in the same way one speaks of God’s camel or God’s house. The attribution of these beings to God does not mean that they are identical with Him, and so is the case with rūḥ. All one can infer from these attributions is the honor that a creature acquires when it is attributed to God, as is the case when God refers to the Kaʿba as baytī (My House).43 The point al-Qurṭubī is keen to get across is that it should not be imagined that God has a soul in the way humans are presumed to have souls. This dualist conception of God is resisted not only because of its anthropomorphic overtones, but also because it is fraught with the danger of idolatry. The reference to Jesus as a “rūḥ from God,” al-Qurṭubī maintains, led Christians astray, as they inferred from it that Jesus was an integral part of God.44 This theological concern—the fear of conflating rūḥ or Jesus with God—leads al-Qurṭubī to remind that rūḥ does not only mean “soul,” but also “blown breath,” stressing that this is how the word was used in early Arabic poetry. The theological concern that can be detected from al-Ṭabarī’s authorities’ discussion of Jesus as rūḥ becomes explicit here. In both cases the rūḥ-qua-soul notion seems to have the potential of leading to the perilous terrain of shirk (idolatry), in which case the mundane, down-to-earth interpretation of rūḥ as “blown breath” becomes an optimal solution. Al-Qurṭubī’s treatment of verse Q Isrāʾ 17:85 also differs from al-Ṭabarī’s. For the sake of comparison, the latter’s commentary on this verse should be revisited. Besides the three positions attributed to Ibn ʿAbbās (rūḥ-qua-soul, rūḥ-qua-Gabriel, and refrain from interpreting rūḥ), al-Ṭabarī cites an opinion attributed to the Prophet’s cousin ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib (d. 40/661) describing rūḥ as “an angel who has seventy-thousand faces, every face containing seventythousand tongues, and every tongue speaking seventy-thousand languages. 43  Al-Qurṭubī, al-Jāmiʿ li-aḥkām al-Qurʾān xii, 208. 44  Al-Qurṭubī, al-Jāmiʿ li-aḥkām al-Qurʾān vii, 231.

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The angel hymns God’s praises in all these languages, and from each hymn God creates an angel who joins the ranks of other angels until the Day of Resurrection.”45 This metaphysical being is one of several who have enormous proportions and capabilities. It is also important to point out that one of the rare instances when al-Ṭabarī shrewdly avoids expressing any personal views on rūḥ is in his discussion of this verse (Q Isrāʾ 17:85). He uses the pretext that he has already discussed rūḥ elsewhere, ignoring that the context here differs from any other in the Quran.46 Al-Qurṭubī reproduces many of these interpretations, but with notable changes. First, he reports that the exegete Ibn ʿAtiyya (d. 542/1148) questions the authenticity of the report attributed to ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib. This suggests that fantastical conceptions of rūḥ have now become less palatable. More importantly, he asserts that most exegetes agree that the Prophet was asked precisely about the rūḥ “by which the body lives.” Al-Qurṭubī adds that perceptive commentators (ahl al-naẓar) explain that the point of the question is to find out about “the nature of the rūḥ, its location in the human body, how it mixes with it, and how life is linked to it.”47 Al-Qurṭubī is still mystified by rūḥ and sides with al-Ṭabarī’s camp, who choose to refrain from interpreting this word. For him, the quranic statement “Say, ‘rūḥ is from/of God’s command’ ” means “do not ask!” But his mystification is not about the general meaning of rūḥ—that has already been decided as being “soul”—it is only about the exact particularities in which the soul exists. Al-Qurṭubī’s discussion marks a new stage in the history of the word rūḥ. In al-Ṭabarī’s time, even though this word was predominantly understood as soul in extra-quranic sources, this understanding is pretty much kept out of the Quran. The soul interpretation appears only three times in al-Ṭabarī’s early sources’ treatment of the word, each time under circumstances too suspicious to be taken at face value. Al-Ṭabarī himself uses the word to express his own understanding of ideas about life and death, but is careful not to apply this meaning to the quranic rūḥ. At this stage, al-Ṭabarī prioritized the understanding of rūḥ as metaphysical being, mostly as Gabriel, but often also as a fantastical being. By al-Qurṭubī’s time, the rūḥ-qua-Gabriel interpretation survives intact, but other aspects change. The primary meaning of quranic rūḥ is now soul, something that God instilled in the human body. Moreover, the fantastical rūḥ of early Quranic exegesis is now questioned.

45  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xviii, 70. 46  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xviii, 65–70. 47  Al-Qurṭubī, al-Jāmiʿ li-aḥkām al-Qurʾān xiii, 167.

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Rūḥ in the Tafsīr of al-Ṭāhir ibn ʿĀshūr (d. 1393/1973)

The first time the rūḥ-qua-soul interpretation appears in al-Qurṭubī’s treatment of the quranic rūḥ is when he reaches the fourth sura, in his discussion of Jesus-qua-rūḥ. This is due to the difficulty of inferring the idea of the soul from the earlier two occurrences, rūḥ al-qudus (twice) in the second sura and typically identified with the angel Gabriel. The first time the word appears in the Quran, Ibn ʿĀshūr defines it as soul. This suggests that now the word rūḥ triggers primarily the idea of soul regardless of contextual considerations. Ibn ʿĀshūr defines rūḥ as “a luminous subtle substance ( jawhar nūrānī laṭīf ), indiscernible to human senses.” The word, in his understanding, applies to three beings: the human soul, a divine power with wondrous creative ability, and the archangel Gabriel.48 Ibn ʿĀshūr’s conception of rūḥ-qua-divine-power is unclear, but irrespective of what this being or notion is, it is remarkable that his list counts only three items. Notably absent from his definition are the host of metaphysical beings identified with rūḥ in earlier interpretations. In al-Ṭabarī’s tafsīr, these include the angel mentioned in the report attributed to ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib, another angel whose size exceeds that of the heavens and the mountains,49 creatures who are many times the size of angels,50 and metaphysical creatures who resemble the children of Adam.51 Of all metaphysical rūḥs, the only one that makes it onto Ibn ʿĀshūr’s list is the archangel Gabriel. This is yet another development in conceptions of the quranic rūḥ. Al-Qurṭubī, or other exegetes around his time, already seem uneasy with some fantastical descriptions of rūḥ, and Ibn ʿĀshūr drops them entirely! Al-Qurṭubī’s problematic presentation of the quranic rūḥ-qua-soul instilled in the human being is also smoothed over. Al-Qurṭubī, as noted earlier, maintains that God instilled (rakkaba) rūḥ in the human body, but this interpretation does not sit well with the quranic phrasing, which says that God “blew from” or “blew of” His rūḥ in the pre-human clay. Ibn ʿĀshūr solves this problem by asserting that the quranic min is tabʿīḍiyya (i.e., its use here is partitive). The quranic ambiguity is solved by favoring the meaning that fits the rūḥ-quasoul understanding. But this does not solve all of the problems of the quranic rūḥ or Ibn ʿĀshūr’s treatment thereof. When this exegete defines rūḥ as “a divine power with wondrous creative abilities,” he seems to sense that there is more to rūḥ than he 48  Ibn ʿĀshūr, al-Taḥrīr i, 595. 49  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xxvii, 48. 50  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xxvii, 50. 51  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān xxvii, 49.

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is able to grasp or express. He is unsure what this ungraspable rūḥ is. At some point he seems to identify it with an angel, apparently distinct from Gabriel, who blows Jesus’s “soul” into Mary.52 Sometimes he likens it to electric or steam power. Rūḥ continues to be elusive and ungraspable, in spite of all efforts to pin it down to something conceivable.

Rūḥ and Anthropocentrism

Treatments of the quranic rūḥ follow a clear trend. In its early history, the word received abundant, sometimes even contradictory, definitions. Such abundance and contradiction denote the exegetes’ bafflement and uncertainty about this word’s meaning. In most cases, rūḥ was conceived of as one of various metaphysical beings, the least mysterious of whom was the archangel Gabriel. This aura of mystery indicates that early exegetes thought rūḥ could not be grasped in rational terms. Ibn ʿAṭiyya may or may not be justified in doubting the attribution to ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib of the report describing the fantastical creature, but this report reliably conveys early Muslims’ puzzlement with the notion of quranic rūḥ. Fantastical depictions of this being are an attempt to make sense of rūḥ while maintaining its aura of mystery. In the early commentaries, the rūḥ notion was shaped by and contributed to the formulation of a theocentric worldview. The metaphysical rūḥ served to underscore God’s majesty both in terms of creativity and omnipotence. The ability to combine thousands of faces, tongues, and languages in one person and to fashion a living being of such enormous size show that God’s creativity has no limits. The fact that even a creature with such proportions is utterly submissive to God illustrates God’s dominance and omnipotence. The same motifs underscore the limitations and insignificance of humans. Some of the questions implicit in the depiction of rūḥ in such terms are: what are humans compared to such a creature, and how dare they disobey God when a being as great as rūḥ never ceases hymning His praises? With time, the number of definitions decreased and rūḥ became more conceivable, so much so that the medieval exegete Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (d. 606/1210) almost argued against the unknowability of rūḥ. In his commentary on the verse “They ask you about the rūḥ,” he writes,

52  Ibn ʿĀshūr, al-Taḥrīr xxviii, 378.

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Even minor philosophers and theologians know about rūḥ. It would have been demeaning for the Prophet to say he did not grasp this notion. This would have been demeaning for any person, let alone the Prophet, the most knowledgeable of all people.53 Al-Rāzī maintains that the Prophet must have given a crystal clear answer to this question. The only thing he did not elucidate was the essence (māhiyya) of rūḥ, but this is because the essences of most things are unknown. There is thus no additional mystery about rūḥ that would set it apart from other beings. The anthropocentric overtones of the rūḥ-qua-soul notion are multifaceted. First, it shows that the human mind has now become amply capable of grasping the notion of rūḥ, leaving barely a touch of mystery to account for the Quran’s apparent assertion that rūḥ is unknowable. Rūḥ has also come down from its heavenly realm to dwell on earth, in the very bodies of human beings! Besides grasping the idea of rūḥ mentally, humans have also seized it physically. Moreover, rūḥ almost ceased to be a sign of God’s greatness and became a sign of the specialness of humans. According to al-Rāzī, “God attributed the rūḥ of Adam to Himself to honor this creature (tashrīfan lahu wa-takrīman).”54 With Ibn ʿĀshūr, this anthropocentric trend reaches a new stage. The mystery of rūḥ is reduced to a mechanical image. For him, the blowing of rūḥ in a body is akin to “the electrical or steam power that springs from the heart once humors are balanced.” He affirms that the Quran uses the verb “nafakha” (to blow) metaphorically, to convey the idea “of placing a fast, powerful force instantaneously (waḍʿ quwwa laṭīfat al-sarayān qawiyyat al-ta‌ʾthīr dufʿatan wāḥida).” In reality, he writes, “there is neither blowing nor anything blown (laysa thammata nafkh wa-lā manfūkh).”55 This image dispenses with the external being from/of whom the supposed soul is blown and presents the human being as almost an independent creature, in need of no external help. Ibn ʿĀshūr of course attributes this power to God, but the creative drama is now focused on God and God’s favorite creature, the human being, to the near exclusion of everyone else! In earlier centuries rūḥ-qua-soul was common to human beings and other animals. Al-Ṭabarī, for example, defines the word dābba (animal) as “any being with a soul (ismun li-kulli dhī rūḥ).56 With Ibn ʿĀshūr, rūḥ became too good 53  Al-Rāzī, Mafātīḥ al-ghayb xxi, 38. 54  Al-Rāzī, Mafātīḥ al-ghayb xix, 186. 55  Ibn ʿĀshūr, al-Taḥrīr xiv, 44. 56  Al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān iii, 275.

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to share with other animals. It refers only to the human soul, Gabriel, and his ambiguous creative power. The souls of other animals, he says, are called nafs. Conclusion Available evidence shows that around the time of revelation the word rūḥ meant “blown breath.” The quranic use of this word complicates this understanding, as it ascribes to rūḥ unusual agency and manifestations, something that must have mystified early Muslims. To reconcile their own understanding with the quranic presentation of rūḥ, the latter seem to have intuitively had recourse to the principles of God’s creativity and omnipotence. God could turn a breath into the most sophisticated being. Their construction of the metaphysical rūḥ, with its enormous dimensions and extraordinary features, is at once an expression of God’s majesty and of the limitations of humans. To my mind, this way of accounting for the quranic rūḥ is an indication of the theocentric character of Islamic thought at the time. It should be noted, however, that this very attempt to pin down the quranic rūḥ to a particular being already denotes a tendency to reduce the unknowable to something imaginable, even if not fully graspable. This could have already been a step toward a more anthropocentric culture. In subsequent centuries, as the notion of soul started gaining ground in extra-quranic circles, it gradually started shaping the understanding of the quranic word rūḥ. Strangely, to corroborate the view that rūḥ in the Quran means soul, the verse that has been adduced the most is Q Isrāʾ 17:85 (“They ask you about rūḥ . . .”), the very verse that seems to say that rūḥ is unknowable to humans. Through the distorted prism of equating a non-quranic notion with a quranic word, rūḥ gradually ceased to be the elusive being known only to God, and even became the divine spark that eventually set humans apart from other animals. It should of course be noted that the process described here is gradual and long. This precludes the possibility of pinpointing any exact transitional points, or even identifying a straight linear direction. Nonetheless, a trend is discernible, along with an important factor that determined its direction: anthropocentric feelings. The process by which breath became soul, as seen above, turns out not to be so mysterious. God’s power turned a breath into a supernatural being, but eventually humans managed to bring this being down to earth through (flawed) interpretative strategies, and in so doing they appropriated it in ways that served human ends. Humans did not outwit God, of course; for, even if they felt confident that they knew what the quranic term rūḥ meant, they also

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affirmed that they did not really know. Quran commentators tell us that rūḥ came down to earth with God’s consent, and that He Himself bestowed it on humans. This essay has shown that the mufassirs’ interpretations of rūḥ are driven more by anthropocentric factors, like their assumption that God gave ruḥ to the creatures whom He most favored, rather than by their ability to unlock the true meaning of an inscrutable quranic term. Bibliography Baljon, J.M.S., The ‘amr of God’ in the Koran, in AO 23 (1958), 7–18. Ḍayf, Sh., al-Madāris al-lughawiyya, Cairo 1992. al-Dhahabī, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalāʾ, 25 vols., Beirut 1985. Fārūqī, I., Self in Muʿtazilah thought, in P.T. Raju and A. Castell (eds.), East-west studies on the problem of the self: Papers presented at the conference on comparative philosophy and culture held at the College of Wooster, Wooster, Ohio, April 22–24, 1965, The Hague 1968, 366–88. Homerin, Th.E., Soul, in EQ. Ibn ʿĀshūr, al-Taḥrīr wa-l-tanwīr, 30 vols., Tunis 1984. Ibn Durayd, Jamharat al-lugha, 3 vols., Beirut 1987. Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān al-ʿArab, 15 vols., Beirut, 2000. Ibn Qutayba, al-Maʿānī al-kabīr fī abyāt al-maʿānī, 3 vols, Beirut 1984. Izutsu, T., Ethico-religious concepts in the Qurʾān, Montreal 2002. al-Khalīl ibn Aḥmad, Kitāb al-ʿAyn, 7 vols, Baghdad 1980–. Macdonald, D.B., The development of the idea of spirit in Islam, in MW 22 (1932), 25–42. al-Qadi, W., The term ‘khalīfa’ in early exegetical literature, in WI 28 (1988), 392–411. al-Qurṭubī, Abū ʿAbdallāh, al-Jāmiʿ li-aḥkām al-Qurʾān, 24 vols., Beirut 2006. al-Rāzī, Fakhr al-Dīn, Mafātīḥ al-ghayb, Beirut 1981. al-Ṣafadī, al-Wāfī bi-l-wafāyāt, 29 vols., Beirut 2000. Schimmel, A., Mystical dimensions of Islam, Chapel Hill 1975. Sells, M., Spirit, in EQ. Shihadeh, A., Classical Ashʿari anthropology: Body, life and spirit, in MW 102 (2012), 433–477. al-Ṭabarī, Jāmiʿ al-bayān ʿan ta‌ʾwīl āy al-Qurʾān, 27 vols., Cairo 2008. Talmon, R., Kitāb al-ʿAyn and its attribution to Ḫalīl b. Aḥmad, Leiden 1977. al-Tawḥīdī, al-Baṣāʾir wa-l-dhakhāʾir, 10 vols., Beirut 1988. Vasalou, S., Subject and body in Baṣran Muʿtazilism, or: Muʿtazilite kalām and the fear of triviality, in Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 17 (2007), 267–298.

CHAPTER 2

The Wiles of Women, The Guile of Men: Re-reading Kayd in Sūrat Yūsuf Zainab Mahmood Although the twelfth sura of the Quran presents the story of Yūsuf (the Biblical Joseph) and his ascent to the ranks of prophethood, it is also primarily a tale of stratagems. When Yūsuf relates to his father the news of his portentous dream of eleven stars, the moon and the sun bowing in prostration to him,1 his father immediately warns him of the jealous plotting that will follow should this vision become known to his other sons. Yaʿqūb’s suspicions about Yūsuf’s brothers, which lead him to request that Yūsuf remain silent on the matter of the dream,2 prove well founded: the first half of the sura details a sequence of machinations centering on the fate of his innocent son. First, Yūsuf’s brothers petition their father, asking that Yūsuf be entrusted to them for an afternoon of picnic and pastime.3 Couching their invitation in amiable, seemingly affectionate and even imploring language, the brothers reassure their anxious father that they will be good protectors for the boy on the outing,4 concealing both their deep-seated jealousy concerning Yaʿqūb’s clear preference of Yūsuf over them5 and their ultimate plan of abduction.6 The brothers resolve to place Yūsuf at the bottom of a well, where he is discovered by a passing band of caravaneers and sold into slavery in Egypt; there, he is made once again the object of wily designs. Although the governor of Egypt (al-ʿAzīz) acquires Yūsuf with

1  Arberry (trans.), The Koran interpreted, sub 12:4. All translations are from Arberry and are cited by the sura and verse number, unless otherwise indicated. 2  Q Yūsuf 12:5, “He said, ‘O my son, relate not thy vision to thy brothers, lest they devise against thee some guile. Surely Satan is to man a manifest enemy.’ ” 3  Q 12:12, “ ‘Send him forth with us tomorrow, to frolic and play; surely we shall be watching over him.’ ” 4  Q 12:14, “They said, ‘If the wolf eats him, and we are a band, then are we losers!’ ” 5  Q 12:8, “ ‘Surely Joseph and his brother are dearer to our father than we, though we are a band. Surely our father is in manifest error.’ ” 6  Q 12:9–10, “ ‘Kill Joseph, or cast him forth into some land, that your father’s face may be free for you, and thereafter you may be a righteous people.’ One of them said, ‘No, kill not Joseph, but cast him into the bottom of the pit and some traveler will pick him out, if you do aught.’ ”

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good intentions, entrusting to his wife7 the responsibility of treating the newcomer hospitably and considering the possibility of adopting him as a son,8 she decides instead to seduce the youth. Seeking to entrap Yūsuf into granting her desires, she ignores his invocation of God for protection against error and attempts instead to press on with her self-serving plan;9 she further assigns the blame of seduction to Yūsuf when the two are discovered alone together by her husband.10 The women of Egypt also become involved in her scheme. Accepting an invitation for a banquet from al-ʿAzīz’s wife, they are sequestered with Yūsuf and provide confirmation to his mistress of his peerless attractiveness, from which she draws the encouragement to persist in the extortion of her bond-servant.11 It was from such crafty scheming that Yaʿqūb wished to protect his son when he stated, “O my son, relate not thy vision to thy brothers, lest they devise against thee some guile. Surely Satan is to man a manifest enemy.”12 The Arabic term yakīdū, translated by Arberry as the devising of guile, derives from the tri-literal root k-y-d that appears again to mark critical moments throughout the developing story. After the brothers do in fact hatch a scheme to cast Yūsuf out of their land, bearing out Yaʿqūb’s stated fear of such ploys, the term is again used when Yūsuf’s shirt, torn in the back, serves as proof of Zulaykhā’s dishonest claim that she was the one fleeing from an unwelcome advance. Her husband then remarks, as translated by Arberry, “This is of your women’s guile (kaydikunna); surely your guile (kaydakunna) is great.”13 Despite exacting an apology to Yūsuf from his wife, al-ʿAzīz appears to do nothing to mete out any 7  The wife of al-ʿAzīz is unnamed in the Quran, but the Muslim commentarial traditions most often refer to her as “Zulaykhā” and that is how she will be referred to in this essay. 8  Q 12:21, “He that bought him, being of Egypt, said to his wife, ‘Give him goodly lodging, and it may be that he will profit us, or we may take him for our own son.’ ” 9  Q 12:23, “Now the woman in whose house he was solicited him, and closed the doors on them. ‘Come,” she said, ‘take me!’ ‘God be my refuge,’ he said. ‘Surely my lord has given me a goodly lodging. Surely the evildoers do not prosper.’ ” 10  Q 12:25, “They raced to the door; and she tore his shirt from behind. They encountered her master by the door. She said, ‘What is the recompense of him who purposes evil against thy folk, but that he should be imprisoned, or a painful chastisement?’ ” 11  Q 12:32, “ ‘So now you see,’ she said. ‘This is he you blamed me for. Yes, I solicited him, but he abstained. Yet if he will not do what I command him, he shall be imprisoned, and be one of the humbled.’ ” 12  Q 12:5, “He said, ‘O my son, relate not thy vision to thy brothers, lest they devise against thee some guile. Surely Satan is to man a manifest enemy.’ ” 13  Q 12:28, “When he saw his shirt was torn from behind he said, ‘This is of your women’s guile; surely your guile is great.’ ”

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restrictions or conditions on future contact between the two, leaving Yūsuf open to subsequent advances that culminate on the day of the banquet. Yūsuf then beseeches God to protect him from the kayd of the women, accepting even the unjust imprisonment in order to escape the temptation of succumbing to their plan.14 God responds to this petition, averting the women’s kayd from Yūsuf.15 Yūsuf is then imprisoned despite his innocence, but his ability to interpret dreams proves indispensable when the king of Egypt is faced with an ominous night-vision16 that hints at both fertility and famine but that is beyond his counselors’ comprehension.17 The king learns of Yūsuf’s interpretive skill from one of Yūsuf’s freed fellow inmates who offers to arrange for Yūsuf to pronounce on the striking dream.18 Much impressed with both Yūsuf’s lucid insight about the dream’s content and his apt prognostication and counsel about how to act in order to avert the crisis presaged by the dream,19 the king decides to exonerate Yūsuf. Yūsuf insists the king first formally confirm the kayd of the women in the public eye before his release from prison.20 Once questioned, the women are quick to declare their victim’s impeccable conduct, and the wife of al-ʿAzīz admits her guilt and Yūsuf’s truthfulness.21 Only then does Yūsuf speak of his own innocence in order to clear his name with 14  Q 12:33, “He said, ‘My Lord, prison is dearer to me than that they call me to; yet if Thou turnest not from me their guile, then I shall yearn towards them, and so become one of the ignorant.’ ” 15  Q 12:34, “So his Lord answered him, and He turned away from him their guile; surely He is the All-hearing, the All-knowing.” 16  Q 12:43, “And the king said, ‘I saw in a dream seven fat kine, and seven lean ones devouring them; likewise seven green ears of corn, and seven withered. My counsellors, pronounce to me upon my dream, if you are expounders of dreams.’ ” 17  Q 12:44, “ ‘A hotchpotch of nightmares!’ they said. ‘We know nothing of the interpretation of nightmares.’ ” 18  Q 12:45, “Then said the one who had been delivered, remembering after a time, ‘I will myself tell you its interpretation; so send me forth.’ ” 19  Q 12:47–49, “He said, ‘You shall sow seven years after your wont; what you have harvested leave in the ear, excepting a little whereof you eat. Then thereafter there shall come upon you seven hard years, that shall devour what you have laid up for them, all but a little you keep in store. Then thereafter there shall come a year wherein the people will be succoured and press in season.’ ” 20  Q 12:50, “The king said, ‘Bring him to me!’ And when the messenger came to him, he said, ‘Return unto thy lord, and ask of him, “What of the women who cut their hands?” Surely my Lord has knowledge of their guile.’ ” 21  Q 12:51, “ ‘What was your business, women,’ he said, ‘when you solicited Joseph?’ ‘God save us!’ they said. ‘We know no evil against him.’ The Governor’s wife said, ‘Now the truth is at last discovered; I solicited him; he is a truthful man.’ ”

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his former master and pronounce on the acts of kayd that have transpired, demonstrating his prophetic standing by openly declaring his knowledge that these backhanded plots were not guided by God and could therefore never ultimately prevail.22 The unvarnished admissions offered by the women, and Yūsuf’s subsequent declaration, characterize what may be considered a turning point in the sura presaged by the king’s occult dream. The ruses detailed in the sura’s opening half are countered and left undone in the sura’s second half as part and parcel of Yūsuf’s ascent to power and prophethood. Mustansir Mir has shown that this turn of events is structured in keeping with the literary-rhetorical device al-laff wa-l-nashr ʿalā al-ʿaks—involution and evolution in reverse—so that the “major tensions” generated by the plot elements of “Joseph’s dream, the brothers’ plot against Joseph, Potiphar’s wife’s attempt to seduce Joseph, a similar attempt by the Egyptian ladies, Joseph’s imprisonment and the king’s dream” are resolved in reverse sequence such that “the king’s dream is first to be interpreted, followed by Joseph’s release from prison. Next come the confessions of the Egyptian ladies, followed by that of Potiphar’s wife. The brothers learn their lesson, and finally comes the fulfillment of Joseph’s dream.”23 In addition to the reversal of fortune experienced by the characters, the element of kayd in the second half of the sura is both reversed and reversing in nature. In the first half, the ruses are spun to selfish ends by a variety of mortals and culminate in Yūsuf’s declaration of their futility, but the kayd in the concluding half of the sura is God’s. The term kayd appears again in Q 12:76 when God designates Himself the most powerful practitioner of kayd, exercising it decisively on behalf of Yūsuf in the matter of the stolen goblet which brings Yūsuf’s brothers into contact with their abducted sibling. They come to Egypt to sell their merchandise in lean times and do not recognize their high-ranking brother, taking him for an Egyptian royal. He plays upon this failure of recognition in order to make them realize the error of their ways by secreting a reportedly pilfered cup into one brother’s sack. In this way, Yūsuf exposes the “band,” or powerful group (ʿuṣba),24 of his former assailants—in their time of need—to the consequences of an undeserved fate and exploits their heightened sense of their own vulnerability. The act of impugning the brothers in order to convey a needed lesson is, after 22  Q 12:52, “ ‘That, so that he may know I betrayed him not secretly, and that God guides not the guile of the treacherous.’ ” 23  Mir, The Qurʾānic story of Joseph 1. 24  Q 12:8, “When they said, ‘Surely Joseph and his brother are dearer to our father than we, though we are a band. Surely our father is in manifest error.’ ”

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all, a ruse. However, it is a ruse with edifying, rather than selfish and destructive, ends. Moreover, this act of kayd is attributed not to Yūsuf, but rather to God who declares, “So We contrived for Yūsuf’s sake,” and who asserts, “whomsoever We will, we raise in rank; over every man of knowledge is One who knows.” The final use of the term kayd in the sura is thus attached to a divine action, and it remains the decisive action governing the fates of all scheming and plotting individuals, whose many efforts at guile are effectively countered by just one transcendent instance of God’s craft. It is important to note that the very same Arabic term is enlisted to characterize the scheme of near-murderous and jealous brothers, the deeds of a married seductress and her female cohort, and even the unassailable (yet wholly benevolent) wile of God. In fact, the final act of kayd in the sura is addressed specifically to counter the ʿuṣba, the all-male group who once championed the use of brute, ostensibly masculine force. Since the ruse of the brothers happened first in the plot sequence, it is addressed at the end of the sura, in keeping with the chiastic structure of the story and its dynamic process of involution and evolution in reverse. The final resolution of the sura—the affirmation of the ultimate will and kayd of God—relies upon the earlier presence of stratagems enacted by both men and women, which can only be countered and properly resolved by a higher being who transcends gender and shows the best of guile. And yet, the lion’s share of scholarly treatment of kayd has been addressed solely to the women’s guile in the story. This tendency can be seen both in the Arabo-Islamic medieval written tradition, where the construction of “womanly guile” (kayd al-nisāʾ) is elaborated,25 and in modern scholarly efforts to de-center this category and to offer feminist readings of Zulaykhā’s role in the quranic story and its commentaries.26 It is tempting to simply argue that by foregrounding kayd al-nisāʾ, such authors perhaps fail to recognize the sura’s underlying structure and the play between its constituent parts, lose sight of the forest for the trees, and fail to grasp the sura’s lesson.

…

In modern translations of the sura into English, one finds variations in the way kayd is rendered that betray a continued gender bias depending on its agent. God’s kayd in verse 76 is commonly translated as “contrived,” e.g. in

25  See Malti-Douglas, Woman’s body ch. 3. 26  See Merguerian and Najmabadi, Zulaykha and Yusuf.

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A.J. Arberry, Muhammad Asad,27 Marmaduke Pickthall,28 Yusuf Ali,29 and Maulana Maududi;30 it seems meant to impart to the reader a sense of craft free from the taint of human slyness and wrong-doing. As for Yaʿqūb’s admonition that Yūsuf remain silent about his dream, for Arberry it is so that he might ward off the “guile”31 of his brothers, whereas for Ali32 and Pickthall33 it is simply their “plot.” Yet when it comes to al-ʿAzīz’s statement to his wife, “innahu min kaydikunna inna kaydakunna ʿaẓīm,” kayd becomes for Pickthall “the guile of you women,”34 for Maududi “the tricks of you women,”35 and for Yūsuf Ali “the snare of you women.”36 Muhammad Asad goes a step further in his translation, where al-ʿAzīz’s pronouncement is made to address all of “womankind,” even though the second-person feminine plural enclitic (-kunna) used in the utterance does not necessarily signify that all of womankind is, in fact, indicated or intended in the given statement. Although a possibility, “O womankind,”37 as Asad renders the statement, seems to lay unwarranted stress on the phrase given the absence of the vocative in the original Arabic. Furthermore, it would be equally plausible to read this statement as addressed only to Zulaykhā, or alternatively to an unspecified plural number of women, and not all of womankind. It would also be just as valid to translate the phrase into English without any mention of women at all, since the separate word for women is not explicitly included in the Arabic. We see this type of translation in Arberry’s rendition, “This is of your women’s guile: surely your guile is great.” Although the term kayd with the second-person feminine plural attached pronoun appears twice in the original, and in almost identical form with only a 27  Asad (trans.), The Message of the Qur’an. 28  Pickthall (trans.), The Meaning of the Glorious Qur’an. 29  Ali (trans.), The Meaning of the Holy Quran. 30  Maududi, The Meaning of the Qur’ān. 31  Q 12:5. 32  Ali, Q 12:5, “Said (the father): ‘My (dear) little son! relate not thy vision to thy brothers, lest they concoct a plot against thee: for Satan is to man an avowed enemy!’ ” 33  Pickthall, Q 12:5, “He said: O my dear son! Tell not thy brethren of thy vision, lest they plot a plot against thee. Lo! Satan is for man an open foe.” 34  Pickthall, Q 12:28, “So when he saw his shirt torn from behind, he said: Lo! this is of the guile of you women. Lo! the guile of you is very great.” 35  Maududi, Q 12:28, “So when the husband saw Joseph’s shirt torn from behind he exclaimed: “Surely, this is one of the tricks of you women; your tricks are indeed great.” 36  Ali, Q 12:28, “So when he saw his shirt,—that it was torn at the back,—(her husband) said: “Behold! It is a snare of you women! truly, mighty is your snare!” 37  Asad, Q 12:28, “And when (her husband] saw that his tunic was torn from behind, he said: “Behold, this is [an instance] of your guile, O womankind! Verily, awesome is your guile!”

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small change in grammatical state to distinguish them, Arberry avoids the repetition in English, demonstrating that including the word “women” is not strictly necessary. But it is not uncommon to find the stronger inflections of the phrase purposefully used in various translations of the verse that references women, whereas a non-pejorative rendering of kayd is often selected to characterize the men’s plan for Yūsuf. Given that the brothers intended outright fratricide, or just short of it,38 it is both easy and reasonable to argue that the softer treatment used in translation of the men’s plot is hardly merited. The prolific scholar of religion and literature, al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī (d. 422/1031), had already subjected the term kayd to critical attention, long before any English translation of the Quran. Best known for his exhaustive encyclopedia of adab, the Muḥāḍarāt al-udabāʾ, he was also the author of the widely consulted Muʿjam mufradāt alfāẓ al-Qurʾān, an alphabetic glossary of quranic vocabulary.39 In all of his works, one can readily detect what Everett Rowson has termed the “subtle semantic analysis” that al-Rāghib brought to his work, and which becomes especially apparent in the Majmaʿ al-balāgha and “even more pronounced” in his alphabetical lexicon of quranic vocabulary.40 For this reason, one finds a tempered and carefully wrought entry for the term kayd that demonstrates this characteristic subtlety. Al-Rāghib begins by stating that kayd is a type of iḥtiyāl—trickery, cunning or craft—that can by its nature be either reprehensible or praiseworthy. The reader is informed that it is more likely to be used in the former sense, and can thus be viewed as a kind of crafty persuasion and guile. That said, al-Rāghib is not comfortable emphasizing only the term’s negative connotations, and reminds the reader that it can in fact have positive ones. In short, al-Rāghib impresses upon his reader that kayd is not of the type of term which lends itself to a glib definition or range of ready synonyms, and that even when describing something less than praiseworthy, may nevertheless include something admirable or artful in it. Given that God attributes to Himself the most powerful ability to practice kayd as a means of delivering Divine justice, it is not surprising that al-Rāghib is especially hesitant to advance too derogatory a meaning of this word in any of its uses. Al-Rāghib cites verse 52 from Sūrat Yūsuf, in which Yūsuf confirms that God does not guide the kayd of the khāʾinīn, or betrayers. Although there is a certain level of generality in the verse, suggesting a categorical rejection of all treacherous plotters, one can assume that the women who have in the 38  Q 12:9, “Kill you Joseph, or cast him forth into some land, that your father’s face may be free for you, and thereafter you may be a righteous people.’ ” 39  Al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, Muʿjam. 40  Rowson, al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī.

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preceding verse just admitted their wrongdoings to the king are understood to be explicitly included in the pronouncement. Al-Rāghib does not take this opportunity to posit a causal link between cunning behavior and essential female nature. Although the sentiment is uttered during a scene in which the women are specifically addressed after admitting their full guilt and complicity, al-Rāghib refrains from making any editorial remarks on their nature or the nature of womankind. Instead, he draws a parallel between this verse and the earlier verses describing the duplicitous efforts of Yūsuf’s jealous and manipulative brothers whose aptitude for guile was anticipated and feared by Yaʿqūb at the outset. In establishing this connection, al-Rāghib likens these two displays of guile and invites the reader to consider them in tandem. The women’s guile is not foregrounded, nor is greater intensity ascribed to it, nor is guile deemed a characteristic of women generally. In other words, al-Rāghib observes that the term kayd has been used in the sura several times and therefore seeks to understand the term’s purposeful repetition. One certainly does not walk away from a reading of his dictionary entry with the sense that most of Egyptian womankind, or womankind at large, is especially prone to acts of cunning manipulation, nor are the women’s actions stressed and given greater importance or assigned greater weight than the men’s. By first establishing the shifting semantic possibilities of the word and then exploring its meaning within the context and apparatus of surrounding verses, al-Rāghib’s careful treatment of kayd suggests a subtle corrective against myopic readings, perhaps acting also as a safeguard against what might be termed unnecessarily dramatic, sweeping or grandiose interpretations. In an early treatment of al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, Carl Brockelmann noted that al-Rāghib’s studies on the Quran were of great interest and use to the exegete al-Bayḍāwī,41 whose Anwār al-tanzīl wa-asrār al-ta‌ʾwīl enjoys a canonical status in the field of Quran commentaries. Nevertheless, when looking at al-Bayḍāwī’s treatment of Sūrat Yūsuf in this commentary, one finds a discussion with very different presuppositions. Al-Bayḍāwī’s gloss of Q 12:28 is noteworthy for a number of reasons. Of “min kaydikunna,” as addressed by al-ʿAzīz to Zulaykhā, al-Bayḍāwī states “the plural pronoun is addressed to her and those like her, or to women as a whole.”42 In fact, this distinction is important and telling. It is just as plausible or likely, in al-Bayḍāwī’s reading of the verse, to understand that the plural pronoun may have been intended only for Zulaykhā and others like her, and not in fact for women as a whole, the latter treated as one of the two possibilities. In spite of this distinction, al-Bayḍāwī does not refrain 41  Brockelmann, al-Rāg̲ h̲ib al-Iṣfahānī. 42  Beeston, Baydawi’s commentary 17.

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from showing preference for the latter option, interjecting in his gloss of the term ʿaẓīm (great) that this word appears “because the craftiness of women is subtler, more insinuating and with greater effect on the mind, and because by it they outface men and by it Satan whispers stealthily.”43 The reader is told that women are therefore the adversaries of men and the accessories of Satan. Even though the exegete concedes that the verse does not necessarily include or address all women, this does not appear to stop him from pronouncing on womankind’s nature, from bringing Satan into the discussion of a verse where Satan has not actually been mentioned, and from reinforcing the notion that women are by nature a force adversarial to men. This position nothwithstanding, it is crucial to note al-Bayḍāwī’s treatment of Q 12:5. In this verse, the Devil, not mentioned in Q 12:28, is in fact mentioned by name in relation to the kayd of the men: Yaʿqūb says, “O my son, relate not thy vision to thy brothers, lest they devise against thee some guile (yakīdū laka kaydan). Surely Satan is to man a manifest enemy.” In his explication of this verse, al-Bayḍāwī describes use of the word kāda in the matter of the brothers’ plot, “kāda, although it is normally a verb governing a direct accusative, is here made to govern with the preposition li- because it contains the sense of a verb which governs with that preposition. This is done in order to heighten its meaning. For the same reason, i.e. to heighten the meaning, it has been strengthened by the infinitive kaydan. The cause of their plotting is given in the following words, namely, ‘The Devil is . . . &c.’ ”44 In other words, al-Bayḍāwī does not merely gloss over the use of the word kayd here, but points out that here its verbal form is being used in an uncustomary manner. That is, yakīdū is not used here as a transitive verb, as would normally be done (i.e. by taking a direct accusative) but rather as an intransitive verb followed by the preposition li- and accompanied by the infinitive, kaydan. Al-Bayḍāwī is explaining that in his view this construction denotes a thorough intensification of the verb by means of the use of both the intervening preposition and the infinitive, ruling out the possibility that this construction simply ascribes a singular state to the act of plotting, as can at times take place in accusative constructions of a similar type. For al-Bayḍāwī the use of the mafʿūl muṭlaq (absolute accusative) construction is intended to place tawkīd (emphasis) on the verb, a type of emphasis conveyed by repeating the word (tawkīd lafẓī). In this reading, Yaʿqūb is not indicating that there will be a single plot, but rather attaching a heightened meaning to the verb. By emphasizing the likelihood that the men engage in an act of extreme guile to grievous ends, and by then immediately 43  Beeston, Baydawi’s commentary 17. 44  Beeston, Baydawi’s commentary 4.

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impressing upon his son that Satan is a manifest enemy for al-insān, (humanity), Yaʿqūb underscores the propensity of his sons and indeed of all humanity to succumb to satanic temptations. Al-Bayḍāwī does not gloss over this and points out that the Devil can be seen as the inciter of the brothers, underscoring the fact that men as well as women do the Devil’s bidding. The canonical and most widely consulted 20th-century English translations of the Quran do not reflect al-Bayḍāwī’s emphatic reading of kayd in Q 12:5. Some suggest that the accusative in the verse was read not as emphasis, but rather as an accusative conveying number (bayān al-ʿadad), i.e. a plot in the singular sense. This can be detected in Pickthall’s rendering “Tell not thy brethren of thy vision, lest they plot a plot against thee”45 as well as Maududi’s “My son! Do not relate your dream to your brothers lest they hatch a plot to harm you.”46 Asad comes closest to conveying the gravity suggested by al-Bayḍāwī with “Do not relate thy dream to thy brothers lest [out of envy] they devise an evil scheme against thee.”47 And yet, the intensification of the women’s wrongdoing in Q 12:28 remains the more notable instance of guile in these modern English translations. In order to establish a context in which to judge these modern renditions, it is worth pointing out that despite the evidence of the enduring gender bias in these English translations, there is not a significant body of writing devoted to the elaboration of kayd al-nisāʾ in modern Muslim literature about women in the traditional Islamic centers—whether related to al-ʿAzīz’s statement, or more generally revolving around the figure of Zulaykhā as an emblem of paradigmatic womanhood. In Women in the Qur’an, Barbara Stowasser explains that while modern-day conservative treatises emphasizing the need for gender segregation and veiling practices do exist and at times remind the reader of women’s capacity to inspire fitna,48 these more conservative positions are “usually stated in general moral and legal terms without reference to the female protagonist of the Joseph story with whom these names appear in the Quran and medieval Tafsir.”49 Stowasser argues that Zulaykhā would be unsuitable for use as a cautionary figure standing for feminine and wicked cunning today, given the pride of place she came to occupy in the traditions of qiṣaṣ al-anbiyāʾ, or stories of the prophets, as well as in numerous medieval romantic and mystic epic works which continue to be drawn upon in contemporary 45  Pickthall (trans.), Q 12:5. 46  Maududi (trans.), Q 12:5. 47  Asad (trans.), Q 12:5. 48  I.e. that women’s presence causes social upheaval or anarchy. 49  Stowasser, Women in the Qur’an 55.

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pious story-telling circles. Stowasser explains, “that the story will not do for contemporary exhortations undoubtedly comes from its medieval transformation into a tale of romantic love and true mutual devotion . . . to the medieval imagination, Zulaykhā’s true persona emerged when she repented her betrayal of Joseph and remained loyal to him for many years (cf. Q 12:52–53).”50 The presentation of Zulaykhā as a figure of singular devotion is nowhere more pronounced than in the allegorical romance Yūsof-o Zoleykhā by Jāmī (d. 1414/1492).51 Jāmi’s verse narrative, as well as similar accounts by other storytellers, present Zulaykhā as a flawed but ardent lover whose passionate devotion ultimately earns her a place at her beloved’s side as his wife. Far from a wanton figure with sexual designs, in these accounts Zulaykhā is portrayed as understandably overcome by the most beautiful man in conduct and appearance. She is just as understandably confused about the correct way to channel the inevitable feelings of monomania she experiences, for “Yusuf’s beauty was like a jug of wine which had a different effect on each individual temperament: for one it brought euphoric drunkenness; another completely escaped from the illusion of existence; for one it meant laying down life and soul in Yusuf’s service; yet another was lost in dumbstruck contemplation of his image. But the only one worthy of compassion was the one on whom that wine had no effect at all.”52 Viewed from this perspective, Zulaykhā’s response to Yūsuf’s beauty is more than understandable—it is in fact commendable. Although her impulse to win his affection is conducted in misguided fashion, her folly is nonetheless presented sympathetically. What is more, these stories reward her for her singular devotion by uniting her with Yūsuf in marriage. Her loyalty is in fact rewarded, when Yūsuf encounters her again after many years and decides to marry her himself. This union is achieved, not through her ruse and wile, but only after she has long abandoned such efforts and grown old, though still unwaveringly devoted, a commitment she maintains long after any hopes of fulfillment. On the night of their nuptials, Zulaykhā is made young again and Yūsuf discovers her to have been a virgin the whole time, as the man to whom she had been married had been unable to consummate the marriage, because of his sexual disposition, his status as a eunuch, or the suffocating effect of his own sinful pride. Zulaykhā’s honor is in this way vindicated. She goes on to achieve her heart’s desire, and has several children with her rightful husband. The attractiveness of this love story is perhaps self-evident, granting to Zulaykhā herself an appeal that would make it well-nigh impossible for 50  Stowasser, Women in the Qur’an 55. 51  Jāmī, Yusof o Zoleyḵā. 52  Pendlebury (trans.), Yusuf and Zulaikha 94.

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even the most determined of present-day moralists to successfully make use of this figure in order to create a compelling category of womankind’s unsavory wiliness. Zulaykhā emerges in the Islamic medieval story-telling traditions as a champion of love, her story suggesting some of the ardent overtones of the popular tale of Majnūn and Laylā53 while simultaneously providing the audience with a satisfactory conclusion. This powerful combination worked to portray her in both a flattering and pious light, successfully denying succeeding generations “the moralistic punch that contemporary Muslim preachers and writers would need to construct of this tale a warning example of what happens to a ‘cunning woman.’ ”54 The celebration of Zulaykhā in these stories does not mean that acts of kayd were not a marked feature of them. The stratagems and tricks employed by Zulaykhā to achieve her ends in these accounts—especially in Jāmī’s ornate, detailed and decorative prose—are in fact elaborated upon to a fevered pitch and dominate proceedings. Yet these gestures of guile are not presented as damning evidence of womankind’s inherently cunning nature. In fact, Zulaykhā’s behavior is not showcased or characterized by Jāmī as intrinsically feminine. Instead, Jāmī states “All of us are like Zulaikha,”55 since in his view each human possesses some degree of misguided cunning. This instance of kayd only proves that every erring soul aspires to attain something better than its current lot. In this appraisal, kayd then is not something inherently destructive, nor is it essentially feminine. It is in fact a characteristic shared by all of humanity. Bibliography Ahmed, L., Edward W. Lane: A Study of his life and works and of the British ideas of the Middle East in the nineteenth century, London, Beirut 1978. Ali, A.Y. (trans.), The meaning of the Holy Quran, Brentwood 1997. Arberry, A.J. (trans.), The Koran interpreted, London 1955.

53  A story of unfulfilled love between a Bedouin man and the female cousin he is not allowed to marry, in part because ecstatic verses he composed about her became public. The woman’s father is displeased and forbids the marriage. Versions of this tale of star-crossed lovers find their way into numerous epic traditions in Persian and other languages, and were also popular in story-telling circles. 54  Stowasser, Women in the Qur’an 5. 55  Pendlebury (trans.), Yusuf and Zulaikha 15.

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Asad, M. (trans.), The Message of the Qur’an: The full account of the revealed Arabic text accompanied by parallel transliteration, Bitton 2003 Beeston, A.F.L., Baydawi’s Commentary in surah 12 of the Qur’an (text accompanied by an interpretative rendering and notes), Oxford 1974. Brockelmann, C., al-Rāghib al-Isfahānī, in EI1. Jāmī, Yusof o Zoleyḵā, ed. Nāṣer Nikōbaḵt, Tehran 1998. Lane, E.W., An account of the manners and customs of the modern Egyptians, written in the years 1833–1835, London 1895. Mahdi, M., The thousand and one nights (Alf layla wa-layla) from the earliest known sources, 3 vols., Leiden 1984–94. Malti-Douglas, F., Woman’s body, woman’s word: Gender and discourse in Arabo-Islamic writing, Princeton 1993. Maududi, S.A. (trans.), The Meaning of the Qurʾān, Lahore 1968. Merguerian, G.K. and A. Najmabadi, Zulaykha and Yusuf: Whose “best story”?, in IJMES 29 (1997), 485–508. Mir, M., The Qurʾānic story of Joseph: Plot, themes, and characters, in MW 76 (1986), 1–15. Pendlebury, D. (trans.), Yusuf and Zulaikha, London 1980. Pickthall, M.M. (trans.), The Meaning of the Glorious Qur’an: Text and explanatory translation, Beirut 1971. Al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, Muʿjam mufradāt alfāẓ al-Qurʾān, Beirut 2008. Rowson, E.K., al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, in EI2. Stowasser, B.F., Women in the Qur’an, traditions and interpretations, New York and Oxford 1994.

CHAPTER 3

Some Ḥanbalī Views on Secret Marriage Susan A. Spectorsky Early fiqh works on any particular subject turn out to combine discussion of general principles and exceptional cases in a way that makes it difficult to discover the rationale for many doctrines.1 Although we know that early jurists were concerned with infusing local pre-Islamic practice with pious Islamic norms, we do not necessarily know how these combinations worked. This is especially true since pious Islamic norms themselves were evolving and changing as successive generations of jurists added their own thinking to a growing body of doctrine. One fiqh problem that seems to be a focal point for the uneasy interaction of legal concerns and social change is that of a secret marriage. Jurists agreed that a secret marriage was not valid, but it is not always clear what they meant by it. However, the context of the questions discussed raises the issue of the status of the bride. Three questions about marriage bear on this issue. One is whether a marriage needs to be witnessed; another is the specific question of the bride’s status, which is usually found under the chapter heading kafāʾa—the equality of the spouses; and the third is the size of the bride’s dower, her mahr or ṣadāq. Discussions of these issues reflect the tension between an idealized Islamic marriage and some of the social realities of pre-Islamic tribal Arabia carried forward into the Islamic period. Below I point to two different definitions of a secret marriage that seem to operate concurrently: it means either a marriage that has taken place without adequate witnessing, or a marriage that has not been publicly announced, regardless of whether it has been witnessed. The two definitions present different conceptions of the legal character of marriage. Sometimes early jurists emphasized the importance of witnesses because they regarded marriage as a normative contract, and other times, they emphasized the importance of a

1  This study is expanded from papers I gave in 2002 at the Columbia University Seminar in Arabic studies; in 2003, at the meeting of the American Oriental Society, and in 2004 at the Department of Asian and Middle Eastern Studies of the University of Pennsylvania. I am grateful for the valuable questions and comments I received at each of these talks. Errors that remain are my responsibility.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_004

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marriage as a political, communal act. I will discuss this by looking at several Ḥanbalī fiqh texts, starting with some of Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal’s responses.2 Witnesses In an ideal marriage as depicted in fiqh texts of the formative period, a girl or a woman’s guardian, preferably her father, gives her in marriage to an appropriate suitor in the presence of witnesses. For the most part, we deduce these ideals from the texts. Usually in his responses, Ibn Ḥanbal briefly answers questions about specific procedures. In only one collection of his responses, that by Abū Dāwūd al-Sijistānī (d. 275/888), do we find a general statement about a valid marriage: Abū Dāwūd reports: “I heard Aḥmad [ibn Ḥanbal] asked, ‘What are the minimum prerequisites (kam adnā mā yakūnu) for a valid marriage contract?’ He replied, ‘A suitor; someone to give the bride in marriage, and two witnesses.’ ”3 More typical is Ibn Ḥanbal’s response in the collection compiled by his student Isḥāq ibn Ibrāhīm ibn Hāniʾ al-Nīsābūrī (d. 275/888) who reports, I asked Abū ʿAbdallāh saying, “Is the father’s concluding a marriage contract without witnesses lawful?” He replied, “It is not lawful [for him to do so] without witnesses.”4 Here, Ibn Hāniʾ, stipulating first that a potential bride’s most appropriate guardian, her father, concludes a contract for her, then asks whether it is lawful for him to do so without witnesses. It is not. Next, Ibn Hāniʾ poses a question about witnessing a marriage contract that is otherwise appropriate: again it is her father who gave his daughter in marriage to her paternal cousin who is among the most suitable of grooms for her.

2  I have used four versions of Ibn Ḥanbal’s Masāʾil here: one by his son ʿAbdallāh ibn Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal; a second by his contemporary, the jurist and traditionist Abū Dāwūd al-Sijistānī, a third by a student of his, Ibn Hāniʾ al-Nīshāpurī and a fourth by another student, Isḥāq ibn Manṣūr al-Kawsaj. See bibliography. 3  Spectorsky, Chapters, 62, §17. In the responses I quote below, Ibn Ḥanbal’s contemporaries and students refer to him either as Aḥmad, or as Abū ʿAbdallāh. For Abū Dāwūd al-Sijistānī, See GAS i, 149–52. 4  Ibn Hāniʾ, Masāʾil i, 195, #968. For Isḥāq ibn Ibrāhīm ibn Hāniʾ al-Nīsābūrī (d. 275/888), see Ibn Abī Yaʿlā, Ṭabaqāt al-ḥanābila i, 97–8.

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His neighbors knew of the marriage, but since it was not formally witnessed, Ibn Ḥanbal does not find it acceptable: He [Ibn Ḥanbal] was asked about a man who gives his daughter in marriage to her paternal cousin without witnesses, but the neighbors knew that he had given her in marriage, although he had not invited them to witness [this fact]. He said, “The marriage is not lawful until it is made public by means of witnesses.”5 In another question, Ibn Hāniʾ refines the part about the neighbors’ knowledge: despite the absence of witnesses, the bride’s father has informed his neighbors. Not only are witnesses required in any case, but Ibn Ḥanbal says they should inform the [nearby] neighbors, as well as the entire neighborhood: I asked him about a man who gave his daughter in marriage to her paternal first cousin without witnesses, but he informed the neighbors about the marriage. He said, “It is not valid unless there are witnesses and the knowledge of the neighbors as well. In addition, the witnesses should go out and inform the neighbors and also inform the people of their neighborhood (maḥallatahum) that a certain man has married a certain woman.”6 Ibn Hāniʾ also proposes a case in which a husband hides his marriage: I asked him about a man who gets married with a walī [to give the bride in marriage] and two witnesses, but he hides the marriage. He responded, “It is better that the tambourine be played for the marriage.” And I think that playing the tambourine for marriages pleased him, so that people might be informed about them.7 By the tambourine, Ibn Ḥanbal is referring to the whole wedding banquet (using the part for the whole), which is usually held when the bride takes up residence in her husband’s house.8

5  Ibn Hāniʾ, Masāʾil i, 199, #998. 6  Ibn Hāniʾ, Masāʾil i, 204, #1008. 7  Ibn Hāniʾ, Masāʾil i, 197, #978. 8  For the wedding banquet or walīma, see Heffening, ʿUrs, in EI2 x, 899.

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In another collection of Ibn Ḥanbal’s responses, a contemporary and colleague, Isḥāq ibn Rāhwayh (d. 238/853),9 takes a different tack about a more complicated case: As for a father who betroths his daughter to a man and then gives her in marriage to him with one woman as a witness, if the husband is then absent from the daughter for a year, and the father gives his daughter in marriage, against her will, to another man who conducts her to his home in a marriage procession, while she rejects the marriage screaming, “My father has already married me to So-and-so,” the first contract was not valid because of the inadequacy of the witnessing to it, unless it was announced by both the father and by the husband, before he went away, so that word got around, [along with the fact that] the husband did not deny it. In this case, whenever the marriage is the way we described it, in the opinion of Mālik and the people of Medina and those scholars of Iraq who followed them such as Ibn Idrīs, Yazīd ibn Hārūn, Ibn Mahdī and such like, it is a valid marriage, for announcing it became witnessing it. However, the best doctrine as far as we are concerned is that two witnesses, or two women and a man, be witness to the contract.10 Ibn Rāhwayh continues, Those whom we have described followed a [certain] doctrine, and, on the basis of it, they explained the following two marriages: ʿAlī’s giving Umm Kulthūm in marriage to ʿUmar and his sending her to him; al-Furayʿa being given in marriage to al-Musayyab ibn Najba. One [is explained] from the other, and this sort of thing is offered by way of proof, but this is not clear.11 Umm Kulthum bint ʿAlī’s marriage is described in Ibn Saʿd’s Ṭabaqāt. ʿAlī concluded a marriage contract for her with ʿUmar, and then ʿUmar told the Prophet and a number of Companions about it. After a certain amount of time,

9  For Ibn Rāhwayh, see Sezgin, GAS i, 109, who refers to him as Ibn Rāhūya. An unvowelled text allows either spelling. 10  See Spectorsky, Chapters 241–2. This is from the version of Masāʾil Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal by Abū Yaʿqūb Isḥāq ibn Manṣūr ibn Bahrām al-Marwazī al-Kawsaj (d. 251/865). See Sezgin, GAS i, 509. 11  See Spectorsky Chapters 241, §318.

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when ʿUmar was caliph, ʿAlī sent her to him.12 Although Ibn Rāhwayh admits that both Medinese and Iraqi scholars accept the validity of a marriage that is widely acknowledged, he complains that these past stories are not clear, and says that the best doctrine is that a valid marriage must be witnessed— either two witnesses, or two women and one man. However, he is also willing to accept “announcing it became witnessing it.” Ibn Ḥanbal would clearly prefer both announcing and witnessing, but Ibn Rāhwayh is satisfied with an announcement that covers both witnessing and publicity. The unspoken issue in the responses quoted above is that of a secret marriage defined as one that is not adequately witnessed. In al-Shaybānī’s version of Mālik’s Muwaṭṭa‌ʾ, he relates a ḥadīth concerning ʿUmar’s disapproval of a secret marriage: [The case of] a man was brought before ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb because of [this man’s] marriage with only one man and one woman as witnesses. ʿUmar said, “This is a secret marriage. We do not allow it. Had I been there in time, I would have stoned.” Al-Shaybānī, agreeing with ʿUmar’s verdict that the man should have been punished for adultery by stoning, continues: We hold this [i.e., agreeing with ʿUmar] because marriage is not permissible with fewer than two witnesses, whereas in the marriage which ʿUmar rejected, a man and a woman were witnesses, and this is a secret marriage because it was inadequately witnessed. If it had been adequately witnessed by two men or one man and two women, then it would have been valid, even though it was [concluded] in secret. [This is] because what makes a secret marriage invalid is that it occurs without witnesses; however, if the witnessing is adequate, then it is a public marriage (nikāḥ al-ʿalāniya) even though they kept it secret.13 Here, despite the fact that the marriage was not a political communal act, it was a normative contract and was therefore valid. 12  Ibn Saʿd, Ṭabaqāt viii, 339–40. I have not found the source for the second of these marriages. 13  Al-Shaybānī, Muwaṭṭa‌ʾ 218. See also my discussion in Spectorsky, Women 79–82 (“Witnesses to a Marriage”), where I also quote this passage. For Muḥammad ibn al-Ḥasan al-Shaybānī (d. 189/805), see Sezgin, GAS i, 421–32; for his recension of Mālik’s Muwaṭṭa‌ʾ, see GAS i, 459–60.

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In the Mudawwana, a text contemporary with the various versions of Ibn Ḥanbal’s responses, the Mālikī jurist Saḥnūn ibn Saʿīd al-Tanūkhī reports answers to questions asked of the Mālikī jurist Ibn Wahb.14 First he reports, I said, “What do you think [about the following]: if a man is given in marriage without witnesses, and the one who gave him in marriage confirms that he did so without witnesses, is it permissible for two witnesses to affirm what has happened and for the contract to be valid according to Mālik’s doctrine?” The answer to this question is, Yes, that is what Mālik held. Second, Saḥnūn reports: I said, “What do you think about a man who gets married with witnesses, but orders them to conceal the marriage? Is this marriage valid according to Mālik’s doctrine?” Ibn Wahb’s answer to this is, No. Saḥnūn presses and asks, “Then [what] if he got married without witnesses, but without trying to keep it secret?” Ibn Wahb answers, That is valid as far as Mālik is concerned . . . Saḥnūn requests further clarification: Why did you say the first marriage was invalid?

14  For Saḥnūn (d. 240/854), see Sezgin, GAS i, 468–71, for Ibn Wahb (d. 197/812), see GAS i, 466.

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Ibn Wahb replies, Because there, an effort was made to keep the marriage secret, and that makes it invalid, even if (my italics) there were many witnesses. Ibn Wahb continues to expound against secret marriage by citing al-Zuhrī’s authority for the consequences of such a marriage: the couple are separated from each other, and, if they have had intercourse, the wife receives a dower and waits an ʿidda. The couple should be punished by the imam, and so should the witnesses because of what they hid. If, subsequently, it seems appropriate, the couple may be remarried publicly (ʿalāniyya).15 None of this material answers the question of what there might be to hide or to celebrate. Apart from the material in early fiqh and ḥadīth texts on witnessing a marriage, there are also discussions of the wedding banquet, or the walīma. In those discussions, however, there is no mention of the fact that the celebration is tantamount to witnessing a marriage, or that it serves to inform the community that two people have married. Instead, there is discussion about the music for the celebration, mostly about when and whether the Prophet allowed or forbade music; how many instruments there should be, whether there should be singing—a different set of issues. The food is also discussed, who should be fed, how long the banquet should go on, and the fact that it is meritorious to attend (although it doesn’t say why), but nothing about the bride and groom.16 There is one ḥadīth on the matter found in Tirmidhī’s collection: “Only lewd women marry without witnesses.”17 The “modern” treatment of secret marriage remains Goldziher’s brief article “Über Geheimehen bei den Arabern.” In it he says that by the end of the first century of Islam the jurists had not yet arrived at a consensus on the most significant components of a publicly established marriage as opposed to a secret one.18 From what we have just seen, it is safe to say that this lack of consensus extends into the second and third centuries of Islam as well. Goldziher points out that in Islam a woman should not be given in marriage to someone beneath her in status, whereas in pre-Islamic Arabia a man too was not supposed to marry a lowly woman, and if he did, he might keep it secret. Two 15  See Saḥnūn, Mudawwana ii, 192–4, and my discussion in Spectorsky, Women 78–82. In this particular example, his walī, guardian, acts for the potential husband. For Ibn Shihāb al-Zuhrī (d. 124/742), see Sezgin, GAS i, 280–3. 16  See, for example, Wensinck, Concordance s.v. walīma. 17  Al-Tirmidhī, Sunan ii, 384, #1110. 18  Goldziher, Über Geheimehen 32–3.

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stories Goldziher recounts—one from the Thousand and One Nights and the other from the Kitāb al-Aghānī—show that a woman married secretly would be assumed to be of lower rank than her husband. In the first, a prince who has arrived in an unknown city on a flying horse secretly becomes engaged to a beautiful princess. Her father, hearing of it, invites him to renew his suit publicly, because if he were to allow his daughter to be married secretly he would lose face. In the second, from the Aghānī, a great-grandson of the caliph ʿUthmān offers to marry in secret the Meccan singer Khulayda, who is the daughter of a runaway slave. She refuses, explaining that she would be mocked by the other singers were she to accept his offer of a secret marriage. What is wrong with a secret marriage, then, is that the bride in such a marriage is branded as a person who is immoral or of low social status. The pre-Islamic Arabs would have celebrated a marriage in which the bride was the groom’s equal and hidden one in which she was beneath him.19 The problem of the bride’s status is what motivates a secret marriage, but it is not part of the discussion in fiqh texts where the issue of a woman’s status is not linked with the question of whether a marriage needs to be witnessed. Although jurists continue to consider a secret marriage undesirable, the direct connection with status has been lost: they are not concerned with proving through a public marriage that a woman is not of a lower status than her husband. The question of status certainly comes up, but not in connection with whether a marriage is secret, but rather in connection with whether a woman’s father or her guardian has chosen an appropriate husband for her, one who is her equal in status.

Kafāʾa

This term refers to equality of status of bride and groom.20 Unless otherwise stated in the texts I examine here, it is assumed that a potential bride is an Arab 19  See Goldziher, Über Geheimehen 32. 20  See de Bellefonds, Kafāʾa, in EI2 iv, 404–5. See also the fuller but earlier survey of kafāʾa in Sunni fiqh in Ziadeh, Equality (kafāʾa). In his discussion (based mainly on that of the Ḥanafī scholar al-Sarakhsī’s al-Mabsūṭ), Ziadeh maintained that in Iraq under early Muslim rule, in response to the pressures of rapid urbanization, the admixture of ethnic groups, and the legacy of class distinctions of the Sassanian empire, the Ḥanafī doctrine of kafāʾa had six elements. The first is lineage (nasab); the second is Islam, or how long a person’s family has been Muslim. (It is to be noted that this question of length of time being a Muslim is restricted to mawālī.) The third element is freedom—which, like Islam, seems to stick only after several generations; the fourth is piety (dīn), the fifth is means

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Muslim, and it is her father’s right, or if he is unavailable, the right of her nearest agnatic male relative, to give her in marriage to a groom who is her equal.21 Her equal is an Arab Muslim man, not a mawlā, which in this context means a non-Arab and/or a freed slave.22 The idea of uniting two noble families did not disappear in the face of the Islamic ideal of the equality of all Muslims, but in the Islamic legal tradition, the surviving pre-Islamic reasons for hiding a marriage were separated from the Islamic statements against it. Whom a woman marries is separated from the question of how she is married. The two are not linked in opinions about what makes a marriage valid. In fact, fiqh texts of the formative as well as the classical period continued to insist on the importance of the lineage of the bride, but it is incorporated into questions about the suitability of the groom. For example, al-Kawsaj reports, I said to Aḥmad, “[What about] Ibn ʿUmar’s doctrine: ‘I forbid the bodies of noble women ( furūj dhawāt al-aḥsāb) to any except men who are their equals’?” Aḥmad said, “Equality in lineage (ḥasab), religion (dīn) and means (māl).” I said, “What if a man has lineage and means, but drinks wine?” He said, “Then he is not the equal of a noble woman.” I said, “[If a noble woman is given in marriage to such a man,] is the couple separated?” He said, “Yes.”23 Ibn Hāniʾ said, I asked him about a man who gives his daughter in marriage to a mawlā. He said, “I would separate them. Arabs are the equals of Arabs and Quraysh of Quraysh.”24

(māl); and the sixth is profession (ḥirfa). There is a list of higher and lower professions; cupping is always a lower profession. 21  Only in early Mālikī texts on marriage is attention given to Q Ḥujurāt 49:13: “O men, We created you from a male and female, and formed you into nations and tribes that you may recognize each other. He who has more integrity has indeed greater honour with God” (transl. Ali). See, for example, Saḥnūn, Mudawwana ii, 163. 22  See Crone, Mawlā, final section (e) (Mawālī and Kafāʾa), in EI2 vi, 874–82. 23  Spectorsky, Chapters 147, §12. For ḥasab, see Ḥasab wa-Nasab in EI2 iii, 238–9. Strictly speaking, ḥasab refers to deeds of valor and nasab to genealogy, but in premodern fiqh texts, the two are often used interchangeably to refer to an adequate genealogy, along with manṣib. 24  Ibn Hāniʾ, Masāʾil i, 200, #992.

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Ibn Hāniʾ reports, I said to Abū ʿAbdallāh, “What about a poor and scrupulous man seeking the hand of a particular father’s daughter in marriage along with a wealthy man without scruples (waraʿ)? To which of them do you prefer that he give her in marriage?” He said, “That he give her in marriage to the man with scruples is better for her, and I prefer it. Nothing outweighs probity (ṣalāḥ).”25 In the first of the above responses, an upright Muslim man does not drink alcohol. In the second, Ibn Ḥanbal ranks the groom in relation to the Prophet’s tribe. In the third, an upright Muslim outweighs one with financial assets. Whatever the answer, the potential grooms are ranked relative to the bride. A question not covered in any of the three is the bride’s dower.

Kafāʾa and Dower

In pre-Islamic Arabia, the amount of the dower, or bride price, took second place to the pedigree of the groom. In an article on kafāʾa in pre-Islamic Arabia, Bravmann illustrated this with a story from al-Balādhūri’s Ansāb al-ashrāf. He translated: When Saʿīd ibn al-ʿĀṣ was near death, he summoned his sons and said: “Who takes on himself the payment of my debts?”, and ʿAmr al-Ashdaq said, “I take it on myself. How much is it, my father?” . . . Then Saʿīd said, “O my son! don’t marry off my daughters but with their equals, be it even for a piece of barley bread; and take care of my sisters . . .”26 How much then is a Muslim bride worth? There are many different answers to that question, and their variety, as indicated by the above story, can be explained by the tension between the pre-Islamic Arab ideal of dynastic marriage with Islamic norms. The Quran is silent on the appropriate amount of a bride’s dower: Q Nisāʾ 4:4 and 24 and Māʾida 5:5 stress that it be given to her voluntarily; Q 4:20 says that she retains it in case of divorce, and Q Baqara 2:237 that she retains only half of it in case of divorce before intercourse. In a case of divorce before intercourse, 25  Ibn Hāniʾ, Masāʾil i, 197, #980. 26  See Bravmann, Spiritual background 303–4.

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if a dower was not specified in the marriage contract, the husband should give his wife a divorce gift (mutʿa), “the affluent according to their means, the poor in accordance with theirs” (Q Baqara 2:236). In Ibn Ḥanbal’s responses about appropriate dower amounts, the numbers 480 and 500 dinars are found. These are the amounts that Ibn Saʿd reports in his Ṭabaqāt for the dowers of the Prophet’s wives and daughters. Mālik, in the Muwaṭṭa‌ʾ, establishes three dirhams as a minimum dower; al-Shāfiʿī suggests a maximum dower of 500 dinars. In Abū Yūsuf’s Āthār, 1000 dinars is mentioned. In ḥadīth collections different amounts are given. All texts agree that whenever no amount has been agreed upon or stipulated as part of the marriage contract, the bride receives the fair dower (mahr al-mithl) for a woman of her status.27 What is her status? It is that of the women in her family (nisāʾuhā). Who are they? I heard Aḥmad asked about a woman’s fair dower. He said, “It is the dower given to the women in her family (mahru nisāʾihā).”28 I said, “What if a man marries a woman in accordance with a dower that she stipulates?” Aḥmad said, “We say what ʿUmar said to al-Ashʿath, that she can stipulate only the fair dower for women of her status; no more, no less.”29 I asked Abū ʿAbdallāh about a man who marries a woman without specifying the amount of her dower. He said, “She receives the dower of women like her.”30 I asked Abū ʿAbdallāh about a man who marries a woman without specifying a dower. He said, “She receives the dower of woman like her, such as her mother or sister, or her paternal aunt or that aunt’s daughter.”31 Again, who are these women? In the first three responses above, Ibn Ḥanbal mentions the women of her family, the women of her status and women like her, but does not really clarify how her status is determined. In the fourth, he mentions her mother, her sister and a paternal aunt or paternal female cousin, seemingly, but not entirely, favoring agnatic relatives.

27  See discussion of these amounts and references to specific texts in Spectorsky, Women 82–5. 28  From Abū Dāwūd’s Masāʾil, in Spectorsky, Chapters 65, §37. 29  Al-Kawsaj’s Masāʾil, in Spectorsky, Chapters 151, §20. 30  Ibn Hāniʾ, Masāʾil i, 215, #1049. 31  Ibn Hāniʾ, Masāʾil i, 214, #1043.

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Conclusions To move forward in time to later Ḥanbalī texts: in the fourth/tenth century Ḥanbalī handbook, the Mukhtaṣar of Abū l-Qāsim al-Khiraqī (d. 334/945), the witness issue is settled. He says, “There can be no valid marriage without a walī and two Muslim witnesses.” Kafāʾa consists of religion and rank (al-dīn wa-l-manṣib). Then he adds something about the fair dower: “Only a father can give his daughter in marriage for a dower which is less than her fair dower. If anyone other than her father does so, the marriage is valid, but she receives her fair dower.”32 Again, what is “fair”? It is a question of status. In al-Mughnī, his commentary on this work, the Ḥanbalī jurist Muwaffaq al-Dīn ibn Qudāma (d. 620/1223) reinforces al-Khiraqī’s statement that there must be two Muslim witnesses to a valid marriage. Then he discusses a bride’s fair dower at some length, along with considering who exactly the women in her family are. He says there are several opinions on the matter reported from Ibn Ḥanbal. One is that the women in her family are her father’s relatives, the other, her mother’s and a third (like the fourth answer above) is that both her paternal and maternal relatives are taken into account. But, he concludes, a woman’s nobility, her sharaf,33 comes from her nasab, a quality derived from her agnatic relatives. Her mother, Ibn Qudāma points out, might be a mawlā and she herself a noble woman (sharīfa), or indeed vice-versa.34 Much later, the Ḥanbalī scholar al-Ḥujāwī (d. 968/1560) in his epitome of Ibn Qudāma’s Muqniʿ repeats the apparently settled issue of witnesses when he too says that witnessing is one of the conditions of a valid marriage, “Two just male witnesses, legally responsible (mukallafayn), who are capable of hearing and speaking” (i.e., neither deaf or dumb). But by the tenth/sixteenth century, the Arab-mawlā problem has receded, at least for Sunni Muslims, and he says that kafāʾa which consists of religion and manṣib which is itself nasab and freedom, is not a condition for the validity of a marriage contract. Anything that has a firm price or value is permissible as a dower, even if it is small. If a dower is inappropriate, then the fair dower is mandatory. In discussing the walīma, he says that it is a sunna that the marriage be announced and that women play the tambourine at it.35 32  Al-Khirāqī, Mukhtaṣar 134–5. 33  For this term, see Fahd, Sharaf, in EI2 ix, 313–14. 34  For Ibn Qudāma’s discussion of witnesses to a marriage, see al-Mughnī vii, 337–42. For a fuller discussion of Ibn Qudāma’s views on kafāʾa and, in general, on a woman’s fair dower, see Spectorsky, Women 169–71. 35  See al-Ḥujāwī, Zād 82–3, 87.

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Two stories which lie outside the legal tradition mirror the earlier legal developments I’ve just discussed. The first is the story of Khulayda and the great grandson of the caliph ʿUthmān mentioned above. When she refuses to marry him secretly, he is horrified at the thought of a public marriage and exclaims, “Marry her publicly (atazawwajuhā muʿlinan) when I am already married to the daughter of Ṭalḥa ibn ʿUbaydallāh? No!”36 Here, he cannot imagine admitting to having a lowly non-Arab wife in addition to one who is a descendent of one of the Prophet’s closest Companions.37 Status is all-important. The second is found in al-Ṭabari’s Tārīkh. In a letter Muḥammad al-Nafs al-Zakiyya sends the caliph al-Manṣūr, he boasts about his pure Arab descent and points out that al-Manṣūr cannot so boast: “Of the Banū Hāshim, I am the noblest—none can claim a lineage more pure than mine, unsullied by nonArab blood and uncontested by concubine mothers (ummahāt al-awlād).” But al-Manṣūr, whose mother was a Berber concubine, answers in part, “God has not made women the equal of uncles and fathers—not even of agnate relations and guardians (al-ʿaṣaba wa-l-awliyāʾ).”38 Here, al-Manṣūr is pointing out that the importance of the matrilineal line is lessening. Status is important, but only agnatic status. The fact that by the seventh/thirteenth century the matrilineal line had ceased to be important at all is noted by Ibn Qudāma. To return to the Ḥanbalī framework, a contemporary form of secret marriage that has received considerable attention is al-zawāj al-misyār or a walking marriage. “Ambulant marriage” is the term Oussama Arabi used in a 2001 article on this institution in Saudi Arabia in his Studies in Modern Islamic Law and Jurisprudence.39 In this kind of marriage, a man’s second wife remains in her parents’ or guardians’ home. He spends an agreed-upon amount of time visiting her there, but otherwise lives with his first wife. The husband is spared the expense of maintaining this wife and setting her up in his household, and he is able to keep her existence a secret from his first wife. Some Saudis see this as a way to increase women’s options; others as a way for men to avoid full moral and financial responsibility for their personal behavior. Regardless, al-zawāj al-misyār was sanctioned by the grand mufti of Saudi Arabia Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz bin Bāz (d. 1999) in a fatwa issued in 1996. He said that there was nothing wrong with this kind of marriage if the contract satisfied the legally 36  Al-Iṣfahānī, al-Aghānī xvii, 5985–6. 37  For the genealogies of ʿUthmān ibn ʿAffān and Ṭalḥa ibn ʿUbaydallāh, see the recent study by Ahmed, The religious elite. 38  These passages from al-Ṭabarī, Tārīkh iii, 210–11, are quoted by Sean Anthony in his review of Ahmed, The religious elite. 39  Arabi, The itinerary of a fatwa.

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recognized conditions of a valid marriage: a guardian to give the wife in marriage, the consent of both parties to the marriage and the presence of two witnesses of established probity at the conclusion of the contract. However, he added that it is permissible on the condition that the marriage is made public and is not kept secret. In other words, this marriage should, like all others, be both a normative contract and a political communal act.40 Bibliography Ahmed, A.Q., The religious elite of the early Islamic Hijaz: Five prosopographical case studies (Prosopographica et Genealogica 14), Oxford 2011. Ali, A. (trans.), Al-Qur’ān: A contemporary translation, Princeton 1988. Anthony, S. Review of Ahmed, The religious elite of the early Islamic Hijaz: Five prosopographical case studies, in JNES 74 (2015), 167–9. Arabi, O., The itinerary of a fatwa: Ambulant marriage (al-zawāj al-misyār) or grassroots law-making in Saudi Arabia of the 1990’s, in O. Arabi, Studies in Islamic law and jurisprudence, The Hague and New York 2001. de Bellefonds, Y.L., Kafāʾa, in EI2. Bravmann, M.M., The spiritual background of early Islam: Studies in ancient Arab concepts, Leiden 1972. Crone, P., Mawlā, section 5(e), Mawālī and Kafāʾa, in EI2. Fahd, T., Sharaf, EI2. Goldziher, I., Über Geheimehen bei den Arabern, in Globus 68 (1895), 32–4. Ḥasab wa-nasab, in EI2. Hasso, F., Consuming desires: Family crisis and the state in the Middle East, Stanford 2010. Heffening, W., ʿUrs, in EI2. al-Ḥujāwī, Mūsā ibn Aḥmad, Zād al-mustaqniʿ fī ikhtiṣār al-Muqniʿ, Beirut 1995. Ibn Abī Yaʿlā, Ṭabaqāt al-Ḥanābila, ed. M.Ḥ. al-Fiqī, 2 vols., Cairo 1952. Ibn Ḥanbal, Aḥmad, Masāʾil al-Imām Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal: Riwāyat Abī Dāwūd Sulaymān ibn al-Ashʿath al-Sijistānī, ed. M.B. al-Bayṭār, Cairo 1934. Ibn Ḥanbal, Aḥmad, Masāʾil al-Imām Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal wa-Isḥāq ibn Rāhwayh: Riwāyat Isḥāq ibn Manṣūr al-Kawsaj, Ms. Ẓāhiriyya Fiqh Ḥanbalī, 1. Ibn Ḥanbal, Aḥmad, Masāʾil al-Imām Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal: Riwāyat ibnihi Abī ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ʿAbdallāh, ed. Z. al-Shāwīsh, Beirut 1981.

40  For a discussion of this kind of marriage in the context of current political and social concerns, see Hasso, Consuming desires s.v. index, “ambulant marriage contracts.”

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Ibn Ḥanbal, Aḥmad, Masāʾil al-Imām Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal: Riwāyat Isḥāq ibn Ibrāhīm ibn Hāniʾ al-Nīsābūrī, ed. Z. al-Shāwīsh, 2 vols. in 1, Beirut 1979. Ibn Qudāma, Muwaffaq al-Dīn, al-Mughnī, ed. R. Riḍā, 12 vols., Cairo 1929, repr. Beirut 1983. Ibn Saʿd, Kitāb al-ṭabaqāt al-kabīr, ed. E. Sachau, 9 vols, Leiden 1905–40. al-Iṣfahānī, Abū l-Faraj, Kitāb al-aghānī, 31 vols, Cairo 1969–82. al-Khiraqī, Abū l-Qāsim, Mukhtaṣar, Damascus 1964. Mālik ibn Anas, Muḥammad ibn al-Ḥasan al-Shaybānī, al-Muwaṭṭa‌ʾ, with commentary by ʿAbd al-Ḥayy al-Laknawī, Kasan 1909. Saḥnūn, al-Mudawwana al-kubrā, 6 vols., Baghdad n.d. Sezgin, F., Geschichte des arabischen Schrifttums, 9 vols., Leiden 1967–2000 (= GAS). al-Shaybānī, Muḥammad ibn al-Ḥasan, see Mālik ibn Anas. Spectorsky, S.A. (ed. and trans.), Chapters on marriage and divorce: Responses of Ibn Ḥanbal and Ibn Rāhwayh, Austin 1993. Spectorsky, S.A., Women in classical Islamic law: A survey of the sources, Leiden 2012. al-Ṭabarī, Tāʾrīkh al-rusul wa-l-mulūk, ed. M. de Goeje, Leiden 1879–1901. al-Tirmidhī, Sunan, 5 vols., Medina 1965–67. Wensinck, A.J., Concordance et indices de la tradition musulmane, 8 vols., Leiden 1936–88. Ziadeh, F.J., Equality (kafāʾah) in the Muslim law of marriage, in The American journal of comparative law 6 (1957), 503–17.

CHAPTER 4

Anta anā wa-anā minka (“You are me, and I am from you”): A Quasi-Nuṣayrī Fragment on the Intellect in the Early Ismāʿīlī Treatise Kitāb Ta‌ʾwīl ḥurūf al-muʿjam David Hollenberg In this essay I examine a small textual puzzle found in a fragment nested in a manuscript of an early Ismāʿīlī treatise on the alphabet, the Kitāb Risālat ta‌ʾwīl al-ḥurūf. The fragment recounts a dialogue between God and the intellect attributed to the well-known heresiarch Muḥammad ibn Sinān al-Zāhirī (d. 220/835).1 It purports to transmit a section of ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib’s secret work the Kitab al-Jafr, and assumes a docetist, pentadist cosmology that is similar to (if cruder than that) found in Nuṣayrī sources. Muḥammad ibn Sinān is not an authority for the Ismāʿīlīs, and the metaphysics the fragment assumes would be considered ghuluww (extremist) by them. It would be tempting to call the fragment “proto-Nuṣayrī,” except the dating of sources to which it betrays similar features—the Umm al-kitāb, Kitāb al-Haft wa-l-aẓilla, Mufaḍdal ibn ʿUmar al-Juʿfī corpus—are, themselves, notoriously difficult to authenticate, and some sources may have been composed long after more mature Nuṣayrī doctrines were developed. Thus, insufficient evidence to authenticate these sources has led scholars to date the Umm al-kitāb tentatively to the mid-eighth, to the twelfth, and, most recently, to the mid-ninth century.2 Like the Cheshire cat, such fragments are often prone to emerge in odd places and claim obscure things. And like Alice, despite the elusiveness of the 1  For a biography of this figure, see Friedman, The Nuṣayrī-ʿAlawīs 246–7; Halm, Das Buch der Schatten 238; Bar-Asher and Kofsky, The Nuṣayrī-ʿAlawī religion 144. My thanks to Asma Hilali for several useful corrections to the Arabic edition, and to Donna Hollenberg for proofreading. I also thank the Institute of Ismaili Studies, London, for providing support and camaraderie during the Summer of 2015 while I was working on this topic. 2  For a summary and the most recent attempt to establish a date for the source, see Anthony, The legend of ʿAbdallāh ibn Saba‌ʾ 1–30. Anthony presents an excellent summary of previous work on this nettle, critiques Halm’s mid eighth-century date for the Kitāb al-Umm, and proposes that it was composed in the mid-ninth century. Anthony’s argument is, in my view, as plausible as Halm’s and Madelung’s dating.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_005

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sources, we would like to “get somewhere.”3 In my view, in our present state of research—in which none of the arguments for dating such sources is provable—ink is better spilled by investigating and publishing hitherto unknown sources. In this case, the job is not difficult, as the fragment in question is six manuscript pages. In the following pages, I transcribe the fragment and point out several puzzles that pertain to it. Although there is insufficient context to be certain as to what occasioned this Ismāʿīlī-quasi-Nuṣayrī mix, I conclude by suggesting a theoretical model that might account for it.

The Manuscript Puzzle

The manuscript catalogues of the Institute of Ismaili Studies in London list three copies of a brief allegorical work on the alphabet ascribed to the Fāṭimid Ismāʿīlī missionary Jaʿfar ibn Manṣūr al-Yaman (d. before 969) entitled Ta‌ʾwīl al-ḥurūf al-muʿjam (The Interpretation of the Alphabet). In fact, these three manuscripts are copies of two entirely different treatises.4 One of these works, preserved in Ms. 1209 and Ms. 716, is an allegorical interpretation of the alphabet. The colophon of the manuscript ascribes it to Jaʿfar ibn Manṣūr alYaman, and, in fact, the content of the work is similar to other works composed by Jaʿfar, and the ascription is likely accurate. This work has never been published, and I am currently completing a critical edition of it for the Institute of Ismaili Studies. The second work in Ms. 1283 is also an allegory of the alphabet, but it is a different text; this manuscript is the same work as that published by 3  Carroll, Alice in Wonderland 32. I had hoped to make my contribution to Everett’s Festschrift a piece titled “Scholars and their Cats,” given Everett’s love of cats, which I share. Such an article might have discussed the authenticity and variety of traditions of the Prophet’s cat Muʿizza; it could have described al-Jāḥiẓ’s perceptive psychology of felines in Kitāb al-Ḥayawān and the Ikhwān al-ṣafāʾs (Brethren of Purity’s) portrayal of cats as “houseslaves”—perhaps a veiled criticism of Shī⁽ites who accept patronage from the Abbasid caliph. It would have concluded with a discussion of the Shāfiʿī jurist, mutakallim, and cat-lover ʿAlī Sayf al-Dīn al-Āmidī (d. 631/1233), who, upon moving from Aleppo to Qasiyūn, had had his deceased cats interred and their graves moved with him (al-Dhahabī, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalā xxii, 365. My thanks to Garrett Davidson for this reference). However, deadlines being what they are, I have turned instead to a small textual puzzle of the type that Everett enjoys. 4  Gacek, A catalogue 118. Gacek catalogues the item according to the colophon as Sharḥ dalālāt ḥurūf al-muʿjam (as listed in the manuscript), but lists it as Jaʿfar’s Ta‌ʾwīl ḥurūf al-muʿjam, following the title in Poonawala, Biobibliography 10. Cortese, Arabic Ismaili manuscripts 182. Cortese seems to suggest that Ms. 1283 and Ms. 1209 are the same treatise.

52

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Guyard in 1874, without title or ascription to an author, based on a different manuscript of Syrian provenance.5 It is this work which has the nested quasiNuṣayrī fragment transcribed below. To distinguish between these two works with similar titles, I shall refer to the hitherto unpublished treatise of Ms. 1209 and Ms. 716 as the Risālat Ta‌ʾwīl al-ḥurūf al-muʿjam, the title that appears in the opening of the source itself. The other work, the one previously published by Guyard that I consider today, I refer to according to the title that appears in the Ms. 1283 colophon, the Kitāb Ta‌ʾwīl al-ḥurūf al-muʿjam. Unfortunately, the whereabouts of the manuscript that Guyard consulted are unknown, so we must depend on his 1874 article. The manuscript was copied in Jumādā al-Ūlā 1220/1805. Guyard explains that the place of copying is not mentioned in the colophon, but, since the manuscript was discovered on a study tour in Syria, it seems safe to assume that it is of Syrian provenance and preserved by the Nizārī community there. The colophon of the Institute of Ismaili Studies manuscript, Ms. 1283, which was donated to the IIS by the prominent Bohra reformer Zahid Ali, was copied in Madras, India in Ramaḍān, 1323/1905. The Syrian and Indian codices bear a relationship beyond the inclusion of Ta‌ʾwīl al-ḥurūf and Fī maʿrifat al-ʿaql (On the intellect). Both sources contain a series of short, esoteric works and share three identical titles, the Saḥīfat ta‌ʾwīlāt (The Scroll of ta‌ʾwīls), Qiṣṣat Nūḥ (The Story of Noah), and Faṣl min munājāt al-Muʿizz li-dīn Allāh (A chapter on the conversations of al-Muʿizz li-dīn Allāh).6 It seems to me noteworthy that these works circulated in similarly structured compilations among both the Nizārī Ismāʿīlīs of Syria and the Bohra community in India, communities with quite different historical trajectories. Were these short treaties part of a compilation for both Nizārī and Bohra traditions from the late medieval period, perhaps a curriculum of ta‌ʾwīl for senior members of the Ismāʿīlī mission? Conversely, were these sources preserved by one of these communities and then found their way to the other in the early modern period? Does this reflect an exchange or market for manuscripts between the Bohra-Indian and Nizārī-Syrian communities in the modern period? A second puzzle concerns the relationship between the quasi-Nuṣayrī fragment and the alphabet allegory in which it is nested. The fragment, which is set off by the words, Fī maʿrifat al-ʿaql (On knowledge of the intellect), is ascribed to Muḥammad ibn Sinān (d. 220/835), a well-known Shiʿite extremist (ghālī) whose works and concepts were adopted and developed by the Nuṣayrīs. The 5  Guyard, Fragments 177–428. 6  Guyard, Fragments 4–5.

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53

fragment relates a dialogue on metaphysics in which the student learns that his master is none other than the intellect, and that the intellect is an attribute of “the First Creator” (?) that emerged from God’s essence. In short, the text is pure ghuluww, which is precisely what one would expect from a text ascribed to Muḥammad ibn Sinān. On the one hand, this could be a case of an early or quasi-Nuṣayrī fragment that found its way into an otherwise Ismāʿīlī work of ta‌ʾwīl. This source could then be added to the Umm al-kitāb, the Kitāb al-Haft wal-aẓilla, and similar sources discussed by Madelung, Halm and, more recently, Anthony and Asatryan that have been preserved in Ismāʿīlī libraries.7 However, there is reason to consider whether there is more at work here than just a quasī-Nuṣayrī fragment nested in an otherwise standard Ismāʿīlī source. There are several themes within the Kitāb Ta‌ʾwīl al-ḥurūf al-muʿjam itself—that is, the section of the source before and after the fragment—that are out of place in an Ismāʿīlī text, and suggest a relationship between the Ismāʿīlī work in which the fragment is nested and the fragment. The Kitāb Ta‌ʾwīl al-ḥurūf al-muʿjam The content of the Kitāb Ta‌ʾwīl al-ḥurūf al-muʿjam, which is thirty-nine folios, may be summarized as follows. After the encomium, the author addresses the audience directly (“Know, O brother . . .”), explaining that he will transmit from “our master-teachers” (mashāyikhunā) what is reliably known on the hidden sense of the alphabet. He divides the twenty-eight letters into four “weeks” and describes each heptad. The first is the spiritual heptad, which contains six letters not present in the alphabets of scriptures which preceded Muḥammad and the Quran such as the scrolls of Enoch, Noah, Abraham, the Torah of Moses, the Gospel of Jesus, and the Psalms of David. These six spiritual (rūḥāniyya) letters are alif, bāʾ, tāʾ, thāʾ, ḥāʾ, and jīm. The narrator focuses on the alif. Know that the alif alludes to the Sābiq, as we mentioned, except that it is in the middle, between the bāʾ, tāʾ and thāʾ and the jīm, ḥāʾ, and khāʾ, the third from above and the third from below, the intermediary between them. The astronomers postulated that of the seven rotating planets, the highest is Saturn, and the one closest to us is the moon and that each planet is within a sphere. The sun is at the fourth sphere, and three are 7  See most recently Asatryan, Heresy and rationalism.

54

Hollenberg

above and three below it. We thus see that the sun is the facilitator of the six natures through its movement by God the Almighty. They do not doubt but that the sun alludes to the Sābiq. The alif alludes to al-Sābiq, the first of the “two roots,” the twin hypostases that emanated from God. (The second of the two roots in the Ismāʿīlī pleroma, al-Tālī, is mentioned later in the source.) The author explains that although the alif is traditionally the first letter of the alphabet, in its actual reality it is the fourth of the first seven letters; just as the sun is the fourth of the first seven planets between the moon and Saturn and governs these planets, the alif governs the three letters above and below it. The author goes on to state that it is there at the sun, the fourth sphere, where the Prophet stopped at the lotetree during his night journey, and is the origin of the intellect “from which all spirits emerge.” The author declares that the fact that alif is the medial letter of the basmalah (b s m a l l h) provides further evidence that the alif comes in the middle of the first heptad. The second heptad of letters is called “the corporeal week.” Next is the second week, which is corporeal, being dāl, rāʾ, sīn, ṣād, tāʾ, ʿayn, and qāf. The dāl alludes to Adam, peace be upon him. The rāʾ alludes to Noah, peace be upon him. The sīn alludes to Abraham, peace be upon him. The ṣād alludes to Moses, peace be upon him. The ṭāʾ alludes to Jesus, peace be upon him. The ʿayn alludes to Muḥammad, peace be upon him. The qāf refers to the Qāʾim, the one guided by God. The only letter among these which has dots is the qāf. These are the letters of the speaker-prophets. The second heptad, dāl, rāʾ, sīn, ṣād, ṭāʾ, and ʿayn, are undotted letters. The author states that they represent the traditional list of six speaker-prophets (Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Muḥammad). From each emerges a letter with a dot but the same consonantal shape. These seven, dhāl, zay, shīn, ḍād, ẓāʾ, and ghayn, the third heptad, allude to the “fundaments” (usus) who clarify the scripture the speaker-prophet paired with brought. The author describes qāf as alluding to the Qāʾim, the one expected to rule over all humankind, “fill the world with justice and equity, just as it was filled with tyranny and injustice,” and disclose the secret sense of all scriptures. The author claims that the fourth, final heptad, the letters kāf, lām, mīm, nūn, wāw, hāʾ, and yāʾ, refer to “the hidden Imāms” (al-a‌ʾimma al-mastūrīn). In Fāṭimid-Ismāʿīlī hiero-history, periods of “disclosure” (kashf ), when the leader

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55

of the community is apparent, alternate with periods of “screening” (satr), when he is hidden. During a period of “screening,” in which tyrants endanger the life of the Imām, the Imām’s identity or locus is hidden, either with a false cover-name or by entrusting the Imamate to a “trustee Imām” until such time as it is safe to transfer leadership back to the true Imāms. As established by Madelung, the concept of a heptad of “hidden Imāms” was developed during the regime of the first Fāṭimid Imām ʿAbdallāh to explain shifts in the genealogy from the awaited redeemer Muḥammad ibn Ismāʿīl to ʿAbdallāh and the line of his forerunner ʿAbdallāh al-Aftāḥ ibn Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq.8 This reference in the work to the seven hidden Imāms establishes a terminus post quem of 909. All of these concepts, terms, emphasis on hierarchy, and hermeneutic style of pairing an element from realia to a station in the daʿwa in this short treatise are elements that one commonly finds in Fāṭimid period ta‌ʾwīl. Similarly, the author invokes the triad of hypostases Jadd, Fatḥ, and Khayāl, which are described as secret names for the angels Isrāfīl, Michael, and Gabriel, and the daʿwa hierarchy, the nāṭiq, asās, imām ḥujja, dāʿī, mustajīb (speaker-prophet, fundament, Imām, “proof,” missionary, acolyte). All of this establishes the source as unmistakably Ismāʿīlī. The reference to the “hidden Imāms” puts it in the Fāṭimid period, although it is difficult to establish precisely when. According to Madelung’s very helpful tool, the absence of the mention of Muḥammad ibn Ismāʿīl suggests a date prior to al-Muʿizz li-Dīn Allāh.9 My best estimate for the date of composition or compilation is some time between 910 and 950. There is, however, more to this section of the source—that is, the pages before and after the quasi-Nuṣayrī fragment.

Quasi-Nuṣayrī Tropes in the Kitāb Ta‌ʾwīl al-ḥurūf al-muʿjam

Several tropes in the source before and after the fragment include themes unusual for an Ismāʿīlī source. The tropes before the fragment include a passage attributed to the companion and hero for the ʿAlids, Abū Dharr, who discusses the ism and maʿnā as objects of worship and in which God and ʿAlī are praised, in apposition, as guides; the author’s praise of his mashāyikh (masterteachers); and the praise-formula qaddas Allāh arwāḥahum (may God sanctify their spirits).

8  Madeung, Das Imamat 43–135. 9  Madeung, Das Imamat 87–102.

56

Hollenberg

The second and third points are straightforward: I know of no FāṭimidIsmāʿīlī sources in which an author praises “his mashāyikh,” or uses the formula qaddas Allāh arwāḥahum.10 In principle, all ta‌ʾwīl compiled by Fāṭimid-Ismāʿīlī missionaries came from the Imām; thus, missionaries do not adduce teachers in this way. Nuṣayrī sources refer to mashāyikh and praise them with “qaddas Allāh arwāḥahum,” as a quick perusal of recently published Nuṣayrī sources reveals. The passage relating to the first point is:11 He had asked Abū Dharr (may God take mercy on Him) about the departure of his soul. It was said to him: “Abū Dharr (may God have mercy on him), what do you say regarding the bridge (al-ṣirāṭ) and its crossing ( jawāz)?” He said, “You inquire about the bridge (al-ṣirāṭ); could you mean my master, the commander of the faithful, ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib?” They said, “Praise God, who guides us to this. We will not be guided if God does not guide us. You are a warner, and every people has a guide (hādī; Quran 13:7). The messenger was a warner, and ʿAlī, the guide” (al-hādī). The tradition is narrated on the authority of the companion of the Prophet and ʿAlī, by Abū Dharr al-Ghifārī (d. 652), an ʿAlid ascetic and pillar of authority for Shiʿite traditions along with such figures as Salmān al-Farisī and al-Miqdād. In Ismāʿīlī ta‌ʾwīl, historical figures such as these are usually invoked as missionaries for the Imām, as one side of a hiero-historical parallel with ancient Israelite missionaries from other cycles; it is uncommon for them to be adduced as transmitters of secret traditions, and mention of him seems odd. For the Nuṣayrīs, these figures represent key marātib, ranks on the Nuṣayrī hierarchy of nuqabāʾ.12 Ṣirāṭ (bridge) is not a particularly important theme in Ismāʿīlī sources, but is a topos in Nuṣayrism, a name for the luminous ascent of the believers.13 Indeed, Mufaḍḍal ibn ʿUmar composed a worked called Kitāb al-Ṣirāṭ, an important source for the Nuṣayrīs.14 Muḥammad ibn Sinān goes on to describe a passage where worship of the maʿnā and the ism is raised.

10  For a thorough list of Ismāʿīlī themes employed in ta‌ʾwīl, see al-Fakkī, al-Ta‌ʾwīl: Ususuhu wa-maʿānīhi 69–70; Hollenberg, Beyond the Qur’an 150–2. 11  Al-Khuṣaybī, al-Hidāya al-kubrā 345; al-Ṭabarānī, Rasāʾil al-ḥikma 304. 12  Friedman, The Nuṣayrī-ʿAlawīs 92. 13  Friedman, The Nuṣayrī-ʿAlawīs 116. 14  Friedman, The Nuṣayrī-ʿAlawīs 244.

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It has been said: “He who worships the name (al-ism), says ‘God is Great.’ But he who worships the name and the meaning (al-maʿnā) is an idolater (ashraka).” One can only gain knowledge of it [the maʿnā] by a cherubangel, a law-giving prophet, or a believer whose heart had been tested (imtaḥana) with faith. The passage seems to refer to the maʿnā, the deity’s dhāt in Nuṣayrī cosmology, divinity’s ism to which believers have access, and the miḥna through which the believer on the Nuṣayrī path is tested. This passage, which calls one who worships the maʿnā incorrectly an idolater (ashraka), is difficult to parse, but seems to be within the field of Nuṣayrī trinitarian theology. While this passage and the entire fragment, for that matter, is too brief to ascertain with any precision the circle from which it emerged, what is clear is that it comes from outside of conventional Ismāʿīlī discourse in this period. I have been describing odd tropes in the Ismāʿīlī portion of the text. Let us turn to the fragment attributed to Muḥammad ibn Sinān.

The Quasi-Nuṣayrī Fragment Fī maʿrifat al-ʿaql

‫فة ق‬ �‫ف‬ ‫ي� �م�عر��� ا �ل�ع��أ���ل‬ ‫� ن‬ ‫ح����س ن ا لمو��سى �ع� ن ع��ل � نب� محمد � نب� ن�ا ز�ل وا �ل�ع ب���ا ��س � نب� محمد � نب� ا �ل‬ ‫�م ن����ه�ا ح�د ث� � ب�و ا �ل‬ � ���‫ح��سي‬ � � � ‫�ن�ي‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ ��س�أ �ل� ت� �م لا ن�ا ع��ل��ه�ا ��س�لا �م�ه �ع� ن �أ ل � فص���ا ت‬:‫ج��م���ع�ا �ع� ن محد � ن ����سن���ا ن ا �ل ز ا�ه � ق��ا ل‬ � ‫� و‬ �‫ي‬ �‫أي � م ب‬ ‫و‬ ‫� � ر�ي‬ ‫ف‬ :�‫ال� ز�ل ���ق���ا ل لي‬ ‫ف‬ :�‫ ���ق���ل� ت‬٠"‫"ا �ل�ع��ق���ل‬ ‫ف‬ :‫"و�م�ا ا �ل�ع��ق���ل ي�ا �مولا ��ي ؟" ���ق���ا ل‬ ‫أ أ‬ ‫ق‬ ‫أن‬ ‫ش‬ ‫� و �م�ا ع�ل�م� ت� � � ب�ي� �ي�ع��ق���ل ا �ل�ع�ا ��ل و ب�ي� ي�ن� ظ���ر ا ��لن��ا ظ�ر و ب�ي� ي���س���م‬٠‫"� ن�ا‬ ���‫ع ا �ل��س�ا �مع و ب�ي� ي�ب���ط‬ ‫ئ‬ ‫ا ��ل��� �ش‬ �‫ و �� ي�ت‬15‫ط�� ��ة‬ �‫� ن و �� ي��ذ ا ق� ا �ل��ط��ي�� و �� ي� ش��� ا �لروا � ا �ل��ط��ي ب����ة و �� ي‬ � � ‫حرك ا‬ � ‫ك‬ ‫ا‬ � ‫س‬ ��‫ل‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ح��س‬ � ‫يب‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ي نم ح‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ � ‫"ا ل‬ � :� ‫� �ل ا ��ل��ا ��س؟ ������ا ل محمد �ب� ����س���ا‬ ‫] � ��ا �ض‬. . .[ 16�‫حوا ��س و ب�ي‬

‫ا ��ل��ا ش‬. 15  We would expect ���‫ط‬ ‫ب‬ 16  As the external reader to the volume helpfully points out, parallelism and syntax requires a verb here, as in ‫ا � ن�ل��ا ��س‬

‫ف أف‬ ‫و ب�ي� �ير�� � ��ا �ض‬. ‫� �ل‬ ‫ع‬

‫‪58‬‬

‫‪Hollenberg‬‬

‫أ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ف� � ف‬ ‫�كي�� �م ن�� ز���لت��ك �م� ن� ا ��لب��ا ر ��ئ ال� ول؟" ���ق���ا ل �ل�ه‪:‬‬ ‫"‬ ‫أ نّ أ ز أ‬ ‫" ك�‬ ‫�م ن�� ز� �ل��ة ا �ل�ع��ل �م� ن� ا �ل�ع�ا ل �ل��ي��س ب�م ن�� ف�����ص�ل �ع ن���ه لا �ه ��س ا ه ‪ ٠‬ا ع��ل �ا محد � ال� � ط��ل‬ ‫م‬ ‫و و و و م ي م � �ل ع‬ ‫م‬ ‫ق‬ ‫�ذ ت‬ ‫�غ‬ ‫�م� ن� ا ��ه ن�ورا ع�لا �م�ا  ‪�� 17‬ا د را ل ي���ف�����ص�ل�ه �م ن���ه ولا �ا ب� �ع ن���ه‪ ٠‬ث� ��سما‪� 18‬ع��ق���لا و�خ �ا ط ب���ه ب��ه"‪٠‬‬ ‫م‬ ‫م‬ ‫ف‬ ‫���ق���ا ل �ل�ه‪:‬‬ ‫فأ‬ ‫"�م� ن� ا ن�ا؟" �� �ج �ا ب��ه‪:‬‬ ‫أ أ أ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫"� ن� ت� � ن�ا و� ن�ا �م ن���ك"‪���٠‬ق���ا ل �ل�ه‪:‬‬ ‫أ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ف‬ ‫"� د �بر" �ي�ع � ظ���ه‬ ‫كا لم ن�� ف�����ص�ل �م ‪ � ٠‬ظ�����هر‪ ٠‬ث� ��ا ل �ل�ه‪:‬‬ ‫�‬ ‫ر‬ ‫م‬ ‫�ن�ي‬ ‫�ن�ي‬ ‫أق‬ ‫ف‬ ‫� ف� ت‬ ‫ت�غ ّ � ا ت‬ ‫ق‬ ‫�‬ ‫"� � ب���ل" �ي�ع ����ي� ب� بي� و ����ص�ل بي�‪� ٠‬ا ����ص�ل ‪����� ٠‬ا ل‪:‬‬ ‫�ن�ي‬ ‫ّ أ �ذ أ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ق‬ ‫"�خ �ا ط ب���ه �ع�ز �ي� و�ج �لا لي�‪� :‬م�ا �خ ��قل��� ت� �خ ��قل���ا � ب���ل�ك �إ لا � ن�ا‪ ٠‬ا � ن�ا �م�ع�د ن��ك ولا � �خ �ل ق� � ب��د ا‬ ‫�خ ق أ‬ ‫ظ تُ‬ ‫تَ‬ ‫�‪� 19‬أن‬ ‫ح�� ا ل ّ �م ن���ك ل�أ ن‬ ‫� �م ن���ك �أ ن���ط ق‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ع‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ه‬ ‫��‬ ‫د‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫د‬ ‫ا‬ ‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ك‬ ‫�ك‬ ‫�ك‬ ‫�ر و‬ ‫��ل���ا � ب ي�‬ ‫�ن�ي ب ي‬ ‫و‬ ‫و ب‬ ‫� وب‬ ‫أ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ت‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫و� ن� ت� ا � �ش� �ا ر �ت� ون�ور � ف�� ��سموا �� و� ر� ا �خ � �‬ ‫ح��ق�� �م� ن� �خ ��ل�ق�� وب��ك � �ج �ا ز� ��ي �م� ن� �عر�‬ ‫ي‬ ‫�ي ي‬ ‫أ ي‬ ‫ي‬ ‫�ض�يأ أ ي‬ ‫�ن�ي‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�إ�ذ‬ ‫� تَ‬ ‫ن ت‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ث‬ ‫ت‬ ‫و� �قّر ب�� ف�� ن� ت� ا �لوا ح�د لا �م���ل �ل�ك و� �ا ال� ح�د لا �ي� �م�����‬ ‫ح�د‪ 20‬ب��ك ‪ ٠‬ل����س�� حي��� ���ط��ل‬ ‫ي‬ ‫أ ع‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ت‬ ‫�غ‬ ‫ظ‬ ‫�غ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ن‬ ‫كا ولا حي��� ����ي� ب�‪� 21‬م�ع�د و�م�ا و�م�ا ���هورك ح‬ ‫كا �ي� و �ا ي���ك ��س ك‬ ‫�ر �‬ ‫ب��ك �م�د ر �‬ ‫�و�ي� و� �ا ا �ل�ع��لي�‬ ‫ح��س� ن��ا �م لا ن�ا �ه�ا د �ن��ا د ��ل���لن��ا‪ 22‬ا � �ش‬ ‫ح���م�د �ل�ل�ه ول� ا �ل‬ ‫ح���مي���د وا �ل��س�لا وا �ل‬ ‫ا �ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل�� �‬ ‫�كر �ل�ه‬ ‫و‬ ‫ح���م�د و� �ب و و ي و ي‬ ‫ي‬ ‫م‬ ‫أ‬ ‫� ب��د ا وا �ل��س�لا �م� ن� ع��ل� ع��لي��ه ا �ل��س�لا ‪٠‬‬ ‫م‬ ‫م‬ ‫يت‬ ‫ن �ق أ ن ت ف ق ن‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ف‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫���ل ف�� ف� ك�‬ ‫ت� ك�‬ ‫���ل ب��ه ��‬ ‫كا ب��ه ا ل��م�عرو� ب�ا �ج�����ر �ا ل ع��لي��ه ا �ل��س�ل م ‪�� :‬س�لو �ي� ب���ل � � ����������د و �ي�‬ ‫ي‬ ‫م‬ ‫م‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫� ب��ي�� ن� �ج�� ّ ع��ل لا � �ج �د �ل�ه ح�م�ل��ة ع�ل�م�ه ر��سول ا �ل�ل�ه �ص��لى ا �ل�ل�ه ع��لي��ه وا �ل�ه و�هو ا �ل�‬ ‫�ن�ب�ي‬ ‫أ�ن�ب�ي‬ ‫م �ذ‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ح�د ا �ل�د ا �عي� و�ه� ه ب�ا ط� ن� ا �ل�ع�لو�م‪ .‬و��د رو��ي �ع� ن� ا �ل� �ص��لى ا �ل�ل�ه ع��لي��ه وا �ل�ه � ن��ه‬ ‫�ن�ب�ي‬ ‫���ق���ا � {ق� ��س�� ن �أ ا د � } ا �ل��ق�� ��س�� ن �ه �م�ا ��� ن �ق ن‬ ‫ح�ا �ج����� ن و�ه �م� ن‬ ‫د �ن� �م� ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�ه‬ ‫ك‬ ‫�ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ر‬ ‫و‬ ‫و‬ ‫نى‬ ‫و‬ ‫و‬ ‫و‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ب‬ ‫و‬ ‫ر‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ب‬ ‫�‬ ‫ي �‬ ‫ي‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫‪:‬ا �ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح�ا �ج�� ب� ا لى ا �‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح�ا �ج � ب�‪٠‬‬

‫أ‬

‫‪.‬ع�ا لم�ا ‪17  We would expect‬‬ ‫‪��.‬سما ه ‪18  We would expect‬‬

‫َ‬

‫� ‪�� and‬د � ت‬ ‫‪��.‬د ت‬ ‫� ‪��. Also possible are‬د � ت‬ ‫� ‪19  Emending‬‬ ‫ب و‬ ‫ب ي‬ ‫ب‬ ‫‪20  I follow a prior reader (?) who crossed out a yāʾ at the end of the word.‬‬ ‫ف‬ ‫‪21  I have omitted �� .‬‬ ‫ي‬

‫‪.‬د �ي�ل��لا ‪22  Emending‬‬

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‫‪Anta anā wa-anā minka‬‬

‫ق‬ ‫�تف ّ‬ ‫ّ ن‬ ‫��ا ل �ص��لى ا �ل�ل�ه ع��لي��ه وا �ل�ه ‪:‬لم�ا �عر ج ب�ي� ا لى ا �ل��سما ء و �ض‬ ‫�ع ر ب�ي� ي��د ه ع��لى ب�ي��� �ك���ي�‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫فأ‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ف�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح����س��س��ـ� ت� ب���برد �ه�م�ا ا ن�ا �م�ل�ه �� ورث� ع��ل ال� و�لي�� ن� والا �خ�ر�ي ن� و��ا ل‪:‬‬ ‫�ن�ي م‬ ‫ّ �ق‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫ة‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح‬ ‫ا‬ ‫"�م� ن� ب��ع�د �ل�ك �ه� ا �هو ا �ل�ع��ل ل ي�ج��د �ل�ه �م�ل�� و�م�ا ا و���ي�� �م�� ا �ل�ع��ل الا ��لي��ل �ل����و�ل�ه‬ ‫مم‬ ‫م أ‬ ‫ف ت‬ ‫أن‬ ‫كا ب��ه {و�م�ا �هو ع��لى ا � �غل���ي� ب� ب����ض‬ ‫�ع�ز و�ج �ل �ي� ��‬ ‫�� ن��ي�� ن�} ا ع��ل � � �م ن�� ز� �ل��ة ا �ل�د ا �عي� � ن��ه ي�ا ت�ي� ك‬ ‫� ب��ع��ل‬ ‫م م‬ ‫م‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ل��������ا ط�� ن‬ ‫ا ��ل��ا ط� ن �ن� ف�� �ع� ن ا لم�ؤ�م ن���� ن �أ �ا ط��� �أ�ه� ا � �ظل���ا �ه �م�ا ���ل�ق� ا ��ل��ه �م� ن ال� �ا �ل��س��ة ا � ش‬ ‫و ي ي�‬ ‫ر و ي ي� ي � ب‬ ‫ب �و � �‬ ‫ي� ب يل ل‬ ‫أ‬ ‫�غ ي ت ي ف ن ة ن ف ق ن أ‬ ‫�ش‬ ‫وا �ل��طوا � ��ي�� وا �ل����را �ع���� وا لم���ا �����ي��� � ع�د ا ء ا �ل�ل�ه � �ص‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح�ا ب� ا �ل�� ما ل ]‪[23. . .‬‬ ‫أ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫� ف �ظ ء � �م ا � �ع �ة‬ ‫ال�أ � �أ�ص�ا � �مث‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ص‬ ‫ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ال‬ ‫ال‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�د‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح‬ ‫ع‬ ‫��‬ ‫��‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ور‬ ‫م و‬ ‫و‬ ‫ب‬ ‫بأع ل ى ربع رم و م‬ ‫و ربع‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ث‬ ‫ع��� ‪ ٠‬خ��م�� �أ�ص�ا � �م���ث‬ ‫ث‬ ‫ش‬ ‫الا�ث�ن � ش‬ ‫ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫و �م�لا ء ا �ل�ع��لم ‪٠‬و� �م�ا ي� ا �ل�ع�����ل الا ���ا �ع���ر �م���ل ا �لروح ى ر و س‬ ‫بع ل‬ ‫� �ك���ص ا ت‬ ‫� �ف خ �ه ا ��له�� لا ت‬ ‫ح�د د ا �ل�ع�ل ���ة ا � � ق ت‬ ‫�خ���م�� ا �ل‬ ‫�ل‬ ‫� و�ترا �ك�‬ ‫��ي� ب�‬ ‫ور‬ ‫وي �ل�ت�ي �ي �‬ ‫� و‬ ‫� � ي� � يو‬ ‫ع��لى ا � س‬ ‫ف‬ ‫فت‬ ‫��ا ئ�ي�� وا �ل‬ ‫�ل‬ ‫�خ ي���ا ل ح�د �ج ��برا ئ�ي�� ف����ه��ذ ه ح�د ود �ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ا �ل�ع�ا لم وا �ج��د ح�د ا ��سرا �ي���ل وا �ل��������ح ح�د �مي�� ك� ل‬ ‫م‬ ‫أ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ذ‬ ‫ف� ا �ل ح�ا ن���ا ت‬ ‫� ف�� ن� ا �ل��س���م �مث���ل ع��ل ق� و�مث���ل ع��ل ا ��ل�هوا ء ا لم���‬ ‫حي����ط ب�ا ل� ش�����ي���ا ء وك‬ ‫��� �ل�ك‬ ‫ي� رو ي‬ ‫أ ى‬ ‫ى‬ ‫ع‬ ‫ظ‬ ‫ظ‬ ‫ظ‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ث‬ ‫���س���م �م� ن ج��مي�� ا �جل‬ ‫�‬ ‫���ه�ا � وا ��ل����ر �م���ل ع��لى � ل� ��ك �����ر �م�ا ب�ي��� ي��د ي��ك و�����ر �ع� ن� ي�م��ي���ك‬ ‫ي ع � ع‬ ‫أ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ذ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫��� �ل�ك � ل ت‬ ‫��د ���ه �مث��� ع��ل ا � ش‬ ‫� ا ل � ‪� �� ٠‬م�ا ا �ل‬ ‫و� �ش�ما �ل�ك وا�م�ا �م�ك وورا ء ك وك‬ ‫ل��� لا ن��ك‬ ‫�ي‬ ‫�ج � و ل ى م‬ ‫ئ‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ف‬ ‫� �ن‬ ‫��ا �‪٠‬‬ ‫كل م ك‬ ‫� ش��� ا �ل���ش�ي�ئ �ل��طي��� ا �لروا � �م� ن� �‬ ‫ح‬ ‫م‬ ‫أ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫ذ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ظ‬ ‫�خ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ش‬ ‫��� �ل�ك ح�د ا �ل‬ ‫ك��له�ا ��ع ���ه�ا �ه ا �ل� � �ع� ن ا �ل‬ ‫ا �ل�ع��ل‬ ‫وك‬ ‫� ي���ا ل ل� ��ه ����� ج��م�� ال� ��������ا ء �‬ ‫ي ّ ر يع ف ي � فوي�ذر � و و �ي � روح ف م‬ ‫نظ‬ ‫� فت‬ ‫�خ ي���ا ل ����هو �ج ��برا ئ�ي�� ����ه� ه ا �ل‬ ‫��ا ئ�ي�� وح�د ا �ل‬ ‫ا �ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح�د ود �‬ ‫ك��ل�ه�ا ‪٠‬وا�م�ا ا ��ل����ر ����هو‬ ‫ح�د ا �ل��������ح و�هو �مي�� ك� ل‬ ‫ل‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ت ّ‬ ‫� �ا ء ه‪ ٠‬ا � ش‬ ‫ل��� د ��لي��ل ع��لى ا ل‬ ‫د ��لي��ل ع��لى ا ��لن���ط��ق���ا ء لا ن��ه �م��ق�� ب���ل ع��لى � ول د وره ا لى نا���ق�����ض‬ ‫م�ّ لا ن��ك‬ ‫و‬ ‫م‬ ‫م‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ئ‬ ‫� ة ا � �ك ف ف‬ ‫�ت ش���ّ ا �لرا �‬ ‫� ذ�� �ل�ك ا �ل�ل�م��س �ي�ع��ط� ا �ل�ع��ل �ل ك�‬ ‫��ل وا ح�د‬ ‫ح�� ل�ز ‬ ‫�ي���ة �ت���عر����ه�ا ع��لى ج��مي�� � �ع���ض‬ ‫� �ائ��ك‪ ٠‬وك‬ ‫ع‬ ‫ف ف ي م‬ ‫م قت‬ ‫� � ة ل أ ن ت�ذ ق‬ ‫�ذ ق‬ ‫و� ا �ل�� ء �ت���عر�� �م�ل��ي���‬ ‫ح�ه �م� ن� �خ� ب����يث��ه‪٠‬‬ ‫ع��لى ط�ا ����ه‪ ٠‬وا �ل� و� �مث���ل ع��لى ا �لح���ج �� � ��ك �‬ ‫�ش�ي‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ة‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫� ذ�� �ل�ك ا �ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح���ج���ة �ي�عر�� ا �ل�ع��ل ب�� �مره �م� ن� ا � �ظل���ا �هر وا ��لب��ا ط� ن� و�ي�عر� ط��ي���ه ا �ل�����ج���ي��س�� �م�� ا �لو�ل�د‬ ‫ك‬ ‫م‬ ‫�ذ ن‬ ‫ة‬ ‫ا �ل ز نا �ه �م�ع ف���ة ا �ل� ���ا ن ع�� �ح ة‬ ‫� � و ي� ر �بي � لى �ج‬ ‫��� الا �م�ا م و�هي� ا � ا �ل�ل�ه ا �لوا �عي���� وا �ل��سر د ��لي��ل ع��لى ا �ل�د ا �عي�‬ ‫أ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫�ة‬ ‫ح�د ود ا ��جل‬ ‫كا � ن��ه �ي��طر�ق�ه �م� ن ا �ل‬ ‫���سما ن�ي���ة ل� ن� ا �ل��سر لا �ي��ط��ل الا �‬ ‫�‬ ‫حوا ��س�ك ا � �ظل���ا �هر ي� �ش�� ��ير ب��ه‬ ‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫ى‬

‫‪23  I have omitted four lines here that I could not sensibly decipher.‬‬

‫‪60‬‬

‫‪Hollenberg‬‬

‫ا [‪� ]٠٠٠‬ه ��ن��س�ه‪ ٠‬ف��ا �ل��س���م د ��ل�� ع�� ال أ ��س�ا �� ال أ ��س�ا �� ال أ ��س ء‪ 24‬ا �ل ح�ا ن����ة‬ ‫و ي� �ج‬ ‫لى‬ ‫ع ي ل لى � س � س � ما و رو ي‬ ‫ف � �ف‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫لا ت��ل��ت���م��س ��ا عر� �ل�ك‪٠‬‬ ‫�ة أ‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫خ‬ ‫خ ة ف‬ ‫ث‬ ‫وا �ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫حوا ��س ا ��لب��ا ط ن����ة ��م��س��ة وا�م�ا ا � �ظل���ا �هر � �ي���ض‬ ‫� �ا ��م��س�� ��ا �م�ا ا �ل��س���مع �م���ل ع��لى ا �ل� �كر وا ��لب����صر‬ ‫ل��� �مث��� ع�� ا ��له���م��ة ا �ل��ذ ق �مث��� ع�� ا �ل��ن����ة ا �ل�لم�� �مث��� ع�� ا �ل�خ‬ ‫�مث��� ع��ل ا �ل��ف�� � ش‬ ‫��ا طر‬ ‫�كر وا � م ل لى � و و� ل لى ي و � س ل لى‬ ‫ل ى‬ ‫خ‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ة‬ ‫ة‬ ‫ة‬ ‫ف‬ ‫�خ‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ن‬ ‫وا �ل‬ ‫حوا ��س ا ��لب��ا ط���� ��م��س�� ��ا �ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫��ا طر د ��لي��ل ع��ل � وا �ل���� � �‬ ‫�‬ ‫�كر د �لي��ل ع��لى � وا ��ل�ه���م�� د �لي��ل ع��لى‬ ‫ى‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫ة ف أ � �ف �ذ �ل� ف‬ ‫ف‬ ‫خ ف ت � ش �ة‬ ‫ة‬ ‫كا �م�ل�� �� عر� �ه� ه ا‬ ‫ع���ر �‬ ‫ج� وا �ل��ن ي���� د ��لي��ل ع��لى �� وا �ل� �كر د ��لي��ل ع��لى� ����ل�ك‬ ‫حرو��‬ ‫ق‬ ‫���ة‬ ‫ن‬ ‫���سا ن����ة ا ع��ل �أ ن� ا �ل�ع���د ا �ذ ا � ن �ؤ ن‬ ‫�ح‬ ‫ح�د ود ا ��جل‬ ‫ا �لروح�ا ن�ي���ة وا �ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬ ‫كا � �م �م���ا طر��ه ا لموا د �م� ن� �ع���د �ج‬ ‫و‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ب‬ ‫أ‬ ‫أن ن ش أ‬ ‫�ذ � أ ه ق ع��ل � م ا � ذ‬ ‫�خ ن‬ ‫ع��� � �ص�ا � ل� ن� ا �‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ال‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫س‬ ‫�‬ ‫�د‬ ‫ص‬ ‫��‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫��‬ ‫الا �م�ا �ه� ا م ب���د � ��ا ل ي��ه ا ل��س�ل ك‬ ‫�ك‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ر‬ ‫ر‬ ‫ي‬ ‫بع‬ ‫م‬ ‫م‬ ‫ة‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ث‬ ‫ث‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ال‬ ‫ال‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ل‬ ‫د ��لي��ل ع��لى ا م�م وا ل����سب���ا ب��� م���ل د ي��ل ع��لى [‪ ]25. . .‬و ا ب���ه�ا م م���ل ع��لى ا م�ا م وا لو �س��طى‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫�خ�ا ت� ف�� ا �ل‬ ‫ح���ج���ة وا �ل��ب ن�����صر �مث��� ع��ل ا لم�ؤ�م ن��ي�� ن� وا �ل‬ ‫�مث��� ع��ل ا �ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�خ ن�����صر ف����هو �مث���ل ع��لى ا �ل��ع�ه�د ا �ل� �ي�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ى‬ ‫ل ى‬ ‫ي‬ ‫م‬ ‫أ ت ث‬ ‫�خ �ذ‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ير�ة‬ ‫�غ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�ؤ ن‬ ‫�� وا ح�د �م� ن �ه� ه ا �ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح�د ود � ��م�ه�ا � �ك‬ ‫���� و��د �كر �ا ه و�كر �ا ��ير�ه�ا‬ ‫�يو � ع��لى ا لم �م�� و�ل ك�ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ل ف ف ف ت�ن� ت‬ ‫ن‬ ‫حت���ا ا ��ل��ه ا �م�ع ف�ت���ه ف� �ص�د ت�� ن‬ ‫�م���م�ا ي�‬ ‫�و و���س�ع�د �إ �‬ ‫ر‬ ‫كا ب���ا ا �ل���م��س���مى ب�ا �ج�����ر ��ا �عر��ه �ج‬ ‫� ج� ي و لى ر ي�‬ ‫ت‬ ‫� �ش� �ا ء ا �ل�ل�ه ��ع�ا لى‪٠‬‬ ‫أ‬ ‫وا�م�ا ا �ل ز�ن��د وا �لرا ح��ة وال� �ص�ا ب� �مث��� ع��ل ا �ل�د �عو�ة وا �ل�د ع�ا �ة وا �ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح���ج����ج والا �م�ا وا ��لن���ط��ق���ا ء‬ ‫ع ل‬ ‫م‬ ‫�ؤى ن ن أ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�ة‬ ‫ت‬ ‫كا � ع��لي��ه‬ ‫وا لم��ت���مي�� ن� ع��لي���ه� ا �ل��س�لا وال� ��س�ا ��س وا لم �م��ي��� ل� � ا �ل�د �عو ج��م�ع�� �ل�ك ك�ل�ه و �‬ ‫م‬ ‫أ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫أ أ‬ ‫�ة أ‬ ‫م ق أ‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�ة‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ن‬ ‫وال� ��س�ا ��س ا ا و�ج �د ��س�ا ر��ا ي�� �مر ا �ل�د ع�ا ا �ل�د �عو � � ي���������ط�عوا �ل�ه � ر ب� � �ص�ا ب� �م�� � �صو��ل�ه�ا‬ ‫ع ع‬ ‫�ه��ذ ه ا ��سا ء ج��م�عت���ه�ا ا �ل�د �ع �ة �ه ا �ل� ش‬ ‫ع���ر�ة ا �ل ك�‬ ‫��ا �م�ل��ة �هي� ا ��لن��ا ط ق� والا ��س�ا ��س‪ 26‬والا م�ا�‬ ‫م‬ ‫و‬ ‫�‬ ‫و و ي�‬ ‫ّم‬ ‫أ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ن‬ ‫وا �ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح���ج���ة وا �ل�د ا �عي� وا لم� و� وا لم��ح‬ ‫�رو وا لم� ث�ور وا لم����ست�����ج���ي� ب� وا �ل��ق���ا ئ� �ت�� ف����ه� �ل�ك وت��د ب�ره‬ ‫م‬ ‫م‬ ‫م‬ ‫ت‬ ‫و���س�ع�د وت���ف��و ز� �م ا �ل��ف���ا ئ� ز��ي ن�‪٠‬‬ ‫ع‬ ‫آ‬ ‫� �مي�� ن� ي�ا ر ب� ا �ل�ع�ا لمي�� ن�‪٠‬‬ ‫� ط�� ف����ة‬ ‫ل�� ي‬

‫أ‬

‫‪�� � is repeated erroneously.‬س�ا ��س ‪24  Perhaps‬‬ ‫‪25  There seems to be a word missing here.‬‬

‫أ‬

‫  ‪26‬‬ ‫‪ is written in the margin.‬وال� ��س�ا ��س‬

Anta anā wa-anā minka

61

Translation On Knowledge of the Intellect Abū l-Ḥasan al-Mūsā reported to me on the authority of Muḥammad ibn Nāzil and ʿAbbās ibn Muḥammad ibn al-Ḥusayn together from Muḥammad ibn Sinān al-Zāhiri. He said: “I asked our master, may he bestow peace upon us, about the first of the attributes of the Eternal One. He said to me: ‘The intellect.’ And I said, ‘O my master, and what is the intellect?’ He said, ‘I am. Have you not learned that through me, one with intellect reflects, and that through me, the seeing one sees, and that through me, the hearing one hears, and that through me, the punisher punishes, and that through me, the resting one moves, and that through me, the delicious is tasted, and that through me, one smells the sweet smells, and that through me, one senses the sensible, and that through me, are the best of the people?’ ” So Muḥammad ibn Sinān said: ‘What is your status in regard to the first Creator?’ He said to him, ‘It is similar to the status of knowledge to the knower: It does not depart from it, and it is not other than it.’ ‘Know, O Muḥammad, that from the essence of the Everlasting One emerged a knowing, powerful light. It was not separate, nor absent from Him. He named it ‘intellect’ and it addressed him. It [the intellect] said to Him [the Everlasting One], ‘Who am I?’ And He answered, ‘You are me, and I am from you.’ And [The Everlasting One] said to it [the intellect], ‘Appear!’ meaning, “appear separate from me.” And it appeared. Then he said to it, ‘Come forward!’ meaning, ‘disappear and become conjoined to me.’ So it became conjoined. [. . .] ‘My Almighty and Glorious said: ‘No one created any creation before you—not even I. Thus, I am your source (maʿdan). And I never created anything more beloved to me than you are. You appeared from me, and I appear through you. I speak through you and I summon through you. You are my sign and my light in my heavens and my earth. I take my claim from My creation. Through you, I recompense he who knows Me and affirms Me. You are one, for no one is like you; and I am one, because I am united with you. When you appear, you are not tangible; when you are in occultation, you have not disappeared. When you are manifest, I move; when

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you are in your ultimate [state], I rest. I am the elevated, blessed one. Praise God, who is worthy of praise. God is sufficient for us to point the way, our Guide and our Master. May gratitude always be His. Peace from ʿAlī, peace be upon him. He [ʿAlī] spoke of his book known as al-Jafr. He, peace be upon him, said: ‘Ask me before you lose me: I possess knowledge which no one else can bear, [knowledge] that the messenger of God, praise and peace upon him and his family, the Prophet, the limit of missionary, knew. This is hidden knowledge. It was narrated from the Prophet, praise of God be upon him and his family, that he was as close to his Lord as a distance of two bow lengths or nearer. “The two bows’ lengths” are the length of one eyebrow to the other. He, may God praise him and his family, said: ‘When he raised me to heaven, my Lord put his hand on my shoulders. I felt his cold finger tips, and he bequeathed me the knowledge of the first ones and the last ones. He said: ‘After this, there is knowledge that few will be able to hold, or given, as He, Almighty and All-powerful, said in His book: “He is not a withholder of the unseen.” ’ Know that the station of the missionary comes to you through knowledge of the interior. He expels the heroes of the specialists in the exterior sense— those who listened to the Satans, tyrants, pharaohs, and hypocrites, driving them away from the believers. They are enemies of God, the companions of the left (Quran 56:41). [. . .27] The four fingers are a likeness of the four sanctuaries (ḥaram); they are the companions of the Imām, the ones who preserve the affairs of the mission and carry knowledge. The twelve intellects are a likeness of the twelve spirits. The five fingers are a likeness of the five higher limits, which are y, q, t, f, and kh, being the forms, similar to the forms of the composite aspects of the world. Jadd is the limit for Isrāfīl, Fatḥ is the limit of Michael, and Khayāl is the limit for Gabriel. These are their limits as spiritual entities. And hearing is a likeness of the q, and a likeness of the air which surrounds things. Likewise, it hears all things. Sight is a likeness of the t, for you see what is facing you, and see what is to your right and your left and what is in front and behind you. Similar is a-l-t-ā-l-ī. 27  I omit four lines here that I could not transcribe with any confidence.

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Jadd is a likeness of smell, because you smell something which has a sweet fragrance from every place. Similar to the Jadd is Khayāl. Because you see all things and know them. And it is the one that is from the spirit of knowledge, the limit of opening, being Michael, the limit of Khayāl, and this is Gabriel. These are all of the limits. Sight is an indicator of the speaker-prophets, because it is the front of the first of its cycle to its passing. Smell is an indication of the completer, because you smell a pure scent, and know it from all of your limits. Similarly, touch gives knowledge to each according to his capacity. And taste is a likeness of the ḥujja, because you taste something and know its goodness from its foulness. Similarly, the ḥujja knows knowledge of what is enjoined in the exterior and interior; he knows the foul dirt of the bastard-child, the knowledge to clarify the ḥujja of the Imām, it being the one God permitted as guardian. The secret indicates the missionary, for it knocks on the corporeal limits. For the secret is only concealed by the exterior senses which indicate [. . .], it being of its type. Hearing indicates the fundament. The fundament [indicates] the spiritual names, which are subtle, not sensible. Know this. The hidden senses are five, while the exterior senses are also five. Hearing is a likeness of invocation, sight is an indication of thought, smelling is an indication of mind, taste is an indication of intention, touch is an indication of feeling. The internal senses are five. Feeling indicates the q, thinking indicates the t, concern indicates the j, intention alludes to the f, and memory indicates the kh. These ten are the total, so know them. And know the spiritual letters and the corporeal limits. And know that when a servant is a believer, the supernal substance from the ḥujja of the Imām strikes him. This is his foundation. He, peace be upon him, also said that the hand of the human has five fingers. Thus, the little finger indicates the completer, the pointer is a likeness of an indication, the index finger is indication of the Imām, the middle finger is an allusion to the ḥujja, the thumb indicates the believers, and the ring on the little finger indicates the pledge that is administered to the believer. There are many “mothers” to each of these limits. We had mentioned them, and mentioned others that are needed to know, in the beginning of our book called al-Jafr, so know it. And so you will rise and expand, God Almighty willing. The wrist, palm, and fingers are a likeness of the mission, missionaries, ḥujjas, the Imām, speaker-prophets, and completer Imāms, the fundament, and the believers, peace be upon on them. For the mission gathers all of these. And he, peace be upon him, when he found a thief, he commanded the missionaries of the mission to amputate four of his fingers from their roots.

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The mission gathered these names; there are ten in total: the speakerprophet, fundament, Imām, ḥujja, missionary, permitted one (ma‌ʾdhūn), the one that has been sanctified (maḥrūm), the one that has been formed (ma‌ʾthūr), the acolyte, and the Qāʾim. Understand this, and reflect on it, and be joyous, for you will be saved with the redeemers. Āmīn, O Lord of the Worlds. Discussion The main text can be divided into two sections, both of which have quasiNuṣayrī elements. In the first, Muḥammad ibn Sinān describes a dialogue between the “First Creator” and the intellect which emerged from Him: “You are one, for no one is like you; I am one, because I am united with you. When you appear, you are not tangible; when you are in occultation, you have not disappeared. When you are manifest, I move; when you are in your ultimate [state], I rest. I am the elevated, blessed one . . .” This account of the creation of the intellect is similar, although not identical, to other accounts that were widespread in the eighth and ninth centuries. A similar version is recounted in another proto-Nuṣayrī source that found its way into Ismāʿīlī libraries, the Kitāb al-Aẓilla, a work which also adduces Muḥammad ibn Sinān.28 Our fragment clearly belongs to this same milieu, which also includes the Kitāb al-Kursī and the fourth epistle of the Kitāb al-Kashf, a third treatise that shares Ismāʿīlī and ghuluww figures and themes and that came to be incorporated into the Ismāʿīlī tradition.29 The second section purports to transmit parts of the well-known secret source attributed to ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib known as al-Jafr. Here, one finds a series of interpretations based on the number five, including five secret letters, five fingers, and five senses. The pentadic interpretation is similar, although not identical, to a passage in the Umm al-kitāb.30 However, toward the end of the source, the prior interpretations are given an unambiguously Ismāʿīlī interpretation: “The mission gathers these names, which are ten in total: the speakerprophet, fundament, Imām, ḥujja, missionaries, the ma‌ʾdhūn, the maḥrūm, the ma‌ʾthūr, the mustajīb, and the Qāʾim.” 28  Asatryan, Shiite underground literature 140–1. 29  Asatryan, Shiite underground literature 132–4. I thank Adam Rodrigo for the reference to the Kitāb al-Kashf, which discusses the ism and maʿnā in ways more consonant with the proto-Nuṣayrī tradition than with that of mature Ismāʿīlism. 30  Halm, Die islamische Gnosis 86–7.

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The second part of the fragment thus includes both quasi-Nuṣayrī themes— pentadic interpretations of the stations of the ascent; reference to the “twelve spirits”31—and Ismāʿīlī themes, such as the standard Ismāʿīlī hierarchy, and the triad Jadd, Fatḥ, and Khayāl. These quasi-Nuṣayrī and Ismāʿīlī themes are woven together. We have then, a puzzle within the puzzle: how did this fragment find its way into two distinct Ismāʿīlī manuscript traditions, one in Syria, and a second in India? And what do we make of the Ismāʿīlī host source, which seems to have been infiltrated by Nuṣayrī themes? An important recent article by Mushegh Asatrayan shows that there was considerably more fluidity between the eighth century Shiʿite communities than has previously been appreciated.32 One tentative explanation is that, like the Kitāb al-Aẓilla, our source was composed during a period in the ninth century when proto-Nuṣāyrī and early Ismāʿīlī doctrines were not yet distinct. The fragment on the intellect is, then, not a Nuṣayrī “contamination” of an Ismāʿīlī source; rather, it is a witness to period of Shiʿism before strong boundaries with identifiable features had formed. The discovery and publication of more fragments will allow for a clearer picture of ninth-century Shiʿism to emerge. Bibliography Anthony, S., The legend of ʿAbdallāh ibn Saba‌ʾ and the date of Umm al-Kitāb, in JRAS, 3d ser., 21 (2011), 1–30. Asatryan, M., Heresy and rationalism in early Islam: The origins and evolution of the Mufaḍḍal-Tradition, PhD dissertation, Yale University 2012. Asatryan, M., Shiite underground literature between Iraq and Syria: ‘The Book of Shadows’ and the history of the early ghulat, in Y.T. Langermann and R.G. Morrison (eds.), Texts in transit in the medieval Mediterranean, University Park Pennsylvania 2016, 128–60. Bar-Asher, M. and A. Kofsky, The Nuṣayrī-ʻAlawī religion: An enquiry into its theology and liturgy, Leiden 2002. Carroll, L., Alice in Wonderland, Boston 1897. al-Dhahabī, Muḥammad ibn Aḥmad, Siyar aʿlām al-nubalāʾ, 30 vols., eds. Sh. Arnāʾūṭ et al., Beirut 1981–2011. Cortese, D., Arabic Ismaili manuscripts: The Zāhid ʿAlī Collection in the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies, London 2003. 31  Friedman, The Nuṣayrī-ʿAlawīs 75. 32  Asatrayan, Shiite underground literature 137–40.

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al-Fakkī, A., al-Ta‌ʾwīl: Ususuhu wa-maʿānīhi fī l-madhhab al-Ismāʿīlī, Tunis 1979. Friedman, Y., The Nuṣayrī-ʿAlawīs: An introduction to the religion, history and identity of the leading minority in Syria, Leiden 2010. Gacek, A., Catalogue of Arabic manuscripts in the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies, London 1984. Guyard, S., Fragments relatifs à la doctrine des Ismaélis, in Notices et Extraits 22 (1874), 177–428. Halm, H., Das Buch der Schatten: Die Mufaḍḍal-Tradition der Gulāt und die Ursprünge des Nuṣairiertums, in Der Islam 55 (1978), 219–65 and Der Islam 58 (1981), 15–86. Halm, H., Die islamische Gnosis: Die extreme Schia und die ʿAlawiten, Zürich 1982. Hollenberg, D., Beyond the Qur’an: Early Ismaili ta‌ʾwil and the secrets of the prophets, Columbia 2016. al-Khuṣaybi, al-Ḥusayn ibn Ḥamdān, al-Hidāyah al-kubrā, eds. Abū Mūsā and Shaykh Mūsā (Silsilat al-turāth al-ʿalawī), vol. 7, Diyār ʿAqd 2007. Madelung, W., Das Imamat in der frühen ismailitischen Lehre, in Der Islam 37 (1961), 43–135. Poonawala, I., Biobibliography of Ismāʿīlī literature, Malibu 1977. al-Ṭabarānī, Abū Saʿid Maymūn, Rasāʾil al-ḥikma al-ʿalawiyya, eds. Abū Mūsā and Shaykh Mūsā (Silsilat al-turāth al-ʿalawī), vol. 2, Diyār ʿAqd 2006.

CHAPTER 5

The Crucified Speaks: ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm on His Day-Long Exposure at Nishapur David Larsen From bridge to bridge, discussing things it’s not my Comedy’s job to sing, we came along. Inferno xxi, 1–31

∵ It is in the nature of traumatic events to evade description. Disruption of memory is one of the principal ways that clinical trauma presents. The memory of a traumatic event may resist voluntary recollection but recur unbidden in waking life, whether or not it finds its way into speech. Its amnesiac and aphasic character makes trauma an irreducible problem for historians, in fact a condition of history: a narrative lacuna correspondent to an experiential surplus. The result is often silence where details are needed, and aporia where entry is sought.2 Not only through amnesia are lacunae generated. There are other reasons for guarding silence about an ordeal, and one is etiquette—a battery of ritual safeguards against repulsing the hearer. Some things are so deplorable that, all by themselves, their names violate decorum no matter how they are used in a sentence. And so we have euphemism, circumlocution and guarded silences concerning referents that cause distress or strong distaste when called to mind. The origin of “good manners,” it has been said, lies in this kind of avoidance: polite speech is that which signifies no ill.3 1  All verse translations are by the author. 2  Recent theoretical literature on trauma is vast, much of it arising in the wake of two 1991 issues of American imago edited and re-edited by C. Caruth as Trauma: Explorations in memory. 3  Fahd’s EI2 article Fa‌ʾl (the Arabic word for a chance word or occurrence that one reads as an omen of near-term fortune) makes this point with a quote from Edmond Doutté’s 1909 Magie & religion dans l’Afrique du nord: “After all, the whole of good manners has grown out of fa‌ʾl.”

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_006

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As it is a fact of social life, decorum is a fact of genre. One thing that keeps artistic genres distinct—separating elegy from iambos in Greek poetry and madīḥ from hijāʾ in Arabic—is that they are keyed to different registers of experience and different zones of the body. Other norms of decorum transcend genre boundaries to perpetuate silences that are tradition-wide. Take for example the experience of bodily harm. The masculine speaker in early poetry complains of abandonment, betrayal, censure and other setbacks with regularity, but complaints of bodily injury are rare. In the first several centuries of Arabic poetry, it would seem that decorum prevailed against first-person testimony of bodily trauma. The major exception to this is prison poetry. Not that imprisonment necessarily entails injury, but it runs parallel to physical injury in more than one respect. Its site of impact is the body, whose movements it hinders as it takes away the power of self-defense. The prisoner is above all made vulnerable. Now with imprisonment there is no shortage of first-person testimony in Arabic poetry, but a centuries-long tradition whose earliest representative (ʿAdī ibn Zayd) was active at the end of the sixth century AD.4 In the middle of the third/ ninth century, its foremost representative was ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm (d. 249/863), and three examples from his dīwān are discussed below.5 This essay’s focus is on another poem of ʿAlī’s, about his one-day exposure (tashhīr) at Nishapur in the year 239/853–54, naked on a cross outside the Ṭāhirid governor’s palace. It begs an inquiry into firsthand experience. What was it like to be exposed in such a way? It is natural for the historian to need to know.6

Incident at Nishapur

Literary-critical interest in the event of ʿAlī’s exposure is warranted by his selfpresentation as a man of action first and a poet second.7 “I am not one of those

4  For a literary survey to the end of the Umayyad period see al-Ṣamad, al-Sujūn wa-atharuhā; for the development of carceral practices themselves see Anthony, The domestic origins of imprisonment. For the experience of prison in the Abbasid period, see Tillier, Vivre en prison à l’époque abbasside. 5  By al-Bāshā’s count, twelve of ʿAlī’s poems were composed while incarcerated at Baghdad, and two at Nishapur. ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm 182. 6  “You must go back into history, that history of men damned by other men; and you must bring about and make possible the meeting of your people and other men.” Fanon, The wretched of the earth 293. 7  Western scholarly attention to ʿAlī’s work has not been profuse. The poem of his crucifixion was translated into German by Ullmann, Das Motiv der Kreuzigung 119–25, and is discussed

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whose fame spreads through poetry,” it says in one of his best-known qaṣīdas.8 “On the contrary, my poems are spread by my fame”—and to be sure, a good deal of his work is biographically driven.9 There are some spurious qiṭʿas that bear his name, but these are easy to pick out, and his qaṣīdas may all be confidently attributed.10 ʿAlī’s poems are not that many (dīwān shiʿrihi ṣaghīr, says Ibn Khallikān), and to read them as inset pieces of a tumultuous biographical narrative is a legitimate approach.11 ʿAlī may have thought of them this way too, and his violent death (willfully sought, though not in the manner it came to him outside Aleppo) seems of a piece with his art.12 Most of the vicissitudes that drove his poetry and shaped his life, including his exposure at Nishapur, were determined by fiat of the caliph al-Mutawakkil (r. 232–47/847–61), against whom not one negative word of ʿAlī’s has been preserved. By contrast, Ṭāhir ibn ʿAbdallāh ibn Ṭāhir (r. 230–248/845–862), the in brief by Seidensticker, Responses to crucifixion 206. The poem known as ʿAlī’s Qaṣīda Rusāfiyya is discussed by Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Nejd 108–10, et passim.  More than a few notices of ʿAlī are compromised by confusion with Muḥammad ibn al-Jahm al-Barmakī (fl. first half of the 3rd/9th c.), on whom see Lecomte’s article in EI2. This Muḥammad was a rough contemporary of ʿAlī, and is taken by some for his brother (thus Mardam Beg, Dīwān ʿAlī 6–8, 10). Their difference in pedigree gives cause for doubt: Muḥammad ibn al-Jahm was a man of Persia, while ʿAlī’s descent was from the Banū Sāma of Bahrain. In certain loci it seems that one name has displaced the other. The dedication of al-Kindī’s Risāla fī waḥdāniyyat Allāh to ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm (Rasāʾil al-Kindī al-falsafiyya i, 201) is a fairly obvious scribal slip (thus Rosenthal, Al-Kindî als Literat, 280 note 5). Bon vivant though he was, ʿAlī was a partisan of Ibn Ḥanbal, and (unlike Muḥammad ibn alJahm, who is remembered as a Muʿtazilite and a man of science) does not figure among the Hellenists nor the freethinkers of his day. 8  Wa-mā anā mimman sāra bi-sh-shiʿri dhikruhu | wa-lākinna ashʿārī yusayyiruhā dhikrī: verse 29 of the Qaṣīda Rusāfiyya. Dīwān ʿAlī 146. 9  From a poet’s perspective there is self-deprecation in this verse—especially in light of ʿAlī’s early and unswerving championship of Abū Tammām. It is an ennobling key to ʿAlī’s character that on encountering an innovative artist with superior talent, his response was not to resent il migglior fabbro; cf. al-Ṣūlī, Akhbār Abī Tammām 62 (cited in Mardam Beg’s introduction, 21); ed. and trans. Gruendler, 69. 10  One bit to be excluded is his two-verse prophecy of al-Mutawakkil’s assassination (Dīwān ʿAlī 167) upon the felling of the Cypress of Bust, for which see Savant, The new Muslims 134–6. Another is the Sufī-inflected lament embedded in a vignette of ʿAlī at a cemetery of Khurāsān (Dīwān ʿAlī 184); for his posthumous career as a Sufī teaching figure (above all in the Maghrib) see Ali, Arabic literary salons 109–13. 11   Wafayāt al-aʿyān iii, 356 . 12  After a number of routs and raids on the Byzantine frontier (including the action remembered in Western sources as the Battle of Lalakaon) provoked riots in Baghdad in the month of Safar 249/863—ten years after his exposure at Nishapur—ʿAlī gathered a troop and rode out, only to die in a Bedouin ambush at a place called Khusāf.

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governor of Khurāsān who carried out ʿAlī’s sentence, comes off poorly in his dīwān. In the story of ʿAlī’s life as documented in his poetry, these two are the most salient personages. It is necessary to go back a generation in order to appreciate Khurāsān’s significance as the site of the bad homecoming to which ʿAlī was sentenced. His father, al-Jahm ibn Badr, had served as a frontier official of Khurāsān before coming to serve al-Mutawakkil’s predecessor al-Wāthiq (r. 227–32/842–47) as chief of Baghdad’s police. Whether ʿAlī himself was born in Khurāsān (Marw al-Shāhijān, one verse seems to hint) or Baghdad is not known, but in his early poetry, his Khurāsānī identity is a distinct point of pride.13 In times past, ʿAlī had been welcomed as a guest by Ṭāhir’s father, the governor ʿAbdallāh ibn Ṭāhir (r. 213–30/828–45).14 The first thing to be said about ʿAlī’s exposure is that it was not a crucifixion. While the prose accounts all say he was crucified, they also say it was for the length of a single day. True crucifixion was a death sentence and (for the most part) a post mortem spectacle in the Islamic period.15 What ʿAlī underwent is more accurately described as tashhīr: “ignominious exposure,” though without the processional element (ṭawāf) that often characterized it.16 The fact remains, however, that it was remembered as a crucifixion, and going forward I will refer to ʿAlī’s poem about it as his “crucifixion poem.” No table talk of ʿAlī’s concerning the experience has been preserved; the crucifixion poem is our only primary source. The secondary prose evidence is somewhat thin, but in emulation of the appendix to Tilman Seidensticker’s article “Responses to crucifixion in the Islamic world,” which lays the prose account of a seventh/ thirteenth-century crucifixion next to an anonymous poem commemorating the same event, I will present two early accounts of ʿAlī’s exposure with some commentary.17 The first is from the Ṭabaqāt al-shuʿarāʾ al-muḥdathīn of 13  For references see Mardam Beg’s introduction to Dīwān ʿAlī at 5–6. 14  Al-Iṣbahānī, Kitāb al-Aghānī x, 3688; Dīwān ʿAlī 122–3; for his elegy of ʿAbdallāh see Dīwān ʿAlī 182–3. 15  Anthony, Crucifixion 27–34, outlines a sphere of practice whose norms are mutable, although the early legal literature on the subject is nearly unanimous in prescribing a swift death (by means of arrows or a spear) to the crucified victim. The cross served a dual function: in the first place to immobilize the victim at the moment of execution, and then to display the victim’s corpse. The greatest variable seems to have been duration of display. The first Islamic jurist to inveigh against crucifixion as a means of execution was al-Shāfiʿī (d. 204/820). In all of Anthony’s monograph there is no case of a crucifixion survivor. 16  See Rowson, Reveal or conceal 110–29, and Lange, Legal and cultural aspects 83–7. 17  Seidensticker, Responses to crucifixion 211–14.

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Ibn al-Muʿtazz (d. 296/908), and the second from the Kitāb al-Aghānī of Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣbahānī (d. 356/967). As far as I can tell, all subsequent accounts of the event are recombinations of these two. 1. Ṭabaqāt al-shuʿarāʾ al-muḥdathīn 358–9: I was informed by the poet Abū l-ʿAbbās [al-Nāshiʾ al-Akbar, d. 293/906] that Saʿīd ibn Abī ʿArūba said: ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm was a naturally gifted poet of satiric temperament who wielded his tongue as he pleased. He developed a mania against the Ṭāhirid family, satirizing them and accusing them of Shiʿi sympathies. This was implied in a poem he composed during his confinement (verses 21 and 24 of a 29-verse poem, meter: wāfir): Taḍāfarati r-rawāfiḍu wa-n-naṣārā / wa-ahlu l-iʿtizāli ʿalā hijāʾī wa-ʿābūnī wa-mā dhanbī ilayhim / siwā ʿilmī bi-awlādi z-zināʾī18 The Shiʿites, the Christians and the Muʿtazila are in league against my invective verse. They accuse me, but what is it about me that offends them other than my talent for recognizing bastards? By “Shiʿites” (al-Rawāfiḍ) he referred to the Ṭāhirids, by “the Muʿtazila” to Ibn Abī Duʾād (d. 240/854), and by “Christians” to his personal enemy Bukhtīshūʿ ibn Jibrīl (d. 256/870).19 And Ṭāhir took the matter to heart. Connivingly, they mounted a campaign of letters about the matter to al-Mutawakkil, and the result was ʿAlī’s expulsion (ḥattā ukhrija) to Khurāsān. As soon as he fell into [the Ṭāhirids’] hands, they crucified him by the gate of al-Shādhiyākh. He was crucified naked, and a crowd of people gathered to look at him. And while he was on the cross (ʿalā khashabatihi), he spoke: (verses 1–3 of the crucifixion poem, as presented below). The crowd was touched by the verses, and took him down and treated him with respect. There are some qualifying and disqualifying remarks to be made about this account. One is that Ibn al-Muʿtazz seems to want to distance himself from the story. He was after all the grandson of al-Mutawakkil, and in Kitāb al-Aghānī x, 18   Dīwān ʿAlī 84; al-Iṣbahānī, Kitāb al-Aghānī x, 3670. 19  Tillier, Prisons et autorités urbaines 403–6, reminds us that Bukhtīshūʿ was himself incarcerated for a time in the notorious political prison of al-Muṭbaq.

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3694, he is the source of a report in which his father (al-Mutawakkil’s son, the future caliph al-Muʿtazz bi-llāh) was instrumental in conveying this very poem to al-Mutawakkil from ʿAlī’s prison. By contrast, in the above report there is no mention of the author’s family connection to ʿAlī. The story’s end is beneath critique. The notion that ʿAlī’s crucifixion poem was performed ex tempore defies credibility; that his performance was what won him rescue from the cross even more so. (Otherwise he would have hung there until dead?) Ibn al-Muʿtazz neither declares it false nor admits that it is true, and concludes his short chapter on ʿAlī with genteel dismissal. “He was one of those whose poetry brought him fame and won him admirers among the élite as well as the popular classes. We have said enough about him and have no intention of going into great detail.”20 2. Kitāb al-Aghānī x, 3672: My uncle [al-Ḥasan ibn Muḥammad] said: Muḥammad [ibn Saʿd al-Kinānī] said: What caused al-Mutawakkil to imprison ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm was the instigation of a group of his courtiers, who told him: “He whispers and winks to the manservants (innahu yujammishu l-khadama wayaghmizuhum), and is profligate in denigrating you and denouncing flaws in your character.” They kept at him and inflamed his seat of feeling to the point that he had him arrested.21 They then contrived that word be brought to [al-Mutawakkil] that [ʿAlī] had satirized him in a poem. Thereupon he banished him ( fa-nafāhu) to Khurāsān and wrote an order for his crucifixion on arrival, for the duration of one day until nightfall (wa-kataba bi-an yuṣlaba idhā waradahā yawman ilā l-layl). When he arrived at al-Shādhiyākh, Ṭāhir ibn ʿAballāh ibn Ṭāhir put him in its prison. He was then brought out and crucified, naked, for one day until night fell, and then they took him down. These are his verses about it: (1–11 and 18 of the crucifixion poem). In terms of nomenclature and procedure, these accounts (neither of which offers eyewitness testimony) are harmonious. ʿAlī’s journey to Khurāsān is called a banishment; there is no indication that he was brought to Nishapur as a prisoner under guard. The punitive action is called a crucifixion, and it was carried out extra muros, outside the compound (quṣūr) of al-Shādhiyākh. This detail enshrines an added insult to ʿAlī, who might reasonably have expected a 20  Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt al-shuʿarāʾ al-muḥdathīn 360. 21  A less flattering account of ʿAlī at al-Mutawakkil’s court comes through the chapter of ‘Akhbār Marwān al-Aṣghar’ in al-Iṣbahānī, Kitāb al-Aghānī xii, 4247–50.

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more private venue for his castigation.22 In Ṭabaqāt al-shuʿarāʾ there are three more details. One is that ʿAlī’s exposure was performed outside al-Shādhiyākh’s gate—not a disused area, but a trafficked one. Another is that it was done upon a khashaba: ordinary usage for the “wooden plank” on which crucifixion victims met their death.23 And finally, there is the detail that ʿAlī’s exposure attracted a crowd, who stood and gawked at him. The causes for ʿAlī’s exposure are not my subject, nor are the sectarian aspects of the conflict that motivated it. The received explanation—that it was the intended result of a campaign by his rivals at al-Mutawakkil’s court, and that ʿAlī’s own abusive verse was an inflaming factor—is sufficient. That the terms of the charge against him are left unstated is no surprise, given the capriciousness of al-Mutawakkil’s penal actions: if ʿAlī’s exposure is a clear-cut case of anything, it is taʿzīr (discretionary punishment) and better understood as a personal message to ʿAlī than a normative instance of punitive practice. And yet only against the background of punitive norms does it seem possible to decode that message. In Islamic law it is on the whole left up to judges to determine which cases called for forcible exposure and in what form, and whether banishment should also be applied. “The one offense for which some jurisprudents did specifically mandate public humiliation (that is, tashhīr) was bearing false witness,” Everett Rowson explains: [A]lthough such measures as banishment and public humiliation did not fit entirely comfortably into the moral system of the Sharīʿa developed by the jurisprudents, the latter did recognize the historic and ongoing practical value of such sanctions in the interest of preserving public morality. . . . [A]buse poetry (hijāʾ) that went too far was also potentially destructive to the social fabric. The solution was ostracism. Public exposure had the effect, not so paradoxically, of casting out the offender from respectable society, just as did, more drastically, banishment.24 This is a telling constellation of offenses, and for the sentence carried out against ʿAlī it supplies the interpretive frame. Albeit an ad hoc punishment, tashhīr was suited especially for perjurors and other insinuating 22  As Lange and Fierro write in their introduction to Public violence in Islamic societies, “the ruling classes in the history of Islamic societies preferred to punish members of their own stratum in secret, within the confines of palaces or private prisons.” Public violence 8. For the distinction between intramural and extramural crucifixion see additionally Seidensticker, Responses to crucifixion 210. 23  Anthony, Crucifixion 6; see too the general index s.v. cross (95) and khashaba (97). 24  Rowson, Reveal or conceal 123, 126.

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threats to public morality, including threats of a poetic nature. The fact that ʿAlī’s exposure was staged as a crucifixion was no accident but a further signifier, whose hermeneutic key is found in Q Māʾida 5:33—the “brigandage verse” prescribing crucifixion and banishment as punishments for “those who wage war on God and his Prophet, and are active in spreading corruption on earth” (alladhīna yuḥāribūna llāha wa-rasūlahu wa-yasʿawna fī l-arḍi fasādan). To subject someone to the mimicry of a crucifixion—a crucifixion in miniature—would appear in light of Q Māʾida 5:33 to convey a warning. Satirizing the Caliph (the warning says) is virtually the same as waging war on God. Just to hear it whispered of calls for exemplary punishment.

Poems of ʿAlī

The crucifixion poem is at a remove from these reports. Not that there is any discrepancy or doubt that the poem and prose accounts refer to the same event, but in ʿAlī’s crucifixion poem the scene at Nishapur is scarcely engaged. The crucifixion poem’s primary engagement is with an earlier poem of his confinement—a much-praised poem that I will call Qālat Ḥubista after the first two words of the first verse (“You,” she says, “have been incarcerated”).25 Dialogue form is typical of ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm, but in this poem it is abandoned after the first hemistich, as the response to ʿAlī’s interlocutor takes up half the poem’s length (verses 1–15 of a 28-verse poem, meter: kāmil): Qālat: Ḥubista, fa-qultu: Laysa bi-ḍāʾirin ḥabsī wa-ayyu muhannadin lā yughmadu26 “You” she says, “have been incarcerated.” “Incarceration does me no harm,” say I. The brightest swords are thrust into dark places. Have you never seen the lion whose greatness keeps him in his lair, while lesser beasts of prey cannot stay put? If the sun were never veiled, but always in your view, then neither would you see the Pole Star’s light. How about the full moon? Every month it is arrested before the gloom-dispelling days of its renewal. And how about the rain pent in the cloud where none can see it,

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25  It was Shawqī Ḍayf’s understanding that the word ḥubista is spoken by a female companion of ʿAlī (Tārīkh al-adab al-ʿarabī iv, 269). Another interpretation (that of al-Bāshā, ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm 188) is that the dialogue is begun by the poet’s own soul. 26   Dīwān ʿAlī 41–5. See Poem 1 in the Appendix.

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until thunder breaks out, and the winds toss? And how about the fire that hides within the stone and warms no one, until stricken with a tinder stick? And the Zāʿibī spear? Only the iron brace and a flaming brand can straighten out its knotty places. Wealth laid bare runs out and finds new owners, [especially] at night, [which is] when fortunes tend to shift. Every state of affairs is succeeded by another. In your sight, the praiseworthy is outshined by the hateful, I aver. When a pernicious era hits you with a weighty matter, 10 don’t let it drive you to despair of relief from your distress. How many sick men’s deaths have you bewailed, only for them to recover, while the doctor and his fellow patients all succumbed! Patience! It is patience that leads to respite. There is no hand whose reach exceeds the Caliph’s hand. Any prison that does not overwhelm a man with terrible extremes of infamy is a rest stop full of roses. For nobility’s sake, the noble man’s house is restored and receives visitors, and neither does he serve nor visit anyone. It’s not because people disdain you that they hide you away. 15 Otherwise, this noble man would not be in prison.27 27  After two verses of invective against Ibn Abī Duʾād, the poem concludes with a petition to al-Mutawakkil, as follows:  O Aḥmad, son of Abū Duʾād! You were called  to [experience] every great [punishment], Aḥmad!  Do convey to the Commander of the Faithful that he is  on the brink of the enemy’s trench, facing perils inexhaustible.  You, the sons of the Prophet Muḥammad’s maternal uncle,  were the first to accept the Prophet Muḥammad as lawgiver.  Of all that is good, you are the people. Your root stock is  thriving, as are your greenest shoots.  O cousin of Muḥammad, [tell me:] is an 20  advancing foe the same as a retreating one?  Those who would step to you with trifles are enemies  to count as blessings, not to be disavowed.  In our absence they bore witness and pronounced judgment on us.  Unto the absent party, the witness-bearer was most unlike.  If both parties were one day assembled in your presence,  the most appropriate course of action would be clear to you.  If a conference with my sovereign Caliph be one day  granted, on pain of perpetual imprisonment,  in which my accuser pleads his case and I plead mine, 25

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The dominant trope in these verses is called taḥsīn al-qabīḥ (beautifying what is ugly)—an exercise in sustained euphemism, where appealing imagery is used to represent undesirable things. In the text of that name by al-Thaʿālibī (d. 429/1038), Qālat Ḥubista is quoted in a short chapter on taḥsīn al-ḥabs (beautification of incarceration).28 Evidently, it is not unique; the game of minimizing the hardship of confinement goes back at least as far as these ṭawīl-meter verses by Suḥaym ʿAbd Banī l-Ḥasḥās (d. 57/657–8), the second of which is also quoted in the same chapter of Taḥsīn al-qabīḥ: Fa-in taḥbisūnī taḥbisū dhā walīdatin wa-in tuṭliqūnī tuṭliqū asadan wardā Wa-mā l-ḥabsu illā ẓillu baytin sakantuhu wa-mā l-jaldu illā jildatun qāranat jildā29 When you incarcerated me, it was the son of a domestic serf that you incarcerated; when you released me, what you released was a blood-red lion. What is prison but the shadow of a house where I have dwelt? And what is a flogging but the holding of one skin against another? Some cases of taḥsīn al-qabīḥ go further than others, and in ʿAlī’s verses we do not find corporal punishment discounted so lightly as in Suḥaym’s. In another poem, ʿAlī testifies to being shackled, and likens his bonds to fair adornments—but other indignities of the body are not so easy for the gentleman poet to convert into boasts.30 True, the lash (al-sawṭ) is mentioned in the prison poems of Abū Nuwās (d. ca. 200/ 815) and Abū l-Aṭāhiya (d. ca. 211/826),  my evidence would be decisive. The other’s case would miscarry.  God enforces His command throughout creation. Whatever  path we follow on the morrow leads to him.  If I [be suffered to] proceed, what more can thwart me?  Let us be convened to take our oaths!  Be what it may the charge on which my honor was dashed,  the villainy of the knave who filed it is exceeded by none. 28  This chapter of Taḥsīn al-qabīḥ wa-taqbīḥ al-ḥasan 33–4, quotes verses 1–2, 4 and 13–14 of Qālat Ḥubista and verse 6 of ʿAlī’s crucifixion poem, with slight variations in both. See van Gelder, Beautifying the ugly, 321–51. 29   Dīwān Suḥaym ʿAbd Banī l-Ḥasḥās 57. 30  Verse 9 of a 10-line poem, meter ṭawīl (Dīwān ʿAlī 51): Fa-lā tajzaʿī immā ra‌ʾayti quyūdahu | fa-inna khalākhīla r-rijāli quyūduhā (“Don’t be alarmed at the sight of his fetters; fetters are but bangles around the ankles of men”).

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but if ʿAlī received any kind of beating in prison he makes no mention of it in his verse. Then again, a lot depends on how one reads verse 7 of Qālat Ḥubista, which involves vocabulary drawn from the armorer’s trade: Wa-z-Zāʿibiyyatu lā yuqīmu kuʿūbahā illā th-thiqāfu wa-jadhwatun tatawaqqadu. And the Zāʿibī spear? Its knotty places cannot be straightened without the iron brace and a flaming brand. The point here is that Zāʿibī spear-shafts (prized for their straightness and smoothness) cannot be fashioned without the use of a bracket called al-thiqāf, and that furthermore the new shaft had to be heated over fire before the thiqāf could be applied. It is not clear what aspects of prison life the bracket and firebrand might represent. That ʿAlī alludes to torture is neither likely nor impossible to exclude, and my only solution to the question is skeptical. The thiqāf and firebrand might be metaphors for the rigors of constraint, metonymic features of the prison setting, or something else again.31 In any case, verse 13 of the same poem leaves no doubt in ʿAlī’s awareness of carceral abuses exceeding the poet’s powers of euphemism: Wa-l-ḥabsu mā lam taghshahū li-daniyyatin shanʿāʾa niʿma l-manzilu l-mutawarridu Imprisonment that does not overwhelm a man with terrible extremes of infamy is a rest stop full of roses. To say the same for tashhīr is more difficult. By commemorating the event, the poet runs the risk of perpetuating the insult, and the poetic record suggests that ʿAlī took time in deciding how the incident at Nishapur should be represented. After his liberty was regained, and before his crucifixion poem 31  Very plausibly the thiqāf is a general figure for self-betterment. The same image is used by ʿAdī ibn al-Riqāʿ (fl. late 1st/early 8th c.) to describe the exacting eye he cast over his own qaṣīdas (v. 22 of a 42-verse poem, meter: kāmil):  Naẓra l-muthaqqifi fī kuʿūbi qanātihi  ḥattā yuqīma thiqāfuhu munʾādahā  “. . . the straightener’s focus on the knots in his spear-shaft  until its bent places have been rectified by his thiqāf.”  Dīwān Shiʿr ʿAdī ibn al-Riqāʿ al-ʿĀmilī 90; al-Tadhkira al-Ḥamdūniyya v, 402.

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was composed, we hear the poet miming his own deliberative process in an address to Ṭāhir.32 This poem announces the intention to antagonize Ṭāhir with a future poem, while explicitly refusing to name the event that has taken place (the first six verses of a nine-verse poem, meter: ṭawīl, first verse): A-Ṭāhiru innī ʿan Khurāsāna rāḥilu wa-mustakhbarun ʿanhā fa-mā anā qāʾilu33 Hey Ṭāhir, I’ve traveled on from Khurāsān. People ask me about [what went on] but I don’t say. Shall I state the truth, or allude to it in figurative language? Whatever you choose, it will reach you through the party circuit. Riders will run with it, and it will be stirred into movement by the [clapping] palms of singing-girls, and the tribes will pick it up. I know the full extent of praise and blame. In their arts my aim is deadly and takes the prize. Really, let me state the truth. I [used to] incline 5 toward you. But the incliner won no love in return. Is no one looking out for inviolability? Nor for the bond of protection for one’s neighbor? Are deed and word not [supposed to be] alike?34 The rhetorical strategies open to ʿAlī are laid out in verse 2: A-aṣduqu am aknī ʿani ṣ-ṣidqi? His only alternative to a flat statement of the truth is to allude to it in figurative language (kināya). Both techniques are employed in the antecedent poem Qālat Ḥubista, whose last seven verses describe an accusation made in ʿAlī’s absence and, declaring that the accusation would never hold up 32  In so saying I mean to contravene any apprehension that this poem postdates ʿAlī’s crucifixion poem. The crucifixion poem does appear first in al-Iṣbahānī, Kitāb al-Aghānī x, 3672–3, but al-Iṣbahānī gives no indication of either poem’s priority, saying only that this address to Ṭāhir was composed after ʿAlī’s release. 33   Dīwān ʿAlī 166–7. See Poem 2 in the Appendix. 34  The poem concludes with verses 7 through 9:  “If I find favor with no one, can I at least get a just person?  Is there no righteous judge among the people?  Don’t bite off your fingertips in rage at me.  Fingertips were gnawed over me before your time [cf. Q ʿImrān 3:119]. Hey Ṭāhir, if you’re good [to me] then I’ll be good.  to you. And if you’re stingy I’ll be stingy back.” The last verse is understood by M. Kaabi (Les Ṭāhirides i, 297) as a demand for financial reparations.

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in court, urge al-Mutawakkil to convene the parties to it.35 By contrast, the crucifixion poem that ʿAlī went on to compose (as threatened in the above-quoted verses) says almost nothing flatly. There are no procedural details, and except for the day and place (“al-Shādhiyākh on Monday morning”) the whole event is swathed in kināya. There are however clear sociological terms for the outrage ʿAlī suffered, and we find them in this poem’s sixth verse (A-lā ḥurmatun turʿā? A-lā ʿaqdu dhimmatin | li-jārin? A-lā fiʿlun li-qawlin mushākilu?). Among other things, ʿAlī’s treatment in Nishapur was an offense against hospitality: rather than as a guest or a neighbor, he was treated with violence and contempt. And he may not have been received that way at first. A deceptive welcome may have been extended to him by Ṭāhir, whose implicit guarantee of security was later breached. This at any rate is one likely referent of the gap between deed and word denounced in the sixth verse. The most important term in the verse is ḥurma (“inviolability”). It names where the blow at ʿAlī struck hardest: his ability to safeguard the privacy of his body. Whether the word is used in reference to built spaces or the human body, to assert one’s ḥurma is to insist on the right to forbid trespass and exposure.36 It goes without saying that all entitlement to privacy is lost to the mushahhar. And even before his exposure at Nishapur, the record makes it clear that ḥurma was a strong concern of ʿAlī’s. Another poem of his confinement begins with the wish that his ḥurma be restored to him along with the caliph’s pardon: ʿAfā llāhu ʿanka a-lā ḥurmatun taʿūdhu bi-ʿafwika an ubʿadā37 God be your forgiver. Will [my] inviolability ever find protection in your forgiveness that I tarried far away? At the beginning of another poem addressed to Ṭāhir—evidently while ʿAlī was still under confinement in Khurāsān, and after his day-long exposure on the cross—the word occurs twice in quick succession. This is a terse and angry 35  See note 27 above. 36  For the ḥurma of houses and sacred spaces, see Lange and Fierro, Introduction, 4, and in the same volume, Lange, Where on Earth is Hell 161. 37  This mutaqārib-meter dhāliyya is widely and variously quoted, and whether the verse begs al-Mutawakkil for his pardon (bi-ʿafwika, as in Dīwān ʿAlī 77) or his favor (bi-faḍlika, as in al-Iṣbahānī, Kitāb al-Aghānī x, 3692) depends on the source. In Kitāb al-Aghānī, this verse comes ninth of sixteen; in Dīwān ʿAlī it is the first of 31 verses.

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poem, and it leads me to an important digression. It has been observed that some of ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm’s prison verse emulates the prison verse of ʿAdī ibn Zayd.38 This is true. ʿAlī’s poignant dialogue with the dream-phantom who steals into his cell by night is openly modeled on ʿAdī’s poem on the same theme.39 And while it is perhaps only natural that ʿAlī’s calls for judicial intervention in Qālat Ḥubista would echo his predecessor’s calls for the same, two verses of ʿAdī’s are imitated in Qālat Ḥubista’s eleventh verse.40 I bring up this tendency of ʿAlī’s by way of contrast to the following poem, which speaks from a place of immediacy in which there is no room for taḥsīn al-qabīḥ nor literary tribute nor any subtlety to speak of. It too begins with a declaration of ḥurma—not as an alienable state, but an intrinsic right (al-ḥaqq), and in all of ʿAlī’s dīwān there is no sharper protest (all six of a six-verse poem, meter: sarīʿ, first two verses): In kāna lī dhanbun fa-lī ḥurmatun wa-l-ḥaqqu lā yadfaʿuhu l-bāṭilu wa-ḥurmatī aʿẓamu min zallatī law nālanī min ʿadlikum nāʾilu41 If I am guilty of offense, I still have inviolability. What is right does not give way to what is null and void. My inviolability is greater than my fault, [or so it would be agreed] if only someone would dispense your justice to me. The rights that pertain to me are not unknown, but known to the intelligent and ignorant alike. To everyone there belongs a way of life and a people, and it is [determined by] the way the actor acts. The way of possessions is for them to trade hands. Neither an oppressor nor a just [ruler] can be disguised. You have outdone the person I feared you were. The person I hope for [you to be] has yet to come. Whereas the earlier poem (beginning ʿAfā llāhu ʿanka) speaks of ḥurma as a transitive state, in this poem it is declared an inalienable right (verses 1 and 3), in contrast to material possessions that pass from hand to hand (verse 5). The 38  Al-Iṣbahānī, Kitāb al-Aghānī x, 3672. 39   Dīwān ʿAlī 50–1; Dīwān ʿAdī ibn Zayd 50–5. 40  The verses by ʿAdī are the last two of a seven-verse poem rhymed in dāl meter: khafīf (Dīwān ʿAdī ibn Zayd 122); noted by Mardam Beg in Dīwān ʿAlī 44 note 5. 41   Dīwān ʿAlī 169. See Poem 3 in the Appendix.

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difference is strategic. A right that is trampled on is still a right, and may (as here) be called on as the basis for an appeal. Whether the reconfiguration of ḥurma in ʿAlī’s poems had anything to do with the event of his exposure at Nishapur I take to be an inevitable question that is also unanswerable. I do not however contest Abū l-Faraj’s report that this six-verse address to Ṭāhir was composed during his confinement at Nishapur, nor that ʿAfā llāhu ʿanka was composed earlier, during his confinement at Baghdad.42 Where I depart from received chronology is in my contention that both of ʿAlī’s addresses to Ṭāhir antedate the crucifixion poem. The case for the crucifixion poem’s chronological posteriority needs no belaboring, but ex silentio it is significant that it makes no appeal to ḥurma, nor any petition to speak of. Self-evidently, it is not a work of the moment of crisis; rather, it reflects back on ʿAlī’s exposure with a detached pallor one might describe as “gimlet-eyed.” The poem’s strategy is to downplay the event and deflect its insulting force, while still proclaiming that injustice was done. Accordingly, there occur in the crucifixion poem none of the usual words for “cross”; in verse 4, the thing from which he was hung is called a “carrier” (maḥmal, translated below as “rack”). Nor is the event referred to as a crucifixion. In place of ṣalaba (“crucify”), the operative verb in verses 1 and 2 is naṣaba (to “set upright” and to “vex,” translated below as “hoisted up”); verse 3 speaks of the poet’s nukūl (his “castigation”). This avoidance is consistent with the poem’s dominant trope, namely euphemism—just as it was in Qālat Ḥubista, which is the point of departure for ʿAlī’s crucifixion poem (all 18 verses, meter: kāmil, first two verses): Lam yanṣibū bi-sh-Shādhiyākhi ṣabīḥata l ithnayni maghmūran wa-lā majhūlā naṣabū bi-ḥamdi llāhi milʾa ʿuyūnihim sharafan wa-milʾa ṣudūrihim tabjīlā:43 The one they hoisted up at al-Shādhiyākh on Monday morning was no obscure or unknown sort. Praise God, the one they hoisted fills their eyes and chests with noble feeling and profound respect. Nothing gained from his castigation but [his own] prestige. And enemies were gained [by the state] through general aversion. Was it like [looking at] a lion forsaken of his lair when you saw him borne upon the [upright] rack? 42  Al-Iṣbahānī, Kitāb al-Aghānī x, 3682, 3692. 43   Dīwān ʿAlī 171–4. See Poem 4 in the Appendix.

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The [lion’s] enemies are never safe from a blow 5 whose force makes fragments of their bony crowns. That his clothes were stripped away is no reproach to him. A drawn sword inspires more terror [than a sheathed one]. Was his valor slighted? Who faults the moon at the height of its fullness, as if its value were lessened [by exposure]? Did they plunder his capital? The loss saddens [only] the visitors and drop-in guests who crave his hospitality at all hours. Did they imprison him? That didn’t stop a poem of his from spreading, and marring the dignity of the highly placed. The disasters that challenge his faith are a blessing, 10 even if they do inconvenience him a little. By God Whose mandate nobody can ignore, the Lord, the best of backers and protectors: Even if you despoil him of all you [formerly] conferred, his good looks and forthrightness will not be despoiled. Did you take possession of his faith and certainty, compromising his inmost heart and lucid speech? Although you took it in hand to wrong him, his worth was not reduced. Stupidity is what subtracts from worth. Though your offense against him was conducted openly 15 and with pomp, it did not quite hit the mark. [It might have succeeded] if he had given in to abjection, or failed to see the beauty of [a bleak state of] affairs. If life were fair, it would not put so many missteps in the path of a man who does not resent life for them. Who skipped the path all hearts will know, [on the day] when hearts come out of their concealing shelters. This poem is not (as observed above) a doublet of Qālat Ḥubista. The poems are in different rhymes and meters.44 It is possible that Qālat Ḥubista is mentioned in the ninth verse—as the poem that made its way out of ʿAlī’s prison and “marred the dignity of the highly placed” (yadaʿu l-ʿazīza dhalīlā)—though 44  Both are in kāmil meter, with the shortening called iḍmār affecting the final foot of every verse (mutafāʿilun → mustafʿilun); but in the crucifixion poem, the final foot is additionally reduced by the alteration called qaṭʿ, causing each verse to end in three long syllables (mustafʿilun → mafʿūlun). To state the difference in the terms of Wright’s Grammmar (ii, 362D), the crucifixion poem is set in a catalectic form of kāmil, and cannot be construed as a metrical isomorph of the earlier, acatalectic poem.

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the hamziyya quoted in Ibn al-Muʿtazz’s account seems the more likely candidate. What most obviously ties ʿAlī’s crucifixion poem to Qālat Ḥubista is its reversal of the earlier poem’s elogium of confinement. The selfsame images that lend dignity to the experience of being hidden from view (the sword, the lion and the moon) are deployed to inverse purpose in the poem that comes after. Indeed, if not as a palinode of Qālat Ḥubista, the crucifixion poem can scarcely be read. Like Qālat Ḥubista, ʿAlī’s crucifixion poem hearkens back to earlier poems on the same theme, in which taḥsīn al-qabīḥ is achieved through simile. One of these is highlighted at the beginning of Everett Rowson’s 2009 article “Reveal or conceal,” in which the Medinese ne’er-do-well al-Aḥwaṣ al-Anṣārī (d. 110/728) shrugs off his own public exposure with the verse (meter: kāmil): Innī idhā khafiya l-liʾāmu ra‌ʾaytanī ka-sh-shamsi lā takhfā bi-kulli makānin45 While the ignoble are hidden from view, me you see like the sun, which goes unhidden all over. What is unique to ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm is the counter-opposition of the two motifs— beautification of confinement followed by the beautification of humiliating exposure—within the oeuvre of a single poet. No mere poetic contrivance, in the life of a man who was both imprisoned and exposed naked on a cross, the antithesis (reveal and conceal) was dictated by biographical necessity. As if in response to the question that prompts this essay—“What is it like to be crucified?”—ʿAlī’s poems say in answer: “To be exposed on a cross is the opposite of being locked in a dungeon.” Although ḥurma is not invoked by name in the crucifixion poem, verses 12 and 13 repeat ʿAlī’s claim to personal inviolability: Lan taslabūhu wa-in salabtumu kulla-mā khawwaltumūhu wasāmatan wa-qabūlā Hal tamlikūna li-dīnihi wa-yaqīnihi wa-janānihi wa-bayānihi tabdīlā Even if you despoil him of all you [formerly] conferred, his good looks and forthrightness will not be despoiled. 45   Shiʿr al-Aḥwaṣ al-Anṣārī 257; Rowson, Reveal or conceal 119–20.

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Did you take possession of his faith and certainty, compromising his inmost heart and lucid speech? The idiom of “saving face” is an apt if incomplete descriptor for the work of these verses. Verse 12 declares the poet’s outward identity to be free of stigma, verse 13 declares his inner virtues to be untouched, and (as in the earlier address to Ṭāhir beginning In kāna lī dhanbun) both sets of virtues are contrasted to transferrable material goods. Together, ʿAlī’s interior and exterior inviolability are a merism for ḥurma—the very prerogative targeted by ignominious exposure. In other words, ʿAlī’s claim is that the penal objectives of his exposure were not met. This is likewise the claim of verses 15 and 16: Kādat takūnu muṣībatan law annakum awḍaḥtumū dhanban ʿalayhī jalīlan in kāna saffa ilā d-danīʾati aw ra‌ʾā ghayra l-jamīli mina l-umūri jamīlā Though your offense against him was conducted openly and with pomp, it did not quite hit the mark. [It might have done,] if he had given in to abjection, or failed to see the beauty of [a bleak state of] affairs. Here we find the poet’s immunity from tashhīr predicated on his powers of taḥsīn al-qabīḥ—a near-transcendent claim that calls for paraphrase. Had either of the conditions spelled out in verse 16 been met, the ignominious exposure would have been socially efficacious, and ʿAlī’s debasement (naqṣ, line 14) would have been achieved. And so the failure to exercise taḥsīn al-qabīḥ is made the moral equivalent of giving in to abjection. With that, the crucifixion poem discloses its own existential rationale. It was not composed in order to document the experience, nor to decry it exactly, but to drain it of its humiliating power. Keeping silent about the incident would be an admission of defeat. It is a high-efficacy poem, and in saying so I have in mind Richard Schechner’s idea that all performance takes place along a spectrum that has efficacy at one end and entertainment at another.46 The measure of the crucifixion poem’s excellence is how well it completes its task of casting off shame.

46  Schechner, From ritual to theater and back 207.

The Crucified Speaks



85

The Poet in Danger

There is more than one way to attend to the poem’s avoidance of ʿAlī’s experience at Nishapur, and the simplest is as a matter of genre. The crucifixion poem is not a lyrical production—not if some discursive representation of subjective experience be a defining attribute of lyric. It is a sentimental poem, in that it aims to sway the hearer’s feelings, but it does not mime any spontaneous expression of feeling. It is of course a qaṣīda: a poem consisting of several movements (three, to be exact, marked by shifts in address at verses 4 and 11), and what it mimes is the bearing of a message. Confessional lyricism is not a genre-normative expectation to bring to the crucifixion poem.47 At this point, the argument for an interpretive halt could be made. Western literary critics have in recent years shown signs of fatigue with the imperative to read “against the grain.” After decades of theoretical attention to the symptomatic elisions and involuntary revelations of texts, it is only natural to wonder what the dedication to latent content might itself be obscuring.48 For taking a turn toward what is patent, such as intricacies of form and genre, the dīwān of ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm might well be of use. His poems are probably as good an occasion for “reading with the grain” as they are for a defense of symptomatic reading.49 Since this essay’s aim is to find out things about ʿAlī’s exposure that his poem does not declare, symptomatic reading is obviously its ethic. My findings are that the crucifixion poem yields little in the way of experiential data, by which I mean more than just pathos. Spatial relationships are almost wholly unpictured: all it says is that ʿAlī was borne aloft in an upright position (verses 2 and 4) with his clothes stripped away (verse 6), and that it was conducted in the open (verse 15). The size of the crowd cannot be judged, nor ʿAlī’s proximity to them, nor the height at which he was displayed. It can be assumed that he was not fastened with nails, but was tied to a cross—and little else. Were there public admonishments? Was ʿAlī himself compelled to speak aloud? All these details are consigned to what Teresa de Lauretis calls “the elsewhere of discourse . . . the blind spots, or the space-off, of its representation.”50 47  This is the point of my epigraph from Dante: genre is a filter for content. Bataille notes that poetry and mystical vision-narrative have a common shortcoming, when considered as media for representing extremes of experience: they “translate an inaccessible (impossible) element into forms which are, in the long run, familiar.” Bataille, Inner experience 142–3. 48  Best and Marcus, Surface reading 1–21. 49  “Reading with the grain” is the actual title of a 2010 review article by Timothy Bewes. 50  De Lauretis, The technology of gender 25.

86

Larsen

Space-off is a term of film theory for what lies off-screen—a space of implied dynamism or stasis beyond the camera’s view. Very often, it is a gendered space, as de Lauretis continues: “I think of it as spaces in the margins of hegemonic discourses, social spaces carved in the interstices of institutions and in the chinks and cracks of the power-knowledge apparati. And it is there that the terms of a different construction of gender can be posed . . .” The space-off has proved an adaptable model for theorizing social realms lying beyond gender-normative boundaries of representable space—as in the texts of ancient Greece, where feminine self-representation is next to nil. Thus Kate Gilhuly intuits a women’s festive space apart from the banqueters of Plato’s Symposium, somewhere within (endon, 176e) the house of Agathon, as a space-off of the masculine philosophical arena.51 For Leslie Kurke, the newly discovered Brothers Poem of Sappho knowingly fills in the space-off of mother-daughter relations and weaves it into the public space of festive prayer.52 In ʿAlī’s poem, the unrepresented space-off—his place on the cross that Monday morning—is a place of high gender tension. It is the place of a man deprived of a man’s covering, immobile, vulnerable, and surrounded by gawkers. This is acknowledged twice: verse 2 calls ʿAlī milʾa ʿuyūnihim (“the filling of [his viewers’] eyes”), and verse 4 says ra‌ʾaytahu (“you saw him”). Otherwise the poem affords a barred view. ʿAlī’s poetry is too well oriented toward defending his honor to stage such a scene in the hearers’ mind. It remains therefore to look outside his dīwān. Here and there in adab literature one comes across reports and casual discourses of ʿAlī; their assembly into a browsable corpus would be no small undertaking. I turn now to one such report from al-ʿIqd al-farīd of Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih (d. 328/940). This report has no narrator, only the following:53 ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm came upon a man in the grip of a brain-fever (mubarsim) who was encircled by a hostile crowd. On spotting him, the man seized the bridle of ʿAlī’s horse and said (meter: majzūʾ al-kāmil): “Do not join the company of wastrels I see [before me]. By the truth of the One who imposes them on me, and the One whose forgiveness I beg on their behalf, [I swear:] Compared to the fallen of their own number, these are fallen [further still].”

51  Gilhuly, The feminine matrix 63–4. 52  Kurke, Gendered spheres 245–6. 53  Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, al-ʿIqd al-farīd vii, 175. See passage 5 in the Appendix.

87

The Crucified Speaks

Then, looking around, his gaze fell on a shapely boy with a handsome face, whereupon he rent his clothes and said: “Now this one, their most nobly favored, treats me more shabbily than all the rest!” Tales of madmen are a vigorous subgenre of jocular literature, and this one of ʿAlī’s comes out of a long chapter. Entitled “Madmen who were Poets” (Shuʿarāʾ al-majānīn) it gathers together a couple of dozen reports, some of them transmitted by well-known personalities.54 If the certainty of the above report can never be vouchsafed, neither can the possibility that it is a genuine bit of ʿAlī’s asmār (night chats) be denied. I would like to entertain this possibility far enough to point out that the madman’s tale dramatizes what is suppressed in the crucifixion poem, and that is the experience of a poet in danger, surrounded by a crowd of onlookers. Out of all the tales of mad poets in Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih’s chapter, the predicament of ʿAlī’s is direst. The man is at the mercy of a hostile crowd, perhaps on the point of a beating. The humor in the report is picaresque, i.e. cruel. Its “punchline” comes with the final verse’s suggestion of an amatory affront. A demimonde vignette is what it seems, and one wishes for a conclusion to the story. (Did ʿAlī swing the feverish victim onto his horse and ride away?) Another source of merriment is the mubarsim’s inability to cry for help in everyday language.55 The fever has heated his wits to the point that nothing but poetry comes out of his mouth. From a poet’s perspective it is a funny tale to tell, and it invites a shadowy sort of identification between the unfortunate of ʿAlī’s tale and the crucified ʿAlī himself. To the extent that ʿAlī’s punishment was truly occasioned by accusations of poetic abuse, the likeness would only increase.56 For my part, I see no better guide to the “space off” of the crucifixion poem than this report. What happened at Nishapur was dreadful for ʿAlī. A mounted rescuer would have been most welcome.

...

54  This tale of ʿAlī’s is preceded by a tale of the mad poet Mānī al-Muwaswas (vii, 174) as told by the grammarian al-Mubarrad (d. 286/900); shortly after it comes a tale involving three mad poets (vii, 176–7) told by Abū Nuwās. 55  Such stories about grammarians are commonplace; see Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-ʿudabāʾ iv, 1637– 40, for lighthearted tales of Abū ʿAlqama al-Naḥwī, who was the Abbasid grammarians’ own Majnūn figure; and additionally Rosenthal, Humor in early Islam 10 note 5. 56  The madman’s implied indiscretion might also recall ʿAlī’s alleged intimacies with the servants at al-Mutawakkkil’s court, as reported in Kitāb al-Aghānī. (By appearances, ʿAlī was a childless bachelor to the end of his days, as noted in Mardam Beg’s introduction to Dīwān ʿAlī at 19.).

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Larsen

I began with a discussion of traumatic events and their propensity for going undescribed. Concerning ʿAlī’s experience, I neither speculate on psychic aftereffects, nor suggest that the crucifixion poem’s silences stemmed from clinical post-traumatic stress. I do affirm that psychological trauma is a vital model for exploring those silences, and that the experiential emptiness of the poem corresponds symptomatically to the bad fullness of what happened to ʿAlī: “not so much a symptom of the unconscious,” as Caruth says, “as it is a symptom of history. The traumatized person, we might say, carries an impossible history within them . . .”57 In what enforced the elisions in ʿAlī’s crucifixion poem, genre and decorum were certainly at work (and so too was strategy: forthright recrimination could have scuttled hope of ʿAlī’s restoration). The result is a poem in which shame is mastered, but the scene is not contained. In the mubarsim’s tale, we find the scene refracted. The peril in it is crudely risible and affects another. But the peril of the poet ringed by hostile onlookers was not alien to ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm. Appendix 1. Qālat Ḥubista (Dīwān ʿAlī 41–7, no. 14), meter: kāmil.

ََّ‫ُ ه‬ ُّ ‫أ‬ ُ َ‫ُ ْ م‬ َْ ‫ح� ب���س� و� �ي� ��م� ن�� ٍ�د لا �ي غ����� �د‬ ‫ي‬ ُ َّ َ َ‫ت‬ ّ ‫ْ أَ ْ �ش��ُ ٱ‬ � � ‫ك ب�� اًر و� وب�ا‬ ‫ل����سب���ا ِ �رد د‬ ِ ‫ِ ع‬ ُ َ‫ن ظ َْ ََ أ ض َ ٱ فَ ْ �ق‬ ‫�ك لم�ا � ���ا ء � �ل����ر� �د‬ ِ ‫أَ�ع��ن  �ا ِ�ر�ي‬ َ ّ ُ ّ َ‫َ �أ ن ُ ُ ت‬ ُ َّ ‫�� ِ�د د‬ َ‫� ���ي�ا �م�هُ وك� ��ه �م���� � ج‬ ُ ُ ْ َ ُ ُ ُ ُ� َّ َ ّ ‫�ل‬ ‫����� �ه � ا‬ ‫و�ير���ع�د‬ ‫إ ا ورِي �ق ير ح‬ ْ‫ن‬ ُ ُْ ‫ُث ْ ٱ‬ َ ْ ُ‫ت‬ ‫لا ����ص��ط��لَى إ� � ل ت�ِ��ر�ه�ا � ل�أَ�ز ن��د‬ ‫م‬ ُ‫ّ ٱ ّ ف‬ ُ َّ� ََ‫�ذْ َ�ةٌ تَت‬ � � ‫�� � و �و�ق�د‬ َ‫إ� لا � ��لثِ�ق���ا �� و � ج‬ ُ ُ َْ ُ ُ ٌ َ‫ي‬ ‫وا �ل���م�ا ل ع�ا ر�� ��ة ي�������ف�ا د وي�ن� � �فَ�� �د‬ ِ‫ٱ‬ ُ َّ ُ ُ َ‫�ْم‬ َ ْ � � ‫ح‬ ‫ع‬ ‫ه‬ ‫�أ�ج ��لَى �ل�ك � �ل���م��ك�رو �م�ا ي ��� �د‬ ُ َ ْ‫خَ ْ ٌ َ َ ٱ �زَّ نُ ٱ �أَن‬ ‫��د‬ ‫���ط� ب� ر�م�ا ك ب�ِ�ه � �ل �م�ا � � ل � �ك‬ ِ

57  Caruth, Introduction 1, 4.

‫ق تْ ُ ْ تَ ف ق تُ َ ض ئ‬ ‫��ا �ل�� ح�ِب�����س�� ������ل�� �ل��يَ��س ب�ِ�����اِ� ٍر‬ َ‫أ‬ َ‫أ‬ ْ َ ُ‫� َ ���م�ا َ � � ت �ٱ �ل��لّ��ْ��ي� ثَ َ��أ �ل��فُ غ��ْ���لَ�ه‬ � � � � ِ ‫و ري‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ِي‬ ٌ‫أ ّنَ م �ة‬ ُ ْ َّ‫ش‬ � ‫�لولا � ���ه�ا‬ � �‫ح�� ج�و��ب‬ ‫وا ل������م��س‬ ُ َ‫ْ ُ ُ ْ ُ ٱ ّ ُ ف تَنْ ج‬ ‫وا �ل ����ب�د ر ���ي�د ِرك‬ ِ � � ‫��ه‬ �‫ل����س�را ر ����������لي‬ ُ َ � ُ ‫غ ثُ َ�ْ ُ ُ ُ غ‬ �‫وا �ل��ي���� ي‬ ‫ح���صره ا �ل�����م�ا �م �ف��م�ا ي�ر�ى‬ ْ‫أ‬ ٌ‫َ��ْ َ�ة‬ ‫ّ ُ ف‬ ‫�ح‬ ‫��ج�ا ر�ه�ا م‬ � �‫وا �ل ����ن�ا ر �ي‬ ‫���خ��بوء‬ �� ِ ْ ُ ُ َ‫ُ ُ ْب‬ ّ ‫وا �ل�ز ا ِ�ع ���ِ��بيّ����ة لا �ي���ِ����قي�ُ ك�عو���ه�ا‬ َّ ‫غ يَ ُ ٱ‬ ُ َّ ُ ٌ‫بَم � ت‬ ‫ِ������ �ر � �ل��ل����ي�ا لي� �ا ِد �ئ�ا � �عود‬ َُّ َ ٌ ْ ُ ُّ ‫و�لِ��ك�ل ��ح�ا ٍل �م�ع��قِ��� ب� و�لرب����م�ا‬ ُ ُّ � َ‫ُ ْ�ؤ َِّ َ ْ ت‬ ‫� ْ � ��ة‬ ‫لا ي� ����سَ�ن���ك �م��ن‬ ٍ‫��� �فَ�� �ر�ج ِ كر�ب‬ ِ ‫ِي‬

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

‫‪89‬‬ ‫‪11‬‬ ‫‪12‬‬ ‫‪13‬‬ ‫‪14‬‬ ‫‪15‬‬ ‫‪16‬‬ ‫‪17‬‬ ‫‪18‬‬ ‫‪19‬‬ ‫‪20‬‬ ‫‪21‬‬ ‫‪22‬‬ ‫‪23‬‬ ‫‪24‬‬ ‫‪25‬‬ ‫‪26‬‬ ‫‪27‬‬ ‫‪28‬‬

‫َ ْ ْ َ قَ ْ تَ خََّ ُ ٱ ََّ‬ ‫ك��م �م��ن ع�ِ�لي�� ��د �‬ ‫�‬ ‫���ط�ا ه � �لرد ى‬ ‫ٍل‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫�ةً‬ ‫صَ ْ ف� نَّ ٱ � َّ َْ ُ ْ ق ُ‬ ‫� ب�� اًر ��إ � � ل���ص ب��ر �ي�ع��ِ��� ب� را ح�‬ ‫�ُ‬ ‫ح��ْ ُ ��� �ا ل �تَ غ�ْ� ����� �هُ � َ�د ن���َّ ��ة‬ ‫ل‬ ‫وا � ب��س م م شَ ِل ِ��يٍ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫تٌ �جَ ّ‬ ‫�ةً‬ ‫ب�ي��� ي�‬ ‫� ِ�د د �ل��ل��ك�ر�يِم ك�را�م�‬ ‫ٱ ْ ّ أ َّ‬ ‫ف� ّ‬ ‫���نْ‬ ‫ل��س�����ن � لا � ���ن�هُ‬ ‫�لو ل ي� ك‬ ‫ي� � � ِ ج ِ إ‬ ‫م‬ ‫نّ‬ ‫أ ُ‬ ‫أ ُ‬ ‫ب�نَ‬ ‫ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫� ب�ي� د �ؤَا ٍد إ� َ��م�ا‬ ‫ي�ا � ���م�د‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫نَ‬ ‫بَ ّ غْ �أ� َ � ل�ؤ� ن �نَ‬ ‫دُ �� �هُ‬ ‫��ِ�ل ��مي��ر م م��ي��‬ ‫وو‬ ‫أ�‬ ‫ّ ٱ نّ ّ مّ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ب�ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫� ن�����ت��م ��ع���ِم � �ل���ب� ���م ٍ�د‬ ‫ي‬ ‫حَ ي ِ أَ‬ ‫�����سَ�ن ف���أن� ت�ْ � �ه�لُ�هُ‬ ‫�م�ا ك�ا ن� �م��ن‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ٍ م‬ ‫ّ مّ‬ ‫أ �نَ ٱ َّ ّ�ة ٱ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫�نَ‬ ‫�ع ح‬ ‫� �ل��سو� ��ي� ب�‬ ‫��م ٍ�د‬ ‫� �ِم�‬ ‫م‬ ‫ِيِ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫عَ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ن ��ذ ��نَ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫إ� � � ل� ي‬ ‫��س�وا إ� ��لي��ك ب�ب��ا َط� ٍل‬ ‫ُ ف ّ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫حك‬ ‫�شَ����ه�د وا و غ�� ب�� ن���ا �ع ن����ه� �ت�����‬ ‫��موا‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫م‬ ‫َِ‬ ‫�ْ ُ ٱ �خَ ْ مَ �ن ن َ مَ شْ هَ ٌ‬ ‫�لو ي�ج�� � ل�����ص��� ي�� �ع���د ك � ������د‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َ مَع‬ ‫ٱ �زَّ‬ ‫ف ْ بَ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ت‬ ‫��لِئ���ن ���ِ��ي���� ع��لى � �ل ���م�ا ِ� و �‬ ‫كا � لي�‬ ‫ٱ ْ تَ َّ خَ ْ ٱ ْ‬ ‫�تَ جَ ْ تُ‬ ‫�ُ َّ�ت‬ ‫� ب�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح�� ج� ي�‬ ‫�وح����ج� �����ص���مي� �وح������� ج�� ِ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫�خَ‬ ‫ُ ْ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫وا �ل��ل�هُ ب�اِ�ل غ � ���م�ره �ي� ���ِل���قِ�ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َئ�نْ ضَ ْ تُ َ قَِ ّ َْ ٱ ّ�ذ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ب‬ ‫ا‬ ‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫��‬ ‫ي�‬ ‫و�ل�� �مَ�����ي��� �لأَ� � ي � قَى‬ ‫�فَ �أ ّ �ذَ نْ ْ بَ حَ ْ أ ْ ُ‬ ‫��� �‬ ‫� � ��ص������ ت� � �عرا ض��� ن���ا‬ ‫� � بٍ‬ ‫بِ ي ِ‬

‫‪The Crucified Speaks‬‬

‫تَ َ ُ ُ ُ َّ ُ‬ ‫فَ نَ‬ ‫����� ���ج�ا و���م�ا � طبِ���ي� ����ب�ه و�عود‬ ‫يَ ُ ٱ ��خَ‬ ‫تُ ُ يَ ُ‬ ‫و� �د � ل‬ ‫��ِ�لي� ����ف�ِ�ة لا ���ط�ا و��ل���ه�ا �� �د‬ ‫�‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫� نْ َ ن ْ َ ٱ مَ ْ �ز ُ ٱ ُ تَ َ َّ ُ‬ ‫�‬ ‫���شَ�����ع�ا ء ِ��ع���م � �ل��� ���ن� ل � �ل���م��ورد‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫�زُ ُ ُ ْ � ُ‬ ‫ُ ُ �‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫و���ي��زا ر ��في��ِ�ه ولا ي� ور ويح�� �فَ�� �د‬ ‫ٱ �أَ ْ ُ ُ‬ ‫َ ْ تَ�ذ ُّ َ‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫� � ل �ع ����ب�د‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ك‬ ‫لا ي�����س��� ِ �ل بِ ِ ج ب ِ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ُ��ي ْ�د�ع �ل��ك�ّ � �ظ‬ ‫ع�� ي�����م�ٍ�ة ي�ا � ح���م�د‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫� َى ِ‬ ‫َ�خ فُ‬ ‫تَنْ فَ ُ‬ ‫خَ ْ ض ُ ٱ َ‬ ‫� � � �ل�ع�د � م‬ ‫��ا و�� لا �����د‬ ‫أو� ِ ىو ِ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫� َ َ نّ ُّ م ُ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ب����م�ا � شَ��� � � �ل�� ح‬ ‫����م�د‬ ‫� و لَى‬ ‫رع �بي�‬ ‫بَ ْ مَ ُ ُ‬ ‫بَ ٱ َ ْ ُ‬ ‫�ْ وط�ا � � لم���‬ ‫حتِ���د‬ ‫ط�ا � ت� � غ���ا ر��س ك‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫خَ ْ ٌ تُ قَ ُّ ُم آ � ُ تُْ ُ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�����ص���م �����ر���ب�ه و� خَ� �ر �ب��ِ��ع�د‬ ‫أ ْ ُ ن ْ مَِ َ ٱّ‬ ‫تُْ ُ‬ ‫�ت‬ ‫� ���ع�د ا ء ��ع��� ت���ك � ��ل لا �ج�‬ ‫�� �د‬ ‫��� حَ‬ ‫ي�‬ ‫ِ ِ‬ ‫مَ �نْ َ شْ هَ ُ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫غ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫� � � ي�������د‬ ‫����ا ئ�‬ ‫�ي�� ن���ا و�ل��ي��س ك‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫ً �لَ نَ َ َ ٱ ّ ُ ٱ �أَ ْق صَ ُ‬ ‫�يو�م�ا � ب��ا � �ل�ك � �ل��طر�يق� � ل ���� �د‬ ‫ٱَ ٱ‬ ‫مَ ْ عَ ُ‬ ‫�يو�ًم�ا �م��نَ � لم�ل�ك � �ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�خ��لي� ف���ِ�ة � ��ق����د‬ ‫ِِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫�خ بَ ٱ �أَ ْ بَ ُ‬ ‫َ فَ َ ْ تُ ف ُ��جَ‬ ‫�ل������ل����� � ح‬ ‫���ج��ي� و �ا � � ل �ع���د‬ ‫ج ي� َ ِ‬ ‫مَ ْ ُ‬ ‫ْ ُ �‬ ‫و�إ�ل����يِ�ه �مَ���ص�د رن�ا ��غ�د اً وا �ل��� ورد‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َ ن ََ ْ مَ عَ ّ َْ ُ‬ ‫�‬ ‫��ق�د ك�ا د �ي� و�ل��ي�� ج���� � ����ن�ا ا لمو���ع�د‬ ‫ٱ َّ ٱ �أَ ِ‬ ‫� ُ‬ ‫نَ ًْ ُ ُ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫���ه ب���ا ي� �ِ�����شي���د ب���ه�ا � �ل��لئ��ي�����م � ل ْو��غَ �د‬

‫‪2. “Hey Ṭāhir” (Dīwān ʿAlī 166–7, no. 75), meter: ṭawīl.‬‬

‫‪1‬‬ ‫‪2‬‬ ‫‪3‬‬ ‫‪4‬‬ ‫‪5‬‬

‫أَ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫نَ‬ ‫� ط�ا �هُ � �نّ �ع��ن خ‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫اح‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫س‬ ‫أَ ِ ر إ �‬ ‫ر � ر ِأَُل‬ ‫أَ ْ ُ قُ ِأَيْ أْ‬ ‫ّْق ّ‬ ‫�ن‬ ‫�� �ع��ن ا �ل��ِ�ص�د � �ي�م�ا‬ ‫� � ص�د � � ك‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫� � م ٱ ِي‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫فَ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫َ ْ‬ ‫َ تْ � � ُّ ن‬ ‫كا � و� �ص��ط����� ت� ب�ِ�ه‬ ‫و��س�ا ر� ب�ِ�ه لر ب��‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫نّ غ ِ ٱ‬ ‫�ْ‬ ‫��ذّ ّ �ل ٌ‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫و�إ�ي� ب�ِ���ا لي� � ح���م ِ�د وا ل� ِم ع�ا �م‬ ‫ِحَ �ّ ً أَ ق ُ ٱ ّ ْ قَ نّ َ ئ ٌ‬ ‫و������ق�ا � �ول � �ل��ِ�ص�د � إ� ِ�ي� لم�ا ِ�ل‬

‫ُ ْ تَ خْ بَ ٌ ن � أ � ق � ُ‬ ‫و�مَ����س�������أَرَ �ع����ه�ا ��ف��م�ا � �ن�ا ��اِ��ئ�ل‬ ‫تَ‬ ‫َ ٱ مَ ف ُ‬ ‫�خَ ّْ تُ ّ ْ‬ ‫�‬ ‫� � د ���ت�هُ إ� ��لي��ك � �ل��� ����ح�ا ِ�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��‬ ‫ير‬ ‫ل‬ ‫أُ فُّ‬ ‫ٱ ْ تَبَتْ ُ ٱ ق ئ ُ‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫��‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ك‬ ‫�‬ ‫���� ِ ي ٍ� و ج‬ ‫بل‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫َّ ّ�ة ن � ُ‬ ‫����م�ا ف���� ن‬ ‫ي�ه���م�ا �ا مي� � �لر�ِمي���ِ �ا ِ����ض�ل‬ ‫بِ‬ ‫َ ْ ظَ ُ ّ � ُ‬ ‫َ نْ‬ ‫� ��لي��ك و� � �ل�م ي�‬ ‫�‬ ‫إ‬ ‫ح��� بِ�ا �لودِ �م�ا �ئ�ل‬ ‫إ‬

‫‪Larsen‬‬ ‫‪6‬‬ ‫‪7‬‬ ‫‪8‬‬ ‫‪9‬‬

‫أَ ُ‬ ‫� ْ �م��ةٌ تُ� �ع �أل �عَ���ْ���ق ُ�د �ذ �ّ��م��ة‬ ‫ح‬ ‫ا‬ ‫� لا ر رَى‬ ‫ِ ٍ‬ ‫نَ‬ ‫أَ ُ نْ فٌ نْ � ْ ُ تَ فَ ض ّ ً‬ ‫� لا �م�����ص� إ� � ل �ج��د �م���������لا‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫م ِ‬ ‫ف تَ قْ عَ�نْ غَ ْ � ً َّ أَ � ً‬ ‫���� ��ي������ظ�ا ع��ل � �ن�ا �ِم�لا‬ ‫��لا �������طَ‬ ‫ي�‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫أَ ُ نْ ت ْ �نْ � ن َ ُ ْ‬ ‫ح����س�نٌ‬ ‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫� ط�ا ِ�هر إ� � ح ِ����س ف��إ ِ�ي� ِ‬

‫أَ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫��ا � لا ف���ْع�ٌ �ل��قَ�� ْل �ُم ش‬ ‫�ل‬ ‫ك‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫���‬ ‫�‬ ‫ِ ل‬ ‫�جِ ٍر أَ ِ ل ِ وٍ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ق ض‬ ‫ع�لي�� ن���ا � لا ��ا �ٍ� �ِم��نَ � ��لن��ا ��ِس ع�ا ِد ل‬ ‫ُ ضَّ تْ َّ ٱ �أَ � ُ‬ ‫ف قَ َْ َ‬ ‫����� ب���ل�ك �م�ا �ع������� ع��لي� � ل �ن�ا �ِم�ل‬ ‫تَ�ْ�خَ ْ ف نّ َ �خ ُ‬ ‫َ نْ‬ ‫� �‬ ‫إ� ��لي��ك و�إ� ب��ل ��إ ِ�ي� ب�ا ِ �ل‬

‫‪90‬‬

‫‪3. In kāna lī dhanbun (Dīwān ʿAlī 169, no. 78), meter: sarīʿ.‬‬

‫‪1‬‬ ‫‪2‬‬ ‫‪3‬‬ ‫‪4‬‬ ‫‪5‬‬ ‫‪6‬‬

‫ْ‬ ‫نَ �ذَ نْ ٌ ف ُ ْ �ةٌ‬ ‫إ� ن� ك�ا � لي� � ب� ���ل� ح‬ ‫�ر�م�‬ ‫ِي‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫�زَ �ّ�لَ�ت‬ ‫� ْ �مَ�ت � �ْع ���ظَ�� ��ُم �م��ن‬ ‫ي�‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫وحر ي�‬ ‫ق قٌ‬ ‫��ه ��ة‬ ‫�غ ي��ُر جم‬ ‫ول� �‬ ‫� � ولٍ�‬ ‫ح����و�‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ُ ُّ ن‬ ‫� �ذ ٌ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫وك�ل إ� ���س�ا ٍ� ل�ه ���م� �ه� ب�‬ ‫� ق �ةٌ‬ ‫�ةُ ٱ �أَ ْ‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫��‬ ‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ن‬ ‫��‬ ‫و ِ����سي��ر � ل � ل ِك‬ ‫ول� ا‬ ‫� تَعَ َّ ْ تَ ٱ ّ�ذ‬ ‫خ���فْ�����ُ�ت�هُ‬ ‫�‬ ‫و��ق�د ���� ج���ل�� � �ل� ي� ِ‬

‫َ ْ فَ ُ ُ ٱ‬ ‫َ قُّ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫وا �ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح� لا ي��د �����ع�ه � �ل ����ب�ا ِط�ل‬ ‫ن� ُ‬ ‫�ن َ ْ‬ ‫ن �لَ�ن‬ ‫�لو �ا � ي� �ِم� ع�د �ِل��ك��م �ا �ئ�ل‬ ‫َ ْ فُ‬ ‫� ُ‬ ‫ٱ قُ‬ ‫وا ��ل‬ ‫�ي���ع�ر�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ه‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ج‬ ‫ع‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِل‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َ فْ عَ ُ ُ ٱ ف ُ‬ ‫أ ُ‬ ‫و� ���ه�ل ���م�ا ي�������� �ل�ه � �ل�����ا ِ���ع�ل‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ئ ٌ َ�خْ‬ ‫���ج�ا �ر ي�‬ ‫�����فَى ولا ���ع�ا ِد ل‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫آُ ُ‬ ‫ن َ‬ ‫�أ ت ٱ ّ�ذ‬ ‫� � �ل� �ي� � ���م�ل‬ ‫�م���ك ولم ��ي� ِ‬

‫‪4. Crucifixion poem (Dīwān ʿAlī 171–4, no. 82), meter: kāmil.‬‬

‫‪1‬‬ ‫‪2‬‬ ‫‪3‬‬ ‫‪4‬‬ ‫‪5‬‬ ‫‪6‬‬ ‫‪7‬‬ ‫‪8‬‬ ‫‪9‬‬ ‫‪10‬‬ ‫‪11‬‬

‫شّ �ذ �خ صَ �ةَ ٱ‬ ‫َ َْ‬ ‫ل ْ ي�ن�����ص��بوا ب�ا �ل����ا ِ ي�ا ِ � �ب���ي���‬ ‫ح� � لِ�إ‬ ‫م ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫�نَ���صَ� �� ا ب�‬ ‫����م�د � �ل�ّ�ل�ه �م�ْ ءَ �ع�� ن�هْ‬ ‫ح‬ ‫يو‬ ‫�‬ ‫ٱبو َ ِّ ِْ ِ ل ُِ ِم‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ف �ةً ُ‬ ‫�م�ا � �ز د ا د إ� لا ر�����ع� ب�ن����كو�لِ�ه‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫كا نَ �ّلا �ٱ �ل��لّ��� ثَ ف��ا َ قَ غ�����لَ�هُ‬ ‫�ه�ل ْ � � إ �أَ ي � ر � ِ ي‬ ‫�أ مَ ٱ‬ ‫�شَ ّ ت‬ ‫لا ي� � ��ن � ل ع�د ا ءُ �ِم��ن �� �د اِ�ِ�ه‬ ‫بَ ُِ أَ نْ‬ ‫ُ��زَّ �ع ����ن�ه �ل���ب�ا �ُ�س�هُ‬ ‫�م�ا ع�ا ��ه � � ب‬ ‫ِ�‬ ‫نْ ُْتَ�ذَ ْ ف ْ ُ ُ ْ‬ ‫إ� � ي�ب��� ل ��ا ��لب��د ر لا ي��ز ر �ي� �ِ��بِ�ه‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫أ َ ْ ُُ ُ ٱ َ ُْ ُ‬ ‫�فَ قْ ُ ُ‬ ‫� ���س��ل� ه � لم�ا �‬ ‫ح�ز ن� �����د ه‬ ‫أو ي ب و ل ي ِ‬ ‫َ�ْ ُ ُ ف َ ُ�ْ بَ ُ‬ ‫ئٌ‬ ‫� و ي�‬ ‫ح�ِب���سوه ��ل�����ي��س ي�‬ ‫ح����س ���س�ا �ر‬ ‫نَّ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫� د �نَ��هُ‬ ‫َ بَ ت ت‬ ‫إ� � � لم���ص�ا ي�ِ� �م�ا ��ع�د ِ ي‬ ‫أْ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫وا �ل��ل�هُ �ل�����ي��س ب� غ���ا فِ��ل �ع��ن � �مره‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِِ‬ ‫ٍ‬

‫ث�ْ�نَ���ن‬ ‫�م غ�����م اًر ولا جم‬ ‫�‬ ‫���هولا‬ ‫و‬ ‫يِ‬ ‫ْ تْ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ً‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫َ‬ ‫�� شَ��� � ��ا و�م� ء �� �ص�د �ه ��‬ ‫� ي���لا‬ ‫ر ِل‬ ‫ورِم ب�جِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ٱ�زْ َ ت ٱ �أَ ْ ُ ن نُ ُ‬ ‫� � ل ع�د اء �ع���ه ���كولا‬ ‫و� أَ د اد ِ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫م‬ ‫��ح��مَ� م‬ ‫ف �تَ ُ ف�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح���مولا‬ ‫�ر�ي���� �ه ي�‬ ‫ٍل‬ ‫ّ اً ُ فَ ّ ُ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫�� شَ��� �د ي��������ص�ل �ه�ا ���م�هُ ت���ف������صي���لا‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ف�ٱ َّ فُ أَ ْ َُ ُ َ‬ ‫� �ل����سي��� � �هول �م�ا ي�ر�ى �م��س��لولا‬ ‫أَ نْ‬ ‫نَ �ةَ ّ‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫كا � ��لي��ل� ِت��ِ��مِ�ه �م ����ب� ولا‬ ‫�� �‬ ‫َ ً أَ ََ‬ ‫ً نَ‬ ‫ض���ي�� ����ف�ا � ل ّ و��ط�ا ر�ق�ا و�� ��ز �لا‬ ‫ِي‬ ‫م َ َ ُ ٱ �ز �زَ �ذَ‬ ‫�ِم��نْ � �ش� �عره ي��د � �ل�ع � �ِ�لي��لا‬ ‫ِ ِِ ع ي‬ ‫ن ْ نْ‬ ‫ق‬ ‫صَ ُ بَ تْ‬ ‫� ع��لي��ه ��ِ�لي��لا‬ ‫ِ��عٌ و�إ� � �ع���‬ ‫م َ‬ ‫َّ َ‬ ‫كلا‬ ‫وك����فَى بِ�رب��ك ن�ا �ِص اًر ووِي��‬ ‫ِ‬

‫‪91‬‬ ‫‪12‬‬ ‫‪13‬‬ ‫‪14‬‬ ‫‪15‬‬ ‫‪16‬‬ ‫‪17‬‬ ‫‪18‬‬

‫َ َْت َّ‬ ‫تَ ْ ُُ ُ نْ‬ ‫كل �م�ا‬ ‫ل��ن ���س��لب�وه و�إ� ��س��ل ب���ْ �‬ ‫م‬ ‫تَ ْ ُ‬ ‫�ك نَ� �ل�د �ن��ه َ���ق�������هن‬ ‫�ه�ل ����م�ِ�ل� و ِ ِ يِ ِ ويِيِ ِ‬ ‫تَنْقُ ُ ُ ق مَ َ ْ‬ ‫�ك ت�ْ �ظُ �ْلمَ�هُ‬ ‫ل �������ص ه ��د � ��ل�‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬ ‫و وُ ُ م أَّ‬ ‫تْ‬ ‫نُ � �ةً ن ْ‬ ‫ت‬ ‫�‬ ‫كاد � ���كو� م��ِ�ص�ي�ب�� �لو � � ك‬ ‫�‬ ‫ٱ َّ أ أَ م‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫نَ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن ئ�ة‬ ‫إ� � �‬ ‫كا � ��س� �إلى � �ل�د ِ�ي���ِ � و ر� �ى‬ ‫�أَ‬ ‫ُنْ فُ ٱ ّ ُ تَ ْ ُْ‬ ‫�لو ت�� ِ����س� � ل ���ي�ا ل ����عث��ر �ِ��بِ�ه‬ ‫م م‬ ‫��لَتَ ْ َُ�نَّ ٱ � ق ُ تَ َ شَّ فَ تْ‬ ‫و��ع�ل�م� �إ�ذا � ل������لو ب� ���ك�������‬

‫‪The Crucified Speaks‬‬

‫خَ� َّ�لْ���ُ�ت ُ��م هُ َ ��� �ا �م��ةً ��قَ ُ‬ ‫و و و س‬ ‫�� ب��ولا‬ ‫و‬ ‫بَ‬ ‫جَ‬ ‫و� ����ن�ا ن�ِ�ه و�����ي�ا ن�ِ�ه ت� ���ْ�ب ِ�د ي�لا‬ ‫أَ ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫نَ جَ ُ‬ ‫ٱ ّْ ُ ّ نْ‬ ‫�و� �‬ ‫�م�ا � ��لن�ق�����ص إ� لا � � ي� ك‬ ‫���هولا‬ ‫أَ ض َ ْ ُ �ذَ ْ‬ ‫� ��‬ ‫���حت�ُ ن� ���� ًب�ا ع�ل����ي�ه ���ج�ِ�لي��لا‬ ‫و ٱ م‬ ‫ٱ �أُ‬ ‫�غ��َ � �ل‬ ‫��ِ��مي���ل �ِم��نَ � ل �مور �ج ِ�م����ي�لا‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫يْر �ج ِ‬ ‫نَ‬ ‫ََ َ‬ ‫�إ�ذ ك�ا � �ِم��ن عث��ر تا���ه��نّ �ُم��قِ��ي���لا‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫أَ َِ ُّ‬ ‫ن ٱ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫�أَ�كنّ���ةُ �مَ ��ن � ض���ل ��س�ب�ي��لا‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�ع����ه�ا �‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬

‫‪5. Al-ʿIqd al-farīd vii, 175.‬‬

‫تّ‬ ‫آ‬ ‫ُبَ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫َ َّ‬ ‫���ه� ب�م��ْر��س �ق�د � ج��ت��م�ع� ت� ا ��لن��ا ��س ع��لي��ه و �‬ ‫ب�ن �ل‬ ‫حو�ل�ه ف��ل�مّ�ا ر� ه ا لم��بر��سُ �ق���ص�د �‬ ‫ح��لق��وا �‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫حوه‬ ‫و�مر ع��لي� � ا ج� م ِ ِ ٍم إ‬ ‫م‬ ‫أَ ْ �أ‬ ‫و�أ�خ ��ذ ��ع ن���ا ن��ه ث�ّ � �ن ش���� ي���ق�� ل [�م��ن م‬ ‫�ج�ز وء ا �ل ك�‬ ‫��ا �م�ل]‪:‬‬ ‫و‬ ‫بِ‬ ‫م‬ ‫تَ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫هَ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫مَ‬ ‫مَ‬ ‫��ذ ��نَ‬ ‫� ّ‬ ‫� ا �هُ‬ ‫لا �‬ ‫ح���ِ���ف�لَ�ن بِ���� � شَ‬ ‫ع���� �ر � �ل�ـ‬ ‫�ـ���� ��جِ� � ل� ي‬ ‫ر ُم‬ ‫أَْ ٍ‬ ‫ف حَ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫���ع�ا ف��ا �هُ‬ ‫و�مَ ��ن‬ ‫� قّ �م��ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫ن���ف��‬ ‫� ��لَى بِ���ه�‬ ‫��س‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ُم‬ ‫ُب‬ ‫و ِ‬ ‫ِم‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫مَ‬ ‫�ق َ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ك�ا ن� ا ���ه��ُ �مَ ��ت�ا �هُ‬ ‫�ل‬ ‫� ت�ا �هْ ��ه�‬ ‫����‬ ‫و‬ ‫م و م‬ ‫و أِ ي س و م بِ�ِ م‬ ‫ف ّ‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ث�ّ ن� ظ���ر �‬ ‫حو�ل�ه ف�ر� �ى �غ�لا �ًم�ا �ج �مي���ل ا ��ل�هي��ئ����ة �‬ ‫ح����س�ن ا �لو�ج �ه � ش��� ق� ث�ي��ا ب��ه و��ا ل‪:‬‬ ‫م‬ ‫أَ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ٰ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫�‬ ‫� � �ش� ق���ا �هُ‬ ‫�ل�د ��ه�‬ ‫���ه��ذا ا �ل����سِ�عي���د‬ ‫�ق�د �� �ص�ا ر بِ�ي�‬ ‫م‬ ‫ي�ِ م‬ ‫‪Bibliography‬‬ ‫‪ʿAlī’s Poems‬‬

‫ ‬

‫‪Other Primary Sources‬‬

‫ ‬

‫‪Dīwān ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm, ed. Kh. Mardam Beg, Damascus 1949, repr. Beirut 1980.‬‬

‫‪ʿAdī ibn al-Riqāʿ, Dīwān shiʿr ʿAdī, ed. N.Ḥ. al-Qaysī and Ḥ.Ṣ. al-Ḍāmin, Baghdad 1987.‬‬ ‫‪ʿAdī ibn Zayd, Dīwān ʿAdī, ed. M.J. al-Muʿaybid, Baghdad 1965.‬‬ ‫‪Al-Aḥwaṣ al-Anṣārī, Shiʿr al-Aḥwaṣ, ed. ʿĀ.S. Jamāl, Cairo 1990.‬‬ ‫‪al-Iṣbahānī, Abū l-Faraj, Kitāb al-Aghānī, ed. I. al-Ibyārī, 31 vols., Cairo 1969–79.‬‬ ‫‪Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, al-ʿIqd al-farīd, ed. M. al-Tūnjī, 7 vols., Beirut 2001.‬‬

92

Larsen

Ibn Ḥamdūn, al-Tadhkira al-Ḥamdūniyya, ed. I. ʿAbbās and B. ʿAbbās, 10 vols., Beirut 1996. Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt al-aʿyān wa-anbāʾ abnāʾ al-zamān, ed. I. ʿAbbās, 8 vols., Beirut 1978. al-Kindī, Yaʿqūb ibn Isḥāq, Rasāʾil al-Kindī al-falsafiyya, ed. M.ʿA. Abū Rīda, 2 vols., Cairo 1950–53 (repr. Frankfurt 1999). Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt al-shuʿarāʾ al-muḥdathīn, ed. ʿU.F. al-Ṭabbāʿ, Beirut 1998. Suḥaym ʿAbd Banī l-Ḥasḥās, Dīwān Suḥaym, ed. ʿA. al-Maymanī, Cairo 1950. Al-Ṣūlī, Abū Bakr Muḥammad ibn Yaḥyā, Akhbār Abī Tammām, ed. Kh.M. ʿAsākir et al., Beirut [1966], repr. Beirut 1980; ed. and trans. B. Gruendler, The life and times of Abū Tammām, Library of Arabic Literature, New York 2015. Al-Thaʿālibī, Abū Manṣūr, Taḥsīn al-qabīḥ wa-taqbīḥ al-ḥasan, ed. ʿA.ʿA. Muḥammad, Cairo 1994. Yāqūt al-Ḥamawī, Muʿjam al-ʿudabāʾ, ed. I. ʿAbbās, 7 vols., Beirut 1993.



Secondary Sources

Ali, S.M., Arabic literary salons in the Islamic middle ages, South Bend 2010. Anthony, S.W., Crucifixion and death as spectacle: Umayyad crucifixion in its Late Antique context (AOS 96), New Haven 2014. Anthony, S.W., The domestic origins of imprisonment: An inquiry into an early Islamic institution, in JAOS 129 (2009), 571–96. al-Bāshā, ʿA., ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm: Ḥayātuhu wa-shiʿruhu, Cairo [1967]. Bataille, G., Inner experience, tr. L.A. Boldt, Albany 1988. Bencheikh, J.E., Le cénacle poétique du calife al-Mutawakkil (m. 247): contribution a l’analyse des instances de légitimation socio-littéraires, in BEO 29 (1977), 33–52. Best, S., and S. Marcus, Surface reading: An introduction, in Representations 108 (2009), 1–21. Bewes, T., Reading with the grain: A new world in literary criticism, in differences 21 (2010), 1–33. Caruth, C., Introduction, to American imago 48:1 (1991), 1–12. Caruth, C., ed. Trauma: Explorations in memory, Baltimore 1995. Ḍayf, Sh., Tārīkh al-adab al-ʿarabī, 10 vols., Cairo 1960–1995. De Lauretis, T., Technologies of gender: Essays on theory, film, and fiction, Bloomington 1987. Fahd, T., Fa‌ʾl, in EI2. Fanon, F., The wretched of the earth, tr. C. Farrington, New York 1968. Gelder, G.J. van, Beautifying the ugly and uglifying the beautiful, in JSS 48 (2003), 321–51. Gilhuly, K., The feminine matrix of sex and gender in classical Athens, Cambridge (UK) 2009.

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93

Kaabi, M., Les Ṭāhirides: Étude historico-littéraire de la dynastie des Banū Ṭāhir b. al-Ḥusayn au Ḫurāsān et en Iraq au IIIème s. de l’Hégire / IXème s. J.-C., 2 vols., Tunis 1983. Kurke, L., Gendered spheres and mythic models in Sappho’s Brothers Poem, in A. Bierl and A. Lardinois (eds.), The newest Sappho: P. Obbink and P. GC Inv. 105, frs. 1–5, Leiden 2016, 238–65. Lange, C., Legal and cultural aspects of ignominious parading (tashhīr) in Islam, in Islamic Law and Society 14 (2007), 81–108. Lange, C., Where on earth is hell? State punishment and eschatology in the Islamic middle period, in C. Lange and M. Fierro (eds.) Public violence in Islamic Societies, Edinburgh 2009, 156–78. Lange, C., and M. Fierro (eds.), Public violence in Islamic societies: Power, discipline and the construction of the public sphere, 7th–19th centuries CE, Edinburgh 2009. Lecomte, G., Muḥammad ibn al-Djahm, in EI2. Rosenthal, F., Al-Kindî als Literat, in Orientalia 11 (1942), 262–88. Rosenthal, F., Humor in early Islam, Philadelphia 1956. Rowson, E., Reveal or conceal: Public humiliation and banishment as punishments in early Islamic times, in C. Lange and M. Fierro (eds.) Public Violence in Islamic Societies, Edinburgh 2009, 119–29. Al-Ṣamad, W., al-Sujūn wa-atharuhā fī l-adab al-ʿarabī min al-ʿaṣr al-jāhilī ḥattā nihāyat al-ʿaṣr al-umawī, Beirut 1995. Savant, S.B., The new Muslims of post-conquest Iran: Tradition, memory, and conversion, Cambridge (UK) 2013. Schechner, R., From Ritual to Theater and Back, in R. Schechner and M. Schuman (eds.), Ritual, play and performance, New York 1976, 196–222. Seidensticker, T., Responses to crucifixion in the Islamic world (1st–7th/7th–13th centuries) in C. Lange and M. Fierro (eds.), Public violence in Islamic societies, Edinburgh 2009, 203–16. Stetkevych, J., The zephyrs of Najd: The poetics of nostalgia in the classical Arabic nasīb, Chicago 1993. Tillier, M., Prisons et autorités urbaines sous les Abbassides, in Arabica 55 (2008), 387–408. Tillier, M., Vivre en prison à l’époque abbasside, in JESHO 52 (2009), 635–59. Ullmann, M., Das Motiv der Kreuzigung in der arabischen Poesie des Mittalalters, Wiesbaden 1995. Wright, W., A grammar of the Arabic language (3d ed), Cambridge 1988.

CHAPTER 6

Man is Not the Only Speaking Animal: Thresholds and Idiom in al-Jāḥiẓ Jeannie Miller Furthermore, according to the language of the Arabs, every animal is either eloquent ( faṣīḥ) or a foreign-speaker (aʿjam) . . . Man is the eloquent one even if he expresses himself in Persian, Hindi, or Greek. al-Jāḥiẓ, Kitāb al-Ḥayawān i, 31:6–7 and 32:9–10

∵ Al-Jāḥiẓ was a theologian who wrote in a literary manner. By this I mean that he used the full range of the Arabic language, including technical, idiomatic, ambiguous, unambiguous, connotative and direct expressions. A flexible use of language often invades passages of tight dialectical argumentation in his works, bringing together what might seem to be contrary ways of thinking. This essay* is one foray into the difficult question of how al-Jāḥiẓ understood the relationship between idiom and logic, and between the semantic drift of literary language and the practice of dialectic with its defined terms. It addresses a particular case where al-Jāḥiẓ seems to use idiom and onomatopoeia to argue a point that he elsewhere contradicts in straightforward language, namely the idea that animals “speak.” That the context is a classification, typically a site of technical and defined usages, only makes the passage more confusing. The introduction to Kitāb al-Ḥayawān contains a taxonomy of “the world and what it contains.” When it comes time to distinguish between humans and the other animals, al-Jāḥiẓ refers to Aristotle’s definition of man as “a speaking animal” (ḥayy nāṭiq) but prefers to articulate this distinction as a difference between “eloquent” ( faṣīḥ) and “foreign-speaking” (aʿjam) animals,1 on the *  I dedicate this essay to Everett Rowson, in admiration of his character, scholarship, humor, and imagination. He has already read a brief overview of this topic in my dissertation, “More than the sum of its parts.” Previous versions of this essay benefited greatly from the feedback of colleagues at three meetings in 2014: the American Oriental Society, the American Comparative Literature Association conference, and the School of Abbasid Studies. © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_007

Man Is Not the Only Speaking Animal

95

grounds that in Arabic poetry and idiom, animals are often called “speaking” (nāṭiq) to distinguish them from inanimate, and thus silent, objects. He underscores the realism of this idiom by citing animal vocalizations that effectively communicate, and onomatopoetic Arabic words for animal utterances, in which the animal lexicon invades human speech. The passage is evocative and ambiguous. Is al-Jāḥiẓ making a statement about Aristotle’s understanding of human nature? About the relation between human and animal communication? About the role of idiom in scientific discourse? About the relative value of logical definitions and lexicography’s periphrastic definitions? By tracking the case of animal “speech” through Kitāb al-Ḥayawān, I offer here one interpretation of his insistence on using idiom in his taxonomy: Although al-Jāḥiẓ followed the diverse practices of both exegetes and theologians in substituting literal terms to explain idiom,2 he did not in fact accept the adequacy of such substitutions to express the knowledge conveyed by the idiom. Neither did he accept the Aristotelian approach to definition advocated by the craft of logic.3 In the case of animal speech, the idiomatic application of the term nāṭiq to non-human animals expresses a similarity between human and animal communication that al-Jāḥiẓ elaborates at various points in Kitāb al-Ḥayawān. It is possible to substitute for “bird speech” (manṭiq al-ṭayr) the phrase “bird communication through vocalization,” but this substitution would not express the similarity between human speech and birdsong. This approach to idiom reflects the common assumption that like literal meaning, the idiomatic meaning is “agreed upon” (muṣṭalaḥ ʿalayhi) by the language community, and that idiom arises after the literal sense through a process of derivation, according to which new usages reflect a similarity to old usages.4

Animal Communication is Like Human Communication

Al-Jāḥiẓ’s comments on animal communication throughout Kitāb al-Ḥayawān show that he believes animal communication is composed of the same constituent elements as human language, differing from human language in its degree of complexity. Besides the introduction to Kitāb al-Ḥayawān, there are 1  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān i, 31:5–33:3. Not to be confused with the sense of the term aʿjam within the opposite pair al-ʿarab wa-l-ʿajam. Al-Jāḥiẓ, Al-Ḥayawān i, 32:9–14. 2  Heinrichs, On the genesis 133–6. 3  He likely at the very least had read a summary of Porphyry’s Isagoge, if not also epitomes or translations of the first books of Aristotle’s Manṭiq. Al-Kindī suggests that “youths and beginning students” typically started off by reading the Isagoge. Adamson, al-Kindī 141. 4  Carter, Adam and the technical terms 440; Weiss, Search 122.

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three main places where al-Jāḥiẓ discusses animal communication. At iv, 5–36, the chapter on ants begins with a discussion of ant communication, including the ant whose speech is quoted in Sūrat al-Naml.5 V, 286–290 describes an exceptional quality of the cat, namely the number of phonemes (ḥurūf ) it can articulate, within a chapter on the mouse, rat, cat, and scorpion and their mutual enmities.6 Finally, vii, 48–60 interprets the Quran’s claim that Solomon could understand “bird speech” (manṭiq al-ṭayr). Also relevant is the exegesis at iv, 77–85 of the hoopoe’s speech to Solomon, a passage that occurs as part of the explanation of the kalām doctrines on the boundary between humans and animals, in the context of discussing doctrines of physical transformation (maskh) in the chapter on pigs and monkeys.7 In all of these passages, al-Jāḥiẓ defends the historical reality of animal speech as reported in the Quran or observed in the world against a doubter who denies the possibility of animal speech. The passages also contain more or less specific explanations for how it is that the boundary between humans and animals is maintained despite the similarity between animal and human communication. Throughout, al-Jāḥiẓ takes care to distinguish himself on the one hand from the Dahriyya, who denied the possibility of unusual instances of animal speech as reported in the Quran, and on the other hand from those he called “proponents of ignorant knowledge” (aṣḥāb al-jahālāt), who believed all of animal life was one species, possessing reason and bearing moral responsibility (mukallaf ).8 Al-Jāḥiẓ uses terms and concepts drawn from the Arabic linguistic sciences to discuss animal communication. In arguing against someone who says that “the speech of birds” is not really speech, he writes, Is this speech of theirs considered communication and speech (bayānan wa-manṭiqan) for any reason other than their mutual understanding of each other’s needs through it, and because it is a composed sound (ṣawtan muʾallafan) exiting from tongue and mouth? Why shouldn’t the voices of the various species of birds and beasts, wild and tame, be communication and speech (bayānan wa-manṭiqan), when you know that they are articulated, formed, composed, and ordered (muqaṭṭaʿa, muṣawwara, 5  Q Naml 27:16. 6  On the disputed meanings of the term ḥurūf, see Peters, God’s created speech 295–9. I use the term phoneme in a non-technical sense to mean simply a unit of sound, without further specification. 7  The chapter is discussed extensively in Cook, Ibn Qutayba and the monkeys. 8  Crone, Dahrīs According to al-Jāḥiẓ; Crone, Al-Jāḥiẓ on Aṣḥāb al-jahālāt.

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muʾallafa, munaẓẓama) and that through them needs are understood, and they come out of a mouth and a tongue?9 Al-Jāḥiẓ here uses some of the most common terms found in Muʿtazilī definitions of language (kalām): “articulated sound” (ṣawt muqaṭṭaʿ) and “ordered” (manẓūm).10 Al-Jāḥiẓ refers to the sounds animals make as “phonemes” (makhārij al-aṣwāt and ḥurūf ).11 An animal species’s vocalization is composed of a closed set of phonemes (ḥurūf ), which al-Jāḥiẓ lists for a few animal species, in a passage about the exceptional phonetic variety in cat vocalization.12 The passage begins with a reference back to the terms laid out in this essay’s epigraph: We have seen that the “foreign-speaking” (al-ʿujm) predators and prey are nobler the more closely they approach a resemblance to humans, and mankind is the eloquent ( faṣīḥ) and the speaking (nāṭiq). They apply idiomatically (yashtaqqūna) the term nāṭiq to the other animals that vocalize and shriek, saying it together with the term ṣāmiṭ. It is to make this distinction [between vocalizing and silent] that they give it this similarity (mushākala) and this idiomatic usage (ishtiqāq). Whenever a degree of phonemes is prepared (tahayya‌ʾa) for the tongue of one [species] that exceeds the degrees (yafḍul ʿalā maqādīr) of others, then this [species] is more deserving of the name (awlā bi-l-ism) in their speech.13 Al-Jāḥiẓ then lists a number of phonemes articulated by various animals. He says that the crow says the letter qāf, the goat says “māʾ,” the dog says the letters wāw, ʿayn, and fāʾ (“waw-waw,” “ʿaf-ʿaf ”), the sandgrouse says its name “qaṭā,” and the parrot can say almost all of the letters in the (Arabic?) alphabet.14 Cats, however, utter the greatest variety of phonemes. Al-Jāḥiẓ goes so far as to apply to cats the concept of corpus as developed in Arabic phonetic science, encouraging his audience to listen to cats howling at night and note down the 9  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān vii, 57:10–14. 10  ʿAbd al-Jabbār, al-Mughnī vii, 6–13. 11   Makhārij al-aṣwāt: al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān iv, 22:7; ḥurūf: v, 286:13, and continuously through v, 289:7. 12  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān v, 282:1–289:7. They, here, appears to refer to early authoritative speakers of Arabic. 13  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān v, 286:8–14. 14  For recordings of today’s birdcalls, see www.xeno-canto.org. The qaṭā sound may be heard for example in the recordings of the pin-tailed sandgrouse.

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phonemes (ḥurūf) they hear.15 He thus recreates a scene of scientific observation similar to the one depicted by al-Sīrāfī in which Abū l-Aswad al-Duʾalī (d. 69/688–9) tells his colleague to watch him speaking and write down the vowels pronounced by noting the shape of his mouth in making each vowel sound.16 In the same passage, al-Jāḥiẓ argues strenuously that animal vocalization communicates meaning, and thus satisfies the criterion for communication (bayān), namely “mutual understanding” (tafāhum) or “understanding and making people understand” (al-fahm wa-l-ifhām).17 ʿAbd al-Jabbār (d. ca. 1025) may have been rejecting this claim when he denied that birdsong was speech (kalām), on the grounds that it was not “comprehensible” (yufīd, aw yaṣiḥḥ an yufīd).18 At the same time, al-Jāḥiẓ suggests that the use of bayān to describe the communication of animals and inanimate objects is in fact not literally correct but rather idiomatic, concluding his citation of idiomatic uses of various terms for language by the ancients as follows: The Arabs use language idiomatically (al-ʿarab tatawassaʿ fī kalāmihim). Anything by which people understand each other is communication (bayān), though some [examples] are more beautiful than others.19 In the introduction, he uses the term “intent” (irāda), also common in linguistic analyses of sense, and he treats animal vocalization as communicating meaning: By my life, we understand [through its vocalization] most of the intent (irāda), needs (ḥawāʾij) and aims (quṣūd) of the horse, the donkey, the dog, the cat, and the camel, just as we understand the intent of a young child in its cradle. We comprehend—and this comprehension is an obvious ( jalī) thing—that his crying indicates something other than what his laughter indicates, and that the neigh of a horse when it sees a nosebag indicates something other than its neigh when it sees a mare, and the cry 15  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān v, 289:2–7. 16  Fleish, Kasra, translates the description of the scene from al-Sīrāfī, Akhbār al-naḥwiyyīn. 17  This paraphrase appears in al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān i, 30. 18  ʿAbd al-Jabbār, al-Mughnī vi, 14–15. 19  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān v, 287:10–11. Cf. Versteegh, Freedom of the speaker? for tawassuʿ and ittisāʿ. This passage calls into question the definitive way that medieval and modern scholarship has approached al-Jāḥiẓ’s theory of bayān. See, e.g., Behzadi, Sprache und Verstehen. His theory of the world as a system of signs is as she describes it, but nonetheless bayān is used idiomatically throughout. The same problem applies to animal speech, so I hope this essay can help qualify discussions of his bayān theory as well.

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of a female cat to a tomcat is different from her cry to her child. There are many other examples.20 Animals communicate certain senses using consistent vocalizations, and these senses are called intents, needs, and aims. In this passage, animal communication is compared to the communication of a baby. Human languages too differ from one another based on the same criterion of phonetic complexity. The passage on the feline phonetic corpus continues climbing the scale of phonetic complexity after describing cat vocalization, and goes on to explain that human languages are more or less difficult to learn due to the number and difficulty of their phonemes (amākin, makhārij), so that a person can learn the language of East Africa (zanjī) more or less in a month, whereas you can do business with and be a neighbor to Khūzīs for a long time without any profit.21 We might then conclude that the spectrum of communicative capacity runs from the phonetically simple animal languages (such as the sandgrouse or the goat, that only say qaṭā or māʾ) up through more phonetically complex animal languages (such as that of cats) to simple human languages like that of East Africa and finally more complex human languages like the language of Khuzistan (khūzī). Overall linguistic complexity is not, however, determined purely by phonetics, but rather it depends also on the number of meaningful expressions (alfāẓ or asmāʾ for humans and ṣuwar, or forms, for animals). We saw above that cat vocalization has as many phonemes as human languages. Cats, however, only use these phonemes for a limited number of expressions because they have few communicative needs. The passage cited above ends with the following remark: You will observe a number of letters (ḥurūf ) that would form a language with soundly assigned [expressions], if [the cats] had needs (ḥājāt), reason, and agency, and if the letters were composed [into meaningful expressions]. Fa-innaka tarā min ʿadad al-ḥurūf mā law kāna lahā min al-ḥājāt wa-l-ʿuqūl wa-l-istiṭāʿāt, thumma allafathā, la-kānat lugha ṣāliḥat al-mawḍiʿ mutawassiṭat al-ḥāl.22 20  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān i, 32:3–8. 21  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān v, 289:9–13. I assume that by “profit” he means acquiring knowledge of the language of Khuzistan. 22  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān v, 289.

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Al-Jāḥiẓ here states that if all of these distinct phonemes were composed to form meaningful expressions, responding to the needs imposed by the cats’ hypothetical reason and moral agency, then cat language would fall somewhere toward the middle of the spectrum of (human) linguistic complexity. In this passage, he associates reason and agency, possessed exclusively by humans, with “needs” (ḥājāt), which we saw above is one of al-Jāḥiẓ’s terms for the intent or meaning of animal vocalization. Al-Jāḥiẓ explains the political significance of this key term when he first introduces the term bayān in the introduction to Kitāb al-Ḥayawān.23 There, he writes that the primary importance of bayān lies in its function as a tool allowing humans to work together to fulfill their needs. Humans depend on one another to obtain what they need for subsistence, safety, and pleasure, as well as to build knowledge about harmful and beneficial things in the world, including God’s law and the place of humans in the cosmic scheme. He specifically states that without experiencing a “need,” people would not use bayān at all. These primary “needs,” which differ between individuals “according to one’s allotted portion” are the basis for the chain of events leading to the development of language, and ultimately human political and intellectual life.24 This political theory of communication complements his doctrine of maṣlaḥa, that God created the heavens and the earth in humanity’s best interest (maṣlaḥa), and that both harmful and beneficial things are required to spur the intellectual activity that allows moral agency, and thus humanity’s best interest (maṣlaḥa).

“Their Meanings are in Proportion to Their Needs”

Apparently, however, it is not only humans who participate in this trinity of needs, communication, and political life all in proportion to one another. At the start of his discussion of the quranic phrase “bird speech” (manṭiq al-ṭayr), al-Jāḥiẓ writes, Every species has its craft (iḥtirāf) and its manner of seeking sustenance (takassub). It has a strategy to escape from its hunter, and a strategy to hunt its prey . . . They have a speech by which they understand one another’s needs (lahā manṭiq tatafāham bihā ḥājāt baʿḍihā al-baʿḍ). They have no need for any excess in their speech beyond what they need to

23  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān i, 42:18–46:4. 24  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān i, 44:7.

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use. Thus the meanings they can express are in proportion to their needs (maʿānīhā fi maqādīr ḥājātihā).25 The passage goes on to link a creature’s degree of needs and expressions to the degree of reason it possesses, citing an unnamed philosopher: It was said to one of the philosophers, “When did you become rational?” (matā ʿaqilta). He said, “The minute I was born.” When he saw they disbelieved him, he said, “I cried when I was afraid, I asked for food when I was hungry, I asked for the breast when I needed it, and became quiet when I was given it.” He said, “These were the degree of my needs. He who knows the degrees of his needs and whether they are met has no need in that moment of any more reason than that.”26 The juxtaposition of the passages makes a link between animal and child communication, linking the limited needs of babies and animals to their limited expressive capacity. In a passage on the quranic phrase “bird speech” (manṭiq al-ṭayr), al-Jāḥiẓ comments, “These fixed degrees (aqdār) of composed sound are the limit of [each species’s] needs, and the communication (bayān) of [those needs].”27 The complexity of a species’s language is then in proportion to the needs it must express. In other words, animal vocalizations constitute communication of the same kind as human speech, but animals have less to communicate and so their communication tools are simpler. These passages in al-Jahiz’s own voice provide some evidence that it is with approval that he cites the following set of doctrines ascribed to “the Indians” as part of his defense of the historical reality of the ant’s speech in Sūrat al-Naml. These Indian doctrines place animal and human languages on a spectrum of complexity based on the “needs” that individuals of each group communicate to one another. The Indians claim: The reason why people have so much language,28 with different forms of expression (ṣuwar alfāẓihim), different phonemes in their speech, differing degrees of softness and hardness in their sounds, 25  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān vii, 55:13–56:6. 26  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān vii, 56:7–11. 27  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān vii, 56:3–5. 28   Kathura kalām al-nās. This could refer to the multiplicity of languages, but in context it makes more sense to assume it refers to the complexity and vastness of any human language, or human language in general.

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and elongation and cutting of sound, is the multiplicity of their needs. Because their needs are many, their thoughts are many, and thus their forms of expression (taṣāwīr alfāẓihim) are many. They broadened in proportion to the broadening of their knowledge. They say: The needs (ḥawāʾij) of cats are limited to five kinds: its cry when beaten which has a specific form (ṣūra); its cry when calling its sisters and friends, which has a specific form; its cry when calling its young to feed, which has a specific form; and its cry when it is hungry, which has a specific form. When the kinds of knowledge and the kinds of need are few, the phonemes (makhārij al-aṣwāt) it makes are few also. These sounds they make amongst themselves are their speech.29 There are five meaningful cat sounds, here called ṣuwar, which are in exact proportion to the communicative needs of cats. These ṣuwar are comparable to the sounds of human words, whose number is proportionate to the numerous needs of humans. This idea explains the comments on cats cited above: Cats have a human degree of phonetic complexity but a limited number of needs and thus their broad phonetic range serves only to articulate a highly restricted set of meaningful expressions. It is worth noting that al-Jāḥiẓ seems to use the term ism exclusively for words in human language, whereas meaningful animal vocalizations are consistently referred to as ṣuwar or alfāẓihim.

“God Taught Adam All the Names with All the Meanings”

This link between the number of needs and the number of meaningful expressions available to a species is in the human case expressed as an example of maṣlaḥa, God’s providential provision for all of his creatures in the best possible way. Al-Jāḥiẓ uses the term maṣlaḥa to explain that human languages are not examples of an ideal communication system. While they are more complex than animal languages, they still do not represent some kind of absolute that animals poorly reflect. Just as animal languages are restricted in their complexity to what is necessary to fulfill the political needs of animal life, human languages too are restricted by the limited needs of human political life. In his ‘Epistle on Jest and Earnest,’30 al-Jāḥiẓ explains why, when he quotes

29  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān iv, 21:13–22:7. 30  The context is this: Al-Jāḥiẓ encourages his remiss patron, Ibn al-Zayyāt, to repent of his rash anger, and comforts the patron’s pride by reminding him that even Adam erred,

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the quranic statement that God “taught Adam all the names,”31 he prefers to include the supplementary explanation “. . . with all the meanings”:32 It would have been impossible for Him to teach [Adam] a name (ism) and leave aside the meaning, or to teach him a sign and not establish for him what it signifies. A name without a meaning is nonsense, like an empty vessel. Names have the status of bodies, and meanings have the status of souls. The expression (lafẓ) is a body for the meaning (maʿnā), and the meaning is a soul to the expression. If He had given him names without meanings, then this would be like giving something inanimate and motionless, with no sensation or utility [i.e. a corpse]. No expression (lafẓ) can be considered to be a name (ism) unless it inextricably contains (muḍammin bi-) a meaning. A meaning can exist without having a name, but there is no name without a meaning. In His speech, may His name be glorified, {He taught Adam all the names} informs us that He [also] taught him all the meanings. We do not mean that He taught him the meanings of every combination of colors, tastes, and smells, and the infinite multiplication of numbers that can never be completed. That which exceeds the degree needed for providential benefit (miqdār al-maṣlaḥa) and the purpose of providing a periphrastic definition (nihāyat al-rasm)33 has no name, unless you introduce it into the realm of knowledge by saying “a thing and something (shayʾ wa-maʿnan).”34 This is an unusual and revealing example of slippage between the sense of the term maʿnā as the meaning of a linguistic expression, and its ontological sense in theology as “entitative accident,” a thing (shayʾ) that usually exists by inhering in an atom ( jawhar), such as color, taste, temperature, and so on.35 Al-Jāḥiẓ here starts by glossing a name’s maʿnā as “its signified” (al-madlūl ʿalayhi), determined by assignation (waḍʿ), in this case divine assignation. He explains Adam who was so highly honored by “being taught all the words and all the meanings.” See Montgomery, In jest and earnest. 31  Q Baqara 2:31. 32  For the theological context, see Miller, What it means. 33  I have not yet been able to fully make sense of this phrase in context. 34  Al-Jāḥiẓ, Rasāʾil i, 262:5–15. 35  Frank, Beings and their attributes 111 note 3. I am not, however, aware of number being treated as an entitative accident. For a related and much more prevalent slippage between maʿnā as meaning and maʿnā as real-world thing, see Heinrichs, On the genesis.

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this does mean God taught Adam all the entitative accidents, not because he is here using the term maʿnā in a different sense, but rather because when he says “all the meanings” he means the meanings of the words that God taught Adam, not all the possible meanings in the world. Indeed, there are many unnamed things in the world, including various gradations of sensation and the infinite sequence of numbers. So the dual significance of maʿnā is here allowed to stand. Naming these infinite things is not necessary for humanity’s ideal well-being (maṣlaḥa); instead, God gave humans a finite number of words. If a person wishes to talk about something not included in this finite set of names, he must combine several words to convey that sense. Al-Jāḥiẓ continues: The names that circulate among people were only established (wuḍiʿat) as signposts (ʿalāmāt) for specific conditions (khaṣāʾiṣ al-ḥālāt), not for the results of combination (natāʾij al-tarākīb). Likewise, individual things (khāṣṣ al-khāṣṣ) have no name unless you accompany the expression (lafẓ) with a gesture as its name.36 It is possible that al-Jāḥiẓ is here suggesting that the named elements of reality are in some way original, phenomenally as well as linguistically, since he calls the unnamed elements “the results of combination,” referring back to the “combinations” of color, smell, and taste. In that case, “specific states” (khaṣāʾiṣ al-ḥālāt) would refer to primary colors, smells, and tastes. Or it is possible that al-Jāḥiẓ is referring to named colors, smells, and tastes that are linguistically but not phenomenally primary. Another category of unnamed thing in the world is the individual object, that can only be referred to with gesture, by saying “this dog,” for example. He continues: Names only apply to delimited knowledge, and, by my life, they do indeed encircle and encompass it. As for basic knowledge (al-ʿulūm al-mabsūṭa), it reaches the limit of [humanity’s] needs, and there it stops. If you claim that God (blessed and exalted) taught Adam all the names with their meanings, then this means up to the limit of human benefit (maṣlaḥa), nothing else.37 Al-Jāḥiẓ says nothing about linguistic diversity in this passage, because he viewed God’s gift of language to Adam as an originary moment applying in a

36  Al-Jāḥiẓ, Rasāʾil i, 262:16–263:6. 37  Al-Jāḥiẓ, Rasāʾil i, 263:3–6.

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way that he does not specify to all human languages. In ‘Epistle Refuting the Christians’ he writes, God used to speak to Adam as He had spoken to the angels [i.e. wordlessly]. Then He taught him all of the names, and He could not teach him all the names without including along with them all of the meanings. Thus He taught him all of his best interests (maṣāliḥ), and those of his progeny. This is the limit of the natures of people, and the sum of the faculties of created beings.38 There is a single, overarching best interest for humanity (maṣlaḥa) that necessitates human language, but that language is no more complex than what is needed to communicate humanity’s needs. The originary moment when God gave humanity language would appear to distinguish humans from animals. Although animals also receive their communicative systems from God, God’s provision of speech to humans is called “teaching” (taʿlīm) whereas for animals He has “prepared” certain expressions (yuhayyiʾ) for animals to articulate instinct rather than choice. The story of God teaching Adam the names is one of the key scriptural passages providing a primordial narrative for the elevation of humans above the level of the animals. Al-Jāḥiẓ’s other comments on animal communication, however, make it difficult to identify any specific feature of human language, other than its complexity, that causes it to stand apart. When he says that cats would only need agency and reason to lead them to “compose” their phonemes into a more complex array of meaningful expressions, al-Jāḥiẓ makes it sound like there is nothing about human language that sets it apart from animal language other than what the species needs it to do.

Reason and Agency

For al-Jāḥiẓ, reason (ʿaql), moral agency (istiṭāʿa), and moral responsibility (taklīf ) are exclusive to humans among the animals. On numerous occasions he excoriates the aṣḥāb al-jahālāt for their doctrine that animals have reason and moral agency.39 At the end of the introduction to Kitāb al-Ḥayawān, before 38  Al-Jāḥiẓ, Rasāʾil iii, 343:1–4. This passage obliquely responds to a claim that God can arbitrarily change the meanings of words according to the particular “best interest” (maṣlaḥa) of the time. For a discussion of this issue, see Miller, What it means. 39  See Crone, Al-Jāḥiẓ on Aṣḥāb al-jahālāt.

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launching into the body of the text,40 al-Jāḥiẓ includes a very short chapter offering a final warning not to confuse animal status with human status. The passage cautions the reader or listener to differentiate between proverbs like “more unjust than a snake” (aẓlam min ḥayya) that figuratively treat animals as if they had moral responsibility, and proverbs like “stupider than a bustard” (aḥmaq min ḥubārā), that refer only to the natural faculties of animals. They express these things with a phrase (ʿibāra) like the phrase that applies to people in cases when [the animals] do good or harm (al-iḥsān wa-l-isāʾa), making it seem like they are blamed and thanked (al-malūmīn wa-l-mashkūrīn) [implying moral responsibility]. Then in the other category [of proverbs], they use a different kind of expression, limiting their statement to the instinct (al-gharīza) and faculties (al-quwā) that are part of natural character (al-khilqa): “More sharp-eyed than an eagle,” “more sharp-eared than a horse,” “having longer death-pangs than a lizard,” and “healthier than an ostrich.” The second type [of proverb] is like expressing praise and censure (al-madḥ wa-l-dhamm), whereas the first type is like expressing blame and gratitude (al-lāʾima wa-l-shukr) . . . For people praise a village and censure another, and the same goes for food and drink but this is not along the lines of blame or gratititude. Heavenly reward (al-ajr) only applies through choice (al-takhayyur) and moral responsibility (al-takalluf ) to one who has been given agency (al-istiṭāʿa). The first type is given only natural character (al-khilqa) and a degree of knowledge (miqdār min al-maʿrifa), that falls short (lā yablugh) of what could be called reason (al-ʿaql). Similarly, not every41 power (quwwa) is called agency (al-istiṭāʿa). God, may he be praised and exalted, knows best.42

40  I treat the discourse on cross-breeds and eunuchs, like the discourse on speech defects in Kitāb al-Bayān wa-l-tabyīn, as the “foundational exception” integral to al-Jāḥiẓ’s introduction form, so that the introduction continues until the next chapter is announced at al-Ḥayawān i, 220:11. 41  Whereas other Muʿtazilī theologians felt that animals may deserve punishment for their acts on earth, al-Jāḥiẓ consistently and vociferously denies this, allowing only that animals may receive compensation in the afterlife for their suffering, not for their good or bad deeds. See Heemskerk, Suffering, 163–178; Adamson, On animals. 42  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān i, 221:4–222:16.

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Al-Jāḥiẓ here explains that although proverbs sometimes use language implying that animals may be held reponsible for their actions, in fact they are not responsible. Only humans possess reason (ʿaql) and moral agency (istiṭāʿa) and thus moral responsibility (taklīf ).43 This is an absolute boundary. He goes on to clarify that moral agency requires the presence of reason and knowledge (maʿrifa), but reason and knowledge do not necessarily entail moral agency.44 This passage, like many of the passages comparing human and animal language, uses a lexicon of threshold to make its point. The mathematical terms “degree,” “proportionate to,” “falls short of,” “exceeds,” “of middling status,” (miqdār, ʿalā maqādīr, lā yablugh, yafḍul ʿalā, mutawassiṭat al-ḥāl) and so on suggest that there is a spectrum of language complexity, with a threshold that is only crossed when reason and moral agency entail a proliferation of political and thus communicative needs. Above this threshold we have what is literally called language (manṭiq); below this threshold we have communication that can be called language (manṭiq) “in a certain sense.” Here, the language of threshold suggests that reason may be nothing more than a greater “degree of knowledge” (miqdār min al-maʿrifa) than what animals possess. Al-Jāḥiẓ here also suggests that the relation between knowledge and reason is the same as the relation between “power” and “moral agency.” Thus knowledge and power would be similar to reason and agency, but reason and agency are distinct because they have crossed a threshold on a spectrum. According to this theory, some attributes, like intelligence and eloquence, can be possessed more or less, while others, like moral agency (istiṭāʿa) and responsibility (taklīf) are either present or not present. In the history of philosophy, the concept of the threshold is linked with the Sorites paradox (the paradox of the heap), which is explained in Galen’s On Medical Experience, translated by Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq into Syriac before 850 and into Arabic after 863 AD.45 The concept of threshold, however, can frequently 43  Numerous examples supporting this can be adduced. Particularly strongly worded is al-Jāḥiẓ’s rebuttal of those who blame the dog for not behaving in ways that are beyond their intellectual capacity. Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān ii, 144–8. 44  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān v, 543:7–8. “The real difference is none other than moral agency and capacity. With the existence of moral agency come reason and knowledge, but their existence does not necessicate the existence of moral agency” (wa-l-farq alladhī huwa al-farq innamā huwa al-istiṭāʿa wa-l-tamkīn wa-fī wujūd al-istiṭāʿa wujūd al-ʿaql wa-l-maʿrifa walaysa yūjib wujūduhumā wujūd al-istiṭāʿa). 45  Walzer, Galen on medical experience vii. In its basic form, the Sorites paradox asks: “If I remove one grain of sand, will this heap cease to be a heap? If I remove one more? and one more . . .” Barnes, Medicine, experience, and logic. Burnyeat, Gods and heaps. Galen adapts this to ask, how many times must I observe a correlation to make predictions and

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be found in theological argumentation prior to this, particularly in discussions of legal cutoff points,46 and as we will see al-Jāḥiẓ even draws on the language of threshold to explain “experience” (tajriba), suggesting he may have been familiar with Galen’s signature use of the Sorites paradox in his defense of induction. The most key terms in the lexicon of threshold in al-Jāḥiẓ’s discussion of animal speech (yablugh, miqdār) appear also in Ḥunayn’s translation of Galen.47 Thresholds are a key and overlooked concept in al-Jāḥiẓ’s arsenal, and al-Jāḥiẓ saw the ability to make arguments with sliding-scale concepts susceptible to a threshold point as a specialty of kalām argumentation. In this case, al-Jāḥiẓ uses the threshold structure to tread a fine line between those he calls aṣḥāb al-jahālāt, who believed animals are in fact morally responsible and have their own prophets, and the Dahriyya, who denied even the historicity of the quranic narratives of the ant and the hoopoe that spoke in a reasoned manner to the Prophet Solomon.48 Al-Jāḥiẓ confirms the historicity of such animal speech and confirms that the ant and the hoopoe here demonstrate a high degree of intellectual and linguistic complexity, but that this high degree does not quite cross the threshold that would give the ant or the hoopoe reason (ʿaql) or moral responsibility (taklīf). Like any good theologian, al-Jāḥiẓ positions himself between heretical extremes, and in this case the tool that allows him to do this is the concept of the threshold. Al-Jāḥiẓ here makes no attempt to define the threshold of linguistic complexity demarcating humanity. Evidence against the idea that al-Jāḥiẓ may have seen animal intelligence and human reason on a spectrum includes al-Jāḥiẓ’s statement that unlike humans, animals cannot learn crafts that are different from the kinds of things they already know. They can learn only things that they are instinctively “prepared” to learn. For example, a spider can only build spiderwebs. Humans may have less skill in building spiderwebs, but they rise above all the animals in their ability to learn any new craft, skill, or knowledge, even if it has not been instinctively “prepared” for them.49 Knowledge that is implanted in an animal by God through instinct is certainly quite a different matter from the flexible capacity to reason and learn that humans possess. conclusions based on it? Montgomery suggests the relevance of the Sorites paradox to a different passage in Al-Jāḥiẓ: In praise of books 149. 46  Al-Khayyāṭ, al-Intiṣār 92:13–93:11. 47  Walzer, Galen on medical experience 38–9. 48  Crone links those called aṣḥāb al-jahālāt by al-Jāḥiẓ to the reincarnation doctrines circulating among the diffuse khurrāmiyya groups in Baghdad and Iran. Crone, Al-Jāḥiẓ on Aṣḥāb al-jahālāt. 49  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān i, 36:14–17; Mansur, World-view 283.

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But on the other hand, Kitāb al-Ḥayawān constantly discusses animal intelligence that is similar to human reason, but falls short of it; this is the main locus of wonder in Kitāb al-Ḥayawān. Toward the end of the book’s introduction, in his final justification of the Dog-Rooster Debate, and indeed of kalām’s practice of adoxographic debate in natural science, and thus of his book’s project as a whole, al-Jāḥiẓ writes, If we aim for the loci of wondrous survival strategies (al-tadbīr al-ʿajīb) among lowly creatures, and fine senses among trivial things, and investigating consequences (al-naẓar fī l-ʿawāqib) among creatures outside the categories of human, jinn, or angel, then we must not focus on (nadhhab ilā) the body’s bulk or great size, or a beautiful appearance or a high price.50 He implies here that the main intellectual project of Kitāb al-Ḥayawān is to discover that which is wondrous about animals, and that this mainly consists of cases in which animals display intelligent behavior.51 Al-Jāḥiẓ very clearly links animal language with animal intelligence and is quite aware that his insistence on animal communication challenges the sharp division between human and animal cognition. In a passage justifying the historicity of the ant’s communication (waḥy) about and with Solomon,52 al-Jāḥiẓ lists the specific acts of comprehension and analysis that the ants had to perform in order to communicate the ideas attributed to them in the Quran: The Quran states that she recognized Solomon, identifying him individually, and that he understood her speech, and that she instructed her small companions to do what was most prudent and safe. Then it states that she distinguished soldiers from those who were not soldiers, and that she said, “They do not know.”53 In order to accomplish the communication attributed to her in the Quran, the ant would have had to identify Solomon as the leader of the army and distinguish between soldiers and civilians, in addition to choosing a prudent course 50  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān i, 210:10–14. 51  For extensive examples of such intelligent behavior as described by al-Jāḥiẓ, see Ghersetti, Animali e intelligenza and Bel-Haj, La psychologie des animaux. 52  For waḥy as a form of silent communication, see Rippin, Waḥy. I thank Michael Carter for bringing this to my attention. 53  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān iv, 9:2–5.

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of action and communicating it to the other ants and to Solomon himself. Al-Jāḥiẓ continues, We imagine, O denier, of [Solomon’s] smile at [the ants’] situation, that you have never and will never know anything about this kind of speech (kalām) nor this degree of providence (tadbīr), and you are not one to claim that which is greater than it. But how can you deny instances that are similar to it or less [astonishing] than it is, for the Quran indicates that they possess communication (bayān) and talking (qawl) and speech (manṭiq) that distinguishes between things (yafṣil bayna al-maʿānī) that lie in their path.54 Here, it is the cognitive requirements of manṭiq that are emphasized, namely the ant’s ability to distinguish between things it encounters. And, as usual, al-Jāḥiẓ reiterates the correctness of the Quran’s application to the ant of various terms for language. Al-Jāḥiẓ comes closest to articulating the concept of a threshold of communicative complexity when he responds to a theological dispute regarding Solomon and the hoopoe.55 He starts by pointing out the degree of cognitive ability demonstrated in the hoopoe’s speech as reported in the Quran, in a move similar to the one he made in his exegesis of the ant’s speech. He knew the difference between kings and commoners, and between men and women, and he recognized how great her throne was, and the plenty that was brought to her kingdom [as tribute].56 . . . He knew what it was to bow to the sun, and he rejected disobedience.57 . . . He was astonished that they bowed to something other than God, and he knew that God knows that which is hidden in the heavens and on earth, that which is secret and that which is open. Then he said, {There is no God but God, Lord of the great throne.}58 This indicates that he was more knowledgeable than a great many people who distinguish, deduce, and reason.59 54  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān iv, 9:5–9. 55  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān iv, 77–85. 56  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān iv, 78:6–7. 57  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān iv, 78:9. 58  Q Muʾminūn 23:116. 59  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān iv, 78:11–14.

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Al-Jāḥiẓ then refutes those who deny the historicity of the conversation between Solomon and the hoopoe. He explains that the hoopoe was miraculously inspired by God with intelligence, but that it was still not morally or legally responsible for its actions, and despite its intelligence could legally have been slaughtered by Solomon since it was not human. This unusual case forces al-Jāḥiẓ to consider what exactly it is that makes humans bear moral responsibility and makes their slaughter a crime. His answer to this question is not made fully clear, but it is signficant that he refuses to grant the hoopoe the degree of reason that allows humans to accept moral responsibility; instead, he goes to great lengths to show that the hoopoe could display rationality that fell just short of that all-important threshold, by comparing it to a boy “one hour before the age of legal responsibility.”60 Throughout the passage, al-Jāḥiẓ appears to take for granted the idea that there is a spectrum of intelligence, ranging from the wisest scholar to an inanimate object. He clarifies this vision in a passage refuting the argument that animals might secretly have reason: We know through the acts of the sane and the insane their degree of mental health or corruption. By the differences in the acts of children and the elderly, we know their degree of weakness, capacity, ignorance, and knowledge (maʿrifa). Similarly, we distinguish between inanimate objects, animals, the learned (ʿālim), the more learned, the ignorant, and more ignorant. If wild beasts and herd animals were like scholars and wise men, viziers and caliphs, nations and prophets, then these causes would necessarily bear fruit like those causes. Only Manichaeans and aṣḥāb al-jahālāt make this mistake.61 Al-Jāḥiẓ here paints a picture in which various animal species and humans of varying degrees of education and achievement can be ranked on a single scale according to how much knowledge (maʿrifa) they possess. If we assume consistency between this claim and the claims cited at the start of this section, then there is a threshold on this knowledge scale at which point reason is present, making it possible for God to endow that creature with moral agency and responsibility. In the introduction to Kitāb al-Ḥayawān, al-Jāḥiẓ uses the concept of the microcosm to explain how it is possible for animals to share in human

60  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān iv, 85:4. 61  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān iv, 81:2–8.

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characteristics without being human, and he compares this to the way animals possess a degree of cognition that does not reach the level of reason. They might find in [man] two or three characteristics of herds and beasts (al-bahāʾim wa-l-sibāʿ) but this does not reach the totality [of their characteristics] (wa-lā yablugh an yakūn jumalan), as when they find in him his sense of direction, his sense of protective jealousy, his aggression, his hatred, and his patience in carrying heavy loads, and yet he does not strictly resemble the wolf in the degree (miqdār) of treachery, trickery, scent-perception, solitude, and deceit that was given to the wolf. In the same way, a man might be correct in a difficult opinion once or twice or three times, but this degree (miqdār) does not attain the point at which he might be called (lā yablagh an yuqāl lahu) clever, artful, or of good opinion, just as a man might err, indeed he might err stupendously once or twice or three times, but the matter does not attain the point at which he can be called stupid or idiotic or mentally deficient.62 Al-Jāḥiẓ here relies on the idea of “reaching a degree” to explain how humans may resemble animals without crossing category boundaries to become those animals. Humans share only some characteristics with each animal, and even then only to a certain degree. When it comes to sense perception, agression, and other humoral qualities, humans and animals then differ by degree. Al-Jāḥiẓ here uses the language of threshold relationships—“degree” (miqdār) and “attain” (yablugh)—suggesting that reason is the exclusive preserve of humans only because humans reach the threshold of intelligence where it may be called reason. The comparison he makes to a preponderance of instances in which a person is right or wrong calls to mind Galen’s example of threshold, namely the threshold at which point the physician has seen a correlation enough times to conclude there is a necessary connection between two events. Al-Jāḥiẓ was certainly familiar with this concept of induction as a threshold of repeated experience, for he attributes an explanation of this very concept to a wide variety of wise scholars, in a passage discussing the evil eye. These scholars distinguish between observation (ʿiyān) and experience (tajriba) in a manner suggesting that they saw experience as the sum of numerous observations, similar to the view expressed in Galen’s On Medical Experience. Al-Jāḥiẓ writes: They said: We have seen men to whom this is attributed, and in them is this “striking of the eye” a certain number of times (miqdār min al-ʿadad). 62  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān i, 212:14–213:10.

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We cannot place this occurrence in the category of coincidence (min bāb al-ittifāq) nor is there a way to reject the report due to its widespread transmission (al-tawātur wa-l-tarāduf). For eyewitness experience (ʿiyān) has confirmed it, and experience (tajriba) has been added to it (ḍummat ilayhā).63 While al-Jāḥiẓ’s reliance on “experience” (tajriba) has long been noted, we learn from this passage that he and his contemporaries understood knowledge from experience to be based in induction and described this in terms similar to those used by Galen.

How Do Words Mean? The Poet and the Literalist

Al-Jāḥiẓ wrote a treatise, now lost, entitled Naẓm al-Qurʾān that likely engaged with many of the topics later addressed in uṣūl al-fiqh works, and he often uses hermeneutic terms and concepts.64 We can assume he was sensitive to hermeneutic questions and their developing terminology, though his usages are often somewhat distinct from those of al-Shāfiʿī and the later uṣūlīs. I would like to put forth here the hypothesis that the hermeneutic term jumlatan or fī l-jumla is for al-Jāḥiẓ quite distinct from the uṣūlī category of ambiguous expressions (mujmal or jumla in al-Shāfiʿī65) as opposed to unambiguous (naṣṣ). It is closer to a different sense in which al-Shāfiʿī uses jumal and jumla, namely for expressions that refer to a group of things collectively.66 Lowry identifies this as a distinct usage, giving us this example: [The prophet] legalizes something for them in all respects (jumlatan) and then makes some specific part of it illegal (ḥarrama minhu shayʾ bi-ʿaynihi).67 Here we find the idea of a category with group members, being described in toto as permitted, even though certain group members are in fact forbidden. Al-Jāḥiẓ’s sense of fī l-jumla seems to involve a metonymic expression in which

63  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān ii, 132:9–12. 64  Stewart, Uṣūl al-fiqh in ninth-century Baghdad; Sanchez, Reading adab as fiqh. 65  E.g. Lowry, Epistle on legal theory 76:6. 66  Cf. the chapter entitled “Jumal al-Farāʾiḍ,” translated by Lowry as “obligations expressed in general terms.” Lowry, Epistle on legal theory 128:9. 67  Lowry, Early Islamic legal theory 106.

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attributes of some group members are applied to the whole category, though they may not correctly describe every member. While refuting those he calls aṣḥāb al-jahālāt, al-Jāḥiẓ tells us that the use of “speech” for non-humans is incorrect when interpreted according to its literal (ẓāhir) sense:68 Some people who were not kalām masters held an opinion, and followed the most apparent sense of the ḥadīth and the most apparent sense of the poetry (ittabaʿū ẓāhir al-ḥadīth wa-ẓāhir al-ashʿār), claiming that rocks used to reason and speak, but then later lost only their ability to speak [i.e. so that now rocks think silently]. As for birds and beasts, they continued as they were [i.e. speaking in languages understood within each species].69 This would indicate that the literal, ẓāhir, sense of nuṭq is indeed the kind of speech that only humans participate in, suggesting that then the use of nuṭq for animal communication is a diversion from the literal sense, and thus idiomatic. To explain that this sense of nāṭiq is idiomatic, he never uses the term majāz, but rather confines himself to calling it a “derivation” (ishtiqāq).70 This is, moreover, the only time al-Jāḥiẓ uses the term ẓāhir in any of the numerous passages clarifying his interpretation of statements that animals “speak.” Elsewhere, he prefers to use the term iṭlāq, or absolute predication, to describe the tight relation between humans and the terms manṭiq and nāṭiq, as opposed to predicating nuṭq of animals in the sense of a general category (fī l-jumla). The Ḥanafī scholar Abū Shamir (fl. second half of the 8th c.) treated absolute (muṭlaq) predication as describing something in itself, whereas restricted (muqayyad) predication described it as it relates to a particular act or context, so that restricted predication corresponds logically to the English philosophical term “insofar as.” For example, to interpret “That man is a sinner” as a restricted statement is to claim that he is a sinner insofar as he has sinned, not in himself,

68  I use the term “literal” here in the sense that Gleave gives it: the single primary denotation of a term, which should be the first guess in interpretation. Gleave, Islam and literalism. 69  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān iv, 288:7–10. Al-Jāḥiẓ mentions the communication effected by inanimate objects as well in the taxonomy passage, a topic that he clearly feels is linked to animal communication. 70  Heinrichs notes that al-Jāḥiẓ often uses ishtiqāq in the sense of “idiomatic,” commenting also that further research is needed to determine the precise role of ishtiqāq in al-Jāḥiẓ’s texts. Heinrichs, On the genesis 134 note 1.

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and not in relation to other acts.71 This sense of iṭlāq fits the clearest statement al-Jāḥiẓ makes on the topic, namely his statement in a passage on bird speech that the term nāṭiq absolutely (iṭlāqan) and in all situations ( fī kull ḥāl) applies to humans, whereas to call any other animal’s communication nuṭq is to speak in a general sense ( fī l-jumla) and by comparison with humans (ʿalā al-tashbīh bi-l-nās), and is correct only in certain situations ( fī baʿḍ al-ḥāl).72 In this reading, humans are always and inalienably speakers, whereas other animals take on the quality of speaking only when they actually communicate in a manner resembling human speech. They can be called speakers insofar as they communicate vocally. Thus the more meaningful expressions a species uses, the more it deserves the term manṭiq (awlā bi-l-ism) to describe its vocalization.73 In later uṣūl al-fiqh, the opposed pair absolute (muṭlaq) and restricted (muqayyad) have a quite different sense and are not necessarily linked to any judgement about whether a term is being used idiomatically. In al-Jāḥiẓ’s usage however, it seems that the “absolute” sense of nāṭiq is equivalent to its ẓāhir sense and also to its “original” (mawḍūʿ lahu) sense. The opposite of iṭlāq is derivation. The application of nāṭiq to other cases takes place through derivation, implies a comparison with the original context (humans), and is true only insofar as those other cases share the attributes of human speech. The taxonomy passage goes on to explain in some detail exactly why it is that the term nāṭiq does apply to animals, and how statements of this kind are correct statements both factually and linguistically. The explanation makes an analogy to a grammatical phenomenon: This is said in the sense of a general category ( fī l-jumla), just as something is called “silent” (ṣāmit, literally: fallen silent) even though it has never fallen silent, nor can it do otherwise [than be silent]. And a thing is called “speaking” (nāṭiq) even though it has never once spoken (yatakallam). So they refer to that which groans, bleats, brays, neighs, caws, bellows, moans, yelps, barks, crows, meows, lows, whistles, squeaks, clucks, hoots, roars, bellows, rustles, and hisses following [the term for] human speech

71  Schöck, Belief and unbelief. The same concept is expressed by Abū Muʿādh al-Tūmanī around the same time by describing the term sinner (fāsiq) as a description (waṣf) rather than a name (ism) or an adjective rather than a noun. Al-Shāfiʿī does not in his Epistle discuss the opposing pair muṭlaq and muqayyad. 72  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān vii, 58:2–7. 73  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān v, 286:14 (and see above).

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(nuṭq), when the one is gathered to the other.74 There are other examples of this, as when males and females are taken together [and are referred to as male] or like a caravan of camels that is called a laṭīma [because the camels are carrying loads], or like the word ẓuʿun [which refers to camels carrying litters]. These things, when they are found one added to the other, or when one is drawn from the other, are called by the better known or the stronger of the two things.75 Here, al-Jāḥiẓ extends a grammatical principle to lexicography and the study of idiom, arguing that just as a group of people of all genders should be referred to in the masculine form (for lack of a specific form denoting a mixed group), similarly because there is no general term for “communicative animal utterance,” a group of diverse animal noises should be referred to using the “stronger” and “better known” of the group members, namely human speech (manṭiq). Thus, the term manṭiq literally refers only to human speech, but is the most correct linguistic choice to express communicative animal utterances that have no better literal group name. This argument is a bit fanciful since in fact humans are not members of any of the groups of animals in the examples he provides, but the principle may still stand, in that whenever a group name does not exist, the combination of utterances should be called by the proper name of the dominant kind of animal communication, namely manṭiq, human speech. This usage of fī l-jumla as “in the sense of a general category” is not unrelated to al-Shāfiʿī’s usage. Other occurances of the term jumla can also be interpreted following this sense of “belonging to the same general category,” as opposed to simply signifying “in general.” Consider al-Jāḥiẓ’s description of his knowledge of the jinn’s anger, which unites all of the terms we have just discussed with the ḥaqīqa/ majāz opposed pair: I have enumerated all the causes of enmity, and I have made an inventory (ḥaṣṣaltu) of all the reasons for grudge-carrying, except for the cause of a jinn’s enmity against a person. For I only know its general meaning (majāzahā fī l-jumla), not its most literal specificity, in completeness and in every case (lā aḥaqqa khāṣṣatihā ʿalā l-taḥṣīl wa-ʿalā kull ḥāl) for I know it in the way of generality (min ṭarīq al-jumla) though I am 74  I understand this to mean: We would call the horse “neighing” (ṣāhil) and a crow “cawing” (muʿaqʿiq) but when speaking of diverse animals collectively we can only use the term nāṭiq “speaking” even though this term applies in the fullest sense only to human animals. 75  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān i, 31:6–32:2.

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ignorant of it in the way of specificity (min ṭarīq al-tafṣīl). But as for this false accusation [against me], I know it neither specifically nor generally (lā aʿrifuhu khāṣṣan wa-lā ʿāmman).”76 In this case, we have the term ʿadāwat al-jinn, which takes “enmity,” something that we understand as it applies to people, but applies it to jinn, just as the phrase manṭiq al-ṭayr applies a term we know in relation to humans in a new context. What might such a term mean when applied to the jinn? In his explanation of the vague and general way that he understands ʿadāwa in its new context, al-Jāḥiẓ here opposes khāṣṣ both to ʿāmm and to jumla, but the situation is completely different from later hermeneutic uses of the ʿāmm/khāṣṣ dichotomy, instead lying closer to the sense of logic’s hierarchical structure of categories. The general class of anger is known to al-Jāḥiẓ, as is human anger, but the specific case of jinn anger is something he cannot speculate upon. This phrase ʿadāwat al-jinn can, like manṭiq al-ṭayr, serve as a figure for the two ways of using language that al-Jāḥiẓ brings together throughout his writings. On the one hand, his descriptive, lexicographic sensibility is fully aware that words have meanings only in contexts, and that there is a primary expected context for most words. Thus manṭiq and ʿadāwa primarily should apply to people. But at the same time, the word itself does carry some meaning independently, which allows it to be meaningful and comprehensible in new contexts, even if those new combinations are only interpretable in a vague or general manner. It is rare for al-Jāḥiẓ to provide fully bounded definitions for words; instead, he gives all familiar contexts in which we would expect to see the word, and explains what is meant by each of these phrases, poetic verses, or quranic citations. The result is then not a definition—it is not a checklist for unequivocally determining category membership—but instead follows the method of the lexicographic tradition. Al-Jāḥiẓ’s most insistent defense of animal speech is his defense of the quranic phrase manṭiq al-ṭayr, at the end of which al-Jāḥiẓ pits a poet against the doubter of animal speech. This passage reframes the theological question about animal speech reported in the Quran as a question about semantics and the truth value of idiom. If someone were to say: “This is not speech (manṭiq)” it is said to him “The Quran said (naṭaqa) that it is manṭiq. And the poets called it manṭiq. So if you place it outside the limit (ḥadd) of clear expression (bayān), and claim that it is not speech, because you don’t understand it—well, 76  Al-Jāḥiẓ, Rasāʾil i, 264:12–16.

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you also don’t understand the speech of most nations, and if you call their speech “babble” and “stammering,” you still do not prevent yourself from claiming that this is their language (kalām) and their speech. Most nations do not understand your language (kalām) and your speech, so it is possible then for them to place your speech outside the bounds of clear expression and speech. Does this speech of theirs become clear expression and speech for any reason other than their mutual understanding of each other’s needs (ḥājāt)? For it is composed sound coming from a tongue and a mouth. Aren’t the voices of the many kinds of birds and beasts, wild and tame, also clear expression and speech, for you know that they are divided and shaped, combined and composed, and through these sounds they understand one another’s needs (ḥājāt), and they come forth from tongue and mouth. Even if you can only understand a little from them, this is also true of those kinds [of people] whose languages you do not know except a little . . . The difference between people and birds is that this thing (maʿnā) is called speech and language by comparison with humans, based on a valid link, whereas for people this is true of them in every case (ʿalā kull ḥāl). This is how the poet spoke, who ascribed to them reason (ʿaql), for he only said this in the way of comparison (ʿalā l-tashbīh). It is not right for the poet to ascribe this language to them absolutely (iṭlāq hādhā l-kalām lahā); nor is it right for you to deprive them of it from every angle and in every case (min kull jiha wa-min kull ḥāl).77 Al-Jāḥiẓ here characterizes the correct approach to idiom as a kind of dialectical synthesis in which both the impulses of the poet and the impulses of the literalist are maintained fully active. Only this double vision can guarantee the wholeness of the authoritative Arabic language and thus guarantee correct scriptural interpretation. In sum, animal speech is indeed called speech only metaphorically; but the metaphor is based on a similarity with human speech that at times becomes too close to allow for Aristotle’s definition of man as the only “speaking animal.” Indeed, one target of al-Jāḥiẓ’s quibbling attack is certainly the glib way in which the Isagoge and its epitomes use this as their sample definition. Whereas Aristotle treats speech as something you either have or do not have, al-Jāḥiẓ treats the difference between animals and humans as a difference of degree (albeit separated by an absolute threshold), by calling humans eloquent 77  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān vii, 57:4–58:7.

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speakers and animals speakers who are not eloquent. When Solomon’s hoopoe miraculously acquires reason and speech just under the levels that would allow him those designations in a literal sense, the threshold concept challenges the notion of sharply defined definitions for words. While taklīf and thus the category of the human has absolute boundaries, these boundaries are divinely ordained thresholds that would otherwise be susceptible to the Sorites paradox. The same is true of literal and figurative speech, particularly if al-Jāḥiẓ agreed with the later tradition that derivations start as idiom and eventually become literal.78 This is one reason why al-Jāḥiẓ is so resistant to the new logical notion of formal definitions. Formal definitions define the boundaries of the categories of objects to which words properly apply, so that everything either is or is not speaking. By contrast, al-Jāḥiẓ sees all things as speaking, more or less, while only humans speak absolutely. This is a fundamentally different approach to semantics and is expressed by the opposed pair iṭlāq/ishtiqāq rather than the theologically-oriented opposed pair that he also employs, majāz/ḥaqīqa. The dichotomy I am drawing here is of course hyperbolic, since al-Jāḥiẓ layers his technical terms and often uses them flexibly. But Heinrichs has shown that the majāz/ḥaqīqa pair originate in theological cases where a ḥaqīqa interpretation is impossible, and thus accords with the tendencies of al-Jāḥiẓ’s usage: Whereas the majāz/ḥaqīqa pair invites a literal substitution for the metaphoric term, and demands a hermeneutic choice about which sense is intended, an approach based in derivation treats idiom as often expressing things that have no other name, and varies as to how literally it should be interpreted. Ultimately, then, we can follow al-Jāḥiẓ’s own account and treat the world as semiotic, and animals as speakers, as long as we remember that bayān and nuṭq applied first to human beings. Bibliography ʿAbd al-Jabbār, al-Mughnī fī abwāb al-tawḥīd wa-l-ʿadl, ed. Ibrāhīm al-Ibyārī, Cairo n.d. Adamson, P., Al-Kindī (Great Medieval Thinkers), New York 2007. Adamson, P., Abū Bakr al-Rāzī on animals, in Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 94 (2012), 249–73 (repr. in Studies on Early Arabic Philosophy, Burlington VT 2015, VII). Barnes, J., Medicine, experience, and logic, in J. Barnes et al. (eds.), Science and speculation: Studies in Hellenistic theory and practice, Cambridge 1982.

78  Weiss, Search 122. Shah, Philological endeavors.

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Behzadi, L., Sprache und Verstehen: al-Ğāḥiẓ über die Vollkommenheit des Ausdrucks, Wiesbaden 2009. Bel-Haj, M., La psychologie des animaux chez les Arabes, notamment à travers le Kitāb al-ḥayawān de Djāḥiẓ, Paris 1977. Burnyeat, M., Gods and heaps, in M. Schofield and M.C. Nussbaum (eds.), Language and logos: Studies in ancient Greek philosophy presented to G.E.L. Owen, Cambridge 1982. Carter, M.G., Adam and the technical terms of medieval Islam, in G. Endress et al. (eds.), Words, texts and concepts cruising the mediterranean sea: Studies on the sources, contents and influences of Islamic civilization and Arabic philosophy and science dedicated to Gerhard Endress on his sixty-fifth birthday, Dudley, Mass. 2004, 439–454. Cook, M., Ibn Qutayba and the monkeys, SI 89 (1999), 43–74. Crone, P., Al-Jāḥiẓ on Aṣḥāb al-Jahālāt and the Jahmiyya, in R. Hansberger et al. (eds.), Medieval Arabic Thought: Essays in honour of Friz Zimmermann, London 2012. Crone, P., The Dahrīs according to al-Jāḥiẓ, Mélanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph 63 (2010–2011), 63–82. Fleish, H., Kasra, in EI2. Frank, R., Beings and their attributes: The teaching of the Basrian school of the Muʿtazila in the classical period, Albany 1978. Galen. Galen on medical experience. First edition of the Arabic version with English translation and notes by R. Walzer, Oxford 1946. Ghersetti, A., Animaux parlants: Modèles littéraires et contraintes idéologiques, The arabist 32 (2013), 3–34. Ghersetti, A., Animali e intelligenza: Il cane nella letteratura d’adab, in Cingano, E. et al. (eds.), Animali tra zoologia, mito e letteratura nella cultura classica e orientale: Atti del convegno, Venezia, 22–23 Maggio 2002, Padua 2005, 339–52. Gleave, R. Islam and literalism: Literal meaning and interpretation in Islamic legal theory, Edinburgh 2012. Heemskerk, M.T., Suffering in the Muʿtazilite theology: ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s teaching on pain and divine justice, Leiden 2000. Heinrichs, W., On the genesis of the ḥaqîqa-majâz dichotomy, SI 59 (1984), 111–40. Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ and Ḥabīb Ibn Bihrīz, Al-Manṭiq, ed. M.T. Dānishpazeh, Teheran 1978. Al-Jāḥiẓ, Rasāʾil al-Jāḥiẓ, 4 vols., ed. ʿA.S.M. Hārūn (Maktabat Al-Jāḥiẓ), Cairo 1964. Al-Jāḥiẓ, Kitāb al-Ḥayawān, 8 vols., ed. ʿA.S.M. Hārūn, [Cairo] 1938. al-Khayyāṭ, Abū al-Ḥasan ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Muḥammad, Kitāb al-Intiṣār, ed. H.S. Nyberg, Beirut 1993. Lowry, J.E., Early Islamic legal theory: The Risāla of Muḥammad ibn Idrīs al-Shāfiʿī, Leiden 2007. Lowry, J.E. (ed. and trans.), Al-Shāfiʿī: The Epistle on legal theory, New York 2013.

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Miller, J., More than the sum of its parts: Accretive logic in al-Jāḥiẓ’s Kitāb al-Ḥayawān. PhD dissertation, New York University 2013. Miller, J., What it means to be a son: Adam, language, and theodicy in a ninth-century dispute, Journal of the Canadian Society for Syriac Studies 16 (2016), 60–79. Montgomery, J.E., Al-Jāḥiẓ: In praise of books, Edinburgh 2013. Montgomery, J.E., Al-Jāḥiẓ on jest and earnest, in Georges Tamer (ed.), Humor in der arabischen Kultur, Berlin 2009, 209–239. Peters, J.R.T.M., God’s created speech: A study in the speculative theology of the Muʿtazilî Qâḍî al-Quḍât Abû l-Ḥasan ʿAbd al-Jabbâr bn Aḥmad al-Hamaḏânî, Leiden 1976. Rippin, A., Waḥy, EI2. Sánchez, I., Reading adab as fiqh: Al-Ǧaḥiẓ’s singing-girls and the limits of legal reasoning (qiyās), BEO 60 (2012), 203–21. Schöck, C., Belief and unbelief in classical Sunnī theology, EI3. Shah, M., The philological endeavors of the early Arabic linguists: Theological implication of the tawqīf-iṣṭilāḥ antithesis and the majāz controversy, part I, JQS 1 (1999), 27–46; The Philological endeavours of the early Arabic linguists: Theological implications of the tawqīf-iṣṭilāḥ antithesis and the majāz controversy, part II, JQS 2 (2000), 43–66. Stewart, D.J., Muḥammad b. Jarīr al-Ṭabarī’s al-Bayān ʿan uṣūl al-aḥkām and the genre of uṣūl al-fiqh in ninth century Baghdad, in J.E. Montgomery (ed.), ʻAbbasid studies: Occasional papers of the School of ʻAbbasid studies: Cambridge, 6–10 July 2002, Dudley, Mass. 2004, 321–49. Thomas, D., Anti-christian polemic in early Islam: Abū ʻĪsá al-Warrāq’s “Against the Trinity,” Cambridge 1992. Versteegh, K., Freedom of the speaker? The term ittisāʿ and related notions in Arabic grammar, in M. Carter and K. Versteegh (eds.), Studies in the history of Arabic grammar II: Proceedings of the second symposium on the history of Arabic grammar, Nijmegen, 27 April–1 May, 1987, Amsterdam/Philadelphia 1990. Weiss, B., Medieval Muslim discussions of the origin of language, ZDMG 124 (1974) 33–41. Weiss, B., Language in orthodox Muslim thought: A study of waḍʿ al-lugha and its development, PhD dissertation, Princeton University 1966. Weiss, B., The search for God’s law: Islamic jurisprudence in the writings of Sayf al-Dīn al-Āmidī, Salt Lake City 1992.

CHAPTER 7

Beyond the Known Limits: Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī’s Chapter on “Intermedial” Poetry Lara Harb Introduction Abū Bakr Muḥammad Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī (d. most likely 297/910) was the son and successor of the founder of the Ẓāhirī school of law, Dāwūd Ibn ʿAlī (d. 270/884).1 He was also a poet, litterateur, and prominent representative of ẓarf, a culture of elegance and refinement esteemed in the early Abbasid period.2 His anthology of poetry, entitled Kitāb al-Zahra (The Book of the Flower), has often been seen as illustrative of this refined behavior, especially with regard to courtly love.3 Indeed, Kitāb al-Zahra has received most attention as a treatise on courtly love, even though only the first half of the book deals with matters of love.4 The remaining half catalogues verses from a variety of themes, motifs, and genres.5 Some of these chapters represent traditional poetic categories, such as panegyric, invective, and self-praise, others are more peculiar.6 Ibn Dāwūd’s taxonomic decisions, particularly the more 1  The majority of sources agree that Ibn Dāwūd died in late 297/910. Some mention the year 296/908 or 909 and another source mentions the year 298/910 or 911 as his death date. See Raven, Ibn Dâwûd al-Iṣbahânî, 4. On his father and the Ẓāhiriyya, see Goldziher, The Ẓāhirīs. 2  For a discussion of Ibn Dāwūd’s relationship to the ẓurafāʾ, see Raven, Ibn Dâwûd al-Iṣbahânî, 27–32, and on the ẓurafāʾ more generally, see Ghazi, Un groupe social. 3  See discussions of the work in Vadet, L’esprit courtois and Giffen, Theory of profane love. 4  The first half of Kitāb al-Zahra is available in two modern editions: one by Nykl, published in 1932, the other by al-Sāmarrāʾī, published in 1985. 5  A single modern edition of the second half of Kitāb al-Zahra exists, edited by al-Sāmarrāʾī and al-Qaysī and published in 1975. This edition contains many flaws, however, some of which I point out in this essay. I was able to consult two manuscripts that incorporate chapter 87 of Kitāb al-Zahra: Ms. Torino, Biblioteca Reale no. Or. 68 and Ms. Baghdād, al-Matḥaf al-ʿIrāqī no.1345, a microfilm copy of which is available in Leiden University Library under no. A467. For an overview of the various editions and manuscripts of Kitāb al-Zahra, see Raven, Manuscripts and editions. 6  See Raven, Ibn Dâwûd al-Iṣbahânî, 95–9, and for a detailed chapter-by-chapter survey of all 100 chapters of Kitāb al-Zahra see, 99–207. See also Abu Zaid’s dissertation, Studien über den

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_008

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unusual ones, give us a glimpse into the literary environment of the period.7 One such idiosyncratic grouping of verses occurs in Chapter 87 and is titled ‫ذ‬ ‫ذ‬ ‫� ا� ش‬ “poetry that is found elegant for going beyond the known limits” (�‫ل����عر ا �ل�� �ي‬ ‫� كر‬

‫ف‬ ‫ظ ف خ‬ ��‫)�����ست�����ر�� �ل�رو�ج �ه �ع� ن� ح�د �م�ا �ي�عر‬.8 ‫ي‬

The examples Ibn Dāwūd includes in chapter 87 consist of palindromes, verses that intentionally employ dotted or undotted letters and connected or disconnected letters, pattern poetry, acrostics, cryptograms, poetry that incorporates gestures, prose poetry, and bilingual macaronic poetry. Many of these artistic devices become more elaborate and widespread around the sixth/ twelfth century.9 It is understandable, therefore, that they are often regarded as relatively late innovations in Arabic poetry.10 The examples in Ibn Dāwūd’s chapter are thus significant in and of themselves because they date these innovations to a much earlier period. Ibn Dāwūd’s guiding principle for grouping these poetic phenomena together in this way remains somewhat obscure. While he briefly introduces each example he presents, he does not clarify what he means by “poetry that goes beyond the known limits.” What are these limits? And what is it about “going beyond” those limits that he finds elegant, charming, and pleasing, as he indicates in the chapter’s title? zweiten Teil des Kitāb az-Zahra. Otherwise, the second half of Kitāb al-Zahra has received little attention by modern scholars. 7  Raven rightly describes Ibn Dāwūd as a literary critic not only for the act of compiling an anthology of poetry, but also because “his book displays a clear view on genres and motifs . . .” (Raven, Ibn Dâwûd al-Iṣbahânî 19). 8  Chapter 87 is published in Ibn Dāwūd, al-Niṣf al-thānī 319–20. Professor Everett Rowson was the first to introduce me to Kitāb al-Zahra while I was a graduate student at New York University. The book has continued to appear in my readings and research in various ways ever since. It will always be connected in my mind with my dear mentor. It was only fitting to focus on one of its chapters in his honor. 9  Al-Ḥarīrī’s (d.516/1122) employment of palindromes and scriptoral figures in his maqāmāt in the second half of the 5th/11th century is probably a good indication of their standardization by that time. If anything, he certainly contributed to their standardization, as later works on literary criticism regularly cite his compositions when discussing those figures. In Maqāma 28 (al-Samarqandiyya) and Maqāma 29 (al-Wāsiṭiyya), for example, the protagonist produces speech completely free of dotted letters (ʿariyya min al-iʿjām). Maqāma 26 (al-Raqṭāʾ, the Spotted) includes a passage with alternating dotted and undotted letters. Maqāma 16 (al-Maghribiyya) includes palindromes. The elaborate pattern poems of the Andalusian ʿAbd al-Munʿim al-Jilyānī (d. 602/1206) indicate that the art form reached a high level of development by the 6th/12th century. We know very little about the build-up to that level, however. See al-Jilyānī, Dīwān al-tadbīj. 10  Amīn, for instance, treats many of these figures as innovations of the Mamluk and Ottoman periods. Muṭālaʿāt fī l-shiʿr al-mamlūkī.

124

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Chapter 87 of Kitāb al-Zahra has been variously interpreted as being about poetry that “goes beyond the conventional,”11 or “deviates from the wellknown,”12 and as dealing with “games of a very whimsical nature [juegos muy caprichosos].”13 These interpretations suggest that the guiding principle behind Ibn Dāwūd’s selection process was simply the quirkiness and eccentricity of the poetry and that what made it “pleasing” or “elegant” was the very act of breaking from convention. Going against poetic conventions was not, however, in and of itself unusual, especially in the early Abbasid period. Muḥdath poets regularly challenged traditional themes, structures, and styles which sought their ideal model in pre-Islamic poetry. Could Ibn Dāwūd have something more specific in mind when he speaks of the “known limit”? Through an examination of the examples he includes in the chapter, I argue that this limit has to do with the medium of expression. Al-Jāḥiẓ (d. 255/868), slightly prior to Ibn Dāwūd, divides the various signs (dalālāt) or means of expression (bayān) into five types: (1) speech (lafẓ), (2) indication through gestures (ishāra), (3) calculation (ʿaqd or ḥisāb), (4) script (khaṭṭ), and (5) signs that lie in the state of things, both animate and inanimate (niṣba).14 The main focus of classical Arabic works on eloquence ultimately settles on the first medium of expression, which entails speech. In this case, the most basic assumptions about speech are that it is Arabic and that it can be presented in two forms: poetry or prose. The examples in Ibn Dāwūd’s chapter, as I will show, involve some kind of mixing, crossing, or blurring of these boundaries, whether between speech and other media of expression or within speech. Such mixing of media of expression has been called “intermedial” in modern theory. Intermedia, as defined by Dick Higgins, is “when two or more discrete media are conceptually fused.”15 The term is used to describe visual poetry, performance poetry, and sound poetry, each dealing with both a linguistic or literary medium, on the one hand, and a visual, performative, or acoustic one, respectively, on the other.16 It is distinguished from “mixed media” in that the

11  Raven, Ibn Dâwûd al-Iṣbahânî 201. 12  Van Gelder, Breaking rules 27. 13  Nykl, Nuevos datos 153, cited in Vallaro, Tre versi arabi 667. 14  Al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Bayān wa-l-tabyīn i, 76–83. For an overview of al-Jāḥiẓ’s understanding of bayān see Ṭabāna, al-Bayān al-ʿarabī 54–62; and Suleiman, Bayān as a principle of taxonomy. 15  Higgins, Horizons 138. 16  See New Princeton encyclopedia, s.v. visual poetry, performance poetry, and sound poetry.

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discrete media employed are “inseparable in the essence of an artwork.”17 In other words, it is not the addition of another layer of expression that accompanies the primary one, such as putting poetry to music or calligraphically representing verses in art and architecture. Rather it is the fusion of two modes of expression in a way that makes them interdependent, in order for the art form to have its full effect. Higgins uses the term in reference to the avant-garde art and literature of the 1960’s and 70’s, explaining that “when one is thinking of the avant-garde of forms and media, one is often thinking of artists who, for whatever reason, question those forms and media.”18 Of course, the forms and media to be questioned in third/ninth-century Iraq were quite different. Nevertheless, one could imagine that the poetry included in Ibn Dāwūd’s chapter, through its experimentation with the very modes of expression, reflects what could have been perceived as “avant-garde” at that time, hence “going beyond the known limits.” Ibn Dāwūd’s examples can be divided into four categories based on the modes of expression they employ alongside the literary: (1) The visual, which includes the appearance of letters with respect to dots and connections, inversions and palindromes, acrostics and cryptograms, and pattern poetry; (2) gestures, which entails the combination of the literary with physical performance; (3) prose poetry, which blurs the lines between poetry and prose as forms; (4) macaronic poetry, which challenges the very language of expression. 1

The Visual

The appearance of speech when written down may have a variety of effects. Poetry composed in a particular way may produce a written appearance that is interesting or unusual; the ability of the poet to achieve this added effect, which requires imposing certain restrictions on the composition, is a display of his skill. The way a poem is represented visually on a page may also serve to produce new layers of meaning. Dots and Connections The first group of examples Ibn Dāwūd provides has to do with poetry that restricts itself to the use of certain kinds of letters. In terms of appearance when written, the Arabic alphabet can be divided into two groups based, in the first case, on whether a letter is dotted or not and, in the second, on whether it 17  Higgins, Horizons 138. 18  Higgins, Horizons 26.

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connects to adjacent letters in a word or not. As a result, poets could challenge themselves to produce verses with conditions based on whether its letters are dotted or not and connected or not. One such condition is to compose a verse or a poem that excludes the use of dotted letters entirely, such as the following verses:19

ُ َُ ‫آ‬

َ ‫أ‬

ً

20‫ل � ر ��ع�ه�د ا ��سوا ك ا �ل�د �هر � �ع���م�ر‬ ‫م ع‬

ُ َّ

‫أ‬

21‫�لولا �موا رد ���ه�ا ل � د ر ���م�ا ا �ل���س���ه�ر‬ ِ ‫م‬

‫أ‬ ُ ‫�لو ��س�ا م‬ ‫ح ا �ل�د �هر � و �لو ��س�ا ع�د ا �ل�ع���مر‬ ُ َ ‫ً أ‬ ََ َ ّ ْ ‫أ‬ ‫� �ص�دِ ر �ه�مو�م�ا � ط�ا ل ا �لود �مورِد �ه�ا‬

If fate forgave and if time helped I would never have kept a promise only to you O ʿUmar End [these] worries whose supply love has prolonged Were it not for this supply, I would not have known [the meaning of] sleeplessness By contrast, Ibn Dāwūd cites verses that are made up entirely of dotted letters:22

َ‫شَ �غَ فَ َ �نَّ ْ �زَْ�ن‬ ‫������فٍ� ����ض‬ �‫� �� ت� �ي�� ب‬ ُ َ ْ‫�شَ �غَ ف �ف�ز �ن ُ تَ�غ‬ ‫������� �ي�� ب� �����ض‬ �‫�� � ب‬ ‫ي‬

‫ف‬ �‫�ي‬ ‫ف‬ �‫�ي‬

ُ ْ ََ‫ف‬ �‫� ب����قِي��� ت‬ ُ ْ‫ف�ُ �ن‬ �‫� نِ���� ت‬ ‫ج‬

َ‫ف� ت ذ نَ ش‬ ُ َ‫فُ �نْ ُ َ �ن‬ � ٍ‫� �تِ���� ت� �بِ�ز �ي�� ب‬ � � � � ِ‫ي� ب�ي��� � ي� ��� ب‬ َّ َ َ‫ف‬ ُ َ‫ْ�نَ تْ ذ شَ �ن‬ ��‫ � ش����ف� ن‬23ُ‫� �ي�ض����ء‬ ����� �‫�ي��� ب��� �ي‬ ِ‫�ز‬ ‫ي‬ ‫بٍ ي‬

19  Ibn Dāwūd, al-Niṣf al-thānī 312. The verses are attributed to “some people of this age,” which has been understood as referring to Ibn Dāwūd himself. See Raven, Ibn Dâwûd al-Iṣbahānī 20–2. 20  In their published edition, al-Sāmarrāʾī and al-Qaysī include the vocative “yā” (‫)ي�ا‬, which is dotted in Arabic. This must be a mistake since the verses are explicitly cited for their lack of dots. Although the Turin manuscript has an ambiguous article that looks like yā without the required two dots underneath (‫)ى�ا‬, the Baghdād manuscript clearly has two ‫آ‬ alifs (‫)ا ا‬, which the scribe uses elsewhere in the manuscript for the alif with madd, ā ( � ). In terms of meaning, the vocative “ā” differs from “yā” only insofar as it is used specifically for calling someone distant. (See Lane, Lexicon i, 3.). 21  Al-Sāmarrāʾī and al-Qaysī have ward (rose) instead of wudd (love) in the first hemistich, as attested in the Turin manuscript. The Baghdad mansucript’s “wudd” makes more sense. 22  Ibn Dāwūd, al-Niṣf al-thānī 312. 23  In his description of the rhetorical figure of ḥadhf, which I will discuss in the following, al-Zanjānī includes the hamza (‫ )ء‬among undotted letter (Miʿyār ii, 130–1). Its presence in this verse at the end of the word “yuḍīʾ,” therefore, seems to undermine Ibn Dawūd’s demonstration of the use of dotted letters exclusively. Nevertheless, there was some flexibility

127

Beyond the Known Limits

In a prosperous house, I was infatuated with Zainab I became passionately in love, [but] Zainab was stingy [with her love] She was adorned (zīnat) with brightening white teeth that weakened me So I became mad in my passion, for Zainab bites24 From a literary perspective, both examples treat the standard poetic theme of love, which forms the topic of the first half of Kitāb al-Zahra. They employ typical imagery from the genre, such as unrequited love, madness, and sleepless nights. The verses also employ rhetorical figures such as paronomasia, for example, which is produced with the word “zīnat” (adorned) and the name “Zainab” in the verses above. In sum, they are full-fledged poetic verses in their own right. However, there is an added visual effect that can only be appreciated if the verses are seen written down. The kinds of visual games that can be played through a consideration of a composition’s appearance when written down are endless. Ibn Dāwūd cites verses that are composed only of letters that are connected or only ones that are disconnected.25 He quotes verses made up of a dotted first hemistich and an undotted second hemistich, producing a visual contrast between one column of the poem and the other.26 Such contrast is then brought down to with the hamza. Al-Zanjānī goes on to state that when it is written on the letter yāʾ it can ‫( ”� ئ‬his gift) in his be counted as a dotted letter, such as al-Ḥarīrī’s use of the word “‫ح ب���ا ��ه‬ 26th Maqāma (al-Raqṭāʾ) in which he alternates dotted and undotted letters. Al-Zanjānī explains that al-Ḥarīrī’s “excuse is [the hamza’s] appearance in the form of yāʾ in writing” (Miᶜyār ii, 131). Moreover, while the hamza in the word in question here (yuḍīʾ) stands on its own and is not technically written on the letter yāʾ, it seems that at the end of a word, it was counted as part of the preceding letter in the context of such visual effects produced through writing. For example, al-Ḥarīrī in the same Maqāma considers the alif and hamza

ّ َ‫َ َ أ ْ ف‬ ‫(  ا ء‬and he returned with the cost ‫وب� بِ ِ ي‬

as one unit in the verb bāʾa in the phrase: . . . �� ‫�� ج�ر � ك‬

of releasing me . . .) (Al-Sharīshī, Sharḥ Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīrī iii, 291). Counting it as a separate letter would produce two undotted letters in a row, breaking the condition he sets for himself in the Maqāma of alternating between dotted and undotted letters. See also, for instance, Safī al-Dīn al-Ḥillī’s poem that employs only dotted letters, in which he uses the same word in question (yuḍīʾ) once, as well as the word “yajīʾ” twice, indicating that the hamza at the end of the word was not considered a separate undotted letter (Dīwān Ṣafī al-Dīn al-Ḥillī, 619–20). 24   Ghaḍaba means “to get angry.” It could also figuratively mean “to bite.” Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān al-ʿArab s.v. gh-ḍ-b. Given that the first part of the verse talks about her teeth, I find the figurative interpretation more fitting. 25  Ibn Dāwūd, al-Niṣf al-thānī 315. 26  Ibn Dāwūd, al-Niṣf al-thānī 312–3.

128

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the level of the single word, where a verse is made up of words with dotted letters, alternating with undotted words, a badīʿ figure described by Abū l-Maʿālī ʿIzz al-Dīn al-Zanjānī (fl. mid. 7th/13th c entury) as “al-Khayfāʾ” (lit: a horse that has one black eye and one blue eye).27 This is then applied to individual letters, where the poet composes a verse made up of dotted letters alternating with undotted ones, either singly, in pairs, or in triplets. One such verse, which alternates every letter, also deals with the theme of love:28

َ َ ٌ َ�‫��َ َ َّ ش �ق غ‬ ���‫� ����س�ف‬ ‫�ف��ل���ج �ل���و �ك ر ب‬ ‫ح‬

ََ

ٌ‫ق‬

‫َ��ه�ُ �ق‬ ‫ي � يم‬

����‫ب��� ��لب��ك �ش��و� ����سن‬ ‫ح‬

In your heart thirsts a yearning that has struck So tears pouring in yearning for you surged This alternation technique is used by al-Ḥarīrī in his 26th maqāma, called “al-Raqṭāʾ” or “the Spotted.” In it the protagonist composes a “spotted letter,” which al-Sharīshī (one of the commentators on al-Ḥarīrī’s Maqāmāt) explains, means having “one letter dotted and the next not dotted. Raqṭāʾ is a speckled chicken, with white and black spots,”29 among other spotted animals. At the end of the explanation al-Sharīshī apologizes for the difficulty of the “spotted letter” and explains: “this letter and the likes of it are brought about for the sake of pleasure and appreciation, and not for their being of excellent and eloquent speech.”30 But then he goes on to praise al-Ḥarīrī for his ability to produce such a brilliant letter, which “he could have only done after delving deep into philology.”31 The name al-Raqṭāʾ is later adopted by al-Zanjānī to describe this figure of alternating dotted and undotted letters.32 Al-Zanjānī seems to be the first to identify and name specific script-based figures in his Miʿyār al-nuẓẓār fī ʿulūm al-ashʿār (The Experts’ Criteria in the Poetic Sciences). Moreover, he is credited by later rhetoricians as the first to identify the figure of ḥadhf (omission) to describe the exclusion of a specific letter from speech or verse.33 Later, Ṣafī al-Dīn al-Ḥillī (d.c. 749/1349), in his 27  Al-Zanjānī, Miʿyār al-nuẓẓār ii, 129. 28  Ibn Dāwūd, al-Niṣf al-thānī 313. 29  Al-Sharīshī, Sharḥ Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīrī iii, 272. 30  Al-Sharīshī, Sharḥ Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīrī iii, 294. 31  Al-Sharīshī, Sharḥ Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīrī iii, 294. 32  Al-Zanjānī, Miʿyār ii, 129. 33  Al-Zanjānī, Miʿyār ii, 131. The attribution of the coining of the figure to him is mentioned in al-Ḥillī, Sharḥ al-Kāfiya 277; Ibn Maʿṣūm, Anwār al-rabīʿ vi, 176. Abu-Khadra translates the term as “ellipsis,” which he discusses in Abu-Khadra, Ellipsis. Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, who lived before al-Zanjānī, already discussed this phenomenon under the concept of

Beyond the Known Limits

129

auto-commentary on his badīʿiyya, in which he employs ḥadhf, defines it as follows: “when the speaker omits from his speech [1] one or more letters from the alphabet, or [2] all the undotted letters or [3] all the dotted ones, on condition of avoiding superficiality.”34As an example of the first, he cites the famous speech, attributed to the fourth caliph ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib (d.40/660), which is devoid of the letter alif.35 Ṣafī al-Dīn points out that this is one of the most common letters in the alphabet, yet ʿAlī was able to improvise the speech on the spot. The appeal of the figure therefore seems to be the difficulty and challenge of producing meaningful discourse despite a restriction imposed on the author.36 It is noteworthy that Ṣafī al-Dīn in his definition of the figure of ḥadhf uses the term “speaker.” While the omission of a particular letter from speech could be noticed aurally, dotted or undotted letters are most readily noticeable in writing. Besides the intellectual satisfaction of knowing that a certain kind of letter is excluded, the omission itself would have no meaningful effect on the poem. Is it just knowing that a poet has imposed some restriction on himself that makes the device charming? Does the visual have any role? Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (d. 606/1209), in his Nihāyat al-ījāz fī dirāyat al-iʿjāz (The Utmost Conciseness in Comprehending the Inimitability of the Quran), explicitly places this kind of artistic expression under the category of writing. Influenced by Isḥāq ibn Wahb’s (fl. first half of the 4th/10th c.) slightly modified classification of al-Jāḥiẓ’s levels of bayān,37 al-Rāzī explains: ḥadhf. Al-Rāzi, Nihāyat al-ījāz 55. He does not explicitly identify it as a badīʿ figure, however. That might be al-Zanjānī’s contribution, which caused later authors to identify him as the coiner of the term. 34  Al-Ḥillī, Sharḥ al-Kāfiya 276. For a later but expanded discussion of the figure see Ibn Maʿṣūm, Anwār al-rabīʿ vi, 176ff. 35  Abu-Khadra, Ellipsis 78–9, convincingly doubts this attribution. 36  Al-Ṣāḥib ibn ʿAbbād (d. 385/995) is said to have composed poems in which he imposes on himself the omission of each letter of the alphabet (Ibn Maʿṣūm, Anwār al-rabīʿ vi, 180–1). Also see Abu-Khadra, Ellipsis 78–9. The appeal of the figure also sprang out of necessity, such as in the case of Wāṣil ibn ʿAṭāʾ (d. 131/748–9), a founding figure of Muʿtazilī theology, who famously avoided the letter “r” in his speech because he could not pronounce it correctly. His ability to avoid “r” eventually became a sign of his linguistic capabilities and eloquence. Abu-Khadra, Ellipsis 77–8, Jāḥiẓ, al-Bayān wa-l-tabyīn i, 14–16, and Ibn al-Nadīm, Kitāb al-Fihrist 202–3. 37  In his al-Burhān fī wujūh al-bayān (The Demonstration of the Aspects of Bayān), Ibn Wahb divides bayān into four categories: “[1] the manifestation of things in their essence [. . .], [2] the manifestation that takes place in the heart through thought and contemplation, [3] the manifestation through speech, and [4] the manifestation through the book, which reaches those far and absent” (Ibn Wahb, al-Burhān 60). These he respectively

130

Harb

Things are manifested on four levels: 1) 2) 3) 4)

their occurrence and manifestation in and of themselves;38 the occurrence of their images and one’s awareness of them in the mind; the utterances that signify those images the writings that signify those utterances.39

He goes on to state that: The distinction of speech in terms of goodness and beauty is due sometimes to [1] the writing, [2] the utterance (lafẓ) in and of itself, [3] the utterance with respect to its original literal signification (al-dalāla al-waḍʿiyya al-aṣliyya), and sometimes to [4] the utterance with respect to secondary indirect signification (al-dalāla al-maʿnawiyya al-farʿiyya).40 In other words, distinction in beauty can manifest itself in writing and in the utterance, whether in and of itself, with respect to its literal meaning or indirect meaning. Therefore, while beauty cannot be assessed in the real thing itself or in our mental image of the thing (levels 1 and 2), it can be evaluated in the words that express it and in the writing that expresses these words (levels 3 and 4).41 As Yaḥyā ibn Ḥamza al-ʿAlawī (d. 745/1344 or 749/1348) later puts it: “the first two levels do not require assessment because they take place in the mind. What does require assessment instead are the third and fourth levels, in both of which the quality of perfection in goodness and beauty does exist.”42 In other words, writing can be a source of beauty, just like speech. With regard to writing, al-Rāzī explains that beauty can be due either to: 1) single letters a. considered individually i. not dotted classifies as (1) Reflection (iʿtibār), (2) Belief (iʿtiqād), (3) Expression (ʿibāra), (4) Writing/ book (Kitāb). For the relationship between Ibn Wahb’s categories and al-Jāḥiẓ’s taxonomy of bayān, see Ṭabāna, al-Bayān al-ʿArabī 68. 38  This corresponds to our sense-perception of the real world around us. 39  Al-Rāzi, Nihāyat al-ījāz 48–9. 40  Al-Rāzi, Nihāyat al-ījāz 49. (I discuss the place of direct and indirect signification in the formalized Science of Eloquence in my Form, content, and the inimitability of the Qurʾān). 41  Al-ʿAlawī also adopts al-Rāzī’s division of matters and our perception of them with a slight variation. Al-ʿAlawī, al-Ṭirāz i, 124. 42  Al-ʿAlawī, al-Ṭirāz i, 123–4.

131

Beyond the Known Limits

ii. dotted b. or considered with respect to their state with other letters i. disconnected letters ii. connected iii. one dotted, the other not 2) single words a. one word dotted, the next undotted (which he also calls khayfāʾ)43 b. resemblance in script (tajnīs al-khaṭṭ) c. ambiguity in script that allows for alternative readings (muṣaḥḥaf) The first group of scriptoral beauties that relate to the single letter (1a and 1b), as well as the figure of the two-colored one (khayfāʾ) (2a) are all attested in Ibn Dāwūd’s chapter, as we have seen. The last two script-related sources of beauty are not mentioned by Ibn Dāwūd. However, they are also visually-driven. Tajnīs al-khaṭṭ is a kind of resemblance between two words due to the way they look in writing, as opposed to regular tajnīs (paronomasia), which is based on a phonetic resemblance between two words.44 Ambiguous script that allows for various possible readings (taṣḥīf ) can also be a source of beauty, according to al-Rāzī. Ibn Maʿṣūm (d. 1119/1707) explains that it entails what looks similar in writing but is different in pronunciation.45 Citing al-Maʿarrī, he explains the origin of the figure as one’s “adopting a word based on one’s reading of it, without having heard it spoken, and changing it from what is correct.”46 The various possibilities of misreading provided fodder for riddles, as the anecdote about Qaswara ibn Muḥammad shows, which al-Rāzī cites as an example. The story goes as follows: one day Abū Aḥmad al-Kātib tells Qaswara a musaḥḥaf, and knowing that he is fond of such riddles, asks him to solve it. The sentence is: 43  The term khayfāʾ is later used by al-Zanjānī as well (Miʿyār ii, 129). 44  The difference in the look of the words could simply be in the placement of a dot, such

ّ‫َ ْ َ نَ أ ن‬ �‫و�ه ي‬ � �‫ح����سبُ��و� � ���ه‬ ‫م‬ ‫م‬

َ‫ُ�ْ ُ ن‬ �‫[ ي‬They reckon that they do good work (Q Kahf 18: 104, Pickthall’s transla�‫ح ِ����سن��و‬ tion)] The words for “reckon” (yaḥsabūn) and “do good” (yuḥsinūn) are similar except for ‫ن‬ the letters “b” (�‫ ) ب‬and “n” (�), which in Arabic are differentiated only by placing the

ًُْ ‫��ص ن���ع�ا‬

as in the following verse of the Qurʾan which al-Rāzī cites as an example:

dot below or above the letter. (I superscript short vowels, which are often not indicated in Arabic, in order to highlight which letters are written and hence seen.) See al-Rāzī, Nihāyat al-ījāz 50. It is worth noting that such scriptoral resemblance is already mentioned in the 5th/11th century by Ibn Rashīq (d. ca. 456/1063) in his al-ʿUmda i, 327. 45  Ibn Maʿṣūm, Anwār al-rabīʿ i, 180. 46  Ibn Maʿṣūm, Anwār al-rabīʿ i, 183. See also Hirschler, The written word 92–3.

132

ُ َ َ َْ َ َُ ‫��ت ن�ور �هي�� ث� ج��م�د‬ ‫ِ ٍم‬

‫ف‬ �‫�ي‬

Harb

The meaning of this purposely misread phrase is “in Haytham’s oven is ice,” which itself, though nonsense, provides a nice poetic contrast between “oven” and “ice.” The point of the game, however, is to figure out the original phrase of which it could be a misreading. Qaswara spends a year trying to solve the riddle to no avail. The answer, Abū Aḥmad finally tells him, is his name:47

‫ق‬ ‫���سوره � نب� محمد‬

‫ف‬ �‫�ي‬

Fī (on or about) Qaswara ibn Muḥammad The general shape of the two phrases could indeed be mixed up with the misalignment of connections between the original words and the misplacement of dots. This example illustrates yet another way in which the appearance of writing was exploited for literary games. Not everyone acknowledges the merits of the visual appearance of writing as al-Rāzī does. Ḍiyāʾ al-dīn Ibn al-Athīr (d. 637/1239), for example, exclaims that these kinds of scriptoral figures have nothing to do with faṣāḥa or balāgha (i.e. eloquence) because if it were the case, we would have seen them in the Quran and in the speech of Arabs. Instead of crediting them with some beautifying power, he considers them an aspect of “delirium” (hadhayān) and finds it more appropriate to classify them under “trickery and charlatanism” (shaʿbadha)!48 Although al-Rāzi has a more positive attitude towards such figures than Ibn al-Athīr, he also does not consider them to be part of eloquence. Al-Rāzī discusses writing in a section entitled “on the beauty (maḥāsin) and distinctiveness (mazāyā) arising as a result of utterances and what follows them.”49 He makes it very explicit that “eloquence cannot be a characteristic of utterances,” and by implication the writing that represents these utterances.50 Following ʿAbd al-Qāhir al-Jurjānī’s line of thinking and what later becomes the standard outlook of the formalized ʿilm al-balāgha, he argues that utterances in and of themselves and with respect to their literal meaning

47  The anecdote is mentioned in Ibn Maʿṣūm, Anwār al-rabīʿ i, 184 and al-Thaʿālibī, Yatīmat al-dahr iv, 75. 48  Ibn al-Athīr, al-Mathal al-sāʾir iii, 210ff. 49  Al-Rāzī, Nihāyat al-ījāz 48. 50  Al-Rāzī, Nihāyat al-ījāz 48. Al-Rāzī also discusses literary figures such as paronomasia in this section.

133

Beyond the Known Limits

do not contribute to eloquence.51 Nevertheless, he states that “there are matters pertaining to the essence of the utterance and its literal signification that bestows discourse with completeness, embellishment, and beauty.”52 He goes on to discuss these matters in the aforementioned chapter, which incorporates writing.53 According to al-Rāzī, therefore, script-based figures have nothing to do with eloquence. However, he does credit them with the potential of adding beauty and distinction to discourse.54 Besides showing off the poet’s skill, therefore, the image of the written word can also add beauty and distinction. Inversions and Palindromes The next set of verses Ibn Dāwūd cites involve the use of inversions either at the level of single words or entire verses. Three kinds of inversion can be identified. First, when the last word of the verse echoes the first word in reverse, such as:

َ ‫��ح�ا ر‬

ُ‫َ ْ ض‬ ْ َ‫���ه ذ�� ا ا �ل�ل‬ ‫و‬ ����‫ب��ع‬ ‫ِم‬

ُ َ‫َ ف‬ َ ‫را �بِ� �ا �ل�ل ْو ����ق �ل ����ن� ا‬ ‫ح‬ ‫ِم‬

He went on (rāḥ) blaming so we said Some of this blame stings (ḥārr) Later critics call this maqlūb mujannaḥ (winged inversion).55 Second, palindromes, a verse or hemistich, which can be read backwards and forwards, such as:

ُ ‫�م�د ا نٍ� ن���ه�ا را‬

ّ‫�ه� ��ل����لهُ� ن‬ �� ‫و ل ي‬

ْ ‫أَ نّ ن‬ ‫ن‬ � � ٍ‫� را�ه�� �ا د �م���ه �لي��ل �ل�هو‬

I see them carousing with him in a night of fun and play And will their night [ever] approach day? 51  Al-Rāzī provides a long rebuttal to those who argue that eloquence ( faṣāḥa) lies in utterances in and of themselves or with respect to their literal signification. Eloquence per se, therefore, only arises in utterances insofar as their meanings are intellected or their literal meaning points to another meaning metonymically or metaphorically. Such utterances that signify meaning indirectly end up forming the main elements of what becomes standardized as ʿilm al-bayān. Al-Rāzi, Nihāyat al-ījāz 35–48. See my discussion of this issue in my article, Form, content, and the inimitability of the Qurʾān. 52  Al-Rāzī, Nihāyat al-ījāz 34. 53  Al-Rāzī, Nihāyat al-ījāz 48. 54  There is much at stake in making this distinction between eloquence and beautifying aspects of speech since the inimitability of the Quran is founded on the former. Whatever is incorporated in the definition of eloquence therefore has to be applicable to the Quran. 55  Al-Rāzī, Nihāyat al-ījāz 67–8; al-Zanjānī, Miʿyār ii, 125; al-Sakkākī, Miftāḥ al-ʿulūm 541.

134

Harb

The second hemistich is produced through reading the first in reverse.56 Al-Rāzī calls this maqlūb mustawī (complete inversion).57 The example he provides to illustrate the figure comes from al-Ḥarīrī’s 16th maqāma, the “Maghribiyya.” As Ḥārith ibn Hammām, al-Ḥarīrī’s narrator, chats with others, they decide to try to come up with phrases that also make sense when inverted letter by letter. Each person has to say a phrase that increases in length. Finally, when Ḥarith is unable to come up with a seven-word palindromic phrase on his turn, someone from the crowd appears (who is of course al-Ḥarīrī’s trickster character, Abū Zayd al-Sarūjī) and not only lives up to the task in prose, but also improvises several palindromic verses of poetry. Everyone is amazed and Ḥārith exclaims: “He enchanted us with his wonders and stunned us with the extremity of his ambition.”58 In his commentary on this maqāma al-Shārīshī explains that litterateurs mention such palindromes because they find pleasure in them and testing of their thoughts.59 The third type of inversion cited by Ibn Dāwūd consists of word-palindromes or “Versus Cancrini,” which “read the same backwards as forwards—not letter by letter, as do palindromes, but word by word.”60 Ibn Dāwūd calls them murajjaʿa (echoed).61 Sometimes the reversal of the order of words actually changes the meaning in a clever way. For example, Amīn cites the anecdote about those who have accused Abū Tammām, saying: “why don’t you say what is understood?” and Abū Tammām answers “why don’t you understand what is said?”62 In Ibn Dāwūd’s examples, however, the meaning does not seem to change, although the added strictures of meter have to be maintained in verse when the order is inverted, such as the following example he provides in the Munsariḥ meter:63 56  The inverse reading can either replicate the same verse read forward, or say something different as in the example provided by Ibn Dāwūd. Amīn in his survey of the figure provides examples of verses from later centuries that praise when read one way and insult when read the other. Amīn, Muṭālaʿāt 206. 57  Al-Rāzī, Nihāyat al-ījāz 68; al-Zanjānī, Miʿyār ii, 125–6; al-Sakkākī also mentions this in Miftāḥ al-ʿulūm 542. 58  Al-Sharīshī, Sharḥ Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīrī ii, 219. 59  Al-Sharīshī, Sharḥ Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīrī ii, 212. 60  Higgins, Pattern poetry 233. 61  Ibn Dāwūd, al-Niṣf al-thānī 318. The term murajjaʿ does not seem to be taken up by later critics, although it is similar to what later comes to be known as ʿaks (inversion). Amīn, Muṭālaʿāt 205–6; Ibn Ḥijja, Khizānat al-adab 201. 62  Amīn, Muṭālaʿāt 205. 63  Ibn Dāwūd, al-Niṣf al-thānī 318. Of course, if we keep al-Jurjānī’s discussion of naẓm in mind and the whole field of ʿilm al-maʿānī, which amounts to the study of sentence

Beyond the Known Limits

ُ‫ُ تْ ك ً �ف‬ ‫َ َ ن‬ � ��‫�م‬ �‫�م�د ا �ِل��ل� را قِ� ي�ا ���ب�د �ي‬

ً ََ ْ ُ

ُ

‫َ َ ن‬

‫ي�ا ���ب�د �� �ل���فل� را � �م� ت� ك‬ ‫��م�د ا‬ ‫ي‬ ِ‫ق‬

135

Body of mine from separation die of grief Die of grief from separation body of mine Al-Rāzī discusses palindromes and “winged inversions” under a sub-heading he entitles “inversion” (qalb) in the chapter on matters that lend beauty and distinction to discourse discussed above.64 Later works, however, typically discuss both figures as a type of paronomasia (tajnīs), and more specifically, as a type of the related rhetorical figure known as “having the end echo the beginning” (radd al-ʿajuz ʿalā al-ṣadr).65 The latter entails having the rhyme word be an “echo” of a word that was previously mentioned in the verse, usually in the first hemistich. This echo mostly consists of a repetition of the same previously-mentioned word. Al-Sakkākī, however, argues that it is better for the echo not to be a mere repetition. This, he suggests, can be achieved through inverting part of the word (maqlūb al-baʿḍ), the whole word, such as in the case of the “winged inversion” (maqlūb mujannaḥ), or the whole hemistich (i.e. palindromes).66 Ibn Maʿṣūm, who later uses al-Ḥarīrī’s term for palindromes, “what is not rendered impossible when inverted” (mā lā yastaḥīl bi-l-inʿikās), criticizes one poet for attempting to have the entire verse be invertible and says that those who wrote badīʿiyyāt never applied this figure to more than half a verse.67 In both the examples that Ibn Dāwūd provides, as well as in al-Ḥarīrī’s palindromes, the second hemistich is the inverse of the first. Thus, the figure seems to not only entail the possibility of inversion, but it incorporates the hemistich read both forwards and backwards. The reversibility of a line or half a line of poetry is therefore not the main point of palindromes and other kinds of inversions. Rather, it seems that the source of their beauty is the mirror image created when paired with the original phrase read forwards. This mirror image can best be appreciated visually. As David Roxburgh has argued in reference to al-Ḥarīrī’s play with diacritical marks and palindromes: “it was only through construction, the two hemistichs have different emphases through the rearrangement of their words. According to al-Jurjānī, they would not produce the exact same “image of meaning.” 64  Al-Rāzi, Nihāyat al-ījāz 67–8. 65  I am adopting Wolfhart Heinrichs’ translation of the figure, in Rhetorical figures 660. 66  Al-Sakkākī, Miftāḥ al-ʿulūm 541. 67  Ibn Maʿṣūm, Anwār al-rabīʿ v, 290. This becomes a standard figure in the Badīʿiyyāt genre. See, for example, al-Ḥillī, Sharḥ al-Kāfiya 257.

136

Harb

seeing the written text that the ingenuity and play of al-Ḥarīrī’s constructions could be completely appreciated.”68 Acrostics and Cryptograms In our discussion so far, the visual effect produced through a consideration of the appearance of the letters in the first case or the production of symmetry in the second is pleasing because of the way the final product looks. The visual appearance, however, can also provide added layers of meaning. Acrostics and cryptograms both provide hidden messages that can be deduced only through visualizing or seeing the text written down. In his chapter on writing, Isḥāq ibn Wahb discusses the conventions of various kinds of written forms, such as official letters, contracts, and decrees. These he counts as the “apparent” (ẓāhir) aspects of writing, which he contrasts with the “hidden” (bāṭin) aspects of writing. Among the hidden matters, he discusses concealment or encryption (taʿmiya) through writing. Pertinent to the examples in Ibn Dāwūd’s chapter, he cites a verse that contains all the letters of the alphabet, which he says was well-known and used for the sake of encryption. He explains: “if one wanted an alif, one would say: the fourth letter of the fourth [word],” which in the famous verse is the word “wa-shakā” (and he complained).69 Ibn Wahb apologetically justifies his citation of this verse in particular for its being well-known and employed frequently as the standard alphabet verse. He explains, however, that one could compose one’s own verse for purposes of encryption. The verse Ibn Dāwūd quotes in his chapter that incorporates all the letters of the alphabet could therefore have been used for such purposes as well.70 Later, al-Zanjānī identifies muʿammā or cryptogram as a badīʿ figure and defines it as the inclusion of a name in a verse through “misreading (taṣḥīf ), inversion, or calculation, among other ways.”71 Ibn Dāwūd includes one such riddle in his chapter to spell out the name “Saʿīd”:

‫آ‬ ‫فآ ��� ت‬ ‫�ل�ه �أ ث�ا �ل� ث‬ �� �‫� ا �ل�د ر �ل�ه � ����خر‬ �� ‫ل‬ ‫ر‬ ‫و‬ ‫و‬ ‫�� �خ�ر ا �ل س‬ ‫فع‬ ‫ث‬ ‫و�خ �ا �م�� ا‬ ‫س �ل��س�ا ع�د �ا نٍ� �ل� ه ور �ا���بع ا �ل����سي��� �ل�ه د �ا��ب�ر‬

68  Roxburgh, In pursuit of shadows 178. 69  Ibn Wahb, al-Burhān 436–7. It is standard practice to add the wa (meaning “and”) to the word that follows it, hence Ibn Wahb considers wa-shakā a single word. The short vowels rendered by the superscripted a’s do not count as letters of the alphabet in Arabic and therefore do not factor into the counting. The phoneme “sh” (ʃ) is represented by a single letter in Arabic. 70  Ibn Dāwūd, al-Niṣf al-thānī 314. 71  Al-Zanjānī, Miʿyār ii, 128; Cachia, From sound to echo 221.

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Beyond the Known Limits

The end of “turs” [shield] is for him the beginning The third of “al-dirʿ” [armor] is for him the end The fifth of “al-sāʿid” [arm] is for him second The fourth of “al-sayf” [sword] is for him what follows Note that the choices of words for the riddle are not random; they all indicate strength. There is a secondary meaning of praise, therefore, embedded in the riddle. While lughz (riddle) in general becomes a standard rhetorical figure later in the critical tradition, it could be composed in all kinds of ways. The example Ibn Dāwūd shows is a kind of riddle that depends on one’s ability to visualize or see the written words. Acrostics, which are poems or texts “in which the initial letters, read vertically, form a word or inscription,”72 are another way a poet may take advantage of the written text in order to convey an added meaning. The acrostic Ibn Dāwūd cites consists of four verses, the first letter of each spells the name “Aḥmad”:73

َ ُْ ‫ذ‬ َ َ ََ ‫ل ���ي�د ر �م�ا � ا بِ��م�ه���ج� ت�� ��ص ن���ع�ا‬ ِ ْ‫م‬ ‫ي‬ ُ‫أُ � ق‬ َ َ‫�َ�ز‬ ٌ َ‫�ُ ت‬ ‫ل‬ � �‫م‬ ‫�ك���ئِ� ب� ���م�ا � ف�ا ر� ا ج� ���ع�ا‬ ِ َ َّ َ َ َ� ََ ‫ت�ور��د �خ �د �م� نَ ا ل‬ � ‫ �ل���م���ع�ا‬74‫ح����ي�ا‬ � ٍ ‫ي‬ َ َْ‫تَ �فْ ��ُ ُ ف �نْتَ �زُْ ُم‬ ‫���ت�ِ��م���ع�ا‬ ‫ ج‬76‫��� ر�ي���ق�ه ��ا �����هِ� � ه‬

ٌ‫آ‬ ََ ‫ذ‬ ‫� ه �م� ن� ا �ل ����ب�ا ر� ا �ل�� �ي� �ل���م�ع�ا‬ ِ‫ق‬ َ‫َ فَ َ أَ �َ ذ‬ ‫�َ َّ َ ف‬ ‫ح���ك� �����ي�ه�ا ا ��لب���لى ����ه�ا � ��ن�� ا‬ َّ ‫ُ ذ َ َم ف‬ ‫أ ذ ََ ن‬ ���‫�م�� لا لي� �ي� ا �ل��س‬ ‫� ��ك‬ �‫�ر�ي‬ ِ‫ح�ا ب‬ ‫َ ح‬ ّ َ� ‫ذ‬ ‫ن‬ � � � ‫�ك‬ � ‫ط‬ 75 �� ‫�ه‬ � ‫د‬ ‫ه‬ � ‫ع‬ �� � ‫�ف‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ل‬ � �‫ي‬ �ٍ‫ن‬ ‫ى‬

(Āh) Woe [is me] for him who [like] the lightning lit Unaware of what he has produced in my heart (Ḥakkama) He commanded in it affliction and here I am Depressed, not [able] to separate myself from grief (Mudh) Since he appeared to me in the clouds I was reminded of The blushing of cheeks which from shyness flared (Dalla) It points to it essence for the discerning [When] split asunder. So grasp it put together. 72  Higgins, Pattern poetry 171. 73  Ibn Dāwūd, al-Niṣf al-thānī 317. He does not use a specific term for “acrostic.” He simply introduces the selection as “poetry containing a name that can be extracted from the beginnings of its verses.” I thank Matt Keegan for his help with the key final verse. ‫ا �جل‬, which is a misreading of the manuscripts. 74  The published edition has ‫� ب���ا‬ 75  Following the Baghdad manuscript, not the printed edition. 76  Following the Baghdad manuscript, not the printed edition.

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Acrostics are, of course, difficult to render in another language, since the meaning depends not only on the words, but also on their spelling and placement when written. One has to visualize the representation of the verses in writing or—better yet—see them written down in order to grasp their full import.77 Pattern Poetry Alternative readings of a text can also be prompted by spatially arranging the words or verses on a page in a particular way. In one example, Ibn Dāwūd quotes verses that could be read as a single poem (qaṣīda), or as three separate poems. The verses are represented as three separate columns, each with its own rhyme. Read vertically, each column makes up its own standalone poem with its unique meter and rhyme. Read horizontally, the composition constitutes a single poem.

َ� ‫ذ‬ َ �� ‫��ي�ا � ا ا جل‬ �‫� ا �ل���مر‬ ‫ا‬ �� � � ‫ن‬ ‫ي‬ ِ‫ب‬ ‫ع‬ َ َ َ� ُّ ُ ‫���ف�د ا ك ك� ا جل‬ ��‫����مي‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ع‬ ‫� �ن‬ ‫� ن‬ ‫�م���ًع�ا �ل‬ ِ‫ح����س� ا ل���ص� ي�ع‬ ‫أ‬ ‫� �ع��ن ي���ك ي�ا ا ب� ن� ا �لر�ب������ي‬ ‫ع‬

َ َ َ� َ � ‫د‬ ‫ا‬ � �‫��ا ا ب� ن� �لي��� ث‬/ ‫ي�ا ِع�م ي� ي‬ ُ َ� ‫ت‬ ‫�� ن‬ � � ‫ح‬ / ‫ا‬ � ‫ك‬ � � ‫ص‬ � � � ‫ر‬ � � ‫لا‬ ٍ‫ِ ب ي ث‬ َ ْ َ‫ُ �غ‬ ‫أ َ ذ‬ �‫ �ج�ودِ � ي��� ث‬/ ‫� �ن� ت� ي�ا � ا ا �ل�ـ‬ ‫ُّ �غ‬ � � �� � / 79�‫��د �ي‬ ‫حي�� ن� ي� �ك‬ � ٍ‫كل ي ث‬

O son of generosity and dew80 Verily, fulfill a promise

O my pillar, O son of a lion Don’t be one who delays

He said to the dew

You, O generous one are a rescuing rain When all clouds dry up

Rely on Muḥammad for me

َّ‫ن‬ ُ َ‫ف‬ � ‫�د‬ ‫ي�ا ��تى ا �جل�ودِ وا ��ل� ى‬ َْ‫ن‬ َ َ ‫ا �جِ�ز ن� ����من���ك �م ْوع�د ا‬ ِ َّ � َ�� ََ 78‫و�ل���ق�د ��ق�ا ل �ل�ل ����ن�د �ى‬

‫�عت‬ ‫حم‬ ‫��م�د ا‬ �‫ا ���م�د لي‬ O possessor of fertile grounds The whole group is your ransom together for the good of deeds I mean you, O son of Spring

77   A.L. Korn also points out that “an acrostic like arrangement, like graphic design in general, does not lend itself readily to oral transmission.” Korn, Puttenham and the Oriental pattern-poem 294. 78  I follow the Turin manuscript in rendering it ‫ �ل� ن�ل��د ا‬. The printed edition and the Baghdad ‫�ق ق‬ manuscript’s rendering ( ‫ )و�ل�� �د ��ا ل ل� ا � ن�ل��د ا‬does not work metrically.

‫ي‬

79  Printed edition: �� ‫��د‬ ‫ ;ت� �ك‬Baghdad manuscript: �� ‫��د‬ ‫ن� �ك‬. Turin manuscript: �� ‫��د‬ ‫�ــ �ك‬. If the sub-

‫ي‬

‫ي‬

ject of the verb is ghayth, it has to be �� ‫��د‬ ‫ي� �ك ي‬. 80  Dew is a standard metaphor for generosity in Arabic poetry.

‫ي‬

Beyond the Known Limits

139

If read as one poem, it would be in the khafīf meter with the verse split indicated by me in the Arabic text with the backslash. If read as three poems, the first column from the right in the Arabic would be in a shortened khafīf meter ( fāʿilātun mutafʿilun), the second in a shortened ramal meter ( fāʿilātun fāʿilātun), and the third in the mujtathth meter (mustafʿilun fāʿilātun).81 Pattern poetry refers to poetry or prose “in which the letters, words, or lines are arrayed visually to form recognizable shapes.”82 These shapes can often be independent from the text, and can be produced through a calligraphic rendering of it in such a way as to form a recognizable image.83 While this art form abounds in Islamic art and architecture, it lies more under the purview of the artist than the poet. Ibn Dāwūd’s examples of pattern poetry, on the other hand, employ the visual appearance and arrangement of the poetry as a tool to guide the reader through alternative readings of the text. Higgins explains that pattern poetry “reveals its form and interacts with it, taking on one or another special quality according to the visual form which it has.”84 Presenting the verses in three columns instead of the standard two-column representation of poetry allows the reader to visually discover the other possible readings. The other two examples of pattern poetry in Ibn Dāwūd’s chapter do the same. Each of these pattern poems (or verses) is shaped as a square. In each square, four different readings of the same verse are represented on each side. In the example shown here in Figure 1, each side represents a permutation of the phrase “In auspiciousness not in ill-fatedness [is] the best omen for Yazīd.” One could start reading the verse from any word and it would continue to make sense and maintain the ramal meter in all its permutations. The Turin manuscript has additionally the same verse (with the name “Hishām” in this case instead of Yazīd) represented in the shape of a diamond in the center, as shown in Figure 1. While the larger outer square spells out all the various permutations, the diamond in the middle suggests it by eliminating any indication of the beginning.

81  There is some similarity between this example and the badīʿ figure called tashrīʿ (making equal) or tawʾam (twins) in later works. Ibn Abī l-Iṣbaʿ, Taḥrīr al-taḥbīr 522–4. Ibn Ḥijja (Khizānat al-adab 149) also lists it under tashrīʿ. It refers to having two possible endings to a verse, which are both valid metrically and with respect to rhyme, producing two possible readings. However, this does not entail the possibility of vertical readings which we find in Ibn Dāwūd’s example. Also see Amīn, Muṭālaʿāt 190ff. 82   New Princeton encyclopedia 890. 83  See Higgins, Pattern poetry 228; Schimmel, Islamic calligraphy. 84  Higgins, Pattern poetry 206.

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Figure 7.1 Pattern poem in Ibn Dāwūd’s Kitāb al-Zahra.

These represent some of the earliest examples of pattern poetry in Arabic. In later periods other shapes are used to guide the reader. One of these is the tree in which the stem forms the main verse, and the branches form alternative completions of the verse, departing from various points of the verse. Amīn dates this phenomenon, which he calls “tashjīr” (tree-making) to the eleventh/ seventeenth century.85 The recent publication of Dīwān al-tadbīj by ʿAbd al-Munʿim al-Jilyānī (d. 602/1206) shows a highly developed genre of pattern poetry that dates to as early as the sixth/twelfth century.86 Al-Jilyānī’s pattern poem, which he refers to as “mudabbajāt” (embellished ones), include shapes of trees, checkerboards, circles, and other geometrical figures. The verses of the poems are intertwined to form visually stunning designs, which often require al-Jilyānī’s reading instructions to be deciphered. In this case as well, the various shapes and geometrical figures guide the reader to discover countless readings. The examples that appear in Ibn Dāwūd’s Kitāb al-Zahra

85  Amīn, Muṭālaʿāt 186–9, and 213, where he dates “geometrical poetry” to even later. 86  The earliest known example of pattern poetry in pre-modern Hebrew literature also comes from 12th-century Andalusia. A poem attributed to Abraham ben Ezra (d. 1167) is also in the shape of a tree. See Higgins, Pattern poetry 55; Pagis, Carmina figurate.

141

Beyond the Known Limits

give us a glimpse of the beginnings of a truly “unknown literature,” to borrow Higgins’ assessment of the phenomenon.87 2

Gesture (Ishāra)

The artistic mixing of media not only takes place between speech and writing. Ibn Dāwūd also recounts some verses by Abū Nuwās which he describes as “not having a rhyme.” The verses are written out as follows:88

َ ‫ق‬ ‫� ق‬ ‫� �ق �ق ت‬ ‫ن‬ �‫ب��عي���د لم� ن ي‬ � ‫��ة ل‬ )‫�� يا���ة � ب���ل��ة‬ ‫ (ح ك‬89‫ �م�ه‬: ‫ح ب���ك‬ �َ ��‫وأل�� �د �ل�� �ل�ل�م�ل��ي��ح�ث �و ي� �م‬ ‫� ���م�ع���ص � �ق�ا �ل� ت‬ ‫ف�� �����ش�ا ت‬ �‫ (ح ك‬90‫ �ص�ا ه‬: �‫� �م� ن� ب��عي���د �خ �لا �ف� ق�ول‬ )‫�� يا���ة لا‬ ‫م‬ ‫ر‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ي‬ ّ‫�ةًم ث ن‬ ْ ‫ف� �ت ن �ف‬ ‫ذ‬ ُ ‫ق‬ ‫�ة‬ �� ‫ت‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ن‬ �‫ (ح ك‬91‫ را ه‬:‫� ��ل�� �ل��لب���غ�ل ���ع���د � �ل�ك‬ � � 92)‫�� يا�� ع�د‬ ‫� ��� ����س�� ���س�ا ع� م �إ ي‬ I said to the beautiful woman: say From afar to him who loves you “mwah” (imitation of a kiss) So she signaled with her hand and said From afar the opposite of what I had said (imitation of “no”) So I sighed for an hour, then I said— To the mule at that point—(imitation of “go”)

Abū Nuwās thus improvised verses that “do not have a rhyme” by inserting nonverbal gestures in its place. The gestures, repeated twice, maintain the poem’s 87  Higgins in his ambitious overview of pattern poetry in world literature briefly discusses pattern poetry in Persian and Turkish but concludes that in Arabic the phenomenon is mostly calligraphic. Higgins, Pattern poetry 166. Van Gelder also states that “[f]igural poetry was more popular in Persian literature than in Arabic: it is discussed by the earliest authors on poetics in Persian but was ignored by their Arab colleagues.” Van Gelder, Figural poetry. 88  Ibn Dāwūd, al-Niṣf al-thānī 319.

ُ

89  Baghdad manuscript: ‫�جم‬. Both seem to be imitating the sound of a kiss. 90  Baghdad manuscript:

َ ��‫ ; ط‬printed edition: ‫�م�ا ه‬. I am not sure what any of these could ‫ح‬

mean. Presumably they indicate the wagging of a finger to convey “no.”

‫ ك‬. This is presumably the sound one makes when urging on a mule. 91  Baghdad manuscript: � ‫ح‬

ُْ ُ

‫)?( � ش‬. Perhaps ‫ ع�د‬stands for ‫( ا ع�د‬run/ hurry) and what looks 92  Baghdad manuscript: ���‫ع‬ ‫ش‬ ‫( ا� ش‬walk/go). The same verses are like ���‫ �ع‬in the Baghdad manuscript might stand for ���‫م‬ ِ

quoted by Ibn Rashīq and he uses the word “imshi” (walk/go) for the gesture associated with this verse. (Ibn Rashīq al-Qayrawānī, al-ʿUmda, i, 310.).

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khafīf meter intact. Recalling al-Jāḥiẓ’s division of the means of expression, which besides speech and writing also include ishāra (indication through gestures), these verses provide an example of mixing speech with gestures. The term ishāra has the meanings “sign, gesture, allusion,” as van Gelder explains. In the critical tradition it primarily denotes various kinds of allusion. The nonverbal sense of ishāra is not typically considered.93 At the same time, it is not completely ignored either. Ibn Rashīq al-Qayrawānī (d.ca. 456/1063) in his substantial chapter that deals with all kinds of aspects of ishāra does include such non-verbal forms of communication in which he recounts the same anecdote about Abū Nuwās. He adds that “everyone in the audience was amazed at [Abū Nuwās’s] ingenuity and talent.”94 Ibn Abī al-Iṣbaʿ also discusses gestures under the figure of ishāra in his Taḥrīr al-taḥbīr. He argues that making a sign with the hand can even be a more effective and efficient way of conveying meaning.95 Citing the prophet, he calls this “the eloquence of the hand” (balāghat al-yad), just as one speaks of the “eloquence of the tongue.” Ibn Abī al-Iṣbaʿ seems to have speeches primarily in mind, however, not poetry. Abū Nuwās’s verses seem to be a unique example of performative poetry, but they are not the only ones. The Ayyūbid poet, Jamāl al-Dīn Ibn Maṭrūḥ (d.649/1251), composed a 17-line poem that ends each of its verses with the word kadhā (like this), indicating the accompaniment of a gesture with the rhyme word.96 It is likely that more examples exist that have yet to be discovered. 3

Prose Poetry

Ibn Dāwūd includes in his compendium a poem that intentionally employs enjambment (taḍmīn), a device that was generally frowned upon in classical Arabic criticism. He introduces it as “poetry conjoined (muḍamman) with each other and if read continuously, it is [regular] speech.”97

93  Van Gelder, Ishāra 398. 94  Ibn Rashīq, al-ʿUmda, i, 310. 95  Ibn Abī al-Iṣbaʿ, Taḥrīr al-taḥbīr 200. 96  Ibn Maṭrūḥ, Dīwān 94–5 (cited in al-Rāfiʿī, Tārīkh ii, 338). The gesture in most cases can be guessed from the verse. 97  Ibn Dāwūd, al-Niṣf al-thānī 315.

Beyond the Known Limits

َ َ ُّ َ ّ ‫وا �ل��لِ�ه �لو حِ�م�ل� ت� �م ����ن�هُ ك��م�ا‬ َ ْ َ َ‫�لُ ّ ف‬ َ‫لُ ت‬ � ‫� ���ع��ل ا‬ ‫� ��د �ع ن�� َو�م�ا‬ �‫ح‬ �‫م‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ى‬ ِ ‫ي‬ ّ ْ ّ ‫أ‬ َ َ ُ‫�ُق� ت‬ ‫� �إ لا � ن� ن�� �ب������ي��ن���م�ا‬ �‫تِ��� ��ل‬ ‫ي‬ َ ْ َ ‫أ ُُ ف‬ َ َ ‫�ق ْ �ه ذ‬ � ‫� ط��ل� ب� ي� ���ص ِر م �إِ � رمى‬ ِ ْ َ َ‫أَ ْ َ أ‬ َّ‫�ن‬ � ‫�ك� ���م�ا‬ �‫� �خ�����ط� ب�ا �ل����س�ه� َول‬ ِ ََّ َ َ ‫ِم‬ ْ‫أَ َ َقت‬ ‫� را د �����ل� بِ���ه���م�ا ����س�ل�م�ا‬ ِ ‫ي‬

َ‫أ‬ ‫� �م�ا‬ َ ‫�ل���م�ا‬

َ ّ ُ� ‫ذ � ذ � ف� �ل‬ � ‫ح‬ ‫�ل‬ � � � ‫�ي ى‬ ِ ‫ي�ا � ا ا ل�� ي� ي� ا ح� ب‬ ُ ّ � ُ‫ُحّ ت‬ ‫� �م� ن‬ �‫� َر�خ� ي‬ � ‫ح‬ ِ ‫ِ�م�ل� ِ � ب‬ ‫ٍم‬ ‫أ ُ ُ نّ َ تُ أ‬ َ 98‫� � د ر �� ����م�ا‬ �‫� ط��ل� ب� �إ �ي� �ل����س‬ ِ‫ي ب‬ َ‫أ‬ َ �‫�قَ ْ ف‬ َ َ ‫ن‬ ‫� �ا ��بِب��ع���� ا �ل�� ���صر ي� ب��ع���� �م�ا‬ ِ ِ‫ض‬ ِ‫ض‬ ٌ ‫�َ �ز‬ َ َ�� ‫َق‬ � ‫���ل�ب� �غ� ا ل ب� ِ����س�ه�ا �ف��م�ا‬ ‫ي‬ ََّ ُ ‫َ ٍم‬ َ ْ َ ُ ‫�َ ْ ن‬ ُ ‫عي�����ا ه ��س�ه���م�ا نِ� �ل�ه ك�ل�م�ا‬

143

O he who censures in [matters of] love, wouldn’t you By God, if you were made to experience of it as I was made to experience of sweet love, you would not have Censured about [matters of] love, so leave me with what I desire. I do not know with what I was Killed except that while I was in some part of the palace seeking some thing or other In their palace, when suddenly I was hit In the heart by a ghazel with arrows, and he did not Err with the arrows, rather His two eyes are two arrows, [at] his [disposal] whenever He desired to kill me with them they greeted As van Gelder has shown, while enjambment was generally considered a sign of a poet’s lack of skill, it was appreciated by some critics when employed intentionally.99 Al-Sakkākī, for example, in his discussion of “flaws of rhyme,” in which he includes enjambment as a flaw, concludes stating that “many of the flaws of rhyme if [especially observed] can expose it in a beautiful light, such as [. . . taking] any type (of flaw) one wishes [. . .] and adhering to that type till the end of the poem.”100 To illustrate his point, he proceeds to quote the same poem Ibn Dāwūd quotes, exclaiming of the poet’s adherence to enjambment: “look how beautiful!” It seems, therefore, that it is the deliberate and consistent breaking of the rule that could render something praiseworthy that 98  The Baghdad Manuscript has ‫�ل���م�ا‬. 99  Van Gelder, Breaking rules for fun. Van Gelder cites Abū l-Ḥasan Ibn Kaysān’s (d.320/932) appreciation of the same poem (with some variation). See Kitāb talqīb al-qawāfī wa-talqīb ḥarakātihā 58–9. 100  Al-Sakkākī, Miftāḥ 697–8.

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would otherwise be a flaw. Van Gelder’s assessment of Arabic attitudes towards enjambment in this poem is fair: “Rather than the product of a rebel who perversely broke the rules, the poem makes the impression of being an exercise in enjambment, by replacing one strict rule by another: what was forbidden becomes obligatory.”101 Ibn Dāwūd’s inclusion of the poem in chapter 87 of his Kitāb al-Zahra reveals a different conceptualization of the device, however. I would like to suggest that the reason the poem is found pleasing is the fact that it blurs the lines between two well-defined modes of expression: poetry and prose. The verses, if read continuously, as Ibn Dāwūd says, “become speech.” What is tantalizing about the poem is the ambiguity of its form. Ḥāzim al-Qarṭājannī (d.684/1285), who is not a proponent of the device in any form, provides us with a further clue in support of this suggestion. Explaining the motivation behind enjambment, he says that “poetry might be composed with a rhyme in this manner for the sake of obscuring the location of the rhyme.”102 Now, the definition of poetry as a form is precisely that it is metered speech with a rhyme.103 Not ending a sentence at the rhyme through enjambment obscures its presence, especially when the verses are read continuously.104 Later in the chapter, Ibn Dāwūd presents the opposite scenario: a prose letter that contains hidden within it two lines of poetry.105 In this case as well, the poetry is disguised as prose. The two examples thus achieve the same effect of composing speech that is technically poetry but seems like prose. What appears to bring these examples “beyond the limits” is therefore not their use of enjambment per se, but their blurring of the line between prose and poetry. This artistic device is attested in later poetry: one such example is attributed to the famous poet, Abū l-ʿAlāʾ al-Maʿarrī (d. 449/1058), with an enjambment that

101  Van Gelder, Breaking rules for fun 27. 102  Al-Qarṭājannī, Minhāj al-bulaghāʾ 277. 103  See for example Ibn Sīnā’s definition in Kitāb al-shiʿr 80. Note that poetry as a form is different from the “poetic.” Discourse can be poetry because it has rhyme and meter but is not necessarily poetic. Prose, in turn, can be poetic without fulfilling the metric and rhyme demands of poetry. See for example Ibn Bannāʾ’s discussion of prose and poetry in al-Rawḍ al-marīʿ 81–2. George Kanazi has also argued that Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī’s understanding of the “art of discourse” applies to both poetry and prose. Kanazi, The literary theory of Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī. 104   Such deliberate use of enjambment is generally attributed to the modern poets (muḥdathūn). Ibn Kaysān, Kitāb talqīb al-qawāfī wa-talqīb ḥarakātihā 58. 105  Ibn Dāwūd, al-Niṣf al-thānī 317. I have not been able to locate the two verses.

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even ends the verse in the middle of a word, not in the middle of a sentence.106 The primary skill is to make poetry seem like prose, or compose prose that happens to be poetry, thus blurring the line between the two forms. 4

Macaronic Poetry

Ibn Dāwūd concludes his chapter with poetry that incorporates foreign languages, including Ethiopian, Persian, and Greek.107 The following are three verses he cites, the third of which is almost entirely in Persian (shown in grey below). Foreign vocabulary in Arabic texts is fraught with mistakes due to scribal errors or ignorance of the language by the scribes. In the following example, although the Persian seems to be clear, the verse’s munsariḥ meter remains broken, indicating that something may still be missing:

َ ُ ََ َ َ‫َ َ َ �ق‬ � � � ‫ل‬ � ‫� �م�ا ت�ر�ى ر�ش���د ك‬ ِ‫ي�ا �ه�ا يم ا ل�� ب‬ َ ْ ُ ُْ ‫َْ َ َق‬ ‫َ َذ‬ 108‫ِ�ع ن���د ا �ل ِ�� �� �ل��ي��س ���لب��ه ِ�ع ن���د ك‬ ‫ي‬ َ ْ� َ � ‫ن‬ ُ 109‫ر و�� � �����بي���� ا��ن�د ك ا��ن�د ك‬ ‫ي‬ ‫�بِ ي‬

َ َ َ ‫�َ أَ ف‬ َ ْ� � � �‫َو�ق�ا ��ئ� ���ق�ا ل ل‬ ‫��م‬ � ‫ح‬ � ‫�ف‬ � ‫ل‬ �‫نِي‬ ‫ي‬ َ‫َ ٍَ َ َ َ أ‬ ْ ُ َ ‫ذ‬ ُ � ُ‫� � �ن� تَ ت�ا ك�ه‬ ‫��ق��لب��ك �ه�� ا ك�م � ِر‬ َُ ُ َ ‫ْ َ �شُ�� �خ‬ ‫� ش��َ��� ش‬ � ‫ك‬ ��� ‫ل‬ ‫���ي�ا كور‬ ‫م و ور دِ و و‬

Many a person has said to me and proved me wrong: O enamored of heart, you can’t see straight This, your heart, how often you’ve left it With him whose heart is not with you O blind of eye (kūr shashm = chashm), and blind of heart (kūr dil), and insolent one (shūkh-rūy), you see a trifle at a time (bebīnī andak andak)

106  Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt al-aʿyān v, 215 (cited in Amīn, Muṭālaʿāt 223–4). Similar verses of al-Maʿarrī’s are also cited by his student, Ibn Sinān al-Khafājī: al-Khafājī, Sirr al-faṣāḥa 186. 107  Ibn Dāwūd, al-Niṣf al-thānī 319–20. For a discussion of the poetry with Greek vocabulary, see Vallaro, Tre versi. 108  The word laysa is missing from the Turin manuscript. 109  Al-Sāmarrāʾī and al-Qaysī’s published edition renders the verse as follows:

‫�ن‬ ‫�ور د ل و�ش��و‬ ‫�ور �ش���ي�� ئ� وك‬ ‫ي�ا ك‬ ‫ح‬ ‫شم‬ ‫ش‬ This is most certainly wrong. Both the Baghdad and Turin manuscripts have �������� and not ‫�ن‬ ‫م‬ �‫�ش����� ئ‬. Turin has ‫�ش��و‬, and Baghdad ‫�ش��و�خ‬. I have not been able to solve the problem of the ‫ح‬ ‫يم‬ .‫رو�ي� �ب� ����ن�ا ا ن��د ك�ا ��ت�د ك‬

meter in the third verse.

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Macaronic poetry is attested in early Abbasid literature enough to indicate that it was more common than the scarce surviving examples reveal. Ibn Dāwūd’s citations provide some of the few extant examples of the phenomenon.110 Their incorporation in this chapter suggests that he conceptualized this phenomenon also as a form of intermixing means of expression. In this case, it constitutes the mixing of different languages in a single poem. Macaronic poetry therefore was not merely an eccentricity for him. It represented yet another way of experimenting with mixed media. Conclusion I have argued that Ibn Dāwūd’s guiding principle in choosing the examples to include in his curious chapter on poetry that “goes beyond the known limits” is the fusion of different media and forms of communication. This includes a consideration of the appearance of the poetry when written down, which can either be unique for avoiding the use of letters with a certain kind of appearance (e.g. use of dotted/connected letters or otherwise) or can provide clues for further layers of meaning (e.g. acrostics, cryptograms, and pattern poetry). In this case, the appearance forms a fundamental component of the poetry. Ibn Dāwūd also provides an example of the use of gesture in poetry, which can only be fully appreciated when the poetry is performed. I have also suggested that his examples of enjambment and poetry hidden in prose are included precisely because they also fuse two forms of expression, blurring the line between poetry and prose. Finally, Ibn Dāwūd includes poetry that mixes a foreign language into Arabic, challenging the very language of communication. Some of these devices, which I am calling “intermedial,” become more mainstream in later centuries, others seem to disappear. More research will likely shed light on their trajectory after the third/ninth century. Whether Ibn Dāwūd’s conceptualization of such figures is adopted by later authors also has yet to be seen. Unfortunately, the Kitāb al-Ḥadāʾiq (Book of the Orchards), which was the Andalusian Abū l-Faraj al-Jayyānī’s (fl. 4th/10th c.) attempt to imitate and outdo Ibn Dāwūd’s Kitāb al-Zahra, is lost.111 Nevertheless, even if Ibn Dāwūd’s conceptualization is unique, it is very revealing. He understands these artistic devices, that otherwise appear to be mere eccentricities with 110  I discuss Persian-Arabic macaronic poetry in the early Abbasid period in my Persian in Arabic poetry. 111  Terés, Ibn Faraŷ de Jaén y su Kitāb al-Ḥadāʾiq.

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nothing in common, as challenging the standard assumptions about media and forms of expression and communication, as well as the monolingualism of these forms. This reveals a deeper theoretical understanding of these phenomena and of what made them “pleasing” to the refined society of ẓurafāʾ in third/ninth-century Baghdad. Bibliography Abu-Khadra, F., Ellipsis in the 2nd century A.H., Arabica 33 (1986), 76–83. Abu Zaid, M., Studien über den zweiten Teil des Kitāb az-Zahra von Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. Dāwūd b. ʿAlī b. Ḫalaf al-Iṣfahānī (9. Jh. N. Chr.), PhD dissertation, Johannes Gutenberg-Universität, Mainz 1974. al-ʿAlawī, Yaḥyā ibn Ḥamza, al-Ṭirāz al-mutaḍammin li-asrār al-balāgha wa-ʿulūm ḥaqāʾiq al-iʿjāz, Cairo 1914. Amīn, B.S., Muṭālaʿāt fī l-shiʿr al-mamlūkī wa-l-ʿuthmānī, Beirut 1972. Cachia, P., From sound to echo in late badīʿ literature, in JAOS 108 (1988), 219–25. Gelder, G.J. van, Breaking rules for fun: Making lines that run on. On enjambment in classical Arabic poetry, in I.A. El-Sheikh et al. (eds.), The Challenge of the Middle East, Middle Eastern studies at the University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam 1982. Gelder, G.J. van, Figural poetry, Ishāra, in J.S. Meisami and P. Starkey (eds.), The Routledge encyclopedia of Arabic literature, 2 vols., London 1998. Ghazi, M.F., Un groupe social: ‘Les Raffinés’ (Ẓurafāʾ), Studia Islamica 11 (1959), 39–71. Giffen, L.A., Theory of profane love among the Arabs: The development of the genre, New York 1971. Goldziher, I., The Ẓāhirīs: Their doctrine and their history: A contribution to the history of Islamic theology, Leiden 1971. Harb, L., Persian in Arabic poetry: Identity politics in Abbasid macaronics, in JAOS forthcoming. Harb, L., Form, content, and the inimitability of the Qurʾān in ʿAbd al-Qāhir al-Jurjānī’s works, in Journal of Middle Eastern Literatures 18 (2015), 301–21. Heinrichs, W., Rhetorical Figures, in J.S. Meisami and P. Starkey (eds.), Encyclopedia of Arabic Literature, 2 vols., London 1998, ii, 656–62. Higgins, D., Horizons: The poetics and theory of the intermedia, Carbondale 1984. Higgins, D., Pattern poetry: Guide to an unknown literature, New York 1987. al-Ḥillī, Ṣafī al-Dīn, Sharḥ al-Kāfiya al-badīʿiyya fī ʿulūm al-balāgha wa-maḥāsin al-badīʿ, ed. N. Nashāwī, Beirut 1992. al-Ḥillī, Ṣafī al-Dīn, Dīwān Ṣafī al-Dīn al-Ḥillī, Beirut 1962. Hirschler, K., The written word in the medieval Arabic lands: A social and cultural history of reading practices, Edinburgh 2012.

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Ibn Abī l-Iṣbaʿ, Taḥrīr al-taḥbīr fī ṣināʿat al-shiʿr, Cairo 1963. Ibn al-Athīr, Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn, al-Mathal al-sāir fī adab al-kātib wa-l-shāʿir, ed. A. al-Ḥūfī and B. Ṭabānah, 4 vols., Cairo 1959–65. Ibn Bannāʾ, al-Rawḍ al-marīʿ fī ṣināʿat al-badīʿ, ed. R. Binshaqrūn, Casablanca 1985. Ibn Dāwūd, Abū Bakr, al-Niṣf al-thānī min kitāb al-zahra, eds I. al-Sāmarrāʾī and N.Ḥ. al-Qaysī, Baghdad 1975; Kitāb al-Zahra, Ms. Torino, Biblioteca Reale no. Or. 68; Kitāb al-Zahra, Ms. Baghdād, al-Matḥaf al-ʿIrāqī no.1345 (microfilm copy at Leiden University Library no. A467). Ibn Dāwūd, Abū Bakr, al-Niṣf al-awwal min kitāb al-zahra, eds A.R. Nykl and I. Ṭūqān, Beirut 1932. Also published as Kitāb al-Zahra, Part I, ed. I. al-Sāmarrāʾī, al-Zarqāʾ, Jordan 1985. Ibn Ḥijja al-Ḥamawī, Khizānat al-adab wa-ghāyat al-arab, Būlāq 1874. Ibn Kaysān, Abū l-Ḥasan, Kitāb Talqīb al-qawāfī wa-talqīb ḥarakātihā, in Opuscula Arabica, ed. W. Wright, Leiden 1859. Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt al-aʿyān wa-anbāʾ abnāʾ al-zamān, 8 vols., Beirut 1968–77. Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān al-ʿArab, 15 vols., Beirut 1955–56. Ibn Maʿṣūm, ʿAlī ibn Aḥmad, Anwār al-rabīʿ fī anwāʿ al-badīʿ, ed. Sh.H. Shukr, 7 vols., Najaf 1968. Ibn Maṭrūḥ, Dīwān Ibn Maṭrūḥ, ed. Ḥ. Naṣṣār, Cairo 2004. Ibn al-Nadīm, Kitāb al-Fihrist, ed. M.R. Tajaddod, Tehran 1987. Ibn Rashīq al-Qayrawānī, al-ʿUmda fī maḥāsin al-shiʿr wa-ādābih wa-naqdih, ed. M.M. ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd, 5th ed., 2 vols., Beirut 1981. Ibn Sīnā, Kitāb al-Shiʿr, in Analecta orientalia ad poeticam aristoteleam, ed. D.S. Margoliouth, Hildesheim 2000. Ibn Wahb, Isḥāq, al-Burhān fī wujūh al-bayān, Baghdad 1967. al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Bayān wa-l-tabyīn, ed. ʿA.S. Hārūn, 7th ed., 4 vols., Cairo 1998. al-Jilyānī, ʿAbd al-Munʿim, Dīwān al-tadbīj: Fitnat al-ibdāʿ wa-dhirwat al-imtāʿ, eds. K. Abū Dīb and D. Bakhsh, Beirut 2010. Kanazi, G., The literary theory of Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī, in S. Somekh (ed.), Studies in medieval Arabic and Hebrew poetics, Leiden 1991. al-Khafājī, Ibn Sinān, Sirr al-faṣāḥa, Beirut 1982. Korn, A.L., Puttenham and the Oriental pattern-poem, Comparative literature 6 (1954), 289–303. Lane, E.W. and S. Lane-Poole, An Arabic-English lexicon, repr. Beirut 1968. The New Princeton encyclopedia of poetry and poetics, ed. F. Warnke et al., Princeton 1993. Nykl, A.R., Nuevos datos sobre el “Kitab al-Zahra,” Al-Andalus 4 (1936–39), 147–66. Pagis, D., Carmina figurate in pre-modern Hebrew poetry, HaSifrut 25 (1977), 13–27. al-Qarṭājannī, Abū l-Ḥasan Ḥāzim, Minhāj al-bulaghāʾ wa-sirāj al-udabāʾ, ed. M. Ibn al-Khawja, Beirut 1981.

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al-Rāfiʿī, M.Ṣ, Tārīkh ādāb al-ʿArab, Cairo 1940. Raven, W., Ibn Dâwûd al-Iṣbahânî and his “Kitâb al-Zahra,” Leiden 1989. Raven, W., The manuscripts and editions of Ibn Dāwūd’s Kitāb al-Zahra, Manuscripts of the Middle East 4 (1989), 133–7. al-Rāzi, Fakhr al-Dīn, Nihāyat al-ījāz fī dirāyat al-iʿjāz, Amman 1985; Beirut 2004. Roxburgh, D.J., In pursuit of shadows: al-Hariri’s maqāmāt, Muqarnas 30 (2013), 171–212. al-Sakkākī, Abū Yaʿqūb, Miftāḥ al-ʿulūm, ed. ʿA.Ḥ. Hindāwī, Beirut 2000. Schimmel, A. with the assistance of B. Rivolta, Islamic calligraphy, New York 1992. al-Sharīshī, Abū l-ʿAbbās, Sharḥ Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīrī, ed. M.A.F. Ibrāhīm, 5 vols., Beirut 1992. Suleiman, Y., Bayān as a principle of taxonomy: Linguistic elements in Jāḥiẓ’s thinking, in J.F. Healey and V. Porter (eds.), Studies on Arabia in honour of Professor G. Rex Smith, JSS Supplement 14, Oxford 2002, 273–96. Ṭabāna, B., al-Bayān al-ʿarabī: Dirāsa fī taṭawwur al-fikra al-balāghiyya ʿinda al-ʿArab wa-manāhijihā wa-maṣādirihā al-kubrā, Cairo 1958. Terés, E., Ibn Faraŷ de Jaén y su Kitāb al-Ḥadāʾiq, al-Andalus 9 (1946), 131–57. al-Thaʿālibī, Abū Manṣūr ʿAbd al-Malik al-Nīsābūrī, Yatīmat al-dahr fī maḥāsin ahl al-ʿaṣr, ed. M.M. Qumayḥa, 5 vols., Beirut 1983. Vadet, J.C., L’Esprit courtois en orient dans les cinq premiers siècles de l’Hégire, Paris 1968. Vallaro, M., Tre versi arabi con parole greche attribuiti ad Abū Nuwās, in Scritti in memoria di Paolo Minganti, Cagliari 1983, 665–84. al-Zanjānī, Abū l-Maʿālī ʿIzz al-Dīn, Miʿyār al-nuẓẓār fī ʿulūm al-ashʿār, ed. M.ʿA. al-Khafājī, 2 vols., Cairo 1991.

CHAPTER 8

Foul Whisperings: Madness and Poetry in Arabic Literary History Geert Jan van Gelder The association of poet and madman1 is old and respectable, going back at least as far as Plato, who in his Phaedrus distinguished four kinds of mad people: prophets, mystics, lovers, and poets.2 Aristotle seems to agree to some extent, when in his Poetics he says that “poetry demands a man with a special gift for it, or else one with a touch of madness in him.”3 Or perhaps he did not, for another translation of the last sentence is “poetry is the work of a genius rather than a madman.” The translator explains his emendation in a note, pointing out that Plato’s account of poetic mania can hardly be reconciled with Aristotle’s ideas on the art of poetry.4 In any case, in popular received ideas the association remained; one is familiar with the saying of Shakespeare, or rather of one of his characters in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, that “the lunatic, the lover, and the poet / Are of imagination all compact.” But one should of course not conclude from this that the poet is by definition a madman. Plato clearly distinguishes between them: they are inspired in different ways, by different things, and if poetic inspiration is a kind of madness, this does not mean that the poet or his poetry is mad: on the contrary, it is the normal prerequisite for normal poetry. Notoriously, the Quran, in a much discussed passage, also joins the poets with madmen or at least with erratic behavior:5 “And there are the poets, who are followed by those who go astray. Have you not seen [how] they wander in every valley, and [how] they say what they do not do?” In Arabic literature the various categories—madman, mystic, prophet, and lover—seem to be closely connected. The Prophet Muhammad was a great and innovative poet if one is prepared to reject the Muslim dogma that the 1  Although women may be poets or mad, I have not come across mad woman poets in the texts used for this study. 2  Plato, Phaedrus 265a-b; cf. 244a–5b. 3  Aristotle, Poetics 1445a, tr. I. Bywater, in Aristotle, The Complete Works 2329. 4  Russell and Winterbottom, Ancient Literary Criticism 113; the translator is M.E. Hubbard. 5  Q Shuʿarāʾ 26:224–25. Translations of the Quran are by Alan Jones; the secondary literature on this passage is extensive.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_009

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Quran is God’s literal word and the Arabic critical consensus that classical poetry must be metrical; but in any case he had to defend himself against his opponents by denying that he was either a poet or mad. It is stated in the Quran (Ṣāffāt 37:36) that his enemies said, “Are we to abandon our gods for the sake of a poet, a man possessed (li-shāʿirin majnūn)?” He is in fact often accused of being majnūn, mad or possessed by demons: ten other places in the Quran refer to this.6 The opponents also accuse him of saying nonsense, saying (Anbiyāʾ 21:5) “Tangled nightmares. No! He has invented it. No! He is a poet.” Against these accusations, the Quran says elsewhere (Ḥāqqa 69:41–2) about itself: “It is not the speech of a poet . . . Nor is it the speech of a soothsayer.”7 Sometimes two or more of the four categories coincide, nowhere more famously than in the first/seventh-century poet called al-Majnūn, or more fully Majnūn Laylā, Laylā’s Madman, the lover, madman, and poet who is the subject of the most famous love story in Arabic and of an English monograph by As‘ad Khairallah entitled Love, Madness, and Poetry.8 Majnūn Laylā, or Qays ibn al-Mulawwaḥ, to give him his own name, is a very shadowy figure historically and even the ancient Arabic critics thought it possible that he never existed;9 but his fictional persona is a strong presence and the poetry ascribed to him has always been popular. Qays’s madness was caused by thwarted love, not by a mental illness or other extraneous afflictions apart from his ill luck in amorous affairs. His poetry is, by Arabic standards, as normal as could be. As for his behavior, we are told that he lost his mind;10 he went around naked, playing with the sand, roaming in the desert with wild animals, not answering people’s questions,11 crying and fainting often, refusing to eat. His behavior may have been aggressive, probably auto-destructively directed at himself, for we are told his family tied him up, releasing him when he started biting his tongue and lips.12 He grabs living embers, seemingly insensible to pain.13 In spite of this, and of the fact that he is supposed to have died from his thwarted

6  See Q Ḥijr 15:6, Shuʿarāʾ 26:27, Dukhān 44:14, Dhāriyāt 51:39 and 52, Ṭūr 52:29, Qamar 54:9, Qalam 68:2 and 51, Takwīr 81:22. 7  On madness in the Quran see also Thomas Bauer, Insanity, with further references. 8  Khairallah, Love, Madness, and Poetry. 9  al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī ii, 2–4, 8–10. 10   dhahāb ʿaqlihi, dhahaba ʿaqluhu, ultubisa wa-khūliṭa fī ʿaqlihi, ikhtalaṭa ʿaqlu Qays, ukhtulisa ʿaqluhu, suliba ʿaqluhu; see e.g. Ibn Qutayba, Shiʿr 563, 565, al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī ii, 7, 35, 68, etc. 11  Ibn Qutayba, Shiʿr 565, 570–1, al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī ii, 17–8, 22, 42, 66. 12  Ibn Qutayba, Shiʿr 570. 13  al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī ii, 25.

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and chaste love, the oldest source says laconically, “Al-Majnūn has offspring in Najd.”14 His behavior is similar to that of other ill-fated Bedouin lovers. ʿUrwa ibn Ḥizām, who likewise died of his passion, is also prone to absent-mindedness and fainting, he does not eat, and he is taken to soothsayers with medical skills, but to no avail. He himself denies being mad: when asked whether he suffers from madness or from being possessed by jinn (hal huwa khablun aw junūn?) he replies, in verse, wa-mā biya min khablin wa-lā biya jinnatun, “I am not mad, I have no jinn inside me.”15 Some people actually denied that al-Majnūn was majnūn: lam yakun majnūnan wa-lākin kānat bihī lawthatun ka-lawthat Abī Ḥayyata l-Numayrī, “he was not mad (or: possessed by jinn), just a bit deranged, like Abū Ḥayya al-Numayrī.”16 That a poet is not a normal madman should be clear. Robert Burton’s magnificent treatise on madness, The Anatomy of Melancholy, discusses poets and poetry only fleetingly and in passing (“Fracastorius, a famous poet, freely grants all poets to be mad; so doth Scaliger; and who doth not?”17). The same is valid of the masterful study of madness in pre-modern Islam by Michael Dols: there is some mention of the furor poeticus, poetic frenzy or madness, but there is no special section on it. He briefly discusses Arab ideas about poetic inspiration by demons or jinn, a widespread idea that is still mentioned in Islamic times, though hardly seriously, more in the vein of western poets claiming inspiration by the Muses.18 The legend of Majnūn Laylā is, appropriately, discussed in some detail in the chapter “The Romantic Fool,” on mad lovers rather than mad poets;19 he also mentions some reports about madmen who made poetry, stories taken from al-Nīsābūrī’s book on wise fools and al-Tanūkhī’s Table-Talk.20 Here I shall not deal with these mad lover-poets but concentrate on some other mad poets not discussed by Dols, and by hardly anyone else. One of the earliest books on Arabic poets, predating the great Kitāb al-Aghānī by half a century or so, was written by ʿAbdallāh ibn al-Muʿtazz, the literate Abbasid prince who sadly was killed one day after having been put upon the caliphal 14  Ibn Qutayba, Shiʿr 571. 15  al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xxiv, 154. 16  Ibn Qutayba, Shiʿr 563, cf. al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī ii, 2, 6, 33, 37. 17  Burton, Anatomy i, 112; Fracastorius (Girolamo Fracastoro, d. 1553) wrote works on medicine. 18  Dols, Majnūn 216, 218, 221, 339; cf. on this Goldziher, Ǧinnen; idem, Über die Vorgeschichte 1–25; Meier, Some Aspects; Bürgel, The Poet and his Demon; van Gelder, Inspiration, with more references 68 note 1. 19  Dols, Majnūn 320–39. 20  Dols, Majnūn 117–19; see below.

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throne in 296/908. He was himself a very important poet and literary critic. His book on “modern poets,” Ṭabaqāt al-shuʿarāʾ al-muḥdathīn, has entries of varying length on some 135 poets of the early Abbasid period. Although the word ṭabaqāt is often translated as “classes” or “categories,” the entries are not clearly ordered, apart from a vague chronology at the start (the first entries are on the earliest “moderns,” Ibn Harma, d. c. 176/792, and Bashshār, d. 167/783). The nearest the author comes to grouping distinct categories is when he places six female poets together, fittingly (for the times) at the end,21 and when he lists four minor poets in four consecutive short entries, all of whom are called or described as al-muwaswis or al-majnūn.22 None of them is a common or garden lover-madman sort of poet: here we seem to have the real thing. They are Juʿayfirān al-Muwaswis, Mānī al-Majnūn (also known as Mānī al-Muwaswis), Abū Ḥayyān al-Muwaswis, and Muṣʿab al-Muwaswis. I shall briefly discuss them separately, after a brief excursus on the word muwaswis. This term, muwaswis, is not discussed or even mentioned by Dols, which is a pity, for it is interesting.23 It is a participle of the verb waswasa and the noun waswās, both which are to be found in Dols’s book, since the latter, with its plural wasāwis, is a common term for forms of madness, associated with a surfeit of black bile, “melancholy” in the old sense. It often manifests itself as what is now called “obsessive compulsion disorder.” Hans Wehr’s Dictionary of Modern Written Arabic usefully lists the various possible English translations of waswās: “devilish insinuation, temptation; wicked thoughts; doubt, misgiving, suspicion; delusion, fixed idea; uneasiness, anxiety, concern; melancholy,” none of which is specifically modern. The old dictionaries gloss waswasa and waswās as “obscure sound (ṣawt khafī),” e.g. the rustling of the wind, the tinkling of jewellery (there are evidentiary verses by al-Aʿshā and Dhū l-Rumma), or the whispering of a hunter (a verse by Ruʾba); it also means ḥadīth al-nafs (the soul’s talk), which one could interpret as “inner voice,” especially if this voice intimates dubious things. It is already found thus in the Quran: God knows what a human being’s soul whispers to himself: naʿlamu mā tuwaswisu 21  Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt 421–7. 22  Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt 381–7. Some later anthologies have sections on mad poets: Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, ʿIqd vi, 164–74 (shuʿarāʾ al-majānīn); al-Nushshābī, Muḥāḍara 252–62 (shiʿr al-majānīn); al-Sharīshī, Sharḥ ii, 142–3 (ashʿār al-majānīn). 23  Michael Dols’s Majnūn is the standard work on the subject in mediaeval Islam, but lacks solid philological and lexicographical information on the subject in Arabic or other Islamic languages, which is my excuse for the following digression on some Arabic terms for madness. The enumeration (352–3) of Arabic terms for insanity or imbecility taken from al-Nīsābūrī is riddled with errors (the author’s death meant he could not proofread it).

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bihī nafsuhū (Q Qāf 50:16). In the Quran, too, Satan is said to “whisper” to Adam (Q Aʿrāf 7:20, Ṭā Hā 20:120) and to people in general, as is said in a splendidly onomatopoeic verse which happens to be the last verse in the Quran (Q Nās 114:5): yuwaswisu fī ṣudūri l-nās (“he whispers in people’s breasts”); there, he is called al-Waswās (Q 114:4), “the whisperer.” Some poets play on the various meanings of waswās: Abū Tammām (d. 231/846) says of a pretty girl:24 wa-idhā mashat tarakat bi-ṣadrika ḍiʿfa mā / bi-ḥuliyyihā min kathrati l-waswāsī And when she walks she leaves in your breast twice as much waswās as is in her jewellery. And Ibn al-Rūmī (d. 283/896) elaborates the same motif:25 bātat li-ẓāhirihā wasā- / wisu min ḥuliyyin ka-l-nujūmī wa-li-bāṭinī minhā wasā- / wisu min humūmin ka-l-khuṣūmī (. . .) kam bayna waswāsi l-ḥuliy- / yi wa-bayna waswāsi l-humūmī At night her star-like jewels, on her outer form, are tinkling; In my inside from her I have of foe-like worries many an inkling. (. . .) How different: the tinkling of her jewellery. and whispers of my worried thinking! The word muwaswis is an active participle, which may be thought surprising, for one might have expected it to be muwaswas, passive (bewhispered) rather than active (whispering): the madman hears voices seemingly coming from elsewhere or someone else. The lexicographers state explicitly, however, that one says rajul muwaswis, active, for someone dominated by waswasa, 24  Abū Tammām, Dīwān ii, 245. 25  Ibn al-Rūmī, Dīwān (vi,) 2387–8, correcting the reading wa-l-bāṭinī in vs. 2 (the version quoted in Abū Tammām, Dīwān, ii 245 note 3, is more seriously garbled). See also al-Buḥturī, Dīwān ii, 1123; Sibṭ ibn al-Taʿāwīdhī, Dīwān 237; al-Nawājī, Ta‌ʾhīl 538 (Ibn Sanāʾ al-Mulk).

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or afflicted with “inner voices” (taʿtarīhi l-wasāwis); one should not say rajul muwaswas; thus because he talks in “whispers” to himself, or to his soul (li-taḥdīthihī nafsahu bil-waswasa). Yet the passive is used in verbal forms: wuswisa nāsun wa-kuntu fīman wuswisa (meaning that his speech was confused, ikhtalaṭa kalāmuhu), said by the caliph ʿUthmān at the Prophet’s death.26 In short, it looks as if the lexicographers cannot make up their mind whether the inner voice or whispering represents the self or not. One wonders if the “whisperings” are sometimes audible to others, as if the sufferer mutters his delusions rather than merely hears them as an inner voice; one may compare the passage about the prophet Muḥammad, when al-Walīd ibn al-Mughīra denies that he is mad or possessed, majnūn, because, as he explains, “we have seen madness and we know it, but in his case there is no choking, moving spasmodically, or whispering.”27 It is not impossible, however, to interpret the word waswasa here as “delusions.” The Arabic language is probably not exceptional in having an extensive vocabulary of words relating to madness. Al-Thaʿālibī (d. 429/1037), who in his lexicographic treatise Fiqh al-lugha likes to grade near-synonyms, has a short section on words for “mad,” using majnūn as the general term. He classifies the condition of the muwaswis as the lightest form of madness. In the edition the form is vowelled as muwaswas, perhaps under the influence of subsequent terms, because there follow, in shades of increasing lunacy, several other words that are all passive participles: the mamrūr (affected by [black] bile, mirra), the malmūm (approached, or visited briefly [by a demon]) or mamsūs (touched),28 the maʿtūh29 or ma‌ʾlūq (lightly stabbed[?])30 or ma‌ʾlūs (cheated[?]).31 In most cases it is understood that the agent is a jinni (genie or demon). Many more words are listed by al-Nīsābūrī, who does not sharply distinguish between

26  All this in Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān s.v. WSWS. 27  Ibn Isḥāq, Sīra i, 270, cf. translation by Guillaume 121; quoted in Dols, Majnūn 221. 28  Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān s.v. MRR (xvi, 25), adds malmūs (“touched”) as a synonym of malmūm and mamsūs, all referring to madness and being possessed. 29  The word maʿtūh lies between the concepts of madness (junūn) and stupidity (ḥumq) or idiocy; cf. al-Nīsābūrī, ʿUqalāʾ 43, 59. 30  Synonymous with awlaq or muʾawlaq (Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān s.v. ʾLQ and WLQ, al-Nīsābūrī, ʿUqalāʾ 46–7). 31  al-Thaʿālibī, Fiqh 91. Between the muwaswas and the mamrūr is someone of whom one says bihi ra‌ʾiyy min al-jinn “there is a demon in him” (ra‌ʾiyy, “a seen one,” being the word for a demon that befriends or interferes with a human being; see Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān al-ʿArab s.v. RʾY, xix, 10). The “literal” translations given here are based on the meanings given in the dictionaries; they are open to doubt.

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madness and stupidity, which would be difficult indeed; neither are the distinctions between the various terms very clear.32

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Abū l-Faḍl Juʿayfirān (“Little Jaʿfar”) ibn ʿAlī ibn Aṣfar ibn al-Sarī ibn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Abnāwī, nicknamed al-Muwaswis, was born and bred in Baghdad and lived in Samarra in the first half of the ninth century.33 He is mentioned by his contemporary al-Jāḥiẓ among “mad poets” (majānīn al-shuʿarāʾ, al-majānīn al-muwaswisīn) in a chapter on stupid people (nawkā).34 Al-Jāḥiẓ saw a man giving Juʿayfirān a dirham asking for a poem on the rhyme letter jīm; he makes a poem, referring to his condition, two lines of which are quoted by al-Jāḥiẓ:35 ʿādanī l-hammu fa-ʿtalaj / kullu hammin ilā faraj salli ʿanka l-humūma bi-l-kā- / si wa-bi-l-rāḥi tanfarij Worry (al-hamm) returned and wrestled—but All worry ends with your relief. Dispel your worries (al-humūm) with the glass And with the wine: there ends your grief. 32  The following words for “mad” or “idiot” and related concepts are listed and to some extent discussed in al-Nīsābūrī, ʿUqalāʾ 43–9, 59: majnūn, aḥmaq, maʿtūh, akhraq, māʾiq, raqīʿ, marqaʿān, mamsūs, mukhabbal, mukhtabal, makhbūl, anwak, būha, dhūla, ʿizhāh, awlaq, muhawwish, muwaswis, hilbāja, lukaʿ, khadhib, qiṣl, hajāja, birshāʿ, rahdan, milgh, juʿbus, ma‌ʾlūs, ahwaj, hāʾim, mudallah, ablah, mustahtir (or mustahtar), wālih, habanqaʿ, mamrūr, mamsūs. Ibn Sīda lists words for madness ( junūn) and madmen in his great thesaurus al-Mukhaṣṣaṣ iii, 53–5, preceded by sections on “weakness of reason” (ḍaʿf al-ʿaql, iii, 42–51), “weakness of judgment” (ḍaʿf al-ra‌ʾy, iii, 51–2), and “silliness and lightheadedness” (al-safah wa-l-ṭaysh, iii, 52). This is not the place to go into yet more details. 33  The main sources: Ibn Ṭayfūr, Kitāb Baghdād 168–9; Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt 381–2; al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xx, 187–96; al-Nīsābūrī, ʿUqalāʾ 186–96; al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Tārīkh Baghdād vii, 163–5; al-Nushshābī, Muḥāḍara 260–2; Ibn Shākir, Fawāt i, 297–9; al-Ṣafadī, Wāfī xi, 168–71; and see Sezgin, Geschichte ii, 602. Instead of al-Abnāwī, Ibn Shākir and al-Ṣafadī have al-Anbārī (probably wrongly, because it is specified in al-Aghānī that his father belonged to the Khurasanian abnāʾ al-jund). He is mentioned in a footnote in Dols, Majnūn 354 note 21 (as “Jaʿifrān,” a distortion that is unfortunately characteristic of the book where Arabic names and terms are concerned). 34  al-Jāḥiẓ, Bayān ii, 225, 227–8, cf. i, 385. 35  al-Jāḥiẓ, Bayān ii, 227, cf. Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, ʿIqd vi, 165; al-Sharīshī, Sharḥ ii, 143; one verse (for the price of half a dirham) in al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xx, 191.

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Hamm, “worry” is often conjoined with ghamm, “sorrow,” but whereas the latter is generally about the past, hamm is worrying about the future, as Dāwūd al-Anṭākī explains;36 it is a close companion of waswasa. According to a passage in Nishwār al-muḥāḍara by al-Tanūkhī (d. 384/994) and quoted by Michael Dols, a madman (rajul muwaswis) called al-Ḥasan ibn ʿAwn, who is confined for treatment in a hospital (bīmāristān) in Basra, is found to be a poet by a visitor; he says in a poem about his state and his humūm:37 udāfiʿu hammī bi-l-taʿalluli wa-l-ṣabrī wa-amnaʿu nafsī bi-l-ḥadīthi ʿani l-fikrī wa-arjū ghadan ḥattā idhā mā ghadun atā tazāyada bī hammī fa-aslamanī ṣabrī fa-lā l-hammu yughnīnī wa-lā l-ʿumru yanqaḍī wa-lā farajun ya‌ʾtī siwā admuʿin tajrī ilā llāhi ashkū mā uqāsī fa-innahū ʿalīmun bi-annī qad taḥayyartu fī amrī By patience and ruses my troubles I baulk, And keep my mind free from reflecting by talk. I hope for the morrow, but when it appears, My patience turns traitor with increase of fears. Anxiety quits not, nor terminates woe: Joy makes no appearance, tears cease not to flow. To God I complain of the pains I endure: He knows that myself I can compass no cure. Margoliouth’s translation masks the threefold appearance of hamm, in lines 1–3. The visitor, a friend of al-Tanūkhī, remarks that he learned about the condition of this man by hearing a poem from him every day, composed in his presence. The story says nothing about the “treatment” (ʿilāj) of this case. Although Dols does not say so, composing verse may have helped al-Ḥasan, for we are told that he was cured of his depression or melancholy after some years. As for Juʿayfirān, he speaks of worries in another verse:38 36  al-Anṭākī (d. 1008/1599), Tadhkira 408–9; cf. al-ʿAskarī, Furūq 220–1. 37  al-Tanūkhī, Nishwār viii, 233–4 and cf. iii, 16; Dols, Majnūn 117–8; both Dols and I have used Margoliouth’s rhymed translation, see The Table-Talk of a Mesopotamian Judge, Parts II & VIII 110, 135 (the poem occurs twice; Margoliouth made a prose translation too.). 38  al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xx, 187; also attributed to Umm al-Ḍaḥḥāk al-Muḥāribiyya (e.g. in al-Sarrāj, Maṣāriʿ ii, 264), which al-Iṣfahānī thinks is incorrect.

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tuʾarriqunī l-humūmu wa-anta khilwun la-ʿamruka mā tuʾarriquka l-humūmū Worries keep me awake while you are worry-free; Upon my life, you aren’t by worries kept awake! In fact the preceding line (“Do you39 abandon the one you love . . .?) makes clear that these worries are the result of thwarted love: the humūm are those described by countless lover-poets. But it appears that his mental troubles were caused by something other than love. He is called an educated man and a natural poet (adīban shāʿiran maṭbūʿan),40 of refined behavior, sweet of verse (ẓarīf ḥulw al-shiʿr).41 He was dominated by melancholy (ghalabat ʿalayhi l-mirra al-sawdāʾ) to the extent that he was deranged most of the time (fa-khtalaṭa wa-baṭala fī akthar awqātihī wa-muʿẓam aḥwālihī), but whenever his senses returned to him he would make good poetry.42 Most of the primary sources are interested only in amusing anecdotes or his verses, which show that he qualifies for inclusion in al-Nīsābūrī’s book on “wise fools.” Only Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī tells us more about his person and the cause of his illness, which is explained in some detail. He had an affair with a concubine of his father’s, was banished from home and disinherited by the latter. Mūsā ibn Jaʿfar (a prominent member of the ʿAlid family) predicts that Juʿayfirān will lose his mind (yafqudu ʿaqlahu) before he dies. After the father’s death there is a wrangle about the inheritance: the parties go to court and the verdict goes against Juʿayfirān. Since that day his mind is deranged.43 Some of his verses describe his condition:44 qālū ʿalayya kadhiban wa-buṭlā anniya majnūnun faqadtu l-ʿaqlā qālū l-muḥāla kadhiban wa-jahlā aqbiḥ bi-hādhā l-fiʿli minhum fiʿlā

39  Reading a-tahjuru (following the version in Maṣāriʿ) instead of the pointless a-nahjuru (“Shall we abandon”). 40  al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xx, 188. 41  Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt 381. 42  al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xx, 188. 43  al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xx, 188–9, al-Ṣafadī, Wāfī xi, 168–9. 44  al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xx, 190.

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They say of me (they lied or erred) I’m mad and I have lost my mind. All lies and ignorance: absurd. How mean of them and so unkind! He is seen in his house walking in circles all night, suffering from melancholy (taḥarrakat ʿalayhi l-sawdāʾ), saying more verses in rajaz metre. He uses the motifs of love poetry (the nocturnal phantom, the sleeplessness), but here obviously used for his illness:45 ṭāfa bihī ṭayfun mina l-waswāsī naffara ʿanhu ladhdhata l-nuʿāsī fa-mā yurā ya‌ʾnasu bi-l-unāsī wa-lā yaladhdhu ʿishrata l-jullāsī fa-hwa gharībun bayna hādhā l-nāsī A phantom whispering at him did creep And drove away from him his pleasant sleep. With other people he’s not seen to keep Company; he dislikes to sit with them. Thus he’s a stranger in the midst of them. He repeats these lines until in the morning he falls down “like a withered plant.” He is seen walking naked in the street followed by children who shout “Juʿayfirān, piece of shit in the house!” In another poem, addressed to a friend, he denies that he is mad, in words that are reminiscent of ʿUrwa ibn Ḥizām:46 ra‌ʾaytu l-nāsa yadʿūnī / bi-majnūnin ʿalā ḥālī wa-mā bī l-yawma min jinnin / wa-lā waswāsi balbālī wa-lākin qawluhum hādhā / li-iflāsī wa-iqlālī wa-law kuntu akhā wafrin / rakhiyyan nāʾima l-bālī ra‌ʾawnī ḥasana l-ʿaqli / aḥullu l-manzila l-ʿālī wa-mā dhāka ʿalā khubrin / wa-lākin haybatu l-mālī I see that people call me mad, the way I am, 45  al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xx, 190; al-Ṣafadī, Wāfī xi, 169; Ibn Shākir, Fawāt i, 298. 46  al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xx, 191; al-Nīsābūrī, ʿUqalāʾ 188; al-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, xi 168–9; Ibn Shākir, Fawāt i, 298.

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But I am not possessed today, I’ve no disturbing whispering. They only say this thing because I’m poor and destitute. If I were wealthy, well-to-do, and lived in comfort, They’d think that I was sound in mind, and I would live in a tall house. It’s not as if they know the facts: such is the power of money! The friend takes him home with him and suggests recasting the same poem with a different rhyme, which is done; the anecdote is told partly in order to show his dexterity as a poet (although the poetry is of indifferent quality). Others in the company object to the presence of this naked madman; Juʿayfirān reproaches them, again in a poem: “They allege that I am mad and like to go naked! / But how should I not go naked when I do not see among the people anyone who is generous?”47 They apologise and give him clothes. The point of several anecdotes is to show his wit. In one report he is said to be capable of making wicked lampoons: nobody was safe from them (khabīth al-lisān lā yaslamu ʿalayhi aḥad). He even made a lampoon on himself, upon seeing his much-altered countenance reflected in the water of a bowl. In fact, the epigram is as much against his father as against himself, and one may connect it with the conflict described above: he is having his little revenge.48 mā jaʿfarun li-abīhī / wa-lā lahū bi-shabīhī aḍḥā li-qawmin kathīrin / fa-kulluhum yaddaʿīhī

47  al-Iṣfahānī: Aghānī xx, 191–2, al-Nīsābūrī, ʿUqalāʾ 188–90 (with more verses; adopting the reading munīlā instead of mathīlā in al-Aghānī; the same al-Ṣafadī, Wāfī xi, 169–71). Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, ʿIqd vi, 170 quotes al-Ḥasan ibn Hāniʾ (i.e. the famous poet Abū Nuwās), who says he saw “Juʿayfirān, an old man of the Banū Hāshim. He had a stammer and was wearing a silver chain (qayd), with a gold chain (ghull) round his neck.” The words used seem to imply that he was restrained, and that he was wealthy. 48  al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xx, 195; the poem also in al-Jāḥiẓ, Bayān ii, 227–8; Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, ʿIqd vi, 165; al-Rāghib, Muḥāḍarāt i, 224. The version of al-Nīsābūrī, ʿUqalāʾ 192 has “Khālid” instead of “Jaʿfar,” as if it is against someone else. According to al-Waṭwāṭ, Ghurar 123, there is a version that has “Diʿbil” (the poet). In line 3, bunayyī is required by the metre, instead of the correct bunayya. For his short lampoons on others, see al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xiv, 48–9, xx, 196, al-Nīsābūrī, ʿUqalāʾ 187–8, 196.

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hādhā yaqūlu bunayyī / wa-dhā yukhāṣimu fīhī wa-l-ummu taḍḥaku minhum / li-ʿilmihā bi-abīhī Jaʿfar is not his father’s son. No similarity! He’s many people’s son: all claim paternity. “My son!” says one; another that he’s rather his. The mother laughs: for she knows who the father is.

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Two of Ibn al-Muʿtazz’s four bewhispered poets are only known from his Ṭabaqāt: Abū Ḥayyān and Muṣʿab. The madness of the former showed itself in a peculiar repetitive behavior compulsion. Ibn al-Muʿtazz’s informant tells about him:49 I saw Abū Ḥayyān al-Muwaswis after he had arrived in Baghdad, coming from Basra. He had only one concern: to buy a large Mādharāyā jar.50 He went to the Tigris and filled it. Then he went to the Ṣarāh canal and emptied it there. Then he carried water from the Ṣarāh canal and poured it into the Tigris. He kept doing this the length of his days in Baghdad until he died. He did not have any employment or job except this. When it got dark at night he would put the jar down and sit crying over it, saying “O God, give me relief and lighten for me this work I am doing!” To another who saw him thus employed he confided: “If I didn’t do this I would die.”51 Ibn al-Muʿtazz adds that Abū Ḥayyān became muwaswis towards the end of his life, and his speech confused (kāna yakhtaliṭu fī l-kalām); his poetry, however, was not affected by this at all. “Thus it is with those poets who become deranged (khūliṭū) after having made poetry before: their normal speech is strongly affected, but when they turn to verse they proceed at will, in the way they were accustomed before suffering from delusions (qabla an yuwaswisū).”52 This is a recurrent motif: there are several anecdotes about lunatics who are unable to say anything sensible but who, as soon as they utter 49  Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt 384. 50   jarra m.dāriyya; a variant has mādhariyya, which the editor cannot identify. I have assumed it derives from Mādharāyā, a village near Wāsiṭ in Iraq (see Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-buldān s.v.). 51  Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt 384. 52  Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt 384–5.

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poetry, are perfectly normal, articulate, and lucid. Some only speak in verse.53 Only one piece by Abū Ḥayyān is quoted, seven lines of Bacchic verse in the style of Abū Nuwās, the last line of which shows that pouring water was in fact not his only concern: fa-ṣabba fī l-kūbi ṣawba ṣāfiyatin . . . (“Then he poured into the cup a limpid wine . . .”). No cause is suggested for Abū Ḥayyān’s behavior. As for Muṣʿab,54 we are informed of what made him mad. In Baghdad, where he lived, he once saw the eye of a sheep behind the lattice of a small shop window and thought it was a girl’s eye; it was love at first sight and he stayed near the shop for a month. Whenever he felt nobody could hear him he would speak to the sheep and cry, throwing a perfumed inscribed apple to it,55 or other fruits, or a kerchief and other things. One day the lattice broke and the awful truth dawned on him. Young children who learned about it used to shout “Ewe lover!”, which angered him; it was the cause of his madness. Ibn al-Muʿtazz says that he made much good poetry, but only two epigrams, seven lines in all, are quoted, one on seducing a boy with wine and the other on khabīṣa, a sweet. He was, or at least used to be, a sociable person, judging by his listing of ten ʿulūm, “sciences” or “disciplines,” three being Persian (kisrawiyya): playing the lute, playing chess, playing polo; three Greek: geometry, medicine, astronomy (or astrology); three Arab: grammar, jurisprudence, poetry; and the tenth one that puts all the others into the shadow: reports and anecdotes about contemporaries (akhbār al-muḥdathīn wa-ayyāmuhum).56 To call gossiping a “science” is unconventional and provocative, but not necessarily a sign of madness or melancholy.

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Of the four mad poets in Ibn al-Muʿtazz’s Ṭabaqāt, Mānī al-Majnūn or Mānī alMuwaswis is perhaps the most famous.57 Born in Egypt, he moved to Baghdad 53  al-Nīsābūrī, ʿUqalāʾ 269–71, 285, 338. 54  Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt 385–7. 55  For the custom of inscribing apples see e.g. al-Washshāʾ, Muwashshā, 165–7. 56  Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt 386. This saying strongly resembles the one on ten forms of adab, attributed to al-Ḥasan ibn Sahl, see e.g. al-Ḥuṣrī, Zahr 196, to his brother Dhū l-Riyāsatayn (al-Faḍl ibn Sahl) in al-Zamakhsharī, Rabīʿ iii, 296, and anonymously in al-Rāghib, Muḥāḍarāt i, 93. 57  The main sources: Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt 382–3; al-Masʿūdī, Murūj v, 83–6; Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, ʿIqd vi, 168–9; al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xxiii, 180–7; al-Marzubānī, Muʿjam ed. Krenkow 438 = ed. Farrāj 387; al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Tārīkh Baghdād iii, 169–70; al-Nīsābūrī, ʿUqalāʾ 260–5; al-Nushshābī, Muḥāḍara 256–9; Ibn Shākir, Fawāt iv, 32–4; al-Ṣafadī, Wāfī iv, 346–9; cf. Brockelmann, Geschichte Suppl. I, 127, Sezgin, Geschichte ii, 558–9.

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during the reign of al-Mutawakkil (232–47/847–61) and died there in 245/859. His real name was Abū l-Ḥasan Muḥammad ibn al-Qāsim; it is not explained why he was nicknamed after the founder of Manichaeism. Or possibly it means “the Manic,” for the Greek word μανία was known, as māniyā, to at least some Arabic authors,58 even though it did not become as common as μελαγχολία/ mālikhūliyā. He is described as a poet of delicate love lyrics, with a good reciting voice. Some of his verse is quite charming; especially popular is an epigram on pretty girls who step alluringly and heavily, “as if they draw their feet from sticky mud” (yaqlaʿna arjulahunna min waḥlī).59 He was in love with a girl called Man(n)ūsa, Bannūsa, or Nanūsa,60 and in one report he says he is desperately in love (hāʾim) with a beautiful boy.61 Perhaps his madness was the result of thwarted passion for one or the other; in one short poem, made during a shower of rain, he exclaims pathetically fallaciously:62 lā taẓunna lladhī jarā / maṭaran kāna mumṭirā innamā dhāka kulluhū / damʿu ʿaynī taḥaddarā wa-tawālat ghuyūmuhā / min humūmī tafakkurā hākadhā ḥālu man yarā / min ḥabībin taghayyurā Do not think it is rain pouring down from the skies: It is nothing but tears dropping down from my eyes. And these clouds that succeed one another in flurries, They are made of my thoughts when I think of my worries. Thus it is with the state of all those who discover A change for the worse in the love of their lover.

58  Dols, Majnūn, 58 (Ibn Sarābiyūn quoted by al-Rāzī), 79 (Ibn Sīnā). In the dictionaries (e.g. al-Fīrūzābādī’s al-Qāmūs) Mānī is mentioned (unusually as Mānin, rather than Mānī, alMuwaswis) under the root MNW, together with the heresiarch Mānī. Steingass, PersianArabic Dictionary, gives the Persian word mān, meaning many things, including “grief, melancholy.” 59  Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt 383; al-Baghdādī, Tārīkh Baghdād iii, 170; al-Khālidiyyān, Ashbāh i, 209; al-Nushshābī, Muḥāḍara 259; al-Nuwayrī, Nihāyah ii, 115; al-Ḥikāyāt al-ʿajība 109; attributed to Ṣāliḥ ibn ʿAbd al-Quddūs in Abū Tammām, Waḥshiyyāt 198–9. 60  al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī, xxiii 184–6; Bannūsa in al-Nīsābūrī, ʿUqalāʾ 260–3, Nanūsa and Nānūsa in al-Masʿūdī, Murūj v, 84–6 and cf. vi, 731 (index); where the name is explained as derived from Persian Na-nūsh, “Not sweet,” no doubt meant apotropaically. 61  al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xxiii, 186–7. 62  Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, ʿIqd vi, 169.

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Some specimens of his eccentric behavior are told in anecdotes. Once he slapped the bald head of a muezzin because he did not like the way he performed the call to prayer.63 He is seen to eat dates with stones and all, because he has paid for them.64 He was seen naked holding a sugar-cane or reed (bi-yadihi qaṣaba) in al-Karkh, in Baghdad, repeating two verses:65 takhruju min zuqāqin / lahā ilā zuqāqī ka-annahā ʿarūsun / farrat mina l-ṭalāqī From one street to another is her course, Just as a bride is fleeing from divorce. When asked whom he meant, Mānī answered, “the she-camel.” When a cameldriver appeared he followed the camels for a while and then returned. This he would do for a whole day. The verses are actually bizarre, unlike most of his other poetry; for the image of a bride fleeing from divorce is odd enough in itself, let alone when used figuratively for a camel. The “sugar-cane” was surely held by him between his legs: as Moreh has shown, the word qaṣaba is an old term for “hobby-horse” (also called kurraj, faras al-khayāl or faras al-ʿūd), used by entertainers, buffoons, and Sufi mendicants pretending to be fools.66 Among the poetry by Mānī there is one other piece, quoted without context by Ibn al-Muʿtazz, that strikes me as unusual; but it is a kind of amusing lampoon rather than clear evidence of madness:67 ʿadimtu jahālatī wa-faqadtu ḥumqī / laqad akhṭa‌ʾtu wajha ṭarīqi ʿishqī kadhabtu ʿalā lisānī fī muzāḥin / fa-qultu lahū wa-lam anṭiq bi-ḥaqqī anā l-ṣabbu l-musahhadu fī hawākum / wa-jannabtu l-maqālata maḥḍa ṣidqī fa-bādara ḥīna miltu ilā ʿtināqī / bi-wajhi ʿaẓāyatin wa-n.hāḥi(?) silqī wa-sāqay ṣaʿwatin wa-bi-khaṭmi qirdin / wa-rīḥi kanāʾifin wa-bi-natni shidqī tarā mā akhfatā shafatāhu naḥwī / ka-anna lithātahū ʿullat bi-dibqī 63  al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xxiii, 183. 64  al-Ābī, Nathr al-durr iii, 268, Ibn Ḥamdūn, Tadhkira ix, 458. The same is also attributed to Juḥā, see Marzolph, Arabia ridens ii, 185–6. 65  Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt 382–3. 66  Moreh, Live Theatre 27–37, with many references, including a story about Buhlūl (34); Mānī is not mentioned. 67   Ṭabaqāt 383.

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May I be deprived of my ignorance and may I lose my stupidity! I have misdirected the path of my passionate love. I uttered a lie in jest and said to him—but I did not speak the truth— “I am a lover made sleepless for the love of you!” And I removed all pure sincerity from my speech. Instantly, when I inclined (to him),68 he embraced me with a lizard’s face, the panting (?) of a wolf,69 With sparrow’s legs, a monkey’s snout, the odour of latrines, the stench of the inside of his mouth. You can see what his lips disclosed to me: it is as if his gums sipped on a double dose of glue. He refers to his ignorance and stupidity, not to his madness; mild self-mockery is put to the service of biting invective.

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None of the poets reviewed here has major status.70 The second/eighth-century poet Abū Ḥayya al-Numayrī, who is mentioned by al-Jāḥiẓ among the “mad poets,”71 is perhaps the most important of them. He is described by most other critics not as a raving lunatic but as “somewhat deranged” (bihī lawtha), possibly an epileptic (qīla innahu kāna yuṣraʿu); he was a notorious liar, a coward, and a miser.72 His poetry is all normal and highly praised; Abū l-Faraj

68  The editor’s suggestion to read qultu, “I said (to him)” should perhaps be adopted. 69  For want of a better reading I have assumed a non-attested verbal noun nihāj or nahāj, from nahaja “to pant”; silq could be “beetroot,” but “wolf” seems better here in an animal context. 70  Another poet called muwaswis: Abū Bakr al-Muwaswis, known as Sībawayh, not the famous grammarian but a minor figure in the first half of the 4th/10th century mentioned in in al-Thaʿālibī, Yatīma i, 433–4, described as witty, eloquent, and erudite; he suffered from a “derangement” (lawtha) resulting from taking the dangerous drug balādhur (marking-nut). He may be the same Abū Bakr al-Muwaswis of whom three verses are quoted in Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, ʿIqd vi, 173–4. 71  al-Jāḥiẓ, Bayān i, 385 (min . . . majānīn al-shuʿarāʾ), ii, 225 (min al-majānīn wa-l-muwaswisīn wa-l-nawkā). On him see Pellat in EI2 viii, 120 and Suppl. 25, Sezgin, Geschichte ii, 464–5, and Cheikh-Moussa, Mouvance. 72  Ibn Qutayba, Shiʿr 563, 774; Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt 143; al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī ii, 2, xvi, 307, 309.

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al-Iṣfahānī calls him a “good poet of the first rank (shāʿir mujīd muqaddam)”;73 Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih describes him, with the customary exaggeration, as “the maddest of people and the best of poets” (ajann al-nās wa-ashʿar al-nās).74 Abū Nuwās, one of the very great poets, was not mad at all, but being acquainted with a certain Abū Yāsīn who was (he became “bewhispered” and went round raving, as a result of thinking too much about difficult problems), the poet made verses “on the tongue of” the madman, and made him memorise and recite them.75 The two short poems quoted in the collected works are full of apocalyptic portents and fears, of the sort that one may find in the effusions of people who believe in that sort of thing. Not truly mad, therefore. One must conclude, perhaps with some disappointment, that in Arabic literary history there are no mad poets whose poetry is truly, deeply mad, such as, in English literature, the poems of the 18th-century Christopher Smart, for instance. William Blake, a greater poet, was also as mad as a hatter in some respects, both in his mind and in some of his writings, but he is rather a special case. The Arabic mad poets are perhaps rather like John Clare or William Collins, who suffered from delusions or severe melancholia, but whose poetry is not insane. It appears, from the accounts on poets and their various kinds of madness (for there are of course many kinds, not always easily distinguishable on the basis of the evidence), that if their behavior and everyday utterances may show signs of madness, this is not seen in their poetry, which is normal by the usual standards. Even when they describe their own state, which is a rare event, the poetry is not mad, and with the insistent use of the words hamm and humūm, “worry” or “worries,” could be mistaken as being part of the normal discourse of the love-sick, were it not for the absence of references to a beloved. This is not to suggest that there is no Arabic poetry that could be described as mad or insane. These qualifications are, however, hardly more than impressionist and subjective. What makes poetry mad? Is it in the ideas expressed or in the formal aspects of the language, style, prosody? It is difficult, indeed impossible, to distinguish the mad from the wilfully and intentionally nonsensical. A few poems by the early Abbasid al-Faḍl ibn Hāshim are formally 73  al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī xvi, 307. 74  Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, ʿIqd vi, 164. 75  Abū Nuwās, Dīwān v, 298–9. The poems are said to be “in the style of Ibn Abī ʿAqib”; cf. al-Iṣfahānī, Aghānī ii, 9, where “Ibn Abī l-ʿAqib, the author of al-malāḥim (apocalyptic events)” is said to be a name of someone who never existed. One suspects, however, that he is the same as Ibn Abī l-ʿAqrab [thus] al-Laythī al-khaṭīb al-faṣīḥ al-rāwiya, mentioned by al-Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān iv, 219.

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impeccable but their content is decidedly odd: he describes himself as a coprophiliac and coprophagist, or shit-lover and shit-eater in plain English.76 Was he mad? Ibn al-Jarrāḥ calls him safīh khalīʿ fāsiq, “silly, debauched, profligate.” The poet says of himself, in a poem:77 ana l-mukhabbalu ṣirfā / ḥamāqatī laysa takhfā ana lladhī kulla yawmin / yazīdunī l-khablu ḥarfā I am a madman (al-mukhabbal) pure My stupidity is not hidden. Each day my madness (al-khabl) Increases with one letter. These lines open a self-deprecating introduction that suddenly turns into a panegyric of the caliph al-Wāthiq; one doubts if the poet is to be taken seriously. If a madman says he is mad he cannot be very mad: it is a classical Catch 22 situation; the more so when he is a poet, because, as the Quran says about poets, “they say what they do not do” (Q Shuʿarāʾ 26:224–26). And indeed, when our poet is taken at his word and challenged by the caliph to eat some dirty things he excuses himself in verse:78 in kuntu abdaʿtu fī l-kalāmi wa-fī l- / shiʿri bi-qawlī fa-lastu afʿaluhū al-damu wa-l-qayḥu kayfa ākuluhū / wa-l-dūdu wa-l-qamlu kayfa anquluhū wa-llāhi innī amūtu in naẓarat / ʿaynī ilayhī fa-kayfa ākuluhū Though I may say strange things in speech and verse, I do not do what I assert: How could I possibly eat blood and pus, or worms and lice for my dessert! By God, I die whene’er my eye looks at such things, so how could I eat dirt!

76  Ibn al-Jarrāḥ, Waraqa 128–31. 77  Ibn al-Jarrāḥ, Waraqa 130. 78  Ibn al-Jarrāḥ, Waraqa 129–30.

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In another essay79 I have discussed and quoted examples of what could be called nonsense verse. Some of it may have been meant seriously, made by a madman, as perhaps the following verse: law kuntu kuntu katamtu l-ḥubba kuntu kamā kunnā nakūnu wa-lākin dhāka lam yakunī If I had been having been hiding my love I would have been like we were being (to be), but that was not to be.80 Manic repetition is found in some verses that were either made by a maniac or by a buffoon; such are the lines in a lengthy pastiche of uncertain time and unknown authorship attributed to the pre-Islamic poet Imruʾ al-Qays and printed in appendices to his Dīwān. The poem begins normally but then lapses into logorrhoea, which is virtually untranslatable.81 The first halves of the lines quoted below are like an exercise for the tongue and mouth, an atonal prelude that suddenly turns into some kind of sense in the second hemistichs, which are about a woman called Salmā. ʾalā lā alā illā li-ālāʾi lābithin / wa-lā lā alā illā li-ālāʾi man raḥal fa-kam kam wa-kam kam thumma kam kam wa-kam wa-kam /qaṭaʿtu l-fayāfī wa-l-mahāmiha lam amall wa-kāfun wa-kafkāfun wa-kaffī bi-kaffihā / wakāfun kafūfu l-wadqi min kaffihā nhamal fa-law law wa-law law thumma law law wa-law wa-law / danā dāru salmā kuntu awwala man waṣal wa-fī fī wa-fī fī thumma fī fī wa-fī wa-fī / wa-fī wajnatay salmā uqabbilu lam amall wa-sal sal wa-sal sal thumma sal sal wa-sal wa-sal / wa-sal dāra salmā wa-l-rubūʿa fa-kam asall wa-shaṣnil wa-shaṣnil thumma shaṣnil ʿashanṣalin / ʿalā ḥājibay salmā yazīnu maʿa l-muqal Oh, no! Oh except for the graces of a stayer! And No, no, Oh! except for the graces of who departed! 79  van Gelder, Amphigory. 80  Ibn Sinān, Sirr 90; with a variant in Ibn al-Athīr, Jawhar 36, al-Ibshīhī, Mustaṭraf i, 40. 81  Imruʾ al-Qays, Dīwān, ed. Ahlwardt 199–203 = Dīwān, ed. Ibrāhīm 468–70: two versions of a qaṣīda in ṭawīl metre; the quoted lines are from 200–1/468.

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How often often, how often often and then how often often and how often often have I crossed deserts and wastelands, never tiring! And a kāf (?) and a holding back (? kafkāf ), with my hand in her hand (kaffī bi-kaffihā), dripping (? wakāf), kafūf of pouring (?) flowed from her hand. So if if and if if, then if if and if and if it were to approach Salmā’s abode I would be the first to arrive. And on on and on on, then on on and on and on and on Salmā’s cheeks I would press kisses unstintingly. And ask ask and ask ask, then ask ask and ask and ask and ask Salmā’s abode and spring-encampments! How often would I ask! And shaṣnil! (?) And shaṣnil! Then shaṣnil, and an ʿashanṣal (?) on Salmā’s brow, an ornament together with the eyes. If this is not madness I know not what is; but the poet was probably not insane at all. Another kind of poetry that I would describe as mad is found in mystical verse. One has to concur with Plato that mystics are one kind of mad people; their verse is often conventional: think of all the love lyrics or the Bacchic pieces that should be interpreted in a mystical sense. But occasionally it is very unconventional. Here are two verses, difficult to translate, by the early Sufi Sumnūn (d. 298/910–11), mystic, lover (of God), poet, and madman—at least according to al-Nīsābūrī, who includes him among the wise madmen and who quoted these lines:82 ʿajibtu min qalbi qalbin / qallabtuhū ṣāra qalbā fa-man ra‌ʾā qalba qalbin / fī l-qalbi yazdādu ḥubbā I am amazed by the overturning of a heart that I overturned and which turned into a heart. He who sees the overturning of a heart in his heart increases in love. I do not know what he is saying; perhaps that by completely uprooting oneself one attains greater love of God. As happens so often in Arabic mystical verse, it is based on paronomasia and repetition, in this case of the word qalb, 82  al-Nīsābūrī, ʿUqalāʾ 234.

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which means “heart” as well as “overturning”; it could refer to reading a word in reverse. If one overturns something that has been overturned, it turns into itself again, so the amazement in the first line seems misplaced, but ordinary logic does not work here, of course. A similar cumulation of paronomasia is found in another verse of his:83 qad bāna baynī bi-baynī / fa-bintu ʿan bayni baynī My separation has separated (from me) by my separation; now I am separated from the separation of my separation. Perhaps one has to be a mystic to understand this, if there is anything to be understood at all. Or consider the final lines of a poem by the great Ibn ʿArabī, from a poem that he made fī l-rūḥ al-Idrīsī, “on (or in?) the spirit of Idrīs,” the rather mysterious prophet who has been identified as Enoch, with a possible admixture of Ezra, Elijah, Andreas, Hermes, al-Khiḍr and others:84 wa-nimtu wa-mā nāmat jufūnī ghadiyyatan / wa-tihtu bilā tīhin ʿani l-jinni wa-l-insī fa-yā nafsu hādhā l-ḥaqqu lāḥa wujūduhū / fa-iyyāki wa-l-inkāra yā nafsu yā nafsī fa-ʿanniya fattish fiyya talqāni fī anā / anā fī anā innī anā fī anā nafsī I slept but my eyelids did not sleep in the morning, and I wandered without (being in) a desert (or: without arrogance), away from jinn and people. O soul, this is the Truth whose existence has appeared, so beware of denying it, O soul, O my soul! Therefore search me in me and you will find me in I I in I: I am I in I myself. The final verse is odd in several ways, not least grammatically and syntactically: talqāni, with a short “Quranic” suffix -ni instead of -nī, and an indicative talqā where I would have expected the jussive talqa; and the repeated use of the independent pronoun anā (with unusual long second syllable) instead of the suffixed pronoun. As for the sense, I have no idea what “searching me in 83  al-Nīsābūrī, ʿUqalāʾ 239. 84  Ibn ʿArabī, Dīwān 8. In the second line I have read hādhā l-ḥaqqu, with the lithograph ed., 3, instead of the unmetrical bi-dhā l-ḥaqqi of the Beirut edition.

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me” is beyond a superficial tautology, but then I am not mystically inclined. Other poems are normal in terms of formal grammar and syntax but “manic” stylistically in their repetitiveness, such as a poem that contains thirteen consecutive lines with twenty-six instances of the pattern (wa-/fa-)min X-ī ilā Y-ī, “(and) from my X to my Y,” where X and Y are mostly, but not consistently, antonyms. The passage has to be quoted in full to bring out its character:85 mini ntiqāṣī ilā kamālī / mini nḥirāfī ilā ʿtidālī wa-min sanāya ilā jamālī / wa-min sanāʾī ilā jalālī (. . .) From my imperfection to my perfection, from my deviation to my straightness, And from my splendour to my beauty, and from my brilliance to my majesty, And from my dispersion to my assembling, and from my being turned away to my union, And from my base matter to my precious matter, and from stones to pearls, And from my rising to my setting, and from my day to my nights, And from my light to my darkness, and from my right guidance to my erring, And from my depth to my evenness, and from glass to precious goods(?)86 And from my entry to my exit, and from my lunar invisibility to my new moon, And from my seeking to my shunning, and from my noble steed to my gazelle, And from my breeze to my twigs, and from my twigs to my shade, And from my shade to my bliss, and from my bliss to my cunning, And from my cunning to my exemplar, and from my exemplar to my absurdity

85  Ibn ʿArabī, Dīwān 36–7. The metre, though regular in itself (⏑ − ⏑ − − ⏑ − ⏑ − − for each hemistich), is highly irregular in not being one of the standard metres. 86  Reading ghawālī instead of ʿawālī.

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And from my absurdity to my soundness and from my soundness to my sickness: Thus I am nothing in Existence but myself . . . To me, this is higher madness with some method in it. It is reminiscent of the verse of Christopher Smart (1722–71), who wrote his best-known poems in a lunatic asylum. His most famous poem, about his cat Jeoffry,87 is very different from Ibn al-ʿArabī’s but it also has a touch of the sublime mixed with the ridiculous, and it has the same manic syntactical repetition. “Is it nonsense? Yes. Is it nonsense? No,” is the not very helpful comment of Michael Schmidt, who quotes a few lines.88 I have no such qualms; it is nonsense, but sublime in parts, and the poem on Jeoffry is a true MagnifiCat, with wonderful description of cat behavior. When critics accused Smart’s poems of incoherence, he argued that if anything their fault was excessive regularity and method. The troubles of our Arabic mad poets may have been caused by demonic or satanic “foul whisperings” (I borrow the expression from Lady Macbeth’s doctor); but they are neither notorious for their “unnatural deeds” nor for utterly mad verse. Occasionally their poems would count rather as fools’ whisperings; most of them are as sane as could be. Bibliography al-Ābī, Abū Saʿd Manṣūr ibn al-Ḥusayn, Nathr al-durr, ed. Muḥammad ʿAlī Qurna, 7 vols. Cairo 1980–90. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān, ed. Ewald Wagner and Gregor Schoeler, 5 vols. (BI 20) WiesbadenCairo and Berlin-Beirut 1958–2003. Abū Tammām, Dīwān, ed. Muḥammad ʿAbduh ʿAzzām, 4 vols. 4th ed. Cairo 1976 (11951–65). Abū Tammām, al-Waḥshiyyāt, ed. Maḥmūd Muḥammad Shākir, Cairo 1987 (11963). al-Anṭākī, Dāwūd, Tadhkirat ulī l-albāb wa-l-jāmiʿ lil-ʿajab al-ʿujāb, Beirut, 2000. Aristotle, Poetics, tr. Ingram Bywater, in Aristotle, The Complete Works, ed. Jonathan Barnes, 2 vols. Princeton 1984. al-ʿAskarī, Abū Hilāl, al-Furūq al-lughawiyya, ed. Ḥusām al-Dīn al-Qudsī, Cairo AH 1353, repr. Beirut n.d. Bauer, Thomas, Insanity, in EQ. 87  Widely available in anthologies and online. 88  Schmidt, Lives of the Poets 349.

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Brockelmann, Carl, Geschichte der Arabischen Litteratur, Suppl. I, Leiden 1937. Bürgel, Johann Christoph, The Poet and his Demon, in Stephan Guth, Priska Furrer & Johann Christoph Bürgel (eds.), Conscious Voices: Concepts of Writing in the Middle East (BTS 72), Beirut-Stuttgart 1999, 13–28. al-Buḥturī, Dīwān, ed. Ḥasan Kāmil al-Ṣayrafī, 5 vols. Cairo 1972–78. Burton, Robert, The Anatomy of Melancholy, ed. Holbrook Jackson, 3 vols. London 1972. Cheikh-Moussa, Abdallah, Mouvance narrative et polysémie dans la littérature d’adab: le cas d’Abū Ḥayya al-Numayrī / Abū l-Aġarr al-Nahšalī, in Frédéric Bauden, Aboubakr Chraïbi & Antonella Ghersetti (eds.), Le Répertoire narratif arabe médiéval : Transmission et ouverture, Geneva 2008, 47–61. Dols, Michael W., Majnūn: the Madman in Medieval Islamic Society, Oxford 1992. Gelder, Geert Jan van, Amphigory and Other Nonsense in Classical Arabic Literature, in Dominic Parviz Brookshaw (ed.), Ruse and Wit: The Humorous in Arabic, Persian, and Turkish Narrative, Boston, Massachusetts 2012, 7–32. Gelder, Geert Jan van, Inspiration and ‘Writer’s Block’ in Classical Arabic Poetry, in Paolo Bagni e Maurizio Pistoso (eds.), Poetica medievale tra oriente e occidente, Roma 2003, 61–71. Goldziher, Ignaz, Die Ǧinnen der Dichter, in ZDMG 45 (1891), 685–90. Goldziher, Ignaz, Über die Vorgeschichte der Hiǵâ-Poesie, in Ignaz Goldziher, Abhandlungen zur arabischen Philologie, Erster Theil, Leiden 1896, 1–105. al-Ḥikāyāt al-ʿajība wa-l-akhbār al-gharība / Das Buch der wunderbahren Erzählungen und seltsamen Geschichten, ed. Hans Wehr (BI 18), Wiesbaden 1956. al-Ḥuṣrī, Zahr al-ādāb, ed. Zakī Mubārak, repr. Beirut 1972. Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, al-ʿIqd al-farīd, 7 vols. Cairo 1948–53, repr. Beirut 1983. Ibn ʿArabī, Dīwān, Beirut 1996; lithograph ed., Bulaq AH 1271. Ibn al-Athīr, Najm al-Dīn Aḥmad ibn Ismāʿīl, Jawhar al-kanz: talkhīṣ Kanz al-barāʿa fī adawāt dhawī l-yarāʿa, ed. Muḥammad Zaghlūl Sallām, Alexandria, n.d. Ibn Ḥamdūn, al-Tadhkira al-Ḥamdūniyya, ed. Iḥsān ʿAbbās & Bakr ʿAbbās, 10 vols. Beirut, 1996. Ibn Isḥāq, al-Sīra al-nabawiyya, ed. Muṣṭafā al-Saqqā, Ibrāhīm al-Abyārī and ʿAbd al-Ḥafīẓ Shalabī, 2 vols. Cairo 1955; translation by A. Guillaume, The Life of Muhammad: A translation of Isḥāq’s [sic] Sīrat Rasūl Allāh, with introd. and notes, Karachi 1978. Ibn al-Jarrāḥ, al-Waraqa, ed. ʿAbd al-Wahhāb ʿAzzām and ʿAbd al-Sattār Aḥmad Farrāj, Cairo n.d. Ibn Manẓūr, Jamāl al-Dīn Muḥammad ibn Mukarram, Lisān al-ʿArab, 20 vols. Cairo, n.d. (repr. of ed. Būlāq, AH 1300–1308). Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt al-shuʿarāʾ, ed. ʿAbd al-Sattār Aḥmad Farrāj, Cairo 1968.

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Ibn Qutayba, al-Shiʿr wa-l-Shuʿarāʾ, ed. Aḥmad Muḥammad Shākir, 2 vols. Cairo 1966–7. Ibn al-Rūmī, Dīwān, ed. Ḥusayn Naṣṣār, 6 vols. Cairo, 1973–81. Ibn Shākir al-Kutubī, Fawāt al-wafayāt, ed. Iḥsān ʿAbbās, 5 vols. Beirut, 1973–4. Ibn Sīda, al-Mukhaṣṣaṣ, 17 vols., Cairo AH 1316–21. Ibn Sinān al-Khafājī, Sirr al-faṣāḥa, ed. ʿAlī Fawda, Cairo 1932. Ibn Ṭayfūr, Abū l-Faḍl Aḥmad ibn Abī Ṭāhir, Kitāb Baghdād, ed. Iḥsān Dhunnūn al-Thāmirī, Beirut 2009. al-Ibshīhī, al-Mustaṭraf, 2 vols. Cairo 1952. Imruʾ al-Qays, Dīwān, ed. Muḥammad Abū l-Faḍl Ibrāhīm, Cairo 1969; ed. W. Ahlwardt in The Divans of the Six Ancient Arabic Poets, London 1870. al-Iṣfahānī, Abū l-Faraj, al-Aghānī, 24 vols. Cairo, 1927–1974. al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Bayān wa-l-tabyīn, ed. ʿAbd al-Salām Muḥammad Hārūn, 4 vols. Cairo, 1968. al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Ḥayawān, ed. ʿAbd al-Salām Muḥammad Hārūn, 8 vols. Cairo 1965–69. Khairallah, Asʿad E., Love, Madness, and Poetry: An Interpretation of the Maǧnūn Legend, Beirut-Wiesbaden 1980 (BTS 25). al-Khālidiyyān, Abū Bakr Muḥammad and Abū ʿUthmān Saʿīd ibn Hāshim, al-Ashbāh wa-l-naẓāʾir min ashʿār al-mutaqaddimīn wa-l-jāhiliyya wa-l-mukhaḍramīn, ed. al-Sayyid Muḥammad Yūsuf, 2 vols. Cairo 1958, 1965. al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Tārīkh Baghdād, 13 vols. Cairo 1931. Marzolph, Ulrich, Arabia ridens: Die humoristische Kurzprosa der frühen adab-Literatur im internationalen Traditionsgeflecht, 2 vols. Frankfurt am Main 1992. al-Marzubānī, Muʿjam al-shuʿarāʾ, ed. F. Krenkow, Cairo AH 1354; ed. ʿAbd al-Sattār Aḥmad Farrāj, Cairo 1960. al-Masʿūdī, Murūj al-dhahab, ed. Charles Pellat, 7 vols. Beirut, 1966–79. Meier, Fritz, Some Aspects of Inspiration by Demons in Islam, in G.E. von Grunebaum & R. Callois (eds.), The Dream and Human Societies, Berkeley-Los Angeles 1966, 421–9. Moreh, Shmuel, Live Theatre and Dramatic Literature in the Medieval Arabic World, Edinburgh 1992. al-Nawājī, Ta‌ʾhīl al-gharīb, ed. Aḥmad Muḥammad ʿAṭā, Cairo 2004. al-Nīsābūrī, Abū l-Qāsim al-Ḥasan ibn Ḥabīb, ʿUqalāʾ al-majānīn, ed. ʿUmar al-Asʿad, Beirut 1987. al-Nushshābī (or al-Nashshābī) al-Irbilī, al-Muḥāḍara fī alqāb al-shuʿarāʾ, ed. Shākir al-ʿĀshūr, Baghdad 1988. al-Nuwayrī, Nihāyat al-arab, Cairo, 1923– The Qurʾān, translated into English by Alan Jones, n.pl., Gibb Memorial Trust, 2007. al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, Muḥāḍarāt al-udabāʾ, 2 vols. Būlāq AH 1287. Russell, D.A., and M. Winterbottom, Ancient Literary Criticism: The Principal Texts in New Translations, Oxford 1972.

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al-Ṣafadī, Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Khalīl ibn Aybak, al-Wāfī bi-l-Wafayāt / Das biographische Lexikon des Ṣalāhaddīn Ḫalīl ibn Aibak aṣ-Ṣafadī (BI 6), 30 vols. Beirut-WiesbadenBerlin 1931–2005. al-Sarrāj, Abū Muḥammad Jaʿfar ibn Aḥmad, Maṣāriʿ al-ʿushshāq, 2 vols. Beirut, n.d. Schmidt, Michael, Lives of the Poets, London, 1998. Sezgin, Fuat, Geschichte des arabischen Schrifttums. Band II: Poesie bis ca. 430 H., Leiden 1975. al-Sharīshī, Sharḥ Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīrī, 2 vols. Cairo 1979. Sibṭ ibn al-Taʿāwīdhī, Dīwān, ed. D.S Margoliouth, Cairo 1903. Steingass, F., A Comprehensive Persian-English Dictionary, London 1892, repr. Beirut 1970. al-Tanūkhī, Nishwār al-muḥāḍara, ed. ʿAbbūd al-Shāljī, 8 vols. Beirut, 1971–3, tr. D.S. Margoliouth, The Table-Talk of a Mesopotamian Judge, Parts II & VIII, Hyderabad 1929–32. al-Thaʿālibī, Fiqh al-lugha, Cairo AH 1318. al-Thaʿālibī, Abū Manṣūr ʿAbd al-Malik,Yatīmat al-dahr fī maḥāsin ahl al-ʿaṣr, ed. Muḥammad Muḥyī l-Dīn ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd, 4 vols. Cairo 1947. al-Washshāʾ, al-Muwashshā, ed. Rudolph E. Brünnow, Leiden 1886. al-Waṭwāṭ, Ibrāhīm ibn Yaḥyā, Ghurar al-khaṣāʾiṣ wa-ʿurar al-naqāʾiṣ, Bulaq AH 1284. Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-buldān, 7 vols. Beirut 1995. al-Zamakhsharī, Rabīʿ al-anwār, ed. Sulaym al-Nuʿaymī, 4 vols. Baghdad, n.d.

CHAPTER 9

Music for the Body, Music for the Soul Hans Hinrich Biesterfeldt Dear Everett, Here’s a sentimental memory: It must have been in 1972—when we were even younger than we are anyhow—that I visited you in Cairo. You were a member of CASA, the Center for Arabic Study Abroad, enjoying Cairo daily life and the delicacies of Egyptian Arabic, and I worked as a fellow of the Orient-Institut der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft in Beirut and was buying books for its library and looking after some volumes of the Bibliotheca Islamica to be printed in Cairo. You shared a flat, with Peter Heath, raḥimahū llāh, in Bāb al-Lūq, and you had rented an upright piano (as in fact Heika and I had, in Beirut—ours, however, was better tuned than yours). When I visited you there, you played some Bach for me, a prelude from his Wohltemperiertes Klavier, with several sharps—although you maintain that at that time your principal pièce de résistance was Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 in G minor. Bach or Chopin—I was, and I am, impressed by your love and competence for music, and therefore I am offering you for this festschrift a humble translation cum commentary of a precious essay, written by a fourth/tenth-century Arabic author, on How to listen to music properly.

One Apology and Two Acknowledgements

The author is, as you may have suspected, an old mutual friend of ours, Abū Zayd al-Balkhī. His only completely extant work—from which this chapter on tadbīr al-samāʿ is taken—is K. Maṣāliḥ al-abdān wa-l-anfus, a fascinating text on the welfare of body and soul. Since I persuaded you, a while ago, to collaborate with me on a translation of this text and a study of the preserved fragments of its author, this presentation of mine is like serving you a piece of cake which actually we should have baked together: my apologies for that—and I am sure that you will contribute sundry suggestions for a better recipe once the whole cake will take its definite shape! My friend Tricia Tunstall, Maplewood NJ, has corrected my English; my colleague Eckhard Neubauer, Frankfurt am Main, has suggested a few modifications of the first draft of my translation and © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_010

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has also, most promptly and helpfully, indicated several points of origin for Abū Zayd’s ideas on the theory of music. My sincere thanks go to both of them.

Abū Zayd al-Balkhī’s Maṣāliḥ

Abū Zayd (ca. 235/850–322/934) was a student of al-Kindī, or more probably, moved in his immediate circles after his death in Baghdad, between 247/861 and 252/866.1 Together with Aḥmad ibn al-Ṭayyib al-Sarakhsī (born around 220/835, died in prison 286/899),2 a proper student of al-Kindī, he shares their master’s encyclopedic scope of interests—Ibn al-Nadīm’s Fihrist and Yāqūt’s Irshād credit him with over fifty works that show a great variety of subjects: from quranic disciplines, Islamic theology, Arabic philology, philosophy, statecraft, and adab to, famously, cartography and geography. The few fragments that are preserved deal with intriguing topics such as the theory of statecraft, the typology of religious idols (aṣnām), and chess and backgammon as proponents of free will and predestination, and they show the author’s acumen and independent judgment.3 Abū Zayd’s monograph on the Welfare of Body and Soul has been known for some time; it was published twice and it has recently gained some amount of interest among Muslim scholars who are pleased to report on a witness for “psychosomatic” and “holistic” thought in classical Islamic culture. The book has two parts or maqālas, the first dealing with bodily hygiene and taking up three quarters of the volume, the second part treating mental hygiene, covering the last quarter. The principal mental diseases discussed are anger, fear, sadness, and “inner voices” or hallucinations. Much of the first part is quite conventional: among its fourteen chapters we find accounts of five of the so-called six “non-natural” factors, known already from Greek works on regimen sanitatis, which influence a person’s health— airs, waters, places, movement and rest, eating and drinking,4 sleeping and

1  For the death date of al-Kindī, see Endress and Adamson, Abū Yūsuf al-Kindī 99, and for the contents of al-Kindī’s works on music, see their useful summaries at 115–17. 2  For the life and works of al-Sarakhsī, see Rosenthal, Aḥmad b. aṭ-Ṭayyib as-Saraḫsī, and Biesterfeldt, Aḥmad b. aṭ-Ṭaiyib as-Saraḫsī. 3  For Abū Zayd’s life and bibliography and studies on him, see Biesterfeldt, al-Balkhī, Abū Zayd, and Biesterfeldt, Abū Zaid al-Balḫī. 4  The chapter on tadbīr al-mashārib (per table of contents) or tadbīr al-sharāb (per text) has been studied in Biesterfeldt, Ein Philosoph trinkt Wein; already here Abū Zayd dwells on the affinity between wine drinking and listening to music. Cf. Waines, Abū Zayd.

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waking, bathing and sex5—with additional chapters on housing, clothing, aromatherapy, and, as penultimate chapter of this first maqāla, music.

Preliminary Remark

The basis of my following translation of this chapter is Maḥmūd Miṣrī’s edition (1426/2005), pp. 477–81. I have indicated his pagination in [square] brackets. Miṣrī’s edition indicates the pagination of Fuat Sezgin’s facsimile edition (1984), which reproduces MS 3741, Ayasofya Library, in the margin. In my commentary, I am following Miṣrī who refers to that MS by alif and to MS 3740 in the same library by bāʾ by using the sigla A and B, respectively. I have numbered the paragraphs of the chapter in order to facilitate locating my references.

The Text

How to Listen to Music 1. To the preceding chapters of this [first] part belongs the topic of listening to music and how to do it properly. Although music ranks with wine and perfume as pleasures to be enjoyed, we deal with it only here, because the chapters constituting this part are focused upon the welfare of the body, to which music as such does not primarily pertain. In fact, it is part of the welfare of the soul rather than that of the body. For we see what amazing effects—such as shaking and moving—music causes in the soul, making it turn, by sometimes causing excessive delight and at other times excessive sadness, towards amazing dispositions and moods which carry the person instantly from one state to the other. 2. However, although music may affect the soul most strongly, it is still bound to contribute considerably to the welfare and benefit of the body. In the sphere of preservation of health, this is so because the food, and in particular drink, that one takes when listening to music are most wholesome, beneficial, and effective for the advancement and proper sustenance of the body. In the sphere of restoration of health, this is so because it has been the

5  The sixth “non-natural” factor, the mental states, obviously finds its way into the second maqāla, which deals with maṣāliḥ al-anfus.

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habit of the ancient doctors and physicians to treat many patients by letting them hear pleasant songs [478] which strengthen their stamina, please their soul, and soothe the pain of their sickness and ailment. Therefore, since listening to music benefits both soul and body, we have put this discussion at the end of the chapters on the preservation of health. 3. We say: Listening to music is one of the most distinguished human pleasures, most considerable in importance and most deserving of enjoyment in a suitable and gracious way. [This is] due to certain innate virtues of music. One virtue is the fact that of all the sensual pleasures, such as food, drink, sex, perfume, etc., only music belongs to the realm of philosophy. This is because the basis upon which music is founded and from which it originates is a discipline that belongs to the loftiest disciplines of philosophy. Thus music unites within itself both [the capacity] to be a criterion for the right way to act in one of its loftiest aspects and [the capacity] to provide pleasure in one of its sweetest forms. 4. Another virtue of music is that it is experienced through the most excellent pleasure of hearing. Hearing and seeing are the noblest kinds of sensual perception; nothing is as precious to man as these two senses and as what is obtained by them. The best things obtained by seeing are beautiful forms; there are no better objects to which a person can turn his heart and refer his soul. In the same manner, the best things obtained by hearing are composed [songs], which have an effect on the soul similar to that of beautiful forms. Thus, beautiful forms and pleasant sounds are the greatest enjoyments among pleasures and sensual delights. 5. Another virtue of music is that its pleasure does not imply tedium and weariness, as do the other pleasures, such as eating, drinking, sex, etc. All of these, when being enjoyed beyond a certain degree, are wearisome, since they are bodily pleasures. Hearing music, on the other hand, is not wearisome even after extensive [479] consumption and long immersion, since its pleasure is spiritual, as we have described. If a person becomes weary of some kind of music, this is due to some unpleasant element of sound from which [human] nature recoils, or some bad aspect in the performance that annoys the soul. So long as it is done well, even if for a long time, music is not wearisome. 6. Still another virtue of music is that it constitutes the utmost pleasure to which the souls of those who enjoy it are inclined; that is to say, every party is assembled for sociable and joyful ends, and it is only the reigning presence of excellent music that indicates high rank among those gathered. It is music that adorns parties and completes the delights [of the table]; its excellence and its superiority are the pleasures most difficult to attain, most precious to find,

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and most appropriate to make manifest the difference in luxurious enjoyment between kings and common men, insofar as the former are able to master and attain music to a degree that the latter cannot. In other pleasures, as eating, drinking, sex, clothes, and perfumes, commoners may attain an equal or higher degree of mastery and pleasure. 7. These, then, are the virtues found in music. Still, if this is so, every good king or ruler should enjoy it wisely and properly, not with infatuation and blind devotion, which may take away the splendor of manly valor, tear the veil of respectability and, through excessive desire, draw one into the company of those whose rank is below that of the owner of kingship and authority. Furthermore, in regulating the pleasure of music, excellent kings should listen to it for the most excellent purpose. That is to say, vocal compositions are chosen according to three aspects: [480] first, an agreeable voice, something which pleases the heart of everyone; second, excellence of composition; and third, excellence of the themes used in poetry when it is performed. When all these three aspects are realized, music is wholly excellent. For a single listener, this combination is rarely achieved at one time. A knowledgeable and distinguishing person of kingly rank for whom not all three aspects are achieved should strive for a good composition and an excellent theme more than for an agreeable voice, which is attractive particularly for the common people. 8. There are three kinds of themes expressed in poems furnished with melodies: first, the evocation of the human faculty of sensual pleasure, such as gardens, flowers, blossoms, drinking parties with one’s companions, and the faces of handsome [boys]; second, the evocation of the human faculty of courage, such as fights, knightly hunting, competition between peers, triumph, and victory of one over the other; third, the description of freedom and the noble traits of character, such as generosity, magnanimity, forgiveness, pardon, and so forth. A royal person enjoying music should give preference to the latter two, i.e., those evoking the faculty of freedom and that of courage, over those evoking the faculty of sensual pleasure. If his soul is in fact inclined to partake of that theme, he should [481] not do so exclusively so that it becomes predominant. Furthermore, he should be inclined to melodies of dignifying and calming rather than levitating and immoderately rousing character, lest any servants present see something that diminishes their respect for him. If his soul is disposed to music of a rousing character, when he is under the spell of wine inducing him to the greatest enjoyment, he should dismiss the party and keep away those boon companions and revelers who show no decency. This summary should cover everything concerning the regimen of listening to music.

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Commentary 1. The chapters on drinking wine and on aromatherapy (tadbīr al-mashmūmāt) are the sixth and seventh. “[. . .] to be enjoyed” at the beginning renders yustamtaʿu bihā ed., A and B have yustamaʿu bihā. “Dispositions and moods” towards the end of this section render hayʾāt wa-aryaḥiyyāt; the latter noun is frequently employed by Abū Zayd, also to express “cheerful mood, liveliness.” 2. Al-Kindī is credited with an exemplary feat of musical healing in Ibn al-Qifṭī’s Tārīkh al-ḥukamāʾ.6 On Arabic texts dealing with music therapy in general, cf. Eckhard Neubauer’s substantial article.7 “[. . .] strengthen their stamina” renders tuqawwī munnatahum B and ed.; A has matnahum, “body.” 3. That music is part of the realm of philosophy (ḥikma) and even belongs to its loftiest disciplines (ʿulūm) is frequently foreshadowed by al-Kindī, cf. for instance his remark on the excellent and philosophically-minded musician (al-mūsīqārī al-bāhir al-faylasūf ) who masters the three components of music production (iṭrāb), namely the various meters, or rhythms, the melodic modes, and the song texts (ṣunūf al-īqāʿ, nagham, shiʿr) and who is paired—an even more popular combination—with the physician-philosopher who knows the principles of preserving and restoring health.8 One might also consult the remarks of al-Kindī’s student al-Sarakhsī, who writes: “Provided that this science is studied properly, and one pursues every unknown element in it until it is known exactly, it is the view of the philosophers that it is always to be regarded as nobler than all the other mathematical sciences.” As al-Sarakhsī goes on to report, Alexander the Great “rose and gave up his seat to a musician. When his friends disapproved of his conduct, he said to them: ‘I wished to honour only the music in him.’ He used to prefer musicians because of the nobility of their art to all other artists and scientists and to say: ‘It is not I who have distinguished them, their art has done so!’ ”9 Another treatise by al-Kindī, Fī ajzāʾ khabariyya fī l-mūsīqī, contains a collection ( faṣl 4, maqāla 2) of “choice 6  The story is translated, with references, in Adamson and Pormann, Philosophical works of al-Kindī lxx–lxxii. 7  Neubauer, Arabische Anleitungen zur Musiktherapie; cf. also Kümmel, Musik und Medizin; Bürgel, Musicotherapy; Endress, Musiktheorie 116 and notes; Burnett, Spiritual medicine; Shiloah, Jewish and Muslim traditions. Generally, an instructive account of the late antique theory of the “êthos” of music is contained in Kazemi’s Die bewegte Seele. 8  K. al-Muṣawwitāt al-watariyya min dhāt al-watar al-wāḥid ilā dhāt al-ʿasharāt al-awtār, in Muʾallafāt al-Kindī al-mūsīqiyya 72. 9  See Rosenthal, Classical heritage 225–6.

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sayings” (nawādir) of the philosophers on the nobility of music.10 The last sentence of this section is difficult: I think that Abū Zayd tries to manage the balancing act of granting music the authority to be a criterion (ḥukm) both for the right way to act, or live (sharīʿa!), and to offer the most sublime pleasure (lahw), thus giving a double nod towards the establishment and the individual. The much-discussed question of whether listening to music is allowed at all, because it is apt to distract from the worship of God, is not even addressed. 4. Abū Zayd, stressing the higher rank of seeing and hearing (al-ḥāssatān al-sharīfatān) as compared with the other three senses, appeals to a sentiment that is common to ancient and medieval psychology. He may have found sacred proof for this view in numerous passages of the Quran, cf. Q Balad 90:8–9, where seeing and articulating (as the premise for hearing) are praised as God’s principal acts of man’s creation: “Have We not made for him two eyes and a tongue and two lips?” Two of God’s own most prominent quranic epithets are “the all-seeing” (baṣīr) and “the all-hearing” (samīʿ).11 Aristotle’s statement that sight (to horân) “best helps us to know things” (at the very beginning of his Metaphysics: I 980 a 27) must have been known to Abū Zayd; cf. also De sensu 437 a 3–5 which puts seeing and hearing first, seeing being superior because it takes care of the primary wants of life, hearing, however, taking precedence when it comes to the acquisition of knowledge. For a somewhat later representative statement of Islamic theology, cf. ʿAbd al-Qāhir al-Baghdādī’s (d. 429/1037) Uṣūl al-dīn, whose fifth introductory masʾala on aqsām al-ḥawāss puts baṣar and samʿ first and briefly discusses the “philosophers” ’ giving precedence to hearing.12 In the samāʿ of Ṣūfī or popular gatherings the combination of gazing at a beautiful face and listening to the singer is a frequent topos. The poet Minūchihrī (d. after 432/1041), when he portrays for us the Ghaznavid sultan Masʿūd during such a festivity, introduces hand and heart as additional organs, but clearly emphasizes the leading role of seeing and hearing: “The shah’s hand is on the wine, his heart is with his intimate friends, his eye is on a beautiful face, and his ear is with the singer.”13 A more specific point of reference may be found again in the K. al-Muṣawwitāt al-watariyya, which discusses the four senses of hearing, seeing, tasting, and smelling. Hearing, al-Kindī writes, comprises the musical features of the melodic modes (nagham), the “pluckings” (naqarāt) (of the lute), and the texts of the songs (shiʿr); seeing is directed towards the (four) colors with which the chords of the lute are differentiated and which indicate the four elements (arkān). After a brief mention of 10  In Muʾallafāt al-Kindī al-mūsīqiyya 106–10. 11  See Rippin, Seeing and hearing. 12  Al-Baghdādī, Uṣūl al-dīn 19f. 13  See the chapter on samāʿ in Ritter, Ocean of the soul, 507–17, at 507.

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the objects of tasting and smelling, al-Kindī declares that “the most delectable among the senses are those which participate in the composition for the [four] chords,” i.e. hearing and seeing.14 5. “unpleasant element of sound” renders nakāratin taqaʿu fī l-ṣawti ed., which, I agree, is preferable to takāruh “repugnance” in A and B, because it “rhymes” with radāʾa one line below. 6. This “elitist” argument for the nobility of music both acknowledges the courtly milieu for which Abū Zayd writes (more on this in section 8) and harps on a prominent feature of the self-image of musicians: serious music is for the connoisseur. There may be no class distinction in the enjoyment of food and drink etc. (a gourmet would object), but when it comes to music only an educated and refined mind is capable of savoring its “luxurious enjoyment” (tanaʿʿum). Again a passage from al-Sarakhsī’s writing on music may suffice to illustrate this: “The fact that a person is moved when he hears music, or pretends to be moved, is no proof that he possesses musical understanding. Rather, if someone is easily moved, it sometimes indicates more that he does not understand what he hears and possesses little musical knowledge. [. . .] Thus the people who understand least of music are moved most quickly by every little bit of music they hear, while those who understand very much of music and possess the most advanced musical knowledge are moved with the greatest difficulty and least satisfied with what they hear.”15 “[. . .] that the latter cannot” towards the end of the section follows the ed.’s emendation ilā mā ‹lā› yaṣilūna ilayhi. 7. This links with Abū Zayd’s stress on professionality in the preceding section: Everyone (al-ʿāmma) enjoys a beautiful voice (the edition wrongly follows the reading ṭalab in A and B—instead of correcting to the obvious ṭayyib— al-ṣawt), only “kings or rulers” (al-mulūk wa-l-salāṭīn), or “the owner of kingship and authority” (dhū l-mulk wa-l-sulṭān), care for excellence of composition ( jawdat al-ṣanʿa) and excellence of poetical themes ( faḍīlat maʿānī l-shiʿr). (Abū Zayd uses maʿnā for these three aspects of musical quality as well as for poetical themes to be classified in the next section!) The three aspects named by Abū Zayd in some way take up al-Kindī’s dual set of categories. Whereas al-Kindī’s three musical features (nagham, naqarāt, shiʿr) named in my commentary to section (4) are primarily addressed to the musician, al-Kindī’s triad (ṣunūf al-īqāʿ, nagham, shiʿr) in my commentary to section (3) focuses on the

14   The passage presented here is on p. 76. It ends with wa-aladhdhahunna minhā l-mushākilata fī l-ta‌ʾlīfi lil-awtār. On the functions and the interplay between the senses in Jewish and Muslim thought, see the classic study by David Kaufmann, Die Sinne. 15  Rosenthal, Classical heritage 226–7.

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composer. Abū Zayd apparently thinks of a personal union of composer and musician, which for his time and milieu is the ideal constellation anyway. 8. This is an interesting and creative classification of poetical themes (maʿānī). It has no parallel in the classical expositions of authors such as Qudāma ibn Jaʿfar, Isḥāq ibn Ibrāhīm ibn Sulaymān ibn Wahb al-Kātib, or Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī.16 Rather, its practical interest is to explore what kind of poem (or part of a poem) fits a given situation at a courtly majlis. Somewhat facetiously, the list takes its categories from the well-known tripartition of the soul, designed by Plato and popularized in late antique medicine and psychology first and foremost by the medical practitioner and author Galen. Both authorities differentiate between the three parts, or aspects, or “faculties,” of the soul, epithymêtikon (appealing to the desires and pleasures), thymoeides (spirited, aggressive), and logikon (rational). The three most commonly used Arabic equivalents are shahwāniyya, ghaḍabiyya, and fikriyya. Two of these three we find in Abū Zayd’s list: the “faculty of sensual pleasure” (quwwat alshahwa)17 and the “faculty of courage” (quwwat al-shajāʿa), the latter clearly being a synonym for quwwat al-ghaḍab. After this nod towards “classical” categories of dispositions to which music and texts move the soul, Abū Zayd goes on with a set of themes which appeal to old Arabic, even pre-Islamic, ideals of human virtues, badhl, samāḥa, ʿafw, ṣafḥ, etc., under the heading al-ḥurriyya wa-l-akhlāq al-sharīfa. This change of register—musically speaking, an enharmonic modulation—from Graeco-Arabic psychological tradition to ancient Arabic ideals (which certainly would also fit the esprit courtois of the Sasanian heritage) seems to be characteristic of Abū Zayd’s thought. Many manuals, Arabic, Persian, and Turkish, for the musician end in more or less extensive discussions about which kinds of music and poetical themes fit which kind of audience. These directions consider not only rank and education of the listeners, but also their age and profession, plus the time of the day, season of the year, etc. An instructive sample is contained in chapter 36 of the Persian mirror for princes Qābūsnāme, written one-and-a-half centuries after Abū Zayd by a member of the princely dynasty of the Ziyārids, Kay Kāʾūs ibn Iskandar ibn Qābūs ibn Washmgīr. The chapter advises the student of music: “Do not let all your musical modes be heavy ones nor yet all light ones; it is unsuitable always to play in one style, for not all men have the same nature (ṭabʿ). They are as varied in physical constitution (khalq-i mukhtalif ) as they are in their character

16  For these expositions, see Schoeler, Einteilung, and Genres. 17  “Blossoms” after “gardens” and “flowers” translates al-anwār as a plural form of nawr (my thanks for this hint to my friend Thomas Bauer).

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(khulq-i mukhtalif ).18 Again al-Kindī offers concrete professional categories for these multiple correspondences between the kinds of music and the moods of its audience. In his K. al-Muṣawwitāt al-watariyya he correlates “the noble”— and one might add, the joyous—“traits of character” (i.e. al-afʿāl al-surūriyya, al-ṭarabiyya, al-faraḥiyya, al-jūdiyya, al-karāmiyya, al-taʿaṭṭuf, al-ra‌ ʾfa, alriqqa) with the second highest mathnā string,19 and courage with the highest string, the zīr.20 In his Ajzāʾ khabariyya fī l-mūsīqī, closely related to the former risāla, he correlates different kinds of rhythm and poetic meter (iqāʿāt, awzān shiʿriyya) with moods as they change over the day.21 Finally, Abū Zayd’s advice to the ruler to leave alone songs that appeal to the faculty of sensual pleasure (shahwa) and to prefer melodies (alḥān) of dignifying and calming character is apparently his own initiative, and his prudent consideration of a ruler wanting to have some extra wine and music, excess of it, (“greatest enjoyment,” afḍal ṭarab) is typical for his attitude—compare Abū Zayd’s advice to a ruler who is in danger of drinking too much wine and so of ruining his own party.22 Conclusion Abū Zayd’s chapter on how to listen to music shares much of what characterizes the whole of his Maṣāliḥ: the author does not intend to present new or sophisticated information, but aims at accommodating his generally educated readers with the respective material that is available in the specialist literature. For the theory of music, his main authority is apparently al-Kindī, who in turn transmits Arabic elements of instrumental and vocal practice and Greek theory of the impact of music on the human soul, and in particular the idea of a universal correspondence between specific extra-musical and musical modes on the one hand and specific mental states of the audience on the other. While Abū Zayd is writing for the non-specialist, he clearly has in mind the courtly elite. This is obvious from his recurrent consideration of the specific commitment of the ruler as well as from his wonderfully balanced style. Consider for 18  For the text, see Kay Kāʾūs, edition, 111; my translation is based on Kay Kāʾūs, translation, 186 (with slight modifications). 19   Muʾallafāt al-Kindī al-mūsīqiyya 88, cf. also, in that same volume, Ajzāʾ khabariyya fī l-mūsīqī 102. 20   Muʾallafāt al-Kindī al-mūsīqiyya 86, with a host of corresponding factors such as season of the year, time of the day, bodily humor, planets, etc., and also at 89. 21   Muʾallafāt al-Kindī al-mūsīqiyya 99–100. 22  Al-Balkhī, Maṣāliḥ al-abdān, Facsimile edition, 159–60; ed. Miṣrī, 432.

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instance the threefold afʿal construction in which the two first cola are short and the third is somewhat more elaborated: min ashrafi l-ladhdhāti l-insāniyyati qadran wa-aʿẓamihā khaṭaran wa-awlāhā bi-allā yadaʿa l-mustamtiʿu bi-l-ladhdhāti l-akhdha bi-l-ḥaẓẓi minhu . . .23 and aʿsaruhā maṭlaban wa-aʿazzuhā wujūdan wa-ajdaruhā bi-an yaẓhara maʿahū farqu mā bayna l-mulūki wa-l-sūqati . . .24 And consider the parallel cadenza in (li-sababi) nakāratin taqaʿu fī l-ṣawti tanfiru ʿanhā l-ṭabīʿatu aw radāʾatin taʿriḍu fī l-ṣanʿati25 and, again with an amplification in the third colon, (mimmā) yudhhibu bahāʾa l-muruwwati wa-yahtiku sitra l-ṣiyānati wa-yastajirru bi-farṭi l-ḥirṣi ʿalayhi ilā muʿāsharati . . .26 A last example of Abū Zayd’s sense of balance has already been addressed in my commentary on section (3). The Arabic is: kāna ḥukmuhū sharīʿatan min ajalli abwābihā wa-lahwan mumtiʿan min aladhdhi anwāʿihī.27 23  Al-Balkhī, Maṣāliḥ al-abdān, ed. Miṣrī 478, 4–5. Compare Lausberg, Elemente 147f. (§ 454), who identifies among the types of the “period” which consists of a component that creates tension (protasis) and one which resolves it (apodosis), one which is composed of three cola, protasis 1 and 2 of equal length, and a longer apodosis. 24  Al-Balkhī, Maṣāliḥ al-abdān, ed. Miṣrī 479, 7–8 . 25  Al-Balkhī, Maṣāliḥ al-abdān, ed. Miṣrī 479, 2–3. 26  Al-Balkhī, Maṣāliḥ al-abdān, ed. Miṣrī 479, 14–15. 27  Al-Balkhī, Maṣāliḥ al-abdān, ed. Miṣrī 478, 10.

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This passage, using music as a link between sharīʿa and lahw, reveals in nuce Abū Zayd’s integrative program. Finally, Abū Zayd’s balanced use of Greek concepts of the “philosophy” of music, of Iranian ideas on courtly etiquette, and of traditional Arabic-Islamic virtues28 shows that he was not only a mediator between adab and falsafa,29 but also between intellectual currents that shaped the fourth century Hijra. So here’s a fanfare to you, dear Everett—have a wonderful birthday with Ann, listen to the right music, and don’t forget to practice the piano—and may all your works in progress soon see the light, black on white! Yours, Hans Hinrich Bibliography Adamson, P., and P.E. Pormann (tr. and comm.), The philosophical works of al-Kindī (Studies in Islamic Philosophy), Oxford 2012. al-Baghdādī, ʿAbd al-Qāhir ibn Ṭāhir, Uṣūl al-dīn, ed. Aḥmad Shams al-Dīn, Beirut 2002. al-Balkhī, Abū Zayd, Sustenance for body and soul [facsimile edition of MS 3741, Ayasofya Library, Istanbul, by F. Sezgin] (Publications of the Institute for the History of Arabic-Islamic Science, series C, no. 2), Frankfurt am Main 1984. al-Balkhī, Abū Zayd Aḥmad ibn Sahl, Maṣāliḥ al-abdān wa-l-anfus, ed. M. Miṣrī, Cairo 1426/2005. Biesterfeldt, H., Ein Philosoph trinkt Wein, in Th. Bauer, U. Stehli-Werbeck (eds.) [. . .], Alltagsleben und materielle Kultur in der arabischen Sprache und Literatur. Festschrift für Heinz Grotzfeld zum 70. Geburtstag (AKM 55, 1), Wiesbaden 2005, 89–103. Biesterfeldt, H.H., al-Balkhī, Abū Zayd, EI3. Biesterfeldt, H.H., Aḥmad ibn aṭ-Ṭaiyib as-Saraḫsī, in U. Rudolph with R. Würsch (eds.), Philosophie in der islamischen Welt. Band 1: 8.–10. Jahrhundert (Grundriss der Geschichte der Philosophie, begründet von F. Ueberweg. Völlig neu bearbeitete Ausgabe, hg. von H. Holzhey), Basel 2012, 148–56, 243–4. Biesterfeldt, H.H., Abū Zaid al-Balḫī, in Rudolph with Würsch (eds.), Philosophie [see preceding reference], 156–67, 244–6.

28  Cf. Rosenthal, Abū Zayd al-Balkhī on Politics 294–5; Biesterfeldt, Ein Philosoph trinkt Wein 102. 29  Rowson, Philosopher as littérateur 68–9.

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Bürgel, J. Ch., Musicotherapy in the Islamic Middle Ages as reflected in medical and other sources, in H.M. Said (ed.), History and philosophy of science: Proceedings of the international congress of the history and philosophy of science, Islamabad, 8–13 December, 1979, Islamabad 1980, 33–8. Burnett, Ch., “Spiritual medicine.” Music and healing in Islam and its influence in Western medicine, in P. Gouk (ed.), Musical healing in cultural contexts, Aldershot 2000, 81–91 (repr. in P.E. Pormann (ed.), Islamic medical and scientific tradition [. . .], 4 vols., London 2010, ii 252–9). Endress, G., Musiktheorie, in W. Fischer (ed.), Grundriss der arabischen Philologie iii (Supplement), Wiesbaden 1992, 110–16. Endress, G. and P. Adamson, Abū Yūsuf al-Kindī, in Rudolph with Würsch (eds.), Philosophie [see above], 92–147. Kaufmann, D., Die Sinne. Beiträge zur Geschichte der Physiologie und Psychologie im Mittelalter aus hebräischen und arabischen Quellen, Jahresbericht der LandesRabbinerschule in Budapest für das Schuljahr 1883–84, Budapest 1884 (repr., with an introduction, by L. Jacobs [and two other studies], London 1972). [Kay Kāʾūs,] The Naṣīḥat-Nāma known as Qābūs-Nāma of Kai Kā’ūs b. Iskandar b. Qābūs b. Washmgīr, ed. with critical notes by R. Levy (E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series, new series, 18), London 1951. [Kay Kāʾūs,] A mirror for princes. The Qābūs Nāma by Kai Kā’ūs ibn Iskandar, Prince of Gurgān, tr. from the Persian by R. Levy, London 1951. Kazemi, E., Die bewegte Seele. Das spätantike Buch über das Wesen der Musik [. . .] von Paulus/Būlos in arabischer Übersetzung vor dem Hintergrund der griechischen Ethoslehre (Publications of the History of Arabic-Islamic Science, The Science of Music in Islam, 5), Frankfurt am Main 1999. al-Kindī, Yaʿqūb ibn Isḥāq, Muʾallafāt al-Kindī al-mūsīqiyya, ed. Z. Yūsuf, Baghdad 1962. Kümmel, W.F., Musik und Medizin: Ihre Wechselbeziehungen in Theorie und Praxis von 800–1800 (Freiburger Beiträge zur Wissenschafts- und Universitätsgeschichte, 2), Freiburg i.B. 1977. Lausberg, H., Elemente der literarischen Rhetorik [. . .], Munich 1963, 41971. Neubauer, E., Arabische Anleitungen zur Musiktherapie, in ZGAIW 6 (1990), 227–72. Rippin, A., Seeing and hearing, in EQ. Ritter, H., The ocean of the soul: Man, the world and God in the stories of Farīd al-Dīn ʿAṭṭār, tr. by J. O’Kane with editorial assistance of B. Radtke (HdO, section 1, vol. 69), Leiden 2003 [German original: Das Meer der Seele, Leiden 1955, ²1978]. Rosenthal, F., Aḥmad b. aṭ-Ṭayyib as-Saraḫsī (AOS 26), New Haven 1943. Rosenthal, F., The classical heritage in Islam, tr. by E. and J. Marmorstein, London 1975 [German original: Das Fortleben der Antike im Islam, Zürich, Stuttgart 1965]. Rosenthal, F., Abū Zayd al-Balkhī on Politics, in C.E. Bosworth et al. (eds.), The Islamic world, from classical to modern times: Essays in honor of Bernard Lewis, Princeton 1989, 287–301.

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Rowson, E.K., The philosopher as littérateur: al-Tawḥīdī and his predecessors, in ZGAIW 6 (1990), 50–92. Schoeler, G., Die Einteilung der Dichtung bei den Arabern, in ZDMG 123 (1973), 9–55 (see also an updated version, The genres of classical Arabic poetry: Classifications of poetic themes and poems by pre-modern critics and redactors of dīwāns, Quaderni di studi arabi, new series 5–6 (2010–2011), 1–48). Shiloah, A., Jewish and Muslim traditions of music therapy, in P. Horden (ed.), Music as medicine: The history of music therapy since Antiquity, Aldershot 2000, 69–83 (repr. in P.E. Pormann (ed.), Islamic medical and scientific tradition [. . .], 4 vols., London 2010, ii 240–51). Waines, D., Abū Zayd al-Balkhī on the nature of a forbidden drink. A medieval Islamic controversy, in M. Marín, D. Waines (eds.), La alimentación en las culturas islámicas, Madrid 1994, 111–27. Reprinted in D. Waines (ed.), Patterns of everyday life, Aldershot 2002, 329–44.

CHAPTER 10

Zoroaster’s Many Languages Kevin van Bladel The polymath* al-Bīrūnī (fl. ca. 1000–1050 AD) delivers the following report about the language of the Avesta, the large collection of liturgies and hymns comprising the chief scripture of Zoroastrianism: “[Zoroaster] brought a book they name Abistā. It is in a language different from the languages of all the nations, indeed built upon a unique structure, in letters the number of which exceeds those of all languages, so that people of [one] language cannot claim it as their own to the exclusion of those of another language.”1 The statement, no doubt deriving ultimately from a Zoroastrian informant, is basically true in that the Avestan language is written in a script of more than fifty letters intended to differentiate fine contextual phonetic differences in the Avestan recitation. It was also somewhat unlike most other languages of al-Bīrūnī’s world. This passage has, however, the taste of the apology of priests who no longer truly knew the language of their scripture. The incomprehensibility of the ancient language of their recitation and its elaborate script are, unexpectedly, the basis for a claim to the religion’s universality. In al-Masʿūdī’s earlier accounts of the Avesta (in his Murūǧ al-ḏahab and his Kitāb al-Tanbīh wa-l-išrāf, both finished in 956),2 the incomprehensibility of its language was supposed to appear almost miraculous. He identifies it as “the First (or Original) Persian language,” al-Fārisiyya al-ūlā, strikingly like our modern term Old Persian. He writes, “No one known today understands the meaning of that language,” which was written in a script exceeding the number of letters of other languages, having “about sixty letters” for which each consonant and vowel got its own unique sign.3 All this is basically correct, too. But he adds that the Avestan language is so peculiar and difficult that it is beyond *  I dedicate this essay to Everett Rowson in thanks for years of good advice and support, generosity with his deep learning, and friendship. I thank Kayla Dang and Yuhan Vevaina for providing thoughtful comments on and some corrections of my rendering of some Zoroastrian terms here; they are not to blame when I failed to heed them. 1  Text in Fück, Ergänzungen 75.15–17. See also Taqizadeh, New contribution 949 (text) and 952 (trans.). 2  Pellat, al-Masʿūdī. 3  Al-Masʿūdī, Murūǧ i, 270 §547; al-Masʿūdī, Tanbīh 91.

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human grasp. “Zoroaster brought this book of theirs in a language the likes of which they cannot produce, nor can they grasp the essence of its purport.”4 It was so obscure, he clearly delights to remark, that Zoroaster himself had to provide a commentary, the Zand, and then a commentary to his commentary called Bāzand (Pāzand). This is an obvious assimilation to the idea of the inimitability (iʿǧāz) of the Quran and its challenge (Q Hūd 11:13; Ṭūr 52:33–34) to produce something like it (which allegedly nobody could).5 Again, his idea is probably derived from a Zoroastrian source; it has an apologetic tone. A claim like this about a language of ancient Iran smacks of the sentiment known derisively as šuʿūbī, which pitted non-Arab cultural goods against those of the Arabs, but the incomprehensibility of the Avesta was no threat to the supporters of the supremacy of Arabic.6 Al-Masʿūdī merely appreciates this as one of the many curiosities on which he built his literary production. Differently, Ibn al-Nadīm, in his book catalogue the Fihrist (composed in 377/987), makes an odd remark in which the Avesta is made universal, not because it is in an otherwise unknown language or a comprehensive script, but because it is purportedly written in all languages. In his section on the scripts of the world, he writes, “When Bištāsb7 became king, the art of writing became widespread. Zarādušt ibn Isbitamān,8 chief of the Zoroastrian religion (šarīʿat al-Maǧūs), appeared and produced his marvelous book in all the languages. The people became eager to study penmanship and writing so that they [scribes] became numerous and skilled.”9 The claim that the Avesta was composed in all languages and inspired scribes is extraordinary but has a long history of development behind it. I cannot claim to have discovered the origin of this misconception but I hope to shed some light on it in what follows. In fact, the Avesta is composed in more than one language. Modern scholars have discerned two different, closely related ancient Iranian languages in the Avestan corpus. One of them, called Old Avestan today, is certainly more ancient and grammatically more conservative, comprising the core of the 4  Al-Masʿūdī Murūǧ i, 270 §548: wa-atā Zarāduštu bi-kitābihim hāḏā bi-luġatin yaʿǧazūna ʿan īrādi miṯlihā wa-lā yudrikūna kunha murādihā. 5  Martin, Inimitability. 6  Enderwitz, Shuʿūbiyya. 7  Middle Persian Wištāsp, Avestan Vištāspa, was famous as the king who received the teaching from and supported Zoroaster. See Skjærvø, Kayāniān ix. 8  The nasab Ibn Isbitamān reflects the fairly common mistake of rendering Middle Persian names into Arabic with the patronymic suffix -ān as an integral part of the father’s name. The Middle Persian on which this is based would have said Zardušt ī Spitāmān, meaning Zardušt the Spitamid (son of Spitām, Avestan Spitāma-). 9  Ibn al-Nadīm, ed. Sayyid, i/1.31.9–11; ed. Flügel, 12.30–13.1.

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liturgy recited by Zoroastrian priests, a fairly small corpus of words. The other is Young(er) Avestan, making up the remaining bulk of the extant Avestan corpus, liturgy and hymns. The priests wrote both of these closely similar, extinct languages in which they recited their texts in the same script, made up of fifty-three signs (fifty-eight if one counts known variants),10 designed specifically to represent vowels and consonants alike with high precision, to capture the sound of the recitation phonetically as it was recited when the script was invented. The time of that invention is generally held today to have been around 500, under the rule of the Zoroastrian Sasanids, when Zoroastrian priests were richly supported. The difference, however, between Old and Young Avestan languages within the Avesta plays no role in the problem investigated here. More pertinently, and as al-Masʿūdī knew, the Avesta was also equipped with its exegesis by translation into the Middle Persian vernacular of the priests. This was called the Zand. The extant Avestan manuscripts are basically of two types: the liturgical, containing just the text of the Avestan recitations, and the exegetical, written with the Avestan verses and sentences alternating sequentially with their Middle Persian (“Pahlavi”) explanatory translations (Zand).11 We must suppose that Zoroastrian priests under Abbasid rule had manuscripts of the exegetical type, with alternating verses in Avestan and Middle Persian translation. The Middle Persian was written in its own peculiar script, which was derived in ancient times from the Aramaic alphabet. Its orthography was based on historical spellings both authentic and spurious as well as idiosyncratic and often word-specific ligatures and other ambiguities. It also frequently relies on the employment of aramaeograms, whereby an Aramaic word is written, but meant to be read as a Persian word.12 Ibn al-Nadīm, just mentioned, clearly knew this because he cites the explanation of this system of aramaeograms by Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ (d. 762), a renowned early translator of Middle Persian works into Arabic, in the passage immediately following the one cited above. As he says, for example, they write lahmā13 (Aramaic for “bread”) but read out nān (Persian for “bread”).14 This is exactly correct. All in all, then, a scholar in the tenth century very familiar with the Avesta, or who had a Zoroastrian priest as an informant, might be expected to know that the Avesta arguably contained

10  Tafazzolī, Dabīre. 11  Kellens, Written period; Kellens, Considérations; Cantera, Avestan manucripts. 12  Skjærvø, Aramaic scripts. 13   Sic; Ibn al-Nadīm gives the southeastern (or Mesenian, or Nabaṭī), pronunciation (cf. Mandaic lahmā). Other contemporary forms of Aramaic, including Syriac, have laḥmā. In any case, in this ambiguous script, the same letter stood for ʾ, ḥ, h, and x. 14  Ibn al-Nadīm, ed. Sayyid i/1.34.3–9, ed. Flügel 14.13–17.

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three languages: Middle Persian in the Zand, Aramaic (through the aramaeograms read out as Middle Persian), and the ancient Avestan language (the two varieties of which he probably could not distinguish).15 This is still a long way from the claim that Zoroaster composed the Avesta in all languages. Ibn al-Nadīm was an especially well-read man. Although he knew the mobed (Zoroastrian chief priest) Ēmēd ī Ašawahištān,16 who wrote a Middle Persian treatise still extant, there is every reason to think that at least one of his sources about the omniglot Avesta was a specific apologetic treatise written in Arabic by the Melkite Christian scholar Qusṭā ibn Lūqā of Baʿlabakk (d. ca. 920). Ibn al-Nadīm explicitly rates Qusṭā very highly as a physician, mathematician, and translator of Greek works, and he registers this apologetic epistle first in his list of Qusṭā’s works, so he probably had read it. Qusṭā wrote it to one of the Banū l-Munaǧǧim, a famous family of scholars. Ibn al-Nadīm says it was written in response to Abū ʿĪsā Ibn al-Munaǧǧim (d. 912), but modern scholars have disputed which member of the family was its real addressee.17 In any case, Qusṭā’s epistle was intended to refute its addressee’s essay about the superiority of Islam,18 and in a long section addressing the alleged superiority of Muḥammad to other religious teachers, Qusṭā dwells on the relativity of the claim and describes the Avesta. As he explains, every group prefers its own teacher. Moses is best in the eyes of the Jews, Simon Peter best in the eyes of the Christians, Alexander and the philosophers were best in the eyes of the ancient Greeks, and Zoroaster is best, he says, in the view of the Zoroastrians (al-maǧūs). The passage says,19 Nor do I think that the Zoroastrians hold that his [scil. Muḥammad’s] intellect is more perfect or that his view is preferable, given that they claim that he [scil. Zoroaster] composed a book on twelve thousand water buffalo skins inscribed with gold, in which all the sciences are found—as they claim. 15  This tenth-century scholar would not have seen the sorts of Avesta-manuscript to appear in later ages, in India, when Sanskrit and Gujarati instructions were also written in the same manuscripts. 16  Ibn al-Nadīm quotes him as a personal informant commenting on the Persian scripts: ed. Sayyid i/1.31.9–10 and 32.14–15; ed. Flügel 12.19–20 and 13.13–14. These references should be added to those assembled by Shaki, Ēmēd. 17  Ibn al-Nadīm, ed. Sayyid, ii/1.292.1–294.6, ed. Flügel 295.5–23. Hill, Ḳusṭā; Swanson, Qusṭā; Thomas, Risāla. 18  Swanson, Jawāb. 19  Samir and Nwyia, Correspondance 610 (Arabic) and 611 (French trans.). I have consulted the translation of Gutas (Greek thought 42), which renders part of this passage, and adopted some of it.

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Every language is in it [scil. the book], so that the king would examine it by gathering the scholars of the languages—as they say—and then summon Zoroaster, and he would produce a sample of its speech, and it was presented to the language scholars (aṣḥāb al-luġāt)—as they say— and each one of them would report the explanation of the word so that he understood it in his own language, and the meaning of what Zoroaster had spoken would thereby become evident. For example, he would write “bi-smi llāhi r-raḥmāni r-raḥīm” [the Islamic formula “In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate”]. He would say “bi-smi” in Persian, “Allāh” in Indic [Sanskrit], “al-Raḥmān” in Slavic, “al-Raḥīm” in Syriac, and so on in the rest of his text until he went through all the languages. Then he would start all over again until he filled the twelve thousand water-buffalo skins.20 They are extant among them to this day, either completely or in part. I was informed about this by the one known as ʾbn zbydh, and ʾdwyʾ the Mobed, and ʾlmqld bn Ayyūb—may God have mercy on him!—and some Persians (ġayru wāḥidin min al-Furs). The idea that Zoroaster wrote the Avesta in gold on twelve thousand parchment leaves was widespread, derived in Arabic from the well-known Tansar-nāma. That work survives today only in an amplified New Persian rendering of Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ’s lost Arabic translation made from the lost Middle Persian original, but several early Arabic authors exhibit familiarity with the Arabic text. It stated that the Avesta was written on 12,000 ox-hides, burnt by Alexander: mē-dānī ki Iskandar [az] kitāb i dīn i mā duwāzda hazār post i gāw bi-suxt bi Isṭaxr (You know that Alexander burned [of] the book of our religion, twelve thousand ox-hides, at Iṣtaxr.).21 These details were common among scholars—al-Masʿūdī mentions a version of it, for example22—and they were not invented by Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ, for they appear, with some variations, in different Zoroastrian Middle Persian works.23 20   Ǧild refers here to parchment leaves, not to volumes (as Samir and Nwyia, Correspondance 611 have it, followed by Gutas, Greek thought 42). 21  Bailey, Zoroastrian problems, 156–7; Boyce, Tansar, 37. Boyce gives the figure 1200 leaves and deletes az. With az, the number refers only to the amount lost to the fire, not to the original total. 22  Al-Masʿūdī, Murūǧ i, 271.2 §547. 23  E.g. Dēnkard 5.3 (Amouzgar and Tafazzoli, Cinquième livre, 32–3): Avesta and Zand written in cowhide and gold. Šahristānīhā ī Ērān (ed. Daryaee, 4 [MP], 7 [English]): King Wištāsp commanded Zoroaster to write 1200 chapters ( fragard) in the Avestan script (dēn-dibīrīh) on tablets of gold (taxtagīhā ī zarrēn). Cf. Bailey, Zoroastrian problems 153–4.

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The second part of Qusṭā’s report is the remarkable account of how those who knew the vocabularies of each language were able collectively to determine the meaning of the Avesta by means of a test in which Zoroaster himself was involved. The king intended here must therefore be Wištāsp, Zoroaster’s patron, because he summons Zoroaster personally. This passage may be the basis for Ibn al-Nadīm’s vague remark, appended to the sentence about Zoroaster’s book in all languages, about how the people after him practiced writing books assiduously. In any case, the account of the test is certainly fantastic, but fantasy alone cannot account for the idea that the Avesta was composed in many languages. That is what I investigate further below. Qusṭā’s account of the Avestan basmalah is purely by way of example. He has taken a familiar Islamic benediction and invented examples of the languages involved in order to illustrate what he understood to be the nature of the Avesta. It is probably his own contrivance and is used only for the sake of explanation to his Muslim addressee. The last lines of the passage translated above are crucial as they as establish that Qusṭā had Zoroastrian informants. The editor of the Arabic text was not able to discern the names and took guesses. Even the title “the Mobed” is rendered ‫ذ‬ in the edition wrongly as al-Muʾayyad (��‫ ا لمو�ب‬vs ‫)ا لم ؤ��ي�د‬. The recognition, however, that one of Qusṭā’s informants was a mobed, or Zoroastrian chief priest, gives some guidance in attempting to discern the proper name that goes with it. Only a small number of mobeds are known in the period 860–920, when Qusṭā is likely to have interacted with his informant. In the early Abbasid period the mobeds came from a very small number of closely related families and many of their names are known. If we follow the editor’s text generally, there are three specifically named informants. The second is ʾdryʾ al-mawbaḏ. I emend the edited text from “(‫[ ”ا د ري�ا )؟‬sic] to ‫ا د رب�ا د‬, Ādurbād, deleting one diacritical point and adding a final letter d, which must have been lost in the manuscript transmission. Ādurbād was the name of a major mobed of the period, Ādurbād ī Ēmēdān (Ādurbād ibn Ēmēḏ), the final compiler and editor of the Zoroastrian anthology called Dēnkard.24 His dates are only approximately known, but we can infer that he flourished around 900 because his son Isfandiyār was also a mobed known to have been executed by the order of the caliph al-Rāḍī in 936–7.25 Ādurbād’s life therefore synchronizes well with Qusṭā ibn Lūqā’s career. Furthermore, Ādurbād was a mobed known to have been to Baghdad or its region, where Qusṭā worked, before moving to Armenia. Ādurbād reassembled a large compendium of Zoroastrian lore called the Dēnkard, 24  Tafazzoli, Ādurbād Ēmēdān; al-Masʿūdī, Tanbīh 104.13–105.1. 25  Al-Masʿūdī, Tanbīh 104.

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which Ādurfarnbag,26 a mobed in the period of al-Ma‌ʾmūn (r. 813–833), had initially composed, but which was dispersed after a disaster of some sort befell Ādurfarnbag’s son, the mobed Zardušt. De Blois has tentatively identified the son Zardušt, the heir of Ādurfarnbag’s earlier edition of the Dēnkard, as Abū Ǧaʿfar Muḥammad al-Mutawakkilī or al-mawbaḏ al-Mutawakkilī, “al-Mutawakkil’s mobed,” who converted to Islam and became a boon companion of the caliph al-Mutawakkil (r. 847–861). This figure was a source of information for Muslims about Zoroastrianism and Persian culture. If de Blois’ identification is correct, his conversion should be linked with the dispersal of the materials of Ādurfarnbag’s Dēnkard and the need for its restitution by Ādurbād.27 The connection of Ādurbād with a book last known in or around the Abbasid capital (Baghdad or Samarra) locates him where he may easily have become an informant for Qusṭā ibn Lūqā, who lived in Baghdad for a while.28 All in all, the identification of Ādurbād the Mobed as one of Qusṭā’s informants is strong on both philological and historical grounds: the name refers to a mobed, requires only the emendation of one added letter, and the chronology and geography fit, too. Why would learned Zoroastrian informants claim that the Avesta contained all languages? As far as I have found, only one attempt has been made to answer that question before. Bidez and Cumont considered the idea that the Avesta was composed in all (or many) languages to be anti-Manichaean in origin, designed to counter the notion that Zoroaster had taught only one nation and that Zoroastrianism was thus parochial.29 Mani taught that previous teachers, including Zoroaster, addressed only one nation each, whereas Mani addressed all nations. Such an ingenious proposal gives too much weight, however, to Manichaeism as a competitor with Zoroastrianism in the period in which the witnesses to this matter occur, and it overlooks a section of the Dēnkard in which the same challenge was posed directly by a Christian to a Zoroastrian mobed in the ninth century: why was the Avesta revealed only to Iran? The final section of Dēnkard Book 5 relates questions put to the mobed Ādurfarnbag by a Persian Christian called Boxtmārē and Ādurfarnbag’s answers. The Christian wants to know why the god of the Zoroastrians would have revealed his scripture in an obscure language (the one we call Avestan):30 26  Some scholars render the name Ādurfarrōbay, which is also possible. 27  De Blois, Persian calendar 45–6, 53 note 80. 28  De Jong, The Dēnkard and the Zoroastrians, offers a pointed reminder that Zoroastrian scholars lived in Baghdad. 29  Bidez and Cumont, Mages i, 40. 30  Amouzgar and Tafazzoli, Cinquième livre 72–3 (12) and (13); cf. Bailey, Zoroastrian problems 162. The whole exchange is translated by Skjærvø, Spirit 247–57.

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Why did God speak this religion in an unfamiliar, obscure language of the (text) named Avesta? Why did he think it inadequate in a book, but commanded to memorize it orally? yazd ēn dēn čē rāy pad ēwāz-ē ī anāšnāg ī nihuftag ī Abestāg nām guft? čē rāy pad nibištag nē bowandag hangārd bē pad gōwišn warm kardan framūd? Ādurfarnbag’s recorded answer states:31 This incantation and revelation—the Avesta—are all knowledge. As it has a form nearer to the good spirits, in all the words (or: languages) of mortals, so it is a miracle that passed beyond every human comprehension. The Zand [by contrast] has been spoken in a form that is more current within the world and more familiar in the world. ēn mānsar ud dēn Abestāg harwisp-āgāhīh čiyōn weh-mēnōgān nazdbrāhmīhātar pad hamāg āwāz ī gēhānīgān ōwōn widīmāsīg ī widard az harw ayābagīh ī mardomān ud Zand pad ēwēnag-ē guft ēstēd ī pad mayānag ī gēhān rawāg-tar ud andar gēhān āšnāg-tar. He goes on to add, in response to the second question, that Zoroaster did indeed order it to be written, and corrects the Christian by saying that “now too for the most part it has been preserved also in books, as is known among the learned, though memorization is useful”32 (nūn-iz frahist pad-iz nibēgīhā pād estēd čiyōn andar āgāhān paydāg, bē warm kardan sūd). He follows this with an important passage concluding that “it is reasonable to consider living, spoken speech more essential than the written” (zīndag gōwišnīg saxwan az ān ī pad nibišt mādagwardar hangārdan čimīg). This sentiment is quite at home in the early ninth century, when Ādurfarnbag wrote it, a period when piety-minded Muslims too debated the relative merits of the oral and written transmission of sacred knowledge.33 Ādurfarnbag certainly intends to convey here that the linguistic form of the Avesta is itself miraculous, but the sentence is unfortunately not clear about the main point investigated here. There are two main ambiguities affecting interpretation. The expression hamāg āwāz can mean “every word” or “all 31  Following the reading of Amouzgar and Tafazzoli, Cinquième livre 82; cf. DkM 459.8–12. 32  My translation uses some of Bailey’s phrases (Zoroastrian problems 163); cf. the translation of Skjærvø, Spirit 251. 33  Cook, Opponents. On these passages, see also de Jong, Culture of writing, 34–5.

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words,” and possibly even “every language.” Thus it can be interpreted as a reference to a phenomenon just like the one reported by Ibn al-Nadīm and Qusṭā ibn Lūqā, so that Ādurfarnbag is saying that the Avesta was expressed in every word of human speech, or even in all languages. It may be that the good spi­ rits, being more than human, are thought to be capable of speaking all human languages. But hamāg āwāz can also be construed merely as “every sound,” as if the Avesta was thought to contain every possible sound. This may represent the sort of claim that al-Bīrūnī reported, that the language of the Avesta has a more comprehensive array of sounds in its inventory than any other language, which is to be taken as a token of its universality. Both views are attested in the Arabic sources, and their difference may originate from a verbal ambiguity like the one found here. The other major ambiguity is in the syntax of the sentence. In the translation above, I have taken the preposition pad in its most basic sense “in,” and construed the words čiyōn and ōwōn as correlatives, “as” and “so,” a normal construction in Middle Persian.34 The several prior translations disagree on these crucial details.35 The Dēnkard is famous for such obscure sentences, “awkward and cumbersome and very difficult to render.”36 It is remarkable that just as Ādurfarnbag responded to the Christian Boxtmārē, so also the editor of that passage, Ādurbād, may have informed the Christian Qusṭā—whose epistle was probably Ibn al-Nadīm’s source. But why would a Zoroastrian mobed claim that every language was found in the 34  Durkin-Meisterernst, Grammatik 428 §906. 35  Amouzgar and Tafazzoli’s French translation (Cinquième livre 83), like Bailey’s English (Zoroastrian problems 162), takes čiyōn as introducing an appositive, leaving ōwōn to introduce a result clause: “Cette parole sacrée de la foi, à savoir l’Avesta, est omniscience dont la caractéristique est très proche (de celle) des bonnes créatures spirituelles, et elle est, par rapport aux autres langues des peuples du monde, tellement miraculeuse qu’elle est hors de portée de la compréhension des hommes.” Zaehner’s English (Zurvan 430) omits hamāg from the translation, and, although it construes the correlatives essentially as I do, forces pad hamāg āwāz unusually into the subsequent clause governed by ōwōn: “As it is most nearly connected with the good spirits, so with regard to the languages of earthly men is it wonderful and passes all comprehension of men.” This cannot be quite right. Skjærvø’s English (Spirit 250) is convincing, if one construes the correlatives as Amouzgar and Tafazzoli and Bailey do, as follows: “The divine word of the Tradition, the Avesta, containing all awareness, by being in a form close to the good beings in the other world, in all the voices of beings in the world, is so amazing that it has passed beyond the grasp of humanity.” His rendering of āwāz as “voice” is not untrue and strikes a nice middle ground between English “word” and “sound,” though it does not clarify the meaning of the sentence. What would it mean for the Avesta to be “in all the voices of beings of this world?” See also the different translation of Kanga, Pursišnīhā 14. 36  Skjærvø, Spirit 8.

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Avesta in the first place? It plausibly results from the combination of two ideas: 1) that the Avesta included all knowledge and 2) that it was revealed in a linguistic form that was beyond ordinary mundane comprehension. Together, these premises may have given rise to the notion that the Avesta itself includes all languages. A text that contains all knowledge could be imagined to contain every language. Here, in Ādurfarnbag’s response to the Persian Christian, the two ideas are very closely connected. Other Zoroastrian Middle Persian texts attest to the notion of the supreme character of the language of the Avesta, too. For example, in a passage from Book 7 of the Dēnkard, a brief history of the world centered on Zoroaster, we find a similar idea. The Avesta itself is described as a linguistic miracle.37 One miracle is the Avesta itself, which is in all the best word(s)/language(s) of the world, the summation of all knowledge, the highest of utterances. ēk abdīh ī xwad Abestāg ī pad hamāg pahlom ēwāzīh gēhān hangirdīgīh ī wisp-dānāgīh gōwišnān abardom. If that was the extent of the matter, we could stop here in supposing that some Zoroastrian priests generated the idea that the Avesta contained all human speech—in some undefined sense—when they combined the omniscience of the Avesta with the miraculous obscurity of its mysterious language. As it happens, however, there are several extant references in scholarly works by members of the Church of the East in the eighth, ninth, and tenth centuries to an Avesta composed not in every language, but in seven or in twelve languages, and it is unlikely that these peculiar reports are unrelated to the ones just reviewed from Arabic and Middle Persian. To make sense of this, one needs some context about the East-Syrian views on Zoroaster. The Church of the East took shape under the Sasanids—governed by Zoroastrian kings, aristocrats, and officials—and it recruited new members as converts from Zoroastrianism. In such an environment, it is not surprising that the scholarly tradition of the Church of the East has preserved information about Zoroastrianism and its legendary founder not reported elsewhere. Even so, the East-Syrian churchmen, like authors everywhere, seldom made mention of what was commonly known from their social environment without an appropriate occasion for a remark. One such occasion was in commenting on the Gospel of Matthew 2, in which Zoroastrian priests—magi—appear after the birth of Jesus delivering gifts to him. The East-Syrian scholars Theodore bar 37   Dēnkard 7.5.12: DkM 646.6–8; Bailey, Zoroastrian problems 84; Molé, Legend 64–5.

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Konay (fl. ca. 792) and Solomon of Baṣra (fl. 13th c.) both preserve versions of a text in which the ancient Zoroaster foretells to his disciples the birth, death, and return of Jesus (without naming him), and instructs them about the star that will appear to guide their future progeny to the place where the great one would be born. Jonathan Reeves investigates this positive appropriation of Zoroaster, who is typically regarded by Christians in other ancient works as an arch-sorcerer and astrologer. Reeves elucidates the place of this prophecy of Zoroaster together with a very early sectarian Christian doctrine, according to which Zoroaster was one of several incarnations of the “true prophet” or “heavenly Seth,” of which Jesus would be a principally important occurrence, too.38 Witold Witakowski discusses other, conceptually related Syriac traditions in which Zoroaster plays no part, but in which it is rather the magi (mguše) themselves that are progeny of Seth awaiting the appearance of the star signaling Jesus’s birth. Witakowski convincingly dates the basis of this text to no later than the fifth century. Further, Zoroaster was sometimes identified with Balaam, the gentile prophet mentioned in the book of Numbers. In Numbers 24:17, Balaam is made to say that “A star shall rise out of Jacob and a scepter shall rise out of Israel.” It was a small step to identify Zoroaster—the gentile “prophet” and astrologer who taught the magi about the star at Jesus’s birth—with Balaam, the wicked gentile prophet of Numbers, who predicted the rise of such a star. So also then Zoroaster and Balaam were identified, giving Zoroaster another place in Christian scholarship.39 When stories like all these were received by East-Syrian churchmen who had real knowledge of Zoroastrian practices based on personal experience, and not just on Matthew 2 and the like, the results could be confusing, because the negative assessment of Zoroastrianism by Christians who lived among Zoroastrians and regarded them as pagans had to be reconciled with the earlier, positive reception of the magi and their teacher Zoroaster as figures prophetic of Jesus’s birth, career, and significance. Already Ephraem (d. 373), who witnessed the conquest of his home city Nisibis by Zoroastrian Persians, commented that the magi once stopped worshipping fire in order to venerate the Lord (in the form of the two-year-old Jesus).40 If Zoroaster had predicted Jesus’s coming, he could not have been entirely bad, but his Zoroastrian doctrine was absolutely unacceptable to Christians.

38  Reeves, Reconsidering. This is a very early idea that found its way into Elchasaism and Manichaeism and is likely related to quranic prophetology, too: de Blois, Elchasai. 39  Debié, Suivre l’étoile, usefully surveys Syriac literature on the magi. 40  Witakowski, Magi 817.

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In this context several East-Syrian scholars of the ninth and tenth centuries mention Zoroaster, including details like those just related, but then interject another view, that Zoroaster was really just originally a Jew who went out to teach the nations in many languages. Sometimes they suggest that this Zoroaster was in fact Jeremiah’s disciple Baruch, who is said here to have left Israel to teach gentiles after the destruction of Jerusalem. The idea that Zoroaster taught in many languages does not occur in the apocryphal tales just mentioned about Zoroaster’s prophecy and the magi, and it does not seem to find a parallel in the legends of Balaam or Baruch. We may guess that the idea that Zoroaster taught in many languages just went along with his gentile origins—for the gentiles are people of many languages—but these reports are remarkable sometimes in specifying which languages Zoroaster used in formulating his teaching, the Avesta. A review of the passages is necessary. The lexicographer Bar Bahlul (Ibn Bahlūl) of Ṭirhān (fl. 950–1000) has two reports about Zoroaster’s languages. One occurs after his definition of the Syriac word qāṣomā, “diviner,” which he glosses with various Arabic equivalents. Then he reverts to Syriac to give a specific example of a diviner: “like Zardušt, about whom people say that he was the scribe Baruch, and because of the fact that he was not given prophecy, he was indignant and went out to the nations, and learned twelve languages.”41 The rest of the entry summarizes the story in which Zoroaster (here Baruch) predicts the star of Jesus’s birth. A close parallel is provided by Išoʿdād of Marw (fl. ca. 850), who became bishop of Ḥdattā/al-Ḥadīṯa on the Tigris. He mentions Zoroaster in his commentary on Matthew 2 and provides the identification of Zoroaster (Zardušt) with Baruch, but says that Zoroaster-Baruch “learned twelve languages and composed (or dictated: akteb) in them that vomit of Satan, that is to say, that book of theirs that is called the Avesta.”42 The vocabulary used in this passage is almost identical to that of Bar Bahlul’s entry on diviners; Bar Bahlul depends on Išoʿdād or they share a common source. Išoʿdād says what Zoroaster did with the twelve languages: he produced the Avesta. A claim that the Avesta contained seven (not twelve) languages is found in the Lexicon of the East-Syrian scholar Išoʿ bar ʿAli (ʿĪsā ibn ʿAlī), personal physician of the caliph al-Muʿtamid (r. 870–892).43 Under his entry Zarduhšt, “Zoroaster,” it says that the founder of Magianism “mixed his false teaching

41  Duval, Lexicon ii, 1825. 42  Gibson Commentaries i, 19 [trans.], ii, ‫ܠܒ‬.12–14 [Syriac text]; for context Witakowski, Magi 828; cf. Bidez and Cumont, Mages ii, 131 S17. 43  Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, ʿUyūn i, 203.3–7.

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with seven languages” (b-šabʿē leššāne ḥalleṭ yulpāneh mzayypā).44 Elsewhere in his Lexicon, Bar Bahlul, too, gives a different account with the claim of seven languages. For his entry on “the Avesta,” he cites specifically as his source the lexicon of the little-known Zacharias of Marw (ca. 850–900), a work apparently not extant today.45 [In Syriac:] The Avesta, that is the name of the book of Zoroaster which was arranged and composed in seven tongues: Syriac, Persian, Aramaean, Segestānian, Marwazian, Greek, Hebrew. [In Arabic:] The name of the book of Zoroaster which he taught according to seven languages. Abestāgā: h(āna-w) šmā da-ktābā da-zrādušt haw da-mṭakkas wamrakkab b-šabʿā leššāne: Suryāyā, Pārsāyā, Armāyā, Sǝgestānāyā, Marwǝzāyā, Yonāyā, ʿEbrāyā. Ismu kitābi Zarādušta llaḏī ʿallamahū ʿalā sabʿi luġāt. The remarkable list of languages here might be explained as just an attempt to specify the unspecified seven languages, similar to Qusṭā ibn Lūqā’s invented examples of Persian, Indic, Slavic, and Syriac as languages occurring in the Avesta. But the unexpected reference to a language of Marw and a language of Segestān (Arabic Siǧistān, Sīstān), and the occurrence of a parallel text in the late eighth century, call for further explanation, to which I return below.46 It is possible that Išoʿdād and Zacharias, both from Marw around the midninth century, knew one another and had similar information through their 44  Payne-Smith, Thesaurus i, 1155; Bidez and Cumont, Mages ii, 112, ii; 135 S22. On the identity of Bar ʿAlī, see Butts, Biography. 45  Duval, Lexicon i, 18. On Zacharias of Marw: Duval, Lexicon iii, xx, xxiv. Duval (Littérature 255, 297 note 3, 387) follows Wright (Short history 215) in identifying Bar Bahlul’s lexicographical source from Marw as Abū Yaḥyā al-Marwazī, a physician in Baghdad, a teacher of Abū Bišr Mattā ibn Yūnus (d. 940), and author of Arabic and Syriac works on logic (Ibn al-Nadīm, ed. Sayyid I/2.200.1–4 ≈ Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, ʿUyūn i, 234.32–235.2). This seems most unlikely, as al-Masʿūdī and al-Fārābī name him as Ibrāhīm (not Zacharias, Zakarīyāʾ) of Marw (Gutas, Alexandria to Baghdad 165–6). See also Baumstark (Geschichte 232) and D.G.K. Taylor (Syriac Lexicography), who are hesitant about Duval’s still further identification of Zacharias of Marw with Išoʿ of Marw. 46  It is unusual for Aramaic (al-Nabaṭī) to be distinguished so sharply from Syriac; they are normally recognized as dialects of the same language in this period. But Bar Bahlul implicitly distinguishes them from one another also in the introduction to his Lexicon in a list of languages written in Arabic, including both as-Suryānī and an-Nabaṭī (Duval, Lexicon i, 4).

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instruction or from their Persian-speaking, Zoroastrian neighbors. Išoʿdād of Marw’s commentary on Genesis describes the script used to write Middle Persian with its aramaeograms.47 The Persian script was made by a man of Mesene named Nebo, who was raised before the king of Assyria at Nineveh. After he learned the Hebrew and the Syriac script, this man composed the Persian script, which is the most difficult of all the scripts, because they spell and write in Mesenian, but they read aloud in Persian. This man contrived in this way so that the Persians would not, with the passage of time, boast that “The invention [of writing] is ours,” and his labor be stolen. Seprā den Pārsāyā ʿbad gabrā ḥad Mešānāyā da-šmeh Nbo d-metrabbe qdām malkā d-Atur b-Ninwe. hānā den bātar d-ilep seprā ʿEbrāyā w-Suryāyā rakkeb l-seprā Pārsāyā d-ʿāseq men kollhon sepre ʿal d-hāgeyn w-kātbin Mešānāʾit w-qāreyn Pārsāʾit. eṣṭannaʿ den hānā hākannā d-dalmā b-nuggārā d-zabnā neštabhrun Pārsāye d-dilan-hi škāḥtā w-nehwe ʿamleh sriqā. Nebo was the Babylonian god of scribes, identified as Hermes-Mercury, here euhemerized into the inventor of the Middle Persian “Pahlavi” script. It offers a little consolation that not only modern scholars find the Zoroastrian Middle Persian script so difficult. The passage contains another interesting early reference to the aramaeograms used in that script, to be registered now together with the famous statement of Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ mentioned above. Without an accurate historical account of the way in which aramaeograms came to be used in writing Middle Persian,48 Išoʿdād was left to contrive (or accept) a naïve aetiology whereby it was a difficulty deliberately designed by the script’s inventor in order to provide a permanent demonstration of the derivative and secondary status of Persian. For Išoʿdād explicitly states in another passage that Syriac (Aramaic) was the original language (leššānā qadmāyā), following Theodore of Mopsuestia and others, and that the other languages came about after the incident of the Tower of Babel.49 In any case, the passage also shows that Išoʿdād considered at least three languages to be entailed in writing Middle Persian. There was Persian, of course, but also Aramaic (Syriac) and 47  Van den Eynde and Vosté, Commentaire i, 6.20–27. 48  See Skjærvø, Aramaic scripts. 49  On Genesis 11.1: van den Eynde and Vosté, Commentaire i, 135.8–9 (Syriac); ii, 147 (French trans.).

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Hebrew were in the background. Interestingly, the Aramaic dialect of Mesene (Mešān) is specified as the basis for the Middle Persian writing. It does indeed appear that the Middle Persian script is related to that used in a southeastern form of Aramaic, another example of which is Mandaic. In any case, if Išoʿdād had in mind Avesta manuscripts of the exegetical type, that contained both Avestan and Middle Persian Zand, this might account for three languages in the Avesta, but no more. These references from the ninth and tenth centuries do not take us far from the period of Ādurbād, Qusṭā ibn Lūqā, and Ibn al-Nadīm. Ādurfarnbag, active in the early ninth century, would be the earliest among them, but one earlier and critical source has something important to add. That is Theodore bar Konay, bishop of Kaškar by the Marshes of Iraq. In the heresiographical book of his large work called the Scholion, written about 792, he includes an account of the Magus Zoroaster (Zarduhšt mgušā), which includes interesting details about Zoroastrianism. These include a reference to the wife of king Guštāsp, Xudos (kwdws, Middle Persian Hudōs/Xudōs, Avestan Hutaosā), and mention of Zoroaster’s instruction to consider the days of the months as gods, pointing to the Zoroastrian calendar in which each day was named for a divinity and apparently also to the Avestan text Sīh-rōzag, of which a Middle Persian translation was made.50 This text consists of prayers to the divinities of each day of the month. After reviewing familiar theories on Zoroaster’s origin, Bar Konay adds this:51 The truth is that he was a Jew by birth (b-genseh). But he composed (rakkeb) his teaching in seven tongues: Greek, Hebrew, Gwrzn-ian, Marwazian, Zrangian, Persian, and Segestānian. This perverse deceiver raved in different ways against the Fear of God (i.e. correct religion). Finally, a related text appears in an anonymous short heresiographical tractate in Syriac, under the heading “on the error of the Magians” (ʿal ṭāʿyutā da-mguše). Here “the fool Zoroaster” (Zardušt saklā) is described in these terms:52

50  Rafaelli, Sīh rōzag. 51  Scholion XI.13. Scher, Theodorus i, 295.28–296.3. Pognon, Inscriptions 111 (text), 161 (French trans.); Hespel and Draguet, Théodore 220 (French trans.). See also Yohannan, Old Syriac reference; Benveniste, Témoignage 170–4; Bidez and Cumont, Mages ii, 103–4 S6. 52  Rahmani, Studia Syriaca iv, 1–2. Nyberg, Questions 238 (Syriac text), 239 (French trans.). Nyberg (Questions II 85) assigns the text to the fifth century, but this is probably too early.

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He was raised in the Hebrew and Egyptian tongues. From seven tongues he assembled (kanneš) words (or: speech, sounds, bnāt qāle) and with them hid a deadly poison, and conveyed it to the Magians so that they speak without knowing what they say nor what their master prattled. Among all the Syriac accounts just reviewed, there are a number of suggestions that could be taken to imply that Zoroaster spoke Hebrew, Persian, various dialects of Aramaic, and even Egyptian, but just two accounts are specific about Zoroaster’s languages. As seen, Theodore bar Konay and, slightly later, Zacharias of Marw both listed seven specific languages as part of the Avesta. The two accounts are obviously related. Besides the verbal parallels (e.g. rakkeb, mrakkab), the lists are exact matches in five of the seven languages named: Greek, Hebrew, Persian, Segestānian, and Marwazian (the language of Marw). But where Zacharias of Marw has Syriac and Aramaic as sixth and seventh, Bar Konay has the names of two Iranian languages that were corrupted in the manuscript tradition. One is written zryqyʾ, a corruption of zrnqyʾ, meaning Zrangian, the language of the major city of Siǧistān called Zaranǧ in Arabic. The other is written gwrznyʾ, which must be corrected either to gwrgnyʾ, *Gurgānāyā, the language of Gurgān (Hyrcania, Arabic Ǧurǧān), or to gwzgnyʾ, *Gozgānāyā, the language of Gōzgān (Arabic Ǧūzǧān).53 The former was the site of a distinct Iranian language,54 and the latter is now known as a Bactrianspeaking country at least for the years 629 to 722.55 Both emendations are equally plausible. Both authors clearly depend on an older source. Von Wesendonk thought so, too, and supposed it was a Greek patristic source in Syriac translation.56 Where the discrepancy occurs in the seven names, it seems to me more likely that Bar Konay’s list is original. We would expect that the rare names, referring to otherwise unnoticed eastern Iranian languages, would be replaced by names of languages familiar to East-Syrian scholars, and thus be original. The presence of Syriac and Aramaic in the list of languages may be expected as a 53  Thus Benveniste, Témoignage 173. 54  Borjian, Extinct language. 55  Sims-Williams, Bactrian legal documents; Sims-Williams, Nouveaux documents. 56  Von Wesendonk, Äußerungen. Benveniste, Témoignage 174, follows his suggestion of Theodore of Mopsuestia. Nyberg (Questions II 85) supposes that the anonymous heresiographical report is Bar Konay’s source, but it cannot be so, because Bar Konay’s source is common with that of Zacharias of Marw, sharing details not found in the heresiographical text. They all have a common source, however, at some removes, because the heresiographical text holds that Zoroaster knew Hebrew (was a Jew) and taught in seven languages.

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substitute by a Syriac author who did not know those names, but who perhaps knew that the Zand of the Avesta was written in Persian with aramaeograms, as Išoʿdād knew. Bar Konay’s list is therefore probably closer to that of the unknown source. Bar Konay’s statement claims that the Avesta was composed in no fewer than five Iranian languages with the addition of Greek and Hebrew. Notably, four of these Iranian languages are located in the eastern parts of the Iranian world.57 Von Wesendonk and Benveniste considered the separate appearance of the languages of Zrang and Segestān to be redundant, because Zrang was the capital of Segestān and not a different region.58 This is correct, although it is not as if we have any real information about the vernacular Iranian language or languages of Segestān prior to the eighth century. The same redundancy could be said of Syriac and Aramaic, which Zacharias of Marw separated as two of the seven. What nobody has addressed is why several Iranian languages, and particularly languages of the eastern Iranian region, would especially be considered as part of the makeup of the Avesta. This remains an unsolved problem, but the occurrence of both Segestānian and Marwazian in their common source, and perhaps also Zrangian and Gurgānian/Gozgānian, means that we cannot dismiss it. A long-standing debate among Avestan specialists is how, and to what extent, the exegetes of the ancient Avestan language knew the meanings of the text as well as they did. Some modern scholars are willing to credit Sasanian sages with a basic knowledge of Avestan grammar;59 others hold that they merely transmitted in continuous oral tradition a reasonably correct exegesis.60 All agree that on many points they misunderstood the Avestan text. The two Syriac passages here may be taken to suggest that somebody claimed to hear eastern Iranian languages in the Avesta. Perhaps exegetes consulted speakers of different languages, or themselves knew different languages, especially but not only eastern Iranian languages, that were deemed helpful in determining the meanings of individual Avestan words. It is not implausible that speakers of different Iranian languages had something genuine to offer by way of explanation and that this passage refers obliquely to a real practice at some stage in the history of the exegesis of the Avesta. Perhaps this is echoed in what Qusṭā ibn 57  Following Christensen, who noticed the passage in Bar Bahlul’s Lexicon, Reichelt, Heimat, treats it as a valuable testimony to the eastern Iranian origins of the Avesta. Von Wesendonk, Äußerungen, rightly contradicts this mistake. 58  Benveniste, Témoignage 173. 59  E.g. Cantera, Studien 301–2. 60  E.g. Skjærvø, Review 16.

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Lūqā heard from his learned Zoroastrian informants, that “the king” consulted speakers of all the languages and learned that the Avesta could be understood with the help of many language experts. In short, does all this reflect a real practice at some point in the history of the Zoroastrian exegesis of the Avesta, whereby speakers of Iranian languages derived insights into the text from their cognate vernaculars? Could that have contributed to the Zoroastrian notion that the Avesta contains all human words or languages? Unfortunately, the collection of the accounts presented here is too imprecise to be decisive. It remains instructive, however, to see how the Avesta’s mysterious ancient language became the grounds for both apology and polemic in the eighth, ninth, and tenth centuries. Zoroastrians who recited Avestan texts claimed its incomprehensibility as a sign of its miraculous divinity. East-Syrian Christians had a long-established, perhaps even pre-Islamic literary tradition of polemic against a polyglot Avesta forged by a renegade Jew turned gentile. For Muslim scholars in the ninth and tenth centuries, by contrast, the Avesta was just an ancient linguistic marvel now obsolete, understood in terms resembling those used to describe the Quran. Bibliography Amouzgar, J., and A. Tafazzoli, Le cinquième livre du Dēnkard, Paris 2000. Bailey, H., Zoroastrian problems in the ninth-century books, Oxford 1943. Baumstark, A., Geschichte der syrischen Literatur, Bonn 1922. Benveniste, E., Le témoignage de Théodore bar Kōnay sur le zoroastrisme, in MO 26–27 (1932), 170–215. Bidez, J. and F. Cumont, Les mages hellénisés, 2 vols., Paris 1938. de Blois, F., The Persian calendar, in Iran 34 (1996), 39–54. de Blois, F., Elchasai—Manes—Muḥammad, in Der Islam 81 (2004), 31–48. Borjian, H., The extinct language of Gurgān: Its sources and origins, in JAOS 128 (2008), 681–707. Boyce, M., The Letter of Tansar, Rome 1943. Butts, A.M., The biography of the lexicographer Ishoʿ bar ʿAli (ʿĪsā b. ʿAlī), in Oriens Christianus 93 (2009), 59–70. Cantera, A., Studien zur Pahlavi-Überseztung des Avesta, Wiesbaden 2004. Cantera, A., Avestan manuscripts, in A. Bausi et al. (eds.), Comparative oriental manuscript studies: An introduction, Hamburg 2015, 40–42. Cook, M., The opponents of writing tradition, in Arabica 44 (1997), 437–530. Daryaee, T., Šahrestānīhā ī Ērānšahr: A Middle Persian text on late antique geography, epic, and history, Costa Mesa 2002.

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Debié, M., Suivre l’étoile à Oxford: Inédits sur la venue des mages, in G. Kiraz (ed.), Malphono w-rabo d-malphone: Studies in honor of Sebastian P. Brock, Piscataway 2008, 111–33. DkM = Madan, D.M. (ed.), The complete text of the Pahlavi Dinkard, 2 vols., Bombay 1911. Durkin-Meisterernst, D., Grammatik des Westmitteliranischen (Parthisch und Mittelpersisch), Sitzungsberichte der österreischischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, philosophisch-historische Klasse 850, Vienna 2014. Duval, R., Lexicon syriacum auctore Hassano bar Bahlule, 3 vols., Paris 1901. Duval, R., La littérature syriaque, 3rd ed., Paris 1907. Enderwitz, S., Shuʿūbiyya, in EI2. van den Eynde, C. and J.-M. Vosté (ed. and trans.), Commentaire d’Išo‘dad de Merv sur l’ancien testament I. Genèse, 2 vols. (Corpus scriptorum christianorum orientalium 126 et 156, scriptores syri 67 et 75), Louvain 1950–5. Fück, J., Sechs Ergänzungen zu Sachaus Ausgabe von al-Bīrūnī’s “Chronologie orientalischer Völker,” in Documenta Islamica inedita, Berlin 1952, 69–98. Gibson, M.D., The commentaries of Isho‘dad of Merv, bishop of Hadatha (c. 850 A.D.) in Syriac and English, 5 vols., Cambridge 1911–16. Gutas, D., Greek thought, Arabic culture, London 1998. Gutas, D., The “Alexandria to Baghdad” complex of narratives: a contribution to the study of philosophical and medical historiography among the Arabs, in Documenti e studi sulla tradizione filosofica medievale 10 (1999), 155–93. Hespel, R., and R. Draguet (trans.), Théodore bar Koni: Livres des scolies (recension de Séert) II. Mimrè VI–XI (Corpus scriptorum christianorum orientalium 432, scriptores syri 188), Louvain 1982. Hill, D. Ḳusṭā b. Lūḳā, in EI2. Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, ʿUyūn al-anbāʾ fī ṭabaqāt al-aṭibbāʾ, 2 vols., ed. A. Müller, Cairo 1882. Ibn al-Nadīm, Kitāb al-Fihrist, 2 vols., ed. Flügel, G., Leipzig 1872. Ibn al-Nadīm, al-Fihrist lil-Nadīm, 2 vols. in 2 parts each, ed. Sayyid, Ayman Fuʾād, London 2009. de Jong, A., The culture of writing and the use of the Avesta in Sasanian Iran, in É. Pirart and Xavier Tremblay (eds.), Zarathushtra entre l’Inde et l’Iran. Études indoiraniennes et indo-européens offertes à Jean Kellens à l’occasion de son 65è anniversaire, Wiesbaden 2009, 27–41. de Jong, A., The Dēnkard and the Zoroastrians of Baghdad, in Williams, A., S. Stewart, and A. Hintze (eds.), The Zoroastrian flame: Exploring religion, history and tradition, London 2016, 223–38. Kanga, M.F., Pursišnīhā i Boxt-Mārā ut-šān passoxvīhā: a Pahlavi text, in Indian linguistics 25 (1964–5), 3–20. Kellens, J., The written period of the transmission of the Avesta, in Journal of the research and historical preservation committee 2 (1996), 121–5.

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Kellens, J., Considérations sur l’histoire de l’Avesta, in JA 286 (1998), 451–519. Martin, R.C., Inimitability, in EQ. Al-Masʿūdī, Murūǧ al-ḏahab wa-maʿādin al-ǧawhar, 7 vols., ed. C. Pellat, Beirut 1965–79. Al-Masʿūdī, Kitāb al-Tanbīh wa-l-ishrāf (BGA VIII), ed. de Goeje, M.J., Leiden 1894. Molé, M., La légende de Zoroastre selon les textes pehlevis, Paris 1967. Nyberg, H.S., Questions de cosmogonie et de cosmologie mazdéennes, in JA 214 (1929), 193–310. Nyberg, H.S. Questions de cosmogonie et de cosmologie mazdéennes (suite), II. Analyse des données, in JA 219 (1931), 1–134. Payne-Smith, R., Thesaurus syriacus, 3 vols., Oxford 1879–1901. Pellat, Ch., al-Masʿūdī, in EI2. Pognon, H., Inscriptions Mandaïtes des coupes de Khouabir, Paris 1898. Rafaelli, E.G., Sīh rōzag, in EIr. Rahmani, I.E. II, Studia Syriaca, seu, collectio documentorum hactenus ineditorum ex codicibus Syriacis, 4 vols., Mount Lebanon 1904–9. Reichelt, H., Die Heimat des Awesta, in WZKM 29 (1915), 364–6. Reeves, J.C., Reconsidering the “Prophecy of Zardūšt,” in Wright, B.G. (ed.), A multiform heritage: studies on early Judaism and Christianity in honor of Robert A. Kraft, Atlanta 1999, 167–82. Samir, Kh., and P. Nwyia, Une correspondance islamo-chrétienne entre Ibn al-Munaǧǧim, Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq et Qusṭā ibn Lūqā (Patrologia orientalis 40.4, 185), Turnhout 1981. Scher, A. (ed. and trans.), Theodorus bar Kōnī: Liber Scholiorum (Corpus scriptorum christianorum orientalium 55 et 69, scriptores syri 19 et 26), Louvain 1910–12. Shaki, M., Ēmēd ī Ašawahištān, in EIr. Sims-Williams, N., Bactrian legal documents from 7th- and 8th-century Guzgan, in Bulletin of the Asia Institute 15 (2001), 9–29. Sims-Williams, N., Nouveaux documents bactriens du Guzgan, Comptes rendus des séances, Académie des inscriptions et belles-léttres, 146e année, N. 3, 2002, 1047–58. Skjærvø, P.O., Aramaic scripts for Iranian languages, in Daniels, P.T. and W. Bright (eds.), The world’s writing systems, Oxford 1996, 515–35. Skjærvø, P.O., Review of Cantera, Studien, in Kratylos 53 (2008), 1–20. Skjærvø, P.O., The Spirit of Zoroastrianism, New Haven 2011. Skjærvø, P.O., Kayāniān ix. Kauui Vištāspa, Kay Wištāsp, Kay Beštāsb/Goštāsb, in EIr. Swanson, M.N., Jawāb, “Response,” to the Risāla, “Treatise,” or Burhān, “Proof,” of Ibn al-Munajjim, in HCMR, ii. Swanson, M.N., Qusṭā ibn Lūqā, in HCMR, ii. Tafazzoli, A., Ādurbād Ēmēdān, in EIr. Tafazzolī, A., Dabīre, Dabīrī, in EIr. Taqizadeh, S.H., A new contribution to the materials concerning the life of Zoroaster, in BSOAS 8 (1937), 947–54.

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Taylor, D., Syriac lexicography, in Brock, S., et al. (eds.), Gorgias Encyclopedic Dictionary of the Syriac Heritage, Piscataway 2011, 391–93. Thomas, D., Risāla fi nubuwwat Muḥammad, in HCMR, ii. von Wesendonk, O.G., Äußerungen syrischen Schriftsteller über die Heimat des Avesta, in Zeitschrift für Indologie und Iranistik 6 (1928), 200–5. Witakowski, W., The magi in Syriac tradition, in G. Kiraz (ed.), Malphono w-rabo d-Malphone: studies in honor of Sebastian P. Brock, Piscataway 2008, 809–43. Wright, W., A short history of Syriac literature, London 1894. Yohannan, A., Another old Syriac reference to Zoroaster, in JAOS 43 (1923), 239–42. Zaehner, R.C., Zurvan: a Zoroastrian dilemma, Oxford 1955.

CHAPTER 11

Song and Punishment Dwight F. Reynolds Life close to the center of power in the early Islamic centuries was often precarious, particularly when that power was embodied in the person of a caliph, governor, or other figure whose all-too-human whims and moods could determine the fate of those around him.* This was certainly true for political figures who served capricious superiors, and even for those who made only occasional appearances at court, such as scholars and poets. Singers and musicians, however, constituted a social group that was repeatedly subjected to both collective persecution and individual punishments. As practitioners of an art form that was disapproved of by many religious figures, and which was often associated with social behaviors condemned by conservative groups, singers and musicians were periodically subjected to various forms of disciplinary action. In addition to this general disapprobation, their every performance involved a potentially dangerous choice of material, for each song was in effect an attempt to respond to the current emotional needs and expectations of their patron. Any shortfall in this regard could lead to the patron’s displeasure, verbal reprimands, expulsion from a gathering or court, and even, on some occasions, imprisonment and harsh corporal punishment. Beyond the risky business of the performance also lay the patron’s potential anger at personal (mis-)behaviors on the part of his singers and musicians that displeased him. And all of this took place, I will argue here, within a social space that was charged with eroticism and sexual tension. Not only did many female slave singers (qiyān or jawārī) also serve as sexual partners for their owners, but male singers, whether freedmen or slaves, were to some degree “eroticized” because of their intimate access to a patron’s female slave singers in the roles of teachers, mentors, and co-performers, exposing them to accusations of flirtation and dalliance that not infrequently aroused the jealousy and anger of the women’s owners. The intimate social gathering of a patron, his

*  It is an honor to dedicate this essay to Everett Rowson as partial thanks for all of the guidance and assistance he has offered over the years to myself and to so many other scholars. I would also like to thank George Sawa for drawing my attention to a number of the examples cited in this essay—his expertise and help are very much appreciated.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_012

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male guests, and female performer(s) was not only a venue for shared pleasure, but also an arena where males vied with each other for recognition of their own quick-wittedness, poetic skills, and physical attractiveness to members of the opposite (or same) sex through social interaction with female slaves or professional entertainers. In addition, closely implicated in the maintenance or transgression of the social boundaries between males and females during certain historical periods were the ‘effeminates,’ or mukhannathūn, whose gender ambiguity added a further level of eroticization, and whose social role as matchmakers or go-betweens provoked a variety of responses, sometimes quite extreme.1 This essay examines a number of cases in which singers were punished for practicing their métier, as a result of a maladroit performance, or for personal behaviors that angered their patrons. The analysis of these anecdotes, culled from the Kitāb al-Aghānī of Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī (hereafter KA) and other works, attempts to untangle the complex interplay of performance, power, patronage, sexuality, jealousy, and licentiousness revealed in these narratives of these events.

Collective Punishment

Given the conflicting religious and moral views about musical performance in general, but especially what might be termed ‘art music’ or ‘entertainment music’ (ghināʾ), it is not surprising that singers and musicians were at times punished en masse simply for being musical performers.2 Such was the case, for example, when one new governor of Medina ordered the imprisonment of all musicians (KA iii, 307): [Khālid ibn Kulthūm reported]: I was with Zabrāʾ in Medina when he was the governor there—he was from the Banī Hāshim [tribe], one of the Banī Rabīʿa ibn al-Ḥārith ibn ʿAbd al-Muṭṭalib—and he summoned the aṣḥāb al-malāhī (singers and musicians) and they were imprisoned. ʿAṭarrad 1  On the ‘effeminates,’ see Rowson, Effeminates 671–93; Rowson, Gender irregularity 45–72; and, Roswon, Categorization 50–79. 2  For discussions of the permissibility of music, see Cook, Commanding Right; Al Faruqi, Music 3–36; and Robson, Tracts. Ghināʾ is often contrasted with the ancient Bedouin style of singing, ḥidāʾ, which attracted less opprobrium from conservative religious figures because of its close association with ancient Arabian culture and the fact that it normally did not involve the use of musical instruments.

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was imprisoned along with them. Then [Zabrāʾ] sat down to examine them, but some men from Medina came to intercede for ʿAṭarrad saying that he was a man of good demeanor (hayʾa), manly virtue (murūʾa), generosity (niʿma), and piety (dīn). So [Zabrāʾ] summoned [ʿAṭarrad] and ordered that he be set free and that all his possessions be returned to him. Then ʿAṭarrad wished God’s blessings on [Zabrāʾ]. But when he went out, he encountered the [other] singers who had been brought to be examined. [ʿAṭarrad] went back to [Zabrāʾ] and said, “May God preserve the Emir! Is it for singing (ghināʾ) that you have imprisoned these [people]? “Yes,” [Zabrāʾ] responded. [ʿAṭarrad] said, “Don’t treat them unjustly, for by God, they were never very good at it!”3 [Zabrāʾ] laughed and set them free.4 ʿAṭarrad (d. 175/791–2) was a jurist, a noted Quran-reciter, and a skilled singercomposer of Medina who sang murtajilan, that is, a cappella, without the accompaniment of a musical instrument.5 It is clear that his social status, religious training, and personal piety played a pivotal role in allowing some citizens of Medina to intercede successfully on his behalf; the more remarkable aspect of the anecdote is rather his subsequent intervention on behalf of the other singers, many of whom, presumably, did not have a similar moral standing in the community. As we shall see below, there are numerous anecdotes in the Kitāb al-Aghānī and other sources about governors of the cities of Medina and Mecca attempting to expel musicians and eradicate singing as a form of social entertainment from the areas under their authority, whereas there are relatively few such anecdotes about Damascus and later Baghdad. Presumably the double role of these cities as the main training centers for singers and musicians (particularly Medina), and their emerging status as ‘holy cities’ within the Islamic empire provoked the ongoing tensions regarding public performances of entertainment music. In a number of cases campaigns against music were launched when a new governor arrived, after which the newcomer was eventually assimilated into the rich musical life of these communities. 3  Mā aḥsanū minhu shayʾan qaṭṭu. My thanks to Devin Stewart for his assistance on translating this and several other passages in the examples that appear in this essay. 4  KA iii, 307. All citations to Kitāb al-Aghānī are to the Cairo Dār al-Kutub edition, 1964–. A very useful concordance of the Dār al-Kutub and Būlāq editions is found in Kilpatrick, Book of Songs 280–90. 5  See murtajil and irtijāl in Sawa, Glossary 159–60; singing without instrumental accompaniment was also, in general, more acceptable even to conservative figures.

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A similar ‘crackdown’ on musicians that also ended with a successful intercession occurred when ʿUthmān ibn Ḥayyān came to Medina and was approached by a delegation of the city’s most distinguished inhabitants who asked that he rid the city of “singing and fornication” (KA viii, 341–2): When ʿUthmān ibn Ḥayyān al-Murrī arrived in Medina and became governor, a group of prominent citizens (wujūh al-nās) said to him, “You have become governor over a [city] rife with corruption ( fasād), and if you wish it to be cleaned up, then rid it of singing and fornication (al-ghināʾ wa-l-zinā)!” He cried out (ṣāḥ) upon hearing this and gave those people [musicians and others] three days in which to leave Medina. Ibn Abī ʿAtīq was absent at that time. He was a man of refinement ( faḍl), virtue (ʿafāf ), and righteousness (ṣalāḥ).6 On the final night at the very end of the three-day period, he returned [to Medina] and he said to himself, “I won’t enter my own house without first having stopped by the house of [the famous singer] Sallāmat al-Qass.”7 When he entered her house he said, “I could not go home to my own house without stopping by first to greet you.” Everyone [in her household] responded, “You are completely unaware of what is happening to us!?” And then they told him the news. He replied, “Be patient this one night, and let me [see what I can do].” But they responded, “We are afraid that you won’t be able to do anything, and so we are hastening [to leave].”8 Ibn Abī ʿAtīq goes the following day and speaks with ʿUthmān ibn Ḥayyān, at first congratulating him on his decision to expel singers and fornicators from Medina. Eventually, however, he asks what the governor would do in the case of a former singer who had left that profession and who is now a pious woman who says her prayers, keeps the fast of Ramadan, and constantly performs good acts, if she were to send him a messenger begging him not to forbid her from living close to the Prophet (i.e., his tomb) and doing her prayers in his 6  Ibn Abī ʿAtīq was a great-grandson of the first Caliph Abū Bakr who, in addition to the laudable characteristics listed here, was also a great lover of poetry and music. His circles included such famous poets, wits, and singers as Bakr ibn Abī Rabīʿa, Kuthayyir ʿAzza, Ashʿab, and Ibn ʿĀʾisha. See EI2, Ibn Abī ʿAtīq. 7  KA viii, 341 states clearly that the singer in question is Sallāmat al-Qass, not Sallāma al-Zarqāʾ (an entirely different singer) as stated by Charles Pellat in his EI2 article on Ibn Abī ʿAtīq and in Rowson, Effeminates 688. Kilpatrick, Book of Songs 253, gives only the name Sallāma, without further specification. 8  KA viii, 341–2.

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mosque? ʿUthmān ibn Ḥayyān eventually agrees to meet this woman, so Ibn Abī ʿAtīq rushes back to the house of Sallāmat al-Qass, tells her to come with him, to bring her prayer beads, and to behave modestly and submissively: She approached ʿUthmān and spoke to him, showing herself to be the most knowledgeable of people about people (aʿlam al-nās bi-l-nās), and he was amazed by her. She spoke to him about his forebears and about their lives and was very entertaining in this regard. Then Ibn Abī ʿAtīq said to her, “Recite [some Quran] for the Emir,” and she recited for him. Then he said, “Sing in the [ancient Bedouin] ḥidāʾ style for him,” and she sang for him. The governor’s astonishment grew even greater. Then [Ibn Abī ʿAtīq] said, “And imagine if you heard her sing songs of her own composition!” [Ibn Abī ʿAtīq] continued to persuade him bit by bit until [ʿUthmān] ordered her to sing ghināʾ [‘art’ or ‘entertainment’ music]. [She hesitated, but] Ibn Abī ʿAtīq said to her, “Go ahead and sing!” So she sang [the following verse]:

‫ُ ّ �َل ن‬ ‫ا ض�� جَ����� ن‬ �ِ‫ب�ِ��ك� ِل ب��ا ٍ� و ِح و ب ي‬ ٍ

َ‫صَ �خَ ْ ّ َ خ‬ َ‫َ ْ نَ خ‬ ُ‫���ْلن�َ �ه‬ ‫��س�د د � ����ص�ا � ا ل�ي� لم�ا د‬ ‫ِم‬

[The women] blocked all the gaps in the tents when they entered them,  [Cutting off the view] of every smooth breast and forehead She sang this and ʿUthmān rose from his seat and sat down in front of her and said, “No, by God, one such as this shall not leave Medina!” Ibn Abī ʿAtīq said, “The people will not be pleased with this and will say, ‘He allowed Sallāma to stay, but expelled the others!” So he said, “Let them all be summoned and be allowed to remain.”9 Here again, it is the key figure’s piety and religious devotion that provides the initial reconsideration of the order of expulsion, but in this case, the governor is ultimately convinced by the sheer beauty of Sallāma’s performance, first of Quran recitation, then of the ancient ḥidāʾ style of singing (which was considered permissible by many religious scholars since it was the style of the pre-Islamic desert Arab Bedouin), and then, finally, by her performance of ‘art music’ or ‘entertainment music’ [ghināʾ] of the type that was usually condemned by conservative authorities. Sallāma had also proven herself to be knowledgeable in genealogy and history, but it is ultimately her skill as a singer and the beauty of her voice that causes the governor to change his mind, and 9  KA viii, 341–2; see Rowson, Effeminates 688, and 679 note 56; Kilpatrick, Book of Songs 253.

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perhaps also the well-chosen verse that speaks of shrouding women’s bodies from onlookers, an allusion to her own public display of modesty. In another incident, transmitted by Ḥammād, son of Isḥāq, from his father Ibrāhīm al-Mawṣilī, it is said that Ḥunayn [ibn Balūʿ al-Ḥīrī] sang lyrics composed by ʿAdī ibn Zayd for Khālid al-Qasrī during a period when he had forbidden singing [ayyām ḥarrama al-ghināʾ] and he relented, saying: “Sing, [but] do not keep company with fools or trouble-makers!”10 The singer, Ḥunayn, was Christian and is known for being the one representative of the Iraqi musical school to achieve prominence during the period of Umayyad rule. The poet, ʿAdī ibn Zayd, was also Christian and also from al-Ḥīra, though he lived in the sixth century. Given the fact that he was Christian, Ḥunayn could presumably not call on his piety or moral character in the same manner as Muslim singers to persuade the governor to allow him to continue to sing publicly; however, as a Christian, he could in fact appeal to a shared morality concerning God’s judgment to rebuke the Emir and ultimately receive a reprieve (KA ii, 348–9): Khālid ibn ʿAbdallāh al-Qasrī forbade singing (ghināʾ) in Iraq during his days [as governor there]. One day he allowed the general populace to come see him, and Ḥunayn went in, carrying his lute (ʿūd) under his clothing. He said, “May God preserve the Emir! I had a profession that earned me a livelihood to support my dependents (aʿūdu bihā ʿalā ʿiyālī),11 but the Emir has forbidden it and this has harmed me and them.” [The Emir] replied, “What is your profession?” and [Ḥunayn] pulled out his lute and said, “This.” So Khālid said to him, “Sing for me.” So he tuned his strings and sang:

ُ ُ ‫أ أ ن ت � ُ َ ّأ � ف‬ � ‫ا‬ ‫ل‬ ‫��م‬ � ‫ِر � � �� ا ل���م ����ب�رَ� و ور‬ ُ ‫ٌ غ‬ ‫أن ت‬ ‫اِم ب�ل � �� ج��ا �ه�ل �م��رور‬ ُ ‫�ذ ا ع��ل � ن �أ ن ُ َ خَ �ف‬ ‫ي��ه م�� � �ي���ض‬ ‫� �ا م ��� ي��ر‬

ُ‫أّ ش ت‬ ّ َُ �‫�ي���ه�ا ا �ل����ا �م‬ ‫� ا ل��م�عِي��ر ب�ا �ل�د �ه�ـ‬ ‫أ‬ ُ ّ‫أ‬ ُ ‫� �ل�د ي��ك ا �ل��ع�ه�د ا �لو��ثي� ق� �م� ن� ال� ي��ـ‬ ‫َم أ تَ ن نَ خَ َّ ن أ‬ َ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ��‫�م�� ر�ي�� ا لم��و� ��ل�د � � م �م‬

O you who gloat over the misfortunes of others, you who insult fate, Are you the Perfect One who is preserved from harm? Or do you have a pact of safety from [the misfortunes] the days [may bring]? 10  Two accounts of this event are found in KA ii, 153 and KA ii, 349; see also, Kilpatrick, Book of Songs 122. 11  His statement includes a punning reference to his lute [ʿūd] and thus the fact that he is a musician when he says he practiced a profession that aʿūdu bihā ʿalā ʿiyālī.

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[Nay!] Rather you are ignorant and deluded! Whose fate you think has made [you] eternal? Or one who is guarded from any damage? [When he heard these verses] Khālid wept. He said, “I give you alone special permission [to practice the profession of singing], but do not keep company with fools or trouble-makers.” So [Ḥunayn], whenever he was invited to a gathering would ask, “Are there any fools or troublemakers among you?” And if they responded, “No!” then he would enter. Ḥunayn’s aptly chosen text rebukes the Emir asking, in effect, “Who are you to judge?” reminding him that none of us knows when his life will end and when he will face his final judgment. The Emir is so moved by the message and the beauty of the singing that he weeps and allows Ḥunayn to continue performing, with the caveat, however, that he not socialize with morally suspect persons. In this anecdote, at least, Ḥunayn has the last laugh by thereafter asking at the threshold of each gathering if there are any ‘fools or troublemakers’ within, and then entering to perform. In one anecdote that al-Iṣfahānī collected, transmitted from Yūnus al-Kātib, but for which he could not find a source with a reliable chain of transmitters, an unnamed emir of Mecca ordered that all singers be expelled from the Ḥaram (holy sanctuary). On the night before the expulsion order was to take effect, several of the most famous singers gathered with the express purpose of moving their audience to tears. The first to sing was Maʿbad, after whose performance “the people of Mecca sighed with admiration [ta‌ʾawwahū], moaned [annū] and sniffled [tamakhkhaṭū]” (KA ii, 363). Next came al-Gharīḍ, after whose song there was “weeping and lamentation.” Finally, Ibn Surayj sang a song, after which, “screams were raised from the [nearby] houses, along with wailing and grief” (KA ii, 364). Ibn Surayj followed this with another song which generated such shouts and screams that Maʿbad did not dare to try to match this performance. The performance had its desired effect: the governor forgave them and allowed them to stay.12 Yet another governor of Medina, Saʿd ibn Ibrāhīm ibn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn ʿAwf, dealt harshly with singers, poets, and buffoons [sufahāʾ], which led to an intercession not by a singer or composer, but by the poet Mūsā Shahawāt, who lampooned the governor for his ugly face and actions. Unfortunately, however, we are not given any information as to whether Mūsā’s satirical poems caused the new governor to pardon the performers (KA iii, 359).13 12  See marginal note in KA ii, 363. 13  See EI2, Mūsā Shahawāt.

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These five examples, all taken from the Kitāb al-Aghānī, focus on intercessions, at least four of which resulted in a temporary cessation of government repression of musicians and singers (in the final example we do not know the result). The Kitāb al-Aghānī is by its very nature, of course, a work that champions the art of song and therefore not unsurprisingly contains more anecdotes in which disapproving religious figures or conservative moralists are persuaded to change their opinions by the beauty of music than narratives in which musicians and singers are in fact punished, but nearly all of these anecdotes contain obvious traces of the tension between piety and artistry. ʿAṭarrad is only released (and then secures the release of others) on account of his own upright behavior, and Sallāma is only granted access to the governor and is able to entice him to hear her sing by first demonstrating her own knowledge and piety through performances of oral history, Quran recitation, and the old Bedouin-style ḥidāʾ. Personal piety at times provided an effective shield against punishment for musical performances. The anecdote concerning Ḥunayn, however, appears to offer a counter-example in which the musical performance, particularly the moral sentiments of the lyrics, caused a governor to change his mind. The moment of performance could at times be an opportunity for the public admonishment of the powerful.14 Such intercessions were not always successful, however, for accounts in other historical sources include many examples of the punishment of musical performers en masse including expulsions, the destruction of musical instruments, and imprisonment. Even the Kitāb al-Aghānī is not devoid of such examples, despite its overall purpose of praising singers and song. A generally negative attitude towards singers as a social class is also evident in an incident in which a kātib (clerk) repeatedly refused to pay singers, despite the fact that they bore a chit signed by the caliph himself, and only finally acceded when the caliph personally intervened (KA v, 109). The kātib, however, was not punished for his insubordination, apparently because his attitude was deemed understandable. The three most famous singers of the era—Mālik ibn Abī al-Samḥ, Maʿbad, and Ibn ʿĀʾisha—went to perform for the Caliph Yazīd ibn ʿAbd al-Malik (r. 720–4). Here is the anecdote as recounted by Mālik ibn Abī l-Samḥ: We sang for [the caliph Yazīd] all night and delighted him, so he ordered that we each be paid one thousand dinars and wrote a chit to his secretary 14  For another account of a performance changing the mind of a governor, see KA xvii, 176–7, in which ʿAzza al-Maylāʾ, at the instigation of Ibn Abī ʿAtīq, sings for ʿAbdallāh ibn Jaʿfar and causes him to rescind his order that she no longer be allowed to perform in Medina.

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for this amount. But when we went to [the secretary] in the morning with this note, he refused it, saying, “Are the likes of you to be paid one thousand dinars each?! No, by God! Not for your sake nor for your honor!”15 So we went back to Yazid and informed him about what [the secretary] had said, and repeated it to him. [Yazīd] replied, “So he disapproved of this?” And we said, “Yes.” [Yazīd] said, “The likes of him disapproves of this?!” So he sent for him. When [the secretary] arrived and saw us there with [the caliph], [the caliph] asked him about this and he lowered his head with embarrassment. “Yes, I said that to them, and it is not fitting that I go back on what I said—so divide the [one thousand] among them [i.e., pay it to them in installments].” And Mālik [ibn Abī l-Samḥ] concluded by saying, “Then Yazīd died and we were still owed 400 dinars each!”16

Choosing the Wrong Song

The punishments meted out to singers and musicians for practicing their art were almost always rooted in religious objections to music and/or activities associated with musical performances. An entirely different set of issues arise in accounts of reprimands and punishments that were incurred by a performer as a result of choosing a song that displeased their patron. One such incident involves a female singer amending a song text in performance (KA xvii, 79–80): One day al-Ma‌ʾmūn was sitting drinking and had a cup in his hand, and [the singer] Badhl sang the verse:

َّ‫أَ �ذ‬ ‫� �ل� �م� ن� ا �ل َو���ع ِ�د‬

‫أ‬ ‫أ‬ ً ‫� لا لا � ر �ى �ش���ي�����ئ�ا‬

Verily I do not think anything more pleasurable than a promised tryst (al-waʿd). But she turned it into: Verily I do not think anything more pleasurable than al-saḥq [lesbian sex, lit. “pounding/grinding”]. Al-Ma‌ʾmūn put down his cup and turned to her saying, “No, Badhl, al-nayk (penetrative sex) is more pleasurable than al-saḥq!!” She was

15   Ḥubban wa-karāmatan, “for your sake and your honor” or “gladly, with pleasure” is normally an expression of obedience, which is here negated. 16   KA v, 109.

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embarrassed and afraid of his anger, but he then picked up his cup again and said, “Finish your song, but add to it [these two verses]:

ً ‫ن �زَ َ ت أ تَ خ‬ َ ‫ي�ا‬ � � ‫�د‬ � ‫ح‬ ‫و�ِم�� ور �ي� � �ب�����ي�ا ���ه�ا ��ا �ل���� و‬ �‫ي‬ ُّ‫أَ �ذ‬ ُ ُ‫�خ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ل‬ � � ‫وك��لت��ا �ه�م�ا �ع ����ن�د �ي� � �ل� ِم�� ا �ل ِ�د‬

ْ َ‫غ‬ ُ ‫أت‬ ‫�إ�ذ‬ ‫و�ِم� ن� �������ف�ل��ة ا �لوا �ش��ي� ا ���م�ا � �ي�ت�����ه�ا‬ ْ َ ‫ُْتَ ث‬ ‫�ك�تَ��ة‬ ‫ن‬ �‫�ة ف‬ � � ٍ ‫و�ِم�� ��ص��ي����ح�ٍ ي� ا لم��ل���قَى م ��س‬

Or than the heedlessness of the slanderer when I come to her [the beloved] Or my visit to her dwellings when they are empty and I am alone [with her]. Or than an [impassioned] cry during our meeting, followed by silence, Together the two of them are more pleasurable to me than paradise!17 In this case it appears that Badhl herself had amended the text of the song, which was a composition of Ibrāhīm al-Mawṣilī, though her motivation for doing so while singing before her male patron is unclear. Al-Ma‌ʾmūn reprimands her and asks that she continue her song, but with his suggested additions that laud the pleasures of heterosexual, penetrative sex. We can only assume that she complied. One singer who seems to have been uncommonly prone to selecting inappropriate materials was ʿAllūya, who, in this first example, was expelled from court in a famous incident where he sang praises of his former Umayyad patrons to the Abbasid Caliph al-Ma‌ʾmūn (b. 786, r. 813–33) and disparaged the Abbasids for their lack of generosity. This encounter comes down to us in two versions; one recounted by an eyewitness and the second supposedly narrated by the ill-fated singer himself. The eyewitness account first appears in Ibn Abī Ṭāhir Ṭayfūr’s Kitāb Baghdād, then in al-Ṭabarī’s history, and later in Kitāb al-Aghānī iv, 353–4. The text below, from Kitāb Baghdād, is one that was transmitted from Muḥammad ibn ʿAlī ibn Umayya (d. before 892), known as Abū Ḥashīsha. He was a well-known singer, composer, and player of the ṭunbūr (pandore, a long-necked lute), but was also considered an authoritative and reliable transmitter of songs, texts, and information about singers and musicians. He was the author of at least two works on musicians and singers, and, remarkably, a portion of his autobiographical account of his career has been preserved in Abū-l-Faraj al-Iṣbahānī’s Kitāb al-Aghānī.18

17   KA xvii, 79–80. 18   KA xxiii, 75–84.

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[Abū Ḥashīsha] said: We were with al-Ma‌ʾmūn in Damascus when he rode out desiring [to see] the Mountain of Snow [= Mt. Lebanon]. He passed one of the large water reservoirs that the Umayyads had built, at the edges of which stood four cypresses. The water flowed into it and then flowed onward. Al-Ma‌ʾmūn found the place pleasing and called for bazmāward 19 and a raṭl [of wine]. He mentioned the Umayyads disparagingly and belittled them. Then ʿAllūya approached with his lute and began to sing: These are my people. After power and wealth,  They were annihilated; shall I not shed tears and feel grief? Al-Ma‌ʾmūn kicked over the food with his foot and jumped up, saying to ʿAllūya: “You son of a such-and-such!20 You couldn’t find any moment other than this to mention your [former] masters [mawālīkum]? [ʿAllūya] responded: “Your [former] client (mawlākum) Ziryāb is now with my masters (mawāliyya, i.e. the Umayyads of Spain) riding with [an entourage] of one hundred servants (ghulām), while I am here with you, dying of hunger!”21 Al-Ma‌ʾmūn was angry with him for twenty days, but then forgave him.22 The second version of the anecdote, however, is longer and is reported through a different chain of transmitters originating with ʿAllūya himself, rather than from Abū Ḥashīsha, who was, after all, only a bystander (KA xi, 355–8): Jaḥẓa told me that Muḥammad ibn Aḥmad al-Makkī al-Murtajil told him that his father told him: “I entered ʿAllūya’s [home] to visit him after an illness that he had contracted and then recovered from, and our conversation turned to al-Ma‌ʾmūn. He said to me, ‘I—God knows!—was nearly done away with (kidtu adhhabu dafʿatan) one day when I was with him, but God Almighty kept me safe and granted me His clemency.’ So I asked him, ‘What was the reason for that?’ He replied, ‘I was with him when he traveled to Syria and we entered Damascus and toured around in it. He began to go around to the palaces of the Umayyads and examine their remains. He entered a courtyard that was paved entirely in green marble 19  Following Bosworth, History of al-Tabarī xxxii, 243 note 738, “a confection of pastry, meat, etc.” 20  Ar. ibn al-fāʿila; cf. ibn al-zāniya (“son of an adulteress”) in KA iv, 353–4. 21  The term mawlā in Arabic can refer to either the master or the client/servant bound together by a relationship of walāʾ (loyalty, fealty, clientage). 22  Ibn Abī Ṭāhir, Tārīkh Baghdād 293–4.

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Reynolds

and in which there was a pool into which water from a spring flowed and then flowed onwards. There were fish in the pool and in front of it was a garden. In the four corners [of the garden] were four cypresses that looked as if they had been trimmed with scissors of all of their bushiness (iltifāf ). They were the most beautiful cypresses I have ever seen in form and size. [Al-Ma‌ʾmun] found all of this pleasing and called for his morning draught (ṣabūḥ). He said, “Bring me some light food,” so they brought him bazmāward which he ate. He called for something to drink, then approached me and said, “Sing for me and entertain me.” By God— Exalted and Mighty He!—I could not remember a single song except for this one: If the Banū Umayya were around me [now],  The men whom I see speaking, would not speak [a word]!23 [Al-Ma‌ʾmūn] looked at me angrily and said, “God’s curse be upon you and the Banū Umayya! Woe unto you! Did I ask you to insult me or cheer me up? Could you find no moment to mention the Banū Umayya other than this moment in order to put me in a bad light?!’ So I turned to him, [though] I knew that I had made a mistake, and said, ‘Do you reproach me for mentioning the Banū Umayya?! Your client Ziryāb is among them and rides with [an entourage of] 200 servants that he himself owns (ghulām mamlūk lahu), and he possesses 300,000 dinars that he was given in addition to horses, villages, and slaves, and I am here among you dying of hunger!’ He said, ‘And you had nothing to bring to my attention other than this?!’ So I replied, ‘That is what came to me when I remembered them.’ He retorted, ‘Leave that be and do as I have requested!’ But God caused me to forget everything I knew except for this song: Destruction traveled to Damascus and I was not  Satisfied with Damascus as a home for our people24 Then he threw his cup at me, but he missed me and the cup broke. Then he said, ‘Leave me [and may yours be] the curse of God and the fires of hell!’ Then he stood up and rode off. That was the situation [between] us at the end of my period [of service] with him, until he got sick and died. Then [ʿAllūya] added: Abū Jaʿfar, I can sing 3,000 songs, 4,000 songs, 5,000 songs—by God I can even sing more!—but God knows, all of them disappeared and it was as if I only knew what I sang! And I felt as if, had I possessed a thousand souls, not one of them would have been saved. But 23  Poem by ʿAbdallāh ibn Qays al-Ruqayyāt, music by Maʿbad, though other attributions are reported by al-Hishāmī and Ibn Khurradādhbih. KA xi, 357–8. 24  Music by ʿUmar al-Wādī, court musician of al-Walīd ibn Yazīd.

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he was a merciful man and my time had not yet come (wa-kān fī l-ʿumr baqiyya).25 ʿAllūya’s own account thus makes it appear that his ill-fated choice of these verses was totally inadvertent, rather than a purposeful criticism aimed at attracting more generosity from the caliph. The change from Umayyad to Abbasid rule in fact created a rather delicate situation for all of the poets, singers, composers, and musicians who struggled to negotiate the dynastic transition. Since they had previously sung the praises of the ancien régime, they could now be called to account for those compositions, or even for their new compositions praising the Abbasids if these did not seem as well wrought or as enthusiastic as their earlier ones praising the Umayyads.26 ʿAllūya, however, seems at times to have been particularly inept in responding to his patron’s moods. In a lengthy session during which several singers took turns performing, vying for the favor of the caliph Hārūn al-Rashīd, ʿAlluya chose to sing a verse that praised beardless youths and disparaged grey-haired elderly men, to which the caliph responded angrily: “O you who bite your mother’s clitoris! (yā ʿāḍḍ baẓr ummika!) You sing to me praising beardless youths (murd) and blaming grey-haired ones (dhamm al-shayb) when my “curtain” (sitāratī) has been raised and I have grown grey!? It is as if you were alluding to me directly!” Then he called for Masrūr and ordered him to seize [ʿAlluya] by the hand, take him out and give him 30 lashes, and not bring him back to the gathering. Al-Rashīd shunned ʿAllūya for a month after this and did not forgive him until Ibrāhīm al-Mawṣilī and the other singers intervened on his behalf. Perhaps the most famous “bad choice” in the early history of Arab music, however, is the song Ziryāb chose to sing in the Aghlabid court of Ziyādat Allāh II. This anecdote is one of three appearances that Ziryāb makes in Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih’s Kitāb al-ʿIqd al-farīd (The Book of the Unique Necklace), and is the only account of Ziryāb’s sojourn in North Africa, before his arrival in the Cordoban court of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān II in 822 AD. It is the earliest biographical notice of Ziryāb, and since Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih grew up in the Cordoban court soon

25   KA xi, 355–8. 26  For further examples of such incidents, see Kilpatrick, Book of Songs 246–7.

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after Ziryāb’s death and wrote his work when many who had known Ziryāb were still alive, it may well be the most accurate account that has survived: Ibrāhīm al-Mawṣilī had a black slave (ʿabd aswad) called Ziryāb, who was a naturally gifted singer. Ibrāhīm taught him, and he occasionally attended the gathering of [the Abbasid caliph Hārūn] al-Rashīd and sang in it. Then he moved to Qayrawān, to the Banū Aghlab, where he came before Ziyādat Allāh ibn Ibrāhīm ibn al-Aghlab. He sang for him verses by ʿAntara [ibn Shaddād] of the warriors in which he said: This is indeed my mother, black as a raven (ghurābiyya)  From among the sons of Ham, for this you have blamed me Yet I am adept with flashing [lit. white] sword-edges,  And with dark spearheads when you come to me Were it not that you fled on the day of tumult,  I would have bested you (qudtuka) in battle or you me. Ziyādat Allah was angered [at this] and ordered that [Ziryāb] be struck on the back of the neck and be driven out [of his kingdom]. He said to him: “If I find you in any part of my land after three days [have passed], I will strike off your head.” So [Ziryāb] crossed the sea to al-Andalus and settled in the court of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn al-Ḥakam [= ʿAbd al-Raḥmān II].27 The key to this incident is race and skin color. Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih identifies Ziryāb unequivocally as a ‘black slave’ (ʿabd aswad) and not with any number of other more ambiguous terms he might have used such as mawlā (client/servant), ghulām (youth/servant), khādim (servant), or asmar (dark-skinned). Ziyādat Allāh was himself the younger son of Ibrāhīm ibn al-Aghlab, founder of the Aghlabid dynasty. His mother was a female slave, Jalājil (“Bells”), who had been given to his father while he was living in Egypt by his teacher, al-Layth ibn Saʿd (d. 175/791), the student and later most prominent rival of Mālik ibn Anas (d. 179/796), eponymous founder of the Mālikī school of law. It is probable that Jalājil was black, for she had been a slave in Egypt at the time she was given to Ibrāhīm ibn al-Aghlab, and of course the poet who composed the verses chosen by Ziryāb, ʿAntara ibn Shaddād, was famously one of the black ‘raven’ (ghurāb) poets of the pre-Islamic era. These verses, in fact, call direct attention to the skin color of ʿAntara’s mother (“This is indeed my mother, black as a raven . . .”). Ziryāb may have been motivated in his choice of song by the idea that ʿAntara, one of the legendary heroes of the ancient Arabs, was a worthy and 27  Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, al-ʿIqd vi, 34.

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fitting comparison for his patron, Ziyādat Allāh II, who was just about to embark on a period of military activity.28 The ruler, however, appears to have been instead insulted at this reference to the skin color of his own mother, which may have been aggravated by the fact that he apparently had a very close relationship to her (one of his most famous poems, a lament after his great military defeat at Sbība, is addressed to her: When you think of the disaster at Sbība // Weep, O Jalājil, with wailing lamentations!29). He may further have found it unbearably impudent that this black-skinned singer was apparently comparing himself to the likes of both Ziyādat Allāh and ʿAntara. In any case, the result of Ziryāb’s poor choice was a beating and expulsion from Ifriqiya. A similarly harsh punishment was meted out to the singing-girl Bazīʿa, owned by the Umayyad Caliph of al-Andalus ʿAbd al-Raḥmān III. When his brother, Ibrāhīm came to visit him, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān called to Bazīʿa and asked her to sing for his brother from behind a curtain. She sang the verses, “It delights my heart to see your visitors // Having him who loves you near, augments my pleasure.” After the brother and his retinue exited, the Caliph whipped her for having chosen those verses, and she narrowly escaped being beaten a second time when Ibrāhīm next visited the court.30 This incident draws attention to one of the interesting psychological dynamics of gatherings that featured female slave singers: the potential for the owner to feel jealousy over any perceived excess of attention given to his male guests. While on the one hand, owners of famous female performers appear to have been proud of their singers and eager to let other men hear them, on the other hand, female performers walked a fine line between interacting with their owner’s guests in witty conversation and poetic competition and engaging in any behavior that might be construed by their owner as flirtation or, even worse, genuine attraction. Gatherings that featured female slave performers were at times intensely eroticized spaces in which males competed with each other for signs of favor from the star performer, who, although she was a slave, was clearly the mistress of the event. A more brutal example of punishment for a bad choice of material is that of an anonymous singing girl who was given as a gift by Yūsuf ibn Tāshufīn, leader of the North African Almoravids, to al-Muʿtamid ibn ʿAbbād, the ruler of Seville

28  For comments on the timing of this performance and more details about Ziyādat Allāh’s personality and background, see Reynolds, Ziryāb. 29  Ibn Abbār, al-Ḥulla i, 166. 30  James, Early Islamic Spain 141.

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(r. 1069–91). The event is quoted from al-Ḥijārī’s Mushib by Aḥmad al-Maqqarī in his Nafḥ al-ṭīb:31 The Commander of the Faithful, Yūsuf ibn Tāshufīn, gave al-Muʿtamid a singing slave-girl who had been raised in North Africa (al-ʿudwa) and the people of North Africa of course hated the people of al-Andalus. He brought her to Seville. There were many false rumors that the Sultan of the ‘Veiled Ones’ [= Ibn Tāshufīn] was planning to wrest the Ṭawāʾif kingdoms from [the Andalusians], and this thought occupied the mind of Ibn ʿAbbād.32 So he took her out of the al-Zāhir Palace to the river in Seville and he sat down [to have some] wine. She came upon the idea of singing the following verses to him once he had become intoxicated:

�‫أ‬ ‫ئ‬ ‫و�لووا ��ع��م�ا �����م�ه�م ���ع��لى ال� �ق��م�ا ر‬ ‫أق‬ ‫�أ�م�ض��� ا �ذ ا ا ن�ت����ض ت‬ ‫� �ي��� �م� ن� ال� ��د ا ر‬ ‫أ آى‬ � ‫ت‬ ‫ن‬ � � ‫� و � �م��وك �ح�ل�ل�� د ا ر ف�را ر‬

‫أ‬ ‫ق‬ �‫� �لو��ع�ه‬ ‫ح�م�لوا ��لو ب� ال���س�د ب�ي�� ن� �ض‬ ‫�ةم‬ �‫وت������ق�ل�د وا �يو ا �لو��غى �ه ن���د ��ي‬ ‫م‬ ‫ن خ ّف‬ ‫� ��ه��ة‬ ‫�ق‬ ‫ت‬ � ‫ا � �و�وك �ل�� ي���� ك�ل كري‬

They carried the hearts of lions between their ribs And wrapped their turbans around their moon-like [i.e. beautiful] faces. On the day of the tumult, they girded themselves with Indian [blades]  Sharper than fate when unsheathed. If they frighten you, you will encounter every misfortune,  But if they grant you safety, you will be allowed to flee. In his heart it seemed to him that she was speaking of her [former] masters, and he could not contain his rage, so he threw her into the river where she drowned.33 We can only wonder if al-Muʿtamid understood the singer’s intent correctly or incorrectly. Was she singing verses about bravery in battle with no particular 31  Al-Ḥijārī lived 1106–55. 32  The ‘Veiled Ones’ (al-mulaththamūn) is a reference to the Sanhaja Berber followers of Ibn Tāshufīn (r. ca. 1061–1106), whose men ‘veiled’ their faces much as modern Tuareg do today. The Ṭawāʾif, or ‘factional,’ kingdoms were small kingdoms that emerged after the collapse of the Umayyad Caliphate in Cordoba. The Andalusians rightly feared Ibn Tāshufīn, who later conquered and ruled the Muslim territories of Iberia. 33  Al-Maqqarī, Analectes ii, 620–1.

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implied message, or was she in fact using the moment of performance to assert her pride as a North African and her disdain for Andalusians, as the compiler implies?

Punished for Personal Behavior

Still other singers were punished for misbehaviors unrelated to specific performances, such as the whipping and imprisonment of Ibrāhīm al-Mawṣilī ordered by al-Mahdī for carousing and drinking. He received 300 strokes of the whip and was ordered to stay away from al-Mahdī’s two sons on the threat of an even worse punishment (KA v, 160–2): Iṣḥāq said: My father transmitted to me, saying: “Al-Mahdī did not drink and he wanted me, whenever I was accompanying him, to leave off drinking [as well], and I refused him. I was absent for several days, and when I came back to him, I was drunk, and my behavior angered him, so he beat me and imprisoned me. I mastered writing and reading while I was in prison. Then one day he summoned me and forgave me my drinking in other people’s houses and my vulgar behavior. ‘Commander of the Faithful,’ I said, ‘I learned this craft because of my enjoyment of and companionship with my brothers/friends. If I could abandon it I would, and everything else I do besides, for the sake of God, glorious and mighty is He!’ He became very angry and said, ‘Do not ever go anywhere near [my sons] Mūsā and Hārūn! By God, if you do, I will respond [harshly] and do [something violent]!!’ I agreed, but then he discovered that I had gone to them and drunk with them, for the two of them were acting recklessly under the influence of the wine. So he ordered that I be given 300 strokes of the lash and had me fettered and thrown in prison [. . .] Despite these threats, Ibrāhīm went out on an excursion with the two young men, and their carousing was reported to the caliph, their father, by a servant, Abān, who had accompanied them. Ibrāhīm is given one whipping of 360 lashes and then a second beating after which he is placed in the charge of ʿAbdallāh ibn Mālik: ʿAbdallāh ibn Mālik took me to his house and through my eyes I saw the world turn yellow, green, and red from the burning pain of the whip. He ordered that something like a grave be made for me and that I be placed in it. Then ʿAbdallāh called for a ram and it was slaughtered and skinned,

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and I was wrapped in [the skin] so that the [pain of] the beating would abate, and he sent me to a servant named Abū ʿUthmān Saʿīd al-Turkī, and had me placed in that grave. He put a servant-girl of his, who was called Jashsha, in charge of me. I was in agony due to the water seepage in that grave and the bedbugs, but there was also a dried plant there that was refreshing. Then I told Jashsha: ‘Go ask for a baked brick on which there is coal and frankincense that will rid me of these bedbugs.’ And she brought this to me. When I fumigated the tomb, everything grew dark around me [from the smoke], and my soul almost departed due to my distress. But I was able to find some relief from the pain at the seepage—I held my nose close to it until the smoke lessened, and just when I thought that I was relieved of [the terrible situation] I was in, suddenly there were two snakes coming toward me from a crack in the tomb and circling round me with a strong hissing, and I was just about to grab one in my right hand and the other in my left—it was a do or die moment!—when I was saved from them, and they slithered back into the hole from which they had come out. I remained in that tomb the time that God willed [= quite a while] and then I was brought out of it [. . .] Ibrāhīm said: I composed [these verses] when I was in prison [and fettered] Has not my night, watching the stars, grown long?  I occupy myself by rubbing the heavy fetters on my legs. [I am] in the dwelling of disgrace, the worst of abodes,  In it I am unjustly humiliated, [but respond with] graceful forbearing. Friends abounded when I lived in luxury,  But now that I am imprisoned, I find they are few. As my affliction has grown long, my friends have grown weary,  A companion is not loyal to his companion. [Ibrāhīm] said: “Then al-Mahdī had me brought out and had me swear to divorce my wife and emancipate [my slaves], and every oath imaginable—I do not have time here to [mention] them all—that I would never again visit his sons Mūsā and Hārūn and never again sing to them, and then he released me.” The biographical notice goes on to explain that when al-Mahdī died, Ibrāhīm hid in terror from the caliph’s sons, until the new caliph had him forcibly brought into his presence and ordered him to sing again, stating that the oaths he had previously sworn were now null and void.

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The Castration of al-Dalāl and the ‘Effeminates’ of Medina

Perhaps the most famous case of musicians being punished is the castration of the mukhannathūn of early Medina, which is recounted in several conflicting versions in the Kitāb al-Aghānī (KA iv, 223, 269–72) and other sources.34 Al-Dalāl (“coquetry”) was one of the three famous ‘effeminates’ (mukhannathūn) of Medina, along with Ṭuways and Hinb (or Find). Isḥāq al-Mawṣilī is said to have declared al-Dalāl the best-looking, most meticulous about his clothing, and the most elegant of all ‘effeminates.’35 He was also known to be extraordinarily entertaining and funny “Whenever he spoke, he could make a mother whose child has died (thaklā) laugh,” and he was said to sing only the most complex and intricate songs36 and to have been a marvelous singer with a beautiful voice (KA iv, 270). He is reported to have constantly sought out the company of women and to have provided men with descriptions of them, such that a man who wished to marry could ask al-Dalāl and be provided with descriptions of available young women, one after another, until they arrived at one which he found pleasing. Al-Iṣfahānī offers several accounts of the events leading up to al-Dalāl’s castration (KA iv, 271 ff.). The first report is transmitted from Muṣʿab al-Zubayrī by Isḥāq al-Mawṣilī. In this version al-Dalāl is portrayed as a malicious gobetween who would first help a man select a wife by giving him descriptions of available maidens, then assist with the dowry and other arrangements, but finally, the day before the consummation of the marriage he would go first to the bride-to-be and later to the bridegroom. In these private conversations he would speak suggestively of the pleasures of the nuptial bed causing each to get so aroused that they, in a panic, would seek some means of calming themselves. To the woman he would first suggest that her state of excitement would be viewed with repugnance by her husband and would therefore suggest that she have intercourse with a black slave to calm herself, an idea that she would reject, and he would then offer his own services. To the groom, he would claim that Medinese women preferred that intercourse be a lengthy and unhurried affair, and the intensely aroused man would become so worried that he would ask advice about what to do and al-Dalāl would first suggest a female black slave, and when that idea was rejected, he would offer himself. The end result was therefore that al-Dalāl would supposedly have intercourse with both 34  The incident has been discussed at length in Rowson, Effeminates 690–2. 35   KA iv, 269. 36   Lam yakun yughannī illā ghināʾan muḍaʿʿaf yaʿnī kathīr al-ʿamal. KA iv, 270.

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the bride and the groom before they had sex with each other. This situation is said to have reached the ears of the caliph Sulaymān ibn ʿAbd al-Malik, an intensely jealous man, who sent orders to his governor Ibn Ḥazm to have all of the ‘effeminates’ of Mecca and Medina castrated, which he did.37 This exaggeratedly obscene account is not, however, fully believed by al-Iṣfahānī, who notes, “Not all transmitters narrate this report the way Muṣʿab transmitted it.”38 Instead he offers what he considers the most trustworthy account in terms of its transmission (aṣaḥḥu mā ruwiya isnādan). In this alternative version the caliph Sulaymān is out in the countryside39 with his men, and when the evening gathering disperses he wishes to do his ablutions. A servant girl is sent to pour water over his hands as he washes, and two or three times, when he nods to her with his head for her to pour more water, she is so distracted that she does not respond. He realizes that she is listening to the voice of a male singer that can be detected in the distance, which angers him. The following day he asks about the singing and eventually learns that there are two singers from the Ayla family nearby. He asks that they be sent to him, but only one can be found, Sumayr al-Aylī, who is brought to him. Sulaymān asks what the singer was singing the previous night and eventually makes the following declaration: “[When] the male camel brays, the she-camel is aroused; [when] the male goat bleats, the she-goat’s udder fills with milk (shakirat);40 [when] the male pigeon coos, the female struts and preens;41 [when] a man sings, a woman is enraptured (ṭaribat),” and he therefore ordered that [Sumayr] be castrated. [Then] he asked about where people learned to sing (aṣl al-ghināʾ) and was told: “In Medina, among the ‘effeminates,’ they are the most accomplished and skilled in it.” So he wrote to Abū Bakr ibn Muḥammad ibn ʿAmr Ibn Ḥazm al-Anṣārī, who was his representative there: ‘Castrate all of the ‘effeminate’ singers in your area!’ 37  The early ‘effeminates’ of Medina were not presumed to be homosexual and indeed, several were married and fathered children, though in later centuries they were assumed to be primarily, if not entirely, homosexuals who assumed the ‘passive’ role with male partners. For a detailed discussion, see Rowson, Effeminates 685–7. 38   KA iv, 272. 39  Reading bādiya for nādiya, see KA iv, 273 note 1. 40  For shakira, see Lane’s Lexicon and Lisān al-ʿArab; for an alternative reading based on shakara, see Rowson, Effeminates 690 note 141. 41   Zāfat is glossed as “the female pigeon struts about while walking in front of the male, approaching him while spreading her wings and her wing-tips [?]”—reading dhubābāhā [a dot is missing on the first ‘b’ in the original], KA iv, 273 note 4.

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The grotesqueness of this order is not much alleviated by the discussion of whether the text of the order was truly ‘castrate’ (akhṣi) or whether it was aḥṣi (without a dot on the letter), meaning ‘count’ or ‘making a listing of’ all the ‘effeminate’ singers, and was misread by the recipient. In all, nine ‘effeminate’ singers were castrated, including al-Dalāl. Al-Isfahānī relates a second version of this anecdote in which Sulaymān is lying in bed with a beautiful slave-girl decked out in extraordinary jewelry, with whom he is infatuated. He tries several times to arouse her but she pays little attention to his advances because she is listening the voice of a singer, who turns out to be Sumayr al-Aylī, whom the caliph then has imprisoned. He later threatens the slave-girl on pain of having her head cut off to tell him what relationship she has with this man. She swears that she does not know him and has never seen him, for she is from the Ḥijāz and knows no one in this country but the caliph himself. The caliph orders that Sumayr be brought to him and he questions the singer and the slave-girl together. Despite not being able to find any link between them, he is not able to rest as a consequence of his excessive jealousy, so he has the singer castrated and writes to Ibn Ḥazm to have all the ‘effeminate’ singers likewise castrated. This, al-Isfahānī asserts, is the true story (al-riwāya al-ṣaḥīḥa). Whatever the truth may be about the cause for the mass castration, as Everett Rowson has shown, this act brought an end to the prominent role of the ‘effeminates’ in early Medina, and it was not until a significantly later date that they make a reappearance, but in Baghdad rather than in Mecca and Medina. Conclusion In the early Islamic centuries, non-slave singers and musicians needed and sought out patronage in order to practice their profession, most obviously for financial reasons, but also because they occasionally needed the political clout of their supporters as protection during campaigns of repression by governors and other government officials. Female slave performers practiced their art under very different conditions (and we cannot know if musical training is something that they would have chosen to pursue had they not been slaves), but they were equally reliant upon the financial support and protection of their owners. This relationship of dependence, however, also entailed the possibility of being punished, at times quite harshly, for anything that displeased a patron or owner: a poorly chosen song, a witty remark gone awry, the appearance of having flirted with a guest, or even behaviors that took place far outside the sphere of the musical performance. It is hard to tell whether performers

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who lived closer to the centers of powers were dealt with more severely, or whether it was their proximity to the elite that caused anecdotes about them to be recorded and passed on in the historical literature. But it seems clear that because singers practiced an art form that often attracted the ire of conservative social forces, their marginalized professional status, and the eroticized social spaces in which they performed, they were more susceptible than most to the vagaries of discipline and punishment meted out at the hands of the rich and powerful. Bibliography Bosworth, C.E. The history of al-Ṭabarī, vol. xxxii, SUNY Studies in Near Eastern Studies (Book 32), Albany 1987. Cook, M., Commanding right and forbidding wrong in Islamic thought, Princeton 2000. Al Faruqi, L.I., Music, musicians and Islamic law, in Asian Music 17 (1985), 3–36. Ibn al-Abbār, Kitāb al-Ḥulla al-siyarāʾ, ed. Ḥ. Muʾnis, Cairo 1985. Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, Kitāb al-ʿIqd al-farīd, ed. A. Amīn, et al., Cairo 1944–56. Ibn Abī Ṭāhir Ṭayfūr, Tārīkh [sic] Baghdād, ed. ʿI.M. al-Ḥājj ʿAlī, Beirut 2009. al-Iṣfahānī, Abū l-Faraj, Kitāb al-Aghānī, vols. i–xvi, Cairo 1927 (rpt. Cairo 1963–); vols. xvii–xxiv, Cairo 1970–74. James, D., Early Islamic Spain: The history of Ibn al-Qūṭiyya, New York 2009. Kilpatrick, H., Making the great Book of Songs, London 2003. al-Maqqarī, Aḥmad, Analectes sur l’histoire et la littérature des Arabes d’Espagne [Nafḥ al-ṭīb min ghuṣn al-Andalus al-raṭīb], ed. R. Dozy, Amsterdam 1967. Reynolds, D.F., The qiyān of al-Andalus, in M.S. Gordon and K. Hain (eds.), Concubines and courtesans: Women and slavery in Islamic history, Oxford forthcoming. Reynolds, D.F., Ziryāb in the Aghlabid court, in G Anderson et al. (eds.), The Aghlabids and their neighbors: Art and material culture in ninth-century North Africa, Leiden 2017. Robson, J., Tracts on listening to music, London 1938. Rowson, E.K., The effeminates of early Medina, in JAOS 111 (1991), 671–93. Rowson, E.K., The categorization of gender and sexual irregularity in medieval Arabic vice lists, in J. Epstein and K. Straub (eds.), Body guards: The cultural politics of gender irregularity, London 1991, 50–79. Rowson, E.K., Gender irregularity as entertainment: Institutionalized transvestism at the caliphal court in medieval Baghdad, in S. Farmer and C.B. Pasternack (eds.), Gender and difference in the Middle Ages, Minneapolis 2003, 45–72. Sawa, G.D., An Arabic musical and socio-cultural glossary of Kitāb al-Aghānī, Leiden 2015.

CHAPTER 12

Fathers and Husbands Adam Talib Visual perception depends in large part on contextual information. Our brains naturally and instantaneously fill blind spots in our vision with information gleaned from prior knowledge and supposition. Stories are equally reliant on contextual supplementation—for example, tropes—though they usually strive to disguise their condition. Realism seeks to hide any narrative imperceptibilities under a cloak of the familiar. In this essay,1 I discuss a few episodes in Classical Arabic historiography— which includes what are now called semi-fictional or hybrid narratives—that revolve around a trope that has not received much scholarly attention: the offense-causing marriage proposal.2 I am aware that by discussing the effects of patriarchal structures that have characterized pre-modern and modern Arab societies, one runs the risk of culturalizing what are in fact political circumstances related to the control of economic, social, religious, and cultural resources.3 The challenge is thus to present plausible interpretations of what narratives intend to communicate despite the absence of comprehensive contextual information. Another challenge is to insist on the historical specificity of episodes that appear to reflect common or universal milestones in human life, especially when certain patterns of courtship behavior appear to have survived into the present day. One of the ways we interpret these apparent holdovers is that they are rituals: stations of social and cultural symbolism, which have become purely abstract for all but the most conservative segments of our societies. In this analysis, the content of notions like virginity, marriage, fidelity, and filial compliance becomes abstracted, or symbolic. Though many 1  I would like to express my sincere thanks to both editors of this volume as well as to Professors David Powers and Dwight Reynolds for their incisive and charitable comments on an earlier draft of this essay. I would like also to thank the anonymous peer reviewer for feedback. A very congenial audience at Harvard discussed with me some aspects of this essay in March 2016 and I thank them for their input. 2  The seminal study of the genre of text being discussed in this article is Leder, The literary use of the khabar. 3  Abu Lughod and Mikdashi, Tradition and the anti-politics machine; Khader, The invisible link.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_013

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people may believe that all or some of these notions exist as moral values, we also understand them to be social constructs, categories created and sustained by an ideological system. The formal, inter-familial marriage proposal, which has long been a topos in Middle Eastern film and TV serials, is no less of a cliché for being a real and tenacious social ritual. For example, in contemporary Cairo some couples who eschew values perceived to be traditional (e.g. not having sex or cohabiting before marriage) will find themselves affirming notions of bridal virginity, filial compliance, and the social regulation of female sexuality and reproduction when the man and his family perform the ritual of visiting the woman and her family to propose marriage formally. In Cairene Arabic, it is said of a suitor: “huwwa rāḥ yitʔaddim” (“He is going to propose,” compare the Classical Arabic verb istāda and the Persian term khāstigārī). The couples and families who perform these rituals today may indeed do so because they believe that they are preserving an ancient social and religious custom—even if they reject the suitability or advisability of arranged marriages in the present day—but, while the custom is no doubt old, pre-modern literary representations of offense-causing marriage proposals suggest that elite patriarchy has long struggled to maintain its prerogative of sexual ownership.4

4  Another example is the 2015 Academy Award-nominated Turkish-language film Mustang, which begins with a lavish depiction of a mixed-gender group of adolescents playing in shallow water on a sunny day at the Black Sea. For the five orphan sisters who are the film’s protagonists, those moments of play and delight lead their guardians—their grandmother and uncle—to impose new and comprehensive strictures on the girls’ liberty, freedom of movement, and appearance, and to begin marrying them off. Certain tropes in the film—arranged marriage between young and naïve strangers; so-called virginity tests; a sexually abusive and controlling patriarch; Sonay and her boyfriend engaging in anal sex before marriage, etc.— are part and parcel of both fictional and semi-fictional accounts of adolescent female sexuality in patriarchal societies. Many of these tropes are also familiar to me from my own lived experience: My grandparents married people who were more or less strangers; the Egyptian army has infamously subjected female protesters to so-called virginity tests; in a majority of cases, child sexual abuse in the United States is committed by adult males and in 34% of cases by a family member; and anyone who, like me, grew up in an American suburb during the age of abstinence can tell you that benighted adolescents engaging in oral and anal sex in preference to vaginal intercourse is more than simply fodder for pop parody (see Carr, Sexual assault and the state; Tabachnik and Klein, A reasoned approach 14–16; Garfunkel and Oates, The loophole). As for social policing of sexuality, nearly every woman I have ever met has experienced that in one form or other during her life; many of the women I know live with it on a daily basis. Deniz Gamze Ergüven, who co-wrote and directed Mustang, has herself said that the scandal in the film that was caused by girls riding on boys’ shoulders during play was inspired by events in her own life (Canım İstanbul, Interview with ‘Mustang’ Director Deniz Gamze Ergüven).

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A standard example of the offense-causing marriage proposal in the canon of Classical Arabic literature is found in the ʿUdhrī romances, which were first recorded in the early Abbasid period.5 In Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣbahānī’s (d. 356/967) account of the Majnūn Laylā legend, Laylā’s father felt compelled to reject Majnūn’s proposal after poems expressing Majnūn’s love for his daughter began to circulate:6 I was told by al-Ḥasan ibn ʿAlī, who heard this story from Hārūn ibn Muḥammad ibn ʿAbd al-Malik who heard it from ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Ibrāhīm who heard it from Hishām ibn Muḥammad ibn Mūsā al-Makkī who heard it from Muḥammad ibn Saʿīd al-Makhzūmī who heard it from Abū l-Haytham al-ʿUqaylī, who said: “When the news of Majnūn and Laylā went public and people began to repeat the poems he’d composed about her, Majnūn proposed to marry her, offering a gift of fifty [excellent] red she-camels. At the same time, Ward ibn Muḥammad al-ʿUqaylī proposed to marry her and offered a gift of 10 camels and a camelherder. Her family told them, ‘We will let her choose between the two of you. Whomever she chooses will be her husband.’ Then they went into see her and told her: ‘By God, if you do not choose Ward, we will make an example out of you (la-numaththilanna biki).’7 Majnūn uttered [the following verses in connection with that episode]: Layla, if the decision (khiyār) of which of us [to marry] is yours,  then consider which of us is best (khiyār). Do not accept a low one instead of me,  or a cheapskate—for the smell of cooking meat is something all desire. He will rush into matters that are trivial,  but large strokes of fortune will render him useless. 5  See Jacobi, ʿUdhrī. 6  Al-Iṣfahānī [al-Iṣbahānī], al-Aghānī ii, 14–15. Compare also the story of the Umayyad-era poet Abū Dahbal al-Jumaḥī (d. after 96/715) (see Pellat, Abū Dahbal al-Djumaḥī). See too Motif T0131.14.4§ “Public declaration of love for girl as obstacle for marriage” in El-Shamy, Types of folktale. Many other motifs in the stories discussed in this study share similarities with motifs identified by El-Shamy in his comprehensive motif-spectrum (e.g. T0105.1§, T0133.2, T0053.8§). 7  The verb maththala bi- means “to punish a. o. as an example. To mutilate (a sheep)” (Hava, al-Farāʾid, s. v. m-th-l). I have translated this with the English idiom “make an example out of you” because it manages to convey the same meaning while also sharing the verb’s etymological root.

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Being married to him will be like being a spinster,  enjoying his wealth will be like being flat broke. Under duress, [Laylā] decided to marry Ward.” In a slightly different version of the rejected proposal episode, Majnūn’s family and relatives attempt to intercede with Laylā’s father on his behalf. His reply is both decisive and instructive:8 Majnūn’s father and mother, and the men of his tribe, went together to see Laylā’s father to warn him and implore him. “The man is dying,” they told him. “Though he may still be alive, his current state is worse than death as he’s losing his mind. [By doing this to him] you are tormenting his father and his family, so we beg you by God and by kinship, to [allow him to marry your daughter]. For she is not, by God, nobler than he is, nor do you possess wealth the like of his father’s. He let you set the dower (ḥakkamaka fī l-mahr) and if you asked him to give you everything he owns, he would do so (wa-in shiʾta an yakhlaʿa nafsahū ilayka min mālihī faʿal).” But her father refused, and he swore by God and upon his marriage that he would never marry her to him. “Should I bring dishonor upon myself and my tribe and do something that no Arab has ever consented to before? Should I brand my daughter with the brand of shame?” The aftermath of Laylā’s father’s rejection is well known, but it is worth pausing to consider his reaction to Majnūn’s tragic and subhuman death:9 Laylā’s tribe visited [Majnūn’s tribe] to pay their respects. Among them was Laylā’s father, who was the most distressed and upset [by Majnūn’s death]. “We never knew it would come to this,” he said. “I was just an Arab man, worried about shame and vile talk like anyone else in my position. So I married her off [to someone else] and she was no longer mine to worry about. If I’d known that he would end up like this, I would never have taken her away from him and I wouldn’t have done what I’d felt I had to do.” In the Aghānī version of the Majnūn Laylā legend, the young man and woman, who had spent their childhood shepherding their families’ respective herds 8  Al-Iṣbahānī, al-Aghānī ii, 21. This incident is narrated by a number of authorities. 9  Al-Iṣbahānī, al-Aghānī ii, 90–1. This incident is narrated by the same person, Abū l-Haytham al-ʿUqaylī.

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together, were separated from each other when Laylā reached sexual maturity (ḥattā kabirā fa-ḥujibat ʿanhu).10 Their tragedy is thus not merely a parable of sexual shame, morally suspect love poetry, and madness, but also a nostalgic warning tale about child-rearing and social order. This nostalgia is made explicit in the following couplet by Majnūn, which is cited to support the story of Laylā entering purdah:11 taʿallaqtu laylā wa-hya dhātu dhuʾābatin wa-lam yabdu li-l-atrābi min thadyihā ḥajmū ṣaghīrayni narʿā l-bahma yā layta annanā ilā l-yawmi lam nakbar wa-lam takbari l-bahmū When I fell in love with Laylā she wore her hair in forelocks, and there was no hint of shape to her breasts. We were young; together we grazed our herds. How I wish we’d stayed small, we and our beasts. Parental intervention is key to another tragic story in al-Aghānī about another ʿUdhrī love pair, Qays and Lubnā. In that story, after Qays and Lubnā make their mutual affection known to each other, Qays asks his father, Dharīḥ, to approach Lubnā’s father on his behalf.12 His father refuses and tells him to marry one of his paternal uncle’s daughters instead.13 Al-Iṣbahānī explains Qays’ father’s refusal matter-of-factly: “Dharīḥ was a very wealthy man, so he didn’t want his son to marry a woman from outside the fold (gharība).”14 Qays attempts to enlist the help of his mother, but finds that she agrees with his father. Undaunted, Qays manages to outmaneuver his parents by seeking the help of al-Ḥusayn ibn ʿAlī; a case of the Islamic tenet of intercession (shafāʿa) becoming reified in narrative.15 When al-Ḥusayn accompanies Qays to see Lubnā’s father, her father tells him that he could never say no to the

10  Al-Iṣbahānī, al-Aghānī ii, 11. 11  Al-Iṣbahānī, al-Aghānī ii, 11. Meter: Ṭawīl. 12  See Powers, Studies, Appendix B. Over email, Professor Powers drew my attention to the striking structural parallel of this story and that of Zayd and Zaynab’s marriage. 13  Al-Iṣbahānī, al-Aghānī ix, 182. 14  Al-Iṣbahānī, al-Aghānī ix, 182. 15  One of al-Iṣbahānī’s sources says that Qays and al-Ḥusayn ibn ʿAlī were milk-brothers (al-Iṣbahānī, al-Aghānī ix, 181).

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Prophet’s grandson, but that it would be better if the proposal were to come from Qays’ father:16 We could never disobey you, Son of our Prophet (yā bna rasūl Allāh), and we do not prefer any other suitor to this young man, but we would prefer it if his father, Dharīh, were to come to ask us to give our daughter to his son in marriage and indeed for this to happen upon his initiative. We worry that the father’s lack of involvement should shame and demean us (an yakūn ʿāran wa-subbatan ʿalaynā). Here again the bride’s family cites shame as the reason for rejecting the marriage proposal. Al-Ḥusayn returns to Qays’ father, who is sitting with the other men of his tribe, and insists that he marry Qays to Lubnā; Qays’ father cannot bring himself to say no to someone with al-Ḥusayn’s special social status. Yet this is an ʿUdhrī story, like the legend of Majnūn Laylā, so there can be no happy ending: Qays and Lubnā marry but when they fail to reproduce, Qays’ parents put sufficient pressure on him that he feels he has no choice but to divorce her.17

Pawn versus King versus King

These two stories are quite innocent when compared to another legend involving an offense-causing marriage proposal, which triggered the fall of an entire kingdom. The Lakhmid (or Naṣrid) king al-Nuʿmān III ibn al-Mundhir, who ruled al-Ḥīra from 580–602 AD, is remembered in both Arabic and Persian poetry as having met an ignominious end.18 Indeed, we might say that his legend was emblematic of the Arabic, and later Islamicate, cultural theme of the Wheel of Fortune, which inspired many works of literature and can be compared to the vanitas genre in Early Modern European visual art. In Khāqānī’s (d. 1198) well-known ode on the ruins of Ctesiphon (al-Madāʾin), the former

16  Al-Iṣbahānī, al-Aghānī ix, 182. 17  Al-Iṣbahānī, al-Aghānī ii, 183–5. 18  The standard work on the history of al-Ḥīra is Toral-Niehoff, al-Ḥīra. On Persian Arabs (incl. the Naṣrid or Lakhmid dynasty) and their place in Late Antique history, see Fisher and Wood, Writing the history.

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capital of the Sasanian empire, he cites al-Nuʿmān as a once mighty sovereign who was laid low by fate (dōrān and taqdīr):19 pendār hamān ʿahd ast az dīde-ye fekrat bīn dar selsele-ye dargah, dar kowkabe-ye meydān az asb piyādeh shō bar naṭʿ-e zamīn neh rukh zīr-e pey-e pīlash bīn shah-māt shode Noʿmān nay nay ke chū Noʿmān bīn pīl afkan-e shāhān-rā pīlān-e shab ō rūzash gashte beh pay-e dōrān ay bas shah-e pīl afkan kafkandeh be shah-pīlī shaṭranjī-ye taqdīrash dar mātgahe ḥermān Mast ast zamīn zīrā khōrdast be-jāy-e may dar kās-e sar-e Hormoz khūn-e del-e Nōsharvān Julie Scott Meisami renders these lines as: Imagine it is that very age, and look, with reflection’s eye On the chain before the court, the splendid assembly in the field. Dismount from your house, and place your face upon the mat of earth and see How great Noʿmān is checkmated beneath its elephants’ feet Nay, nay, see, like Noʿmān, those elephant-felling kings themselves Slain by the elephants Night and Day in the winding turns of time. How many an elephant-slaying king has been slain with a king-elephant By the chess-player of his destiny, mated, deprived of hope. The earth is drunk for it has drunken deep—instead of wine— From the cup of Hurmuz’s skull, the heart’s blood of Anūshirvān Several centuries before Khāqānī composed his poem, Zuhayr ibn Abī Sulmā (d. 609), the pre-Islamic Arab poet, described al-Nuʿmān’s fall from grace in similarly fatalistic terms:20

19  Persian Text and an English translation by Meisami in Sperl and Shackle, Qasida poetry ii, 162–9, ll. 22–6. 20  Ahlwardt (ed.), The divans 101–2. The question of whether Zuhayr was the author of this poem is still not settled; al-Aṣmaʿī believed that it was attributed to him erroneously and that its true author was Ṣirma ibn Abī Anas al-Anṣārī (fl. 7th c.).

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َّ ‫خ ً َّ ٱ � َ ٱ‬ ‫ولا ��ا �ل�د ا � لا � ل‬ ‫� ����ب�ا ل � �لروا ِ����سيَ���ا‬ ِ‫ج‬ ِ‫َ َّ ِ إ‬ َ َْ ً‫ة‬ َ ‫�أ‬ َ� ّ � ‫وي�ا �م ����ن�ا �م���ع�د ود � وا ل��لي��اِل����ي�ا‬ َ َ َ َ ْ ٰ ُ َ َ ْ ‫�أ‬ ‫و �ه�ل�ك �ل��ق�����م� نَ� ب� ن� ع�ا ٍد وع�ا ِد ���ي�ا‬ َّ َ َ ً َ َ َ‫َ ن‬ ‫و�فِ ْر�ع ْو� ج�بّ���ا را ��ط غ��ى وا �ل ن���� ج��ا شِ�����يَ���ا‬ َ َ ْ َ ُ َّ َ‫ف َتُُْ ُ ٱ �أ‬ َ �‫��ه � ل ي�ا و�هي� ك‬ ‫�م�ا ِ�ه����ي�ا‬ ‫�ت����رك‬ ‫م‬ َ ً َ ‫ن ٱ � شَّ ّ �َ ْ �أ نَّ ٱ ْ �أ نَ ن‬ ‫كا � �ا جِ�����ي�ا‬ � ‫�ِم�� � ل��� ِر لو � � �مر‬ َ ‫ٌ نَ �غ‬ ٌ َ ْ َّ ‫ٱ‬ ‫كا � �ا و���ي�ا‬ ِ‫�ِم� نَ� � �ل�د �هر ي� ْو وا ح‬ � ‫�� �د‬ ‫ِ م‬ ِ

[‫]�م� ن� ا �ل��طو�ل‬

‫َ ي‬ ‫�أ‬ َ� ‫�أَ َ َ َ ٱ‬ ً ‫لا لا ر �ى ���ع��ل � ل‬ � ‫ا‬ ‫� ب�ا قِ�ي���ا‬ ‫د‬ ‫ح‬ ‫و‬ ِ‫ِ ث‬ ‫ى‬ َّ َ َ َّ ‫َّ ٱ‬ ‫و�إلا � �ل����س��م�ا ءَ وا �ل ���بِ� �لا د ور�ب� ����ن�ا‬ َّ‫�أََِْ �َ َ �أَ ن‬ ً َُّ‫ٱ ّٰ َ �أَ ْ َ َ �ت‬ ‫ل ��ت�ر � � �ل��ل�ه ���ه�ل�ك �ب����ع�ا‬ ‫م‬ َ ْ‫�أَ ْ َ َ �ذ ٱ قَ ْنَ ْ ن ن‬ َ َ‫ت‬ ‫ق‬ ْ ‫و �ه�ل�ك ا � �ل����ر�ي��ِ� �ِم�� � ب��� ِل �م�ا �ر�ى‬ َ‫�أ‬ َ َ ْ َ‫�أَ َ �ذ َّ �أ‬ ْ � ‫ح� ت� �ِ�ه‬ ����‫لا لا ر �ى ا إ� �م��ةٍ ��ص ب‬ ِ‫ب‬ ِ ْ َ َ ْ ُّ‫�أَ َْ �َ َ ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ َ � � � � � ‫ل ��ت�ر �ِل��ل��عما ِ� ك�ا‬ ‫م‬ ٍ‫بِ جَوة‬ ً‫�حّ �ة‬ َ‫غَ ََّ �َ نْ ُ �ُ ْ َ � شْ � ن‬ �‫��ف���ي��ر ع���ه م�ل�ك ِع���ري� ِ ���ج‬ ِ

[١٠] [١١]

[١٢] [١٣] [١٤] [١٥] [١٦]

Can anything withstand time? What endures but the unshakable mountains? Or the heavens? Or the land? Or our Lord? Or our days which are numbered? Or our nights? Haven’t you seen how God wiped out the king of Ḥimyar? And Luqmān ibn ʿĀd and ʿĀdiyāʾ? And Dhū l-Qarnayn before you were born? And Pharaoh—that ruthless tyrant? And the king of Ethiopia? I’ve never known fate to leave the blessings of any blessed man intact. Didn’t you think that al-Nuʿmān was safe from harm—if a man can ever be safe? Then his twenty-year reign was up-ended suddenly by a single— duplicitous—day. History remembers al-Nuʿmān III ibn al-Mundhir as the last Lakhmid king of al-Ḥīrah and his and his dynasty’s demise as a precursor to the sweeping political change that would soon transform the face of the Late Antique Near East. Al-Nuʿmān III was deposed and imprisoned in 602 by Khosrow II Parvēz (r. 590–628), “the last great king of the Sasanian dynasty.”21 The battle of Dhū Qār that followed only a few years later was a sign of things to come.22 But the story of al-Nuʿmān’s downfall begins with the execution of another man, the poet ʿAdī ibn Zayd, who was the Lakhmid king’s secretary, confidant, 21  Howard-Johnston, Ḵosrow II. 22  Landau-Tasseron, Ḏū Qār.

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and—in some accounts—son-in-law. This story has recently been analyzed lucidly and perceptively by David Powers, and I will not retell it here, except to explain that ʿAdī’s rivals at court—like those of Thomas Cromwell after him— succeeded in turning the sovereign against him and he came to an unbecoming end after languishing for several years in captivity.23 ʿAdī is avenged by his son, who uses diplomacy and cultural translation to get the better of the Lakhmid king. Al-Nuʿmān regrets having had ʿAdī killed and recognizes that he was wrong to do so. He then encounters ʿAdī’s son, Zayd, to whom he shows favor and to whom he even apologizes for having had his father killed. Then—in large part to assuage his guilt—he sends the young man to the Persian emperor, recommending him as a suitable replacement for his father.24 This expiatory kindness sets off a chain of events that will end with al-Nuʿmān’s downfall as Zayd ibn ʿAdī will use his new influence to take revenge for his father’s death. In a further twist on the trope of the offensecausing marriage proposal, Zayd ibn ʿAdī manages to convince the Sasanian emperor to write to al-Nuʿmān ibn al-Mundhir, requesting that he send one or more suitable unmarried women from his household to the emperor to be married to him:25

23  See Powers, Demonizing Zenobia. See also Toral-Niehoff, al-Ḥīra 98–9; and Talib, Topoi and topography. 24  Al-Iṣbahānī, al-Aghānī ii, 121. In the version of this story preserved in al-Nuwayrī’s Nihāyat al-arab xv, 326, the letter of introduction al-Nuʿmān sent to the Persian emperor reads as follows:  inna ʿAdiyyan kāna mimman kāna uʿīna bihī l-maliku fī naṣīḥatihī wa-ra‌ʾyihī fa-nqaḍat muddatuhū wa-nqaṭaʿa ajaluhū wa-lam yuṣab bihī aḥadun ashadda min muṣībatī wa-inna l-malika lam yakun li-yafquda rajulan min ʿabīdihī illā jaʿala llāhu lahū minhu khalafan wa-qad adraka lahū bnun laysa huwa dūnahū wa-qad sarraḥtuhū ilā l-maliki fa-in ra‌ʾā an yajʿalahū makāna abīhi wa-yaṣrifa ʿammahū ilā ʿamalin ākhara faʿal.  “ʿAdī was one of those the emperor turned to for advice and counsel, and now that he has met his fate no one feels the pain of his loss more than I do. But God would not deprive the emperor of one of his servants without providing him a replacement. One of ʿAdī’s sons, who is no less [skilled] than he was, has come of age and so I send him to the emperor forthwith so that the emperor may—if he so chooses—install him in his father’s [former] position and move his uncle into another position.” (Note the parallel construction between the phrase “illā jaʿala -llāhu lahū minhu khalafan” in the letter and the well known ḥadīth: “man lazima l-istighfāra jaʿala -llāhu lahū min kulli hammin farajā”). It is no coincidence that ʿAdī was himself recommended to the Persian emperor for service after his own father’s death (al-Iṣbahānī, al-Aghānī ii, 101). 25  Al-Iṣbahānī, al-Aghānī ii, 122. The version of the story of al-Nuʿmān’s downfall that includes the offense-giving marriage proposal was transmitted by Abū ʿUbaydah Maʿmar ibn al-Muthannā (d. 209/824) (see Landau-Tasseron, Ḏū Qār).

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ّ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�كت� � ��ة �ع ن���د ���ه� ف� � ن‬ ‫كا ن� ت� ل��م�لوك ا �ل�ع�� ���ج� � �ص���ف��ة �م� ن� ا �ل�ِ����س�ا ء �م � و�ب‬ ‫ك‬ �‫و‬ ‫��ا �وا ي�ب��عث��و� �يف� ت��ل�ك‬ ‫م‬ ‫ّم‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫�أ‬ ّ ُ � ‫ن‬ ‫ال �����ض�� ن �����ت�ل�ك ا �ل���ص ����ف��ة ���ف� �ذ ا ُ ��ج�د ت‬ ‫�ون�وا‬ ‫� ��ح��م�ل� ت� إ� لى ا ل��م�ل�ك ��غي��ر �����ه� ل ي� ك‬ ‫ر ي� �ب‬ �‫إ و‬ ِ ‫مم‬ َّ� َّ � ‫�أ‬ ُ ّ ‫ض‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�ظ‬ �‫�ي��ط��ل�بو�����ه�ا �يف� ر�� ا �ل���ع�ر ب� ولا �ي�� ن��و�����ه�ا �ع ن���د ���ه� �ث� إ� ��ن�ه ��ب�د‏ ا �ل�ل���م�ل�ك �يف� ��ط�ل� ب‬ ‫م م‬ َّ‫ن‬ ّ � ‫�ز � ن‬ � � ‫ت��ل�ك ا �ل��� �ص���ف��ة �أ���م� ف� ك‬ � � ‫�ه‬ � ‫�د‬ ‫�د‬ ‫�ه‬ �� ‫ل‬ �� � � ‫ع‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ي‬ �‫�����ت� ب� ب�����ه�ا إ� لى ا ��ل�وا �حي� ود ��خ�ل إ � � ب‬ ‫ي� و و‬ ‫و ر‬ ّ ‫�أ‬ ‫فخ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ن‬ ّ ‫ف‬ ��� �� � � � ‫�ف� �ذ �ل�ك ا �ل��ق��ول‬ ‫��ا ط ����ب�ه �ي���م�ا د ��خ�ل إ� �ل����ي�ه �����ي�ه �ث� �ق�ا ل «إ� �ي� ر ي� ت� ا ل��م�ل�ك ق�د‬ ‫ي‬ ‫�� �أ ت ّ � �ة �� �م ت آ‬ ُ‫� � ن ة‬ ً�� ‫�ذ‬ ‫ن‬ � � ‫�ك‬ ‫�����ت� ب� يف� ���سو� �ي��ط�لب��� �ل�ه و�ق�ر � ا �ل��ِ�ص���ف� و�ق�د �ك‬ ‫�����ن�� ��ب� ل ا لم���ن� ر ع�ا ر �ف�ا و�ع���ن�د‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫ة�أ‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫�أ‬ ّ ُ ‫ث‬ � �‫خ‬ � ‫� نّ ن � ن ن‬ ‫� �ن �ش‬ ‫� ت �ع‬ � � ‫ع���ر� ن� ا���م�ر‬ ‫ع ����ب�د ك ا �ل��عما� م�� �ب���ا �ت�ه و �توا��ت�ه و�ب����ن�ا � ���م�ه �أو ���ه�ل�ه ك��ر م��َ َي‬ ّ ّ �� َّ ‫�� � ف‬ �� ‫نّ � ّ ش‬ ���� �‫���ع��لى ���ه��ذه ا �ل��ِ�ص ����ف��ة» �ق�ا ل « �ف�ا �ك� � ب‬ �‫ي�ه� ن�» �ق�ا ل « ي�����ه�ا ا ل��م�ل�ك إ� � ����ش�ر ���ي� ء �يف‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫ف�أ‬ ‫� ا ��لنُّ ن خ َّ �ةً �أ ّنَ �ت � َّ ن‬ ‫�ر�مو� �ز ���ع��موا �يف� ن���ف�����س���ه� �ع� ن� ا �ل�ع�� ���ج� �� ��ن�ا‬ ‫ا �ل���ع�ر ب� و يف� ��عما� ��ا ����ص� �����ه� ي� ك‬ ‫َّم ن �� تم ��أ‬ ‫م �أ‬ َّ َ ّ ‫�أ �أ ن‬ ‫ض‬ � ‫�ره � �ي غ��ي�����ب�ه� نّ� ���ع��م� ن� ��تب�����ع� ث� إ� �ل����ي�ه و �ي���ع�ر�� ع�ل����ي�ه ��غي��ر�ه� ن� و�إ� �ق�د �م�� �ن�ا‬ ‫ك‬ ‫ع�ل���ي�ه ل �������ق�د ���ع�� �ذ � ف��ا ��ع���� ن ا �����ع� ث �م� ��ج� اً �م� ن ث�������ق�ات ���ف ��ه� ا �ل�ع ����ي��ة‬ � ‫� م ي ر لى ل�ك ب �ث�ي� و ب � يع� ر � ل � ��ك ي���� م ر�ب‬ ‫تَ �أ‬ ُّ ‫ت‬ � ‫�ح�ّ ب���ل غ ���م�ا‬ � »‫ح ����ب�ه‬ �� � ‫ى‬ The emperors of Persia kept a description of the ideal woman in writing, which they would send out to the various territories and if a woman fitting this description were found, she would be taken to the emperor. They did not, however, go looking for this type of woman in the lands of the Arabs for they did not expect to find her there. One day, it occurred to the emperor that it was time to send out a call for this type of woman so he gave the order and the description was duly sent to the neighboring territories. Zayd ibn ʿAdī went in to see the emperor when he was in the middle of giving that order and after telling him what it was he’d come to tell him, he said “I see that the emperor has sent out a request for women. I’ve read the description of the ideal woman [that was sent] and as I’m well acquainted with the descendants of al-Mundhir [I can tell you] that your servant al-Nuʿmān has more than twenty women fitting this description among his daughters, sisters, paternal cousins, and other relatives. “In that case, write to him about it,” the emperor replied. “My lord, the worst thing about Arabs—especially al-Nuʿmān—is the pride they take in being, so they say, superior to non-Arabs. I wouldn’t like to see him hide these women from your emissary or indeed show him other women. If I were to go, he wouldn’t be able to do that, so send me and an emissary whom you trust who speaks Arabic so that we can fulfill your desire.”

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Zayd ibn ʿAdī succeeded in laying his trap by deploying two strategies, though it is unclear whether he considered these strategies to be outright deceptions, half-truths, or convenient truths. His first strategem was to whet the emperor’s sexual appetite by claiming that women fitting his criteria for the ideal royal bride could be found in al-Nuʿmān’s household. Having dangled that alluring prospect in front of the emperor’s eyes, his second stratagem was to snatch it away by claiming that an Arab noble would never deign to marry his female relatives to a non-Arab (exogamy). This story is also related in the 10th-century chronicles of al-Ṭabarī (d. 311/932) and al-Masʿūdī (d. 345/956), but in Abū ʿAlī Muḥammad ibn Muḥammad Balʿamī’s (d. 363/974) chronicle—a purported translation of al-Ṭabarī’s into Persian—Zayd’s first claim is presented as an outright lie:26

�‫گ‬ ‫� ن‬ ‫�����ه�ا ���ک��س ن��د �ا��ن� و ن��د ��ی�د‬ ‫�������ف� ت� �م� ن� د‬ � ‫���پ��س �ز ��ی�د � نب� ���ع�د �ی ���م�ر��ک���س�ر�ی را‬ ‫ر‬ ‫ج‬ ‫م‬ ‫م‬ ‫ن � ت گ‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن ن‬ � ‫��ب�د�ی� �ص����ف�� �م‬ ‫�ر د ���خت��ر ��عما� � نب� �م ����ن� ر ��ن�ا ا و ح�د ی�������ق�ه �ب�����پ�ا ر��سی ب�����ست���ا � ب�ا �����ش�د‬ ‫م‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫آن‬ � ‫��ه د ���خت�� �ب�د � ن‬ ‫ورو�ی � � د ���خت��ر چ�و� ب�����ست���ا �ی ا ����س� ت� و ا و د ا �����س� ت� ک‬ �‫ی� �ص����ف� ت‬ �‫ر‬ ‫گ‬ � ���‫��ز �آ ن� د ���خت�� ا ن‬ � ‫ا‬ ‫�ه‬ ‫�د‬ �� ‫ن���ی����س� ت� و��لی� ک‬ � ‫��ه ��ک���س�ر�ی ���ه�ر‬ � ‫ن‬ ‫�� ن� ا و را ی�������قی�� ن� ب�ود ک‬ ‫ک‬ ‫و‬ ‫ر ر ب �ی‬ ‫ن‬ ‫غ ن‬ ‫�هگ ن ن آ ن‬ �‫د رو �ز � �ش��ود و ر‬ �‫��ه ���ع�ر ب� �ه����یچ‬ ‫��ز ��عما� � � د ���خت��ر را �ب�ز �ی ب��ک���س�ر�ی ن��د ���ه�د ک‬ � � ‫� ت گ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�ز‬ ‫ت‬ � ‫ن‬ � ‫�ز‬ ‫ع‬ ‫�رد و ��ی�د‬ � ‫د ��خ�� �ه‬ ‫� ��ب�ه ���ج� ��د ���ه�د ���پ��س��ک���س�ر�ی را د ل ��ب�ه د ��خ��ر ��عما� �م����ی�ل ک‬ ‫ر ر گ م‬ ‫آ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن ن � ن � ت‬ ‫خ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫� ن ���ع�د � ا � � ت ن‬ ‫یر‬ �‫ب‬ ‫�������ف�� �ا ���م�ه �ب��و���ی��س ��ب�ه ��عما� �ت�ا � � د ��خ��ر را ��ب�ا ��ا د ���م�ا � ��سو�ی‬ ‫گ‬ � ‫ف‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�������ف� ت� چ�و� ��سو�ی ��عما� رو�ی ن�ا ���م�ه ��ب�د و د ه وت�و ��ب�ه‬ � ‫�م� ن� �ر����ست���د ���پ��س ���خ�ا د را‬ ‫آم‬ ‫گ‬ ‫� ت �ز‬ ‫� د ���خت�� ��س�ا خ�����ت�ه �ا �����ش�د ت� ا ا �ب�ا خ� � �����شت�� ن‬ ‫ر‬ � ‫وو و ر � وی‬ ‫ب‬ ‫روم رو �ت�ا �و ��ب�ا � �یی ا و ��ب�ر‬ ‫گ‬ ‫� � ت �ن‬ � ‫� ����ن�� ن �ک‬ � ‫ا‬ � ‫�ب�����ی�ا ور �ی ���پ��س �ز ��ی�د ���م�ر��ک���س�ر�ی را‬ : � � �� � � ‫�ف‬ �‫����ن��ی�زک د ر روم ب�����سی���ا ر ا ����س� ت‬ � �‫ی چ ی‬ ‫ن‬ ‫گ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫� ت� �� ت ن ن‬ � ‫ا� را‬ ‫��ه ���ع�ر ب� �مرد ���م�ا �ی �بی ا د ب� �ا��ن�د‬ ‫�خوا �هی روا ب�ا �����ش�د ک‬ ‫وا �ر و د �خ��ر ��عم‬ ‫د ���خت�� ا �ب�ه �ع‬ ]. . . .[ ‫��ج� ن��د �ه ����ن�د‬ ‫و رر � �م‬ Zayd ibn ʿAdī told the emperor that he did not know, nor had he ever seen, a woman who fit this description except the daughter of al-Nuʿmān ibn Mundhir, whose name was Ḥadīqah (“Garden”) and whose face was like a garden. He knew that the girl did not truly fit the description but he

26  Balʿamī, Tārīkh ii, 1111–12. On Balʿamī’s chronicle more generally, see Meisami, Persian Historiography. Other versions of this story include al-Ṭabarī, History v, 351–8 (see also for other accounts of al-Nuʿmān’s downfall) and al-Masʿūdī, Murūj ii, 225–7.

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was certain that the emperor would never see her and thus would never know that [Zayd] had lied. [He knew] that al-Nuʿmān would never marry the girl to the emperor because Arabs never gave their daughters to nonArabs. [Having heard her described,] the emperor fell for al-Nuʿmān’s daughter so he said to Zayd ibn ʿAdī, “Write to al-Nuʿmān telling him to send the girl to me in the company of my servants.” He then told one of his servants, “Since you’re going in al-Nuʿmān’s direction, give this letter to him, and you, [Zayd,] go to Byzantine territory (Rūm) and by the time you return, they will have prepared the girl’s trousseau and you can bring her here yourself.” Zayd said to the emperor, “There are lots of girls like this among the Byzantines. If you don’t want to marry al-Nuʿmān’s daughter, that’s no bad thing because the Arabs are an uncouth people and they don’t marry their women to non-Arabs.” Unfortunately for al-Nuʿmān and his dynasty, the story unfolds exactly as Zayd had hoped it would. He travels to al-Ḥīra at the emperor’s bidding to deliver the imperial bridal specifications and al-Nuʿmān’s response, while diplomatic, is true to the stereotype of Arab ethnic chauvinism and male sexual possessiveness on which Zayd’s machinations depended. In an interesting twist on Zayd and his deceased father’s roles as trusted translator-secretaries at court, Zayd seals al-Nuʿmān’s fate by deliberately mistranslating his answer:27

��� َّ� ��� � � ‫ف��لَّ��م�ا د ���خ� ع�ل���ي�ه �أ‬ ُ ‫ح����ت�ا � ل �ن���س�ا ء ��لن� ف�����س�ه‬ � ‫ل‬ ‫وو�ل�د ه‬ ‫ا‬ � ‫ا‬ � � ‫�د‬ ‫�ه‬ « ‫ا‬ � �‫ظ‬ � �� � ‫م‬ ‫ق‬ ‫�ن‬ ‫ق‬ ��‫ع‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�ك‬ ‫ل‬ � ‫ج‬ ‫و‬ ‫� إى‬ � ‫ل‬ ‫إ‬ ‫م‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫�أ‬ ّ ‫�ؤ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ن ة‬ »�‫�را����مت���ك ب�����ص���ه�ره � ب������ع� ث� إ� ��لي��ك» �������ق�ا ل «���م�ا �ه لا ء ا �ل�ِ���سو‬ ‫و ���ه�ل ب�ي�����ت�ه و را د ك‬ ‫ن ت ّ � �ة �أ ن � �ذ �أ �أ‬ ‫ف‬ �� َ � ‫�د‬ ��� ‫ه‬ � ‫�������ق�ا ل «���ه��ذه � فص��ت����ه� نّ� �ق�د ج���ئ ن���ا ب�����ه�ا» و‬ ‫كا �� ا �ل��ِ�ص���ف� � ا لم���ن� ر ال ك‬ ‫���بر‬ ‫ى‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫�ةً ن �أ‬ � ‫�ذ �أ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�أ ن‬ ‫ث‬ �� � ‫��� � ن �أ‬ � �� ‫ش��م‬ �   �‫إ� لى �و�����ش�روا � ج��ا ر��ي‬ ‫ك‬ �‫كا � �ص�ا ب�����ه�ا إ� ��غ�ا ر ���ع��لى ا �ل��ح�ا ر� ال بر ب� يب‬ ‫ر‬ ‫� غ َّ �ن ف‬ ‫] ف���ق�������ل��ه�ا �أ ن� �����ش� ا ن �أ���م� �� ��ث���ب�ا ت‬. . . .[ ‫������ت�� � ل �أ ن� �����ش� ا ن ���� فص��ت�����ه�ا‬ � ‫ك‬ � � � � ‫ب إ ى و رو ب‬ �‫ا ل������س�ا ي‬ � ‫ب � و رو و ر ب إ‬ ‫�أ‬ َ ّ ‫تّ ف ض �ذ‬ �� � ‫ت ث ن‬ ‫� �ة‬ ‫�ز‬ ‫ن‬ �‫���ه��ذه ا �ل��ِ�ص���ف� �يف� د وا وي����ن�ه �ف��لم ��ي� ا �لوا ي��وا ر�و�����ه�ا ���ح�ى �����ى �ل�ك ��ك���س�ر�ى �ب‬ َّ� ‫ُّ ن ف‬ َّ �� ‫ّ � �ة‬ ‫ف � �أ �ز‬ ‫�هر���م��ز ������ق�ر ��ي�د ���ه��ذه ا �ل��ِ�ص���ف� ���ع��لى ا ��لن��عما� � ش�������ق� ت� ع�ل����ي�ه و�ق�ا ل �ل�ز ��ي�د وا �لر��سول‬ ‫�أ‬ َّ �‫ف‬ ‫ل��س ا د ���ع�� ن ���ف�ا �� ���م�ا ����ب��ل غ‬ ‫� ��ب�ه��ك���س�ر�ى ح�ا ج�����ت�ه» ������ق�ا ل‬ � ‫ي����س��مع « ���م�ا �يف� ��م���ه�ا ا � و وِ ي� ر س ي‬ ‫ن �أ‬ َّ ‫ف‬ ‫�ة‬ ‫�ة‬ � � « ���‫ا �لر��سول �ل�ز ��ي�د ب�ا �ل��ف���ا ر����سي��� «���م�ا ا ل�م���ه�ا وا �ل���عي�� ن�» �������ق�ا ل �ل�ه ب�ا �ل��ف���ا ر����سي‬ �‫كا وا �» ي‬

27  Al-Iṣbahānī, al-Aghānī ii, 122–4.

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‫نُّ ن نَّ �أ‬ ‫�� �أ‬ َّ �� ‫ت‬ � ‫ا ��لب�����ق�ر �ف� �م��س�ك ا �لر��سول و�ق�ا ل �ز ��ي�د �ل��ل��عما� «إ� ���م�ا را د ا ل��م�ل�ك ك‬ ‫�را����م���ك و�لو ��ع��ل‬ ‫م‬ ُّ‫�أ نَّ �ذ ش ق‬ � � َّ � ‫ف�أ ن��ز � � � ن � � ه‬ ���� � � ‫ل‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�ل‬ ‫ل‬ � � �� ‫ع‬ � � � � �� ‫�ك‬   �‫ث‬ ‫�د‬ �� ‫ع‬ �� ‫ا‬ � ‫م‬ � ‫ه‬ � � »‫�ه‬ � � � ‫ك‬ � � � � � �� � � ‫�ت‬ ‫�ت‬ ‫ن‬ ‫م‬ ‫ب‬ ‫�ل‬ �� ‫ك‬ ‫ك‬ � � ‫ب إى‬ � ‫� ���ه� ا ي����� َ ي م ي ب إ ي‬ �‫� يو ي‬ ‫م‬ ‫نَّ ّ�ذ‬ »�‫��ك���س�ر�ى «إ� � ا �ل� �ي� ��ط�ل� ب� ا ل��م�ل�ك �ل�����ي��س �ع ����ن�د �ي‬ When Zayd approached the king, he exalted him and then said, “[The emperor of Persia] seeks women for himself and his sons and other male relatives, and he would like to do you the honor of marrying into your family. That’s why he sent me to you.” “What women [does he seek]?” [al-Nuʿmān] asked. “We’ve brought a copy of the desired characteristics,” [Zayd] replied. The [story behind this] description is that al-Mundhir the Elder sent Anūshirwān [Khosrow I] a description of an enslaved woman whom he had taken captive during a raid against the Ghassanid al-Ḥārith the Elder, son of Abū Shamir, and whom he had given to Anūshirwān as a gift. [. . . .] Anūshirwān accepted her and ordered that the description be recorded in his archives. [The emperors of Persia] passed the description down the generations and that was how it came into the possession of Kisrā ibn Hurmuz. Zayd read the description out to al-Nuʿmān, who was troubled greatly by it. “Can the emperor not find what he seeks among the wild cows (mahā) of Lower Mespotamia and the wide-eyed ones (ʿīn) of Persia?”, al-Nuʿmān asked Zayd as the emperor’s emissary listened. “What do mahā and ʿīn mean?” the emissary asked Zayd in Persian. “Gāvān,” he answered, that is “Cows.” The emissary said nothing. “The emperor wanted to do you the honor of joining your families in matrimony,” Zayd explained to al-Nuʿmān, “but if he’d known that it would trouble you so, he would never have brought the issue up.” [Al-Nuʿmān] hosted them for a couple of days and then sent his reply to Kisrā: “I do not have what the emperor seeks.”

Zayd was doing his lord’s bidding by traveling to arrange a royal marriage—like Tristan did for King Mark—but this bout of service also enabled to him to lay a trap for the man who was responsible for his father’s death. In his version of events, Balʿamī is even more concerned with exonerating al-Nuʿmān and implicating Zayd ibn ʿAdī, the perfidious translator:28

28  Balʿamī, Tārīkh ii, 1113–14. The figure of the perfidious translator calls to mind Fawwāz Ḥaddād’s 2008 novel, al-Mutarjim al-khāʾin.

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‫ت ن‬ ‫ن ن‬ ‫��عما� ج�وا ب� د ا د ک‬ �‫��ه د ���خ��را � ���ع�ر ب� ����سی���ا ه رو�ی ب�ا ش�����ن���د و �بی ا د ب� و ���خ�د �م� ت‬ ‫ن‬ �‫گ‬ ‫ف‬ � ‫���م�لوک را � ش����ا ��ی ����ن�د ود ر ج�وا ب� ن�ا ���م�ه ا �ل����ط�ا �� ن�و������ش� ت� و خ����صی را‬ ‫ «���م��لک‬:�‫�������ف� ت‬ ‫گ‬ � ‫��ه ا � ن د ���خت�� ا ��ن�ه � ����ن�ا ن� �ا ف�����ت� ک ش ت‬ � �‫را ب‬ ‫�و�ی ک‬ ‫��ه ����ا ی�����س���ه ���م��لک ب�ود» وا��ن�د ر‬ ‫ر‬ ‫ر‬ �‫ی‬ ‫ی‬ ‫چ‬ ‫م‬ ‫�أ‬ ّ ‫ق‬ ‫ن‬ »�‫ « � �فی ��م���ه�ا ا �ل���ع�را � لم ن���د و��ح��ة ا ل��م��لک �ع� ن� ��سوا د ا���ه�ل ا �ل���ع�ر ب‬:�‫ن�ا ���م�ه ن�و������ش� ت‬ ‫ن �ز � ت گ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫� د ا ن����ی�د ا �ز‬ �‫ا � ن ��س‬ ‫�و����س� ت� و ��لی� ک‬ ‫�� ن�خ�ی �ل��ط�����ی� و ن�ی� ک‬ ‫�� ن� �ز ��ی�د ب�ت��ر ج����م�ه ک‬ �‫وی‬ � ‫�رد � �����ش�� �ر‬ ‫آ‬ ‫ن �زگ‬ ‫گ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�ز‬ ‫�ز‬ � � � ‫ن‬ � �‫��ه ا��ن�د ر ج‬ � �‫�و�هی ب�ا ����ش�د و�����ی‬ ‫�ا و ک‬ � ‫��ه ��م���ه�ا �ب����ت�ا �ی‬ ‫�و��ی���ن�د ک‬ ‫ب�����ه�ر � � �ک‬ ‫�����ه�ا � ا ���م�رد م و‬ ‫گ‬ � ‫� �ه ن�� ک‬ �‫چ‬ � �‫�����ه�ا ر ��پ�ا �ی �ه����ی�چ [ ���چ��ی�ز] را چ� �����ش� ا �ز چ� �����ش‬ �‫�و�ت�ر ن�ب��ا �����ش�د و ���ع�ر ب‬ ‫�ا و کو ی ی‬ � ‫م‬ ‫م‬ ‫گ‬ ‫نگ‬ ]. . . .[ ‫�و��ی ����ن�د‬ � ‫�ا و چ� �����ش� را ��م���ه�ا‬ � � ‫�ز ��ن�ا‬ ‫ن خ � ن من ن آ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ا �ب�ه ���ع� ا ق �ا��ن�د � ����ن�د ا ن ���ف� ا خ‬ � ‫و �م����ع� ��س‬ ‫����ن�ا � ��عما� � � ب�ا ����ش�د ک‬ �‫ر‬ � ‫ ���م��لک ر‬:‫��ه‬ ‫ی‬ �‫ر چ � ر‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�ت‬ ‫�ز‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ش‬ � ‫��ه ا ورا ب�����سی���ا ���ه�ا � ���ع�ر ب� ��ح�ا ج��� ���ی����س�� ��ی�د‬ ‫چ� ش���ما� و����سی���ا ه چ����ما� �ه��س����ن�د ک‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ت ن‬ ‫ا�ن‬ ‫گ د ا ن����ی�د ��م��ه�ا ���م�ا د ه گ� ن ش ن‬ � �‫ی� �م��� ن�ع�ی را ب�ت��ر ج����م�ه ب‬ ‫�ا وا � ب�ا ��������د و��سود ا � ��م���ه��را � و‬ � ‫�ر � و‬ ‫ن �ه گ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫گ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�ا وا ن� ��ع‬ � ��‫��ه �ا��ی�د و� �می‬ � ‫��ه ���م�ا د ه‬ ‫�و��ی�د ک‬ ‫چ� ����ن�ا � ��ب�ا �ز �مود ک‬ � ‫��ج�م ���م��لک را چ� ����ن�د ا‬ ‫گ‬ ‫�ت‬ �‫�ا ن� ���ع�ر ب� ا و را ب� ک‬ ‫��ا ر ن�ی��ا ��ی�د‬ � ‫��ه ��م�هت��ر �ز ا د‬ ‫�ه��س� ����ن�د ک‬ Al-Nuʿmān replied that the daughters of the Arabs are wicked (lit. blackfaced) and uncouth and that they are not suited to serving kings. He wrote a polite reply to the letter and he told the eunuch, “Be sure to tell the emperor that you didn’t think the girl was a suitable royal bride.” In his reply, he wrote: “The emperor can have his pick of the cow[-eyed women] of Iraq rather than take a swarthy Arab bride.” This is a polite and eloquent expression, but when Zayd translated it, he made it sound repugnant. In Arabic, mahā means mountain cow and it is said that out of all the people on earth and all the four-legged animals, nothing has prettier eyes than a mountain cow so Arabs refer to cow-eyed women as mahā. [. . . .] The meaning of al-Nuʿmān’s reply was that there are so many wideeyed and dark-eyed women in Iraq that the emperor has no need [of marrying] swarthy Arab women. Zayd translated mahā as cow and swarthy (sūdān) as lords, and with his explanation thus made it seem that [al-Nuʿmān] had said: “The emperor has so many Persian heifers that he does not to be supplied with the Arabs’ high-born daughters.”

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In all versions of the story, Zayd’s plan succeeds and the Persian emperor is outraged by al-Nuʿmān’s impertinent-sounding response. This incident, engineered by Zayd ibn ʿAdī who sought to avenge his own father’s death, eventually leads to al-Nuʿmān’s death (by elephant stomping, in some versions) after he failed to enlist the support of his Arab allies, presaging the fall of his dynasty and of the Sasanian empire a few years later. In one version of the story preserved in Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣbahānī’s (d. 297/909) Kitāb al-Zahrah, al-Nuʿmān’s response is markedly defiant and addresses the issue of reciprocity directly as if appealing to the Persian emperor’s own feelings of sexual possessiveness:29

‫ٰ �أ‬ َ ّ‫� ت �عّ � ا �أّن ن‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ف‬ �‫�م���ه�ا ي‬ ‫ك ���ه�� ا ل‬ ‫������ت� ب� إ� �ل����ي�ه � ك‬ ‫�ك‬ � �‫ ��ي�دع ا ل��م�ل�ك �ب����ن�ا � ���م�ه ا ل�ل �يت‬:�‫������ت� ب� ا ��لن����ع��م� ن‬ �‫�خ�����ط� ب‬ ّ �‫إ� يل‬ And so the emperor wrote to him and al-Nuʿmān sent his reply: “Would the emperor allow me to marry one of his cousins, who are as beautiful as wild-cows?”

The Persian emperor never has the chance to understand the issue from al-Nuʿmān’s perspective, however, because Zayd ibn ʿAdī—as in the other versions—uses his position as court interpreter to twist al-Nuʿmān’s words:30

ّ ‫� ت‬ ‫ٰ ف‬ ‫ف‬ ‫� �ع���م�ه‬ ‫ ي���ق��ول ���ع��لى ا ل��م�ل�ك ب��ب����ن�ا‬:‫ ���م�ا ي���ق��ول ا ��لن����ع��م� ن� �������ق�ا ل‬:‫�������ق�ا ل ��ك���س�ر�ى �ل�ز ��ي�د‬ ‫ا � ا � ��ت ش�����ّ���ه� ن �ب�ا ��ل�ق�� �أ �ه���م�ه �أ نّ ���ه��ذ ا ���ع�� � ��ه��ة ا �ل�ع����ي� ا ��لن�ق���� � �ص��ة‬ ���‫� ب� و ي‬ � ‫ل�ل يت� ي� ب � � � ب ر و و‬ ���‫لى ج‬ “What does al-Nuʿmān say?” the emperor asked Zayd. “He says the emperor should marry one of his heifer-looking cousins instead,” Zayd answered, leading the emperor to believe that al-Nuʿmān had intended his comparison to be disparaging.

In this version of the story, al-Nuʿmān’s attempt to appeal to the Persian emperor’s sense of ghayrah (jealousy or sexual possessiveness) is thwarted by Zayd ibn ʿAdī; that same emotion is at the root of what Laylā’s father refers to when he speaks of branding his daughter with the “brand of shame” (mīsam al-faḍīḥa). Indeed, in most versions of the story of al-Nuʿmān’s downfall, the 29  Ibn Dāwūd, Kitāb az-Zahrah 59. 30  Ibn Dāwūd, Kitāb az-Zahrah 59.

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villain is clearly perfidious Zayd, though his malice is modulated by his righteous vengeance. The Persian emperor is depicted as behaving imprudently— a grave sin among kings—having allowed Zayd to manipulate him through sexual temptation, but what of his lack of empathy? Are we to understand that the intended audiences of these semi-fictional narratives would have found fault with the Persian emperor not only for his lack of forbearance (ḥilm), but also for his inability to commiserate with al-Nuʿmān’s feelings of sexual possessiveness? Would they have understood al-Nuʿmān’s behavior in similar terms to those Laylā’s father used to justify his own? Certainly sexual possessiveness was a masculine value that Abbasid society both respected and mistrusted as a number of ambiguous examples demonstrate. In his account of the Kharijite rebellions, al-Ṭabarī records that when the Umayyad commander ʿAbdallāh ibn ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz’s wife was captured by the Azāriqa and put up for auction as war booty “[o]ne of her kinsmen, a Khārijite leader named Abū l-Ḥadīd al-Shannī, feeling that his honor was at stake [. . .] beheaded [the woman].”31 When he later encounters the woman’s family, they tell him “ ‘By God, we do not know whether we should praise you or blame you.’ ”32 In a far more famous example, the fall of the powerful Barmakid house is associated in Abbasid historiography with the story of the caliph Hārūn al-Rashīd’s ludicrous attempt to police the chastity of his half-sister ʿAbbāsah bint al-Mahdī and his adviser Jaʿfar al-Barmakī, a pair of adults whom he married solely so that they could all spend time together.33 Again one’s own lived experience interrupts, and perhaps distorts, attempts at analysis: sexual possessiveness as a laudable, and natural, characteristic of masculinity is one I know well. “Bī-ghayrat” (“lacking in sexual jealousy”) is an insult in Persian; the same condition is also known as “bī-nāmūsī” (compare Ottoman Turkish namussuzluk). Indeed the trope of the sexually possessive and jealous Arab or Middle Eastern or Muslim man, which is well known and popular today, is an essential condition for the narrative logic of these offense-causing marriage proposals. It will not have escaped the reader’s attention that these are stories of men taking offense at marriage proposals made by other men, taking offense at the emasculation or sexual dominance implied in such proposals;

31  Al-Ṭabarī, History xxi, 220. NB: I have modified the text of the quotation in accordance with the transliteration system used here. 32  Al-Ṭabarī, History xxi, 220. 33  Much has been written about this episode in Abbasid history. See, inter alia, al-Ṭabarī, History xxx, 214–29; Sourdel, Le vizirat i, 156–81; Meisami, Masʿūdī on love; Kruk, A Barmecide feast; Hamori, Going down in style.

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the actual or notional reactions of the women whom these proposals concern are irrelevant to the plot. The analysis of this recurrent narrative trope is not particularly knotty if we accept that sexual possessiveness is a standard and universal masculine characteristic, but that is reductive and unsatisfactory for obvious reasons. To illustrate why this is, let us consider two unrelated and disparate cases that suggest the unacknowledged influence this trope has had on contemporary historiography. The first example comes from the New Kingdom of Ancient Egypt; the second from a twenty-first-century reconstruction of the medieval Mediterranean.

Example One Furthermore you, my brother, when you wrote to me about not giving a daughter when I wrote to you for a daughter for marriage, saying “From of old a daughter of the king of Egypt has never been given to anyone,” why has one never been given? You are a king; you can do whatever you want. If you were to give a daughter who could say anything?34

This probing response is preserved in a fragmentary letter, which is part of the collection known as the El-Amarna Correspondence. This collection of 349 Akkadian letters written in Cuneiform comes from Tell el-Amarna in Middle Egypt, the capital established by Akhenaton (or Amenḥotep IV), and includes correspondence addressed to both Akhenaton (r. 1352–1336 bc) and his father Amenḥotep III (r. 1390–1352 bc). What is most interesting about this extract for our purposes is that—as in the example of al-Nuʿmān and the Persian emperor—it shows that the issue of elite marriage is especially sensitive for the family of the bride. In this case, an unnamed vassal of the Egyptian pharaoh is disturbed by the suggestion that the Egyptian royal family is somehow unique in not allowing its female members to be married to foreign royal houses. He attempts—one assumes unsuccessfully—to appeal to the pharaoh’s pride, juxtaposing royal protocol with ultimate pharaonic authority, and indeed goes on to threaten not to send his own daughter to be married to the pharaoh unless he receives the quantity of gold, which the pharaoh agreed to pay him in exchange for undertaking some unspecified task. Marriage alliances as well as the Egyptian royal house’s lack of reciprocity are a concern in many of the El-Amarna letters (e.g. EA 1–4, 11, 14, 19–22, 24, 27, 29, 34  Rainey, The El-Amarna correspondence i, 73 (EA4, ll. 4–9).

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31–2, 41). According to Anson F. Rainey, the letters concerning royal intermarriage are part of two clusters dating from the reign of Amenḥotep III that were sent between Bablyon and Egypt and Mittani and Egypt respectively.35 EA4 is believed to have been sent by the Babylonian king Kadashman-Enlil (r. c. 1375– 1360 bc) to the pharaoh Amenḥotep III.36 Christer Jönsson suggests that “[t]he [Babylonian] king probably knew that his request for Pharaoah’s daughter would be refused [. . .]” but “[b]y reminding Pharaoh of his failure to maintain the customary reciprocity, he hoped to increase the compensation for offering his daughter in marriage.”37 This game-theory informed analysis is credible, and it highlights the economic and political considerations that attend all questions of royal intermarriage. In fact, some historians of Ancient Egypt use the Egyptian royal family’s projection of patriarchal sexual possessiveness as a proxy for Egypt’s relative economic and political strength over time: The marriage of a royal princess (perhaps a daughter of Siamun) to Solomon of Israel is a striking testimony to the reduced prestige of Egypt’s rulers on the world stage. At the height of the New Kingdom, pharaohs regularly took to wife the daughters of Near Eastern princes, but refused to permit their own daughters to be married off to foreign rulers.38 This interpretation would also fit the well known case of the marriage of Tughril Beg (d. 455/1063), the founder of the Seljuq dynasty, to the daughter of the Abbasid Caliph al-Qāʾim bi-Amr Allāh (d. 467/1073).39 Nevertheless, this view of social mores supposes that such values can only be valorized from a position of strength—in this case economic, political, and military—and that they will inevitably give way when those who uphold them find themselves weakened. By this logic, al-Nuʿmān should never have hesitated to accede to the Persian emperor’s request, let alone deny it. Even if we consider the story of al-Nuʿmān’s downfall to be a parable of Arab ethnic dignity, the behavior of al-Nuʿmān’s erstwhile Arab allies is hardly inspiring. Indeed, one might get 35  Rainey, The El-Amarna correspondence i, 16–17; ii, 1327–8. 36  Rainey, The El-Amarna correspondence ii, 1327–8. 37  Jönsson, Diplomatic signaling 198. 38  Taylor, The third intermediate period 327. In her commentary on EA4, the El Amarna letter cited above, Zipora Cochavi-Rainey writes that “The text is important since it documents the Egyptian policy of never giving a royal princess in a political marriage to a foreign power.” Rainey, The El-Amarna correspondence ii, 1328. On Solomon’s Egyptian wife, see Cohen, Solomon and the daughter of Pharaoh. 39  See Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil fī l-tārīkh x, 20–6; Richards (trans.), The annals 142. See also Makdisi, Marriage of Ṭughril Beg.

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the impression from the story that Arabs, while sexually possessive to a nearly suicidal degree, cannot be counted on to come to the aid of their allies in difficult circumstances. In the context of the ethnically plural and socially frenetic Abbasid cities in which these versions of the story were recorded, it is no less likely that elite audiences, while deploring Zayd’s treachery, would have scoffed at al-Nuʿmān and the atavistic world-view he represented. Nevertheless the idea that certain groups prefer sexual possessiveness to economic and political gain is a tenacious one.40

Example Two

Players of the computer video game Medieval: Total War, set in the period 1087– 1453, vie for domination as various European and Mediterranean kingdoms, which are classified along religious lines as Catholic, Orthodox, or Muslim. In addition to warfare, players use diplomacy and espionage to further their political goals. One tool at players’ disposal is royal intermarriage, which is achieved by marrying one’s princesses to other factions, yet, to quote the game manual, “[p]rincesses are only available to Catholic and Orthodox factions. There are no Muslim princesses in Medieval: Total War.”41 In the universe of this game, Muslim rulers are conceived as putting the value of patriarchal sexual possessiveness over the realpolitik gains of diplomatic alliances. Those who created the game and those who play it are likely unaware that in medieval Iberia, for example, there was significant intermarriage between Catholic and Muslim kingdoms, but the game’s vision of civilizational differences is not the result of ignorance about historical situations.42 It is the result of a cultural belief 40  The story of Astyages as told by Herodotus may demonstrate the extent to which endogamy was seen as natural and exogamy was seen as extreme, perhaps even ruinous. The Median Emperor dreamt that his daughter Mandane’s child would overthrow him and his empire and so he chose to marry his daughter not to a Mede, but to a Persian. He later conspired to have the child killed, but his order was not carried out (Herodotus, The histories 1.107–1.112). That child grew up to become Cyrus the Great (c. 559–530 bc) and to fulfill the prophecy. 41   Medieval: Total war, Game manual 18. The same limitation on princesses was upheld in the sequel Medieval II: Total war (2006): “Princesses cannot attempt to marry Generals from an Islamic faction (Egypt, Turks, Moors) or factions that do not have princesses.” Game manual 35. 42  “Intermarriage between Muslim and Christian Dynasties,” an entry by Mohamad Ballan on his excellent blog Ballandalus, translates and summarizes a portion of Saḥar al-Sayyid ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz Sālim, al-Jawānib al-ījābiyyah wa-l-salbiyyah.

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that cannot be shaken by academic history. Here, as everywhere, trope trumps truth. But what does this oft-repeated and resilient trope tell us about the story of Zayd ibn ʿAdī’s dishonest revenge? In a celebrated analysis of Othello entitled “Improvisation and Power,” Stephen Greenblatt repurposes Daniel Lerner’s conception of empathy to show that “[. . .] the Europeans’ ability again and again to insinuate themselves into the preexisting political, religious, even psychic, structures of the natives and to turn those structures to their advantage” was “essential” for the imposition of European hegemony in the New World in the early modern period.43 Greenblatt calls this skill improvisation, that is:44 [. . .] the ability to both capitalize on the unforeseen and transform given materials into one’s own scenario. The “spur of the moment” quality of improvisation is not as critical here as the opportunistic grasp of that which seems fixed and established. One thing that the different versions of the story of Zayd ibn ʿAdī’s revenge against al-Nuʿmān agree on is that Zayd had no specific plan for taking revenge against the man who ordered his father’s death. Indeed it was not Zayd who brought up the subject of marriage to the Persian emperor, rather he happened on the discussion as it was taking place and only then was he able to improvise a plan that he hoped would bring al-Nuʿmān and the Persian emperor into conflict.45 It is not simply that the authors of this revenge narrative failed to illustrate Zayd’s psychology. Nor can we say that, having failed to devise a plan for revenge, Zayd’s success was owed entirely to dumb luck. Rather Zayd accomplished the challenge as he met it, through an act of improvisation, which is arguably more difficult to execute than a calculated plan. Yet the improvisational faculty was only available to Zayd, who—like his father and other Ḥīran “agents of exchange”—occupied a liminal role in both courts, as Arab secretary to a Persian prince, an imperial dragoman, who had a unique insight into the psyches of both al-Nuʿmān and his Persian overlord.46 It seems that missions such as the ones that Zayd and Tristan were sent on were prime

43  Greenblatt, Improvisation and power 60. 44  Greenblatt, Improvisation and power 60. 45  In al-Nuwayrī’s telling of the story (Nihāyat al-arab xv, 326–30), however, it may have been Zayd that instigated this conversation. 46  I have borrowed the term agents of exchange from Toral-Niehoff, Late Antique Iran 120–2.

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opportunities for improvisation.47 Zayd’s betrayal was all the more wicked for exploiting the confidence that only a courtier can enjoy. As Greenblatt explains:48 If improvisation is made possible by the subversive perception of another’s truth as an ideological construct, that construct must at the same time be grasped in terms that bear a certain structural resemblance to one’s own set of beliefs. An ideology that is perceived as entirely alien would permit no point of histrionic entry: it could be destroyed but not performed. Only Zayd could have engineered the conflict without any indication of precognition. Only he understood how to provoke the pair’s incompatible twin vices—a Persian emperor’s sexual greed and an Arab king’s sexual possessiveness. Zayd’s treason succeeded because, like all good stories, it was built on tropes. Bibliography Abu Lughod, L. and M. Mikdashi, Tradition and the anti-politics machine: DAM seduced by the ‘honor crime’ in Jadaliyya , 23 November 2012. Ahlwardt, W. (ed.), The divans of the six ancient Arabic poets, London 1870. Balʿamī, Tārīkh-i Balʿamī, ed. M.T. Bahār, 2nd ed., 4 vols, Tehran 1974. Ballan, M., Intermarriage between Muslim and Christian dynasties in early medieval Iberia (711–1100) in Ballandalus . Canım İstanbul, Interview with “Mustang” Director Deniz Gamze Ergüven in Canım İstanbul , 21 October 2015.

47  It was not always emissaries who took advantage of the situation to write reality in their favor. When Ibn al-Jaṣṣāṣ, the governor of Egypt’s representative, was sent to arrange a marriage between the governor’s daughter and the son of the Abbasid caliph al-Muʿtaḍid bi-llāh (r. 892–902), he must have been surprised when the caliph decided arbitrarily that he would marry the girl himself (al-Ṭabarī, History xxxviii, 2–3). 48  Greenblatt, Improvisation and power 62.

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Carr, S., Sexual assault and the state: A history of violence? in Mada Masr , 7 July 2014. Cohen, S.J.D., Solomon and the daughter of Pharaoh: Intermarriage, conversion, and the impurity of women, in Journal of the ancient Near Eastern society 16–17 (1984–5), 23–37. Ergüven, Deniz Gamze (dir.), Mustang, 2015 [film]. El-Shamy, H.M., Types of folktales in the Arab world, Bloomington 2004. Fisher, G. and P. Wood, Writing the history of the “Persian Arabs”: The pre-Islamic perspective on the “Naṣrids” of al-Ḥīrah, in Iranian Studies 49 (2016), 247–90. Garfunkel and Oates, “The loophole,” Secretions, 2015 [song]. Greenblatt, S., Improvisation and power, in E. Said (ed.), Literature and society: Selected papers from the English institute, 1978, Baltimore 1980, 57–99. Hamori, A., Going down in Style: The pseudo-Ibn Qutayba’s story of the fall of the Barmakīs, in Princeton papers in Near Eastern studies 3 (1994), 89–125. Hava, J.G., al-Farāʾid al-durriyyah: Arabic-English dictionary, Beirut 1915. Herodotus, The histories, trans. by A.D. Godley, Cambridge 1920. Howard-Johnston, J., Ḵosrow II, in EIr. Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil fī l-tārīkh, 12 vols, Beirut 1965 [repr. of Tornberg edition, Leiden 1862–76]. Ibn al-Athīr, The annals of the Saljuq Turks. Selections from al-Kāmil fī’l-Ta‌ʾrīkh of ʿIzz al-Dīn Ibn al-Athīr, ed. and trans. D.S. Richards, London 2002. Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī al-Ẓāhirī, Kitāb az-Zahrah. Parte seconda (Capitoli LI–LV ), ed. Michele Vallaro, Naples 1985. al-Iṣbahānī [al-Iṣfahānī], Kitāb al-Aghānī, Cairo 1927–. Jacobi, R., ʿUdhrī, in EI2. Jönsson, C., Diplomatic signaling in the Amarna letters, in R. Cohen and R. Westbrook (eds.), Amarna diplomacy. The beginnings of international relations, Baltimore 2002, 191–204. Khader, J., The invisible link: Honor killing and global capitalism, in Jadaliyya , 21 January 2013. Kruk, R., A Barmecide feast: The downfall of the Barmakids in popular imagination, in Y. Suleiman (ed.), Living Islamic history: Studies in honor of professor Carole Hillenbrand, Edinburgh 2010, 92–106. Landau-Tasseron, E., Ḏū Qār, in EIr. Leder, S., The literary use of the khabar: A basic form of historical writing, in A. Cameron and L.I. Conrad (eds.), The Byzantine and early Islamic Near East, I: Problems in the literary source material, Princeton, 1992, 277–315. Makdisi, G., The marriage of Ṭughril Beg, in IJMES 1:3 (1970), 259–70.

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al-Masʿūdī, Murūj al-dhahab wa-maʿādin al-jawhar, ed. C. Pellat, Beirut 1965–66. Medieval: Total war, The Creative Assembly and Activision 2002 [video game]. Medieval II: Total war, The Creative Assembly and Sega 2006 [video game]. Meisami, J.S., Masʿūdī on love and the fall of the Barmakids, in JRAS 2 (1989), 252–77. Meisami, J.S., Persian historiography to the end of the twelfth century, Edinburgh 1999. al-Nuwayrī, Nihāyat al-arab fī funūn al-adab, Cairo 1923. Pellat, C., Abū Dahbal al-Djumaḥī, in EI2. Powers, D.S., Studies in Qur’an and Ḥadīth: The formation of the Islamic law of inheritance, Berkeley 1986. Powers, D.S., Demonizing Zenobia: The legend of al-Zabbāʾ in Islamic sources, in R.E. Margariti, A. Sabra, and P. Sijpesteijn (eds.), Histories of the Middle East: Studies in Middle Eastern society, economy and law in honor of A.L. Udovitch, Leiden 2010, 127–82. Rainey, A.F., The El-Amarna correspondence. A new edition of the cuneiform letters from the site of El-Amarna based on collations of all extant tablets, 2 vols, ed. W. Schniedewind and Z. Cochavi-Rainey, Leiden 2015. Sālim, S., al-Jawānib al-ījābiyya wa-l-salbiyya fī l-zawāh al-mukhtalaṭ fī l-Andalus. Dirāsa siyāsiyya adabiyya wa-ijtimāʿiyya in, M. Hammam (ed.), al-Gharb al-Islāmī wa-l-gharb al-Masīḥī khilāla l-qurūn al-wusṭā, Rabat 1995. Sourdel, D., Le vizirat abbaside, Damascus 1959. Sperl, S. and C. Shackle (eds.), Qasida poetry in Islamic Asia and Africa. II: Eulogy’s bounty, meaning’s abundance, an anthology, Leiden 1996. Tabachnik, J. and A. Klein, A reasoned approach: Reshaping sex offender policy to prevent child sexual abuse, Beaverton 2011. al-Ṭabarī, The History of al-Ṭabarī, V: The Sāsānids, the Byzantines, the Lakhmids, and Yemen, trans. C.E. Bosworth; XXI: The Victory of the Marwānids, trans. M. Fishbein; XXX: The ʿAbbāsid Caliphate in Equilibrium, trans. C.E. Bosworth; XXXVII: The Return of the Caliphate to Baghdad, trans. F. Rosenthal, Albany, NY 1985–99. Talib, A., Topoi and topography in the histories of al-Ḥīra, in P. Wood (ed.), History and identity in the late antique Near East, New York 2013, 123–47. Taylor, J., The third intermediate period (1069–664 bc), in I. Shaw (ed.), The Oxford history of Ancient Egypt, Oxford 2000, 324–63. Toral-Niehoff, I., Late antique Iran and the Arabs: The case of al-Ḥīra, in Journal of Persianate Studies 6 (2013), 115–26. Toral-Niehoff, I., Al-Ḥīra. Eine arabische Kulturmetropole im spätantiken Kontext, Leiden 2014.

CHAPTER 13

Writing the Past: Ancient Egypt through the Lens of Medieval Islamic Thought Tara Stephan Medieval Islamic scholars had a fascination with the ancient past and wrote about a variety of places and times—Yemen, pre-Islamic Arabia, Egypt, Iran, Greece, and Rome, among others. However, the amount of knowledge scholars had about each region varied widely. For example, the ancient Jewish tradition and Biblical accounts are prominent in the literature, as they are relevant for understanding the connections of Islam to the other Abrahamic religions. In contrast, little was known about Greece and Rome aside from their great thinkers. Medieval writers either did not have access to material about Greek and Roman politics and history, or they did not consider it useful to reproduce such material, since the heritage they took from Greece and Rome was above all else an intellectual one. Thus, the reasons why medieval writers chose to remember and record certain elements of an ancient civilization are complex, and developing a framework for understanding the works they produced is especially challenging. Portrayals of ancient Egypt are of particular significance for several reasons. First, Egypt was a region of central importance in the medieval period, for its agricultural yields, as a trading center, and as a political center, from the time of its conquest through the early modern period. Unlike Yemen, which was somewhat divorced from prominent political capitals, Egypt and Iran and their histories were key because of their locations close to, and oftentimes at the center of, early and medieval Islamic empires, from the Umayyads (661–750) to the Mamlūks (1250–1517). Second, the number of ancient monuments and buildings located in Egypt was exceptional. Iran had ancient ruins also, as do other regions, but the amount and size of the ones in Egypt made the ancient past an integral part of the topography of medieval towns and cities. Islamic scholars, such as al-Maqrīzī and al-Suyūṭī, felt the need to explain them, why they were there and who built them, because they were a part of the very fabric of their geography, in addition to being popular tourist attractions. Third, other traditions and stories, such as the legends of Hermes, became associated with Egypt as a way to explain its past.

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Modern scholars have struggled to create a framework for understanding this history. On the one hand, some, like Okasha El-Daly, argue that there was a sustained interest in and connection to the ancient past, that extended from ancient to medieval to modern.1 Others, like Ulrich Haarmann, take a moderate approach and suggest that nostalgia for the past seems to have permeated Arabic writing about ancient Egypt.2 Still other scholars contend that there was a complete break between the pre-Islamic and Islamic pasts and that medieval people did not identify with the former.3 The idea of a thread connecting the past to the medieval present is intriguing, but the question of whether or not medieval people identified with the inhabitants of Egypt before them remains. The fact that so many Islamic scholars either considered the ancient monuments sacrilegious or tried to explain them as falling within acceptable religious bounds makes this seem unlikely. A consideration of the case of ancient Iran confirms this trend. While older Persian works sometimes had Islamic themes retrojected onto them, medieval Persian writers also wrote works that glorify the ancient Iranian past, praising kings and heroes, and clearly identified with that history. Perhaps the different treatments of Iran and Egypt had something to do with the available written source material, as medieval Egyptians could not read the hieroglyphs and thus lost that connection to and understanding of their predecessors. How could there be an Egyptian “nationalistic” sentiment when medieval writers had limited ways to understand and literally “read” their past? An analysis of the connection between ancient and medieval Egypt in the minds of the people is further complicated by the fact that scholars from all over the Islamic world were interested in Egypt. Several of the writers discussed later in this paper were not Egyptian in origin: Ibn Waḥshiyya and ʿAbd al-Laṭīf al-Baghdādī were from Iraq; Ṣāʿid al‐Andalusī was, as his name suggests, from Spain; and al-Idrīsī was from North Africa. The interest in Egypt’s past, then, does not seem to correlate with origins in the region or a feeling of connection to ancient peoples. Egypt was a place of pride and interest because it was part of the greater Islamic world, a place that drew in scholars, stories, and travelers through its glorious monuments, tales and myths, and intellectual history. It 1  The foremost example of this trend is El-Daly, Egyptology. In this work, he argues for “Egyptology” as a genre that has existed throughout time. 2  Haarmann discusses this idea in several articles, such as Haarmann, Regional sentiment in medieval Islamic Egypt. 3  For an example of this trend see Crone and Cook, Hagarism. More specifically on this topic, see Cook, Pharaonic history.

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was not only a part of the Islamic heritage through its mentions in the Quran— its monuments, hieroglyphs, and other relics were still visible to the medieval inhabitant or visitor. Ancient Egypt was thus impossible to ignore. Though many medieval writers over time and place discussed Egypt’s monuments and history, the extent to which they attempted to connect their own time to the ancient past, their purpose in writing about it, and what they wished to convey to their audience all make it difficult to group these writings together as one genre without blurring the multiplicity of ideas about the past that circulated in the medieval period. I argue that medieval writers used genres available in their time rather than creating a whole new “field” of Egypt studies. Some writers attempted to make important ancient figures monotheists in order to draw a religious connection between past and medieval present, because the Quran presents a somewhat negative picture of the pharaohs through the Biblical stories of Moses and Joseph. Others connected ancient Egypt to the beginnings of scholarship on astronomy and medicine, in an attempt to make its history intellectually significant, like that of the Greeks and Romans. Still others lauded the pyramids as a wonder of the world and advocated for their study and visitation through the genre of “wonder literature.” I suggest an alternative way to understand texts about ancient Egypt, then: looking at these genres in terms of myths, the materiality or physicality of the monuments on the medieval landscape, and stories of wonder. By analyzing these different types of writing about Egypt, it is clear that medieval writers, like modern scholars, struggled to fashion a framework for explaining that history, and therefore their conclusions about the past varied according to the aims of the author. Their strategies in writing about the past were conditioned by the concerns of their present.

Myth: Building Pyramids, Transplanting Tales

Islamic scholars were especially interested in explaining the pyramids: how they were built and their purpose. As the largest monuments in Egypt, they dominated the landscape and inspired wonder in all who visited. The region was ripe with its own lore, and stories from elsewhere were easy to assimilate into the existing myths as writers found the need to explain a past history of which they knew very little. The origin of these narratives, and how they connect with one another, challenge modern historians because they seem to be such a mixture of various cultures, places, and times. The story of Hermes, and his connection to the pyramids, exemplifies this transplantation and reworking of myth. Kevin van Bladel has written

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most recently, and authoritatively, on Hermes Trismegistus and his changing roles/personas throughout history. Hermes Trismegistus has a connection both to the Greek God Hermes and the Egyptian God Thoth. By the Roman period, a Hermes that combined elements of both emerged; he was considered a prominent sage and, in some traditions, prophet or mystical figure. He is said to have written the Greek Hermetica of Roman Egypt, in which he appears as a teacher, astronomer, and scholar of medicine and alchemy.4 Later, during the periods of exchange ushered in by the Abbasid Caliphate (750–1258), the “Arabic Hermes” and his various stories and traditions begin to circulate widely. The first mention of a Hermes that van Bladel can find in Islamic literature is in Ibn Juljul’s (d. 332/994) Kitāb Ṭabaqāt al-aṭibbāʾ wa-l-ḥukamāʾ in the 10th century.5 We then see an emergence of discussion about Hermes, or rather Hermeses, in the context of Islamic history. Ṣāʿid al‐Andalusī (d. 462/1070) separates most clearly the three different Hermeses in the Islamic tradition (or harāmisa in Arabic) in his Kitāb Ṭabaqāt al-umam. Al‐Andalusī comments that one lived before the flood and was connected with the Hebrew Enoch and Arabic Idrīs. He says that Hermes was the first to study the movements of the stars, build ancient temples, study medicine, and write poetry in meter.6 He also warned the people of the Great Flood and came up with the idea of hiding the ancient knowledge of Egypt in temples to protect and preserve it. This story is one that will be repeated by other authors, connecting a mystical figure, often called Hermes, to the idea that the purpose of the pyramids was to safeguard ancient secrets from a catastrophic flood or some other disaster. Other Hermeses came after, one living during the time of Socrates and restoring lost knowledge to the world, and another being the Egyptian Hermes who studied under Pythagoras and was connected with the science of alchemy.7 The story of how there came to be three accepted Hermeses in the Islamic tradition is fairly complex, and combines Biblical, Iranian astrological, and Greek, Roman, and Egyptian elements.8 It is clear, however, that writers like al-Andalusī were drawing on the existing figure of Hermes Trismigestus, about whom stories and myths had been circulating since Roman times, particularly because of the connection of the Arabic Hermes with alchemy, preservation of ancient knowledge, medicine, and, as will be discussed, prophecy and wisdom. 4  Van Bladel, The Arabic Hermes 4. 5  Van Bladel, The Arabic Hermes 125. 6  Al-Andalusī, Kitāb Ṭabaqāt al-umam 39. 7  Al-Andalusī, Kitāb Ṭabaqāt al-umam 39–40. 8  Van Bladel, The Arabic Hermes 162.

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Michael Cook reached similar conclusions about the Hermes tales a few decades before van Bladel. He argues, by looking at various attestations of persons deemed Hermetic, that this material came to Egypt rather late—the 11th century—and that it came via Iraq.9 Cook shows through the manuscripts at his disposal that the legend of Hermes building the pyramids first appeared in the east before making its way into the histories and chronicles of the Egyptians a few centuries later. He does not identify the multiplicity of Hermeses and their origins as well as van Bladel does in his later work, instead tackling the Hermetic tradition as a whole. If, then, the account of Hermes is transplanted onto Egypt from Iraq, or at least was not wholly (or even partly) Egyptian in origin, then it seems clear that an “Egyptian” past was not what these stories were meant to illuminate. Instead, they show the resonance that Egypt’s monuments and history had elsewhere in the Islamic world. Egypt was inspiring, and the need to explain its history enveloped scholars both inside and outside the region. Some scholars also tried to affiliate Hermes with a monotheistic past by emphasizing his prophetic nature or giving him monotheistic qualities. The Egyptian scholar al-Mubashshir ibn Fātik (5th/11th c.) also mentions the Hermes tradition in his Mukhtār al-ḥikam, a work on wise sayings. He identifies him with the Greek Mercury as well as the Hebrew Enoch and Arabic Idrīs, directly connecting him to religious figures.10 Al-Mubashshir ibn Fātik also dates him and his activity in Egypt to before the Great Flood. However, he focuses less on the scientific/astronomical material that is typical of this narrative, and instead on his supposed monotheistic qualities. Hermes in this tale becomes a ḥanīf (which seems quite unique as that term is typically reserved for monotheists in Arabia before the coming of Islam—the comparison to Abraham is implicit and striking), and his goal is to set people on the right path by instructing them in worship and religion.11 Al-Mubashshir ibn Fātik makes a point to insert the figure into Islamic history, similar to how medieval scholars treated Yemeni and Arabian histories.12 This presentation, of a singular Hermes as a religious founder and not connected to astronomical/ alchemical traditions or the Greek Hermes in any meaningful way, seems like an alternate reading of the “Egyptian” figure yet also retains some similarities to those mentioned by Ṣāʿid al‐Andalusī and other medieval thinkers.

9  Cook, Pharaonic history 83. 10  Al-Mubashshir ibn Fātik, Mukhtār al-ḥikam 7. 11  Al-Mubashshir ibn Fātik, Mukhtār al-ḥikam 9. 12  Van Bladel, The Arabic Hermes 192.

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Other individuals who go by different names seem also to fall into the tropes of the Hermes accounts in discussions of who built the pyramids. The legend seems to have taken such hold that, even without the name, the accounts are extremely similar. Some scholars say that Sūrīd built them, although sometimes the name has been transliterated as Sawrīd. Like the Hermes myth recounted above by Ṣāʿid al‐Andalusī, al-Suyūṭī’s (d. 911/1505) account says that the building occurred before the flood and that Sūrīd/Sawrīd had a dream or other premonition of the impending danger.13 Inside the pyramid, he included information about the sciences of Egypt, the sayings of the wise, talismans, the names and uses of medication, and developed a secret writing to hide this knowledge from the unworthy. This is essentially a retelling of the account of Hermes building the pyramids, even down to the items left inside them for future peoples to discover. Later in his text, al-Suyūṭī gives another source, which says that perhaps the person who built them was Hermes (also known as Enoch and Idrīs), but it does not differ beyond the attribution.14 The question of who is buried in the tombs is also connected to this Hermetic history, as sometimes it is Hermes, sometimes Sawrīd (the former claimed by the Sabians and the latter by the Copts, according to al-Suyūṭī). ʿAbd al-Laṭīf al-Baghdādī, a thirteenth-century scholar who will be discussed at greater length below, also mentioned that one of the pyramids is the sepulcher of Hermes and that pilgrims come to visit it and honor him.15 The story of Hermes was molded and changed to fit certain needs and to allow for the past to have relevance and meaning in the Middle Ages, either by citing his contributions to science and preservation of ancient secrets or by giving him monotheistic overtones. All of these Hermeses, however, show how different narratives and traditions—Iranian, Egyptian, Greek, Biblical, etc.— coalesce and change as they serve different purposes for the people writing them or the society utilizing them. As we will see in the following section, which moves beyond the Hermes myth, medieval scholars connected to the ancient Egyptian past, which was so visible on the landscape, in other ways, such as by looking at the relics left on the medieval topography, describing famous visitors, and attempting to decipher hieroglyphs.

13  Al-Suyūṭī, Tuḥfat al-kirām 1. See also Nemoy, Treatise on the Egyptian pyramids 17–37. 14  Al-Suyūṭī, Tuḥfat al-kirām 6. 15  Al-Baghdādī, Kitāb al-Ifāda 48.

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Materiality: The Ancient Past in Medieval Space

Ancient Egyptian monuments and relics were incorporated into the very landscape of medieval Egypt. People used the stones for building projects around their cities, literally building their present from the ancient past. The ancient nature of the pyramids also garnered significant respect—some medieval writers nostalgically wrote about them as “physical witnesses to sacred history” as caliphs, prophets, and other eminent persons had been known to visit them.16 I argue that because monuments were part of the geographical landscape, they also had significant influence on the cultural landscape. As seen in urban topographies, and in the less common works attempting to decipher the hieroglyphs, medieval scholars had to contend with the physicality and materiality of the monuments around them. Recognizing this allows us to move beyond the idea that there is one unifying theme—or no theme—in writings about ancient Egypt and helps us instead to look at how medieval writers perceived and explained the past and, furthermore, why they did so. The competing narratives about who built the pyramids and why, and attempts to incorporate the ancient Egyptian past into Islamic history, were a result of the real factors of medieval surroundings—the monuments and testaments to the past visible all over Egypt—and represented attempts to explain and normalize them. We see how the monuments affected the very topography of Egypt in al-Maqrīzī’s (d. 845/1442) al-Khiṭaṭ, which discusses the planning of Cairo and the monuments in it. He devotes a section of his work to the pyramids, describing what they are made of and where in Cairo they are located—even including dimensions and other measurements.17 The problem, of course, is who built them and why. Al-Maqrīzī brings up the debate about their provenance, settling on the theory that the king Sūrīd—the same name as that given by al-Suyūṭī and others—built them (one source saying in six years, an impressive feat!) in order to preserve the esoteric sciences of Egypt, including medicine, the names of stars and planets, geometry, and magic, in fear of the coming flood.18 This, of course, seems to be connected to one of the Hermes stories discussed above. Al-Maqrīzī often claims to use “Coptic books” as his source for these materials, though it is unclear what these books actually were and how much knowledge the Copts of pre-Islamic Egypt had about the ancient past. Al-Maqrīzī describes, closer to his own time, some famous visitors’ interactions with these great structures, including the Abbasid Caliph al-Ma‌ʾmūn 16  Smith, Pyramids in the medieval Islamic landscape 4. 17  Al-Maqrīzī, al-Khiṭaṭ 111. 18  Al-Maqrīzī, al-Khiṭaṭ 112.

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(d. 218/833), who went to Egypt because of a rebellion by Coptic Christians.19 This story of al-Ma‌ʾmūn is one account of many that describe caliphs, prophets, or other noteworthy people going to the pyramids or other Egyptian monuments and either attempting to tear them down (Saladin and his son will be another example, discussed later) or trying to discover their secrets. Al-Maqrīzī presents conflicting sources here, one saying that the caliph’s workers stopped digging into one of the large pyramids after seeing a “precious vessel whose market value turned out to be exactly the amount spent on excavation” and another saying that they entered the pyramid, and, quoting from Cooperson’s translation, “At the top [of the pyramid] was a square chamber some eight cubits on each side. In the middle of it was a closed marble basin. When the cover was removed, it was found to contain nothing but decayed remains.”20 Al-Maqrīzī is not the only one to attest to al-Ma‌ʾmūn’s excursions to Egypt. Al-Idrīsī, a thirteenth-century scholar who will be discussed at greater length later in this paper, also gave various versions of this account. The prevailing one discusses how the caliph was interested in the sciences and foreign languages, which is why he wanted to visit a pyramid, to decipher the writing and, possibly, to see if the pyramids contained any ancient texts.21 Al-Suyūṭī also mentions this story, including the detail about the men seeing coins inside that were equal to the value spent on excavation.22 He also mentions that, after this breach was made, many people (unclear whether they were looters or adventurers) tried to enter the pyramids through the space made by al-Ma‌ʾmūn’s men, but some perished in the shafts while a few made it out alive. While we cannot know the exact motivations behind the caliph’s desire to enter the pyramids, beyond what medieval writers tell us, at the very least these accounts show that he had some sort of curiosity, perhaps about their design and contents. The pyramids were not the only feature of Egypt that incited either curiosity or anger in the people in Egypt. Al-Maqrīzī gives the Sphinx (often called in Arabic Abū l-Hawl—“The Terrifying One” or “Father of Terror”) its own section, in which he describes its somewhat strange appearance as a head emerging from the sands.23 Furthermore, the Sphinx appeared to have been the subject of veneration; some considered it a talisman of the Nile or a ward against the 19  Cooperson, Al-Ma‌ʾmun 111. 20  Cooperson, The reception of pharaonic Egypt 1110. For the Arabic description, see al-Maqrīzī, al-Khiṭaṭ 118. 21  Cooperson, The reception of pharaonic Egypt 1119. 22  Al-Suyūṭī, Tuḥfat al-kirām 3–4. 23  Al-Maqrīzī, al-Khiṭaṭ 122.

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encroaching desert. Not all welcomed its presence, however. Al-Maqrīzī tells us that a shaykh, Muḥammad Ṣāʾim al-Dahr, disfigured its face in the year 780/1378–9 out of anger at people making offerings to the Sphinx.24 This tale not only accounts for the Sphinx’s lack of a nose, but also for the sands covering Giza—al-Maqrīzī notes that many people believed that the sands came in retribution for the defilement of the great monument. In addition to medieval scholars and travelers interested in the building and purpose of the monuments, at least one scholar was interested in what they said. Ibn Waḥshiyya (ca. 4th/10th c.) is the best-preserved example of medieval scholarly attempts to understand ancient and mystical alphabets, but his work has caused considerable consternation among scholars. The reasons why he wrote the text and his audience are not altogether clear. He is a unique character in medieval Islamic literature; in addition to this strange work on alphabets, he also wrote an account of Nabatean/Babylonian agriculture, supposedly translated from an ancient Syriac text and dealing with topics ranging from farming and botany to ancient superstitions and mystical lore. El-Daly is one of the few scholars to give a comprehensive account of medieval writers like Ibn Waḥshiyya, whose efforts to decipher the hieroglyphs are in his Kitāb Shawq al-mustahām fī maʿrifat rumūz al-aqlām. Modern interpretations of this work range from the belief that Ibn Waḥshiyya really did think he was translating the hieroglyphs and had sources from which he gleaned information to the idea that he was blatantly lying (Michael Cook holds strongly to the latter view, calling his alphabets “literary frauds” and “largely bogus”).25 Some scholars argue that he wrote material that, presumably, would be well-received because it was a sort of “mysteries of the ancients” literature that seemed fairly popular. Stories and tales about the ancient past are always popular to some extent—we see repeated tales such as those of Gog and Magog, stories of Alexander and his conquests, and others that develop and change over time. El-Daly falls firmly into the camp that believes Ibn Waḥshiyya to have been a serious scholar who not only believed that he was translating the hieroglyphs correctly, but that he was writing in a genre that developed to do just that. El-Daly argues for a continuous tradition of hieroglyph translation, from Greco-Roman efforts to the modern day. While this seems exaggerated, the reasons he gives for why medieval writers were interested in the hieroglyphs seem logical: Sufi interest in calligraphy and various writing styles, esoteric meanings that could be derived from the script, and also the idea that there

24  Al-Maqrīzī, al-Khiṭaṭ 123. 25  Cook, Pharaonic history 96–7.

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were alchemical meanings in the hieroglyphs.26 Looking at the scripts Ibn Waḥshiyya chose to include gives credence to these theories. He not only includes real alphabets that we can verify, such as Greek and Hebrew, but he also gives the scripts of Hermes, Plato and other Greek scholars, scripts for the planets, and others.27 Ibn Waḥshiyya, in his introduction to his section on the hieroglyphs, says explicitly that the hieroglyph script was meant to “hide sciences and secrets” and goes into detail about the concern of the ancients for preserving their knowledge, lending support to the esoteric/alchemical idea as being a way that medieval writers rationalized these alphabets.28 El-Daly, however, vastly overemphasizes Ibn Waḥshiyya’s accuracy. He glosses over the fact that the medieval scholar deciphered only a few signs correctly, asserting that he must have studied “genuine Egyptian sources,” even though his evidence of accurate translation includes examples such as Ibn Waḥshiyya interpreting one hieroglyph correctly on a page containing over 50 symbols.29 While Ibn Waḥshiyya’s accuracy may be doubtful, he did understand something of the style and use of hieroglyphs in Ancient Egyptian writing because he comments that they were not arranged like “our” letters but rather used figures of animals, trees, and other pictorial representations, giving as an example the image he believed to be for water. Ibn Waḥshiyya also recognized that other hieroglyphs were not pictures but rather geometric. He explained the diversity in the hieroglyphs by noting that there were different alphabets developed by different “kings” so that the “sons of wisdom” would be the only ones that could read them.30 The translations of hieroglyphs that he reproduces range from celestial/religious figures (for instance, “God,” “star,” “Jupiter”), emotions and abstract words (“sorrow,” “understanding,” “injustice”), plant names, minerals, and others. The important aspect of Ibn Waḥshiyya’s work is not so much its accuracy in identifying the hieroglyphs but rather the fact that it was something deemed worthwhile and perhaps even entertaining. It shows that there was interest in what the symbols on ancient monuments said, likely in connection with interest in the genres of alchemy and the occult. By including ancient monuments in geographies/topographies of Egypt, emphasizing that famous and pious visitors who came to see and interact with them, and some (perhaps real?) attempts to decipher the hieroglyphs, we see the ways in which medieval scholars tried to make the ancient seem 26  El-Daly, Egyptology 59. 27  For the variety of scripts that he records, see Ibn Waḥshiyya, Kitāb Shawq al-mustahām. 28  Ibn Waḥshiyya, Kitāb Shawq al-mustahām 178. 29  El-Daly, Egyptology 72. 30  Ibn Waḥshiyya, Kitāb Shawq al-mustahām 171–2.

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relevant in their own time. The physicality of these monuments on the medieval landscape led to a natural desire to understand them, to contemplate why they were there, and to grasp the purpose of the ancients who had built them. Furthermore, scholars and their audiences were interested in understanding more about the past that surrounded them; the literature on ancient Egypt seems to have been “popular” in view of the number and variety of manuscripts that exist as well as the reproduction of certain tropes in the stories about them. The last type of literature in which we see significant discussion of the past, beyond the works discussed above, is works that focus on wonders. This literature not only gave the monuments relevance to the medieval viewer, but also made those monuments acceptable to view, in spite of their pagan origin.

Wonder: Monuments as Objects of Marvel

One common trend that we see in medieval writings about Ancient Egypt is connecting the pyramids, in particular, to the “genre” of works on wondrous places and/or monuments, or ʿajāʾib. Ulrich Haarmann, in his examination of the historian Abū Jaʿfar al-Idrīsī’s (d. 649/1251) treatise on the pyramids (Anwār ʿulwī l-ajrām fī l-kashf ʿan asrār al-ahrām), notes that the medieval writer emphasizes the pyramids’ “wondrous character” and that, like other wonders, good Muslims are compelled to visit them and marvel.31 The pyramids are especially important in this context, as they are seen by consensus, according to al-Idrīsī, as the most amazing of all the wonders of the world. Haarmann both collated and edited the manuscripts of al-Idrīsī’s pyramid treatise and published it together with a German commentary on the writer and text in his Das Pyramidenbuch des Abū Ǧaʿfar al-Idrīsī. It is his critical edition that I will use here. It is clear that in al-Idrīsī’s period, some scholars were skeptical about the correctness of revering the monuments of ancient Egypt. Others actively railed against the monuments, partly due to their pagan origin and perhaps also due to the representations on them, of gods and men. The Sphinx seems to have drawn considerable consternation—stories exist of people expecting it to fulfill wishes or, on the opposite side of the spectrum, people becoming so angry over its existence that they attempted to defile it.32 Al-Maqrīzī’s account of the 31  Haarmann, In quest of the spectacular 57. 32  For some examples of stories, including a Sufi hitting the Sphinx with his shoes, see Haarmann, Regional sentiment 62.

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loss of its nose belongs with these narratives, though in his story the Sphinx is thought by some to get its revenge by allowing the sands to overtake the lands. It is against the opposition to great monuments that al-Idrīsī is writing, by presenting the pyramids as a wonder worth preserving. In order to do so, he first uses quranic verses, such as Q Ghāfir 40:82, beginning with the question, “Have they not traveled through the land and observed how was the end of those before them?” He then moves on to various ḥadīths and accounts of eminent visitors to the pyramids to support his claim that wonders are praiseworthy to visit.33 He includes prophets, Companions of Muḥammad, various travelers who came from afar, and those from closer to his own time. One note­worthy example is Saladin, of Crusader fame, and his son, both of whom tried to demolish the pyramids—ultimately unsuccessfully.34 It is unclear why exactly they attempted this. Was it in order to use the building materials and/or land? Or perhaps they disliked these pagan remnants of ancient Egypt and wished them gone. Al-Idrīsī is silent on their motivations, but in the end both Saladin and his son worked with the pyramids as they were, using the space around them as quarries or as a place for military games.35 Other examples that he cites range from people traveling to the pyramids to marvel at them to people wanting to tear them down but ultimately being unable to do so, a testament to their wondrous nature. At the end of the text, the question remains of the motivations of the writer for devoting an entire text to the monuments of Egypt. Haarmann rightfully highlights the connection with the burgeoning literature about wonders and travel as a primary motivation. Al-Idrīsī explicitly appeals to people’s natural inclination to wonder, going to far as to say that it is a manifestation of bad temperament in need of treatment if one does not do so.36 The pyramids and other ancient monuments are also useful for providing spiritual lessons for people, as they allow them to contemplate the people of the past and how, even though they once created great structures, only their monuments remain to give evidence of their existence. Indeed, as Haarmann points out in al-Idrīsī’s text, these monuments are understood as a representation of the danger of hubris and the fall from glory of a once mighty past civilization.37 Also important is the breadth of material that al-Idrīsī includes. He seems to be adding anything he can find about the pyramids—how they were built 33  Al-Idrīsī, Anwār ʿulwī l-ajrām 6. 34  Al-Idrīsī, Anwār ʿulwī l-ajrām 39–41. 35  Haarmann, In quest of the spectacular 60. 36  Al-Idrīsī, Anwār ʿulwī al-ajrām 19. 37  Haarmann, In quest of the spectacular 58.

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(insofar as he can ascertain), stories, and poetry and prose written about them. He makes an effort to locate them in time, engaging in debates about whether they were built pre- or post-flood. Al-Idrīsī, as do some of the other scholars that he cites, uses astronomy to try to date their building, marking at which degree the constellations were when they were likely to have been built.38 All of the material that he produces in relation to the Egyptian monuments seems aimed at providing a comprehensive compilation of all that is known about the pyramids, in almost encyclopedic fashion, including debates about them. Meanwhile, throughout, he continues the thread of the importance of these monuments as worthy of our wonder. ʿAbd al-Laṭīf al-Baghdādī’s (d. 629/1231–2) rather short book about Egypt includes a chapter on its monuments that also emphasizes their spectacular nature. His book encompasses general characteristics of Egypt, its plants and animals, its buildings and ships, and food, as well as information about the Nile and some current events.39 The chapter about the monuments begins by saying that no other place can compare to Egypt in regard to its antiquities and monuments, a sentiment shared by al-Idrīsī, and he then moves on to the pyramids, the grandest of Egypt’s wonders.40 He also includes the narrative about Saladin destroying some of the smaller pyramids, though he implicates the court eunuch, Qarāqūsh, in this. His opinion of the destruction of these smaller pyramids does not seem to be negative because in the next line he applauds Qarāqūsh for building a wall around Fustat, a citadel, and some wells.41 In terms of the larger pyramids, al-Baghdādī admires greatly the way in which they were built, their physical structure, and their height and breadth. He notes that one of the pyramids has been opened, allowing people to enter it, and he attributes this to the caliph al-Ma‌ʾmūn’s famous excursion to Egypt, as discussed earlier. Al-Baghdādī attests to the awe-inspiring nature of the interior of the pyramids. He attempted to explore one, but when he was two-thirds of the way inside, he experienced so much fear it was “like he was half dead,” and he had to exit.42 Al-Baghdādī also points out other monuments of Egypt worthy of admiration, such as the Sphinx (which he seems particularly pleased with), ruined temples, obelisks, the ruins of Memphis, and mummies. As mentioned above, he also briefly mentions Hermes, though not in the context of the building of the structures or concealing the wisdom of the ancients. Instead, 38  Al-Idrīsī, Anwār ʿulwī al-ajrām 112–13. 39  Al-Baghdādī, Kitāb al-Ifāda 176. 40  Al-Baghdādī, Kitāb al-Ifāda 44. 41  Al-Baghdādī, Kitāb al-Ifāda 44–5. 42  Al-Baghdādī, Kitāb al-Ifāda 47.

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when he comments that one of the larger pyramids is the tomb of Hermes, he mentions him as a great prophet and says that pilgrims come to visit his sepulcher. This account of Hermes seems more reminiscent of al-Mubashshir ibn Fātik’s depiction of Hermes primarily as a religious monotheist and less as a scholar and knower of ancient secrets. Some accounts mention miraculous events or happenings that occur inside or around the pyramids, as well as legends about them. For example, al-Suyūṭī mentions a group of people who entered the pyramid and found a glass cup.43 A man among them went missing, later to be found naked and insane, which they assumed to be possession by an evil spirit living in the pyramid. The cup that they had found was later measured both with water in it and empty, but it mysteriously weighed the same regardless of what was inside it. Al-Suyūṭī also recounts legends of spirits guarding the pyramids, one being a naked woman with long hair touching the ground, another being a naked beardless youth, and the third being an old man in “monkish garb.”44 These stories about medieval people marveling at the pyramids support my two main contentions. The first emphasizes that, as a wonder, they were legitimate to visit and view and, according to some scholars, it was even incumbent upon people to go to marvel at them. The second is that even though stories existed to explain how they were built and why they existed (especially with the Hermes myth), people still found them mysterious, to the point that esoteric legends were put in circulation. Whether it was reveling in the mysterious or trying to solve their mysteries or trying to place them in a context they understood, medieval writers certainly made efforts to comprehend and connect to the visible past around them. Conclusion Modern scholars have struggled to put the writings on ancient Egypt into a comprehensive framework. I contend that medieval authors saw a need to explain the past because the past was so visibly written on Egypt’s landscape, and they did so through established genres and tropes. Stories from elsewhere could be transplanted and reworked with relative ease onto preexisting legends. However, their conclusions about the connection of Egypt’s past to the medieval present varied greatly: from marveling at its hieroglyphs and physical

43  Al-Suyūṭī, Tuḥfat al-kirām 9; also discussed in Nemoy, Treatise on the Egyptian pyramids 31–2. 44  Al-Suyūṭī, Tuḥfat al-kirām 9.

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wonders from a distance to somewhat uneasily attempting to place it into a history of monotheism. It is not so simple to say that there was a connecting feature of “Egyptian-ness” running from the past to the present or to say that there was a radical break that divorced the medieval from the ancient. Instead, the varied genres that we see medieval scholars engaging—topography, history, wonder literature, myths, legends, monotheistic—show the many ways in which ancient Egypt could be understood and rationalized to the medieval person. There is a very real desire to understand a past that remained so visible to them, but the way to do so differed significantly based on goals of the medieval writer. Bibliography Al-Andalusī, Kitāb Ṭabaqāt al-umam, Cairo 1998. Al-Baghdādī, Kitāb al-Ifāda wa-l-iʿtibār, Damascus 1983. van Bladel, K., The Arabic Hermes: From pagan sage to prophet of science, Oxford 2009. Cook, M., Pharaonic history in medieval Egypt, in SI 57 (1983), 67–103. Cooperson, M., Al-Ma‌ʾmun, Oxford 2006. Cooperson, M., The reception of pharaonic Egypt in Islamic Egypt, in A. Lloyd (ed.), A companion to ancient Egypt, Oxford 2010, 1109–28. Crone, P. and M. Cook., Hagarism: The making of the Islamic world, Cambridge 1977. El-Daly, O., Egyptology: The missing millennium, ancient Egypt in medieval Arabic writings, London 2005. Haarmann, U., In quest of the spectacular: Noble and learned visitors to the pyramids around 1200 A.D., in W. Hallaq and D. Little (eds.), Islamic studies presented to Charles J. Abrams, Leiden 1991, 57–67. Haarmann, U., Regional sentiment in medieval Islamic Egypt, in BSOAS 43 (1980), 55–66. Al-Idrīsī, Das Pyramidenbuch des Abū Ǧaʿfar al-Idrīsī [Anwār ʿulwī al-ajrām fī-l-kashf ʿan asrār al-ahrām], ed. U. Haarmann, Stuttgart 1991. Al-Maqrīzī, Kitāb al-Mawāʿiẓ wa-l-iʿtibār fī dhikr al-khiṭaṭ wa-l-āthār, Baghdad 1970. Al-Mubashshir ibn Fātik, Mukhtār al-ḥikam wa-maḥāsin al-kalim, Madrid 1958. Nemoy, L. (ed. and trans.), The treatise on the Egyptian pyramids (Tuḥfat al-kirām fī khabar al-ahrām) by Jalāl al-Dīn Al-Suyūṭī, in Isis 39 (1939), 17–37. Smith, M., Pyramids in the medieval Islamic landscape: Perceptions and narratives, in Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt 43 (2007), 1–14. Al-Suyūṭī, Tuḥfat al-kirām fī khabar al-ahrām, MS Cod. Landberg 359 at Yale University Library, 19th century. Ibn Waḥshiyya, Kitāb Shawq al-mustahām fī maʿrifat rumūz al-aqlām, MS Arabe 6805 in Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris, repr. Damascus 2003.

CHAPTER 14

“The Mosul Stand-Up, or a Riff on a Stiff”: Al-Hamadhānī’s Maqāma of Mosul Michael Cooperson Introduction I first met Everett Rowson at Harvard, where he taught for several years when I was an undergraduate. In those days, students of classical Arabic might spend a week or more on a single line of text. As a result, we had little sense of literary history. Prof. Rowson’s introduction to adab changed all that: in one semester, we read samples of Arabic prose from the mid-eighth century down to the Mamluk period. At the end, we knew who wrote what and when, and how works in the tradition spoke to or across each other. Every class in Arabic literature I have taught since has been modeled on—and indeed inspired by— that one. Everett has been inspirational in another way, too. In his generation, and to a large extent even in mine, it was rare to see scholars of classical Arabic take an interest in colloquial Arabic except perhaps as a source of linguistic examples. But Everett, in addition to his work on pre-modern intellectual and social history, is also a connoisseur of Egyptian dialect. During a visit to Cairo in the late 1980s he joined me and a group of my friends for an evening out. My friends were hard to impress: they were Egyptian writers and poets who could play with language all day long. But Everett floored them with his mastery of jargon terms even they may not have known: words, that is, that he had collected while researching the argot of various trades and of the underworld. These days, students are trained (or should be) not to draw hard and fast distinctions between the modern and the pre-modern. But Everett was there first. The same can be said, by the way, about his interest in gender and sexuality, which he was pursuing long before these topics became common in our field. Over the past two decades, I have always looked forward to seeing Everett at conferences and occasionally in New York during editorial meetings of the Library of Arabic Literature (LAL). I have also turned to him for help when working on texts in his many areas of expertise. He is unfailingly generous in

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reading drafts, and his comments are always invaluable. No matter what the subject, it seems, he can always add a reference or explain a knotty passage. Even more helpfully, he has a knack for figuring out just what it is that needs to be done for a paper to work. I fear that in presuming on his kindness my cohort and I have made it difficult for him to get his own writing done. In contrition, but more importantly in affection, esteem, and gratitude, I offer this contribution to his Festschrift. Among the texts Everett assigned in his adab class all those years ago was al-Hamadhānī’s maqāma on wine. I enjoyed it enormously and tried to translate it. The result was an enthusiastic rendering that hardly did justice to the original, but Everett received it kindly. Now, some thirty years later, al-Hamādhānī (whose spirit evidently appreciates Everett’s brilliant 1987 study of his career) has made another appearance. Al-Hamādhānī’s maqāma of Mosul has been newly edited by Bilal Orfali (see below), who kindly suggested I translate it as my contribution to this volume. Readers who compare Prof. Orfali’s text of the Mawṣiliyya with other published versions will notice certain important differences: briefly put, his is a better text. Readers who compare my translation with the Arabic will see that it is far from being a literal translation (for which Prendergast’s 1915 rendering fills the bill admirably). Inspired by the good work of my friends at LAL, I have tried to create something worth reading as an English text, while at the same time letting the original pull the English in directions it might not normally go. Needless to say, Prof. Orfali is not responsible for the strange things I have done with his edition. I am enormously grateful to the members of the LAL editorial board, who, along with Prof. Richard Sieburth, together read a poor first draft and made copious suggestions for improving it. I also thank Prof. Shawkat Toorawa for his helpful suggestions throughout. The result still fails to do justice to al-Hamadhānī, but I hope Prof. Rowson and his many well-wishers will find it amusing. Translation Easy told us another one. It went like this. I set off on horseback from Mosul, Iraq, with Victor, who could out-talk anyone here. We were hoping to stop and bed down for the night, but bandits waylaid us and stole our gear. As we foot-dragged our way to a village nearby, Vic pricked up his ears and said: “Hush! Hear the folks wailing in that house over there? It’s a sad day for them but fat pickings for us.”

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From the house came the sounds of a family in grief: keening and wailing and women’s laments. And when we got closer and peered through the door, we saw cheeks being smitten and clothes being rent. So what did Victor do? He pushed his way to the dead man’s room and saw that his jaw had been tied. There was a washpail hard by the bed and a grave-cloth off to the side. He put a hand to the dead man’s throat. “Stop this funeral now!” he cried. “The poor fellow can’t be buried yet, because he hasn’t died!” What?! “Yes, I know he looks deceased. But if you part his nether cheeks, you’ll find him warm—which, apud the ancient Greeks, means he’s still alive! Put your fingers in, and you’ll see that you can place your trust in me. He seems to have had some kind of stroke, or taken a poke that made him choke. Let me have him for a day or two, and I’ll give him back as good as new.” Vic draped the corpse with amulets and spooned some oil down the throat, then wrapped him in a turban-sheet and said, “Good folk, take note! Sometime tonight he may cry out or make a sort of moaning sound. But keep away and don’t come near until the morning rolls around.” When word got out the neighbors sent their winter stores of dates and curd, filled our sacks with silver coins, and plied us both with gold. All the while Vic and I were looking to bolt—and fast. But the perfect moment never came, and then the chance was past. Oh no! Then what? “Has the sick man moved?” asked Vic. “No,” said the villagers. “Not a tic.” “Then he needs another day! When he wakes, call me right away. The poor man’s humors are corrupt. But he’ll be fine once he’s been cupped.” “Agreed,” they said, “but we want him back tomorrow, no fooling.” Next day the Sun rose up bright, and the heavens grinned in sheer delight, at the sight of a crowd so clamorous, come to see Vic call up his Lazarus. “Let’s see you do it,” came the cry, “without a hem or haw or by-and-by!” “No need,” said Vic, “to shout so loud. First, lend me a hand and unwind the shroud! Then let him rest face down on the bed. Now stand him up—but watch his head!” The corpse fell headlong to the floor. “Hmph!” was all Victor said. “What do you want? The fellow’s dead!” We made a run for the nearest door, but the villagers blocked our way, and tanned our hides with fists and shoes, swearing that we’d rue the day. At last they went to bury their dead, and seeing a chance to flee we fled.

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Then what? On we staggered till we saw it: another town, atop a ridge. All around a flood was rising where earlier there’d been a bridge. “O God, help us!” cried the people. “We can hardly close an eye: if the flood rises any higher, not one floor will still be dry.” Once again Victor saw a chance: “Take the yellowest cow you have. Go to the river and slaughter it there. Then give me a virgin to be my wife, and I’ll intervene with a special prayer!” When they’d done his bidding with the cow, and he’d bedded the virgin bride, he led them to the mosque and said: “Let us pray! If we fail, skin me alive. But a lot’s at stake, and if you make a single mistake I fear the prayer will never take. So don’t wobble while prostrating, and don’t daydream when you kneel! Don’t stumble or fumble or fidget: stay on an even keel! This will take a while: the genuflections will be long. But remember why we’re here, and remember to stay strong!” With that he bent to pray, and froze, so prolonging the rakʿa pose, that the worshippers had to squirm as their flanks began to burn. When at last he knelt for the sajda part, he took so long we were sure he’d chosen that moment to fall asleep with his forehead on the floor. It was only some time later, when he called out Allahu akbar, that we knew he’d raised his head. So we raised ours too. Then he led us down again, in endless prostration. It seemed like hours, and then he rose (the slippery clown!) for another rotation, this time reading the Quran. He started by reciting the Fatiha, then the Waqiʿa: that is, the Catastrophe, read according to Hamza: that is, with lengthened vowels and audible apostrophe. Next he bent down, hand on knee, the exemplar of humble piety: a pose he held for a time that seemed longer than an eternity, until at last he rose and blessed the congregants (now much distressed), and yet the prayer still wasn’t done: what you’ve heard was just Round One. This time, though, when the worshippers had their faces to the ground, he gave me a sign and we padded off, crept out to the wadi, and fled the town, leaving the villagers facing down. What happened to them? I can’t say. But here’s Victor’s parting shot: Hooray for me! It takes All kinds, and to whatever He makes God assigns a part.

The Mosul Stand-up, or a Riff on a Stiff

You can seize a fort By force of arms Or you can do it by being smart. Those people were kind And I robbed them blind But I did it with great art.

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An Edition of Al-Hamadhānī’s Al-Maqāma Al-Mawṣiliyya Bilal Orfali This edition of al-Maqāma al-Mawṣiliyya is based on MS Fatih 4097 dating to 520/1126, the oldest extant collection of al-Hamadhānī’s maqāmāt. In this manuscript, the collection of al-Hamadhānī’s maqāmāt is bound with the collection of ten maqāmāt of Ibn Nāqiyā (d. 485/1092). Although identified on the title page (fol. 2a) as the Maqāmāt of al-Hamadhānī, they lack an intro­duction. The Maqāmāt of al-Hamadhānī simply begin on fol. 2b with the basmala followed immediately by the phrase ḥaddathanā ʿĪsā ibn Hishām. The most significant feature of the collection in MS Fatih 4097 is that there are forty maqāmas (rather than fifty) and they are in an order that differs considerably from the Maqāmāt in the standard edition.1

‫ا ل��ق���ا ���م��ة ا �لث��ا �م ����ن��ة‬ ‫م‬



ّ ُ� ‫ّ ق‬ � � ‫�ن‬ ‫�� ت� ع�ل��ي ن���ا‬ ‫ ��ف��م��ل ك‬.‫ و�ه�م���م ����ن�ا ب�ا ل��م ن�� ز�ل‬.‫�ه����ش�ا ��ق�ا ل ل��م�ا ���ف���ل ����ن�ا �م� ن� ا لمو�� �ص�ل‬ ‫ح�د ث�����ن�ا ع��يُ��س‬ �‫ب‬ ‫ى‬ ‫م‬ ‫ض ق‬ ‫ح����ا �����ش��ة‬ ‫ ��ج� ت‬.‫ �أ ���خ��ذ ����م�نّ ا �ل ّ��ح� ا �ل ّا ��ح�ل��ة‬.‫ا �ل������ق�ا ف��ل��ة‬ ‫�ش‬ � ‫ل‬ ‫ل‬ � � ‫ا‬ � � �‫م‬ ‫ا‬ � � ���‫ا‬ � ‫ه‬ � �‫�ع‬ ‫ع‬ � ‫� ر‬ ‫و‬ ‫و‬ �‫إ ى ب � ر و ي‬ ‫� �ي ّر ف �ل ت ر�أ ن ن ر ة ن‬ ‫�ق‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ف‬ � ‫�أ � ا �ل�������فت‬ � ‫ن‬ � ��‫ح����ي�ل‬ ‫����ن�د ر � ������ق�ل�� �ي� �م� ا �ل‬ � � ‫ال‬ � ‫ح�� ������ق�ا ل ي� ك‬ ‫ك‬ ‫�س‬ �� � � � ‫����ي� ا �ل�ل�ه و�م���ن�ا إ� لى د ا ٍر‬ ‫إ‬ � ‫�ي‬ ‫�بو ح‬ ‫�ت � ت ق � � � �ل �ز ق‬ � ‫ن‬ ‫��ق�د ���م�ا ت‬ ‫ت‬ � ‫� �ص�ا‬ . �‫ وا ح�����ف�ل�� ب�����و ��ق�د كوى ا ���ج� ��لو�����ه‬.‫ و��ق�ا �م�� �وا د ب�����ه�ا‬.‫ح���ب���ه�ا‬ ‫ٍم‬ ‫ع ب م‬ ‫ن‬ ‫� ن ن‬ ‫� �ش� �ّ����ق� ت ا �ل��ف����������ع��ة‬ ،�ّ‫ �ي�ض���رب� ن� �� �ص�د ور�ه� ن‬.�ّ‫ و����س�ا ءٍ ��ق�د � �����ش�ر� � �ش� �عور�ه� ن‬. �‫يو�����ه‬ �� � � ‫و‬ ‫ج‬ ‫جي‬ ‫ب‬ ‫م‬ ّ ‫�ذ‬ ‫ّ � �ف‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ن‬ ‫� ����ن�د ر ��ي �ل���ن�ا ي� ���ه� ا ا �ل��سوا د‬ ‫ �������ق�ا ل الإ� ��س ك‬.�ّ‫ ي��ل����ط��م� ن� ���خ�د ود �ه� ن‬.�ّ‫و�����ش�د د � �ع��ق��ود �ه� ن‬ ‫ن � ة ف �ذ ق‬ � ‫ د ���خ� ا �ل ّ�د ا ف� ن�� �����ظ� � ل ا لم��ّ��ي� ت� ���ق�د ��ُ���ش ّ�د ت‬.‫��خ�ل��ة‬ ‫ �ع���ص�ا �ب�����ت�ه‬2� ‫ و �ي� ���ه� ا ا �ل������ط�����يع ��س و ل ر‬.��‫��ُخ�ل‬ ‫ر إ �أى � و‬ ‫ح������ف� ت‬ ‫ و خ��������ط� ت� ث� �ا��ب�ه �ل� ك ف ن‬. �‫ و��� ّ�ئ ت�ا ب� ��ت�ه �ل������ح��م‬. �‫�خّ� ن ���م�ا �ؤ ه �ل��غ����س‬ ‫��س‬ �� ‫ح��ف����ير��ت�ه‬ ‫يآ ل �ه�ي و �أ ي ل ي‬ ‫و ي‬ ‫ و� ر‬.������� � �‫و‬ ّ ‫ق‬ ‫ّ �ذ‬ ّ‫ف ف‬ ‫ّ � ف‬ ‫ ��ل���م�ا ر� ه الإ� ��س ك‬.�‫�ل����ي�د �� ن‬ ‫ �������ق�ا ل ��ي�ا �و تا���ق��وا ا �ل�ل�ه لا‬.‫ و ����ج��س �عر��ق�ه‬.‫� ����ن�د ر ��ي ���خ� ح���ل���ق�ه‬ ‫م‬ 1  For a detailed discussion of MS Fatih 4097 and the manuscript tradition of al-Hamadhānī’s maqāmāt, see Orfali and Pomerantz, Assembling an Author.

ّ ُ

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‫ ����س�د ت‬: �‫ال� �� �ص‬ .� ‫ل‬

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‫‪al-Hamadhānī ’ s al-Maqāma al-Mawṣiliyya‬‬

‫ٌّ نّ‬ ‫�أ �أ ّ‬ ‫ف فّ‬ ‫�����ت��ة‪ .‬و ��ن�ا ��س�ل���م�ه �م��ف��ت��و ا �ل�ع��ي ن��ي�� ن�‪ .‬ب����ع�د‬ ‫��ت�د � ن��وه �إ� ���ن�ه �حي� و�إ���م�ا �عر��ت�ه ب���ه����ت��ة‪ .‬وع�ل����ت�ه ��س ك‬ ‫ح‬ ‫�ذ ا ا � ّ‬ ‫� ���م�� ن ‪ .‬ف�������ق�ا �ل ا �م� ن �أ � ن �ل�ك �ذ �ل�ك ف�������ق�ا ل � نّ ا �ل ّ��ج� � �ذ ا ���م�ا ت‬ ‫� �ب� د ا ����ست‬ ‫‪.‬‬ ‫�ه‬ ‫��‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫���‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ه‬ ‫ج‬ ‫أو‬ ‫إّ� ر � ل إ‬ ‫�ر‬ ‫ر� ل‬ ‫ي��ّ‬ ‫�يو ي� ت و �ت �أ‬ ‫ٌّ � �أ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�خ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ك‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ك��ل���ه� إ� ��ص ب�����ع�ه � د ��ب�ره و ق�ا �لوا ال� ���م�ر ���م�ا �كر‪.‬‬ ‫�ق�د لم����س���ه‪��� .‬ف�ع�ل����م�� ��ن�ه حي� ف� د �ل �‬ ‫ي‬ ‫م‬ ‫قّ‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫� ����ن�د � ّ � ل ا لم��ّ��ي� ت ��ف ن�� ز ث���ا �ب�ه ��ث� ّ �����ش ّ�د ه �� �‬ ‫�‬ ‫ال‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫‪.‬‬ ‫ئ�‬ ‫ك‬ ‫�س‬ ‫ا‬ ‫‪.‬‬ ‫�ف�ا ���ف�ع�لوا ���م�ا‬ ‫��‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬ ‫ع‬ ‫ق‬ ‫�‬ ‫ع‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ر‬ ‫�‬ ‫و‬ ‫ى‬ ‫�‬ ‫ي‬ ‫�‬ ‫ب م م و �أ �‬ ‫إ‬ ‫إ‬ ‫ر‬ ‫�ي‬ ‫ع‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫ً‬ ‫ت‬ ‫�‬ ‫ُم ن‬ ‫مّ‬ ‫ع�ل����ي�ه �م�ا ��ئ� ‪ .‬و �ل�ع������ق�ه ا �ل ز��ي� ت�‪ .‬و ���خ��لى ا �لب���ي� ت�‪ .‬و�ق�ا ل د �عوه‪ .‬ولا ��ت�د �عوه‪ .‬و�إ� ��س��م�ع����ت� �ل�ه ن���ي ����ن�ا‬ ‫� ت م‬ ‫�أ نّ ّ � نُ م �ذ‬ ‫�� �� ه‪��� .‬خ� �م� ن �ع ����ن�د ه ��ق�د �����ش�ا ا �ل�‬ ‫� �‬ ‫��خ��بر وا ن���ت �����ش�ر‪�� .‬ب� � ا لم�����ي� ت� �ق�د � �����ش�ر‪ .‬و�أ�خ � ��ن�ا‬ ‫�ج‬ ‫و‬ ‫ف�لا �ج �ي بو و ر �‬ ‫ع‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫ن ّ‬ ‫ّ ن ّ‬ ‫ن ف � ّ ةً‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫كا ����س���ا �������ض��‬ ‫كل ���ج�ا ر‪��� .‬ح�تى ور����م� ت� ي��‬ ‫كل د ا ر‪ .‬و �نا�����ث�ا �ل� ت� ع�ل��ي ن���ا ا ��ل�ه�د �ا��ي�ا �م�� �‬ ‫ا لم ����ب�ا ر‪� .‬م�� �‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫� ن‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫طً‬ ‫ف‬ ‫�ن‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ة‬ ‫��ت���ب� ا‪ .‬ا �م����ت�ل ت‬ ‫���ه�د ��ن�ا � ن�� ت�����ه��ز �ر�� �ص�� �� ا ��ل���ه� � �ف��ل �ج�‬ ‫� رح�ا �ل ����ن�ا ����� �ا و�ت��م�را‪ .‬و ج�‬ ‫��د ���ه�ا‬ ‫رب‬ ‫ي‬ ‫م‬ ‫و ��ح�تّر و ّ أ‬ ‫�تُ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ذ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ز‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��� و ب�‪����� .‬ق�ا ل الإ� ��س ك‬ ‫�� ى ��ح�ل ال� ���ج�ل ا لم������ض�رو ب�‪ .‬وا ��س����� ���ج� ا �لو���ع�د ا لم �ك‬ ‫����ن�د ر ��ي ���ه�ل‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫�‬ ‫ن‬ ‫� ز ا‪� .‬أ �أ�����ت� �م ����ن�ه ���م��ز ا‪� .‬ق�ا �ل ا لا ����‬ ‫�� ن �ص ّ ت‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫ك‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫��‬ ‫��س��م�ع����ت� �م� ن� ���ه� ا ا �ل�ع�ل����ي�ل رك‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ق‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫ر‬ ‫ر‬ ‫و‬ ‫�ي‬ ‫إ م ي�أ � و‬ ‫و‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ق� � هم ل � �� نّ �ذ‬ ‫�ذ فم ق �‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫� إ� ا ��س��م�ع����ت� �صو�ت�ه‪� .‬م��ن ت� �مو�ت�ه‪.‬‬ ‫���م� ��ا ر�����ت�ه‪� .‬ف��ل ي�ج� ئ� ب����ع�د و ���ت�ه‪ .‬د عو إ� ى ��غ ٍ�د فإ� � ك‬ ‫ف م‬ ‫أم‬ ‫م � � م ّ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫��ث� ّ �ع ّر ف�و�ن� ل� �‬ ‫ح����ت�ا ل �ي� ع�لا ���ج�ه‪ .‬و�إ�� �ص�لا ���م�ا ����س�د �م� ن� �م�ز ا ���ج�ه‪� .‬ق�ا �لوا �ف�لا �ت�ؤ ���خر�‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ح‬ ‫�ذ م‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ف� ّ ت ّ‬ ‫ث‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ت‬ ‫�‬ ‫ن‬ ‫� ‪ّ.‬‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ن‬ ‫� ّ ‪ .‬ف�� ف� ق ا �ج�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ض‬ ‫ا‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�د‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫���‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�س‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ش‬ ‫�‬ ‫غ‬ ‫��‬ ‫�ص‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫��م‬ ‫ق‬ ‫غ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل�‬ ‫ل��‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�ل‬ ‫�ك‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫بح و �أر ج ح و ي � و‬ ‫� ٍ‬ ‫ّ �ب �أم ر‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫�‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫�ن‬ ‫�أ�ز‬ ‫ف‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫���ج�ا ء ه ا �لر ���ج�ا ل وا ���ج�ا‪ .‬وا �ل����س�ا ء �وا ���ج�ا‪ .‬و�ق�ا �لوا �‬ ‫���ح� ب� � � ش�����ي� ا �ل�ع�ل����ي�ل‪ .‬و�ت�دع ا �ل�����ق�ا ل‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ّ ق‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫� ����ن�د ر ��ي �و�موا �ب� ����ن�ا إ� �ل����ي�ه‪�� .‬ث� ��ح�د ر ا �ل�تما ��ئ� �ع� ن� ي��د ��ي�ه‪ .‬و��ح�ل ا �ل�عما ��ئ�‬ ‫وا �ل��ق������ي�ل‪������� .‬ق�ا ل الإ� ��س ك‬ ‫ف�أ ق م‬ ‫ف�أ م ّ � �أ قم‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ع� ن� ج����س�د ه‪ .‬و��ق�ا ل �ن�����ي��موه ���ع��ل و ج�‬ ‫�����ه�ه‪� �� .‬ن�����ي� ‪� .‬ث� �ق�ا ل �����ي��موه ���ع��لى ر ���ج�ل�ه‪����� �� .‬ي� ‪.‬‬ ‫ى‬ ‫فّ م‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫�أ سً‬ ‫�� م مّ تٌ ف� ف �أ� ف��أ � �ذ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ف� �‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫� ����ن�د ر ��ي ب���������ي�ه و ق�ا ل �هو �م�����ي�� ك‬ ‫������ي� ح��يي���ه � ��خ� ه ا ���خ�‪.‬‬ ‫��س���ق�ط ر ��� �ا وط� نّ� الإ� ��س ك‬ ‫� أ ّ‬ ‫ٌ‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫���ف�‪ .‬و�� �ص�ا ر إ� �ذ ا ُر���ف����ع� ت� �م ����ن�ه ��ي�د و��ق�����ع� ت� ��ي�د ��ث� ّ � �����ش�ا �غ �لوا ب��تج�‬ ‫����ت�ه ال� ك‬ ‫و�م��ل ك‬ ‫�����هي�� ز� ا لم�����ي� ت�‬ ‫ّ م‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ً‬ ‫���ت‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ة‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫�‬ ‫وا ���س�ل�ل ����ن�ا ���ه�ا رب�ي�� ن� ���ح�تى ���ي ����ن�ا �ر �ي�� ���ع��لى � �ش� ���ف��ير وا ٍد‪[ 3‬ا �ل����سي���ل] �ي��ط ّر������ه�ا‪ .‬وا ل��م�ا ء يحي��������ه�ا‪.‬‬ ‫�‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ّ ف‬ ‫� �غ � ّ ن‬ ‫��ك��ه� ��� ض‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫� ����ن�د ر �ي�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��‬ ‫م�‬ ‫�ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫غ��م���� ا �ل��ل����ي�ل‪� .‬م� ن� خ�����ش�ي����ة ا �ل����سي���ل‪������� .‬ق�ا ل الإ� ��س ك‬ ‫ت��م‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬ ‫ه‬ ‫��ل‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫و � �أ �أ و‬ ‫ي�ذ � م‬ ‫ض ّ� �أ ّ‬ ‫�ذ ق ة ّ� � �أ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�ق � �‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫��ي�ا و �ن�ا ك‬ ‫�������في�� ك‬ ‫� ���ه� ا ا ل��م�ا ء و�م����ر�ت�ه‪ .‬و رد �ع�� ���ه� ه ا �ل����ر��ي�� �م�عر�ت�ه‪ .‬ف� طي���عو�ي�‪ .‬ولا‬ ‫نم‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫م �أ‬ ‫� ةً‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫حوا �� �م‬ ‫ت���بر�موا ���م� ًا د و ��‪� .‬ق�ا �لوا و���م�ا ���م� ك �ق�ا ل ا ب�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��ج�ر�ى ���ه� ا ا ل��م�ا ء ب������ق�ر� �ص���ف�را ء‪.‬‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ّ ر ي‬ ‫رّ‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ة‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ث‬ ‫�خ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫وا �ت�����ض‬ ‫� وا ب�ي� �ج �ا ر��ي��ٍ ���ع� را ء‪ .‬و�� �ص�لوا ��ل��� رك‬ ‫��ع���تي��� ي���� ا �ل�ل�ه ���ع�� ك‬ ‫� �ع���ن�ا � ا ل��م�ا ء‪ .‬إ� لى‬ ‫ي‬ ‫م‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫�‬ ‫� ن‬ ‫� ا ا �ل � �ة‬ ‫� ��ح�لا ل ��ق�ا �لوا ن���ف�����ع� �ذ �ل�ك ��ف��ذ ب�‬ ‫حو ب����قر�‬ ‫���ه� ه ا �ل���ص����ح�را ء‪� .‬فإ� � ل ي��ث ����ن�ه �ف�د مي� �ل ك‬ ‫ل‬ ‫� م‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫مّ‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫و�ز ّو ج�وا ا ��جل‬ ‫��ع����تي�� ن� �ي���ص��لي���ه���م�ا و��ق�ا ل ��ي�ا �قو ا �‬ ‫��ا ر��ي��ة و�ق�ا إ� لى ا �لرك‬ ‫ح��ف���ظ��وا ن��������ف��س ك‬ ‫� لا ي��������ق‬ ‫ع‬ ‫م‬ ‫م‬ ‫م‬ ‫ف أ‬ ‫�‬ ‫‪   3‬ي� ال� �ص�ل‪ :‬وا د ��ي‬

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‫‪Orfali‬‬

‫ف‬ ‫ف ّ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ن ف� ا � ق �ك ف ّ‬ ‫ة‬ ‫�و �ه��ف��و‪ .‬و �ي� ا �ل��س�� ج�ود ���س�هو‪ .‬و �ي� ا �ل������ق�را ء � � �غل�و‪����� .‬م�تى ���س�هو��ن�ا‬ ‫��بو‪ .‬و �ي� ا �لر ك‬ ‫� ل�������ي�ا‬ ‫����م�� ك‬ ‫ع‬ ‫م ي�أ� � م‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫ا � ا� ّ‬ ‫��عت���� ن ف��م��س�ا ف�ت���ه� م�ا ط ����ة‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫� �‬ ‫� �� ويل‬ ‫��خ�ر�ج �م�ل���ن�ا‪�� 4‬ب�ا أط�لا‪ .‬و ����ه� ب� ع�م�ل���ن�ا ���ع�ا ط�لا‪ .‬وا �� �ص��برو ��ع��لى لر ك ي�‬ ‫�ذ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�وا و ����ج ا �ل����ّ���ض��ل ‪�� .‬ث� ّ �� �س‬ ‫��ج�د‪.‬‬ ‫و�ق�ا �ل�لر�ك���ع��ة ال� ولى �ف�ا �ن�ت�����ص� ب� ا �ن�ت����� �ص�ا ب� ا ��ل��ج� ‪��� .‬ح�تى � �ش� ك‬ ‫ع‬ ‫عّ م‬ ‫ّ�أع�� �ح�تّ‬ ‫� �‬ ‫�ح�تّم �ظ نّ �أ �ّ ��‬ ‫���ّ �ل��ل����ج�ل �� �‬ ‫��ج�د‪ .‬ل � ش‬ ‫�‬ ‫ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫���‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫د‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ث�‬ ‫�د‬ ‫�� ى ��وا ��ن�ه‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ف‬ ‫�‬ ‫ع‬ ‫ع‬ ‫ق‬ ‫ك‬ ‫ر‬ ‫ى‬ ‫� وم ي رو ر‬ ‫ع ر نس �نىة ب � و ةس ث �نم ة إ �أ‬ ‫ة ّ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫�‬ ‫ة‬ ‫�‬ ‫ي���ه�ا �م����ث�ل�ه �ث� �ق�ا ا �ب� ا �ل ز�ا�����ي��‪ .‬إ� لى ا �لر�ك���ع�� ا �ل��ا �����ي��‪ .‬و �با�����ت�د‬ ‫ا �ل��س�� ���ج�د � ا �لث��ا �ن�����ي�� و�م ك‬ ‫�� ث� ����‬ ‫م م‬ ‫ت‬ ‫��ح��ة‪� .‬أ��ت����ع�ه �ا �ل ا ��ق����ع��ة‪������� .‬ق� ا ء �ة ��ح��م�ز�ة‪��� .‬م ّ�د �ة ���ه��م�ز�ة‪�� .‬ث� ّ ���م�ا � ل ا �ل ك �‬ ‫ب�ا �ل��ف���ا �‬ ‫�وع‪ .‬ب�������ض�ر ب�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫و‬ ‫و‬ ‫ى‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ب‬ ‫و‬ ‫ر‬ ‫إ‬ ‫ر‬ ‫م ة � ّ � �أ‬ ‫ت ن ز ف ف �أ‬ ‫�خ ش��� ‪ .‬ن� �م� ن ا �لخ‬ ‫ن �ل‬ ‫ي���ه�ا روا ا ��جل‬ ‫� و ‪ .‬ا ����س������� �‬ ‫����م�ا ���ع�� �ث� ر��ف ر ���س�ه و��ي�د ه‪.‬‬ ‫����ض‬ ‫���‬ ‫�م�� ا � وع ووع �‬ ‫ع‬ ‫�أ ّ �ح‬ ‫ّ م ع‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫�أ �أ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫و�ق�ا ل ���س��م ا �ل�ل�ه لم� ن� ح���م�د ه‪ .‬و�ق�ا ‪��� .‬ح�تى ي���ق�� ن��وا ���ن�ه �ق�د ��ن�ا ‪�� .‬ث� ���م�ا ل إ� لى ا �ل��س�� ج�ود و و���م�‬ ‫م‬ ‫ع‬ ‫ن م م‬ ‫�أ ن � �أ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫� ل ّ ف���ق�����م ����ن�ا �أ�خ ��ذ �‬ ‫�����ن�ا ا �ل��ق�� ��س�ا ��ج�د � ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ك‬ ‫�‬ ‫د‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫ي� لا ����ع��ل ���م�ا ��ص ن�� ا �ل�د ���ه�ر ب�����ه� و �����ش�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ن‬ ‫و �ي وتر‬ ‫و‬ ‫وم �‬ ‫إ ي�‬ ‫ع‬ ‫م‬ ‫م‬ ‫�أ � ا �ل�������فت���� �����ق‬ ‫بو ح ي ول‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫�ن‬ ‫ي� �مث����ل� ��ي ����ن�ا‬ ‫لا ��يب����ع�د ا �ل��ل�ه �مث�����ل‬ ‫و‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ّ ق ة قي‬ ‫ف�ت�����‬ ‫�ل��ل�ه ���ل���ع�� �‬ ‫حت������ه�ا ب�ا ��ل�هو��ي ����ن�ا‬ ‫ت �خ يرً ومٍ‬ ‫ت �ز ً نً‬ ‫ك�ل� ت� �� ا‪ 5‬ع��ل� ه‬ ‫وك�ل�� ورا و�م��ي���ا‬ ‫ا�‬ ‫ي� م‬ ‫‪Bibliography‬‬ ‫‪Orfali, B. and M. Pomerantz, Assembling an author: On the making of al-Hamadhānī’s‬‬ ‫‪Maqāmāt, in L. Behzadi and J. Hämeen-Anttila (eds.), Concepts of authorship in pre‬‬‫‪modern Arabic texts, Bamberg 2016, 107–27.‬‬

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‫‪   4‬ف�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ف أ‬ ‫�خ‬ ‫‪ ��   5‬ال� �ص�ل‪�� :‬ير‪.‬‬ ‫ي‬

‫ال� �ص�ل‪� :‬ع�م�� نل��ا‪.‬‬

CHAPTER 16

Sucker of One’s Mother’s Clitoris: A Study of a Classical Arabic Insult John Nawas Among the many words and expressions found in the Arabic language, in Classical Arabic one encounters what seems to us, the modern reader, to be a very vulgar phrase: sucker of one’s mother’s clitoris.* There are two main versions of the idiom (a) yā māṣṣ baẓr ummihi (sucker of one’s mother’s clitoris), or (b) yā ʿāḍḍ baẓr ummihi (biter of one’s mother’s clitoris) and these are accompanied by the more direct yā māṣṣ baẓr ummika/ʿāḍḍ baẓr ummika (sucker/biter of your mother’s clitoris). Other variants include the imperative (e.g., umṣuṣ baẓr ummihi or ummika, go suck one’s/your mother’s clitoris). Additionally, a verbal form IV exists: amaṣṣahu/aʿaḍḍahu Allāh, may God make him suck/bite [his mother’s clitoris]. The verb baẓramahu also exists and means to tell someone to do so.1 The expression seems to no longer be in use.2 Māṣṣ baẓr ummihi or its close derivatives are found on many occasions in various genres of Classical Arabic literature, from history to poetry. Translating *  With this essay I thank Everett Rowson for the many talks we have had over the years, in between numerous editorial board meetings, about sex, erotica and obscenities in the Arabic language. My thanks also go to Geert Jan van Gelder for initial help and advice on this topic. 1  Al-Zamakhsharī, Asās al-balāgha 44. 2  However, modern Arabic does have the expression kuss ummak or kuss ukhtak, “your mother’s/sister’s cunt,” which is used in the Mashriq and Egypt, and zanbūr mmek/ṭābūn mmek in North African dialects, which refer to the vulva in general. This insult is used to mock someone’s female family members. Cf. van Gelder, Close relationships 136. The word baẓr is apparently not well known in modern Arabic. It is telling that the otherwise excellent lexicographer Aḥmad ʿUmar (Muʿjam al-lugha i, 222) confused the word baẓr with baṭn (in the meaning of womb) in his entry on the word baẓr: he incorrectly quotes the Quran: “wa-Allāh akhrajakum min buẓūr ummahātikum” in reference to Q Naḥl 16:78. However, the verse reads wa-Allāh akhrajakum min buṭūn ummahātikum. Baẓr (or its plural buẓūr) does not occur in the Quran. To double check, I also went through summaries of the seven variant “readings” of the Quran (qirāʾāt) but nowhere did I encounter baẓr or buẓūr (ʿUmar and Mukarram, Muʿjam al-qirāʾāt). The verbal Form II baẓẓara is, however, a synonym for khatana or khafaḍa (to circumcise). See ʿUmar, al-Maknaz 396. In legal material, the only reference to the term that I have come across pertains to the permissibility of cunnilingus.

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this expression into English is not straightforward. Hugh Kennedy translates it with the American expression “motherfucker” while Geert Jan van Gelder renders it “mothersucker” altering the American expression in an attempt to capture more of the literal sense.3 However, in American English the word “motherfucker” can be used for slander but it can also serve as a word-filler or can even be jocular. What we would like to know—the main research question in this essay—is what the expression yā māṣṣ baẓr ummihi and its connotations signified in Classical Arabic. The American expressions “motherfucker” and “son of a bitch” are related to each other in linguistic register, and can be used either seriously or jocularly. They can, for instance, be directed at someone who is despised or used as exclamations of surprise or simply as verbose “filler” with no added meaning. The Urban Dictionary provides us with examples: “You’re a motherfucker” is meant to hurt while “you are one bad motherfucker” can be a backhanded compliment. “What the motherfuck is going on here?” is an example of a redundant filler. “Why the fuck did you smoke all of my J you son of a bitch” (serious), or “Dude, you were supposed to work at 3.” Response: “Son of a bitch” (surprise, joke).4 The English language, furthermore, has no swearword for clitoris. “Clit” comes close but calling a woman a “clitface” or “clit for brains” sounds odd and funny rather than being a way of hurting someone’s feelings.5 According to Gray’s anatomy, “The external organs of generation in the female are: the mons Veneris, the labia majora and minora, the clitoris, the meatus urinarius, and the orifice of the vagina. The term ‘vulva’ or ‘pudendum,’ as generally applied, includes all these parts.”6 In an article on English words for the female genital organs—either for abuse or for endearment—all the terms encountered refer to the vulva in its entirety, not to a specific part, unlike, in the case of the Classical Arabic, the expression under scrutiny here, which refers specifically to the clitoris. The most important conclusion is not only the generality in English—reference is to the vulva in its entirety—but also that there are many more negative-valued “nasty” than positively-valued “nice” words for the vulva.7

3  Kennedy, Al-Manṣūr and al-Mahdī 90 note 265; van Gelder, Close relationships 135. 4  www.urbandictionary.com, s.v. “motherfucker” and “son of a bitch.” 5  Mohr, Holy shit 28. 6  Gray, Gray’s anatomy. 7  On this count, there is no difference between men or women, heterosexuals or homosexuals. Aman, Terms of abuse 6–8, 11–13. Cf. Cornog, Tom, Dick and Hairy.

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In order to discover what the Arabic expression denoted, and when and by whom it was used in the Classical Arabic literary tradition, we will first take a look at the lexicographical tradition (including one exegetical account) to see what more these authors have to say about the expression. Subsequently, I have chosen from three different genres—historical, biographical, and literary—works from various periods in time, which afford us diverse examples of usage of the expression. I will first present the nine anecdotes encountered in al-Ṭabarī’s (d. 310/923) universal history, Tārīkh al-rusul wa-l-mulūk, then two anecdotes taken from Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa’s (d. 668/1270) medical biographical dictionary. Finally, examples from the adab work with the most frequent listing of anecdotes using the expression or a close variant thereof—totaling 28 stories—the Kitāb al-Aghānī by Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī (d. 356/967) will be summarized. The presentation of the anecdotes in the works of al-Ṭabarī and Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa provides the reader with a sufficient flavor of its usage and an overview of uses found in the Kitāb al-Aghānī completes the picture. Most anecdotes are presented as they are, and I only offer the reader such additional information as is needed to fully understand what is happening and under which circumstances. After scrutiny of all of these stories we will be able, at the end of this essay, to say what the expression meant, how and when it was used, and by whom.

The Lexicographical Tradition

The Arabic language is rich in synonyms, not only for all parts of the male and female reproductive systems. Interestingly, unlike English, which has about an equal number of swearwords or pet words for both the male and the female genitals,8 Arabic has many more synonyms for the female reproductive organs than for the male reproductive organs—almost three times as many. A modern Arabic dictionary entitled al-Qāmūs al-Jinsī ʿind al-ʿArab, extracting all words referring to sexual organs and/or the sexual act, drawn from the multivolume major Classical Arabic dictionary, the Lisān al-ʿArab, by Ibn Manẓūr (d. 711/1312), amounts to 352 pages in all. Some sixty pages of this dictionary are devoted to the male sexual parts, while more than 160 pages deal with the female sexual parts, and the remainder of the dictionary (129 pages) lists all words that deal with the “union” between the male and female sexual parts.9 The Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition defines baẓr, pl. buẓūr, as clitoris and adds that a baẓrāʾ is “a woman who is affected by clitorism [i.e., prolonged 8  Aman, Terms of abuse. 9  Ḥamza, al-Qāmūs al-jinsī.

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and usually painful erection of the clitoris), or is believed to be so. An uncircumcised woman is called lakhnāʾ. Expressions such as ibn al-baẓrāʾ or ibn al-lakhnāʾ meaning in effect “son of the uncircumcised woman” are considered injurious.10 Ibn Manẓūr adds, in his Lisān al-ʿArab, that the expression found in a ḥadīth (yā ibn muqaṭṭiʿat al-buẓūr) is used by the Arabs to disparage someone even if that person’s mother was in reality not someone who circumcised women. It was also used for a special kind of slave-girl called ama baẓrāʾ who was called so because she had a long clitoris.11 In this essay I limit myself to yā māṣṣ baẓr ummihi (sucker of one’s mother’s clitoris) or yā ʿāḍḍ baẓr ummihi and their close affiliates. The expression yā māṣṣ baẓr ummihi is explained explicitly by al-Fīrūzābādī (d. 817/1415) in his al-Qāmūs al-muḥīṭ under the entry m-ṣ-ṣ. First we are told that the use of the fourth verbal form amaṣṣanī fulān (he made me suck x) or calling out yā maṣṣān (male) like yā maṣṣāna (female) is a shatm (insult), which refers to the expression yā māṣṣ baẓr ummihi or rāḍiʿ al-ghanam (one who sucks sheep’s teats).12 Al-Fīrūzābādī equates these two expressions with no further ado. However, any hope of getting directly to the heart of the matter—since I have not found an equivalent idiom—is dashed as I could only find rāḍiʿ al-ghanam in another lexicographical work, the Tāj al-ʿArūs, which relies heavily on al-Fīrūzābādī.13 Al-Zabīdī (d. 1205/1791), author of the Tāj, explains that the expression rāḍiʿ al-ghanam means that someone “sucks sheep 10   E I2, Index volume 187. The insult ibn baẓrāʾ was already known amongst the Arabs in pre-Islamic times, attested in a poem by al-Aʿshā al-Kabīr (d. 4–5/625). See Kurayyim, al-Muʿjam al-mufahras 254. 11  Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān al-ʿArab iii, 65. Ibn Manẓūr also makes reference to how the word baẓr can additionally be used for some animals. Moreover, the expression rajul abẓar refers to an uncircumcised man and a number of other explanations are provided that are irrelevant for our purposes here. Al-Jawharī (d. ca. 398/1078; al-Ṣiḥāḥ ii, 516) tells us about a ḥadīth in which ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib says to Shurayḥ: mā taqūl anta ayyuhā l-ʿabd al-abẓar. Al-Fīrūzābādī (d. 817/1415; al-Qāmūs 352) adds that al-baẓra also means to have little hair under one’s armpit. Additionally, he explains the second form baẓẓara as being equivalent to the fourth form yumiṣṣuhu that is used when someone tells someone else to umṣuṣ baẓr fulāna (suck x’s clitoris). It is interesting to note that the editor of Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa’s biographical dictionary (ʿUyūn al-anbāʾ 223 note 1, and 48 note 3) who interprets the phrase to be an insult to despise someone, claims—on two separate occasions—that the clitoris of a slave-girl was cut off, suggesting that this was customary, contradicting what is stated above that it also meant a slave-girl who had a long clitoris. 12  Al-Fīrūzābādī, al-Qāmūs 631. Al-Fīrūzābādī includes an extension of the expression: waylī ʿalā maṣṣān ibn maṣṣān or waylī ʿalā maṣṣāna ibn maṣṣāna [sic], which he says is another way of saying the same. 13  Brockelmann, Muḥammad Murtaḍā al-Zabīdī.

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from miserliness instead of milking her to avoid the sound of milking being heard” (yarḍaʿ al-ghanam min al-luʾm lā yaḥtalibuhā fa-yusmaʿ ṣawt al-ḥalb).14 Yet the expression rāḍiʿ al-ghanam seems confined to the mind and world of Classical Arabic lexicography because I could not find any actual instances of its use apart from the dictionaries, unlike the ubiquitous māṣṣ baẓr ummihi. Al-Zamakhsharī (d. 538/1144) provides the most concrete explanation of the expression I could find. The explanation is found in his exegetical work al-Kashshāf where, in the light of a discussion on the punishment for zinā (adultery), al-Zamakhsharī discusses verses four and five of Sūrat al-Nūr [Q 24:4–5]: “And as for those who accuse chaste women [of adultery], and then are unable to produce four witnesses [in support of their accusation], flog them with eighty stripes; and ever after refuse to accept from them any testimony—since it is they, they that are truly depraved! // Excepting [from this interdict] only those who afterwards repent and made amends: for, behold, God is much-forgiving, a dispenser of grace.”15 This sura deals primarily with regulations regarding appropriate dress, behavior and sexual conduct.16 Al-Zamakhsharī tells us that these verses pertain to the crime of qadhf (slander, in particular about someone’s sexual conduct) and interprets them, in his usual manner, i.e. linguistically.17 His interpretation centers on the meaning of the word muḥṣana/muḥṣan, translated above as “chaste,” and he states that someone commits slander by unjustifiably calling a chaste woman an adulteress (zāniya) or, for the male counterpart, an adulterer, or the son of an adulterer or adulteress, or saying that someone’s birth was not legitimate (lasta li-rishda, “you are not true-born,” which is the opposite of being born through adultery).18 The charge of slander requires four witnesses rather than the normal two witnesses for other criminal or civil suits. Insults that al-Zamakhsharī summarily lists and that do not involve an implication of adultery (and consequently do not require four witnesses to testify) include calling someone “he who charges usury, he who drinks, a Jew, a Magian (majūsī), sinner (fāsiq), wicked (khabīth), and sucker of one’s mother’s clitoris” and therefore deserves a discretionary punishment (taʿzīr) that must be less than the obligatory criminal punishment (ḥadd) of eighty lashes for proven slander.19 In other words, al-Zamakhsharī excludes the expression from referring outright to zinā or 14  Al-Zabīdī, Tāj al-ʿarūs ix, 360–1; Lane, Arabic-English lexicon iii, 1098. 15  Asad, The message 533–4. 16  Droge, The Qurʾān 227. 17  Lane, Muʿtazilite Qurʾān commentary 102–48. 18  Lane, Arabic-English lexicon iii, 1089. 19  Al-Zamakhsharī, al-Kashshāf iii, 208.

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unlawful sexual intercourse, because one who accuses someone else of sucking his mother’s clitoris would in fact be accusing that person of incest, which, as we noted earlier, falls under the category of zinā, if proven. Consequently, to al-Zamakhsharī’s mind, the expression was therefore not meant in a literal sense, i.e., that someone had actually sucked or bitten his mother’s clitoris, because it would then fall under qadhf (slander) and require the ḥadd punishment and not taʿzīr as he posits.20 Hence, for al-Zamakhsharī, the expression was only used as an insult that was not to be taken in its literal sense. Let us see if the anecdotes that now follow confirm this finding.

Al-Ṭabarī’s Tārīkh al-Rusul wa-l-Mulūk

I will present the nine relevant anecdotes taken from al-Ṭabarī’s universal history in sequence. The first story goes back to the days of the Prophet in the year 6/627–8 and is also the only anecdote in which a singular and unique variant of the expression is found. Moreover, al-Bukhārī included this story in his canonical Hadith collection, the Ṣaḥīḥ. ʿUrwa ibn Masʿūd was sent to negotiate with Muḥammad, who wanted to make a pilgrimage to the Kaʿba in Mecca.21 ʿUrwa told the Prophet that his followers consist of both scum and noble people and they would all likely desert him in the end. At that moment, Abū Bakr, who was also present, tells ʿUrwa to “umṣuṣ baẓr al-Lāt” (go suck al-Lāt’s clitoris), al-Lāt being one of three famous pre-Islamic goddesses of the Arabs.22 Inasmuch as Abū Bakr had once done ʿUrwa a favor, no fighting between the two men ensued. The Prophet allowed the episode to happen and that was that.23 The second anecdote goes back to the year 127/744–5 in the context of a Kharijite revolt against the Umayyads. ʿAbdallāh ibn ʿUmar, son of the Umayyad

20  Cf. van Gelder, Close relationships 135. 21  ʿUrwa ibn Masʿūd (d. 9/630), married to a daughter of Abū Sufyān, who headed the Meccan resistance to the prophet Muḥammad, became a Muslim shortly before being killed while defending his hometown of al-Ṭāʾif. ʿUrwa was instrumental in concluding the truce of al-Ḥudaybiyya in 6/628, in which it was agreed that Muḥammad and the Muslims would not enter Mecca that year but the year after to perform a pilgrimage (see Bosworth, ʿUrwa b. Masʿūd). 22  For the ḥadīth, see al-Bukhārī, Ṣaḥiḥ (Shurūṭ) iii, 254. The modern English translators (Ṣaḥiḥ al-Bukhārī iii, 730) prudishly skip over the literal translation and simply state: “Abu Bakr abused him,” with no explicit translation of the abuse itself. 23  Al-Ṭabarī, Tārīkh i, 1536; Fishbein (trans.), The victory of Islam 76.

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caliph ʿUmar II,24 was forced to leave Kufa, changed sides and swore allegiance to the Kharijite leader al-Ḍaḥḥāk.25 The pro-Umayyad poet Abū ʿAṭāʾ al-Sindī26 composed verses censuring ʿAbdallāh for his treachery. When hearing these verses, ʿAbdallāh exclaimed: “aʿaḍḍaka Allāh bi-baẓr ummika (May God make you bite your mother’s clitoris).27 ʿAbdallāh must have been very insulted by the verses exposing his treachery especially since he gave allegiance to a nonQurayshite, i.e., to someone who was not even a member of his own tribe. A third instance of the expression occurs in the wake of the Abbasid revolution during the year 132/749 and deals with the investiture of al-Saffāḥ as the first Abbasid caliph (r. 132–6/749–54). A major propagandist for the Abbasids, Abū Salama, had shown some hesitance in giving al-Saffāḥ his allegiance when he claimed the caliphate for himself and his family. After al-Saffāḥ had delivered the Friday prayer, Abū Salama greeted the caliph but was chastised by Abū Ḥumayd, an Abbasid military officer, who told him: He’s become caliph despite you (raghm anfika), yā māṣṣ baẓr ummihi (sucker of his mother’s clitoris).” To which al-Saffāḥ replied by telling Abū Ḥumayd to calm down. Here, too, the intent is clear that the expression was intentionally used to gravely insult someone.28 A fourth anecdote is reported by al-Ṭabarī under the year 144/761–2, but the event took place in 138/755–6). The second Abbasid caliph, al-Manṣūr (r. 136–58/754–75), was wary about a possible Shiite revolt against his reign, so when he put his cousin al-Faḍl ibn Ṣāliḥ in charge of the pilgrimage for the year 138/755, he told him to be on the lookout for two sons of ʿAbdallāh ibn al-Ḥasan, the great-grandson of ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib and Fāṭima.29 Al-Manṣūr instructed al-Faḍl to go to Medina and if he should see the two brothers he 24  ʿAbdallāh ibn ʿUmar ibn ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz had been sent to Iraq to strengthen Umayyad authority in the province. However, after having been defeated he finally gave the Kharijite leader al-Ḍaḥḥāk his loyalty and support. ʿAbdallāh ibn ʿUmar died in prison in 132/749–50 (Judd, ʿAbdallāh ibn ʿUmar). 25  Al-Ḍaḥḥāk was a Kharijite rebel who amassed a large number of troops to fight the embattled Umayyad family. He was killed in battle by the last Umayyad caliph, Marwān II, in 128/746 (Veccia Vaglieri, al-Ḍaḥḥāk). 26  Abū ʿAṭāʾ al-Sindī (d. between 136–58/754–75) was a pro-Umayyad poet who, after the demise of the dynasty, failed to win the favor of the new Abbasid caliphs (Seidensticker, Abū ʿAṭāʾ al-Sindī). 27  Al-Ṭabarī, Tārīkh iii, 1904; Williams (trans.), ʿAbbāsid revolution 15. 28  Al-Ṭabarī, Tārīkh iii, 28–9; Williams (trans.), ʿAbbāsid revolution 152. 29  The two sons were Muḥammad, later known under the name al-Nafs al-Zakiyya (the Pure Soul) who rebelled against the Abbasids together with his full brother Ibrāhīm. The rebellion took place in 145/762. First Muḥammad rebelled and was killed in Medina while his

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must not let them go; if, on the other hand, he did not meet them, he was told not to ask about them. When he arrived in Medina ʿAbdallāh ibn al-Ḥasan came to greet him and, against al-Manṣūr’s directive, al-Faḍl did ask ʿAbdallāh about his two sons. ʿAbdallāh responded that they were out hunting and ordered one of his herdsmen to bring al-Faḍl milk with honey. When the herdsman approached al-Faḍl, ʿAbdallāh yelled at him (yā māṣṣ baẓr ummihi) in order to make him go away. The herdsman lost no time in racing off whereupon ʿAbdallāh himself brought al-Faḍl the cup. Feeling embarrassed about what had happened al-Faḍl accepted it and drank the milk and honey.30 What had been said to the herdsman was forgotten. Continuing the narrative about the potential revolt against al-Manṣūr, a fifth story tells us that during the pilgrimage of the year 140/757–8, al-Manṣūr gave away gifts while visiting Medina, but again ʿAbdallāh’s sons did not show up. The caliph asked ʿAbdallāh about them and the two men became agitated so al-Manṣūr invoked the insult and called him a sucker of his mother’s clitoris ( fa-amaṣṣahu Abū Jaʿfar). Apparently playing with the idea to get back at al-Manṣūr without directly offending the caliph, ʿAbdallāh retorted by asking which of his female ancestors was meant: Khadīja, wife of the Prophet? Fāṭima, daughter of the Prophet, wife of ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib? or ʿAlī’s mother? ʿAlī’s granddaughter? Al-Manṣūr suggested that it be the mother of ʿAlī’s granddaughter Fāṭima, the extraordinarily beautiful al-Jarbāʾ bint Qasāma ibn Zuhayr.31 After this brief exchange, one of al-Manṣūr’s men offered to behead the “son of a bitch” (ibn al-fāʿila).32 I interpret this entertaining exchange between al-Manṣūr and ʿAbdallāh to be a play on words. The caliph used the expression to insult ʿAbdallāh but instead of letting this happen, a diplomatic answer was formulated by ʿAbdallāh about his prestigious female ancestors. Al-Manṣūr cleverly countered this tactic by suggesting a non-agnate female family member. However, the two men pretended to apply the expression concretely leading to this absurd exchange. brother Ibrāhīm rebelled shortly thereafter and was killed while attempting to go to Kufa. For an elaborate analysis of this insurgence, see Elad, Rebellion. 30  Al-Ṭabarī, Tārīkh iii, 147; McAuliffe (trans.), ʿAbbāsid authority 90–1. 31  Al-Jarbāʾ was a woman from the tribe of Ṭayyiʾ. Lane (Arabic-English lexicon ii, 404) tells us that jarbāʾ means “a beautiful girl; so called because the women separate themselves from her, seeing that their goodly qualities are rendered foul by comparison with hers.” Her name is thus to be taken literally. 32  Al-Ṭabarī, Tārīkh iii, 150; McAuliffe (trans.), ʿAbbāsid authority 94–5. The man who offered to behead ʿAbdallāh was al-Musayyab ibn Zuhayr, an important military commander of the Abbasids.

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To finish it off, a subordinate added an affront by calling ʿAbdallah a son of a bitch, as if just to make sure it was understood that ʿAbdallāh was a lowlife. A sixth story in al-Ṭabarī occurred just after the death of Caliph al-Manṣūr in 158/775 when the pledge of allegiance was given to his son al-Mahdī (r. 158–69/775–85), then to his nephew ʿĪsā ibn Mūsā after him, while Mūsā, the son of al-Mahdī—the later caliph al-Hādī (r. 169–70/785–6)—was present. However, one of the military commanders, ʿAlī ibn ʿĪsā ibn Māhān, was reluctant to do so because ʿĪsā ibn Mūsā’s name was also mentioned. A member of the Abbasid family then slapped ʿAlī, called him a lout (ʿilj), voiced the insult (amaṣṣahu), and suggested beheading ʿAlī. Consequently, ʿAlī changed his mind and pledged allegiance. Subsequently, other people took the oath but another military commander, al-Musayyab ibn Zuhayr, also protested against the inclusion of the name of ʿĪsā ibn Mūsā. They all pronounced the insult about him ( fa-amaṣṣūhu) and the commander took the oath.33 The seventh story has to do with a son of Caliph al-Manṣūr, Jaʿfar, who died in 150/767–8, some eight years prior to his father’s demise. The anecdote is couched in a number of accounts of a kind that al-Ṭabarī usually includes at the end of a caliph’s reign in no particular order, let alone chronological, and that are only meant to provide the reader with insight about a caliph’s behavior. Al-Manṣūr had appointed a certain al-Fuḍayl ibn ʿImrān (who is otherwise unknown) as counsel to his son Jaʿfar but due to court intrigues the man was wrongly accused of harboring homosexual feelings for Jaʿfar and was therefore ordered to be killed by al-Manṣūr. Jaʿfar asked one of his mawālī (clients) what he thought about a caliph who had killed an innocent and God-fearing Muslim. The mawlā (client) answered that a caliph can do anything he wants to do and anything a caliph does is the best for all. Jaʿfar responded yā māṣṣ baẓr ummihi, scolding him because he himself had spoken in the language of the elite (al-khaṣṣa) and the mawlā had answered back in the language of the common people (al-ʿāmma). I understand this statement as Jaʿfar wanting a candid response to his question and not a commonplace remark that any average person would make—to show absolute respect for the caliph, sincere or otherwise. Jaʿfar was so angry that he ordered the mawlā to be taken by the legs and thrown into the Tigris, but the mawlā asked why al-Manṣūr, who had killed many prominent men, should be judged only for killing an innocent man who was “a rat who nipped Pharaoh’s balls?” Jaʿfar laughed and let the mawlā go.34

33  Al-Ṭabarī, Tārīkh iii, 389; Kennedy (trans.), Al-Manṣūr and al-Mahdī 90–1. 34  Al-Ṭabarī, Tārīkh iii, 440–41; Kennedy (trans.), Al-Manṣūr and al-Mahdī 146.

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The eighth anecdote in al-Ṭabarī in which the phrase is used occurs frequently in other sources as well. It is about the fall from power of the Barmakid family during the reign of Hārūn al-Rashīd (r. 170–93/786–809).35 The caliph had ordered his executioner Masrūr to bring Jaʿfar al-Barmakī’s head. Jaʿfar pleaded with Masrūr to go back to the caliph and ask if he really did want his head—Jaʿfar suggested the caliph might be drunk, not knowing what he was saying. As Masrūr started to plead on behalf of Jaʿfar, al-Rashīd bawled out at him yā māṣṣ baẓr ummihi and ordered him to carry out what he had been told or otherwise Masrūr’s head would roll.36 The ninth and last use of the expression in al-Ṭabarī’s history is recorded under anecdotes about the deposed caliph al-Amīn (r. 193–98/809–13). Al-Amīn had heard verses composed by the famous poet Abū Nuwās (d. ca. 199/814) by which he felt insulted. He screamed at Abū Nuwās yā ʿāḍḍ baẓr ummihi al-ʿāhira (the whore) yā bn al-lakhnāʾ (son of an uncircumcised woman) and he had the poet imprisoned. The use of the expression is straightforward here: al-Amīn had felt offended by the poet’s verses and wanted to get back at him by insulting him; al-Ṭabarī adds “wa-shatamahu aqbaḥ al-shatm” (he insulted him in the ugliest of ways).37

Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, ʿUyūn al-anbāʾ fī ṭabaqāt al-aṭibbāʾ

The expression occurs twice in Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa’s biographical dictionary about the medical profession. The first narrative centers on ʿAbdallāh al-Ṭayfūrī who is listed among the Syrian Christian doctors active during the early years of the Abbasid caliphate. ʿAbdallāh was the personal physician of the caliph al-Hādī when he was a boy. A certain Abū Muslim tells the story about his father Abū Ghānim who had become ill with a severe fever which had caused delirium. He had started to slander his friends (qadhf aṣḥābihi), saying detestable things about them (al-makrūh ʿalayhim). ʿAbdallāh al-Ṭayfūrī inspected Abū Ghānim’s perspiration and “water” (māʾihi) and he then whispered something 35  The Barmakids were a famous family of administrators who during the reign of Hārūn al-Rashīd had come to dominate state affairs. The reason why the caliph unexpectedly made the decision to end their ascendency on the night of Saturday 1 Ṣafar 187/28–9 January 803 remains unknown until today. Jaʿfar was beheaded and most other members of the family arrested and their properties confiscated. Jaʿfar’s corpse was left exposed in Baghdad for one year (Sourdel, al-Barāmika). 36  Al-Ṭabarī, Tārīkh iii, 679; Bosworth (trans.), ʿAbbāsid caliphate 217. 37  Al-Ṭabarī, Tārīkh iii, 964; Fishbein (trans.), War between brothers 239.

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in his ear that his son Abū Muslim could not understand. Abū Ghānim shot out: “You lie! Yā māṣṣ baẓr ummihi.” Al-Ṭayfūrī responded “aʿaḍḍ Allāh (sic, “may God make [him] bite”), did we indeed lie about his mother?” Abū Muslim, telling the story, added that at that moment he thought that al-Ṭayfūrī would be killed as Abū Ghānim called him the son of an unbeliever (ibn al-kāfira), asking him how he dared to address him in this manner. Al-Ṭayfūrī responded that whenever the caliph, al-Hādī, slandered him (kān yaqdhifunī) he would answer him in like manner. Abū Ghānim couldn’t believe his ears and, half laughing, half crying, asked al-Ṭayfūrī if that was really true, to which he swore that it was and the matter was left at that.38 The second occurrence is in the same chapter and involves the famous doctor Yūḥannā ibn Māsawayh (d. 243/857).39 We are told that the Christians came to blame Ibn Māsawayh, who was a deacon (shammās) as well, for having slave-girls rather than staying with one wife in accordance with their religion (ʿalā sunnatinā). They added that if he did not give up other women he should give up his deaconship (al-shammāsiyya). Ibn Māsawayh responded that he only knew of one passage in which deacons were ordered not to take two wives and two robes.40 He added that whoever makes the patriarch (jithlīq)—al-ʿāḍḍ baẓr ummihi (the biter of his mother’s clitoris)—worthier, by allowing him to have twenty robes, than the poor and wretched (al-shaqī) Ibn Māsawayh, who only has four women, should go and tell the patriarch to adhere to his religion as an example to all.41 Here the phrase is used in apposition to a criticism of the patriarch for being a hypocrite.42

Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī, Kitāb al-Aghānī

As noted earlier, the expression under discussion is either used with the verb maṣṣ—yamuṣṣ (to suck) or ʿaḍḍ—yaʿaḍḍ (to bite), or variants derived from these two words, in combination with baẓr. The expression turns up 28 times 38  Ibn Abī Usaybīʿa, ʿUyūn al-anbāʾ 222–3. 39  Vadet, Ibn Māsawayh. 40  Perhaps echoing 1 Timothy 3:12: “Let deacons be married only once, and let them manage their children and their households well” (New Oxford annotated Bible, New Testament, 1 Timothy 302); wa-ʿalā al-shammāsiyya an yakūn al-wāḥid minhum zawj imrāʾa wāḥida wa-an yuḥsinū riʿāyat abnāʾihim wa-buyūtihim (al-Kitāb al-Muqaddas, al-ʿahd al-jadīd, al-Ūlā ilā Ṭīmūtāws 663). 41  Ibn Abī Usaybiʿa, ʿUyūn al-anbāʾ 248. 42  A criticism reminiscent of Jubran Khalil Jubran (d. 1931) or Mikha’il Na’ima (d. 1988) who, much later, attacked the official church.

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in the Kitāb al-Aghānī, a work compiled by Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī (d. 356/967).43 Most instances recorded in the Aghānī (irrespective of which verb is used) are in direct response to hearing lines of poetry that were offensive to the person who, in riposte, uttered the insult (this is the case in 21 out of all 28 occurrences of the expression in the Aghānī). The poetry was either instantly offensive to the person to whom the verses were directed or offensive to his kinsmen and/ or ancestors. All other cases (the remaining seven) involve enraging the person who pronounced the expression. We are told, for example, that the caliph al-Mahdī (r. 158–69/775–85) istashāṭ—fumed with rage—when he used it;44 and the caliph al-Wāthiq (r. 227–32/842–7), after hearing about the enjoyments of drinking alcohol to the extreme, was so filled with rage that his eyes were white with anger (kān fī ʿaynayhi bayāḍ) when he voiced the expression.45 Perhaps the most illustrative anecdote in the category of responding to offensive poetry that I came across in the Aghānī is about the caliph al-Ma‌ʾmūn (r. 198–218/813–33) and the blind poet al-ʿAkawwak (ʿAlī ibn Jabala).46 Known for his panegyrics, the poet recited verses praising the military commander Abū Dulaf al-ʿIjlī. However, the caliph did not like what he heard. He considered the verses an affront to God because the poet was indirectly attributing to a human being the possibility of performing miracles, something that only God can do. Consequently, the enraged caliph declared the poetry to be a form of kufr (unbelief) and summarily ordered the poet’s tongue, yā māṣṣ baẓr ummihi, to be torn out, which caused his death (in 213/828).47 Poetic license was in this particular case no excuse for the hyperbole that is otherwise common in Arabic poetry. The smaller number of anecdotes found in the Aghānī which did not include poetry consist of situations in which the interlocutors incurred the wrath of one of those present. A high official, for instance, became furious after discovering that his tax collector was delaying payment of the kharāj-taxes he had collected, called him yā māṣṣ baẓr ummihi, and ordered him to pay immediately.48 A discussion about determinism (al-jabriyya) versus indeterminism (al-qadariyya) involving the Muʿtazilite theologian Thumāma ibn Ashras49 43  For what it’s worth, usage of the verb ʿaḍḍ is more frequent than maṣṣ; of the 28 occurrences in the Aghānī 18 (or 64%) have ʿaḍḍ and 10 (36%) have maṣṣ. 44  Al-Iṣfahānī, al-Aghānī xi, 61–2. 45  Al-Iṣfahānī, al-Aghānī xx, 251. 46  Weipert, al-ʿAkawwak. 47  Al-Iṣfahānī, al-Aghānī xix, 317. 48  Al-Iṣfahānī, al-Aghānī vi, 310. 49  Van Ess, Thumāma b. Ashras.

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(d. 213/859) and the famous poet Abū l-ʿAtāhiya50 (d. 210/825 or 211/826) ended when the former called the latter al-māṣṣ baẓr ummihi (the sucker of his mother’s clitoris), an interjection caused perhaps by the heat of the discussion, taking into account that the caliph al-Ma‌ʾmūn, who was present, burst out laughing and left it at that.51 Conclusion An insult is meant to hurt someone’s feelings or pride. Psychologically speaking, the person who intentionally insults another person wants to hurt that person or wishes to transpose his own hurt to that other person. If we add social hierarchy as a factor, the insult can either invoke this hierarchy or subvert it by flouting the social rules according to which the subordinate must not overstep his position vis-à-vis his superior, let alone insult that person. In other words, from an individual psychological point of view, the pain is in the insult and is person-to-person, irrespective of whether, as in our case, the form used is ummihi (his mother) or ummika (your mother). From a sociological or social-psychological viewpoint, social hierarchy is affirmed when a superior uses this hierarchy to intensify the insult or when a subordinate attempts to undermine the hierarchy by voicing an insult, thus adding to the insult by flouting the standard rules of social conduct. After our survey of uses of the expression yā māṣṣ baẓr ummihi and its variants, it has become clear that it was used to insult someone and to deeply hurt that person’s feelings or pride. This insult was deadly serious. Sometimes, the person to whom the insult was directed was even killed. There was nothing jocular about it; its seriousness also appears in anecdotes in which the phrase was used then quickly skipped over in an attempt to avoid further escalation and aggression. We saw that Jaʿfar, a son of al-Manṣūr, released his mawlā after insulting him and wanting him thrown into the Tigris, as he laughed the matter away. Al-Ma‌ʾmūn tempered a discussion between Thumāma ibn Ashras and Abū l-ʿAtāhiya also by laughing off the use of the expression. The expression was thus very unlike the American expressions we have given to offer some form of comparison for the modern reader—clitface (funny), son of a bitch, or motherfucker (both serious or funny). In the examples presented of usage of this expression, no neutral deeds or actions provoked use of the insult. It was used in response to what was considered verbal abuse or bad behavior. 50  Cresswell, Abū l-ʿAtāhiya. 51  Al-Iṣfahānī, al-Aghānī iv, 8.

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Moreover, it was an insult generally invoked after extreme anger or rage had been caused; in a number of narratives we are actually told how angry the person pronouncing the insult was. One vented one’s rage by using the expression. There is little or no evidence that the expression was used as a euphemism in any form, let alone in a jocular manner, like the American son of a bitch or motherfucker. After the insult had been spoken hardly any flyting ensued. This observation seems to suggest that its application was so earnest that it was usually the end of any normal exchange of communication. The closest we come to flyting in our examples is the exchange between the Abbasid caliph al-Manṣūr and ʿAbdallāh ibn al-Ḥasan, a descendant of ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib. As we saw, after al-Manṣūr insulted ʿAbdallāh, the latter’s response was not to insult in return, but to play with the words of the expression, perhaps in an attempt to outsmart the caliph. Asking al-Manṣūr exactly whose clitoris he wanted ʿAbdallāh to suck, he alluded indirectly to his noble ancestry—an ancestry just as noble as that of al-Manṣūr. The caliph’s retort was to keep the agnates out of the picture, adding that the clitoris to be sucked was that of an astonishingly beautiful woman from the cognate wing of ʿAbdallāh’s family. Here, for once, the expression is taken literally but as such results in an otherwise ludicrous exchange between the two men, not flyting. Another aspect that we have learnt from the stories is that the expression seems to have been popular in the late Umayyad and early Abbasid periods, since almost all datable episodes that include the expression occur within this timeframe. A sole exception is Abū Bakr’s exclamation that an Arab should go suck the clitoris of the goddess al-Lāt—not his mother’s—which dates back to the days of the prophet Muḥammad. Finally, we have also discovered that social status was in play only from the perspective of the superior. In no single case did we encounter a subordinate using it against his superior. It was always a person with a higher social standing who used it against someone who could have a high social standing himself but who stood lower on the social ladder than the person calling him the sucker of his mother’s clitoris. We can only wonder—the sources marshalled here provide no direct evidence whatsoever—whether the seriousness of the expression meant that, had a socially inferior voiced it against someone with a higher social status, this deed would have been met with death; we can only expect that to have been the case. The insult “sucker of one’s mother’s clitoris” and its derivatives was used in Classical Arabic to offend a person in the harshest of manners.

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Bibliography Aman, R., Terms of abuse, terms of endearment, and pet names for breasts and other naughty body parts, in R. Aman (ed.), Talking dirty: A bawdy compendium of abusive language, outrageous insults and wicked jokes, London 1993, 1–13. Asad, M., The message of the Qurʾān, Gibraltar 1980. Bosworth, C.E. (trans.), The ʿAbbāsid caliphate in equilibrium (The History of al-Ṭabarī 30), Albany NY 1989. Bosworth, C.E., ʿUrwa b. Masʿūd, in EI2. Brockelmann, C., Muḥammad Murtaḍā al-Zabīdī, in EI2. al-Bukhārī, Ṣaḥiḥ al-Bukhārī, ed. A.M. Shākir, 9 vols., Beirut n.d. Cornog, M., Tom, Dick and Hairy: Notes on genital pet names, in R. Aman, Opus maledictorum: A book of bad words, New York 1996, 134–43. Creswell, R.S., Abū l-ʿAtāhiya, in EI3. Droge, A.J., The Qurʾān. A new annotated translation, Sheffield 2013. Elad, A., The Rebellion of Muḥammad al-Nafs al-Zakiyya in 145/762, Leiden 2015. Ess, J. van, Thumāma b. Ashras, in EI2. al-Fīrūzābādī, Muḥammad b. Yaʿqūb, al-Qāmūs al-muḥīṭ, ed. M.N. al-ʿArqasūsī, Beirut 1998. Fishbein, M. (trans.), The war between brothers (The History of al-Ṭabarī 31), Albany NY 1992. Fishbein, M. (trans.), The victory of Islam (The History of al-Ṭabarī 8), Albany NY, 1997. Gelder, G.J. van, Close relationships: Incest and inbreeding in classical Arabic literature, New York 2005. Gray, H., Gray’s anatomy: The classic collector’s edition, New York 1977. Ḥamza, ʿA., al-Qāmūs al-jinsī ʿind al-ʿArab, Beirut 2002. Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, Aḥmad b. al-Qāsim, ʿUyūn al-anbāʾ fī ṭabaqāt al-aṭibbāʾ, ed. N. Riḍā, Beirut n.d. Ibn Manẓūr, Muḥammad b. Mukarram, Lisān al-ʿArab, ed. ʿĀ.A. Ḥaydar and ʿA.M.K. Ibrāhīm, 10 vols., Beirut 2005. al-Iṣfahānī, Abū l-Faraj, Kitāb al-Aghānī, 25 vols., Tunis 1983. al-Jawharī, Ismāʿīl b. Ḥammād, al-Ṣiḥāḥ, 5 vols., Beirut 1999. Judd, S., ʿAbdallāh b. ʿUmar b. ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz, in EI3. al-Kitāb al-Muqaddas, Beirut 2004. Kennedy, H. (trans.), Al-Manṣūr and al-Mahdī (The History of al-Ṭabarī 29), Albany 1990. Kurayyim, al-Mukhtār, al-Muʿjam al-mufahras lil-alfāẓ al-shiʿr al-jāhilī wa-maʿānīhā, Beirut 2010.

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Lane, A., A traditional Muʿtazilite Qurʾān commentary: The Kashshāf of Jār Allāh al-Zamakhsharī, Leiden 2006. Lane, E.W., Arabic-English lexicon, 8 vols., London 1863, repr. Beirut 1997. Matraji, M. and F. Amira Zrein (trans.), Ṣaḥiḥ al-Bukhārī, 9 vols., New Delhi 2002. McAuliffe, J.D. (trans.), ʿAbbāsid authority affirmed (The History of al-Ṭabarī 28), Albany NY 1995. Mohr, M., Holy shit: A brief history of swearing, New York 2013. The New Oxford annotated Bible, ed. B.M. Metzger and R.E. Murphy, Oxford 1994. Seidensticker, T., Abū ʿAṭāʾ al-Sindī, in EI3. Sourdel, D., al-Barāmika, in EI2. al-Ṭabarī, Muḥammad ibn Jarīr, Tārīkh al-rusul wa-l-mulūk, ed. M.J. De Goeje, Leiden 1879–1901. ʿUmar, A.M., al-Maknaz al-kabīr, Riyad 2000. ʿUmar, A.M., Muʿjam al-lugha al-ʿarabiyya al-muʿāṣira, 4 vols., Cairo 2008. ʿUmar, A.M., and ʿA.S. Mukarram, Muʿjam al-qirāʾāt al-qurʾāniyya, 6 vols., Kuwait 1983, 31997. Vadet, J.-C., Ibn Māsawayh, in EI2. Veccia Vaglieri, L. al-Ḍaḥḥāk b. Ḳays al-Shaybānī, in EI2. Weipert, R., al-ʿAkawwak, ʿAlī b. Jabala, in EI3. Williams, J.A. (trans.), The ʿAbbāsid revolution (The History of al-Ṭabarī 27), Albany NY 1990. al-Zabīdī, Muḥammad Murtaḍā, Tāj al-ʿarūs min jawāhir al-qāmūs, 20 vols., Beirut 1994. al-Zamakhsharī, Muḥammad ibn ʿUmar, al-Kashshāf, 4 vols., Beirut 1995. al-Zamakhsharī, Muḥammad ibn ʿUmar, Asās al-balāgha, ed. M.N. Ṭurayfī, Beirut 2009.

CHAPTER 17

Commentators, Collators, and Copyists: Interpreting Manuscript Variation in the Exordium of Al-Ḥarīrī’s Maqāmāt Matthew L. Keegan Introduction The Maqāmāt of al-Ḥarīrī (d. 516/1122) was a colossal success in the sixth/ twelfth century among scholarly readers from al-Andalus to the Oxus. It became a landmark of adab during the author’s lifetime and remained so until the beginning of the fourteenth/twentieth century. Al-Ḥarīrī’s predecessor, Badīʿ al-Zamān al-Hamadhānī (d. 398/1008), invented the picaresque maqāma, but he did not produce a stable collection.1 By contrast, al-Ḥarīrī authored a fixed and ordered collection of maqāmas. Given the efforts of al-Ḥarīrī and his transmitters to produce and disseminate stable, authorized copies of his Maqāmāt (henceforth the Ḥarīriyya), the presence of significant manuscript variants in al-Ḥarīrī’s exordium is striking. Medieval commentators discussed the manuscript variance in the exordium at some length, but in the modern period, awareness of this manuscript variation has all but disappeared in both the editions and in scholarly discourse. The printed editions of the Ḥarīriyya from the last century fail to note this key variation that drew the attention of commentators, collators, and copyists in the first centuries of the text’s reception. In fact, these recent editions contain only the variant that is unattested in the autograph manuscript housed at Istanbul University.2

1  Hameen-Anttila, Maqama 121; Orfali and Pomerantz, Three maqāmāt 39. 2  M S. Istanbul University A 4566 folio 2r–3v. Helmut Ritter identified this manuscript as an autograph in 1953, Ritter, Autographs 68–9. MacKay claimed in 1971 that the text is a forgery, MacKay, Certificates 28–9. I agree with Ritter based on both my paleographical analysis comparing the samāʿ in MS Cairo Adab 105 folio 5r (MacKay, Certificates 56) with the Istanbul MS. Furthermore, a forger who attempted, as MacKay suggests, to trade on the reputation of Abū Zayd al-Muṭahhar ibn Sallār as the supposed inspiration for Abū Zayd al-Sarūjī, would need to be familiar with lore about the Ḥarīriyya, in which case he would have likely known that such a late copy should include v21 not v81 (see below).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_018

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This essay establishes the authorial version of al-Ḥarīrī’s exordium, but my aim is not to remove the “noise” that divergent versions of the text introduce. Instead, this essay takes the “noise” of manuscript culture as its object of inquiry, exploring the ways in which commentators, collators, and copyists interpreted a specific case of manuscript variation. These scholarly receptions of the Ḥarīriyya expand our horizon of analysis, eschewing a narrow focus on the “original” text in order to highlight the textual transformations and interpretive ramifications surrounding the text. The authorial text of al-Ḥarīrī’s exordium can be established based on the Istanbul University autograph, a copy that al-Ḥarīrī authorized in Muḥarram 514/April 1120, and based on a Dār al-Kutub manuscript that was copied from an autograph manuscript in 504/1111 and authorized by al-Ḥarīrī.3 In the incipit prayer of the Ḥarīriyya, al-Ḥarīrī prays for the Prophet’s intercession, in the course of which he quotes the Quran. In the autograph manuscript, al-Ḥarīrī addresses God, saying You described [the Prophet] in Your clear book [the Quran] saying— and You are the most truthful of speakers—“It is the speech of a noble Messenger (rasūl) who is powerful, well-established with the Lord of the Throne—one who is obeyed there and who is steadfast (muṭāʿ thamma amīn) (Q Takwīr 81:19–21).4 Let us call this variant v81. By contrast, in the widely available and often reprinted edition from the Dār Ṣādir press in Beirut, al-Ḥarīrī cites a different verse of the Quran, which rhymes with Q Takwīr 81:19–21 (v81). The text there reads: “You described [the Prophet] in Your clear book [the Quran] saying—and You are the most truthful of speakers—We did not send you except as a mercy to the worlds (raḥmatan lil-ʿālamīn)” (Q Anbiyāʾ 21:107).5 Let us call this variant v21. V21 was not the product of errant printers but rather emerged very early in the manuscript tradition of the Ḥarīriyya. Ibn al-Khashshāb (d. 567/1172), who wrote a scathing critique of al-Ḥarīrī’s masterpiece, notes that most manuscripts (akthar al-nusakh) at that time contained v81 but that some contained 3  M S. Istanbul University A 4566 folio 1r. MS Cairo Adab 105 folios 5r, 142r. I am grateful to the good offices of Guy Burak and Najah Nadi Ahmed for acquiring the two Cairo manuscripts studied by MacKay. 4  M S. Istanbul University A 4566 folio 2r–3v. MS Cairo Adab 105 folio 6r. All translations are my own. 5  Al-Ḥarīrī (1980) 11.

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instead v21. Ibn al-Khashshāb argues that both these variants reflected authorial versions, claiming that al-Ḥarīrī had replaced Q Takwīr 81:19–21 with Q Anbiyāʾ 21:107 after his first version had already been widely disseminated, leading to the circulation of both v81 and v21.6 Contrary to Ibn al-Khashshāb’s version of events, a certain collator working on a manuscript containing v21 in the body (matn) of the text wrote in the margin that a manuscript that he knew to have been corrected by the author (nuskha muṣaḥḥaḥa bi-khaṭṭ al-muṣannif) contained v81 rather than v21.7 Through his act of collation, this scholarly reader-collator produced a multivocal manuscript. By noting that v81 was found in a manuscript associated with the author, he gave greater weight to v81 even though it appears on the margins of the manuscript.8 The findings of this medieval collator concur with the Istanbul autograph manuscript and the Dār al-Kutub manuscript that v81 is the authorial version. Even if it is accepted, on the strength of the evidence presented so far, that v81 is authorial and v21 the result of a deliberate scribal intervention, it would be a mistake to dismiss v21 and to dismiss the productive co-mingling of v81 and v21 in manuscript culture. Although the Ḥarīriyya’s scholarly audience was committed to the project of accessing the authorial voice through various social and textual strategies, the Ḥarīriyya and its meaning were not frozen at the moment of its creation. Instead, the text and its meaning transformed and developed as readers and commentators interpreted and reinterpreted it. The addition of v21 to the textual tradition of the Ḥarīriyya added to the totality of its meaning. It gave commentators the opportunity to discuss and negotiate notions of authorship. In other words, commentators, collators, and copyists produced new meanings even as they sought to discover, maintain, reproduce, and elucidate the “original” authorial text. Rather than dismissing these transformations in the Ḥarīriyya’s wording and its meaning as errors or as a kind of degradation, this essay takes these new meanings of the text as its object of inquiry through an investigation of the discourses surrounding v81 and v21. This strategy runs counter to a Romantic notion of literary meaning in which the only “true” meaning of a text is the

6  Ibn al-Khashshāb, Risāla 3. 7  M S Nuruosmaniye 4268 folio 2r. 8  The importance of manuscripts associated with both al-Ḥarīrī and his son is emphasized in the collating notes at the end of the manuscripts. MS Nuruosmaniye 4268 folios 157–8. The reading notes on these folios, dating from the 8th/14th century, refer to the collation of the text with exemplars associated with al-Ḥarīrī and his sons.

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one associated with the authorial voice.9 This is not to suggest that a text’s meaning is reduced to what critics have said about the text. Rather, the total universe of textual meaning encompasses both the authorial moment(s) and the moments of the text’s reception. Sheldon Pollock’s interpretive schema can be helpful in this regard. He has argued that there are “three planes” or “three dimensions” of textual meaning. The first dimension concerns the text at its moment of creation, and it is this authorial moment that critical editions aim to reconstruct.10 The second dimension of meaning concerns how the text was understood by its historical readers, locating meaning not in the intentions of the author but in the encounter between the reader and the text. The third dimension concerns the text’s “presence to my own subjectivity.”11 Each of these three dimensions is, in principle, of equal epistemic value, although only the third dimension can be determined with any degree of certainty. This three-dimensional paradigm avoids the tendency to dismiss the interpretive efforts of medieval readers and commentators as misapprehensions of the text’s original or, alternatively, its literary meaning.12 It should be remembered, however, that medieval scholarly readers of the Ḥarīriyya were, not unlike modern scholars, committed to unraveling the authorial message, albeit by somewhat different means. The authorial text of the Ḥarīriyya mattered to its readers because al-Ḥarīrī had situated his text within the Islamic scholarly tradition of authorizing texts through isnāds.13 Texts that circulated without this authorizing structure seem to have been subject to a higher degree of mouvance. By establishing the use of the isnād, the Ḥarīriyya’s readers positioned themselves in a specific historical relationship

9  Saleh, Gloss as intellectual history 218. For a different approach to understanding the negotiations between audiences and authors, which likewise highlights reception and the mouvance it engendered, see Ali, Literary salons. 10  Nadia Altschull has pointed out the similar assumptions that underpin both editorial practices that aim to recover an ideal archetype and literary interpretations that take the creative authorial act as the object of inquiry. Altschull, Genealogy 121–2. 11  Pollock, Philology in three dimensions 399. My thanks to Max Shmookler for first introducing me to Pollock’s work. 12  For example, Alan Jones says that Arabic commentaries are “mines of information, most of it recondite, but they are worse than useless when one wants to try to understand any literary feature in a poem.” Jones, Early Arabic poetry viii, cf. 146. 13  Jan Just Witkam refers to the study of this interaction between the material text and the cultural-codicological context in which it circulated as “philology in the widest sense.” Indeed, Pollock’s “three dimensions” are all dimensions of “philology.” Witkam, Ijāza 130.

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with the author.14 To some, these medieval interpretations and social practices of knowledge transmission are uninteresting, naive, and unsatisfying.15 This essay argues that one dimension of the Ḥarīriyya’s meaning is located precisely in the activities of the readers who creatively conjured the presence of the author as they argued over the meaning of v81 and v21. Understanding and appreciating the reception of the Ḥarīriyya for its sophistication and complexity is a prerequisite for comprehending the social significance of the Ḥarīriyya. In the remainder of this essay, I first briefly discuss the efforts of medieval scholars to preserve the textual stability of the Ḥarīriyya, efforts that managed textual variation to some degree but that simultaneously called attention to variants such as v81/v21. I then examine the commentators’ responses to the existence of both v81 and v21 and survey a small sample of early manuscripts and printed editions of the Ḥarīriyya, highlighting how manuscript and commentarial culture were more successful than print culture in maintaining an awareness of the v81/v21 variation. In my conclusion, I argue that the medieval scholarly discourse on manuscript variation in the Ḥarīriyya, which revolved around questions of authorial competence, should be understood through what Alexander Beecroft calls “implied poetics.” Implied poetics consists of “theories of literature not delivered as coherent manifestos but rather revealed piecemeal and indirectly as they are enacted in the real or imagined lives of poets.”16 By discussing al-Ḥarīrī’s role in manuscript variation, commentators elaborated theories of authorship, which allowed them to express their judgments about the Ḥarīriyya as a whole through their depictions of al-Ḥarīrī’s competence (or incompetence) in matters exegetical.

Managing Textual Stability in Manuscript Culture

Al-Ḥarīrī had circulated his Maqāmāt for at least a decade before producing the aforementioned autograph copy in 514/1120. He first read the text aloud in 14  Anecdotally, Khalīl ibn Aybak al-Ṣafadī notes that everyone who studies epistolary prose (tarassul) seeks a chain of transmission to the Ḥarīriyya. Al-Ṣafadī, Nuṣrat al-thāʾir 59. On the many isnāds, see MacKay, Certificates 9–44; Hämeen-Anttila, Marginalia Ḥarīriana 265–74. 15  Katia Zakharia says that medieval attempts to link Abū Zayd al-Sarūjī to a specific historical person are “un peu simpliste, ignorant l’emploi et les fonctions des figures du discours,” and thus “paraît peu convaincante.” Zakharia, Abū Zayd 69. 16  Beecroft, Authorship 2. Beecroft distinguishes implied poetics from the biographical fallacy in which critics “construct lives of poets to match details of the poetry.”

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the presence of a group of leading scholars over the course of several weeks, culminating in Shaʿbān 504/February 1111. The Dār al-Kutub manuscript Cairo Adab 105 was authorized at that first reading session and contains an attendance record of its notable participants.17 For more than a decade before his death in 516/1122, al-Ḥarīrī produced innumerable authorized copies, which he entrusted to authorized readers using ijāzas. After al-Ḥarīrī’s death, his Ḥarīriyya was embedded in the Islamic scholarly transmission of knowledge through ijāzas, isnāds, attendance records (samāʿāt), and an extensive commentary tradition. When al-Sharīshī wrote his commentary a century later in al-Andalus, he recorded in his introduction no fewer than six of his isnāds leading back to the author.18 The practices of transmission surrounding the Ḥarīriyya suggest that audiences had a notion of authorship as a sovereign act. Texts in this mode of authorized transmission were not to be tampered with but were to be accessed genealogically through socially transmitted knowledge. Al-Ḥarīrī was thought to have been so meticulous in his effort to preserve a single version of his text that even he was not permitted to emend the text. In one well-known biographical anecdote, a student named Jābir ibn Hibat Allāh misread a line in the fifth maqāma by misplacing his diacritics (taṣḥīf).19 The story, recorded in Yāqūt’s biography of al-Ḥarīrī on the authority of Jābir’s son, gives al-Ḥarīrī’s reaction to the student’s mistake: By God, you have spoken well through your misplacement of diacritics (taṣḥīf)! It is better [than the original] . . . Were it not that I have, to this day, signed 700 copies that have been read in my presence, I would change ‘disheveled and dusty’ (shaʿithan mughbarran) to ‘starved and pleading’ (saghiban muʿtarran).20 Both anecdotal evidence such as this and the documentary evidence of samāʿāt records, ijāzas, and isnāds suggest that al-Ḥarīrī was concerned with preserving a univocal, stable text for posterity. Whether or not al-Ḥarīrī actually refused to change his text is, for the moment, not at issue. This story points to the fact that certain audiences (including biographers) saw al-Ḥarīrī as the author of an especially stable text.

17  MacKay, Certificates 9–11. The Ḥarīriyya may have circulated privately among bureaucrats before these public readings began. Hämeen-Anttila, Maqama 174. 18  Al-Sharīshī, Sharḥ i, 5–6. 19  Yāqūt, Irshād 2204–5; al-Ḥarīrī (de Sacy) 43; Ritter, Autographs 69. 20  The number 700 is used here to indicate a proverbially large number. Yāqūt, Irshād 2205.

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Another anecdote suggests that the Ḥarīriyya emerged in a lively critical environment in which the scholarly readers could challenge the author’s text. In a biography of al-Ḥarīrī written by a pupil of the philologist al-Jawālīqī (d. 539/1144), the biographer describes an incident in which al-Jawālīqī challenged the validity of al-Ḥarīrī’s lexical choices. When al-Ḥarīrī used the word al-shaghā, al-Jawālīqī asked him what the word meant. Al-Ḥarīrī glossed the word as “excess (al-ziyāda),” to which al-Jawālīqī replied, “al-shaghā only refers to the uneven alignment of teeth, and it has no meaning here.”21 The anecdote does not tell us how al-Ḥarīrī responded to this critique, nor is any emendation proposed. Instead, the anecdote seems designed to call into question the lexical mastery of al-Ḥarīrī and the Ḥarīriyya. This anecdote relies on a notion of authorship in which the author is responsible for his choices, and it depicts the audience as willing and able to identify the author’s errors. Al-Jawālīqī was present at the first reading session in 504/1111, and he transmitted the text to later scholars, one of whom was Ibn al-Khashshāb.22 Ibn al-Khashshāb continued the tradition of al-Jawālīqī by raising objections to specific lines in the Ḥarīriyya, portraying the author as unreliable and his lexical choices as haphazard.

Commentators on Manuscript Variation in the Ḥarīriyya

As discussed above, Ibn al-Khashshāb noticed that most manuscripts of the Ḥarīriyya contained a quotation from Q Takwīr 81:19–21 (v81) in the exordium, whereas a minority contained Q Anbiyāʾ 21:107 (v21) instead. Ibn al-Khashshāb did not see this manuscript variation as a case of “noise” but as proof of al-Ḥarīrī’s incompetence. Rather than suggesting that the less common variant was the result of errant scribes, Ibn al-Khashshāb argued that the author himself had written the first version in error and then had attempted to correct his mistake: [The variant v81, which] is found in most of the manuscripts is what circulated before correction (tathqīf) and careful revision (tanqīḥ) [took place]. He referred to the Prophet (al-nabī), [saying,] “You said— and You are the most truthful of speakers—‘It is the speech of a noble Messenger (rasūl) who is powerful, well-established with the Lord of the Throne—one who is obeyed and who is steadfast (Q Takwīr 81:19–21),’ ” 21  Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzhat al-alibbāʾ 280–1; al-Ḥarīrī (de Sacy) 210–11. 22  MacKay, Certificates 10–11.

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thinking that the intended meaning of “Messenger (rasūl)” in this verse is Muḥammad . . . then some time passed after [the Ḥarīriyya] had been read in his presence (baʿd an ukhidhat ʿanhu al-maqāmāt) and had been disseminated. He then found out that [the verse] is rather a description of Gabriel and that he is the one who is “well-established with the Lord of the Throne.” He returned to his copy [of the text] and changed it, thinking (iʿtiqādan) that he had erred in the first instance, but what was the use, given that [the Ḥarīriyya] had spread to the East and West, to Syria and Iraq? His alteration in the second version (al-nuskha al-thāniya) was: “And you are the most truthful of speakers—We have not sent you except as a mercy to the worlds (Q Anbiyāʾ 21:107).”23 The structure of Ibn al-Khashshāb’s story echoes, in some respects, the story about al-Jawālīqī correcting al-Ḥarīrī’s use of the word al-shaghā to mean “excess (ziyāda)” when instead it meant “uneven teeth.”24 Given that our autograph manuscript is dated only two years before the author’s death, this account of multiple authorial versions is implausible.25 Moreover, it is difficult to imagine that no one would challenge al-Ḥarīrī for misusing the Quran. When the Ḥarīriyya began circulating, al-Ḥarīrī’s audience consisted of some of the most prominent scholars of his day.26 How did so many texts circulate before al-Ḥarīrī became aware of his error? Why did no one confront him with his error in quranic exegesis as al-Jawālīqī was said to have done regarding his lexical choices? The answer is implied by the sequel to Ibn al-Khashshāb’s attack on al-Ḥarīrī’s expertise in matters exegetical. According to Ibn al-Khashshāb, al-Ḥarīrī’s belated correction, achieved by replacing one Quran quotation with a suitably rhyming alternative, only compounded his initial error because, as it turns out, there is a minority interpretation of verses 81:19–21 that does consider it to be a description of Muḥammad: By God, [al-Ḥarīrī] erred in the first instance and in the second. As for the first, he supposed (fa-fī ẓannihi) that [the verse] described the Prophet when according to most of the exegetes . . . it describes Gabriel . . . As for 23  Ibn al-Khashshāb, Risāla 3. 24  Ibn al-Anbārī, Nuzhat al-alibbāʾ 280–1; al-Ḥarīrī (de Sacy) 210–11. 25  It is possible that al-Ḥarīrī did circulate two different versions of the text depending on the audience, but it seems highly unlikely from what we know of al-Ḥarīrī’s practices of textual authorization. 26  MacKay, Certificates 9–11.

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the second instance, . . . He supposed (ẓanna) that that the former [v81] was an impermissible error, so he began tracking down the copies to change them, because of his ignorance of the [various] opinions of the exegetes. What he first supposed—that [Q Takwīr 81:19–21] is a description of the Prophet—is an opinion held by a group of exegetes (qawm min ahl al-tafsīr). Al-Naḥḥās and others refer to that [interpretation].27 Could it be that no one confronted al-Ḥarīrī to correct him because he and his audience were well aware of the fact that Q Takwīr 81:19–21 [v81] could refer to both Gabriel and Muḥammad? We will never know, but it is possible to imagine al-Ḥarīrī acting much as his famous trickster character does. Abū Zayd al-Sarūjī uses double-entendre (tawriya) to dupe his audience, but he also uses doubly signifying discourse to perform what seems like nonsense, which only becomes clear when it is interpreted through the lens of the arcane lexical archive. For example, when Abū Zayd plays a muftī in maqāma 32, he issues fatwās that, on their face, are completely incorrect. For example: He asked: Ought the person performing ritual purification to wipe his testicles (unthayayhi)? [Abū Zayd] responded: It is desirable (yundab) for him to do so, but it is not required.28 As an authorial commentary in the next line clarifies, unthayayhi can also mean “his ears.”29 What is lewd according to a plain reading becomes perfectly sensible if it is read according to the arcane lexical meaning of unthayayhi. Likewise, when the reader applies the arcane exegetical interpretation of Q Takwīr 81:19–21, v81 no longer appears out of place as a reference to the angel Gabriel in a passage about Muḥammad. Instead, it becomes an exegetical riddle, just as the fatwā in maqāma 32 is a lexical riddle. 27  Ibn al-Khashshāb, Risāla 3–4. Ibn al-Khashshāb claims that al-Naḥḥās (d. 338/950) records this interpretation in Maʿānī al-Qurʾān. The edition available to me does not contain material beyond Sura 48 (Fatḥ). Al-Naḥḥās, Maʿānī al-Qurʾān vi, 489. However, the secondary meaning for the verse is recorded in al-Qurṭubī, al-Jāmiʿ xxii, 114. 28  Al-Ḥarīrī (de Sacy) 348. The fatwās and their auto-commentaries appear in this edition, 347–61. 29  Al-Ḥarīrī composed auto-commentaries for eight maqāmas (19, 24. 27, 32, 36, 40, 44, 47). Although preserved in de Sacy’s edition, a complete set cannot be found in any edition from the past century. See Table 2.

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This interpretation of v81 as an interpretive puzzle is, I think, a valid reading of the Ḥarīriyya, but it is also one explicitly concerned with the “original” meaning of the text. It is possible that al-Ḥarīrī intended to challenge his audience, and it is possible that some audiences understood the text in this way. Partial support that audiences understood v81 in this way can be found in a commentary by Abū l-Khayr Salāma ibn ʿAbd al-Bāqī al-Anbārī (d. 590/1194) who seems only aware of or interested in v81, making no mention of v21.30 His commentary quotes Q Takwīr 81:19–21 and then notes in passing that al-Ḥarīrī could have intended the verse to signify either Gabriel or Muḥammad: [As for] “It is the speech of a noble Messenger (rasūl)” [Q Takwīr 81:19], it is said that the intended meaning is Gabriel (qīla arāda bihi Jibrīl), and it is said [that the intended meaning] is the Prophet (al-nabī).31 Al-Anbārī’s laconic note on the verse does much the same work that the explanation of unthayayhi did for readers of the Sarūjian fatwās in maqāma 32. Al-Anbārī’s univocal reading of the text, which does not mention v21, is an outlier in the commentarial tradition, which took a very different turn. The majority of commentators take Ibn al-Khashshāb’s version of events explaining the v81/v21 variant for granted. Even al-Ḥarīrī’s most outspoken defenders accept that v21 is the final authorial version. Two explicit rebuttals to Ibn al-Khashshāb concern us here. The first belongs to Ibn Barrī (d. 582/1187).32 Ibn Barrī replies to some (but not all) of Ibn al-Khashshāb’s itemized list of critiques. In this instance, he accepts Ibn al-Khashshāb’s premise that the variation in the surviving manuscripts originates with the author. However, he insists that when al-Ḥarīrī composed his first version and quoted Q Takwīr 81:19–21 (v81), he could have been aware of the fact that the verses could refer to Muḥammad. For Ibn Barrī, al-Ḥarīrī “is not in error because it is not impossible (ghayr maqṭūʿ ʿalā)” that he was aware of both interpretations of Q Takwīr 81:19–21 (v81). Ibn Barrī explains that al-Ḥarīrī was not acting out of ignorance when he later substituted Q Anbiyāʾ 21:107 (v21). Instead, al-Ḥarīrī “only abandoned it because most exegetes disagreed about it [viz., Q Takwīr 81:19–21], and so repaired to that which no one disagrees about [viz., Q Anbiyāʾ 21:107].”33 Ibn Barrī all but admits that v21 is the better text. His defense of al-Ḥarīrī is rather tepid when compared with the full-throated rebuttal penned by another 30  Yāqūt, Irshād 1379–80. Hämeen-Anttila, Marginalia Ḥarīriana 259. 31  Al-Anbārī, Sharḥ, MS Laleli 1847 folio 8v. 32  Fleisch, Ibn Barrī. 33  Ibn al-Khashshāb, Risāla 4.

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contemporary of Ibn al-Khashshāb named Muḥammad ibn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Panjdīhī (d. 584/1188).34 Like Ibn Barrī, al-Panjdīhī accepts Ibn al-Khashshāb’s premise that the manuscript variants are the result of authorial choice. His concern is to show that Ibn al-Khashshāb’s accusations against al-Ḥarīrī are unfounded: al-Ḥarīrī did not err (lam yakun mukhṭiʾan) in the first instance when he chose [to follow] a unique opinion (al-qawl al-fadhdh) . . . and was correct (aṣāba) in the second instance when he abandoned (rajaʿa ʿan) the weak and obscure opinion in favor of the well-known and obvious one . . . [al-Ḥarīrī] was more secure in religion and had better care than to interpret the Quran according to his whim (bi-hawāhu) or to act haphazardly and randomly (yakhbiṭ fīhi ʿalā ghayr hudāhu). Ibn al-Khashshāb’s claim that [al-Ḥarīrī] interpreted the Quran according to his supposition (ẓannihi) is a lie (iftirāʾ), and to boldly, indulgently raise suspicions about virtuous people is prohibited (maḥẓūr) and forbidden (manhī) according to the law ( fī l-sharʿ) . . . al-Ḥarīrī’s confession (iqrār) that he interpreted the Quran according to his supposition has not been transmitted or heard about. Therefore, believing his slanderer is interdicted (mamnūʿ) and rejected.35 Al-Panjdīhī here uses the language and logic of Islamic legal discourse to argue that accusing al-Ḥarīrī of quoting the Quran indiscriminately was a prohibited act. Al-Panjdīhī frames al-Ḥarīrī’s multiple versions and his editorial prerogative as an act of independent reasoning (ijtihād). Al-Panjdīhī does not explain why al-Ḥarīrī would have chosen to quote such an ambivalent verse. He does hedge his bets somewhat by adding that if, hypothetically, al-Ḥarīrī had chosen one or the other verse only on the basis of supposition rather than with full knowledge of the exegetical tradition, then he would still be considered correct: Even so, when supposition concurs with the opinions of the scholars, it is correct (ṣawāb), and the person who supposes it is not subject to censure or blame. As for abandoning an error (al-rujūʿ ʿan al-khaṭa‌ʾ), it is correct in every case (ṣawāb fī kull bāb). It has long been said that 34  Al-Panjdīhī was a scholar from Khurasan who lived in Syria, where he tutored the eldest son of Ṣalāh al-Dīn. He died less than two years after his Cairene contemporary Ibn Barrī. Al-Qifṭī, Inbāh iii, 166. 35  Al-Panjdīhī, MS Murad Molla 1549 folios 13v–14r; al-Panjdīhī, MS Hamidiye 1195 folio 5v–6r.

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returning to the truth (al-ḥaqq) is better than persisting in error (bāṭil) . . . It is certain that al-Ḥarīrī was correct (muṣīb) in both cases and that he follows the precedents of the ʿulamāʾ. It was as if he was [acting as] an expert legal scholar (mithāluhu al-mujtahid) when he chose one of the two opinions and when his independent reasoning (ijtihāduhu) led him to the weaker of two options. It is not appropriate for someone else to find fault with him or call him ignorant [as Ibn al-Khashshāb did].36 Al-Panjdīhī’s rebuttals to Ibn al-Khashshāb’s criticisms constitute only a small portion of his digressive commentary. Al-Panjdīhī’s rebuttals are themselves finely wrought, rhetorical performances in rhymed prose (sajʿ) and include amusing ad hominem attacks on Ibn al-Khashshāb’s competence in the Islamic sciences.37 They are, in a word, much more than a series of erudite notes that elucidate the Ḥarīriyya, and their rhetorical strategies deserve serious examination not as an elucidation of what al-Ḥarīrī “actually meant” but as creative (even authorial) acts that attempt to situate the Ḥarīriyya in new ways.38 What is perhaps most surprising for us moderns about al-Panjdīhī’s commentary is that here as elsewhere he considers the Ḥarīriyya to be not a challenge to Islamic values but rather an Islamic text par excellence. For al-Panjdīhī, it is the critics of the Ḥarīriyya who offend the sharīʿa. In any case, when al-Panjdīhī claims that al-Ḥarīrī was not only an intending author who produced multiple recensions of his own work but also a mujtahid, the commentator establishes the Ḥarīriyya as a multivocal text. He legitimizes both versions as equally authorial (v81 and v21), both of which must be respected as a matter of Islamic scholarly authority. Al-Panjdīhī’s notion of the relationship between an adab author and the authorial choices he makes and remakes to shape his text is expressed in the language of Islamic law, but it can also be seen as a clear and powerful account of authorial “genius” in an Islamic sense. Authorial autonomy is conceived in explicitly Islamic terms, that is, through the notions of exegetical mastery and ijtihād. 36  Al-Panjdīhī, MS Murad Molla 1549 folios 14r–14v; al-Panjdīhī, MS Hamidiye 1195 folio 6r. 37   In response to Ibn al-Khashshāb’s critique of al-Ḥarīrī’s mode of fictive writing, al-Panjdīhī accuses Ibn al-Khashshāb of being inept in his understanding of Islamic legal attitudes toward the relationship between lying and fictive writing. Al-Panjdīhī concludes his response by saying, “it is clear that Ibn al-Khashshāb slandered [al-Ḥarīrī] falsely, deceitfully, and misleadingly. He dug a trap for someone else, but he fell into it himself.” Al-Panjdīhī, MS Murad Molla 1549 folio 32v; Hamidiye 1195 folio 11v. 38  Everett K. Rowson, to whom this essay is dedicated, has made this point abundantly clear in his study of Mamlūk prose commentary, Rowson, Alexandrian age 98, et passim. For this shift in commentary studies in European literature, see Copeland, Rhetoric 4.

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Commentators after al-Panjdīhī tend to hold a middle ground between al-Panjdīhī and Ibn al-Khashshāb. They are willing to entertain the notion that Q Takwīr 81:19–21 might refer to Muḥammad according to some exegetes, but they tend to see v21 as a correction rather than as an equally valid alternative version of the text.39 For example, although the Andalusian commentator al-Sharīshī (d. 619/1222) quotes al-Panjdīhī’s commentary at length throughout his own commentary, he usually passes over al-Panjdīhī’s arguments against Ibn al-Khashshāb. He simply notes in this case that it is not a blemish (ʿayb) for al-Ḥarīrī to have changed the text (rujūʿuhu ʿan al-qawl) “because abandoning an error is a duty.”40 A later commentator and professor at the Baghdad Niẓāmiyya named ʿAlī ibn Abī al-Qāsim al-Qazwīnī (d. 740s/1339–49) likewise considers v81 to be an early version that al-Ḥarīrī later corrected.41 He claims that al-Ḥarīrī recognized and corrected it to v21 after thirty to fifty copies had already been made. However, he then seems to admit that v81 might have been intended because “it is said that [Q Takwīr 81:19–21] was also revealed with reference to Muḥammad.”42 In these commentarial responses, we can see that Ibn al-Khashshāb’s version of events was massively influential in the commentarial tradition. The commentarial activities on the v81/v21 variation functioned as a “network,” meaning that decisions made early on—like the “fact” that the shift from v81 to v21 was an authorial choice—became accepted by later commentators, even as those later commentators reinterpreted the meaning of those facts.43 The remarkable influence of Ibn al-Khashshāb’s story is particularly striking because so many readers found his criticisms unconvincing and even 39  Al-Sharīshī’s contemporary Ṣafī al-Dīn Abū Ṭālib al-Baʿlabakkī (d. 600–610/1203–14) says that when al-Ḥarīrī read v81 in Baghdad, he was immediately informed that the Q Takwīr 81:19–21 (v81) referred to Gabriel and not Muḥammad, so he changed it. Al-Baʿlabakkī notes that “it is said (qīla)” that Q 81:19–21 refer to Muḥammad. Al-Baʿlabakkī, Sharḥ al-Maqāmāt folios 7r–7v. Tāj al-Dīn (or Shams al-Dīn) al-Rāzī (d. after 660/1261) follows a very similar path, but he claims that years had passed and the Ḥarīriyya made famous before al-Ḥarīrī began changing the manuscripts. Al-Rāzī, Sharḥ folio 6r. A more cursory reference to v81 is found in Muẓhir al-Dīn al-Shīrāzī (fl. late 7th/13th century), Sharḥ al-Maqāmāt folios 2v–3r. For these commentators see Hämeen-Anttila, Marginalia Ḥarīriana 259–62. 40  Al-Sharīshī, Sharḥ i, 20–21. 41  Al-Ṣafadī, Nakt al-himyān 204. 42  Al-Qazwīnī, al-Mughnī folio 7r. Two other commentators (al-ʿUkbarī (d. 616/1219) in his Sharḥ al-alfāẓ and al-Muṭarrizī (d. 610/1213) in his al-Īḍāḥ li-Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīrī) do not comment on v81 or v21 one way or the other and do not gloss that section of the text. 43  Walid Saleh has emphasized the genealogical nature of the tafsīr tradition, and the commentarial tradition appears to function in a similar fashion. Saleh, Formation 15.

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distasteful. Al-Ṣafadī copied out Ibn al-Khashshāb’s critiques and al-Panjdīhī’s rebuttals in the margins of a beautiful manuscript copy of the Ḥarīriyya.44 Nevertheless, al-Ṣafadī suggests elsewhere that Ibn al-Khashshāb was seldom correct and most often simply out to cause confusion (aṣāba fī l-qalīl min al-qalīl wa taʿannata fī kathīr min al-qalīl).45 Biographers subjected Ibn al-Khashshāb to the same form of biographical criticism that Ibn al-Khashshāb had used when he portrayed al-Ḥarīrī as incompetent. They portray Ibn al-Khashshāb as a miserly man (kāna bakhīlan) who failed to uphold scholarly decorum (qalīl al-mubālāt bi-hifẓ nāmūs al-ʿilm).46 Al-Dhahabī joins the chorus, quoting reports that Ibn al-Khashshāb was so stingy he would damage a book before buying it to get a cheaper price. He generously suggests that Ibn al-Khashshāb may have repented (laʿallahu tāba).47

Manuscript and Print Evidence for the v81 vs. v21

A small selection of manuscripts (Table 1), with dates ranging from 504/1111 to 720/1320–1, and a selection of printed editions (Table 2) offer a preliminary look at the ways in which copyists, collators, and editors re-created and reshaped the Ḥarīriyya.48 All the manuscripts surveyed here except for Istanbul University A4566 contain v21 in one form or another, a situation that is markedly different from the one that Ibn al-Khashshāb encountered in the sixth/ twelfth century when v81 was in the majority of manuscripts. Many copies preserve the existence of variation by referring to one or the other variant in the margin. In the case of the seventh/thirteenth century MS Leiden OR 056, the scribal hand has placed v81 in the matn of the text but then also copied Ibn al-Khashshāb’s criticisms of the v81/v21 variation, which includes a reference to v21.49 The famous adīb Khalīl ibn Aybak al-Ṣafadī (d. 764/1363) also copied Ibn al-Khashshāb’s comments on v81/v21 in the margins together with an abridgment of al-Panjdīhī’s response, but the 44  Described in Gacek, Copenhagen manuscript. 45  Al-Ṣafadī, Nuṣrat al-thāʾir 58. 46  Ibn al-Dimyāṭī, Mukhtaṣar 135. By contrast, ʿImād al-Dīn al-Iṣfahānī treats him rather kindly. ʿImād al-Dīn, Kharīdat al-qaṣr iii, 7–18. 47  Al-Dhahabī, Siyar xx, 526–8. 48  There are hundreds of manuscripts from the first three hundred years of the Ḥarīriyya, and this is necessarily only a small sample of some important manuscripts. 49  Al-Ḥarīrī, Leiden OR 056 folio 3r.

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Commentators, Collators, and Copyists Table 17.1 Selected manuscripts Manuscript Cairo Adab 105

Scribe

al-Mubārak ibn Aḥmad Istanbul University al-Anṣārī A 4566 al-Ḥarīrī Nuruosmaniye 4268 al-Ḥasan ibn ʿAlī ibn Ibrāhīm al-Juwaynī Bibliothèque nationale, Muḥammad ibn ʿAbd Arabe 7290 al-Wahhāb ibn Aḥmad Bibliothèque nationale, al-Wāsiṭī Arabe 5847 Leiden OR 056 Dāwūd ibn ʿUthmān ibn ʿAbdallāh al-Tamīmī University of Michigan Isl. MS 863 Danish Royal Library Khalīl ibn Aybak al-Ṣafadī MS Cod. Arab Add. 83

Date

v81

v21

504/1111

matn

514/1120

matn

collator ḥāshiya —

529/1135 (?)a 611/1215

collator matn ḥāshiya — matn

634/1237

matn

664/1266

matn

copyist (?) ḥāshiya matn

late 7th/13th– matn early 8th/14th c.b 720/1320–1 copyist matn ḥāshiya

a If this colophon is correct, the presence of v21 in the matn is surprising, coming as it does only fifteen years after the colophon date for MS Istanbul University A4566. I suspect it may be a late copy of a MS in al-Juwaynī’s hand from the 6th/12th century. Further research is needed to authenticate this MS. If it is a late copy, the reading notes suggest that it must have been copied in or before the 8th/14th century. Nuruosmaniye 4268 folios 157–158. Al-Juwaynī was known for his beautiful handwriting and for producing a great number of manuscripts. Ibn al-ʿAdīm, Bughyat al-ṭalab v, 2460–5; al-Ṣafadī, al-Wāfī xii, 127–8. This copy of the Ḥarīriyya is certainly in a very beautiful naskh hand. b This date is based on the cataloguer’s date for the Michigan MS, no colophon.

matn of his text contains v21, so Ibn al-Khashshāb’s comments serve to add v81 in this case.50 Regardless of what was in the matn, copying Ibn al-Khashshāb’s criticism in the margin guaranteed that both variants would appear in the manuscript. Nuruosmaniye 4268 contains v21 in its matn, but a collator’s note, which was discussed in the introduction to this essay, points out that v81 is found 50  Al-Ḥarīrī, Danish Royal Library MS Cod. Arab Add. 83 folio 6r.

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in a manuscript that had been corrected by the author (nuskha muṣaḥḥaḥa bi-khaṭṭ al-muṣannif).51 However, collating against MSS connected with the author and his associates did not guarantee that v81 would appear somewhere in the matn or the margin. For example, MS Bibliothèque nationale, Arabe 7290 contains collation notes, but v21 is found in the matn, with no visible reference to variants.52 Perhaps the most curious case is the undated MS University of Michigan Isl. MS 863, which contains both variants, one after the other, in the matn.53 Other manuscript copies seem to identify a preference for either v81 or v21. The Michigan MS eliminates the question of hierarchy by placing both variants in the body of the text. It is this example among the manuscripts that most clearly highlights the creative commingling of v81 and v21. The luxury manuscripts from our sample, those not intended especially for academic study, tend to be univocal. MS Istanbul University A 4566, which was later decorated, presumably on account of its high value, contains only v81. The illustrated manuscript containing the celebrated illustrations of al-Wāsiṭī (MS Bibliothèque nationale, Arabe 5847) contains only v21.54 By contrast, Cairo Adab 105 was the authoritative copy used in dozens of reading sessions for over a century and thus became multivocal thanks to a reader who added v21 in the margin. Turning now to the era of Arabic printing, most printed versions surveyed here only preserve one verse or the other, most often opting for v21 (see Table 2). Multivocality was preserved in some early editions from the 13th/19th century, but no editions that I have examined from the past century contain v81 or mention the existence of variation. On the other hand, the commentaries of Ibn al-Khashshāb and al-Sharīshī have been printed, and in these texts the modern reader of print becomes aware of the v81/v21 variation. Oddly, the printed editions of al-Sharīshī’s commentary place v81 in the matn despite al-Sharīshī’s apparent preference for v21, as Table 2 shows.

51   M S Nuruosmaniye 4268 folio 2r. 52  Al-Ḥarīrī, MS Bibliothèque nationale, Arabe 7290 folio 5r. 53  Al-Ḥarīrī, MS University of Michigan Isl. MS 863 fol. 7. 54  Grabar, Illustrations 10–11; Grabar, Pictures or commentaries.

311

Commentators, Collators, and Copyists Table 17.2 Selected printed editions of al-Ḥarīrī’s Maqāmāt and al-Sharīshī’s commentary. Editions of al-Sharīshī’s commentary are marked with an asterisk (*) Edition

Date (AD) v81

v21

Calcutta (East India Company Press) eds. Allah Daud and Jaun Alee Paris (Imprimerie Royal) Silvestre de Sacy edition Cairo (al-Maṭbaʿa al-ʿĀmira) ed. Muḥammad ibn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Calcutta (Urdu Guide Press) *Būlāq (al-Maṭbaʿa al-Kubrā)

1809

matn

Beirut (Maṭbaʿat al-Maʿārif) Cairo (al-Maṭbaʿa al-Bahiyya) ed. ʿAbd al-Khāliq Ḥaqqī London (Crosby Lockwood & Son) F. Steingass edition Cairo (Dār al-Kutub al-ʿArabiyya al-Kubrā) Cairo (al-Maṭbaʿa al-Ḥusayniyya al-Miṣriyya) Beirut (Dār Ṣādir) reprint *Beirut (al-Maktaba al-ʿaṣriyya)

1874 1888

editor’s commentaryc auto-commentaries al-Sharīshī’s commentary matn matn auto-commentaries

1897

matn

1912

matn

1929

appendix matn

1980 1992

matn

1822

matn

1856

1882 1882–3

editor’s commentarya auto-commentariesb matn

matn matn

Other features

auto-commentaries

Ibn al-Khashshāb’s text in appendix

matn al-Sharīshī’s commentary

a Silvestre de Sacy’s linguistic footnotes, taking up about the bottom half of each page, are an amalgamation of the commentary tradition, and in this case, he quotes Ibn Barrī’s response to Ibn al-Khashshāb, dispensing with the latter’s criticism. Al-Ḥarīrī (de Sacy) 5. b The disappearance of these auto-commentaries is another significant transformation that takes place over time as the authorial commentaries merged with the broader commentarial tradition. Nevertheless, they were preserved in early printed editions but, like v81, have disappeared in print for the past century. c The Urdu Guide Press edition’s notes are much more laconic than de Sacy’s, but a footnote identifies v21 as a possible variant.

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Conclusion The v81/v21 variation provided fuel for a lively debate about how the Ḥarīriyya as a whole should be understood. It is sometimes suggested that medieval Arabic literary criticism does not usually interpret whole works but rather focuses on individual lines or rhetorical features. Commentaries seem like a case in point because they gloss and interpret individual words and phrases, digressing here and there. I argue that certain discussions about authors could function as a way of discussing the text as a whole. Commentators like Ibn al-Khashshāb, al-Panjdīhī, and others metonymically evaluated the Ḥarīriyya as a whole by debating al-Ḥarīrī’s competence in quranic exegesis. By arguing whether the author was competent, these commentators debated whether the Ḥarīriyya was a well-written text or not. By contesting al-Ḥarīrī’s expertise in matters exegetical, the commentators argued over whether the text could be taken as an authority in an Islamic context. In other words, the discussion of manuscript variation through claims and anecdotes about the author can be seen as a kind of “implied poetics.”55 These metonymic negotiations over the social and intellectual value of the Ḥarīriyya as a whole were only one small part of medieval commentarial activity. This case of the v81/v21 variation illustrates, however, the ways that commentaries, together with collators and copyists, could give rise to new meanings and reshape the text of the Ḥarīriyya. Although commentators may not have been the originators of v21, they played a significant role in its rise and eventual triumph.56 Bibliography

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al-Qazwīnī, ʿAlī ibn Abī al-Qāsim, Kitāb al-Mughnī fī sharḥ al-Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīriyya, MS Esadefendi 2819. al-Qifṭī, Jamāl al-Dīn, Inbāh al-ruwāt ʿalā anbāh al-nuḥāt, ed. M.A. Ibrāhīm, 4 vols., Cairo 1986 al-Qurṭubī, Abū Bakr, al-Jāmiʿ li-aḥkām al-Qurʾān, ed. ʿA. al-Turkī, 24 vols., Beirut 2006. al-Rāzī, Tāj al-Dīn (or Shams al-Dīn) Muḥammad ibn Abī Bakr ibn ʿAbd al-Qādir, Sharḥ Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīrī, MS Fatih 3991. al-Ṣafadī, Khalīl ibn Aybak, Nakt al-himyān fī nukat al-ʿumyān, ed. A.Z. Bey, Cairo 1911. al-Ṣafadī, Khalīl ibn Aybak, Nuṣrat al-thāʾir ʿalā al-mathal al-sāʾir, ed. M.ʿA. Sulṭān, Damascus 1971. al-Ṣafadī, Khalīl ibn Aybak, al-Wāfī bi-l-wafāyāt, ed. H. Ritter et al., 30 vols., Wiesbaden 1962–2004. al-Sharīshī, Sharḥ al-Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīriyya, 2 vols., Būlāq 1882–3. al-Sharīshī, Sharḥ Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīrī Muḥammad, ed. M.A. Ibrāhīm, 5 vols., Beirut 1992. al-Shīrāzī, Muẓhir al-Dīn, Sharḥ Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīrī, MS Ayasofya 4123. al-Subkī, Tāj al-Dīn, Ṭabaqāt al-Shāfiʿiyya al-Kubrā, ed. M.M. Ṭanāḥī and ʿA.M. al-Ḥulw, 10 vols., Cairo 1964–1976. al-ʿUkbarī, Abū l-Baqāʾ, Sharḥ al-alfāẓ al-lughawiyya min al-Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīriyya, ed. N.Ḥ. ʿAlī, Damascus 2005. Yāqūt, Irshād al-arīb ilā maʿrifat al-adīb, ed. I. ʿAbbās, 7 vols., Beirut 1993. Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-buldān, 5 vols., Beirut 1977.



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Ali, S., Arabic literary salons in the Islamic middle ages, Princeton 2010. Altschull, N., The genealogy of scribal versions: A ‘fourth way’ in Medieval editorial theory, in Textual cultures: Texts, context, interpretation 1 (2006), 114–36. Beecroft, A. Authorship and cultural identity in early Greece and China: Patterns of literary circulation, Cambridge 2010. Copeland, R., Rhetoric, hermeneutics, and translation in the Middle Ages, Cambridge 1991. Dagenais, J., The ethics of reading in manuscript culture, Princeton 1994. de Sacy, S., Avertissement, in S. de Sacy (ed.) Les séances de Hariri publiées en Arabe avec un commentaire choisi, Paris 1822, iii–x. Fleisch, H., Ibn Barrī, in EI2. Gacek, Adam, The Copenhagen manuscript of the maqāmāt al-ḥarīriyya, copied, illuminated, and glossed by the Mamluk litterateur Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn aṣ-Ṣafadī, in R.M. Kerr (ed.), Writing and writings: Investigations in Islamic text and script in honour of Januarius Justus Witkam, Cambridge 2010, 143–66.

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CHAPTER 18

Going the Extra Mayl: Two Texts on Medieval Dynamics in the Islamic World Jon McGinnis Historiography Mayl (inclination or impetus) has been of deep interest to contemporary historians of science and others ever since the appearance of a series of articles by Shlomo Pines.*,1 In those articles Pines observes that the theory of mayl found *  Anyone who has met Everett Rowson almost immediately is struck by how smart and nice he is. If they work closely with him they come to realize that they were wrong in their initial assessment, or, to be more exact, just how short their original assessment falls of his actual brilliance and kindness. In my case, these qualities were exhibited in his willingness to spend countless hours with me reading arcane texts of medieval Arabic science and natural philosophy. In every session I learned something from him, whether it was how to parse a tricky bit of Arabic grammar or a nuanced meaning of some term or phrase so as to decipher one of Avicenna’s (inevitably blue) puns ( fāʿil wa-mafʿūl apparently don’t apply just to grammatical notions or the Aristotelian concepts of “agent” and “patient”—who knew?). Everett Rowson taught me not only the Arabic language during those translation bouts, but also about medieval Islamic culture, history, science as well as essential primary texts and the necessary secondary literature for scores of subjects. He also modeled intellectual humility. While it was infrequent that the Arabic caught him off guard, even he at times had to confess that in places someone’s Arabic (usually Avicenna’s) was opaque. I learned from him that it is okay not always to have the answer; the fault lies in not trying to find the answer thereafter.  Perhaps such a commitment is not unusual between dissertation advisors and their graduate students; however, in my case I was not in Penn’s Asian and Middle East Studies department but in a completely different department from his. In fact, when I first met him, I was completing my first year as a Ph.D. student in Philosophy and had absolutely no knowledge of the Arabic language or Islamic intellectual history. I did have a crazy idea, however, namely, to write a dissertation on medieval Arabic natural philosophy. He agreed to work with me, but years later after I successfully defended my dissertation he confided as we shared a beer that on that first meeting he didn’t think it likely that I would (perhaps even could) complete such a dissertation because of the language barrier. The fact that I did is a direct result of those hours translating with him. He taught me not only how to read the Arabic, but how to appreciate what I read. Thus, it seems fitting that my tribute to Everett Rowson be a set of translations of arcane medieval physics texts, both works on mayl, that is, impetus or inclination—one text is from al-Mabāḥith al-Mashriqiyya of Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_019

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in certain medieval Arab thinkers, notably that of Avicenna (980–1037), Abū l-Barakāt (1080–1165) and Ibn Bājja (1095–1138), relies heavily on the thought of John Philoponus (490–570). Pines additionally noted the similarities between the Arabic discussions of mayl and the impetus theory of certain late medieval and early modern European thinkers and argued that the former likely inspired the latter. Since Pines’ ground-breaking work, Fritz Zimmermann has effectively confirmed Pines’ thesis about Philoponus’ influence on the Arabic tradition of natural philosophy.2 Aydın Sayılı also followed in the steps of Pines, arguing that Avicenna’s theory of mayl influenced the Latin schoolman John Buridan (1295–1363), although Sayılı also recognizes that the Avicennan passages of most interest to Buridan (Physics 4.12 & 15) were not available in Latin translation.3 Subsequent studies that extend beyond Pines include Ahmad Hasnaoui’s careful presentation and analysis of the notion of mayl specifically in Avicenna, which shows the importance of mayl to Avicenna’s overall dynamics.4 Abel Franco has given us a larger picture of the consequences of Ibn Bājja’s impetus theory particularly as it relates to projectile motion. Finally, in two articles, Tzvi Langermann looked at accounts of mayl among certain Post-Avicennan philosophers, most notably Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī (1201–1274) and Sayf al-Dīn al-Āmidī (1156–1233).5 The present study is much in line with the approach of Langermann: to translate important post-Avicennan texts on mayl accompanied by some observations and analyses in the footnotes, which I hope prove of use and interest. Before that, however, let me briefly look at the historical background to the notion of mayl.

The Historical Background

The term mayl, at least in the context of physics, translates the Greek term rhopē (inclination or impetus).6 Aristotle employed a notion of rhopē in his De caelo (543/1149–606/1209), the other from Ḥikmat al-ʿayn of Najm al-Dīn al-Qazwīnī al-Kātibī (ca. 599/1203–675/1277). 1  See for instance Pines, Études, Les précurseurs musulmans, Un précurseur bagdadien and La dynamique. 2  See Zimmermann, Philoponus’ impetus theory. 3  See Sayılı, Dynamics of projectile motion and Motion of the projectile. 4  See Hasnaoui, La dynamique. 5  See Langermann, Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī and Quies media. 6  Mayl also is the Arabic technical term for inclination as used in astronomy, that is, the angle between the orbital plane of a planet and the plane of the ecliptic.

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to address a number of issues, usually appealing to it only in a tangential way.7 The passages and issues in the De caelo include (1) De caelo 2.14, where Aristotle discusses the Earth’s spherical shape; (2) De caelo 3.2, which treats the natural motion of bodies, and in which Aristotle claims (i) certain bodies, namely, the elements, have a rhopē, which is their heaviness and lightness, and (ii) any body lacking these qualities is not subject to rectilinear motion; (3) De caelo, 3.6, where Aristotle argues that what lacks rhopē is not subject to motion; and finally (4) De caelo 4.1, which claims that the rhopē of an element, namely, its heaviness or lightness, may name the actuality of that element. It is, however, the account of rhopē in the Physics commentary of the late Christian Neoplatonist John Philoponus (490–570) that arguably has been of most interest to contemporary scholars.8 While the general subject initiating Philoponus’ comments about rhopē concerns the possibility of a void, the more specific issue is that of projectile motion—like the motion of a baseball thrown through the air or an arrow shot from a bow.9 Indeed projectile motion seems to pose a problem for Aristotelian physics. That is because it was thought that as long as some body is undergoing motion there must be some immediate cause of that motion, and yet after the projectile is no longer in contact with its initial cause, e.g., the pitcher or archer, it is not clear what mover(s) maintain(s) the projectile along its trajectory. Aristotle had suggested that the motion of the surrounding medium is what maintains a projectile during its motion.10 For instance, when the pitcher throws a ball, she imparts motion both to the ball and the air immediately surrounding the ball. The moving air then both moves the ball into the next immediate bit of space as well as setting the air in that bit of space into motion; the second bit of moving air in turn moves the ball again as well as the subsequent bit of air, and so on. The ball, as it were, rides a wave of air until the air can no longer impart motion to some further bit of air at which point the projectile motion ceases. Admittedly the subject of both passages where Aristotle discusses projectile motion is never projectile motion itself, and so it is not clear that Aristotle thought he had presented a comprehensive account of the phenomenon. Indeed, as Helen Lang has observed, since projectile motion is a

7  The most thorough discussions of which I am aware covering Aristotle’s account of rhopē are both by Lang, Inclination and Order of nature, Part II: The elements. 8  For a discussion of Philoponus and his impetus theory see Wolff, Philoponus, and Zimmerman, Philoponus’ impetus theory. 9  Philoponus, In Phys., ad 4.8, 639,5–642,26. 10  See Aristotle, Physics 8.10, 266b27–267a20 and De caelo 3.2, 301b17–30.

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type of forced motion, and so is a non-natural motion inasmuch as it normally involves imparting to a body a motion away from its natural place, there is no reason for Aristotle to treat this subject except in a tangential way within his works on natural philosophy.11 Whatever the case, Philoponus was not impressed with Aristotle’s solution and so developed the notion of rhopē as an impressed power (Gk. endotheisa dunamis, Ar. quwwa mustafāda).12 In Philoponus’ view the initial mover transmits a certain motive force directly to the mobile itself rather than to the air. During the course of the motion this force diminishes (exasthenein) and once it is fully depleted the motion stops.13 Of note is Philoponus’ belief that this diminishing of the impressed force would occur whether the projectile moves through a retarding medium, such as air or water, or through a void, which would offer no resistance. When Avicenna addressed the subject of a void and a purported motion through it, he took exception to Philoponus’ claim that rhopē/mayl could be self-diminishing.14 Instead, claimed Avicenna, in order for the mayl or impressed power to undergo any change, such as being diminished, something needed causally to act upon the projectile, and yet such a cause is by definition absent within a void. Consequently, Avicenna maintained that (counterfactually) should an archer shoot an arrow into an infinite void, the arrow would continue unabated infinitely (neither diminishing in speed nor veering from its course). In this case, a finite agent (the archer) would have produced an infinite effect (the unending motion of the arrow), which Avicenna finds absurd, and so concludes that a void cannot exist. It was the Avicennan conception of mayl and the set of issues that Avicenna identified that framed subsequent discussions of impetus theory in the medieval Islamic world, such as that of Abū l-Barakāt, who again was the primary focus of Pines’ studies.15 Avicenna and Abū l-Barakāt both, however, were 11  Lang, Inclination 252–3. 12  See Philoponus, In Phys., ad 4.8, 639,5–642,26, where he considers projectile motion in a void. Unfortunately, Philoponus’ extended discussion of projectile motion would have been in his commentary on Physics 8.10, which is neither extant in Greek nor has it survived in what is available from the Arabic translation of his commentary. 13  Philoponus, In Phys. 644,17–22. 14  Avicenna, Physics ii.8 [15–18]. 15  Pines, Études, still remains a rich source for understanding Avicenna’s theory as well as the broader context to medieval Arabic impetus theory. More recently there is A. Hasnaoui’s brilliant, La dynamique. For a quick yet excellent overview of Avicennan dynamics see

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inclined to treat mayl in a piecemeal fashion. In other words, much like Aristotle and Philoponus before them, Avicenna and Abū l-Barakāt discussed mayl only insofar as it was used to address other sets of issues. Such issues included, as we have seen, the possibility of a void and projectile motion as well as additionally natural motion and the so-called problem of the quies media. (At stake in this final issue is whether a body that undergoes contrary motions must rest between the two motions—as, for example, whether a ball that is thrown upward must briefly pause before it begins to fall downward).16 In short, neither rhopē in the ancient Greek world nor mayl in the classical Islamic period was a subject of discussion in its own right but only insofar as it could be put into service to understand other issues. This situation changed in the “middle period” of medieval Arabic philosophy and Islamic theology.17 For during this period one sees authors drawing together the disparate discussions of mayl occurring in Avicenna and Abū l-Barakāt and placing them under a single rubric. Thus, for example, under the heading “On heaviness and lightness and the judgments about them,” Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (1149–1209) brings together thirteen different issues (masāʾil) in which the notion of mayl features prominently,18 and Najm al-Dīn al-Qazwīnī al-Kātibī (ca. 599–675) in his textbook Ḥikmat al-ʿayn dedicates a chapter to impetus theory (fī l-mayl). Although al-Kātibī is chronologically later than al-Rāzī, his account is brief and provides a nice first pass at the structure and content of medieval Arabic dynamics. Thus I begin with his text. (I have left mayl untranslated, since its explanation is the purpose of the texts; however, both “inclination” and “impetus” are common translations. Also, I have used the somewhat awkward “driving” for mudāfaʿa, since to drive can mean both “to drive ahead” (i.e., a forward motion) and “to drive back” (i.e., a resistance), both of which senses are at a play in our texts.)

M. Rashed, Natural philosophy, 295–8; for a more comprehensive study of dynamics in medieval Islam see R. Hall, Mechanics, esp. 313–36. 16  For a discussion of Avicenna, Abū l-Barakāt and other post-Avicennan thinkers on the issue of the quies media, see Langermann, Quies media, which also is an excellent study of mayl, particularly for figures after Avicenna and Abū l-Barakāt. 17  I take the phrase “middle period” from Ayman Shihadeh, who defines it as “the transitional, late classical and early post-classical phase, stretching roughly from the late eleventh century and into the fourteenth century” (Shihadeh, Doubts on Avicenna 1). 18  Cf. al-Rāzī, Sharḥ, ad namaṭ 2.6 where a subset of five of these issues is singled out as points of investigation (abḥāth).

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Text 1: al-Kātibī, “On Mayl”19

In the inflated skin forcibly being held under water we find an upward driving and in the heavy thing forcibly being held in the air a downward driving, [both of which] are different from the motion and are mayl. [Mayl] is [(1)] natural, as in the case of the stone going downward, and [(2)] forced, as in the case of the stone thrown upward and [(3)] psychological, as one human’s inclination toward another. A body has no mayl while it is in its natural space, otherwise [the mayl] would either [(a)] be away from [its natural space] or [(b)] toward it. The first, [(a)], comes to naught because what is sought naturally cannot be what is left behind naturally. The second, [(b)], is also thus because it is impossible to bring about the existence of something that already exists (taḥṣīl al-ḥāṣil).20 Natural mayl is not joined together with forced [mayl] because the driving toward something cannot be with the driving away from it.21 The principle of the two [mayls, however,] may be joined together, otherwise the motions of two stones varying [in size]—one small, one larger—thrown from a single hand along a single direction with a single force would not differ in fastness and slowness.22 [That is] because in that case there would not be in the large one a greater impeding mayl than in the small one, but the consequence is false. There [may] be the joining together of the two toward a single direction, because when we throw (dafʿanā, literally, we drive) the stone downward with an intense power, its motion is faster than when it is moved by its natural disposition (bi-ṭabʿihi). That in which there is no mayl, whether potential or actual, cannot be subject to forcible motion. If it were, then let it move along the distance during some time. Next let us posit another body that possesses a mayl that, by that same power, undergoes motion along that distance. In that case, the time of its motion is longer than the motion without the mayl. [That is] because it is impossible that the motion together with the impediment be just like the one without it, and so between the two there is some specific ratio/relation (nisba). We then posit a third body, the ratio/relation of whose mayl to the 19  Al-Qazwīnī, Ḥikmat al-ʿayn ii.2.13, 114–15. 20  Al-Rāzī complains (“Fifth Issue”) that Avicenna in the Cure merely asserts without persuasive argument that a body has no mayl when it is in its natural place. In fact, Avicenna does outline a proof at both al-Samāʾ ix, 64 and al-Ishārāt, namaṭ 2.7, 284–5, which al-Kātibī develops here. 21  Cf. Avicenna, Physics iv.8 [16–18] and iv.12, passim; also, see al-Rāzī, “Sixth Issue.” 22  Cf. Abū l-Barakāt, al-Muʿtabar 2.14, 99–100.

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first is like the ratio/relation of the time without the mayl to the time of what possesses the first mayl. Thus the amount of decrease of its mayl from the first mayl is the decrease of the time of its motion from the time of the motion of what possesses the first mayl. In that case, the two times of the two motions— [one motion] possessing the second mayl and one without the mayl—would be equal.23 [This argument] calls for careful study because that [conclusion] follows only if motion requires time due to the mayl in what is undergoing the motion. Now that is impossible, for [motion] requires a certain amount of time— namely, what is impressed on the memory (maḥfūẓ) concerning all the states— whereas what increases and decreases is what is required due to the mayl. We granted it but the absurdity follows precisely from what we mentioned about 23  Cf. Avicenna, Physics iv.12 [2] and al-Ishārāt, namaṭ 2.8, 109–110. The Ishārāt argument runs as follows:  “ The body in which there is neither a potential nor actual mayl is not susceptible.  to a forcible mayl by which it is moved, and, in general, it will not be forcibly moved. If this were not the case, then let x [which is assumed to have no mayl] be forcibly moved in a given time [t1] [and along] a given distance [d1] and let y, for example, in which there is a given mayl [m1] and resisting (drive) (mudāfaʿa), be moved. Clearly, then, y will be moved [d1] in a longer time. Now, let z [have] a mayl [m2] weaker than the former mayl [i.e., m1], which, as a result of the same mover, covers a [greater] distance [d2] in the same time [t1], whose ratio/relation to the first distance [d1] is the ratio/relation of the time as the one possessing the first mayl [t2] and the time of the one lacking the mayl [t1] such that it is forcibly moved the same distance in the same time as the one lacking the mayl. Thus, there will be two forced motions [x and z], z having a resisting (drive) in it and x not having a resisting (drive) in it, of comparable states with respect to speed, which is absurd. Note: You must note here that there is not some indivisible time [i.e., 0 amount of time] such that, during it, a certain motion having no mayl might occur and would have no ratio/relation to a given time of a motion possessing a mayl.” The general idea of the argument is simple, although the details (and even determining whether the argument is cogent) are notoriously difficult. The general intuition is that a body’s natural or internal mayl resists any forced power imparted to it. In the case of a body lacking any natural mayl, m0, a given force, F, would move m0 at some (maximal) speed; let us say 1 unit distance in 1 unit time, 1d/1t. Now assume a body with some natural mayl, m1, which resists F such that F moves m1, for instance, 1 unit distance in two units time, 1d/2t, and so at half the speed of m0. Now assume some third body with some assumed natural mayl, m2, which is equal to half of m1. Since m1 is greater than 0, m1/2, i.e., m2, also is greater than 0. Additionally, F should move a body with m2 twice as fast as one with m1, in which case (2)(1d/2t) = 1d/1t, but that is the speed of the body offering no resistance. It is absurd, the argument concludes, that one and the same force should move a body offering resistance just as fast as a body offering no resistance.

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being joined together. From its impossibility, however, [the impossibility of] the motion of the body in which there is no mayl does not follow.24

Text 2: al-Rāzī, “On Heaviness and Lightness and the Judgments about Them in Which There Are Thirteen Issues”25

The First Issue: On the True Nature of  Mayl [Avicenna] said in the [Book of] Definitions, “inclination (iʿtimād)26 and mayl are two qualities by which the body drives [into] whatever hinders it from moving in a given direction.”27 I say that the technical sense is this: that mayl is a cause of the driving, not the driving itself, which we will discuss [see, “Second Issue”]. For now let us explain that this driving is something different from motion and the motive power.28 It is different from the motion because when an inflated skin is forcibly held under water, the one exerting the force on it senses the ascending mayl, despite the fact that the [ascending] motion does not exist. Hence the ascending mayl is different from the motion. Again, when a heavy thing is resting in the air [as, for example, someone’s holding a stone up], it is at rest while there is sensed in it a descending mayl. The first example distinguishes between ascending mayl and motion, whereas the second example distinguishes between descending mayl and motion. [Mayl] is distinct from nature (ṭabīʿa) in three ways.29 The first is because the driving might be psychological (nafsāniyya), as when one human has an 24  Al-Kātibī’s complaint is that the argument assumes that the time of a motion is a function of its mayl. In contrast, he alludes to Avicenna, Physics II.1 [7], where Avicenna argues that a certain time necessarily follows on motion and does so without making reference to mayl. Mayl, al-Kātibī notes, is a factor only when comparing varying speeds of motion, not the very possibility of the motion itself. For discussions of Avicenna’s theory of motion see Hasnaoui, La definition; McGinnis, Medieval Arabic analysis; and Ahmed, Reception. 25  Al-Rāzī, al-Mabāḥith, ch. 10, 397–404. 26   Iʿtimād, which might also be translated “tendency,” is the kalām counterpart to mayl. 27  Avicenna, al-Ḥudūd 34, §75 (defn. 35). In Goichon’s edition there is the singular kayfiyya (a quality) for Rāzī’s dual kayfiyyatān (two qualities). 28  Cf. Avicenna, Physics iv.12 [2] & iv.13 [2]. 29  The identification of three types of mayl can be traced back to Avicenna’s Physics iv.12, where he notes that mayl may be produced either by a thing’s nature or, in the case of a living thing, its soul (nafs) and also Physics iv.14 were he speaks of the mayl resulting from an acquired power.

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inclination for another, then, insofar as the one is unmoved, there existed a mayl aside from the nature. A second is because the nature of the body in its natural space remains but that driving does not occur. The third is because driving is susceptible to intensification and diminution, whereas the nature is not susceptible to that.

The Second Issue: Concerning [Whether] Mayl Is Itself This Driving Or Its Cause It is up to whoever affirms something beyond this driving to provide an argument [for it]. Thus one says [consider] a metal ring that is being equally attracted by two magnets30 such that it is at a standstill in the middle.31 Undoubtedly each of the two acts upon it in a way that one action is an impediment to the action of the other. Now that [impeding] itself cannot be the driving, for [the driving] does not exist at all. Also it is not the other magnet’s potentiality (quwwa) [to attract] because if it does not actually act on what is attracted, then why does its mere potentiality become an impediment to something else’s actually acting upon it?! Consequently, then, each of the two has acted upon it in a way other than driving [it]. Moreover, undoubtedly should the action of either one of them cease to be opposed, the ring’s being attracted to its side would be required. Thus the existence of something is established, which should it cease to be impeded, would require the drive (dafʿ) in a specific direction. That itself is not the nature because [the nature] produces motion either upward or downward, whereas that whose action is the mutual attraction of the two is not like that. Thus it is established that this sensible driving has a cause other than the nature and other than the psychological power.32

30  Literally, “two equally attractive things.” 31  I have not been able to find this exact example in Avicenna, although it closely resembles an argument, which Avicenna rejects, for why the Earth is at rest in the center. See Avicenna, al-Samāʾ vii, 56 (for the example) and viii, 59–61 (for Avicenna’s criticisms). 32  Avicenna most frequently thinks of mayl in terms of a principle of the driving (Avicenna, Physics iii.4 [14], iii.10 [15] & iv.10 [4] for instance). Still when addressing the issue of whether there is a quies media (Physics iv.8 [17–18]), he does appear to understand the forced and natural mayl of a stone thrown into the air as, respectively, an upward and then a downward driving (see “Sixth Issue” below).  Al-Rāzī’s own position, as the two-magnet example shows, is that mayl is a principle of the driving motion, for the body in stasis has a mayl (that is, tendency, inclination or impetus) to move should one of the magnets, which is impeding its motion in a given direction, be removed.

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The Third Issue: On Defining Heaviness and Lightness [Avicenna] said in the [Book of ] Definitions, “Heaviness is a natural power (quwwa) by which the body is moved toward the middle naturally, while lightness is a natural power by which the body is moved away from the center naturally.”33 I say there are two points of investigation here.

 Beyond establishing that mayl is best understood as a cause of a body’s upward or downward driving rather than the driving itself, al-Rāzī notices that mayl is an equivocal term in Avicenna’s natural philosophy. There is, however, an historical basis for the two senses of mayl that can be traced back to Aristotle and Philoponus’ competing conceptions of nature (Gk. phusis, Ar. ṭabīʿa). Aristotle had defined nature as “a certain principle and cause of being moved (kineisthai) and being at rest in that to which it belongs primarily per se and not accidentally” (Aristotle, Physics 2.1, 192b21–3). A nature understood in this fashion is a principle of being acted on, and so best conceived as a type of dynamic potentiality (Gk. dunamis), which, when in the presence of the right form of actuality, is realized as motion (kinēsis). (See Aristotle, Physics 3.1 for his definition and discussion of motion as the actuality of potential insofar as there is potential.) The point is that on Aristotle’s conception of nature, the weightiness and lightness of a body (understood as its rhopē/mayl) is in fact a sort of motion, which arises from the potentiality of the nature in the presence of some actuality. In short, rhopē/mayl corresponds with the driving.  Aristotle’s conception of nature contrasts significantly with the account of nature found in John Philoponus’ commentary on Aristotle’s Physics. Philoponus glosses Aristotle’s definition of nature thus: “Nature is a life or potentiality descending into bodies, molding them throughout and governing them, being a principle of motion (kinēseōs) and being at rest in that to which it belongs primarily per se and not accidentally” (Philoponus, In Phys. 197,34–198,1). The most significant difference is that Philoponus understands nature as an internal cause of moving, and so nature is not a potentiality but an actuality and indeed the very formal cause of the body and its activities. Understood against this conception of nature, rhopē/mayl is no longer seen as a type of motion, but as the internal cause of the body’s natural upward or downward motion. In short, rhopē/mayl corresponds with the cause of the driving. (See Macierowski & Hassing, John Philoponus; Lang, Inclination; and Lammer, Defining nature, for discussions of the significant differences between Aristotle’s and Philoponus’ definitions of nature.).  While Avicenna criticized Philoponus’ emendation to Aristotle’s definitions of nature, Avicenna did not simply return to Aristotle; rather, he incorporated certain key elements of Philoponus’ new account into his own account of nature (see Lammer, Defining nature). The implication for mayl resulting from Avicenna’s re-interpretation of nature is that it is not obvious whether mayl is best understood as the cause of a motion or as an effect, namely, the motion itself. Most frequently, Avicenna understands it, following Philoponus, as a cause, yet there is the occasional exception. Thus al-Rāzī is right to call Avicenna to task on this point. 33  Avicenna, al-Ḥudūd 34, §§76–77 (defn. 36–37).

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The first is that the center is a point, whereas it is impossible that a body entirely occur in a single point owing to the impossibility of something divisible, which travels in [certain] directions, occurring in something indivisible, which does not travel in [any] directions. Since the body’s occurring in a point is precluded, its seeking to occur in [a point] is precluded. The answer is that the sense of our saying, “The heavy thing seeks the center” is that it seeks that its center of heaviness corresponds (yanṭabiq) with the universe’s center, not that it occurs in its entirety at it. Thus when the heavy body is moved toward the universe’s center, and its surface first comes to encounter the center of the universe, it does not stop there; rather, it [continues] to be moved and it descends until the center of its heaviness corresponds with the center of the universe.34 By “the center of heaviness” I mean the point wherever all of its sides are equally balanced. The second [point] is his claim, “a natural power by which the body is moved to the center naturally,” for saying, “naturally” seems redundant, since his locution “natural power” dispenses with the need for that. The answer is that, “naturally” modifies “the middle.” For, on the one hand, what is naturally middle pertains to the middle, namely, the center of the primary body that makes directions.35 On the other hand, what is not like that also pertains to it, namely, the centers of eccentric spheres, for each one of them has a middle around which it moves, but that middle is not naturally middle but only relative to that specific body. The heavy does not seek just any middle but only the middle that is naturally middle, namely, the center of the universe. Clearly, then, [“naturally”] is not redundant. Know that by “heaviness” sometimes one means the nature that is the principle of the sensible mayl, while sometimes the mayl itself is meant by it. Thus “natural power” comprehends the power related to nature, and so it is something inevitably different from it. Consequently, then, this description comprehends only mayl, whether we said the mayl is this very driving or its cause. The Fourth Issue: On the Divisions of Mayl Sometimes the mayl arises from the body’s natural dispositions and sometimes from the influence of another on it. What arises from the natural dispositions 34  Avicenna takes up the issue of what is the end of natural motion—whether a certain direction, place or the collective kind, i.e., the sphere of earth, water, air or fire—at Physics iv.10 [2–3]. His own position is that what is sought is a relative ordering of the parts of the universe. Al-Rāzī in contrast seems to think what is sought is some absolute where. 35  For a discussion of directions (jihāt) and the body that delimits them see Avicenna, Physics iii.13–14 and al-Ishārāt, namaṭ 2.1–3, 106–8.

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of the body might be a natural mayl, as, for example, the sensed driving of the inflated skin forcibly held under water.36 It also might be psychological as when the animal has an inclination for something and is driven to it.37 What arises from the other influence [i.e., other than the body’s natural dispositions] is forced, as, for example, the driving found in the stone that is forcibly thrown upward.38 As for natural mayl, it is naturally directed toward a given direction. The true directions are twofold, and so there are two natural mayls: Heaviness, that is, downward mayl, and lightness, that is, upward mayl. As for psychological mayl, it might be circular or rectilinear, and its state may vary in accordance with the variation of the motions.

The Fifth Issue: Concerning that Natural Mayl Does Not Exist When Bodies Are in Their Natural Spaces (aḥyāz) This is stipulated in [Avicenna’s] De caelo of the Cure without persuasive argument, let alone a demonstrative one.39 What we can say about the confirmation of [this thesis, namely that natural mayl does not exist when bodies are in their natural place] is based upon the fact that the mayl, in the sense of driving, entails motion if there is no obstacle. Hence should there be a driving in the body occurring in its natural place, it would necessitate its moving from it, if there is no obstacle. That is absurd, and so consequently that driving is nonexistent [when the body is in its natural space]. One might claim that if we were to place the hand under the stone [laying on the ground], we would find it driving [downwards], and undoubtedly the state of the stone when the hand is under it is like its state when it is not under it. Consequently, then, the driving is something existing in the stone placed in its natural space. In that case, we say the driving exists only because the stone is outside of the center. Whenever that is the case it seeks to reach [the center] and so the driving is something existing in it in actuality.40 36  Cf. Avicenna, Physics iv.12, especially [1–4]. 37  Cf. Avicenna, Physics iv.12, especially [5] & idem, De anima iv.4, 200. 38  Cf. Avicenna, Physics iv.14. 39  Avicenna, al-Samāʾ ix, 64; also see Avicenna, Physics iv.8 [11] and al-Ishārāt, namaṭ 2.7, 284–5. It is not clear what al-Rāzī means when he says that this thesis is merely stipulated (manṣūṣ) in al-Samāʾ, for in both that work and al-Ishārāt Avicenna outlines an argument much like the one al-Kātibī presents. 40  In his commentary on Avicenna’s Ishārāt, ad namaṭ 2.7, Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī mentions al-Rāzī’s discussion. Al-Ṭūsī rejects al-Rāzī’s response, claiming:  “[Al-Rāzī] responds to it that [the stone] is in its natural space only when it is at the center of the universe (fī markaz al-ʿālam). The truth concerning that is that earth’s natural place is not the center of the universe, which is a certain point; otherwise no earth

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They might say [that] in that case it is impossible that something heavy be devoid of this driving according to what you all said, [namely] because of the impossibility of its occurring at the real and true center and in fact it will forever be outside of it. Thus the driving will [always] be something occurring in actuality. We say [in response that] we have already proven [“Third Issue”] that what the heavy thing seeks is the correspondence (inṭibāq) of its heaviness with the center of the universe. Moreover, that heavy thing either possesses parts in actuality or does not. If it possesses parts, each one of them inevitably has some share of heaviness. In that case, each one of its parts seeks the aforementioned state, but [being at the center] does not belong to [every] one of them save one part. Hence, besides that part, the driving is something existing in actuality. As for lacking parts,41 when the center of its heaviness corresponds with the center of the universe, then the driving must not exist in that body at that time . [That is] because if [the driving] were to exist, it would be either in the whole of that body or in its parts. Now, on the one hand, it is absurd that [the driving] is in the whole of it because the entirety of it seeks that state [of being at the center of the universe], in which case it would be impossible that there be in it the seeking to be outside of it. On the other hand, it is absurd that [the driving] is in its parts because we assumed it is lacking [any] part, and when it has no part, then how can its part have a mayl? Hence it is established that that body [namely, one in its natural space] is devoid of mayl. The Sixth Issue: That Natural and Forced Mayl Are Not Joined Together The Shaykh said in the chapter in which he proved that between any two motions there is an actual rest (Avicenna, Physics iv.8 [18]):42 would be in the natural place. Instead its being in its natural place is such that its center corresponds with the center of the universe (yanṭabiqu markazuhā ʿalā markaz al-ʿālam)” (al-Ṭūsī, Ḥall, ad namaṭ 2.7, 285). Interestingly, al-Tūsī’s characterization does not correspond with the actual position held in al-Rāzī’s Ishārāt commentary, which in fact corresponds with al-Tūsī’s own solution. Al-Rāzī writes there, “We say: the stone is in its natural space only should the center of its weight correspond with the center of the universe (munṭabiq ʿalā markaz al-ʿālam)” (al-Rāzī, Sharḥ, ad namaṭ 2.6 [= al-Ṭūsī, Ḥall, ad namaṭ 2.7]). 41  Al-Rāzī is probably thinking of a continuous unified whole body surrounding the center rather than a point or atom. See Shihadeh, Avicenna’s corporeal form, for al-Rāzī’s conception of a continuous whole body. 42  The issue at stake in the cited passage is that of the quies media, namely, whether a body having one form of motion must rest ever so briefly before undergoing the contrary motion, e.g., from moving upward to downward.

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Pay no attention to whoever says that the two mayls are joined together! How could there possibly be something in which there is in actuality a driving toward a certain direction [. . .]43 and in it in actuality a withdrawing from it? [Thus]44 one should absolutely not suppose that in the rock thrown upward there is a downward mayl. Instead there is a certain principle in it45 whose character is such as to produce that mayl when what is impeding stops.46 I say: His asking, how can there be in the thing a driving toward and withdrawing from a certain direction, when he is trying to prove the impossibility of two mayls’ being joined together, indicates that the mayl in his opinion is itself this very driving, not that it is its cause.47 [That follows] since if the mayl were in the sense of the cause of the driving, the two might be joined together and yet not require two [opposing kinds of] driving just as there is nothing incompatible between the nature and the active potential for forced motion. I say that the Shaykh’s discussion had been leading up to another subject in the Cure where it is imagined that there may be a joining together of the two mayls.48 For he said in the chapter in which he discussed forced motion (Avicenna, Physics iv.14 [2]): The cause of forced motion49 is a power that the moving thing acquires from the mover that remained in it for a while until the collisions with which it was continuously coming into contact depleted [the power] and it becomes worn down. Thus, the more [the acquired power] becomes weakened by them, the more the power of the natural mayl and collision upon it become . . .50 and then the projectile proceeds in the direction of its natural mayl. Thus his claim, “the more the power of the natural mayl on it becomes,” is a notice to the fact that the natural mayl exists together with the 43  Avicenna’s text reads mudāfaʿatu jihatin aw luzūmuhā (a driving [toward] a certain direction or clinging to it) for Rāzī’s mudāfaʿatun ilā jihatin. 44  Avicenna’s text has fa- (thus) for Rāzī’s wa- (and). 45   Fīhi (in it) omitted in Avicenna’s text. 46  Avicenna, Physics iv.8 [18]. 47  For the context and significance of the present point see note 32 above. 48  The subject to which al-Rāzī alludes is that of projectile motion, namely, what maintains a body’s motion, for example an arrow’s, after it leaves the archer’s bow. 49  Avicenna’s text has dhālika (that) for Rāzī’s al-ḥaraka al-qasriyya (forced motion). 50  Avicenna’s text additionally has “and so the power becomes depleted.”

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forced mayl. Perhaps that is based upon the mayl in the sense of the cause of driving, which is something that can wholly occur together with the foreign mayl. In that case, he is assuming that the natural driving does not exist together with the foreign driving, and that is nearly a first principle. In fact, no driving belongs to the stone’s ascending in the air [driving it] downward at all, for whoever touches the ascending stone does not sense its having some downward driving. Now when our discussion is only about this sensible thing and we do not sense it but instead we sense the contrary, then the deprivation (qaṭʿ)51 must be by its absence. It might be said: Is your opinion not that the mayl exists at the instant of arriving and at that moment there is no driving?52 Consequently, then, the absence of mayl does not follow from the absence of driving. We say: Nay, rather the driving is something that exists at that instant because if some other body were in that space, it would drive against it at that instant.53 An argument for allowing two mayls to be joined together is that in the case of two stones thrown from a single hand along a single direction with a single power we find [the two] to vary in fastness and slowness when they vary in largeness and smallness. That is precisely because the rival mayl in the larger one is more, even if it is overcome.54 The answer is that the nature is a power permeating bodies and so it is divided by their being divided, and that which is in the part is what is in the whole, namely, an impediment to the forced motion.55 Thus certainly the heavier was slower. 51  I have chosen to translate qaṭʿ here as “deprivation” since the immediate context is about the lack of a sensed downward driving; however, qaṭʿ is also a technical term in Avicenna’s physics. In its technical sense qaṭʿ means “traversal,” i.e., an object’s continuous motion from its starting point to its ending point. Taken in this technical sense, al-Rāzī might mean that the ascent of the stone thrown upward must be owing to the absence of a resistance driving it downward. 52  Cf. Avicenna, Physics iv.8 [16–17]. 53  On this point al-Rāzī appears to be departing from Avicenna significantly, for Avicenna’s argument at Physics iv.8 [16–17] was precisely that the last moment of a forced mayl’s causing a stone to ascend is distinct from the first moment of the stone’s natural mayl’s causing it to descend. Consequently, between these two distinct instants there is a time when nothing is causing the stone to move, either upward or downward, and so it is at rest. Al-Rāzī in contrast appears to be following Abū l-Barakāt (al-Muʿtabar 2.14), who maintained that in fact there needs be no period of rest between contrary motions. Al-Rāzī is just drawing out the consequence of Abū l-Barakāt’s position, namely, there is some driving or other at every moment of the stone’s upward and then downward motion. 54  Cf. Abū l-Barakāt, al-Muʿtabar 2.14, 99–100. 55  Unlike al-Kātibī, who accepts the conclusion of Abū l-Barakāt’s argument, al-Rāzī rejects it and sides with Avicenna on this point. Interestingly, Al-Rāzī does so on the basis of

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The Seventh Issue: Whether Two Mayls Toward a Single Direction, One of Which Is Natural and the Other Foreign, May Be Joined Together? If nothing impeded the body possessing natural mayl—like the motions of the celestial spheres along their inclinations and the motions of the elements, were we to suppose the universe’s being empty (khalāʾ)—that would be absurd. [That is] because the cause of the natural mayl is the nature. Now when the cause exists uncontested,56 the utmost [degree] of what is possible for that effect must exist. In that case, the natural mayl reaches the limit of intensity, and so it would be impossible that some foreign mayl occur together with it along that direction.57 One might say that each species among the degrees of greater and lesser intensity (marātib al-ashadd wa-l-anqaṣ) varies on account of it being different in species. Thus the specific nature might require one of two species [of intensity] to the exclusion of the second. In that case, it would not exist at the utmost [degree] of what is possible. [Another scenario] is if the body is opposed by what drives it, like the falling stone, then the air rivals it and in proportion to that rivaling there is a loss of intensity.58 In that case it is likely that another foreign mayl does occur together with the natural mayl and the motion together with the rival will be faster than what exists as a result of the natural mayl alone. That is just as when we drive the stone downward very intensely, its motion is perhaps faster than when it is moved by its nature alone.59 understanding nature as a permeating power, which in fact is an element from Philoponus’ new definition of nature that Avicenna himself incorporates. (See note 32 for the context of Avicenna’s new account of nature.). 56   Al-ʿilla ghayr mamnuwwa bi-l-munāziʿ, literally, “the cause is untried by struggle.” 57  While the immediate issue is whether a natural mayl and a forced mayl might be joined together when both of them produce motion in the same direction, al-Rāzī takes the opportunity to introduce the question of motion in a medium offering no resistance. This latter issue is the one that occupies Avicenna, Physics iv.12 [2] and al-Ishārāt, namaṭ 2.8 with the (notorious) proportionality argument (see note 23). Al-Rāzī avoids Avicenna’s proportionality argument altogether, which al-Kātibī finds wanting, and introduces a new argument that allows him to address the immediate issue at stake: In a medium offering no resistance, the natural mayl produces a motion at the maximal speed possible, and so there simply is nothing that a forced mayl could contribute. 58   Yaḥṣulu l-futūr, literally, “slackening occurs.” 59  Beyond a passing reference, I was unable to find in Avicenna or Abū l-Barakāt a discussion of a forced mayl’s being imparted to a body in the same direction as its natural mayl, as, for example, the stone’s being thrown downward.

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The Eighth Issue: Concerning Mayl’s Remaining upon Arriving at What Is Sought What moves the body towards that direction ( jiha) are that mayl and the driving. Now it is absurd that what brings about the arrival at [the region] is not driving toward it, and what brings about the arrival must occur upon the existence of the arrival owing to its being impossible to separate the effect from the cause. It follows then that the mayl exists upon the arrival of the mobile at the region sought.60

The Ninth Issue: Concerning that It Is Something that Happens Instantaneously The demonstration of [the thesis that the arrival is instantaneous] is that we proved [in the “Eighth Issue”] that the existence of the mayl is inevitably together with the body’s arrival at that region. Now [that region] is something indivisible. Consequently, then, the occurrence of the mayl is inevitably together with the body’s arrival at an indivisible limiting boundary (ḥadd), but the body’s arriving at an indivisible limiting boundary is only at an instant ( fī l-ān). Consequently, then, the occurrence of the mayl is inevitably at an instant, Q.E.D.61

The Tenth Issue: On the Limitation of [Mayl’s] Intensification and Weakening Between Two Limits There is no doubt about mayl’s susceptibility to intensification and weakening. Now, every change is from something to something, and inevitably between the two there is a species of counteracting (taʿādul). If, then, the counteracting is at the utmost extreme, the two are contraries. Otherwise they are two intermediaries, and whenever the intermediary exists, the two limits inevitably exist.62 60  Cf. Avicenna, Physics iv.8 [11], where he suggests that the forced mayl in a body, upon its arriving at its ultimate terminus, may be too weak to drive the body further, and yet not so weak as to resist the body’s natural mayl to return it to its natural state. In other words, the mayl does exist at the instant of arriving. 61  Cf. Avicenna, Physics iv.8 [16–17]. 62  I was unable to find in Avicenna or Abū l-Barakāt any significant discussion of the intensification and weakening of mayl paralleling al-Rāzī’s comments here. In his Ishārāt commentary, al-Rāzī again identifies this issue as worthy of investigation. There he says:  “This driving is susceptible to intensification and weakening, for when the mayl is very strong, resisting it is extremely difficult and is sensed, whereas when it is weak, it is easy to resist and perhaps not even sensed. That is something immediately known through experience” (al-Rāzī, Sharḥ, ad namaṭ 2.6, 134).

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The Eleventh Issue: Concerning the Reason for [(1)] Natural Mayl’s Intensification When It Is Close to What Is Sought and [(2)] the Weakening of Forced Mayl Upon Arriving at What Is Sought As for the first [namely, (1), natural mayl’s intensification when it is close to what is sought], because when no contrary is in contest with the nature,63 [the nature] causes the mayl to exist, and the mayl does not stop increasing. It is also known that the nature’s influence alone is not like its influence together with the mayls that strengthen and assist it. As for the second, let the weakening of the forced mayl increase together with the termination at the ultimate extreme. One can now say that this is based upon one and the same thing’s being susceptible to the intensification and weakening, and that is absurd according to 64 will be advanced about motion.

The Twelfth Issue: Concerning the Reason for Forced Mayl’s Intensification in the Middle The reason for it is said to be (Avicenna, Physics iv.14 [6]):65 When there is repeated friction (ḥakk) on the projectile, it grows hotter and it becomes still hotter by the friction66 while the acquired power grows weaker. Still the attenuation acquired through the heating either continues without interruption or it approaches the account that exceeds the weakening, as long as there is a 67 constancy in the power. Thus when there is the successive friction68 on the power and [the power] loses force, the friction also weakens and reaches a

63   Al-ṭabīʿa idhā lam takun mamnuwwa bi-l-ḍidd, literally “when the nature is not tried by the contrary.” 64  Reading ʿalā mā sa-ya‌ʾtī, for the text’s ʿalā sa-ya‌ʾtī. 65  The following passage from Avicenna is the only one I found by him (or Abū l-Barakāt) significantly treating an issue associated with the intensification and weakening of mayl, whereas al-Rāzī dedicates three sections to it. 66  Reading al-ḥakk with Avicenna’s text for the editor’s al-ṣakk, the infinitive of the verb to strike or slam (as in a door). While it is possible that al-Rāzī’s text of Avicenna’s Physics had al-ṣakk instead of al-ḥakk, neither the edition of Avicenna’s Physics by S. Zāyid nor J. al-Yāsīn mentions al-ṣakk as an alternative reading found in the manuscripts, nor is it in the Tehran lithograph. Given the similarity in appearance between al-ḥakk and al-ṣakk, I suspect that al-Rāzī’s editor has simply made a mistake. 67  Avicenna’s text reads thabāt mā for al-Rāzī’s simple thabāt. 68  Again reading al-ḥakk for al-ṣakk.

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point at which it is insufficient for the uninterrupted continuation of the friction’s69 influence.

The Thirteenth Issue: Concerning that There Is Not Passivity between the Heavy and the Light The demonstration of [this claim] is that heaviness essentially necessitates the body’s moving toward the center, while lightness essentially necessitates the body’s moving away from the center.70 That requires each of them to be separated from the other. The two descriptions necessitating that the two bodies be separated from each other simply cannot necessitate the [mutual] acting upon [one another] that occurs only through proximity. This then is the sum of what we wanted to mention concerning the judgments about heaviness and lightness. Bibliography Abū l-Barakāt, Kitāb al-Muʿtabar fī l-ḥikma, Hyderabad 1938–9; repr. Beirut 2012. Ahmed, A., The reception of Avicenna’s theory of motion in the twelfth century, in Arabic sciences and philosophy 26 (2016), 215–43. Avicenna, al-Ishārāt wa-l-tanbīhāt, ed. J. Forget, Leiden 1892. Avicenna, Avicenna’s De anima (Arabic Text), ed. R. Rahman, London 1959. Avicenna, Kitāb al-Ḥudūd, ed. and (French) trans. A-M. Goichon, Cairo 1963. Avicenna, al-Samāʾ wa-l-ʿālam, ed. M. Qāsim, Cairo 1969. Avicenna, The physics of The healing, ed. and trans. J. McGinnis, 2 vols., Provo 2009. Hall, R., Mechanics, in A.Y. al-Hassan (ed.), The different aspects of Islamic culture, vol. 4, Science and technology in Islam, part I, Paris 2001, 297–336. Hasnaoui, A., La dynamique d’Ibn Sīnā (La notion d’«inclination»: mayl), in J. Jolivet & R. Rashed (eds.), Études sur Avicenne, Paris 1984, 103–23. Hasnaoui, A., La définition du mouvement dans la Physique du Šifāʾ d’Avicenne, in Arabic sciences and philosophy 11 (2001), 219–255. Lammer, A., Defining nature: From Aristotle to Philoponus to Avicenna, in A. Alwishah and J. Hayes (eds.), Aristotle and the Arabic tradition, Cambridge 2015, 121–42. Lang, H., Inclination, impetus, and the last Aristotelian, in Archives internationales d’histoire des sciences 46 (1996), 221–60. Lang, H., The Order of nature in Aristotle’s Physics: Place and the elements, Cambridge 1998. 69  Again reading al-ḥakk for al-ṣakk. 70  Cf. Avicenna, al-Samāʾ ii, 7–9.

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Langermann, T., Quies media: A lively problem on the agenda of post-Avicennian physics, in N. Bayhan et al. (eds.), Uluslararasi İbn Sînâ sempozyumu bıldırıler, 2 vols., Istanbul 2008, ii, 53–67. Langermann, T., Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī’s exposition of mayl, in R. Hansberger, M. Afifi al-Akiti & C. Burnett (eds.), Medieval Arabic thought: Essays in honour of Fritz Zimmermann, London/Turin 2012, 87–97. Macierowski, E.M. & R.F. Hassing, John Philoponus on Aristotle’s definition of nature, in Ancient philosophy 8 (1988), 73–100. Maier A., Die Impetustheorie der Scholastik, Vienna 1940. McGinnis, J., A medieval Arabic analysis of motion at an instant: The Avicennan sources to the forma fluens/fluxus formae debate, in British journal for the history of science 39 (2006), 189–205. Philoponus, In Aristotelis Physicorum libros tres priores commentaria, ed. H. Vitelli (Commentaria in Aristotelem Graeca 16), Berlin 1887. Philoponus, In Aristotelis Physicorum libros quinque posteriores commentaria, ed. H. Vitelli (Commentaria in Aristotelem Graeca 17), Berlin 1888. Philoponus, In Aristotelis Physicorum [Arabic translation], in Aristotle, al-Ṭabīʿa, ed. ʿA. Badawī, 2 vols., Cairo 1964/65; 2nd ed. 1984. Pines, S., Études sur Awḥad al-Zamān Abu’ l-Barakāt al-Baghdādī, in Revue des études Juives 103 (1938), 3–64 & 104 (1938), 1–33; repr. in The collected works of Shlomo Pines, Jerusalem 1979, i, 1–95. Pines, S., Les précurseurs musulmans de la théorie de l’impetus, in Archeion 21 (1938), 298–306; repr. in The collected works of Shlomo Pines, Jerusalem 1986, ii, 409–17. Pines, S., Un précurseur baghdadien de la théorie de l’impetus, in Isis 44 (1953), 246–51; repr. in The collected works of Shlomo Pines, Jerusalem 1986, ii, 418–22. al-Qazwīnī [al-Kātibī], ʿAlī ibn ʿUmar, Ḥikmat al-ʿayn, ed. ʿA. Ṣadrī, Tehran 2005. Rashed, M., Natural philosophy, in P. Adamson & R.C. Taylor (eds.), The Cambridge companion to Arabic philosophy, Cambridge 2005, 287–307. al-Rāzī, Fakhr al-Dīn Muḥammad ibn ʿUmar, al-Mabāḥith al-mashriqiyya: Fī ʿilm al-ilāhiyyāt wa-l-ṭabīʿiyyāt, ed. M.M. Baghdādī, Beirut 1990. al-Rāzī, Fakhr al-Dīn Muḥammad ibn ʿUmar, Sharḥ al-Ishārāt wa-l-tanbīhāt, ed. ʿA.R. Najafzāda, 2 vols., Tehran 2005. Sayılı, A., Ibn Sīnā and Buridan on the dynamics of projectile motion, in A. Sayılı (ed.), İbn Sīnā: doğumunun bınıncı yili armağani, Ankara 1984, 141–60. Sayılı, A., Ibn Sīnā and Buridan on the motion of the projectile, in D. King & G. Saliba (eds.), From the deferent to the equant: A volume of studies in the history of science in the ancient and medieval near east in honor of E.S. Kennedy, New York 1987, 477–82. Shihadeh, A., Avicenna’s corporeal form and proof of prime matter in twelfth-century critical philosophy: Abū l-Barakāt, al-Masʿūdī and al-Rāzī, in Oriens 42 (2014), 364–96.

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Shihadeh, A., Doubts on Avicenna: A study and edition of Sharaf al-Dīn al-Masʿūdī’s commentary on the Ishārāt, Leiden 2015. al-Ṭūsī, Naṣīr al-Dīn, Ḥall mushkilāt al-Ishārāt, in S. Dunyā (ed.), al-Ishārāt wa-ltanbīhāt maʿa sharḥ Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī, 4 vols., Cairo 1957–60. Wolff, M., Philoponus and the rise of preclassical dynamics, in R. Sorabji (ed.), Philoponus and the rejection of the Aristotelian sciences, London 1987, 84–120. Zimmerman, F., Philoponus’ impetus theory in the Arabic tradition, in R. Sorabji (ed.), Philoponus and the rejection of the Aristotelian sciences, London 1987, 121–9.

CHAPTER 19

“Extremely Beautiful and Extremely Long” Al-Qīrāṭī’s Exuberant Letter from the Year 761/1360 Thomas Bauer Introduction It is said that the generation of so-called “digital natives” is able to process information more quickly than older generations and that they are more talented at multitasking. It is also said, however, that they find it increasingly difficult to concentrate on a single, complex text for a long while. This is not the place to discuss this theory, but if it proves to be true, the prospects for the text presented here are rather meager. This text is a letter of exuberant length and complexity, not only by the standards of the twitter generation, but in the eyes of the writer’s contemporaries as well. In print, the letter would amount to about forty pages, a length that was already considered extraordinary at the time the letter was written. Obviously, a text of this format is not an ideal subject for a contribution to a Festschrift, but the dedicatee of this volume was paying attention to literary prose texts from the Mamluk period back when these texts were only being used as sources by historiographers and being tapped for their quotations of older texts that had been lost in their original form.1 Literary texts such as post-Ḥarīrian maqāmāt or, worse still, letters in ornate prose were disregarded almost completely. Gradually, the situation is improving,2 but major works such as all of Ibn Nubāta’s letters not included in al-Qalqashandī’s Ṣubḥ al-aʿshā are still in manuscript, and there is hardly any study analyzing such texts from an aesthetic point of view.3 This is grounds enough for presenting a text that is interesting for additional reasons:

1  See Rowson, Homoerotic narratives, Alexandrian age, and his reviews in MSR 8 (2004), 315; MSR 10 (2006), 222; and MSR 14 (2010), 233. 2  To mention only the recent editions of aṣ-Ṣafadī, Alḥān and Ibn Ḥijja, Qahwat al-inshāʾ. 3  See Bauer, Toward an aesthetics of Mamluk literature, 14–20.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_020

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It is completely unknown. Though preserved in a comparatively large number of manuscripts and highly acclaimed by the author’s contemporaries, the text is still unedited, and no modern scholar has ever taken account of it. It was considered an important text when it was created, and we can therefore assume that studying this text will shed light on the nature of literature and society at the time it was written. Stylistically complex texts—even texts that are much more harmless than the text in question here—have often provoked negative reactions in the last two centuries from both Arab and Western readers. Being confronted with a text like this therefore promises to tell us a lot not only about its time, but about ours as well. Curiosity is the starting point of scholarship, and this is a text that should make every reader curious. A number of mysteries have to be resolved, and a number of questions have yet to be answered. Why was a text like this written? Why did it find acclaim? What, after all, is its message? Even these obvious questions are not always easy to answer. And, finally, for these and other reasons, the text as such is fascinating, which should be reason enough to present it to one of the leading connoisseurs of classical Arabic prose.

This study will neither answer all of the questions nor give an in-depth analysis, but it may demonstrate that al-Qīrāṭī’s text is interesting and deserves further study.

Burhān ad-Dīn al-Qīrāṭī and his Maṭlaʿ an-nayyirayn

The author of the text treated here is Burhān ad-Dīn al-Qīrāṭī.4 The name al-Qīrāṭī has nothing to do with the unit of weight al-qīrāṭ, but refers to a village in the administrative district of Bilbays (today Zaqāzīq) in the Sharqiyya province of the Nile delta. His father was born in this village and would later become a lawyer, judge and mufti, and, as Ibn Ḥajar al-ʿAsqalānī remarks, a “mediocre poet.”5 His son Burhān ad-Dīn Ibrāhīm was born in Cairo in Ṣafar 726/January 1326 and specialized in precisely the field in which his father was only a mediocre talent and became an adīb, i.e. a poet, prose writer and scholar 4  See Ibn Ḥajar, Durar i, 31; id., Inbāʾ i, 312; Ibn al-ʿIrāqī, Dhayl ii, 488–90, Ibn Taghrī Birdī, Manhal i, 89–95, al-Maqrīzī, Sulūk iii.1, 374; aṣ-Ṣafadī, Alḥān i, 52–8. 5  Ibn Ḥajar, Durar ii, 298–9.

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in the fields of language and literature—and not a mediocre one. Instead, he is called khātam al-udabāʾ, “the seal of the littérateurs of his time,” on the title pages of his Dīwān.6 Quite interesting is a note by one of his biographers, who remarked that al-Qīrāṭī, despite his proficiency as an adīb, was a pious and religious man. Obviously, this was not to be taken for granted and an adīb was rather expected not to be “firmly rooted in religion.”7 At any rate, al-Qīrāṭī was both an adīb and a religious man, though, as his biographer says, he was arrogant (ʿindahū takhayyul) and had “sort of a bad temperament” (nawʿ min sūʾ al-mizāj).8 In sum: he was an unusually pious littérateur and a rather difficult character. He died in Mecca in Rabīʿ II 781/July 1379. As for his achievements as an adīb, his biographers are unanimous in saying that he was one of the finest. According to Ibn Taghrī Birdī, he was “the poet of his day, alongside Ibn Nubāta al-Miṣrī, and the one closest to him.”9 Ibn Nubāta (686–768/1287–1366) was forty years older than al-Qīrāṭī and had established a reputation as the most famous poet and prose author of his time.10 He was al-Qīrāṭī’s great hero and probably exerted a greater influence on him than anyone else. This point will be relevant when we come to talk about the letter, which was addressed to none other than Ibn Nubāta. Keen insiders would have recognized al-Qīrāṭī’s affinity for Ibn Nubāta as soon as they read the title of what is most certainly al-Qīrāṭī’s most important work. The book bears the title Maṭlaʿ an-nayyirayn. What does this title tell us? First, it does not rhyme. For centuries before and after, most book titles would consist of two rhyming cola such as Maṭlaʿ al-fawāʾid wa-majmaʿ al-farāʾid. This was the title of Ibn Nubāta’s first book, the only one of his books to receive such a conventional title. From his next book (Sajʿ al-muṭawwaq) onwards, all of his works would bear short titles that eschewed rhyme for tawriya. Tawriya, double entendre, had become one of the most popular stylistic devices by the Mamluk period and Ibn Nubāta would turn out to be its master. He was also one of the first authors to use double entendre (tawriya) instead of rhyme (sajʿ) for the titles of his books. Consequently, for his admirers, tawriya-based, nonrhyming titles became a sort of badge by which they could identify themselves as followers of the “school” of Ibn Nubāta, to mention only Qahwat al-inshāʾ by Ibn Ḥijja al-Ḥamawī or Ḥalbat al-kumayt by an-Nawājī. 6  Ms. Fatih; the ms. British Museum has sayyid al-udabāʾ instead. 7  Ibn al-ʿIrāqī, Dhayl ii, 490: Matīn ad-diyāna kathīr al-ʿibāda. 8  Ibn al-ʿIrāqī, Dhayl ii, 490. 9  Ibn Taghrī Birdī, Manhal i, 90: Shāʿir ʿaṣrihī baʿda sh-shaykh Jamāl ad-Dīn Ibn Nubāta waaqrab an-nās ilayhi. 10  On Ibn Nubāta see Bauer, Ibn Nubātah, and Bauer, Jamāl al-Dīn Ibn Nubātah.

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Maṭlaʿ an-nayyirayn, again a non-rhyming title of only two words, clearly falls into this category. The obvious meaning of Maṭlaʿ an-nayyirayn is “the place where the two brilliant ones rise.” The “two brilliant ones” is an expression denoting sun and moon, thus “The rising-place of sun and moon.” Were it a rhyming title, this phrase would suit as the first colon, and a second colon would follow. In tawriya-based titles, the second colon is substituted by a double meaning in the phrase. In our case, “the two brilliant ones” cannot only be taken to mean sun and moon. “Brilliant” is also used for brilliant works of literature. But why the dual form? If “brilliant” refers to literature and is used in its dual form, it could, for the contemporary reader, only refer to the two principal forms into which literature can be cast, that is: poetry and prose. This is exactly what al-Qīrāṭī intended. The title thus may mean both “The rising-place of sun and moon” and “The starting point of poetry and prose.” An informed reader was likely to have inferred from the title: first a confession of adherence to the school of Ibn Nubāta, and second the announcement of a book consisting of both poetry and prose. The latter was probably al-Qīrāṭī’s innovation. Though prose had gained more and more importance over time, Ibn Nubāta continued to publish his poetry in the form of a dīwān, a word that denoted collections of poetry exclusively, whereas he published his prose separately, even if a poem and a prose letter had originally gone together. Al-Qīrāṭī himself left a Dīwān that is a collection exclusively of poetry, but it was for Maṭlaʿ an-nayyirayn that he devised a special title (his dīwān is simply called dīwān), and it was for this book that he gained lasting fame. The texts in Maṭlaʿ an-nayyirayn range from two-line epigrams to long panegyric odes and letters of two or three pages in length. In a category of its own is al-Qīrāṭī’s extremely long letter to Ibn Nubāta.11 Not only is it by far the longest text in Maṭlaʿ an-nayyirayn, it is also one of al-Qīrāṭī’s most famous works. Ibn Ḥajar al-ʿAsqalānī, one of the greatest Ḥadīth scholars of all time, and, like al-Qīrāṭī, an adīb and admirer of Ibn Nubāta, wrote:

‫ال � �ة‬ ‫إ� � �ج�ا د‬ ‫ف� غ��ا �ي��ة‬ � �‫ي‬

‫ن� �����ظ� ن�����ث� ف� غ��ا �ي��ة‬ � �‫و ر ي‬ ‫����م�ام ا ��د � ن � ن ن���ا ��ت��ة‬ ‫ج ل ل ي� ب� ب‬

‫�نف‬ � ‫ن‬ � ‫شت‬ ‫و�ل�ه د �يوا � ج �م���ع�ه ل������س�ه تي�����م�ل ��ع��لى‬ ‫�ل�����ش���� خ‬ ‫شت ت‬ ‫� ت‬ � �‫��������ه�ا �ل‬ �‫ ر��س�ا �ل���ت�ه ا �ل�ي� �ك ب‬. . . �‫وا �����������ه�ر‬ �‫ي‬ ُ‫ـ‬ ْ ُ� ‫ا �ل‬ ‫ح����س ن� وا �ل��طول‬

11  Al-Qīrāṭī, Maṭlaʿ an-nayyirayn, ms. British Museum, fol. 128a–141b; ms. Fatih, fol. 170b–182a.

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Al-Qīrāṭī collected a dīwān of his own, comprising both poetry and prose, of utmost excellence. Especially famous became the letter he wrote to Ibn Nubāta, which is of extreme beauty and length.12 Note that Ibn Ḥajar found it remarkable that al-Qīrāṭī had compiled a dīwān that included both prose and poetry, and he singled out al-Qīrāṭī’s letter to Ibn Nubāta for special mention. Ibn Ḥajar obviously reckoned it among al-Qīrāṭī’s principal works, and it was not just its beauty but also its length that made it extraordinary. This is corroborated by Ibn Ḥijja al-Ḥamawī (787–837/1366– 1434), another adīb, who compiled an anthology of al-Qīrāṭī’s works in one small volume. He included the letter almost unabridged.13 All this is reason enough to turn our attention to this marvel of a letter.

The Text as a Letter

The text we are talking about is always referred to as a “letter.” A letter is a form of communication, and as such, its purpose is to convey a certain message. In our case, it is not altogether easy to understand what the message is. Upon first reading the letter, one gets the impression that al-Qīrāṭī simply wanted to say: “You, Ibn Nubāta, are the greatest poet and prose writer of our times and beyond, and I would be awfully glad if I could get a letter from you in return.” If this were all he wanted to say, it would not have been necessary to write a forty-page letter. But: (1) The text is not a pragmatic text or at least not only a pragmatic text. Instead, it is quite obviously primarily an aesthetic text. In a letter of this kind, to convey aesthetic pleasure shared by sender and recipient may be more important than a concrete message. (2) A closer look at the letter reveals that there is a pragmatic message indeed, hidden though it may be at first glance. At the beginning of the last third of the letter, we come across the following passage:

َ ُ‫َ َ ْ ي‬ ‫ل‬ � ‫�د‬ ‫د ا ره ٭ و��ِع����ي إ ى‬

‫ا �ل�ل�هُ �أ ن يُ� �د � َ �َ��م��زَ ا َ هْ ٭ يُ����َ���ق� ّ َ � � نَ ا ��د َ��ي�ا ا ل ْص ّ�َ�ي��ة‬ �‫� � نِي‬ ِ �‫ر و ِر ب� مِ � ل ِ � ِر مِ��� ِر‬ َ ‫َ َ شُ َ �أ ق‬ ‫�م� ن� ف� ض�����ا ئِ��ل�ه ���مو����س�هُ و ����م�ا ره‬

12  Ibn Ḥajar, Inbāʾ i, 312. 13  Ibn Ḥijja, Taḥrīr al-Qīrāṭī, fol. 40a–54a.

َ َ َ�‫ف‬ ‫��ع��سى‬ ُ‫�أ‬ ‫ف‬ � ‫��قِ������ه�ا‬

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Perhaps God will bring him (Ibn Nubāta) nearer | and bring his abode nearer the abodes of Egypt | and return—through his noble qualities— his suns and moons to Egypt’s horizon . . . [138b/179b]14 This is a rhyme group of three cola of increasing length, a form quite common in rhymed prose. As for the content, we learn about the writer’s wish that Ibn Nubāta move back to Cairo. Further evidence is given by the next passage, which reads:

َ ‫ة‬ ‫�ليُ���� ��ص���� ف������ه�ا �ب��م���ع�ا �ن �أ �ل��ف���ا � ظِ�� � ا �ل��ق‬ ُ‫  �تُ���ْ ��ص���� �أ�م�د ا ��ح�ه‬. . . ‫���ل����ي��َ ا ل��م�لُ ك‬ � � ‫�د‬ ‫ا‬ � �� �� ‫ع‬ � �‫� بح ي‬ �‫ي‬ ‫ج ِ� س و‬ ِ‫ه‬ ‫و بِح‬ ّ ‫ُ َّ ة‬ ‫ل��َ��س�ا � �ةُ � � ن �َم��������د ن�َ�ظْ � ن�َ���ْ�ث� َ�� نَ ا �ل��قَ�� ْص َْ� نَا ص ّ�َ�ي��ة‬ ‫ا لم�لوكـ‬ �� � � � � �� � � �‫�����ي�� ا � ئِ ر مِ � شِ ي ِ مِ هِ و ر بي‬ �‫ري نِ� ِ ر‬ ِ‫ِه‬ . . . so that there he will be, by means of his overwhelming/sitting15 expressions, companion to (‘sitting with’) the kings, (. . .) and that his widely known royal panegyrics—his towering poetry and prose—would help/ bring victory between the two palaces. [138b/179b]

Obviously, Ibn Nubāta is invited to come to Cairo in order to write panegyric poems to “kings.” This is corroborated by the reference to “bayn al-qaṣrayn,” the residence area created by the Fatimids, which was an important place of royal representation in Mamluk times.16 Note the tawriya in the word al-qāʿida, which means “overwhelming.” The word jalīs, however, suggests a second meaning, “sitting.” Since this double meaning is only brought to the reader’s mind by a second element, this tawriya belongs to the type called tawriya muhayya‌ʾa (“prepared tawriya”). The question remains about who was the “king” for whom Ibn Nubāta should compose panegyrics. The answer is in the word nāṣiriyya, which may mean both “helpful” and “bringing victory.” It is also the name of the ruling Mamluk sultan, al-Malik an-Nāṣir Ḥasan, who in these years ruled the empire for a second time (755–62/1354–61). Sultan Ḥasan, who is famous for his wonderful madrasa-mosque (but was rather unpopular with his fellow mamluks) had indeed issued an edict 14  Citations to al-Qīrāṭī’s Maṭlaʿ an-nayyirayn are given in square brackets. The folio number of the manuscript in the British Museum precedes the folio number of the Fatih manuscript. 15  In the translation, a tawriya is noted in the following way: The boldfaced expression is the primarily intended meaning; the non-primarily intended meaning is given in italics. 16  See van Steenbergen, Bayna l-Qaṣrayn.

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(marsūm) to invite Ibn Nubāta to come to Cairo and assume the position of secretary in the Cairo chancellery. From the chronicles, we learn that he issued this edict in Rabīʿ I 761/Jan.–Feb. 1360.17 In al-Qīrāṭī’s letter, we find a reference to the Nile flood of the previous year, and we know that Ibn Nubāta did indeed accept the invitation in the same year (761/1360) and moved from Damascus to Cairo. Since the letter would make no sense if Ibn Nubāta had already been in Cairo, it can be taken for granted that the letter was sent either in close connection or, more probably, together with the sultan’s edict. My theory is that the text was indeed written at the sultan’s instigation. It is conceivable that the sultan did not want to invite the greatest littérateur of his time with a simple edict in plain prose, but wanted to supplement it with a literary text that could arouse Ibn Nubāta’s interest. Al-Qīrāṭī was one of the few who could accomplish this task, and one can well image his enthusiasm, since to write a letter of this kind to his revered role model must have been the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. Of course, we do not know if the letter and the edict were delivered together. In any case, al-Qīrāṭī assumes Ibn Nubāta’s knowledge of the background. He could therefore minimize his reference to the pragmatic message and concentrate on the aesthetic side of the text. Aesthetic though it may be, the text is still a letter, and it is at once recognizable as such. Al-Qīrāṭī observes all conventions of epistolography and uses common formulas. The result, however, is not a common letter, but one that transgresses all borders and conventions. This can already be seen at the very beginning. An ordinary letter at that time begins with the phrase yuqabbilu l-arḍ (al-yad) “He [—the sender—] kisses the earth (or alternatively the hand) of the recipient,” wa-yunhī “and reports” . . . (and then follows what is to be reported). In artistic letters, a short passage may be inserted between “kisses the earth” and “and reports.” In such a parenthesis, the writer may praise the addressee or affirm his sincere esteem of him. Now let us look at what al-Qīrāṭī did! The letter begins indeed with the formula yuqabbilu l-arḍ, upon which, obviously, a parenthesis follows: yuqabbilu l-arḍa llatī saqati s-samāʾu nabātahā, “He—the addressee’s servant—kisses the earth whose flowers the heaven may water . . .” In this and the following cola, al-Qīrāṭī introduces one of the main themes of the letter, Damascus. The earth that is kissed is the earth where Ibn Nubāta lives, the earth of Damascus and the Ghūṭa. As usual, Damascus and its surroundings are depicted as a paradise with trees and rivers and fruits 17  Ibn Ḥajar, Durar v, 487.

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and blossoms. Al-Qīrāṭī resumes this topic several times, later also to confront Damascus with Cairo, as we will see. For the moment, he confines himself to praise of Damascus in order to honor the addressee. The praise of Damascus, however, seems never to end. Rhyme group follows upon rhyme group, full of vivid portraits of nature, imaginative comparisons and metaphors and stunning tawriyas, but there is no end to the parenthesis in sight. The reader keeps waiting for wa-yunhī, and he has to wait for 35 lines (ms. British Museum) or 342 words until the relieving phrase finally appears. In all probability, never before or since has there been a longer parenthesis between yuqabbilu and wa-yunhī in the history of Arabic letter writing. Of course, a parenthesis of this length runs the risk that the reader may despair about ever hearing the transitional phrase or may simply forget that the part he is reading at the moment is still part of the parenthesis. Al-Qīrāṭī, however, found an ingenious way to solve this problem. He simply repeated the phrase yuqabbilu l-arḍ immediately before wa-yunhī, but this time in a meaning completely different from the original one. This time, it is the rain that kisses the earth. At the same time, the reader is reminded of the initial phrase while the following wa-yunhī signals the end of the parenthesis but may at the same time also be understood as an act of the rain, delivering his greetings to Ibn Nubāta:

ُ ُ‫أ ق َ ت �ز ُ حُ ْ ن‬ ‫ف‬ ‫َ ْض‬ ‫�ز ن‬ ��‫ ال� � َ����ط�ا ر ا �ل�ي� ��ي� د ا د َ�����س������ه�ا ���ع��لى طوِل ا �ل ���م�ا � إ� لى �يوم ا �ل���ع�ر‬. . . ‫���س��قى ا �ل�ل�ه‬ ُ ّ َ‫يُ ق‬ ّ َ َ‫ق ّ ة ت �ذ ت‬ َ ْ َ‫� َ �غَ ثُ � ن ظ‬ ‫�ل‬ � � � � � ‫ا‬ ‫ا‬ � � � � ‫ا‬ ‫ا‬ � ‫ع‬ � �� �‫ل‬ �� �� � � � � � � � ‫�ي‬ � ‫�ه‬ � � ‫ه‬ ‫ح‬ ‫�ب‬ ‫�ج‬ � ‫ل��س‬ �� ‫�ل‬ � � � � � � ‫ب‬ ‫ِر‬ � ‫ِل‬ ‫� ا لم�����د ���س�� ا �ل�ي� إ� ا �ر � ل‬ ِ‫٭أ وا ج�����ه�ا ت‬ ‫ض‬ . . . �‫ال� ر�� ٭ و� ن���ه‬ ‫ي ي‬ So may God bless with rain . . . those lands whose beauty grows with every passing day up until the Day of Judgment | and those venerated regions in which, when the rain pours down from clouds, it kisses the earth ǀǀ and reports . . . [129a/171a]

To achieve this solution, al-Qīrāṭī had to use the word arḍ as final word in a colon. This means that he had to find a word rhyming with arḍ, which is almost impossible. One of the few words rhyming with arḍ is ʿarḍ, which is the ordinary word for “breadth.” In the phrase yawm al-ʿarḍ, “day of presentation,” it refers to the Day of Judgment, in which sense it is used here. The word ṭūl, “length,” in the same phrase, however, suggests the meaning “breadth.” This is a tawriya muhayya‌ʾa again. This pair of cola is thus not only an ingenious play with signals marking the structure of the text, but adds also a quite complicated stylistic device.

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This rhyme group alone gives an idea about the refinement and complexity of the letter—a letter that transgresses borders in several respects. For a letter, it is by far too long. Further, it transgresses the bounds of genre. It is a letter, no doubt, but not only a letter. Instead, it includes texts of a different nature. In addition to the letter, we get a taqrīẓ, a mufākhara, and a maqāma, but in all three cases, borders are transgressed again, since none of them completely complies with the conventions of genre or text type. We will direct our first attention to the taqrīẓ, which comprises about eighty percent of the whole text. The Taqrīẓ “Commendation” A taqrīẓ is a commendatory appraisal of a text and its author. From the beginning of the eighth/fourteenth century onwards, taqārīẓ played an important role in the fields of scholarship and belles-lettres. Taqārīẓ served to establish networks and to foster mutual relations. They enhanced the prestige of the person who got the commendation. In turn, the writer of the taqrīẓ could distinguish himself by composing an extraordinarily fine taqrīẓ. Young scholars often went in search of taqārīẓ for their debut works to secure their position in the scholarly establishment. Ibn Nubāta is a case in point. He sent his debut work Majmaʿ al-farāʾid—the one with a rhymed title—to scholars in Syria, collected eleven commendations and published them in an enhanced form in a separate book, which no one had done before. In this respect, Ibn Nubāta was an innovator in the field of taqrīẓ.18 Forty years later, al-Qīrāṭī wrote his taqrīẓ for Ibn Nubāta, and again this was an innovative taqrīẓ. First, it is again of extraordinary length. Second, the object of praise is not a single work by Ibn Nubāta; instead, the praise of several of his works alternates with an appraisal of Ibn Nubāta’s oeuvre in general. While praising Ibn Nubāta, his works, his style and his poetic ideas in general, several works or groups of works receive special attention. The first group is Ibn Nubāta’s panegyric poems directed to Abū l-Fidāʾ, who ruled Ḥamāh as al-Malik al-Muʾayyad until his death in 732/1331. The Muʾayyadiyyāt had established Ibn Nubāta’s fame. The next work given detailed treatment is a Dīwān of qaṣīdas in miniature, each seven lines, entitled as-Sabʿa as-sayyāra. The title refers to the seven “moving stars” (sun, moon and the five planets) and, by way of a tawriya, to the “seven lines (of poetry) that become widely known.” At the time of al-Qīrāṭī’s letter, this was Ibn Nubāta’s most recent work. Finally, 18  See Bauer, Ibn Ḥabīb, and How to create a network.

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al-Qīrāṭī talks at length about Ibn Nubāta’s muwashshaḥāt, which were quite popular at the time. The different parts of the commendations do not come in separate blocks, but are entwined with one another. At the very end, when readers would have expected the taqrīẓ to end, al-Qīrāṭī resumes the taqrīẓ in the form of a coda in order to end by praising Ibn Nubāta’s letters, which is of course a very fitting ending for a letter. It goes without saying that in al-Qīrāṭī’s case, the taqrīẓ was more important for the writer than for the recipient. At an age of 73 (solar) years, Ibn Nubāta was at the height of his fame and did not need any further commendations. Al-Qīrāṭī on the other hand, only 34 years old, must have enthusiastically seized the opportunity to distinguish himself with this unconventional monumental taqrīẓ. Very characteristic for the taqrīẓ are superiority passages, in which the commender states that the author of the work is superior or at least equal to his predecessors in the same field. Superiority passages constitute the very core of many taqārīẓ and may reach considerable length. Al-Qīrāṭī’s letter is full of them, and altogether the stupendous number of 110 people is mentioned, which is not only without precedent, but also demonstrates a remarkable knowledge of literary history, since many of the persons mentioned are rather obscure figures. The poets mentioned in the following passage are well known. The first rhyme group consisting of two cola rhyming in -iyyā starts with Ibn al-Muʿtazz (247–96/861–908), heir apparent (walī al-ʿahd) to the caliph al-Muʿtazz (r. 252– 5/866–9); the word bi-llāh is both the object of aqsama as well as part of the caliphal title “al-Muʿtazz bi-llāh.” Ibn al-Muʿtazz was not only a poet but also the founder of the discipline of stylistics. Consequently, he is mentioned in connection with balāgha, “eloquence.” The next to acknowledge Ibn Nubāta’s genius is Abū Nuwās (d. c. 198/813), one of the most famous Arabic poets of all times. Three cola are dedicated to him, the first ending the -iyyā rhyme group with a quotation from the Quran, the next opening a rhyme group of three cola ending in -ān. The first two cola pun on Jinān and ʿInān, the names of two women Abū Nuwās addressed in his love poems. The word nabātiyya is of course an allusion to the name Ibn Nubāta, who had used the similarity of nabāt and Nubāta himself when he entitled a collection of epigrams al-Qaṭr an-nubātī, “Nubātian drops,” or al-Qaṭr an-nabātī, “sugar molasses.” A colon about the lesser-known poet al-ʿAttābī, who died in the early third/ninth century, follows. Al-Qīrāṭī uses the fact that ʿattābī also designates a sort of taffeta to create an elaborate play with textile terms. A last colon about the judge and prose author at-Tanūkhī (329–84/940–94) concludes the rhyme group with a well-known legal maxim which holds that a judge should not pronounce a judgment while angry:

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‫�أ‬ ‫ت‬ َْ َّ َ ّ‫�أ ن‬ ّ َ ْ ُ‫م‬ َ َ ‫�أ ق‬ � ‫ل�ا ��بِ��ة َولِ�����ي�ا ٭‬ ��‫و �����س� ا � نب� ا ل���ع��ت�ـ� ��ب�ا �ل�ل�ه � �مولا ��ن�ا �� ��ص ب���� �ل��ع���ه�د ا �لب��لا ��غِ��ة وا �ِك‬ ‫ح‬ ‫م‬ ِ‫�ز‬ َّ َ ً� َ ‫ن‬ َ َ� َ ْ َ‫�ذ َ ا �غ�َ � �ز‬ � �� �� ‫ئ‬ ُ‫ن‬ ‫ن‬ � ‫ل‬ � � � � � }‫��ا��ن�ا ع�ِ�ل����ي�ا‬ ‫و�ق�ا ل ا ح����س� ب� ���ه�ا �� ق�د ر �ف ا ل�ل�ه ���ه� ا �بِب��ل تِ��� �هِ ا �ل ���ه�را ء {�م ك‬ ‫ع‬ ََ ‫ٱ‬ ‫ثَ�َ ت � ُ � نَ �َ هُ � ن � �َ ن‬ ‫ا �نَ َّ ة � ن � �َ ن‬ َ� � �‫٭ و� ش�����تَ�� ����غ‬ � ‫�جِ ن���ا نِ�����ه�ا ل�� ب���ا تِ�����ي�� ع�� جِ ���ن�ا � ٭ و�����ن�� جِ ي���ا د ���ه�ا ِع���ا ��ن� ع�� ِع���ن�ا‬ ِ‫ل ب‬ ََ َ‫ت‬ ُ‫َ َّ تَ فَ �ل‬ َّ َ� ‫َث‬ َ َ‫�َق ض‬ ‫َ� �ه �َ تَْ ن‬ ‫ة‬ ‫ة‬ ���‫�� ا �ل�ع‬ � � ‫ك‬ � ‫ل‬ � � ‫ا‬ �� � � ‫٭‬ ‫ا‬ � �� �� ‫ع‬ �� � � ‫ا‬ � ‫ح‬ �� ‫ا‬ � � � ‫ا‬ ‫ا‬ � � ‫ا‬ � � � �� ِ‫ص‬ � �� � � � � �� � � � � � � � ‫ح‬ � ‫�ف‬ ‫ع‬ ‫ه‬ ‫ت‬ ‫م‬ � � �� � ‫ل‬ � ‫ر‬ ‫و‬ ‫و‬ � � ‫و‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ر‬ ِ‫ى ِ �شِ تِ ه‬ ‫ى‬ ِ‫٭ و رك ت‬ ‫بِي‬ ً َ‫ّ نُ خ ّ غَ ض‬ ‫� ض‬ ‫فَ َ َق ضَ � ض‬ ‫غَ ضْ َ ن‬ ‫نق‬ � ‫ا �ل�����ق�ا ��ي� ا �لت����و��ي� ������ ب���ا ���ع��لى ��������� �ص�ه �ع ن������ه�ا ���قِ������ي�ل �����ى ا �ل�����ق�ا ��ي� و�هو ������ ب���ا‬ “. . . and Ibn al-Muʿtazz would swear by God that our lord (Ibn Nubāta) has become heir apparent of ‘eloquence’ and ‘penmanship’, | and al-Ḥasan ibn Hāniʾ (Abū Nuwās) would say: “God raised him through his brilliant eloquence to a ‘high place’ ” (Q Maryam 19:57), ǀǀ and its gardens ( jinān), abounding with plants, would distract him (Abū Nuwās) from Jinān, | and its outstanding (verses)/noble horses would divert his reins (ʿinān) from ʿInān, | and (Ibn Nubāta’s) elaborated details/silky and soft pieces of cloth would make al-ʿAttābī/the thick taffeta look critically on the thickness of his filling words/its (own) thick selvedge, | and the judge at-Tanūkhī would wrathfully condemn his inability to produce the equivalent; so people said: ‘the judge judged in his wrath!’ ” [133a/174b]

It is interesting to see that al-Qīrāṭī distinguishes between average poets and great ones. Whereas geniuses like Abū Nuwās or al-Mutanabbī simply “acknowledge” Ibn Nubāta or praise him, less important figures become completely ruined when they encounter Ibn Nubāta’s works.

Almost a Mufākhara

A mufākhara is a literary debate, a genre with a long, even pre-Arabic, tradition in the Middle East. Ibn Nubāta contributed to it with his Mufākhara bayna s-sayf wa-l-qalam, “Debate between the sword and the pen,” a popular subject of literary debates.19 Another popular subject of mufākharāt were debates between two towns, which would in turn praise their own virtues and denigrate the other. The purpose of the letter is, as we have seen, to bring Ibn Nubāta from Damascus to Cairo. A debate between these two towns is therefore most suitable, even more so since the addressee is himself the author of a famous literary 19  See van Gelder, Conceit of pen and sword.

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debate. Al-Qīrāṭī, however, wrote something like a mufākhara manquée, again an unconventional specimen of a literary genre. There is no immediate dialogue between the two towns, nor is there any criticism of Damascus. Perhaps Damascus really was so beautiful that nothing blameworthy could be found, nevertheless it is likelier that al-Qīrāṭī found it impolite to criticize the town where Ibn Nubāta was living and had spent the greater part of his life. By then, it was still uncertain if he would leave his abode for Cairo. Cairo, instead, is not treated so leniently. It is a beautiful town, yes, but a town full of ignorant people in which the most mediocre apprentice gets the highest positions. Al-Qīrāṭī seizes the opportunity to quote al-Mutanabbī’s famous line:

ّ ُ‫َ فُ ت‬ ‫�أ‬ ُ ‫َ �أ َ ف‬ �ِ‫ي���ه�ا ف��ل�����ي��س ي�����و�����ه�ا إ� لا ا �ل ك‬ ‫�را‬ ���� �‫��ب� ر�ضٍ� ���م�ا ا ش�����ت����ه�����ي� ت� ر ي� ت‬ ‫م‬

. . . in a land in which you can find everything the heart desires; the only thing missing are noble people.20 [139a/179b] This is why Ibn Nubāta was so bitterly needed here. The main text about Egypt forms a distinct section, a text that can be considered a maqāma and that treats the subject that is most intimately connected with Egypt, the Nile. The Maqāma of the Nile The maqāma of the Nile is again a text remarkable in several respects. First, whereas all other themes are treated in an entwined and entangled way, this is the only longer self-contained text in the whole letter. Second, the genre of the maqāma has attracted a lot of attention in recent years, and it may be of interest to learn about a maqāma that has been unknown so far, especially since this one might have influenced the development of the genre. Thirdly, it is again a remarkable, unconventional piece of literature. As for the literary background of the maqāma, its function is to counter­ balance the long and extensive praise of Damascus by adding a long text about Egypt. Furthermore, it is an homage to Ibn Nubāta, whose letters about the flood of the Nile were so acclaimed that they even found their way into popular anthologies. Again, al-Qīrāṭī, who is not otherwise known as an author of maqāmāt, found a subject that allowed him to demonstrate his ability as an author of stylized prose. 20  See al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān iv, 194; meter wāfir.

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The flooding of the Nile in the year 760/1359 gives the situational background. The nilometer served to measure the level of the Nile during its flood in August and September. If the flood reached the mark of 17 cubits, an optimal harvest was granted for the next year. If it were two or more cubits less, not enough fields would be irrigated, the harvest would turn out meagre and the prices of grain and vegetables would be high. In the year 760/1359, a catastrophe of the opposite kind happened. The flooding did not stop at 17 cubits, but reached a level of twenty cubits and four fingers, which proved to be devastating.21 Land was ruined, houses were destroyed, cattle drowned. This is the story that al-Qīrāṭī tells in his maqāma: How the Nile rose and rose and did not stop, how men, animals and houses were ruined, how people cried for help, but often in vain, as in the following passage, in which he incorporates a line by al-Ḥuṣrī al-Qayrawānī (d. 488/1095). It was common practice in maqāmāt not to cite verses of one’s own, but those of other poets (usually without mentioning their name). These lines were often given a surprisingly different meaning in their new context, as is the case here. Remarkable is also the tricky jinās (paronomasia) between aqāl and fa-qāl, which allowed al-Qīrāṭī to make the trivial phrase “he said” part of a rhyme and give an interesting flavor to it:

َ ُ ُ‫َ َ ه‬ َ ‫َ َ َ َ ن �أ‬ ��‫ف �أ‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ء‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�د‬ ‫ا‬ ‫����م�ا �ق�ا ل ٭ ود ���ع�ا �م�� ��ح�ا‬ � � �� � � ‫ط‬ ‫�ج‬ ‫م‬ ‫�بِ رِهِ � ر‬

‫ٱ‬ َ‫� سُ َ ثْ ة‬ �‫و� ����ست������ق�ا �ل�ه ا �ل���ن�ا �� ا �ل���ع��ر‬ ْ ‫�لَ�أ َ � � غ �َ ة ف‬ � � ‫ي�� تِ�����ي�هِ ل�لإ ��ا ��ثِ�� �����ق�ا ل ٭‬ َ‫�أنْ ت‬ ‫� نُ� ٌ ف�َ��تُن��ْ�������ي� �َ�س����� ن�َ���تُ� �هُ ٭ لا ا لم���سِ� ����حُ �أ ��ن�ا �أ� ش‬ ‫م���� ���ع��لى ا ل��م�ا ِء‬ ‫و‬ ‫و‬ ‫ي‬ ‫���م�ا � ح جِ � نِي� فِ ي‬ ‫ي‬

The people demanded that he (—the Nile—) grant relief, but he wouldn’t, | and everyone whose house was surrounded by water exhorted his neighbor to bail him out, but he replied: “You are not Noah so that your ark can help me,/nor am I the Messiah so that I can walk on water!”22 [140a/181a] Of course, al-Qīrāṭī could not end with a disaster like this. Instead, the text follows the pattern of al-faraj baʿda sh-shidda, “relief after distress.” People pray for relief, and the lord of heavens treats the people of the earth with kindness. Gradually, the flood recedes and the situation returns to normal. In the end,

21  Maqrīzī, Sulūk iii.1, 47. 22  See al-Ḥuṣrī al-Qayrawānī in aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī xxi, 250; meter basīṭ.

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al-Qīrāṭī resumes as follows, again using a quotation by al-Mutanabbī introduced by short cola abounding with jinās:

ْ‫�� �أ ْ َ ف‬ َ ّ‫�أ ن‬ َ‫�أ َ ف‬ ْ َ ‫�أ ْ َ ف‬ ‫���ع��لى � ا �لنِ��ي���ل ��ي�ا �مولا ��ن�ا �ق�د ��س����ع� ٭ ض�����ع�ا �� ���م�ا ض������ع� ٭ َو َو����ه� ب� ٭‬ ْ� ‫�أ‬ ْ َ ‫�أ�ثََ م ّ َن‬ ‫� َفْ ف�َ قَ � �أتَْف‬ ‫ك��ر ��م�ا ������ه� ب� ٭ و �خ��ل� و� ��م�ا ���ل� ٭‬ ُ‫ل‬ ُ‫�أ‬ َُ ْ‫ن‬ ُ‫ئ َ َ ْ نَ ف‬ ُ‫�� ا �ل�����ْ��ع�ُ ا �ل��ذ � َ����س�ا ءَ ا حِ ً ف�أ ف ُه‬ ��‫�� �د ا ٭ �� �����ع�ا �ل� ا �ل�لا �ي� ����س�رر� �و‬ ‫و‬ �‫و�إ� ي� ك نِ� فِ ل ي‬ In general, my lord, the Nile has helped | many times more than he has harmed, | and given | more than taken away, | and his compensation was above his destruction. | “If one of his deeds has caused grief—his deeds that bring delight are thousands!”23 [140b/181a]

This is again a very elegant and sophisticated text, which enhances our knowledge of ornate prose in the eighth/fourteenth century, a century which was especially fruitful for the maqāma genre. Nevertheless, the question remains whether al-Qīrāṭī’s text can be called a maqāma without reservation. As we have seen, al-Qīraṭī’s letter radically transgresses the text type ‘letter’; his taqrīẓ breaks with a number of conventions; and his mufākhara is not a real mufākhara. So, what about this maqāma? The ways in which it differs from earlier maqāmāt such as those by al-Hamadhānī and al-Ḥarīrī are obvious. Most conspicuous is the fact that al-Qīrāṭī’s text does not have a fictional narrator who is introduced by a chain of transmitters (isnād), nor does it have a fictional hero. The maqāma expert Hämeen-Anttila felt a bit uneasy with texts of this kind because they blur the boundaries between letter and maqāma.24 Nonetheless, if contemporary readers considered the text a maqāma, we have no right to deny its ‘maqāmaness.’ But was it one? The text bears no headline whatsoever (it simply begins with the words ʿalā dhikri n-Nīl . . . “speaking of the Nile, I won’t forget the damage he did in the year 760”), and is never referred to as a maqāma. Therefore, it is hard to decide whether it was perceived as a maqāma at this time or not. What we can say for certain, though, is that it would have been considered a maqāma a century later, when we have a text that displays striking parallels to al-Qīrāṭī’s, and is explicitly called a maqāma by its author. This text is the maqāma of the Nile, al-Maqāma al-baḥriyya, by Jalāl ad-Dīn as-Suyūṭī, a well-known text about the flooding of the Nile in the

23  See al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān iii, 36; meter ṭawīl. 24  Hämeen-Anttila, Maqama 342.

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year 897/1492.25 It treats the same subject as al-Qīrāṭī’s maqāma, the Nile that either brings rakhāʾ, “abundance,” in case of a flood in the right measure, or ghalāʾ, “dearth, inflation,” if it is either too low or too high. What happens in as-Suyūṭī’s maqāma, however, is the exact opposite of the events in al-Qīrāṭī’s. In al-Qīrāṭī’s text, the Nile rises too high before it recedes; in as-Suyūṭī’s, the Nile starts to rise a little, but then stops and everybody guesses that the flooding has come to an end, which would have meant inflation and famine. People pray and lament, and after 17 days, the flooding surprisingly recommences and everybody thanks God. The parallels between the two texts are more than obvious, and it is highly improbable that as-Suyūṭī did not know al-Qīrāṭī’s text. If as-Suyūṭī called his text a maqāma, it is again quite improbable that al-Qīrāṭī did not consider his text as such. It is much more probable, instead, that al-Qīrāṭī’s text reflects contemporaneous developments in the genre of the maqāma even if it did not contribute substantially to those developments by itself.

The ‘Entwined’ Style

When we finally shift our perspective from the macrostructure to the microstructure, we realize that both have an important trait in common. The keyword for this is given by Ibn Ḥijja al-Ḥamawī, who introduces his moderately shortened version of the letter with the following words:

‫ل�����ش���� خ‬ ‫ل�����ش���� خ � ���ه�ا ن ا �ل�د � ن‬ � � ‫� ن����ه�ا ا ل ا‬ � � ‫���ه��ذه ا �ل ���س�ا �ل��ة �م� ن ���غ� ت� ّ����س� ا‬ ‫ي� ا �ل������قي��را طي� �ل ك‬ � ‫ر‬ � ‫ى‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ي‬ ‫و‬ ‫ر‬ � � ‫� رر ر ل‬ ُّ َ َ‫ّ أ �� ّ ت‬ ‫�أ‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ج����م�ا ل ا �ل�د � ن‬ ‫ي� � نب� ن�ب��ا ��ت��ة رح���م�ه ا �ل�ل�ه ����ع�ا لى ول خ�ت������ �ص�ر �م ن������ه�ا إ� لا ال� �ق�ل �ل�� ش����ع بِ������ه�ا‬ ‫م‬ َْ ً َْ 26�� �‫ب��ع�������ض�ا �بِب����ع‬ ٍ‫ض‬ This letter is one of the highlights in the literary correspondence of Burhān ad-Dīn al-Qīrāṭī because it was written for Jamāl ad-Dīn Ibn Nubāta—may God have mercy on him. I omitted only very little of it because everything in it is entwined.

25  As-Suyūṭī, Maqāmāt i, 249–70. 26  Ibn Ḥijja, Taḥrīr fol. 53b–54a.

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As we have seen, this is true for the macrostructure, where the maqāma and the different parts of a mufākhara are entwined with a taqrīẓ, which in turn is entwined with the formal parameters of a letter. It is also true, however, for the microstructure. Just as the subject of Damascus appears first in what could be called an exposition and occurs again by way of a recapitulation at the end, a large number of words, motifs and themes occur and recur again in the course of the whole letter. Again and again they appear in a new light in a different context but at the same time refer to all their other occurrences. These recurrences form a dense network of intratextual references similar to leitmotifs in music. A structure like this can be considered as especially characteristic of Ayyubid and Mamluk literature, and it may indeed be the case that what during these periods is characteristic of poetry may have had its origins in ornate prose.27 Al-Qīrāṭī’s texts and Ibn Ḥijja’s characterization of it as being mutashaʿʿib, “ramified,” corroborate this. To create a leitmotif, the author may choose a concept, an image, a certain stylistic device or even a single word. One of the words that are used as a leitmotif in al-Qīrāṭī’s text is the word niqs (“ink”), an obvious word in a letter that, among other topics, deals with writing and is directed to a writer. All in all, it occurs ten times in the letter. The context is sometimes similar, but it always adds something new and unprecedented, as these samples show: (1) The word niqs occurs first when al-Qīrāṭī praises Ibn Nubāta’s expressions with the following words:

‫أ‬ َ �‫ال� �ق�َ��صى ٭ و‬ ‫ح ب���ا ���ه�ا‬

ّ َ ْ‫ق‬ ْ َ� � ‫ل‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ا‬ � ‫ا‬ � � � �� � � � � � � ‫ه‬ ‫�ح‬ ‫�ي‬ � ِ‫���س‬ ‫م‬ � ‫ى‬ ‫إ‬ ‫ِل‬ ِ‫ل��� ِل ن‬

َ ‫َ �أ‬ ‫ف‬ �‫�م� ن� ���س�ر�ى ب�����ه�ا �ي‬ ُ‫ت‬ َ� ‫ت‬ � � �‫ح‬ ‫ا �ل�ي� لا �صى‬

َ‫ف ْ َ ن‬ � ‫����سُ� ب������ح�ا‬ ‫�ا �ل��فَ�����َ���ض�ائ‬ � ‫ب � ِل‬

Exalted is he who makes them travel in the night of their ink to the most distant place | and endows them with virtues innumerable [130b/172b]. The “night of the (black) ink,” the most common image for ink, provides the frame for a nightly journey, on which the poet has sent his alfāẓ, “expressions,” to “the extreme place” of beauty. The analogy is the prophet Muḥammad’s isrāʾ from Mecca to Jerusalem, a reference to Q Isrāʾ 17:1 and it is quite a daring and unusual image. 27  Bauer, Toward an aesthetics of Mamluk literature.

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(2) On the same page, the “night of the ink” appears a second time. But here the “night” is not only the object of comparison to the ink, but a metaphor in turn, standing for a “curtain” that protects the “virgin” (= innovative) ideas of Ibn Nubāta’s poems in praise of al-Malik al-Muʾayyad of Ḥamāh:

َّ ُ‫ف م‬ ُ َ َ‫َ قْ ٱ ْ تَ ف‬ ْ ْ ُ � ‫َ �َ تْ �أ‬ �‫��ا ر �م�ع�ا �نِي�����ه�ا ���� �د ع��لي�����ه�ا �م� ن� �ل����ي�ل نِ���ق�����سِ ���ه�ا ر وا � ٭ و� ���ع��ر�� ا �ل ����ب ِ�د ي‬ ِ‫و ص‬ ‫� �ي�����ن�� ب� ك‬ ِ ‫ع‬ ِ ‫ّ ف �أ‬ ُ‫قُ ص‬ ‫ق‬ � � ‫بِ�������� ورِه ع���م�ا �ي� ب�ي��ا تِ�����ه�ا �م� ن� ِط ����ب�ا‬ The virgin (= innovative) ideas in them are well protected, for a curtain made from the night of their ink was spread out above them . . . [130b/172b]

Here the poet compares the unprecedented poetic ideas in Ibn Nubāta’s Muʾayyadiyyāt to noble virgins, protected from penetrating glances by a (black) curtain which, in the form of a phantastic etiology (ḥusn at-taʿlīl) is provided by the metaphorical “night of the ink.” As if these stylistic devices were not enough, al-Qīrāṭī adds a colon that is virtually untranslatable due to the many associations it creates. It is part of a superiority passage, and its most obvious meaning is: “. . . . and Badīʿ (az-Zamān al-Hamadhānī) admits that his use of the stylistic device of antithesis (ṭibāq) falls short in comparison to the verses, in which these (Ibn Nubāta’s) ideas occur.” Badīʿ az-Zamān (358–98/969–1008) is one of the 110 littérateurs mentioned in the letter’s superiority passages. He is chosen here not for his famous maqāmāt (Ibn Nubāta did not compose any) but for his poems, or rather, for his name al-Badīʿ. The word badīʿ is also the term for “stylistics,” a meaning that is suggested retrospectively by the stylistic term ṭibāq at the end of the colon. Now the virgins come in again: They live in “castles,” which the word quṣūr, “falling short of,” can also mean, and in “houses” since bayt means both “verse” and “house.” For creating a tawriya, the fact that both should have a different plural form is irrelevant. Consequently, one could also bring in ṭibāq in connection with ṭabaqa or ṭābaq meaning “floor, story (of a house).” The non-primarily intended meanings “castles,” “houses” and “floors” cannot be connected in a grammatically meaningful way, but they are semantically closely related. This is the stylistic device known as tawjīh, but whereas the secondary, non-intended meanings of tawjīh hardly contribute to the overall sense of a text in many cases, here these meanings strongly suggest that the well-protected “virgins” of the preceding colon live in magnificent palaces. There is even a third, longer colon to complete this rhyme group, but the analysis so far may suffice to demonstrate the complexity of the

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text and the inexhaustible wealth of meanings and associations. The following examples will be treated more concisely. (3) Already on the following page, the ink occurs again, but this time it is not compared with the night, but with ghāliya “galia,” a perfume of black color. The passage is in praise of Ibn Nubāta’s seven-liners as-Sabʿa as-sayyāra. The writer finds them so admirable that he even venerates the ink with which they are written. This may seem “excessive,” but there is another allusion in the word aṭnaba since in Arabic rhetoric iṭnāb designates an exhaustive style. Its counterpoint is ījāz, “conciseness.” Therefore, the writer reacts with iṭnāb to miniature qaṣīdas representing the utmost ījāz. Note also the jinās between ghāliya and taghālā:

‫غ��ا ���َ�ي��ة‬ ِ � ِ‫ل‬

‫ف‬ �‫�ي‬

َّ‫�أ ْ �َ َ ت‬ ‫َ َّ ة‬ ‫ا �ل����سي���ا ر�ِ إ� ���ج�لا لا ٭ و ط����ن� ب� ���ح�ى‬

‫�ل������ق�د ���ق�ا ا ل��م م�ل � ��ه��ذه ا �ل��َ��سْ���َ��ع��ة‬ �‫م �� وك �ل‬ ِ ‫ب‬ ‫نق‬ �‫ت‬ ‫��������س���ه�ا و����غ�ا لى‬

“The servant rose in reverence for these seven moving stars | and was excessive and exaggerated even for the galia of their ink.” [131a/173a]. (4) Two pages later, the “night of the ink” appears again, this time in contrast to the “day” of the white paper, a common combination, but both comparisons remain unspoken. The reader’s knowledge of this comparison is presupposed. The main function of the reference to the ink is to introduce a line by al-Būṣīrī, which completes the colon:

َْ ْ ُ‫ب‬ ‫�ره‬ �‫� ك‬

َّ ُ‫ح‬ ‫���س�ا ِد ���ه�ا‬ َْ ‫ا �ل��ل����ي� ِل إ� لى‬

ُ‫س‬ ُ‫�أ ْ ���َ َ قْ س‬ َ ‫�ل‬ ‫� ��� ن‬ � ‫ا‬ � ‫ا‬ ‫ا‬ � � � � � � � � ‫ح‬ ‫ه‬ �� ‫ه‬ ��� � ‫و و �قع نِ����� � وطِ ر‬ �‫ر ب بي‬ َ‫َ ت‬ َّ ‫�أ‬ ْ ُ‫َْ ةُ َْ َ ه‬ � � ‫� ا �ل��فِ��ت�� ن���� ���م�ا ب�ي� ن����� �م �مِ � ن� وِل‬ ِ‫فِ ����ب�ا ت‬

Their ink and paper provoked a war between those who envy them (Ibn Nubāta’s works), “And the strife between them lasted from the beginning of the night to the early morning.”28 [132a–b/174a] (5) Some pages later, the same double comparison reappears, this time in an outspoken way. In a triple comparison, sun, moon and stars (Ibn Nubāta’s works), night (ink) and day (paper) form a murāʿāt an-naẓīr, “harmonious choice of images”: 28  al-Būṣīrī, Dīwān 224 (no. 17 l. 31); meter sarīʿ.

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َ ْ ُ‫�ز‬ َ َ ّ ُ ‫ّ َ تْ ف‬ ْ َْ ‫كل ��س�ا ���ع��ٍة �مِ � ن� �ل����ي�ل نِ���ق�����سِ ���ه�ا و ن�����ه�ا ر طِ ْر���سِ ���ه�ا ���ه�را‬ � � ��‫وا ط��ل����ع‬ ِ ِ �‫ي‬ In every moment of their ink’s night and their paper’s day, shining (celestial bodies) rise. [135a/176b]

(6) On the next page, the ink finds another object of comparison, the ambergris. It reminds the reader of the galia of example (3) but is not identical with it and is introduced in a completely different context:

ْ‫ق‬ َ ْ� َ ‫� ة‬ ‫ا �لب��لا ��غ�� �م� ن� نِ��������سِ ���ه�ا �بِ�ع���ن ب��ر‬

ُّ‫َ س‬ ّ َ ْ‫فَتَ�َ ت‬ ���‫� لا � ن ا �ل�َعَ����ط�ا �ع ����ن�د ا �ل‬ �‫ك ب�����ه�ا ري‬ � � ‫��م‬ �‫و�������ق‬ ‫ت‬ �� ‫ر‬ �‫ب‬ ِ ‫ِح‬

When Ibn al-ʿAṭṭār clings to them/perfumes himself with their musk, they intensify the fragrance of eloquence with the ambergris that their ink exudes. [135b/177a] In a superiority passage, we learn that Ibn Nubāta’s muwashshaḥāt surpass those of the Andalusī poet Abū l-Qāsim Ibn al-ʿAṭṭār, an early writer in this poetic form.29 The name of the poet, “Son of the perfumer,” provokes the tawriya in at-tamassuk “clinging to” and “perfuming oneself with musk.” Dependent on the key verb fataqa “and enhancing the fragrance of musk by adding other perfumes” are the metaphors “fragrance of eloquence” and “ambergris of the ink.” The Tertium comparationis is found in the first instance in the black color shared by both ink and ambergris, but also in the fragrance of the perfume and, in a metaphorical way, in the text that is written with the ink. (7) Still on the same page and still in praise of Ibn Nubāta’s muwashshaḥāt, the ink appears again:

ََّ َ‫ت‬ ْ َ‫� �غ‬ ‫��� � ن َ � يُ شَ ُهُ � ن َ �ة‬ � �� ‫د‬ ‫ا‬ � �� � ‫م‬ ‫�د‬ ‫ا‬ � ��� � ‫ا‬ ‫�د‬ �� ‫ع‬ ‫ا‬ ‫٭‬ ‫�د‬ � ��� �� ِ‫س‬ � � � � ِ‫ه‬ ‫م‬ ‫ق‬ ‫�ب‬ � ‫�ي‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ر‬ ‫و‬ ‫و‬ � ِ‫ا ل���� �ظ‬ ِ ِ ‫� ي‬

َ‫�أ ال�أ ���َ�يض�� ل�ٱ ح�م َّ � � ن‬ � �‫و ب‬ � ِ‫ر م‬ ْ َّ َ ُ‫أ ْ َّ ي‬ ْ ‫نِ���ق�����سِ ���ه�ا ل� ���م�ر ���م�ا ���سود‬ ٍ

Or (if) al-Abyaḍ (could see these muwashshaḥāt), his wrath would make him blush and pale in turns, | and, convinced of the supremacy of their ink, he would say: “Certain things make you a leader/black.” [135b/177a] Now it is Abū Bakr al-Ishbīlī al-Abyaḍ, another Andalusī writer of muwashshaḥāt,30 who is eclipsed by Ibn Nubāta. Neither he nor Ibn al-ʿAṭṭār 29  See EAL 563. 30  See EAL 52.

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is a well-known figure. The fact that al-Qīrāṭī knew them and trusted in Ibn Nubāta’s knowing them as well, demonstrates the breadth of the literary canon in their time. Whereas in all comparisons and metaphors the black color of the ink is the tertium comparationis (or at least one of several), blackness has not been mentioned explicitly thus far. Here it is. Parallel to a passage dealing with fragrance stimulated by the name of Ibn al-ʿAṭṭār, al-Qīrāṭī writes two cola dealing with colors stimulated by the name of the washshāḥ al-Abyaḍ “the White,” who turns “red” and “pale.” The punch line is the word yusawwad, a tawriya meaning either “being made black” or “being made a sayyid.” (8) The taqrīẓ-section ends with sort of a coda before the Damascus section and the maqāma of the Nile set in. There are no new elements but rather reminiscences of earlier motifs. Among them is another occurrence of the ink, in which the well-known metaphor of the “night of the ink” is used:

ُ‫ف َْ ْ َ آ ف ق‬ ُ‫ن ثُ �أ ْ َ ق‬ ْ‫�أ�زْ َ َ ت‬ َ ْ‫� َ ت‬ � ‫� ��ب�ا لم����ور ورا‬ ‫� �ب��م�ع�ا �نِي�����ه�ا �ي� �ل����ي�ل نِ���ق�����سِ ���ه�ا � ��ا ������ه�ا‬ ‫ا‬ ‫٭‬ ‫ا‬ � � � � � ‫ن‬ ‫ه‬ �� ‫ر‬ ‫و‬ � ‫� ���ه�ر‬ ٍ‫وك�ل���م�ا ت‬ ِ

. . . the leaves on which these words are written, blossom with gillyflowers | and their horizons gleam in the night of their ink through their ideas. [136b/177b] This pair of cola combines the realms of plants and stars. The “gillyflowers” are also a reference to Ibn Nubāta’s collection of ornate prose entitled Zahr al-manthūr, a book title in which manthūr means both “gillyflower” and “prose.” This rather unspectacular treatment of the ink seems appropriate for a passage displaying the character of a résumé. (9 and 10) In the second section on Damascus and the maqāma of the Nile, the ink does not show up again. It is only on the penultimate page when it surfaces again and for the last time, this time not once, but twice. Thus far, the ink occurred in al-Qīrāṭī’s praise of Ibn Nubāta’s poems or works in general. In the final passage, al-Qīrāṭī asks Ibn Nubāta to respond to his letter with a letter of his own and in this context praises Ibn Nubāta’s letters:

َّ ‫ٱ‬ ‫ُ نْ َ ف‬ ْ‫ٱ َ � َّ ت‬ َ‫ح��س د � َ��س َا د ���قْ�����سِ ��ه�ا ٭ � ��س‬ � ‫� �َ��عْ�� نُ� ا‬ � ‫ل‬ � � ‫ا‬ ‫د‬ �‫و� ب�ي��������ض‬ ‫و‬ � �‫� ل�د �����ي�ا ي‬ ‫و‬ ‫ي‬ ِ‫و لِ و ِ ن‬ ِ‫ت‬ ُ‫َ َّ ت‬ َ ْ ْ ‫ٱ ن تَ �َ َ تْ ف �أ‬ ُ‫س‬ ‫�أ �شْ َ ��َ ت ف‬ � ‫ل����طور‬ � ‫� �� ����س�لا ك ا‬ � � � � ‫��م‬ ‫٭‬ ‫ا‬ � �� ِ‫طِ ر���س‬ ‫�ظ‬ � �� ‫�ه‬ ‫و‬ �‫ح ب���ا �����ه�ا ٭ و �� ر ��ق�� �ي‬ ‫ي‬ ُ‫ن � َ َّ ت‬ ‫�ق�� ن�ِي��را �����ه�ا ٭‬ ِ‫ا �ل���� س‬ َ ‫�أ‬ َ ْ َ‫�غ‬ َ ّ ْ ُ‫ح‬ �‫� ن �تُ َ � َ � ف‬ � � ‫�ن‬ ‫و�����س نُ� د را ر �ي� ا �ل ك‬ � ِ‫� � � �رى ٭ طوالِع ي� د ا�جٍ مِ �� ا ل�ل����ي� ِل ي�������ه� ب‬ ِ‫�وا ك� ب‬ ِ

َْ َ �ِ‫�عي�� نِ���هِ لِ� ب��ي���ا �ض‬ ْ َ ْ ‫�أ‬ ‫��ح�لا ِك �ل����ي�ل‬

358

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The blackness of their ink turns the envier’s eye white (blind) | and the whiteness of their paper makes the world black in his eyes. ‖ Their beads are strung on the strings of verses, | and their brilliant stars shine in the darkness of ink-nights: “How beautiful are brightly shining stars when you see them rise in a jet-black night!”31 [141a/181b] This last invocation of the ink is like a summary of previous passages. The enviers are known from example (4), “blackening” in contrast to whiteness was subject of example (7); the “night of the ink” occurs throughout, but it is not in contrast to the whiteness of the paper here but to the “stars” of Ibn Nubāta’s verses recalling example (5). A line by al-Buḥturī rounds off the image, and the tashaʿʿub, “ramification, entwinement,” is all too obvious. Conclusion In the year 761/1360, the Mamluk Sultan an-Nāṣir Ḥasan sent an edict to Damascus to invite the most famous poet and prose stylist of his time, Ibn Nubāta, to come to Cairo. For this occasion, the poet al-Qīrāṭī, an admirer of Ibn Nubāta and one of the most prominent poets in Cairo at the time, wrote a letter that probably accompanied the sultan’s edict. It is a letter of exuberant length and stylistic sophistication. It is a gigantic taqrīẓ “commendation” and encompasses passages that could be considered a mufākhara and a maqāma, but above all, it is a formidable example of the unparalleled stylistic level of ornate prose in this period. In the seventh and eighth/thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, Arabic epistolography was probably at its zenith with prose stylists like Shihāb ad-Dīn Maḥmūd al-Ḥalabī (644–725/1246 or 1247–1325), Ibn Nubāta, Shihāb ad-Dīn ibn Faḍlallāh (700–49/1301–49), Lisān ad-Dīn Ibn al-Khaṭīb (713–76/1313–75), al-Qīrāṭī, Ibn Ḥijja al-Ḥamawī (767–837/1366– 1434) and many others. Modern scholars have seen their stylistic refinement rather as an impediment to understanding the content of the text than as an enrichment of it, and indeed a letter such as the one discussed here is far from easy reading. Nevertheless, its beauty and fascination is undeniable. Ibn Ḥajar’s characterization of it as of “utmost beauty and length” evokes Robert Schumann’s appraisal of Franz Schuberts C-major symphony as standing out for its himmlische Länge, “heavenly length”—precisely the same could be said of al-Qīrāṭī’s letter. 31  See al-Buḥturī, Dīwān i, 193 (no. 63/27), meter ṭawīl.

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Bibliography Bauer, T., Ibn Nubātah al-Miṣrī (686–768/1287–1366): Life and works. Part 1: The life of Ibn Nubātah, in MSR 12.1 (2008), 1–35. Bauer, T., “Was kann aus dem Jungen noch werden!” Das poetische Erstlingswerk des Historikers Ibn Ḥabīb im Spiegel seiner Zeitgenossen, in O. Jastrow, S. Talay, H. Hafenrichter (eds.), Studien zur Semitistik und Arabistik. Festschrift für Hartmut Bobzin zum 60. Geburtstag, Wiesbaden 2008, 15–56. Bauer, T., Jamāl al-Dīn Ibn Nubātah, in J.E. Lowry and D.J. Stewart (eds.), Essays in Arabic literary biography, 1350–1830, Wiesbaden 2009, 184–201. Bauer, T., Mamluk literature as a means of communication, in S. Conermann (ed.), Ubi sumus? Quo vademus? Mamluk studies—State of the art, Göttingen 2013, 23–56. Bauer, T., “Ayna hādhā min al-Mutanabbī!” Toward an aesthetics of Mamluk literature, in MSR 17 (2013), 5–22. Bauer, T., How to create a network: Zaynaddīn al-Āṯārī and his muqarriẓūn, in S. Conermann (ed.), Everything is on the move. The Mamluk empire as a node in (trans-)regional networks, Göttingen 2014, 205–21. al-Buḥturī, Dīwān, 5 vols., ed. Ḥ.K. aṣ-Ṣayrafī, Cairo 1963–78. al-Būṣīrī, Dīwān, ed. M. at-Tūnjī, Beirut 2002. EAL = Meisami, J.S. and P. Starkey (eds.), Encyclopedia of Arabic Literature, London 1998. Gelder, G.J. van, The Conceit of pen and sword: On an Arabic literary debate, in JSS 32.2 (1987), 329–60. Hämeen-Anttila, J., Maqama. A history of a genre, Wiesbaden 2002. Ibn Ḥajar al-ʿAsqalānī, Inbāʾ al-ghumr bi-abnāʾ al-ʿumr, ed. M. ʿAbd al-Muʿīd Khān et al., 9 vols., Ḥyderabad 1387–96/1967–76. Ibn Ḥajar al-ʿAsqalānī, ad-Durar al-kāmina fī aʿyān al-miʾa ath-thāmina, 6 vols., Ḥyderabad, 1929–31. Ibn Ḥijja al-Ḥamawī, Kitāb Qahwat al-inshāʾ, ed. R. Veselý, Beirut 2005. Ibn Ḥijja al-Ḥamawī, Taḥrīr al-Qīrāṭī (= Mukhtaṣar dīwān al-Qīrāṭī), ms. Berlin 7870. Ibn al-ʿIrāqī, adh-Dhayl ʿalā l-ʿibar fī khabar man ʿabar, 3 vols., ed. Ṣ.M. ʿAbbās, Beirut 1409/1989. Ibn Taghrī Birdī, al-Manhal aṣ-ṣāfī wa-l-mustawfī baʿda l-wāfī, 13 vols., ed. M.M. Amīn et al., Cairo 1984–2009. al-Maqrīzī, Kitāb as-Sulūk li-maʿrifat duwal al-mulūk, 4 vols., ed. M.M. Ziyāda et al., Cairo 1956–73. al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān, sharḥ ʿAbd ar-Raḥmān al-Barqūqī, 4 vols., Beirut 1407/1986. al-Qīrāṭī, Maṭlaʿ an-nayyirayn, ms. Istanbul, Fatih 3861; ms. British Museum OR. 2913.

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Rowson, E.K., Two homoerotic narratives from Mamlūk literature: al-Ṣafadī’s Lawʿat al-shākī and Ibn Dāniyāl’s al-Mutayyam, in W. Wright, Jr. and E.K. Rowson (eds.), Homoeroticism in classical Arabic literature, New York 1997, 158–91. Rowson, E.K., An Alexandrian age in fourteenth-century Damascus: Twin commentaries on two celebrated Arabic epistles, in MSR 7.1 (2003), 97–110. Rowson, E.K., Review of Khalīl ibn Aybak aṣ-Ṣafadī, al-Kashf wa-t-tanbīh, eds. H. Nājī, W.b.A. az-Zubayrī, and N.M. Rashād, al-Ṣafadī wa-sharḥuhu ʿalā Lāmiyyat al-ʿajam, in MSR 8.1 (2004), 315–23. Rowson, E.K., Review of Khalīl ibn Aybak aṣ-Ṣafadī (attrib.), Lawʿat ash-shākī wa-damʿat al-bākī, ed. M. ʿĀyish, in MSR 10.1 (2006), 221–6. Rowson, E.K., Review of Khalīl ibn Aybak aṣ-Ṣafadī, al-Faḍl al-munīf fī l-mawlid ashsharīf . . ., ed. M. ʿĀyish and Z. Manṣūr ibn ʿAbd ar-Raḥmān al-Ḥarīrī al-Dimashqī, Lawʿat ash-shākī wa-damʿat al-bākī, ed. S.I. Ṣāliḥ, in MSR 14 (2010), 233–44. aṣ-Ṣafadī, Alḥān as-sawājiʿ bayna l-bādiʾ wa-l-murājiʿ, 2 vols., ed. I. Ṣāliḥ, Damascus 1425/2004. aṣ-Ṣafadī, al-Wāfī bi-l-wafayāt, vol. 21, ed. M. al-Ḥujayrī, Stuttgart 1408/1988. van Steenbergen, J., Ritual, politics, and the city in Mamluk Cairo: The Bayna l-Qaṣrayn as a Mamluk ‘lieu de mémoire’, 1250–1382, in A. Beihammer, S. Constantinou, M. Parani (eds.), Court ceremonies and rituals of power in Byzantium and the medieval Mediterranean, Leiden, Boston 2003, 227–76. as-Suyūṭī, Sharḥ Maqāmāt Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūṭī, 2 vols., ed. S.M. ad-Durūbī, Beirut 1409/1989.

CHAPTER 20

Enterprising Sultans and the Doge of Venice: Political Culture and the Patronage of Science and Philosophy in the Fifteenth-Century Mediterranean Ali Humayun Akhtar

The Politics of Patronage: Secular Humanism or the Religious Dimensions of Legitimacy?1

In April of 1454, just one year after the Ottoman conquest of Byzantine Constantinople, the Republic of Venice signed a treaty with the Ottoman dynasty guaranteeing the right of the Venetians to maintain a bailo, or ambassador, in the district of Pera.2 This bailo would be responsible for the free movement of Venetian merchants in and out of Ottoman territory and would exercise certain legal authority over them.3 This arrangement was nothing new for the Venetians and Ottomans, as it was a renewal of an earlier agreement signed in 1408. As far back as 1388, when the Ottoman capital was still in Edirne, the Venetians had already signed agreements with the Ottomans establishing various trading privileges in the eastern Mediterranean.4 These events took place before western European kingdoms like the Portuguese had pursued a western 1  This essay was written with the support of Bates College and the Institute for Research in the Humanities at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, where I spent 2015–16 as Robert M. Kingdon Fellow in Judeo-Christian Studies. I thank the Director of the Institute, Prof. Susan Friedman, for feedback on this essay’s theoretical approach. 2  In their studies of the role of interpreters (dragomans) and merchants in Ottoman and Venetian diplomatic service, Gürkan and Rothman offer a picture of the bailo as an important diplomatic anchor of Ottoman-Venetian political and commercial relations. Rothman, Interpreting dragomans; Gürkan, Mediating boundaries 19–28. 3  Dursteler’s study of Ottoman-Venetian imperial boundaries in politics and diplomacy highlights the significant political authority of the bailo, despite the brevity of the official’s twoyear appointment, among Venetian citizens and subjects resident in Istanbul. Dursteler, Venetians in Constantinople. 4  Kafadar and Necipoğlu have each traced examples of continuity and rupture during the transition from Byzantine to Ottoman rule in Istanbul, including the continuous presence of Venetian and Genoese merchants in the eastern Mediterranean. Kafadar, Between two worlds; Necipoğlu, Byzantium between the Ottomans and the Latins.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_021

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passageway to Asia through the southern Atlantic and Indian Ocean in the sixteenth century.5 Back in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the Ottomans provided the Venetians privileged access to a lucrative Asian market, while the Venetians provided the Ottomans access to a profitable European market. One of the most interesting aspects of Venetian-Ottoman trade and commercial relations was the exchange of texts on Greek and Graeco-Arabic philosophy and science. In both Edirne and, later, Istanbul, Ottoman sultans including Sultan Murad II (d. 1451), his son Fatih Sultan Mehmed (d. 1481), and his grandson Bayezid (d. 1512) developed a reputation among politicians and humanists in the Italian city-states for their patronage of philosophy and science at the Ottoman court, especially Ptolemaic astronomy, cartography, and Aristotelian-Neo-Platonic metaphysics.6 The Byzantine scholar Georgious Gemistos Plethon (d. 1452) worked under the patronage of the Ottoman sultan Murad I (d. 1389) in Edirne, expounding Platonic philosophical doctrines and defending Plato against the attacks of contemporary philosophers.7 At the same time, in Venice, the Doges were slowly becoming the rulers of Europe’s most important geographical center of Greek learning as other Byzantine scholars made their way westward from former Byzantine cities. These scholars included George of Trebizond (d. 1484), who, in 1417, dedicated his translation of Plato’s Laws to the Doge Tommaso Mocenigo (d. 1423).8 Some time later, in 1468, the Byzantine scholar and cardinal Basilios Bessarion of Constantinople (d. 1472) moved to Venice. There he donated some 452 Greek manuscripts to Venice, which the Senate eventually decided to house in a new library specifically dedicated to these manuscripts, namely the Biblioteca Marciana, or the library of St. Mark in Piazza San Marco. The new library, built at the political center of the city where St. Mark’s Cathedral and the palace of the Doge stood,

5   Borschberg’s analysis of Dutch commerce in Southeast Asia can be compared with Subrahmanyam’s examination of early Portuguese expansion around the Indian coast. Both studies shed light on how the eastern Mediterranean Venetian-Ottoman trade was not eclipsed by, but rather competed with, Atlantic and Indian Ocean routes. Borschberg, Hugo Grotius, the Portuguese and free trade; Subrahmanyam, The Portuguese empire in Asia. 6  Casale analyzes Ottoman interest in Italian cartography and astronomy within the context of Ottoman aspirations of global commercial expansion in competition with the Portuguese. Casale, Ottoman age of exploration 13–33. 7  Woodhouse’s study, George Gemistos Plethon, offers an important starting point for examining the history of Plethon’s intellectual legacy in the European Renaissance. 8  Monfasani has traced the progression of George of Trebizond’s thought against the backdrop of his move from Crete to Venice and eventually Rome. Monfasani, George of Trebizond 3–68.

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became a powerful visual symbol of Venice’s Renaissance inheritance of both the Latin and Greek sides of Roman antiquity.9 In sum, the fifteenth-century fragmentation of former Byzantine eastern Mediterranean lands into Venetian- and Ottoman-held territories introduced a new episode of movement of philosophical and scientific learning within and between urban centers of the Venetian Republic and the Ottoman dynasty. Historians of the Renaissance and of the early modern Mediterranean have identified the fact that for Venetian and Ottoman rulers, the patronage of Greek philosophy and science was an important part of their political legitimacy. Some historians have argued that the Ottoman rulers have not received sufficient credit for being, on some level, Renaissance humanists who competed as first-rate patrons of classical learning on a par with any Florentine or Genoese ruler.10 One of the problematic implications of this claim is that the exchange and movement of philosophy and science in and between Venetian and Ottoman territories was part of a kind of shared secular Renaissance humanism among Catholic and Muslim rulers, a humanism that existed in contrast to the religious dimensions of Catholic and Islamic imperial power. In other words, much of the scholarship seems to point to the idea that from the perspective of political culture, these Catholic and Muslim rulers, when pursuing their political interests, wore a religious Crusader-like or gazi-like hat in times of war, but wore a secular-humanist hat while exchanging and patronizing philosophy and science.11 This framework echoes a paradigm used in investigations of a Spanish convivencia (“coexistence”) in Castilian Toledo and Norman Palermo, an analytical paradigm that has been described more recently as an administrative conveniencia (“convenient coexistence”) that instrumentalized multiconfessional elites for effective imperial statecraft.12 Both the older convivencia theory and its conveniencia successor imply that Catholic kings 9  Labowsky, Bessarion’s library. 10  Brotton, Renaissance bazaar; Nancy Bisaha, Creating East and West; Goffman, The Ottoman empire 347–64. 11  Necipoğlu’s multifaceted analysis of Ottoman court patronage of Italian fine arts discusses how the Ottomans’ commissioning of Italian portraiture has been read as part of this Ottoman Renaissance humanism. This intellectual connection with the Italian city-states was an enduring dimension of Ottoman political culture that historians have sought to understand alongside rapidly changing conceptions of Ottoman sultans, from gazis to scholarly figures to caliphs of the Islamic world. Necipoğlu, Visual cosmopolitanism. 12  In a developing Catholic legal context, both Aragon and Norman Sicily saw the development of new forms of these Islamic-era conceptions of multiconfessional subjecthood in a Catholic legal context. Brian Catlos, Sketching a premodern colonial elite; Alex Metcalfe, Muslims of medieval Italy.

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such as Alfonso X “The Wise” (d. 1264) of Toledo or the Arabic-speaking Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II (d. 1215) of Palermo adopted a practical administrative guise when governing local Muslim subjects, a secular-humanist one as the patron of Graeco-Arabic learning, and a Catholic Crusader one while fighting Muslims across the borders.13 This essay, which departs from the framework of many earlier studies on political patronage of philosophy and science in the Renaissance, advances the following hypothesis: Just as territorial conflict between Venice and the Ottomans often took on a religious coloring, their patronage of philosophical and scientific learning was likewise entangled with the religious dimensions of political power.14 As these two competing empires evolved into cultural centers of the geographically vast Catholic and Islamic worlds, their ruling circles endeavored to cultivate their imperial capitals as the heirs to Christianity’s and Islam’s intellectual and religious legacies. For Venice, the result was that by the end of the fifteenth century, it successfully vied with Rome as a new center not only for Catholics but also for Greek Orthodox communities. The Venetian Senate cultivated both Latin and Greek thought, claiming for Venice inheritance not only of the sanctity of St. Mark’s Alexandria but also of the intellectual heritage of Byzantine Constantinople. Likewise on the Ottoman side, following the transfer of Byzantine centers of learning to Ottoman rule, Edirne (Byzantine Adrianopolis) and Istanbul (Byzantine Constantinople) successfully vied with cities such as Mamluk Cairo and Timurid Samarqand as rising cultural capitals of the Islamic world. As imperial patrons of an impressive mix of Arabic, Graeco-Arabic, Greek, Latin and Central Asian Persianate letters and science, the sultans of Edirne and Istanbul projected an influential claim to the inheritance of the past grandeur of medieval caliphal capitals such as Baghdad and Cordoba. What follows is a look at both the Ventian and the Ottoman cases.

13  The works of Dursteler and Rothman, which deal with the historiographical question of coexistence, offer examinations of transimperial subjecthood and identity that can be compared with earlier studies’ emphasis on cultural “encounter” and “symbiosis.” Eric Dursteler, Venetians in Constantinople; Rothman, Brokering empire. 14  İnalcik was among the early Ottomanists to emphasize the important religious dimensions of Ottoman patronage of science and philosophy, including of works coming from Europe. As Akasoy has shown, Fatih Sultan Mehmed’s legacy is of particular significance given that his reign saw the transition of the Byzantine capital to Ottoman rule. İnalcık, The Ottoman empire 5–21; Akasoy, Mehmed II as the patron of Greek philosophy 245–56.

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Venice as a New Byzantium

From the perspective of governance, the Doges of Venice and the Venetian Senate faced a major challenge with the demographic reality that their subjects in the 1400s increasingly included a growing number of Greek Orthodox communities throughout the Adriatic and Aegean.15 Since the time of the Catholic-Orthodox schism, and also since the sack of Constantinople in the fourth crusade, many of the Greek Orthodox communities throughout the eastern Mediterranean had become highly resistant to the prospect of Catholic rule. They were specifically resistant to the Pope’s unwavering demand that the Greek Orthodox Church join the Latin Rite under the authority of the Pope, a theological position known as Catholic unionism. Being conquered by Catholics would risk forcing Greeks into a Catholic-dominated unionist position, toward which the Venetians were favorable, though not as zealously as the Papal States had been. Greek monks and nuns in particular had become concerned over the implications of an imminent Venetian conquest for Greek ecclesiastical authority. This concern led many to prefer the formal submission of Greek cities to Ottoman rule in order to secure Ottoman support of the Greek rite, a prospect that became a reality for Ottoman Greeks in the early Ottoman capital of Edirne.16 Against this historical backdrop, the Venetian Doge and Senate’s patronage of Greek philosophy and science can be read, in part, as the political aspiration to transform Venice into the only Catholic imperial patron of Greek orthodox religious and intellectual culture. In this manner, Venice, the city of St. Mark that was already a new Alexandria, would simultaneously become a new Byzantium and a patron both of Catholics and of formerly Byzantine, newly Venetian Greeks.17 From this perspective, one outcome of this political patronage was the drawing of Greek Orthodox communities into Catholicism, rather than forcing the Latin rite upon them. From the Senate’s perspective, the activities in Venice of the Greek scholar Basilios Bessarion (d. 1472), the 15  As Georgopoulou has shown, the question of Catholic-Greek Orthodox tensions was of significant concern to Venetian administrators in their attempts to transfer formerly Byzantine Greek loyalties to expanding Venetian rule. Georgopoulou, Venice’s Mediterranean colonies. 16  As Necipoğlu has shown, Byzantine Greek perspectives on the prospects of Venetian and Ottoman rule varied, especially between the position of political administrative circles and the clergy. Necipoğlu, Byzantium between the Ottomans and the Latins, 96–234. 17  On Venice’s assimilation of an Alexandrian past and transformation into the city of St. Mark, see Fontini Brown, Venice and antiquity.

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unionist and Greek-speaking cardinal, represented the epitome of such a possibility. When the Cardinal gave his collection of 452 Greek manuscripts to Venice as the founding collection of the new Biblioteca Marciana, he called Venice “another Byzantium” in his dedication of his works to the city. In the letter that accompanied the deed of donation of his Greek manuscripts to the Venetian Senate, he explains why he chose Venice in particular: I came to understand that I could not select a place more suitable and convenient to men of my own Greek background. Though nations from almost all over the earth flock in vast numbers to your city, the Greeks are most numerous of all: as they sail in from their own regions they make their first landfall in Venice, and have such a tie with you that when they are put into your city they feel they are entering another Byzantium.18 The Cardinal’s words point not just to the Venetian aspiration to become transformed into a cultural center of classical and Byzantine Greek learning, but to the process by which Venice, in the 1400s, sought to deepen its religious claim to being a new holy Christian city on a par with Rome. The first stage en route to becoming a new Alexandria occurred between the 800s and the 1100s. In 828, the Doge Giustiniano Participazio ordered the capture or theft of the remains of St. Mark from Alexandria, where Venetians had originally traveled on pilgrimage, and the transfer of the remains to the heart of Venice’s political center in the new church of St. Mark next to the Doge’s palace.19 This event was followed centuries later by the public rediscovery of St. Mark’s remains in 1094 by the Doge Vitale Faliero in Venice after their temporary loss. With the fall of Byzantium to the Venetian Republic and to the Ottoman Sultanate, Venice’s absorption of Byzantine Greek learning was part of the second step in the bolstering of its Christian legitimacy. In effect, projects like the completion of the Biblioteca Marciana added a contemporary Byzantine Greek religious dimension to its wider Renaissance-era patronage of the Mediterranean’s GraecoRoman past. 18  Chambers and Pullan, Origins of St. Mark’s Library 357–8. 19  From the perspective of the historical construction of civic identity, including the role of political administrators in facilitating urban visual culture, Howard’s analysis suggests that the historicity of the transfer of St. Mark’s remains was eclipsed in importance by the historical memory of it. The visual depiction of the event on the façade of St. Mark’s Cathedral offers an enduring illustration of how the visual and material culture of Venice afforded pilgrims the opportunity to endow the city with sacred meaning. Howard, Venice & the East 65–23.

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The case of the Aldine Press similarly highlights the extent to which political patronage of Greek learning went hand in hand with cultivating the loyalty of formerly Byzantine, newly Venetian Greek orthodox communities. The Aldine Press, founded in Venice, was the most famous Greek publishing house of the medieval world.20 People with a consummate knowledge of the Greek language were needed so that the press could grow, and the Greek communities were a natural reservoir of talent for these purposes. By the 1500s, many Greeks throughout the Mediterranean had moved to Venice from newly Venetianheld and Ottoman-held territories to work as Greek scribes, bookbinders and editors. By this time, Venice had secured its place at the geographic center of Latin Christendom and Greek Orthodoxy, and was the principal patron of pilgrims visiting St. Mark on their way to holy cities in Mamluk- and Ottomanheld territories, as well as of the growing Greek Orthodox communities of Venice’s expanding domains.21 From the perspective of Venice’s place in the Renaissance, Venetian patronage of the contemporary Byzantine Greek religious present was a fitting counterpart to its patronage of the Graeco-Roman classical past.22 In sum, in a world where many Catholic rulers in the Mediterranean played a balancing act of serving the Pope while also pursuing their own political and religious interests, the Doges of Venice and the Venetian Senate ensured that their commercial and territorial access to the Ottoman-held formerly Byzantine territories would help Venice emerge as a glorious new holy city, on a par with the Pope’s Rome. Interestingly, the benefits of these Mediterranean connections were mutual, as Ottoman patronage of Latin and Greek learning likewise became part of the religious dimension of the sultan’s articulation of caliphal legitimacy.

Istanbul as a New Baghdad

For the Ottomans, Greek learning was similarly tied up with the religious—in this case, Islamic—dimensions of political power. On the one hand, in the case 20  Lowry, The world of Aldus Manutius. 21  Venice served as a holy site along the pilgrimage routes together with its rural and peripheral regions. Bowd, Venice’s most loyal city. 22  Goy’s analysis of the intersection of patrons, architects and builders in the construction of Venice’s most important 15th-century structures sheds light on the extent to which these various dimensions of Venice’s civic past and present were closely intertwined. Goy, Building Renaissance Venice.

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of Sultan Murad’s patronage of Byzantine scholars such as Georgios Gemistos Plethon, these political and culturally symbolic activities made Edirne and, later, Istanbul formidable competitors of cities like Florence and Venice as humanist patrons of Greek learning. On the other hand, from the perspective of Islamicworld politics, there were various religious dimensions to this kind of patronage. The most significant was the connection in the Islamic world between the patronage of philosophy and science and the articulation of caliphal legitimacy. The Ottoman sultans were in effect re-enacting the patronage of Greek learning under the early Abbasid caliphs. The Abbasid caliph al-Ma‌ʾmūn (d. 833) is said to have dreamed of Aristotle.23 In effect, the Ottoman sultans, who claimed the caliphate, projected to their neighbors in Cairo and their counterparts in Samarqand an image of themselves as the rightful heirs to the vast territories of the Abbasid caliphate of Baghdad. They presented themselves as bibliophile sultan-caliphs, ruling from the Islamic world’s new geographical centers of commerce and learning. The patronage of Greek learning was entangled with secular humanist dimensions of competition with the Italian city-states, and also with the religious articulation of caliphal legitimacy in the wider Islamic world. Ottoman competition with Timurid Samarqand, a global center of theological and scientific learning, is particularly significant. The ulema who studied and taught at the Islamic legal-theological colleges of the Ottoman sultanate included scholars arriving from contemporary Persianate Central Asian centers like Timurid Samarqand and Bukhara. Ruling khans such as Ulugh Beg were patrons of and themselves produced works of astronomy and mathematics as part of a larger curriculum of Islamic theology, cosmology, and jurisprudence pursued by the ulema.24 These ulema, both Ottoman ulema and those arriving in Ottoman territories from Timurid centers, worked under the political authority of Ottoman sultans such as Fatih Sultan Mehmed, whom we know were patrons of Greek and Latin science in the Renaissance era. From this perspective, Ottoman interest in the realm of Renaissance learning of the Italian city-states should be read not only as part of the sultans’ competition with Renaissance Europe, but also as their competition with contemporary Islamic political centers like Samarqand, which had been reconstructed under Timur himself as a global center of learning 23  Saliba and Gutas have each contextualized this dream against the backdrop of the central role of the Greek-Arabic translation movement and the political patronage of philosophy and science. Saliba, Islamic science and the making of the European Renaissance 1–26; Gutas, Greek thought, Arabic culture 7–18. 24  Fazlioğlu, The Samarqand mathematical astronomical school; Izgi, Osmanli medreselerinde ilim.

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and power. The reign of Fatih Sultan Mehmed is particularly notable in this regard for the patronage specifically of work on Ptolemaic astronomy and cartography, brought by traveling Venetian, Florentine, and Genoese scholars who offered new world maps and wrote works on maritime exploration technology dedicated to the sultan.25 These Latin works drew directly on the GraecoArabic scientific tradition, which initially developed following Baghdad’s Greek-Arabic translation movement and had been introduced to the Italian city-states following Toledo’s and Palermo’s own Arabic-Latin translation movements.26 Ottoman ulema who produced their own works of astronomy and mathematics were likewise interested in such writings, just as they were interested in works of astronomy and mathematics produced at the legaltheological colleges of Timurid Central Asia.27 Therefore, in their patronage of works on astronomy, mathematics, cartography, and maps, the Ottoman sultans were not only engaging in a kind of Renaissance humanism, but they were also assimilating the model of political legitimacy associated with the Islamic world’s most influential contemporary and past rulers, including those of Timurid Samarqand, Mamlūk Cairo, Umayyad Cordoba, and most importantly, Abbasid Baghdad. The Ottoman ulema are especially significant in this regard as they formed a set of inter-imperial intellectual networks whose religious authority operated in dialectic with the political authority of the rising Ottoman sultan-caliph, and who benefited from political and public patronage of these sciences as part of their legal-theological curriculum. It is against this backdrop of Ottoman patronage of Greek and Latin learning, developing synchronously with the theological and scientific curriculum of the polymathic ulema, that the Platonizing turn in Sufism among the Ottoman ulema emerges. Especially significant is the interest in the philosophical Sufi metaphysics of the Andalusian scholar Ibn ʿArabī (d. 1240), the most influential Sufi of the medieval and early modern period.28 In Ibn ʿArabī’s work, and in the work of his most influential Anatolian interpreters Ṣadr al-Dīn al-Qunawī (d. 1274) of Konya and “Mevlānā” Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī (d. 1273), Neoplatonic doctrines in psychology and cosmology gained a place in the articulation of mystical experience, and Plato himself loomed large as a kind of proto-Sufi figure.29 For the philosophical Sufi followers of Ibn ʿArabī, figures like Plato 25  Brotton, Trading territories. 26  Burman, Michael Scott and the translators 404–12. 27  George Saliba, Reform of Ptolemaic astronomy. 28  Tahrali, General outline 43–54. 29  On Ṣadr al-Dīn’s understanding of Plato and its legacy in Ottoman and Iranian lands, see Todd, The Sufi doctrine of man 62ff.

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and Socrates were significant proto-Sufi “sages” in accordance with the earlier tradition of Hermes-Idrīs, but whose philosophical followers were seen as having neglected scripture.30 And while philosophical Sufis saw Plato as Aflaṭūn al-Ḥakīm (“Plato the Sage”), who achieved success in training the intellect to acquire higher levels of knowledge, Sufis like Ibn ʿArabī were thought by their followers to be the most consummate sages, with scholarly knowledge of sacred texts that facilitated their mystical acquisition of inspired knowledge through gnosis (ʿirfān) and mystical “openings” ( futūḥāt).31 In other words, while Georgious Gemistos Plethon was writing works of Platonic philosophy at the Ottoman court and defending Plato against attacks on him made by other Greek scholars, the Islamic scholars including the Ottoman shaykh al-Islām and the most prominent Ottoman ulema of the legal-theological colleges were becoming followers and commentators of the Platonizing Sufi par excellence Ibn ʿArabī. That is, Ottoman patronage of Greek learning was significant at a local level in a way that was distinct from the way Italian humanists understood the sultan’s activities. These local Ottoman ulema who studied Ibn ʿArabī’s Platonizing Sufi metaphysics included four of the most influential Akbarian (Ibn ʿArabī-oriented) Ottoman Sufis. Dāwūd al-Qayṣarī (d. 1350) was the head of the first Ottoman theological college in Ottoman Nicaea and commented on Ibn ʿArabī’s Bezels of Wisdom.32 Shams al-Dīn al-Fanārī (d. 1431) was the first Ottoman Shaykh al-Islām and commented on al-Qunawī’s Keys of the Unseen.33 Yazicizade Mühammed Efendi (d. 1451) was critical in bringing this tradition into the Turkish language, and was perhaps the most famous Ottoman Sufi scholar of this era.34 Muḥammad ibn Ḥamza Aq Shams al-Dīn (d. 1459), one of the most prominent Sufi teachers of Fatih Sultan Mehmed, wrote A Defense of the Writings of the Sufis defending Ibn ʿArabī and the Philosophical Sufis.35 In sum, in an era when the Ottoman sultans patronized Byzantine Greek philosophers like Gemistos Plethon who were commenting on Plato, these same sultans were patrons of the legal-theological colleges 30  Akhtar, The political controversy 323–42. 31  Philosophical Sufism in al-Andalus in the generations of Ibn ʿArabī, Ibn Sabʿīn, and later figures such as Lisān al-Dīn Ibn al-Khaṭīb also shows evidence of Neo-Platonic doctrines in which Plato emerges explicitly as a kind of proto-Sufi figure. Knysh, Ibn ʿArabi in the later Islamic tradition 79–200. 32  Bayrakdar, La philosophie mystique; al-Qayṣari, Maṭlaʿ khuṣūṣ al-kalim. 33  Aydin, Islam Hukuku ve Molla Fenari. 34  Tahrali, General outline 43–54. 35  Kreiser, Aq Shams al-Dīn (Shemseddīn), in EI3.

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and their increasing numbers of Sufi metaphysicians who were in the process of turning the Platonizing Sufi par excellence, Ibn ʿArabī, into the patron saint of the dynasty.36 Therefore, the sultan’s humanist patronage of Renaissance Byzantine Greek learning, in its competition with Florence, can be read as the fostering of a political culture broadly supportive of the philosophical and mystical activities of Platonizing Sufi scholarly circles among the Ottoman ulema, whose curricular sciences even outside Sufism officially included the study of Aristotelian-Avicennan philosophy (ḥikma). In one respect, then, the patronage by Ottoman sultans like Murad and Fatih Sultan Mehmed of Greek, Latin, and Graeco-Arabic learning represent competition with Italian city-states and participation in Renaissance humanism primarily from a European perspective. From the perspective of Islamic political and intellectual history, this patronage was intertwined with a process of articulating their religious legitimacy against competing centers of learning in Samarqand and Cairo for a religious establishment of ulema who were simultaneously lawmakers, Platonizing Sufis, Graeco-Arabic philosophers, astronomers, and theologians. From this perspective, Ottoman Istanbul as a global center of learning was truly becoming a new Abbasid Baghdad. That Fatih Sultan Mehmed’s successor Bayezid famously repatriated much of the Sephardic Jewish community fleeing the Inquisition captures the full dimensions of this process in which Istanbul in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries was emerging as a new Baghdad for both the early modern and ultimately the modern eras.37 Conclusion On one level, as historians of the Renaissance and early modern Mediterranean have argued, both the Venetian Doges and the Ottoman sultans participated in a shared Renaissance humanism through their patronage of Greek and Latin 36  Geoffroy, in Le soufisme en Égypte, traces the Ottoman role in reshaping the legacy of Akbarian Sufism in places like Damascus after an earlier era when Ibn ʿArabī’s work was considered controversial among scholars. Kafadar highlights the importance of Sufism in the Ottoman construction of imperial political legitimacy. Kafadar, Between two worlds 30–51. Köprülü examines the Seljuk background of this connection between Turkish ruling dynasties and Sufism. Köprülü Seljuks of Anatolia. 37  İnalcık, Foundations of Ottoman-Jewish coorperation, and Goffman, Jews in early modern Ottoman commerce.

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learning and science. On another level, this study has argued that there were religious dimensions to this patronage inextricably bound with the Venetian and Ottoman rulers’ respective claims to legitimacy in the Catholic and Islamic worlds. While the Doges and Venetian Senate sought to make the City of St. Mark a new Byzantium and a Catholic patron of the formerly Byzantine Greek Orthodox communities, the Ottoman sultan and administrators were in the process of making Istanbul a new Baghdad, a global center of theological and scientific learning in the Islamic world on a par with contemporary Timurid Samarqand and Mamlūk Cairo. Venetian-Ottoman commercial exchange in the eastern Mediterranean was fundamental to these respective processes. The foundation for this exchange was the legal framework that connected these two empires and that allowed the free movement of merchants and scholars throughout cities of the Adriatic. This legal framework was situated in legal concepts such as the Islamic commercial notion of amān and the Venetian diplomatic concept of the extraterritorial bailo or ambassador in Istanbul. As mentioned, the bailo was the ambassador of Venice in the formerly Genoese district of Ottoman Galata, managing the legal affairs of Venetian Catholics and Venetians Greeks who came in and out of Istanbul and who mixed and traded with the Ottoman sultanate’s diverse Catholic, Greek, Jewish, and Muslim subjects. With regard to religious legitimacy, therefore, it appears that when the Venetians and Ottomans were trading, there was an interesting shared history of commerce, law, material culture, and political culture that contrasted with the very different religious dimensions of politics in periods when the two empires were competing over territory. Arguably, what Renaissance historians have attempted to identify as a dichotomy between a secular coexistence in intellectual and commercial exchange on the one hand, and a religious clash in imperial warfare on the other, was actually a much more complex phenomenon. This essay shows that Venetian-Ottoman relations saw a variety of religious dimensions entangled with political culture that operated at different times. While competition for dominion in some cases became mixed up with the notion of Venetians as Crusaders fighting Ottoman gazis, the inter-imperial patronage of trade and learning examined in this essay was complexly related to a different and understudied historical trend in which Catholic and Muslim rulers projected themselves as scholars, philosopher monarchs, and enterprising tradespeople. In sum, the Venetian and Ottoman sovereigns of the fifteenth century show a certain continuity with the Norman kings of Palermo and the Timurid khans of Samarqand. The above aspects of a shared Venetian and Ottoman political culture highlight the need for further research on the elusive longevity of medieval politics in the early modern and modern worlds.

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Bibliography Akasoy, A., Mehmed II as the patron of Greek philosophy: Latin and Byzantine perspectives, in A. Contadini and C. Norton (eds.), The Renaissance and the Ottoman world, Burlington 2013. Aydin, H., İslam hukuku ve Molla Fenari, Istanbul 1991. Bayrakdar, M., La philosophie mystique chez Dawud de Kayseri, Ankara 1990. Bisaha, N., Creating East and West: Renaissance humanists and the Ottoman Turks, Philadelphia 2004. Borschberg, P., Hugo Grotius, the Portuguese and free trade in the East Indies, Singapore 2011. Brotton, J., Trading territories: Mapping the early modern world, Ithaca 1998. Brotton, J., The Renaissance bazaar: From the Silk Road to Michelangelo, Oxford 2002. Casale, G., The Ottoman age of exploration, Oxford 2010. Catlos, B., Sketching a premodern colonial elite: Muslim communities and their rulers in medieval Aragón, in Mélanges de l’École française de Rome 36 (2012), 495–509. Chambers, D. and B. Pullan (comp.), The origins of St. Mark’s library: Cardinal Bessarion’s gift, 1468, in D. and B. Chambers, Venice: A Documentary History, 1450– 1630, Oxford 1992, 357–8. Dursteler, E., Venetians in Constantinople: Nation, identity, and coexistence in the early modern Mediterranean, Baltimore 2006. Fazlioğlu, I., The Samarqand mathematical astronomical school: A basis for Ottoman philosophy and science, in Journal for the history of Arabic science 14 (2008), 3–68. Geoffroy, É., Le soufisme en Égypte et en Syrie sous les derniers Mamelouks et les premiers Ottomans: Orientations spirituelles et enjeux culturels, Damascus 1995. Georgopoulou, M., Venice’s Mediterranean colonies: Architecture and urbanism, Cambridge 2001. Goffman, D., Jews in Early Modern Ottoman Commerce, in A. Levy (ed.), Jews, Turks, Ottomans: A shared history, fifteenth through the twentieth century, Syracuse 2002, 15–34. Goffman, D., The Ottoman Empire, in J.J. Martin (ed.), The renaissance world, New York 2007, 347–64. Gürkan, E.S., Mediating boundaries: Mediterranean go-betweens and cross-confessional diplomacy in Constantinople, 1560–1600, in Journal of Early Modern History 19 (2015), 19–28. Howard, D., Venice & the East: The impact of the Islamic world on Venetian architecture, 1100–1500, New Haven 2000. İnalcık, H., Foundations of Ottoman-Jewish Cooperation, in A. Levy (ed.), Jews, Turks, Ottomans: A shared history, fifteenth through the twentieth century, Syracuse 2002, 3–14.

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İnalcık, H., The Ottoman empire: The classical age, 1300–1600, New York 1973. İzgi, C., Osmanli medreselerinde ilim, 2 vols, Istanbul 1997. Kafadar, C., Between two worlds: The construction of the Ottoman state, Berkeley 1996. Knysh, A.D., Ibn ʿArabi in the later Islamic tradition: The making of a polemical image in medieval Islam, Albany 1999. Köprülü, F., The Seljuks of Anatolia: Their history and culture according to local Muslim sources, trans. G. Leiser, Salt Lake City 1992. Kreiser, K., Aq Shams al-Dīn (Shemseddīn), EI3. Labowsky C., Bessarion’s library and the Biblioteca Marciana: Six early inventories, Rome 1979. Lowry, M., The world of Aldus Manutius: Business and scholarship in renaissance Venice, Ithaca 1979. Metcalfe, A., The Muslims of medieval Italy, Edinburgh 2009. Monfasani, J., George of Trebizond: A biography and a study of his rhetoric and logic, Leiden 1976. Necipoğlu, N., Byzantium between the Ottomans and the Latins: Politics and society in the late empire, Cambridge 2009. Necipoglu, G., Visual cosmopolitanism and creative translation: Artistic conversations with renaissance Italy in Mehmed II’s Constantinople, in Muqarnas 29 (2012), 1–81. al-Qayṣarī, Dāwūd ibn Maḥmūd, Maṭlaʿ khuṣūṣ al-kalim fī maʿānī Fuṣūṣ al-ḥikam: Sharḥ Fuṣūṣ al-ḥikam, Qum 2002. Rothman, E.N., Interpreting dragomans: Boundaries and crossings in the early modern Mediterranean, in Comparative studies in society and history 51 (2009), 771–800. Rothman, E.N., Brokering empire: Trans-imperial subjects between Venice and Istanbul, Ithaca 2012. Saliba, S., Reform of Ptolemaic Astronomy at the Court of Ulugh Beg, in C. Burnett et al. (eds.), Studies in the history of the exact sciences in honour of David Pingree, Leiden 2004, 810–24. Subrahmanyam, S., The Portuguese empire in Asia, 1500–1700: A political and economic history, London 1993. Tahrali, M., A general outline of the influence of Ibn ʿArabī on the Ottoman era, in Journal of the Muhyiddin Ibn ʿArabi Society 26 (1999), 43–54. Todd, R., The sufi doctrine of man: Ṣadr Al-Dīn Al-Qūnawī’s metaphysical anthropology, Leiden 2014. Woodhouse, C.M. and G. Gemistos, Plethon: The last of the Hellenes, Oxford 1986.

CHAPTER 21

Contextualizing Muḥammad ʿAbduh’s Views on the Family, Marriage, and Divorce Kenneth M. Cuno The aim of this essay1 is to place Muḥammad ʿAbduh’s proposals for the reform of Egyptian Muslim family law in the social, legal, and intellectual context of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Egypt. ʿAbduh (1849–1905), it is well known, studied and later collaborated with the Iranian scholar al-Sayyid Jamāl al-Dīn, known as al-Afghānī, and was influenced by the latter’s openness to the study of philosophy and the natural and social sciences. During 1880–2 ʿAbduh edited the official journal al-Waqāʾiʿ al-Miṣriyya, contributing essays on diverse topics including family and marriage. A supporter of the ʿUrābī Revolution, he was obliged to spend the years 1882–8 in exile in France and Lebanon. Upon returning he was appointed a judge in the National (Ahlī, or Native) Court system. He expressed his mature ideas on the family and the reform of Muslim family law in a report on the reform of the Sharīʿa Courts (1900); a Quran exegesis serialized in the journal al-Manār, known as Tafsīr al-Manār (1900–); and reports and fatwās issued while serving as the Grand Mufti of Egypt (1899–1905). ʿAbduh’s posthumous influence on family law reform was due not only to his writings but also to the circle of younger intellectuals he mentored during his last two decades, known as “the Imam’s party.”2 An older tradition of scholarship portrayed ʿAbduh and other modernist thinkers as responding defensively to the “challenge of the West,” and juxtaposed his ideas with a supposedly conservative or even stagnant “Islam,” in no small part due to the polemic he, and even more so his followers, engaged in against the religious establishment.3 Studies of the reformist agenda of ʿAbduh have tended, moreover, to focus on his texts, paying little attention to the specific social and legal context in which he advanced his reforms. This 1  An early version of this essay was presented at the workshop “Reforming Islamic Legal Thought” at the Institute of Arab and Islamic Studies of the University of Exeter, November 2014. I thank the participants for their comments. For a more extensive discussion of some of the issues treated here, see Cuno, Modernizing marriage. 2  Hourani, Arabic thought 170. 3  See Indira Gesink, Islamic reform and conservatism.

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essay emphasizes two aspects of that context. The first was the development of a modernist family discourse, in which ʿAbduh participated and which he advanced. The second was a process of legal modernization—the creation of “modern” legal institutions on the French model—that affected the application of family law. In the second half of the nineteenth century a modernist discourse on the family arose in Arabic and Ottoman Turkish that was not a defensive response to Western influence, but rather affirmative, in the sense that it was concerned with social improvement and optimistic that family reform and social advancement were achievable.4 ʿAbduh participated in this discourse, articulating a vision of sound family life and promoting legal reforms in order to realize it. This discourse produced a family ideology that posited the conjugal family as the basic unit in society, with the important role of childrearing. ʿAbduh, along with other Ottoman and Arab intellectuals, understood a healthy family life to be the basis of social improvement, and he sought to discourage practices that threatened family harmony and stability, such as polygyny and the abuse by men of the privilege of unilateral divorce. To that end he produced an innovative interpretation of the quranic verses on polygyny, arguing that it could be prohibited in most cases. Once the conjugal family was imagined as the basis of the social order, the promotion of sound family life was a social good. The principal threat to the family in ʿAbduh’s view was the irresponsibility of men who failed to fulfil their marital duties by not supporting their wives, deserting them, or abusing them. Men also went missing, leaving their wives without support, a problem exacerbated by soldiers who went missing in the Crimean and Ethiopian wars. Married women in any of these circumstances were offered little relief in the Sharīʿa Courts, which applied Ḥanafī jurisprudence exclusively. The exclusive use of Ḥanafī law in the courts was a feature of judicial modernization, imposed in the second third of the nineteenth century. ʿAbduh was an adherent of the Mālikī school, which might explain his suggestion that the Sharīʿa Courts should apply the Mālikī rules to permit women to obtain a judicial divorce, and to declare a man who went missing without a trace for four years to be deceased. It is also likely that he drew on the still-recent memory of an earlier plural legal system in which litigants “forum shopped” among judges of the different schools of law in order to get the result they desired. One aim of legal modernization was to establish a uniform law, and so a return to legal pluralism was not feasible. Instead, ʿAbduh suggested using the method of takhayyur, or selection among the rules of the different schools 4  See Cuno, Modernizing marriage ch. 3.

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of law, to achieve the desired result. Takhayyur would allow some of the flexibility of the defunct plural system to be incorporated in a uniform family law. The modernist family discourse in which ʿAbduh and others participated is sometimes misidentified as feminist or proto-feminist, but that is an anachronistic reading of it. Modernist family discourse construed women normatively as the dependents of men and as under the supervision of men. Marital relations were understood in the frame of what Nadia Sonneveld has called “the maintenance-obedience relationship,” in which a husband owed his wife maintenance (nafaqa) and, provided he fulfilled that responsibility, his wife owed him obedience (ṭāʿa).5 Women in that relationship were thus the dependents of male providers and under the supervision of male guardians, as daughters and wives. Many of ʿAbduh’s contemporaries, and to some extent ʿAbduh himself, opposed polygyny and easy divorce not only because it damaged family life but out of fear of the moral consequences of leaving divorcées unsupported and unsupervised.

Family Ideology

In the second half of the nineteenth century, modernist intellectuals in Egypt and other Ottoman provinces articulated a hybrid family ideology influenced by post-Enlightenment social thought in Europe but also in dialog with precolonial Islamic writings on marriage and marital relations. Historic Muslim jurisprudence did not contain a family ideology, despite the assertions of some latter-day scholars of “the centrality of the family in Islam.”6 The jurists privileged the extended patrilineal family over the conjugal family unit (the couple and their children) in the marital property regime and in inheritance. They also permitted polygyny and easy divorce by men, which were sources of conjugal family instability.7 They described marriage as necessary for licit sexual relations and procreation, but they did not especially emphasize companionate spousal relations or parent-child relations.8 This was also true of the precolonial handbooks on marriage that circulated in Ottoman Egypt and into the early twentieth century, which emphasized the maintenance-obedience relationship. Wifely obedience included staying in the marital home and not 5  Sonneveld, Khulʿ divorce in Egypt 17–34. 6  Esposito and Delong Bas, Women in Muslim family law xiv. Messick identifies this view as a colonial artifact in The calligraphic state 61–2. 7  Charrad, States and women’s rights 28–50. 8  Ali, Marriage and Slavery 6.

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leaving it without the husband’s permission, submitting to him sexually, guarding his home and possessions in his absence, and guarding her chastity.9 The jurists illustrated the authority of the husband over his wife by comparing the state of the wife to one of slavery10 or captivity.11 The idea that the conjugal family is the basis of society and that marriage should be companionate and lasting, with the aim of forming a family and raising children, was not historically Islamic but originated in Enlightenment thought.12 A corollary of that was domestic ideology, or domesticity, the notion that women’s vocation is to manage the family household and raise children. Arab and Ottoman modernists joined those ideas with the maintenanceobedience relationship in producing their own, hybrid family ideology, and advocated reform of the family for the sake of social improvement. The implications for women were important. The modernists held that women should be educated to be able to fulfill their domestic roles properly, and to be good companions for their husbands. Together with prenuptial meetings to allow prospective spouses to get to know each other, an educated bride increased the likelihood of marital compatibility, and hence the harmony and stability of the family. The modernists also discouraged polygyny and easy divorce in the interest of family harmony and stability. The Lebanese Buṭrus al-Busṭānī (1819–83) and the Ottoman Namık Kemal (1840–88) were early advocates of the education of women, which they saw not as good in itself but a means of improving conjugal life and childrearing.13 In Egypt Rifāʿa Rāfiʿ al-Ṭahṭāwī (1801–73) and ʿAlī Mubārak (1823–93) made 9  Al-Nawāwī, ʿUqūd al-lujayn 9–11; ʿAlī, Maṭlaʿ al-badrayn 5–6, 11–12. See also Qadrī, al-Aḥkām al-sharʿiyya, Art. 212. 10  Rapoport, Marriage, money and divorce 52; Ali, Marriage and slavery 164; Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd al-muḥtār ii, 325; al-Ghāzalī, Proper conduct 89. This comparison derived from a ḥadīth attributed variously to Asmāʾ bint Abī Bakr or ʿĀʾisha bint Abī Bakr or both of them: “Marriage is slavery and so let each of you consider where he places his daughter [in marriage]” or “Marriage is slavery and so let each of you consider where he consigns to slavery his freewoman” (author’s translation). From al-Bayhaqī’s al-Sunan al-kubrā, al-ʿIrāqī’s Takhrīj aḥādīth al-iḥyāʾ, Ibn Abī al-Dunyā’s al-Nafaqa ʿalā al-ʿiyāl, and Saʿīd ibn Manṣūr’s al-Tafsīr: Sunan Saʿīd ibn Manṣūr accessed via the Complete reference of Islamic Hadeeth. 11  Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd al-muḥtār ii, 663. The comparison originated in the Prophet’s farewell sermon: “Treat women well, for they are prisoners with you.” Author’s translation, using the version of the farewell sermon in Sunan al-Tirmidhī iv, 256, no. 1159, accessed via the Complete Reference of Islamic Hadeeth. 12  See, e.g., Fairchilds, Women and the family 97–110. 13  Al-Busṭānī, speech on “The Education of Women” (1849) 97; and Kemal, essay “On the Education of Women: A Draft” (1867), as discussed by Sönmez, Turkish women 8–11.

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similar arguments in favor of educating women for a domestic vocation, as did ʿAbduh’s teacher al-Afghānī.14 Children, it was argued, were in the care of their mothers during the crucial first years of life in which their character was formed. Children, the future of the society, will acquire the proper character and virtues from educated mothers but not ignorant ones. The emphasis on companionate marriage and the importance of the conjugal family to childrearing in the new family ideology also led intellectuals like al-Ṭahṭāwī and Mubārak to discourage divorce and polygyny.15 Women writers usually identified as early feminists, like ʿĀʾisha al-Taymūr, Zaynab Fawwāz, and Malak Ḥifnī Nāṣif, also cited women’s domestic role as a justification for their education. Fawwāz wrote that “women are the basis of civilization, as the first school for every one of the human race,” and that individuals acquired their good or bad characters from their mothers as children. She also agreed that educated women made better helpmates for their husbands and were more able to share in family life with them.16 The association of monogamous marriage with civilization was a theme that the modernists encountered in nineteenth-century European social science. Al-Ṭahṭāwī translated Conrad Malte-Brun’s universal geography and D.-B. Depping’s comparative study of the mores and customs of diverse societies into Arabic in the 1830s. Both authors asserted that the status of women indicated the level of civilization of a society. Depping condemned early marriage, polygyny, and easy divorce, as practiced by “Turks,” and Malte-Brun held that polygyny and divorce suppressed population growth.17 Al-Afghānī and ʿAbduh were also influenced by François Guizot’s History of Civilization in Europe, which appeared in translation in 1877. In Guizot’s progressive historical scheme the conjugal family emerged out of more primitive forms of social organization, along with the emergence of social differentiation based on property, in the feudal era. Guizot argued that the high status of European women was a consequence of the emergence of the conjugal family and women taking up their role in the domestic sphere as wives and mothers.18 His projection of the conjugal family and domesticity into the past as a foundational element of modern civilization was consistent with the theses of Malte-Brun and especially Depping. 14  Al-Ṭahṭāwī, al-Murshid 66–8; Mubārak, Tarīq al-ḥijāʾ ii, 81–2; Keddie, Sayyid Jamal ad‑Din “al‑Afghani” 110–11. 15  Al-Ṭahṭāwī, al-Murshid 138; Mubārak, Tarīq al-ḥijāʾ ii, 110–11. 16  Fawwāz, Essay No. 69 in al-Rasāʾil 214–16. 17  Malte-Brun, Universal geography i, 261–2, 281–2. Depping, Aperçu historique 54–5, 57–67. 18  Hourani, Arabic thought 114, 132; Guizot, History of civilization 72–4.

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ʿAbduh’s early contributions to Egyptian family ideology in al-Waqāʾiʿ al-Miṣriyya showed the imprint of these ideas. In an essay on the necessity of marriage he approached the subject using a developmental scheme, starting with the assertion that women by nature were unable to provide all the necessities of life for themselves and their children, hence they needed to form an exclusive relationship with a man who would protect them and provide for them. But men would not do that without the assurance of kinship that marriage provides. Thus the various holy laws established rules for marriage, so that a couple were able to maintain a good home life (ḥusn al-muʿāshara) and preserve the system of domestic society (niẓām al-ijtimāʿ al-manzilī). The needs of individual members of the family (al-ʿāʾila) would be fulfilled through it, and their only interest would be to promote its happiness and wellbeing.19 The term “good home life” referred to one of the principal duties of the husband in pre-colonial jurisprudence, but ʿAbduh borrowed the term “system of domestic society” from European social science. Nearly twenty years later, in his report on the reform of the Sharīʿa Courts, he more clearly articulated a concept of the family as the elemental unit of society. He wrote, “it is clear that the populace (al-shaʿb) is composed of houses (or households, buyūt) that are called families (ʿāʾilāt), and the basis of every nation (umma) is necessarily its families because the whole consists of its parts.”20 It followed that the ills that afflicted Egyptian family life threatened the greater social order, and one of those ills was the abuse by men of their privilege of polygyny. ʿAbduh opposed polygyny in his early writings on grounds similar to those advanced earlier by al-Ṭahṭāwī and Mubārak, namely that men rarely treated plural wives equitably as stipulated in the Quran, and that the jealousy between co-wives and enmity between their children disrupted family life. Men often divorced one wife to placate another, breaking up the family. The divorcées and their children suffered poverty and degradation when the ex-husband neglected their maintenance. Upper class men may have divorced less often, but they neglected older wives and their children to appease their younger wives, depriving the former of companionship.21 The conventional exegesis of that era explained the quranic verse Q Nisāʾ 4:3 (“If you fear that you will not act justly then one”) as requiring equity in maintenance and companionship, including equal numbers of nights spent with each wife. Thus, according to ʿAbduh, polygynous men incurred an obligation of equitable treatment, but 19  ʿAbduh, Ḥājat al-insān ilā al-zawāj, in al-Aʿmāl al-kāmila ii, 68–71. See also Malte-Brun, Universal geography i, 273. 20  ʿAbduh, Taqrīr 3. 21  ʿAbduh, Ḥukm al-sharīʿa fī taʿaddud al-zawjāt, in al-Aʿmāl al-kāmila ii, 76–81.

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few were able to meet that standard, and so it was better for them to limit themselves to a single wife.22 The standard interpretation of a later verse, Q Nisāʾ 4:129 (“You will not be able to be equitable between your wives, be you ever so eager; yet do not be altogether partial so that you leave her as it were suspended”), was that men were not expected to have equal affection or passion for their wives, nor to treat them equally in sexual intercourse.23 Nearly twenty years later, in Tafsīr al-Manār, ʿAbduh advanced a radically different reading of Q Nisāʾ 4:3 and 4:129, arguing that they implied the abolition of polygyny. Now he understood that the latter verse “may refer to equal treatment (al-ʿadl) in the inclination of the heart.” Moreover, he understood the phrase (“yet do not be altogether partial so that you leave her as it were suspended”) to refer to men who left one wife without companionship and/or support in favor of another.24 Since polygyny harmed women and children, it was harmful to families and society as a whole, and so ʿAbduh concluded that it could be forbidden in the public interest (maṣlaḥa).25 The only allowable exception would be the barrenness of a first wife, and that should be established before a judge.26 ʿAbduh’s hardened attitude toward polygyny reflected the progressive strengthening of family ideology, at the center of which stood the conjugal family ideal, along with a concern with the issues of maintenance and divorce that was very likely informed by what he observed in numerous cases as a judge in the National Court system.27

Family Law Reform and Takhayyur

Contextualizing ʿAbduh’s advocacy of takhayyur requires an understanding of the transformation of Muslim family law in Egypt during the nineteenth 22  ʿAbduh, Ḥukm al-sharīʿa 71, 77, 78, 80, 83. 23  Translation of Q Nisāʾ 4:129 by A.J. Arberry, The Koran interpreted. Ḥanafī jurists required a man to perform at least one act of sexual intercourse with his wife but no more than that. See Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd al-muḥtār ii, 608–9. 24  Here and in his earlier essay the word al-ʿadl, which I interpret contextually as “equal treatment,” also means “balance” and “justice.” ʿAbduh, al-Aʿmāl al-kāmila v, 169. 25  ʿAbduh, al-Aʿmāl al-kāmila v, 170. Maṣlaḥa, the public interest, is a principle that can override a normative legal rule or even a scriptural text. See Khadduri, Maṣlaḥa. 26  ʿAbduh, al-Aʿmāl al-kāmila ii, 88–92. 27  Most family issues were heard in the Sharīʿa Courts, but judges in the National Courts heard suits involving the enforcement of family law in such areas as maintenance and child custody. Moreover, ʿAbduh conducted a study of the Sharīʿa Court system in 1899, and as mufti he regularly dealt with Muslim family law.

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century and its effect on marital life. Legal “modernization” in the nineteenth century was not limited to the sphere of secular law. It also entailed the reorganization of the Sharīʿa Court system and the issuing of new procedural rules that affected the application of family law and hence marital life in two important ways. First, in a step toward creating a uniform law, judges were restricted to ruling in accord with the predominant view in Ḥanafī jurisprudence. Second, increasing emphasis was placed on the use of documentary evidence, so that by the end of the century, the courts were instructed not to hear posthumous claims regarding marriage and divorce except those supported by proper documents. Although decreed by the Egyptian khedives, these changes in Sharīʿa Court procedures were similar to and roughly contemporaneous with measures taken by the Ottoman imperial center and effected in the provinces directly ruled from Istanbul.28 Like the reorganization of the Ottoman Sharīʿa Courts, also, the changes introduced in the Egyptian Sharīʿa Courts went unnoticed by historians until recently, because they were “introduced as . . . administrative instructions” or procedural rules, and not as substantive changes in or codifications of the Sharīʿa.29 The Sharīʿa Courts themselves were the main venue for issuing notarized documents concerning family affairs. Thus the requirement of documentation expanded the social role of the Sharīʿa Court system and led in 1880 to the creation of a cadre of marriage registrars, or ma‌ʾdhūns, who issued documents to brides and grooms and inscribed their nuptials (and divorces) in special registers. There was, it seems, a corresponding diminution of informal (i.e., out-ofcourt) marriages and divorces. The growing importance of the Sharīʿa Courts in social life upends an older narrative of legal modernization, in which the Sharīʿa Courts were supposed to have declined in importance due to the limitation of their jurisdiction to family and religious law. The enhanced role of the Sharīʿa Courts also meant that the imposition of Ḥanafī law in family affairs had broad effects. Toward the end of the century, and in concert with those changes, officials became convinced of the need to codify family law, although disagreements delayed codification until after the First World War. The transformation of the Sharīʿa Court system began with the creation of the position of Grand Mufti of Egypt (Muftī al-Diyār al-Miṣriyya) by the viceroy Muḥammad ʿAlī Pasha in 1835, and continued with procedural laws governing the operation of the Sharīʿa Courts, issued in 1856, 1880, and 1897.30 28  See Kenneth M. Cuno, Reorganization of the Sharia courts of Egypt 87, 89. 29  Agmon, Family and court 55, 147. 30  These laws were Lāʾiḥat al-quḍāt in 1856, Lāʾiḥat al-maḥākim al-sharʿiyya in 1880, and Lāʾiḥat tartīb al-maḥākim al-sharʿiyya in 1897. I refer to them as procedural laws, though

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A few years after the elevation of a Ḥanafī scholar to the new supreme muftiship, the right of giving fatwās on matters of public policy was restricted to officially appointed muftis, all of whom were Ḥanafīs.31 By mid-century at the latest, Sharīʿa Court judges were ordered to apply Ḥanafī law exclusively, and subsequently the procedural laws reinforced this new requirement. Previously, deputy judges representing the four Sunni schools of law had presided in the Sharīʿa Courts of Cairo, something that may have been a legacy of the appointment of judges from the four schools during the Mamlūk Sultanate (1250–1517).32 However, in other Ottoman provinces where the population included adherents of the other schools of law, deputy judges representing those schools were also appointed to preside in the courts along with a Ḥanafī chief judge.33 This pluralistic system allowed litigants and the makers of contracts to engage in forum shopping by choosing a judge and hence a school of law that best suited their purpose. The flexibility of Islamic legal pluralism compensated in practice for the rigidity of the individual schools of law in the era of taqlīd.34 Women understood the uneven advantages and disadvantages offered by each school of law in matters of marriage, and had forum shopped to achieve the result they desired. Those whose husbands failed to support or deserted them could petition for a judicial divorce or annulment (taṭlīq) before a Ḥanbalī, Shāfiʿī or Mālikī judge, and many did so.35 The latter two schools also permitted a judge to declare a man who had gone missing without a trace for four years to be deceased, so that his wife could inherit and re-marry. In contrast, only Ḥanafī law permitted an adult woman to marry on her own without involving a guardian in the arrangements. The Palestinian mufti Khayr al-Dīn al-Ramlī (d. 1671) permitted a woman whose marriage had been annulled by a Shāfiʿī judge to re-marry herself without a guardian according to the Ḥanafī doctrine,36 and this case was by no means unique. Al-Ramlī cited as his they dealt with the organization and administration of the Sharīʿa Court system as well as with court procedures. 31  Cole, Colonialism and revolution 37. About seven percent of the Grand Mufti al-ʿAbbāsī’s questions were identified as coming from government offices or the Sharīʿa Courts. Peters, Muḥammad al-ʿAbbāsī al-Mahdī 69. 32  Hanna, Administration of courts 45; Rapoport, Legal diversity. 33  Shahar, Legal pluralism 138; Inalcik, The earlier centuries; Hallaq, Sharīʿa 216–17; Vikør, Between God and the sultan 209, 217; Christelow, Muslim law courts 86. 34  See Shahar, Legal pluralism 112–41; Rapoport, Legal diversity; and Baldwin, Islamic Law, 120–67. I am indebted to James Baldwin for his comments and willingness to share his knowledge of the Ottoman legal system. 35  Tucker, In the house of the law 83; Baldwin, Islamic law, 138–9. 36  Al-Ramlī, al-Fatāwā al‑khayriyya i, 76.

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precedent a case decided by the Central Asian jurist al-Marghīnānī (d. 1197), and women customarily forum shopped between the schools to obtain annulments and marry themselves off in Africa and South and Southeast Asia.37 The “Ḥanafization” of Egypt’s Sharīʿa Courts eliminated the flexibility of this plural system. Ḥanafī law was especially inimical to married women in three respects. First, Ḥanafī law offered no relief to married women who were deserted and left without support by their husbands. Second, it presumed a missing man to be alive into his nineties, and would not declare him deceased before then. Third, arrears of maintenance accumulated automatically as a debt against the husband in the Ḥanbalī, Mālikī, and Shāfiʿī schools. However, Ḥanafī jurists required that the rate of maintenance be determined formally, either by a judge or in a legal agreement between husband and wife, before unpaid maintenance would be accounted as a debt against the husband. The emphasis on the use of documentary evidence in legal proceedings magnified the effect of Ḥanafization in peoples’ lives. By the turn of the twentieth century civil registration of marriages and divorces was all but required.38 Women and men had recourse to the Sharīʿa Courts and the ma‌ʾdhūns to establish an unassailable record of their marital status and rights, and consequently the courts were busier than ever. Thus while Ḥanafization reduced the legal options available to married Muslim women, the new requirement of documentation made it more difficult for them to arrange their affairs informally, out of court. Women responded to these changes in the legal terrain with certain new strategies. Some women with missing husbands testified that they had received news by word of mouth of the death of their husband, or of his declaration of divorce. The only cases of this sort that appear in the legal record involve women who thereafter remarried, only to have their supposedly dead husband reappear. In some of these cases, at least, women may have claimed fraudulently that their husband died, out of desperation. In Ḥanafī jurisprudence a widow was free to remarry after her waiting period, but the wife of a missing man could not have him declared dead until he would be in his nineties.39 Women also responded to the Ḥanafī rule requiring the formal setting of their maintenance by suing their husband over its alleged non-payment. Women in intact marriages would resort to this stratagem to get a judicial order setting the amount of maintenance they and their children were due. Doing so 37  Al-Ramlī, al-Fatāwā al‑khayriyya i, 76; Fyzee, Outlines, 75–6; Vesey-Fitzgerald, Muḥammadan law 18. 38  Lāʾiḥat tartīb al-maḥākim, 163, Art. 31. 39  See Cuno, Women with missing husbands.

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insured that non-payment would result in the accumulation of a collectible debt against a delinquent husband.40 Cases such as these show women making savvy use of the legal system to protect their interests, even if they could not overcome all of the disadvantages they faced. Those disadvantages and the problems they caused were evident to judges like ʿAbduh and his younger colleague Qāsim Amīn. In discussions of the codification of Muslim family law, they and others raised particular concern over the failure of men to live up to their responsibilities in the maintenance-obedience relationship by supporting their dependents. A man could be imprisoned for non-payment of arrears of maintenance, or alternatively his wages or property could be garnished, but the failure of the civil authorities to execute Sharīʿa Court orders was a perennial issue. In 1884 the Ministry of Justice noted the failure of provincial officials and police to act on Sharīʿa Court decisions,41 and in his report on the reform of the Sharīʿa Courts sixteen years later ʿAbduh identified the haphazard enforcement of Sharīʿa Court decisions, including orders to pay maintenance, as a serious flaw in the judicial system. The administrative authorities, he wrote, were neither trained properly nor prepared to execute Sharīʿa Court rulings, and as a result no more than one percent of them were enforced. To address this shortcoming he proposed giving the Sharīʿa Courts the ability to enforce their orders directly through bailiffs.42 ʿAbduh had already become involved in official discussions on a codification of Muslim family law. The Ministry of Justice proposed in the 1890s that Muḥammad Qadrī’s informal personal status code, published in 1875 as a reference manual for the Mixed Courts, be the starting point of a draft. Qadrī’s code was based entirely on Ḥanafī law. A revised version of it was approved by the Grand Mufti, Ḥassūna al-Nawāwī (served 1895–99), though no further action was taken.43 In his report on the reform of the Sharīʿa Courts, ʿAbduh, who succeeded al-Nawāwī as Grand Mufti, revived the idea of composing a family law, but instead of a revision of Qadrī’s code he proposed the inclusion of non-Ḥanafī rules when that was justified by the public interest.44 The method 40  See Cuno, Disobedient wives. 41  Jallād, Qāmūs al-idāra iv, 163. 42  ʿAbduh, Taqrīr 67–9. 43   N AE, Majlis al‑nuẓẓār wa‑l‑wuzarāʾ, File no. 0075–016495, Iqtirāḥāt al‑Jamʿiyya al‑ʿUmūmiyya, Feb. 1909. See also Riḍā, Tārīkh al-ustādh al-imām i, 626–7, on the public discussion at the time. 44  ʿAbduh, Taqrīr, h-w, 64–5; and Riḍā, Tārīkh al-ustādh al-imām i, 628, reproducing passages from an essay in al-Manār (June 1904) that made essentially the same points.

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of selecting rules from diverse schools of law, or takhayyur, would mitigate the effect of the exclusive application of Ḥanafī law. In July 1900, ʿAbduh, now the Grand Mufti, sent the Ministry of Justice an eleven-point list of reforms that highlighted the need for takhayyur. His memorandum was in response to a request for a fatwā concerning men who failed to maintain their wives, divorced wives, and children. This was but one of four comparable situations that arose frequently, he wrote. There was, first, the question of men condemned to prison, whose wives were left without maintenance. Second, there was the issue of men who would not or could not support their wives, “as occurs with the majority of individuals of the lower class and many individuals of the middle and upper class.” Third, there were husbands who went missing without a trace, or who were absent for lengthy periods without providing for the maintenance of their wives. Fourth, some men treated their wives so harshly that they could not continue to live together. In such situations a judge should be able to divorce a woman from her husband or to declare a long-missing husband deceased, but that was not permissible in the Ḥanafī doctrine applied in the Sharīʿa Courts at the time. Therefore ʿAbduh proposed that the rules of the Mālikī school be applied in these cases. Mālikī jurists permitted women to petition a judge for an annulment on grounds of non-support, desertion, and “harm,” including harsh treatment, and they allowed a judge to declare a man deceased after going missing for four years.45 ʿAbduh justified his proposal on the principle of necessity (ḍarūra), and closed with an appeal to the khedive to implement this reform.46 The Ministry raised the issue of codifying family law again in 1904, asking ʿAbduh and the Shaykh alAzhar to consider, among other reforms, convening a group of Ḥanafī shaykhs to agree on a method of composing a family law code, and again recommending Qadrī’s code as the starting point.47 Nothing came of that initiative either, and in the years following ʿAbduh’s death his circle continued to raise the issue of the need to modify the all-Ḥanafī family law by introducing elements of Shāfiʿī and Mālikī law.48 45  ʿAbduh, al-Aʿmāl al-kāmila ii, 654–8. 46  ʿAbduh, al-Aʿmāl al-kāmila ii, 655–6. On necessity in jurisprudence, see Linant de Bellefonds, Ḍarūra, in EI2. 47   N AE, Majlis al‑nuẓẓār wa‑l‑wuzarāʾ, File no. 075–04039, mukātabāt al-Ḥaqqāniyya bi-shāʾn iṣlāḥ al-maḥākim al-sharʿiyya. Ṣūrat mā tuqarrir niẓārat al-Ḥaqqāniyya li-faḍīlat Shaykh Jāmiʿ al-Azhar bi-tārīkh 4 yūnyu 1904 wa li-faḍīlat Muftī al-Diyār al-Miṣriyya fī al-tārīkh al-madhkūr. 48   N AE, Majlis al‑nuẓẓār wa‑l‑wuzarāʾ, File no. 0075-016495, Iqtirāḥāt al‑Jamʿiyya l‑ʿUmūmiyya, Feb. 1909.

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The laws of the 1920s represented a partial victory for this group. The first of these, Law No. 25 of 1920 Concerning the Legal Rules of Maintenance and Some Questions of Personal Status, embodied the recommendations of a committee of senior ulema convened in 1915 to draft a family law. It addressed longstanding concerns over the enforcement of maintenance payments, drawing on Mālikī jurisprudence in providing for unpaid maintenance to accumulate automatically as a debt against the husband. This could result in the garnishment of his property or wages, as before, but if he was unable to pay or absent the judge was authorized to annul the marriage. The judge could also declare a man who went missing for four years to be deceased. In either case the woman was free to re-marry after her waiting period.49 Law No. 25 of 1929 Concerning Certain Rules of Personal Status incorporated the recommendations of another committee that reflected the ideas of ʿAbduh. It invalidated conditional and whimsical repudiations and accorded a triple repudiation the effect of a single, revocable divorce. It also drew on Mālikī jurisprudence in expanding women’s access to divorce by permitting them to petition a judge for an annulment on the ground of marital discord (al-shiqāq) and that they suffered harm or injury (al-ḍarar) in the marriage. If the wife established that she suffered harm to an extent that reconciliation was impossible the judge was to annul the marriage. If she could not convince the judge of that but brought repeated complaints, the judge was to appoint arbiters, and if they could not reconcile the couple, they were to recommend an annulment. In addition, the wives of absent and imprisoned husbands now could request an annulment on the ground that they suffered harm due to the absence of their husband even if he had assets that could be used to pay their maintenance.50 Legal historians have stressed the innovativeness of the legislators’ use of takhayyur, the method advocated by ʿAbduh. Takhayyur recovered some of the flexibility of pluralism and venue shopping at a time in which politicians sought to impose a uniform law on all citizens and left unquestioned the assumption that family law should be derived from religious law. The memory of the old plural system may have inspired ʿAbduh’s recommendation, and there was the example of the contemporary Ottoman system, which incorporated Shāfiʿī and Mālikī jurisprudence to permit women to seek an annulment for non-suppport

49  The text of the law and its explanatory memorandum are in ʿAbdallāh, Majmūʿa 166–79. On the drafting committee see Abū Zahra, al-Aḥwāl al-shakhṣiyya 9. 50  The text of the law and its explanatory memorandum appears in Muḥammad, Majmūʿa 18–36.

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and desertion.51 Legal experts declared the use of takhayyur to be in keeping with “the spirit of the age,”52 but the law it produced was socially conservative. The legislators’ intent was to preserve what they had come to regard as the normative conjugal family, and along with it, the maintenance-obedience relationship.

Family Breakdown, the Irresponsibility of Men, and the Immorality of Women

A reading of ʿAbduh’s proposals for family law reform in the context of modernist discourse on the family reveals him not only to have participated in the construction of the modern family ideology but to have shared with other modernists an anxiety over the breakdown of the family. This anxiety seems to have been twofold. On one hand, once the conjugal family was identified as the elemental unit in society and the fate of the nation was tied to it, discussion of the family was no longer just about the family. Modernist family discourse aimed at social improvement, which required a sound family life. Family breakdown was the result of men failing to fulfill their responsibilities in the maintenance-obedience relationship. Al-Taymūr’s treatise on family and domestic affairs, Mirʾāt al-ta‌ʾammul, posited a crisis of the family caused by irresponsible men unwilling to support their wives,53 and Fawwāz and Nāṣif denounced the capricious abandonment of wives and children by polygynous men.54 ʿAbduh often wrote of the irresponsibility of men who married poly­ gynously and divorced on a whim. The wreckage they made of family life was detrimental to the nation.55 Qāsim Amīn also argued that divorce was abused by men too frequently and destructive of family life.56 Male writers often construed the family crisis as fundamentally a moral one. A key component of the maintenance-obedience relationship was the notion that women could not support themselves; that was the responsibility of men. 51  Anderson, Recent developments 37. 52  The phrase used by Egyptian authors, rūḥ al-zamān, may be a translation of Zeitgeist: See ʿAbdallāh, Majmūʿa 4; Abū Zahra, al-Aḥwāl al-shakhṣiyya 8–9; and Sarkīs, al‑Zawāj 153. The Ottoman Law of Family Rights employed similar language, e.g. Qarār ḥuqūq al-ʿāʾila, in al-Jabī, al-Majalla 515. 53  Al-Taymūr, Mirʾāt al-ta‌ʾammul 29–34. 54  Fawwāz, Yā Allāh lil‑marʾa min al‑rijāl, in al-Rasāʾil 202; Bāḥithat al-Bādiya, Taʿaddud al-zawjāt, aw al-ḍarāʾir, in al-Nisa‌ʾiyyāt 27–31. 55  ʿAbduh, al-Aʿmāl al-kāmila v, 170. 56   Taḥrīr al-marʾa in al-Aʿmāl al-kāmila 394–5.

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Men who shirked that responsibility left their wives, children, and other dependents to fend for themselves. Families were broken up and women and children reduced to poverty. Moreover, women left unsupported and unsupervised threatened the moral order. As ʿAbduh put it, the failure of men to support their wives and children resulted in “corruption,” “the destruction of morals,” and “evil doings” that affected the entire nation.57 This was a persistent theme in discussions of the reform of Muslim family law. An essay in the newspaper al-Ādāb in 1889 pleaded with the Khedive to allow Shāfiʿī and Mālikī judges to apply the doctrines of their schools in cases of missing husbands. Otherwise, the wives of missing husbands would be reduced to poverty. Invoking the commonplace idea that women are deficient in intellect and faith, the writer went on to say that they might be driven by necessity to dispose of “the cloak of honor and chastity.”58 One of ʿAbduh’s followers, Shaykh ʿAbd al-Raḥīm al-Damurdāsh, made a similar point about women whose husbands left them without support: they were “left in a condition which may compel them—God forbid!—to that which does not please Him.”59 Qāsim Amīn also drew a stark picture of the uneducated woman left without male support, having “to sacrifice [herself] in the dark of night to the first one who asks—and how great an abasement this is for a woman!”60 Conclusion ʿAbduh wrote at a time in which the periodical press was beginning to popularize certain aspects of the new family ideology, in particular domesticity. He reprised the themes of earlier modernists, identifying the conjugal family as the basic unit in society, the site where children are nurtured, and advocated women’s education and domesticity, and companionate monogamous marriage. Unlike an earlier generation of modernists, who were educators, ʿAbduh as a judge and especially as Grand Mufti advocated legal reforms to promote family stability and to alleviate some of the problems faced by women in Muslim family law. In that context his advocacy of the use of takhayyur, including the adoption of Mālikī rules in an overall Ḥanafī system, may have been inspired by the memory of the plural legal system that was abolished in the 57  ʿAbduh, al-Aʿmāl al-kāmila ii, 654. 58  Zawjāt al-mafqūd 202. 59   N AE, Majlis al‑Nuẓẓār wa‑l‑Wuzarāʾ, File no. 0075–016495, Iqtirāḥāt al‑Jamʿiyya al‑ʿUmūmiyya, Feb. 1909. 60   Taḥrīr al-marʾa in al-Aʿmāl al-kāmila 331.

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1830s or 1840s. The advocacy of ʿAbduh influenced the codification of Muslim family law in the 1920s, which improved the situation of married women. However, his ideas and the consequent reform legislation were premised on the maintenance-obedience relationship, upholding a norm in which the husband provided maintenance in return for the obedience of the wife. Bibliography Archives NAE = Egypt, National archives. Majlis al-nuẓẓār wa-l-wuzarāʾ (Council of Ministers Files).

Printed Sources

al-ʿAbbāsī al-Mahdi, M., al-Fatāwā al-mahdiyya fī l-waqāʾiʿ al-Miṣriyya, 7 vols., Cairo 1883–6. ʿAbdallāh, I.A., Majmūʿat al-awāmir wa-l-manshūrāt wa-l-qawānīn al-mutaʿalliqa bi-lāʾiḥat tartīb al-maḥākim al-sharʿiyya (al-qānūn nimrat 31 sanat 1910) min sanat 1910 ilā sanat 1926, Tanta 1926. ʿAbduh, M., al-Aʿmāl al-kāmila lil-imām Muḥammad ʿAbduh, ed. M. ʿAmāra, 6 vols., Beirut 1972. ʿAbduh, M., Taqrīr faḍīlat Muftī al-Diyār al-Miṣriyya al-ustādh al-shaykh Muḥammad ʿAbduh fī islāḥ al-maḥākim al-sharʿiyya, Cairo 1900. Abū Zahra, M., al-Aḥwāl al-shakhṣiyya: Qism al-zawāj, Cairo, 1950. Agmon, I., Family and court: Legal culture and modernity in late Ottoman Palestine, Syracuse 2006. ʿAlī, A., Maṭlaʿ al-badrayn fīmā yataʿallaq bi-l-zawjayn, Cairo 1278/1862. Ali, K., Marriage and slavery in early Islam, Cambridge MA 2010. Amīn, Q., al-Aʿmāl al-kāmila, ed. M. ʿAmāra, Cairo 1989. Anderson, J.N.D., Recent developments in Sharīʿa Law II, in MW 41 (1951), 34–48. Arberry, A.J., The Koran interpreted, New York 1955. Baldwin, J.E., Islamic law in an Ottoman context: Resolving disputes in late 17th/early 18th century Cairo. Ph.D. dissertation, New York University 2010. al-Bustānī, B., The education of women, in F.A. al-Busṭānī, al-Muʿallim Buṭrus al-Busṭānī: Taʿlīm al-nisāʾ wa-ādāb al-ʿArab, dars wa muntakhabāt, Beirut 1950, 21966. Charrad, M., States and women’s rights: The making of postcolonial Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco, Berkeley and Los Angeles 2001. Christelow, A., Muslim law courts and the French colonial state in Algeria, Princeton 1985. Cole, J.R.I., Colonialism and revolution in the Middle East: Social and cultural origins of Egypt’s ʿUrabi movement, Princeton 1992.

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Complete reference of Islamic Hadeeth (CD ROM). Cuno, K.M., Modernizing marriage: Family, ideology, and law in nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Egypt, Syracuse 2015. Cuno, K.M., Reorganization of the Sharia Courts of Egypt: How legal modernization set back women’s rights in the nineteenth century, in Journal of the Ottoman and Turkish Studies Association 2 (2015), 85–99. Cuno, K.M., Women with missing husbands: Marriage in nineteenth century Egypt, in N.A. Ibrahim (ed.), Objectivity and subjectivity in the historiography of Egypt: In honour of Nelly Hanna, Cairo 2012, 156–70. Cuno, K.M., Disobedient wives and neglectful husbands: Marital relations and the first phase of reform of family law in Egypt, in K.M. Cuno and M. Desai (eds.), Family, gender and law in a globalizing Middle East and South Asia, Syracuse 2009, 3–18. Depping, G.-B., Aperçu historique sur les moeurs et coutumes des nations, Paris 1826, 21842. Esposito, J. and N. Delong Bas, Women in Muslim family law, Syracuse 1982, 22001 (rev. ed.). Fairchilds, C., Women and the family, in S.I. Spencer (ed.), French women and the age of enlightenment, Bloomington IN 1984, 97–110. Fawwāz, Z., al-Rasāʾil al-zaynabiyya, Cairo 1905. Fyzee, A.A., Outlines of Muhammadan law, London 1949, 31964 Gesink, I., Islamic reform and conservatism: Al-Azhar and the evolution of modern Sunni Islam, London 2010. al-Ghazālī, The proper conduct of marriage in Islam (Adab an-nikāḥ). Book twelve of Ihyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn, trans. M. Holland, Hollywood, FL 1998. Guizot, F., History of civilization in Europe, from the fall of the Roman Empire to the French Revolution, 1828, New York 1885. Hallaq, W.B., Sharīʿa: Theory, practice, transformations, Cambridge 2009. Hanna, N., The administration of courts in Ottoman Cairo, in N. Hanna (ed.), The state and its servants: Administration in Egypt from Ottoman times to the present, Cairo 1995, 44–59. Hourani, A., Arabic thought in the liberal age 1798–1939, Oxford 1962, 3Cambridge 1983. Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Radd al-muḥtār ʿalā l-Durr al-mukhtār sharḥ Tanwīr al-abṣār, 5 vols., Būlāq 31905–08. Inalcik, H., The earlier centuries, in Maḥkama, Part 2, The Ottoman Empire, in EI2. al-Jabī, B. (ed.), al-Majalla: Majallat al-aḥkām al-ʿadliyya maʿahā Qarār ḥuqūq al-ʿāʾila fī l-nikāḥ al-madanī wa-l-ṭalāq, Limassol 2004. Jallād, F. (ed.), Qāmūs al-idāra wa-l-qaḍāʾ, 4 vols., Alexandria 1890–2. Keddie, N., Sayyid Jamal ad-Din “al-Afghani:” A political biography. Berkeley and Los Angeles 1972. Khadduri, M., Maṣlaḥa, in EI2.

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Lāʾiḥat al-maḥākim al-sharʿiyya, 9 Rajab 1297/June 17, 1880, in F. Jallād, Qāmūs al-idāra wa-l-qaḍāʾ, iv, Alexandria 1890–2, 145–56. Lāʾiḥat al-quḍāt, 28 Rabīʿ al-Thānī 1273/Dec. 26, 1856, in F. Jallād, Qāmūs al-idāra wa-lqaḍāʾ, iv, Alexandria 1890–2, 129–32. Lāʾiḥat tartīb al-maḥākim al-sharʿiyya wa-l-ijrāʾāt al-mutaʿalliqa bihā, May 27, 1897, in Majmūʿat al-awāmir al-ʿulyā wa-l-dikrītāt al-ṣādira fī sanat 1897, Būlāq 1898, 155–75. Linant de Bellefonds, Y., Ḍarūra, in EI2. Malte-Brun, C., Universal Geography, 6 vols., Philadelphia 1812, 1827–32. Messick, B., The calligraphic state: Textual domination and history in a Muslim society, Berkeley and Los Angeles 1992. Mubārak, ʿA., Ṭarīq al-hijāʾ wa-l-tamrīn ʿalā al-qirāʾa fī l-lugha al-ʿArabiyya, 2 vols., Cairo 1285/1868. Muḥammad, A.I., Majmūʿat qawānīn al-aḥwāl al-shakhṣiyya, Alexandria 1956? Nāṣif, M.H. (Bāḥithat al-Bādiyya), al-Nisāʾiyyāt, Cairo 1910. al-Nawawī, M., ʿUqūd al-lujayn fī bayān ḥuqūq al-zawjayn, Cairo 1296/1879. Peters, R., Muḥammad al-ʿAbbāsī al-Mahdī (d. 1897), Grand Muftī of Egypt, and his al-Fatāwā al-Mahdiyya, in Islamic Law and Society 1 (1994), 66–82. Qadrī, M., al-Aḥkām al-sharʿiyya fī l-aḥwāl al-shakhṣiyya, Cairo 1876, 21881. al-Ramlī, K., al-Fatāwā al-khayriyya li-nafʿ al-barriyya, 2 vols., Beirut 1857, 61974. Rapoport, Y., Legal diversity in the age of Taqlīd: The four chief qāḍīs under the Mamluks, Islamic Law and Society 10 (2003), 210–28. Rapoport, Y., Marriage, money and divorce in medieval Islamic society, Cambridge 2005. Riḍā, M., Tārīkh al-ustādh al-imām al-shaykh Muḥammad ʿAbduh, 3 vols., Cairo 1931. Sarkīs, ʿA., al-Zawāj wa-taṭawwur al-mujtamaʿ, Cairo 1967. Shahar, I., Legal pluralism and the study of the Shariʿa Courts, in Islamic Law and Society 15 (2008), 112–41. Sönmez, E., Turkish women in Turkish Literature of the 19th century, in WI 12 (1969), 1–73. Sonneveld, N., Khulʿ divorce in Egypt: Public debates, judicial practices, and everyday life, Cairo 2012. al-Ṭahṭāwī, R., al-Murshid al-amīn lil-banāt wa-l-banīn, ed. I. Abū Ghāzī, Cairo 1873, 2002. al-Taymūr, ʿA., Mirʾāt al-ta‌ʾammul fī l-umūr, Cairo 1893, 22002. Tucker, J. In the house of the law: Gender and Islamic law in Ottoman Syria and Palestine, Berkeley, 1998. Vesey-Fitzgerald, S. Muhammadan law: An abridgment according to its various schools, Oxford 1931. Vikør, K. Between God and the sultan: A history of Islamic law, Oxford 2005. Zawjāt al-mafqūd, in Majallat al-ādāb 1889.

CHAPTER 22

“Go directly home with decorum”: Conduct Books for Egypt’s Young, ca. 1912 Marilyn Booth It is appropriate for a well-mannered person not to allow locks of hair to show from beneath his headgear: such an affectation of charm detracts from his dignity and gravity. Nor ought he to let his hair flow across his shoulders, giving himself the appearance of European-style poets and actors on the pretext that he is one of their number. Allowing the hair to swing loose does not indicate genius or a capacious mind. If it did, women would have vaster minds than men and more aptitude for genius.1 This passage from a 1913 volume published in Cairo encapsulates some common and abiding features of an Arabic literature of conduct, etiquette and family and household management that emerged at the end of the nineteenth century to become a vigorous part of the publishing sector for decades to come. The passage—from Ādāb al-liyāqa (Principles of correct behavior, Good manners)—yokes gendered bodily care to notions of masculine comportment.2 The latter is implied to be under threat from ‘feminizing’ influences of colonial modernity, requiring discursive reinstatement of the gender hierarchy and reassertion of local mores in the face of imported danger. Ādāb al-liyāqa instructs readers in the minutiae of modern etiquette. The text does not reject new materialities and accompanying habitudes associated with European ways, but seeks to manage them for a rising, youthful male urban elite-in-themaking, those becoming known as effendis. This essay offers a close reading of two such texts. I argue that the predominantly domesticating agenda and female target audience of most conduct books in their heyday, the 1920s, was preceded by a more ambiguously gendered, less stridently domesticating, 1  Masʿūd, Ādāb 6–7. 2  It is interesting that, constructing a young masculine readership, the author conveys anxiety about visible “flowing” hair. This seems to gesture both to anxieties at the time about young women making themselves more public and more seen, but equally about young men exhibiting too much of their physical charms, in defiance of older norms that required modesty and covering from both genders.

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conduct literature, though the earliest examples of domestic how-to books appeared in 1899 or earlier, and were preceded by “home management” columns in journals. I do not contest the strong consensus among reformers that the proper content of girls’ education was domestic. This essay has the more modest aim of showing that even books purporting to confine females to the domestic sphere had to take note of changing realities; this is particularly evident in books written for boys as well as girls, and—­differently—in books written by female authors. These books are a product of a rapidly transforming urban scene: major infrastructural expansions and new technologies (railway expansion, tramways, the postal service, telegraphs and telephones, new publishing venues, automobiles) meant new possibilities for mobility and contact: urbanity offered potential and danger. Conduct books were to manage this ‘double burden’; but if a patriarchal domestic agenda defining females first as daughters, wives, and mothers was coming firmly into place as the leading ‘modernizing’ discourse of nationhood, even the conduct and advice book sector witnessed the occasional mildly dissenting voice.3

Disciplining the (Elite) Young

From Western Europe to East Asia, pre-modern conduct and advice literature was associated with the training of men at the top of the social-political hierarchy. From the late seventeenth century in Europe, and then elsewhere, advice and etiquette texts have more often been associated with the socialization of females. In the nineteenth-century Indian subcontinent, Persia and the Ottoman Empire, as in Europe and America, this loosely-defined, roomy category of writing was caught up in arguments over the need, respectability, direction and content of education for females. As Nancy Armstrong has argued, conduct literature was the politics of power by another name.4 Over time, conduct and advice texts in all their regional variations indexed core changes in political systems that necessitated—and were fueled by—economic and social transformation, and emerging ideas about subjectivity, interiority, and the individual. Such didactic writing was no less central to the politics of colonial 3  This essay is an initial foray into planned research on conduct literature, novels, girls and readership in Egypt. 4  Armstrong, Desire, Rise. On the genre in Europe see also Sutherland, Writings; Jones, Introduction; Berenguier, Conduct. Work on this for the Indian subcontinent offers productive comparisons; see Minault, Secluded scholars; Metcalf, Thanawi’s jewelry; Metcalf, Perfecting women; Naim, Prize-winning adab.

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contestation. Imperial rhetoric’s insistent focus on the gendered organization of societies—and imperially interested observers’ perceptions of what such gender organization entailed in a given society and its past—meant that what was usually called ‘the woman question’ took center stage in nationalist movements. A literature of conduct that sought to define, regulate and argue for particular visions of gendered identities, spaces and social roles was thus also a political intervention in the politics of aspirational postcolonial nationhood. The first decades of the twentieth century in Egypt saw an explosion of such books aimed at the female subject, fuelled by the need for curricula in new state-opened girls’ schools and furnishing a stream of income for new independent publishers, to judge by the many printings some of these texts enjoyed and the proliferation of similarly titled texts by the same and other authors.5 Among Arabophone elites, earlier nineteenth-century polemics on the importance of girls’ education had broadened into fiercer debates on gendered social roles and issues of female visibility and mobility, marriage choice and the nature and extent of patriarchal authority. In Egypt, Qāsim Amīn published two controversial works on the subject, Taḥrīr al-marʿa (Emancipation of women, 1899) and al-Marʾa al-jadīda (The new woman, 1901). Amīn’s writings (and book titles) generated fierce responses as well as support; they were at one end of a continuum in a public debate that attracted many voices. Polemics on ‘the woman question’ shaded into the production of a literature of conduct that spelled out appropriate social roles and behavior not only for girls 5  Russell, Creating, ch. 8; Booth, May. Baron, Women’s awakening, discusses related periodical literature. Some authors appear to have created veritable cottage industries. ʿAlī Fikrī’s Ādāb al-fatāt, published by two presses in 1899 and a third in 1902, went through at least 10 printings (1899–1937; 6 through 1911); his Ādāb al-fatā saw at least six (1900, 1901, 1905, 1914; ‘6th printing’, 1923) and Musāmarāt al-banāt, part one first published probably in 1903, went through at least 12 printings by 1923 and both parts appeared (again) in 1925 and possibly later. He published at least six other books, on marital happiness, sermon-lessons for girls and for boys, paths to success, currency, and a volume of correspondence. Muḥammad Aḥmad Rakhā wrote, with Muḥammad Ḥamdī, Kitāb al-akhlāq lil-banāt, published in 1918 and for the seventh time in 1926. With Zakī Muḥammad al-Muhandis he wrote Kitāb al-akhlāq lilbanīn, also appearing as Kitāb akhlāq al-fatā, seven printings 1925–31. His Tahdhīb al-banīn saw seven printings (1918?–26). These figures are based on my holdings and information I could glean and are incomplete. One can trace the rising professional-social fortunes of writers through these multiple printings. Rakhā’s and Ḥamdī’s names appear in 1919 without accompanying titles; they are defined on the title page as, respectively, wakīl qalam al-lawāzimāt [sic] bi-l-maʿārif and wakīl madrasat al-muḥāsaba wa-l-tijāra al-ʿulyā. By 1921 they are ra‌ʾīs qalam al-lawāzim bi-wizārat al-maʿārif and nāẓir madrasat al-muḥāsaba wa-ltijāra al-mutawassiṭa and by 1925 they both carry the title of bek and are mudīr al-makhāzin bi-wizārat al-maʿārif and nāẓir madrasat al-tijāra al-ʿulyā.

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and young women, but also for boys and young men. These works of advice and instruction were no less polemical than were the treatises, and argumentation and advice often went hand-in-hand. Within the advice and instruction category, self-help programs were by no means identical. Even if they generally reiterated prevailing understandings of gender difference and its appropriate social deployment, some such works occasionally interrogated them. Arabic books and periodical articles concerning the proper socialization of the young tackled a wide swathe of subjects. Written for local-regional publics, such works often entailed translational strategies, borrowing from and adapting writings from French, English, and Turkish. Manuals on bodily care and appearance management, sociality and etiquette, homemaking and childcare, drew both on contemporaneous European conduct books and on the mirrors-for-princes genre, itself a cultural crossover genre that had drawn from classical Greek sources.6 A nearer antecedent (which continued into the twentieth century) were Arabic-Islamic marriage manuals directed at a male audience and part of the late-nineteenth-century debate on ‘what was due to women/wives’ and the emerging polemics on ‘the woman question’ as a key component of defining ‘modernity’ and ‘the nation.’ Also from the 1880s, works on health management and polemics against ‘old hags’ remedies’ and ‘folk medicine’ provided a basis for the early twentieth century’s manuals for home nursing and care of the self, and the ensuing production of school textbooks on health and home targeting especially a new female constituency of school-goers. Conduct novels sought to train readers whilst entertaining them. Hybrid household-and-etiquette manuals instructed girls and young women (and boys and young men, differently) on how to choose, furnish and maintain a modern home; how to construct a household budget and stick to it; and how to maintain a respectable sociability as host/ess. More focused domestic works on childrearing, cookery, and the like instructed future mothers on how to raise healthy children and keep a modern husband satisfied materially and morally while remaining silent on sexual relations.7 A common thread through this array of works was that authors framed the practicalities of daily life in the moral compass of subject formation and the values authors saw as vital to the collective goal of independent nation formation. Instilling those values—and a sense of responsibility toward the idea of an independent, linguistically distinct nation—was a key aim: conduct 6  Yavari, Advice. 7  Earlier marriage manuals for men addressed sexual satisfaction, urging men to remember their duty to wives; in the 1920s, perhaps first through the translation of Marie Stopes’ work, the topic was addressed more thoroughly. Stūbis (Stopes), Jannat al-azwāj.

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books were about forming the national, patriotic subject through a common (gendered) education. These works doubled as school readers, teaching vocabulary, grammar and composition as well as selective moments in Islamic history. Ādāb al-liyāqa, in its language as well as subject matter, alerts us to the changing publics for such works—or perhaps more accurately, to the societal changes underway that called those publics into being. Unlike nineteenth-century marriage and health manuals, which often presumed an ability to knowledgeably read the often dense or archaic language of fiqh, this text is pitched to an audience assumed not to have a highly accomplished knowledge of classical Arabic. Not only is the style simple and straightforward, with little rhetorical embellishment; several times (often but not always within a pre-modern anecdote), the author-compiler offers footnotes explaining vocabulary.8 The work moreover educates its young target audience into a concept of ‘local’ authenticity, with frequent recourse to ḥadīth and classical anecdotes drawn from Islamic history to buttress its directives, for example on not plucking one’s beard, on restraining oneself from striking others, on greeting a religious scholar properly, and on practicing moderation in eating. European authorities are summoned as well; introducing the topic of greetings, the text quotes the Prophet Muḥammad and Henri IV of France.9 Familiarity with European and Islamic personalities in history was cultural capital that Egypt’s elite urban young were to acquire. While conduct books were especially likely to form the curricula of girls’ schools and instill a modern local feminine ideal, they also regimented a gender order through addressing boys and young men. The differential instructions and modes of address offered to female and male target publics suggest insistence on gender difference as clearly demarcating the distinct social spaces, bodily behaviors, and duties and pursuits expected from the rising elite young; but also an area of ambiguity where emerging, newly accepted practices contend or even clash with declarations that maintain the principle of immutable sexed difference. Such texts wrestle particularly with regulating gender differentiation through some common if troublesome nodes of sociality: of display, visibility and mobility, and silence versus speech. These points become tropes that engender (and repress) anxiety. The allegedly greater visibility (through movement, speech, and behavior choices) of turn-of-the-century youth (most sensitively, females) raised issues of authority, autonomy and hierarchy in the 8  Examples: rakwa, in an anecdote on the Prophet (4); dammama (4), giving various meanings in addition to ‘painted one’s face.’ 9  Masʿūd, Ādāb 6, 16, 17, 39–40, 66.

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family (and thus also potentially beyond it). These were issues about who could occupy what spaces, and they were intensified by the very presence of new public spaces (parks, hotels, tramways, etc.) whose habitation was part of the definition of being urbane and modern. This essay merely begins to work through the polemics of gendered conduct in turn-of-the-twentiethcentury Egypt, by suggesting how these tropes operate in two contemporaneous but very different texts: the aforementioned Ādāb al-liyāqa, authored by Muḥammad Masʿūd and published by an independent press in Cairo in 1913; and a book by Firdaws ʿAbd al-ʿAlīm Ṣāliḥ, Ḥusn al-thabāt fī l-muṭālaʿa al-sahla lil-banāt, which also appeared in Cairo, in 1911, but published by the press of the well-established journal edited by Jurjī Zaydān, al-Hilāl.10 To conclude, I briefly contrast these with a later book by Masʿūd and the work of the prolific Fransīs Mīkhāʾīl, a self-styled ‘home ec. expert’ who produced books on home management and also possibly produced a daughter who wrote a cookbook for girls’ schools. Masʿūd addressed himself to a male audience, as is evident both in his array of topics and his rhetoric. But he took up the behavior of females as well. Ṣāliḥ’s book, written explicitly for schoolgirls by a recent and female graduate, also sought to discipline female behavior but plotted this quite differently. In her study of consumption and the discursive construction of the ‘New Woman’ in Egypt, Mona Russell has argued that female normal-school graduates did not necessarily accept the rigidly domestic agenda that the Ministry (and many how-to and conduct books it funded or accepted as curricula) seemed to have in mind. Russell’s evidence is that the leading normal school failed to attract students to a new domestic-sciences branch; they flocked instead to the general-education track.11 Does Ṣāliḥ’s book corroborate this argument? Russell posits the domestic curriculum as an outcome of ‘inconsistencies’ in the modernizing state’s needs and its sense of the nation’s (that is, the masculine elite’s) needs, particularly for women as early-childhood educators in the home and as schoolteachers (for girls), yet in such a way that would not sanction women’s work outside of domestic spheres (which could include girls’ schools).12 I believe the reasons go deeper (as Russell’s own research also suggests). Indoctrinating domesticity was a convenient way to ‘modernize’ what were seen as indigenous, gendered virtues of modesty and silence, while also attempting to restrict elite and middle-class urban females’ occupation of 10  The next step is comparing companion ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ volumes to each other and over time, and how conduct manuals borrowed from each other. 11  Russell, Creating 138–9; on debates over who should be educated and how, 131–8. 12  Russell, Creating 5.

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public spaces, by insistently claiming that such spaces were not ‘naturally’ theirs. The internal fabric of conduct and advice books is strained and frayed by trying to accommodate what are sometimes not only inconsistencies but outright contradictions. Furthermore—and there is not the scope here to develop this argument—domestically focused rhetoric and training, even if aimed explicitly at girls, also disciplined boys into centering their lives and their concerns in the home—rather than in the street, the café, the bar or the gambling parlor, sites that generated much anxiety in print since the 1880s if not before, and that intersected with the politics of resistance to European imperialism. Books for boys thus have a particularly delicate task to perform: constructing ‘manliness’ as a presence in the world (hence the focus on social interaction), but ultimately as a modern patriarchal presence in the home, modeling sober and thrifty modernity to (male) guests as well as family members.

The Moral Body

Muḥammad Masʿūd, defined on his title page as technical editor in the Egyptian Interior Ministry,13 announces that his book has already been chosen as a school text (for what level or in what venue, we are not told). His preface characterizes the work’s focus as “polite social behavior and the principles of social interaction”; his audience as “growing/rising children, to establish and fix their behavior in words and deeds”; and his measuring stick for “polite social behavior” as “that stipulated by custom, agreed on by taste, and adopted in general by the refined classes in advanced societies.”14 Thus, Masʿūd’s book does not start out by gender-defining a prospective audience. Nor does it refer by name to Euro/American societies as models. It does invoke a European model indirectly; the text works to balance local custom and mores with (some) imported practices. 13  The 1931 edition, al-Adab al-lāʾiq, calls him “director of the publications division in the bureau of commerce and industry.” Nuṣayr, al-Kutub and al-Kutub . . . 1900–1925, lists many titles written, compiled or translated under this name, 1890–1923. While this could refer to more than one individual, Masʿūd was a prolific and at the time well-known figure on the press and publishing scene. He was a frequent contributor (as writer and translator) to the leading nationalist daily al-Muʾayyad and wrote for other journals. He also compiled many annual almanacs for al-Muʾayyad, from at least 1897 on. He exemplifies the many culture producers, men and women, who have been largely forgotten but were indispensable workers in the print and associational florescence of the period. 14  Masʿūd, Ādāb, unpaginated preface.

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From the start, the physical and the moral are intertwined: “The body’s comfort requires variation in its states—sitting and standing, movement and stillness. . . . Keep yourself distant from affectedness, a taint on the body that reveals faults of character.”15 General principles follow. One must stand straight and never slump against walls, droop one’s head or tilt it too high. One’s pace must remain moderate, one’s footfall light. This well-regulated body is not defined here according to gender. However, the reader soon discovers that additional instructions are required if the body to be trained is female. “As for the woman: when walking, it is attractive for her to position one arm such that one thinks she is holding something in her hand. For if she swings both arms forward, parallel to her body, she will resemble a man more than she does a woman.”16 Feminine behavior is equated with what is “attractive”: the female body is the object of a masculine gaze rather than the primary subject of the books’ disciplining force, although it is the latter too. Specifying ideal female comportment, the author genders the ‘unmarked’ body as male. This gender-specific directive both targets and distances the female subject/ object and thus also detaches the masculine reader/subject from ‘feminine’ behavior. What is also of interest here is the assumption that the female (of “the refined classes” to which the book is directed) will be walking in public at all. She will be visible; thus her presence in public space must be clearly differentiated from ‘masculine’ physicality and gestures. Elite females’ visibility and mobility outside home space called forth anxious commentary in turn-ofthe-century newspapers and magazines in Egypt. And yet, books such as this, prescribing and proscribing ways of being female in public spaces, recognized (through their very inclusion of the topic) that the issue was not ‘if’ but ‘how.’17 Moving from the scalp downward, the focus remains on control of and constant vigilance over the body’s movements and appearance: appropriate handling of the head and face; of the eyes and the gaze; of the nose and ears; of the mouth, teeth and tongue; of knees, feet and legs. The pairing of “eyes and gaze” (ʿuyūn, laḥẓ) exemplifies the work’s sustained interweaving of physical, social and moral realms as the province of bodily expression and control. Similarly, the section on ‘ears and nose’ begins: “If cleaning the ears of filth is necessary, even more so is removing them from [the possibility of] hearing ugly things.” Thus one must avoid eavesdropping, “as an act of treachery and bad manners.”18 15  Masʿūd, Ādāb 1. 16  Masʿūd, Ādāb 1–2. 17  Booth, Disruptions. 18  Masʿūd, Ādāb 10–11.

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Following detailed instructions on cleansing the mouth and tongue, readers are told that “honorable character entails guarding the tongue from speaking meaninglessly or delving into the false and worthless, . . . or quarreling, boasting and prattling, joking in a way that transgresses proper modesty, mockery, divulging secrets, lying or making false oaths and promises.”19 Bathing regularly is both a matter of physical health and social respect. “Simply making cleanliness a virtue is enough to garner you respect, even if you are neither rich nor a learned man.”20 Taking baths is of far-reaching import: “Do not forget that cleanliness leads to good organization, and that leads to resolution and endeavor, which brings wealth, which is the basis of the felicity of the family and a key means of instituting happy relationships among its members.”21 Thus, one’s most mundane acts are socially resonant and seriously consequential. Readers learned at the start that the slightest movement of the head can take on perilous social significance: “it is not fitting for the refined person to . . . tilt his head, except in situations of submission and obedience, for example when praying, or appearing before a superior [or elder], when it is not a bad thing to incline it slightly forward.” But responding to a question with a nod or shake of the head is inadvisable, as it may suggest “scorn and levity.”22 If the position of one’s head indicates in/appropriate interpersonal facility, facial expressions alert others to the moral capacity of the self, and expose its interiority. For “the face is mirror of the self, witness to a person’s character; it is imperative that its features not summon suspicion or doubt.” The text articulates key words of the era, deployed in press polemics on the dubious behavior of the young of both genders: the face must not evidence khiffa, ifrāṭ, or takalluf (triviality or frivolity, excess or immoderation, artificiality or posing).23 Yet if the face is a mirror, and if one must exercise constant self-vigilance, one must also avoid overdoing attention to the self: ‘The mirror is an implement in which is imprinted the viewer’s image” and one must not stand in front of it longer than is necessary to ascertain that one’s clothes “are neat and orderly, so that if he appears in front of people . . . no one’s glance will fall on him in such a way that brings on criticism or mockery.”24

19  Masʿūd, Ādāb 13. 20  Masʿūd, Ādāb 26. 21  Masʿūd, Ādāb 26. 22  Masʿūd, Ādāb 3. 23  Masʿūd, Ādāb 3–4. 24  Masʿūd, Ādāb 4.

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The Adorned Body

Through these and subsequent sections, the book moves outward from the body-self to its disposal in spaces (home, other spaces of sociability, the street) and interaction with others, offering up a male-centric program. Feminine behavior is not absent (as we saw above) but rather is cast as the exception, the difference, the additional. Females are also objects associated with particular social spaces where males must contend with them: how a man does so is a measure of his trained refinement (tahdhīb). This may be a matter of protecting related females or avoiding causing them embarrassment (when encountering them on the street—another indication of women’s inevitable visibility in public space). Or it may have to do with exercising judgment over females’ choices and behaviors—an act that is parsed as an extension of the proper and mature masculine self, as it performs the accustomed social-gendered hierarchy of a modernized patriarchy. In such moments the narration switches from third-person description to direct address to implicitly male interlocutors, where the female remains the third-person object of discourse: If one among you sees a woman who has painted her face with the white and the red [foundation, powder and rouge] to improve on what nature has withheld from her . . . must he not feel scorn? There is no doubt of it! Not only is she gulling people, but she is also deceiving herself. Such is the ultimate delusion, deluding others, and such is negligence.25 Elsewhere in the book, the male subject is adjured to avoid disparaging others (for example, a servant who makes an error when serving guests26), as part of maintaining a refined, restrained and Islamically appropriate public demeanor. But here, the narrator’s verbal disparagement models the disciplining of the wayward female subject. The focus remains momentarily on this female subject. But she is never the direct addressee. As in many conduct books and other polemics on gendered behavior, this one implies that men (as writers, implied narrative voices and readers) are cast as the teacher-intermediaries, instructing women. Perhaps such a role intensifies the interiorization of conduct-book rhetoric for those who play this dual role of instructee-instructor.27 Masʿūd does use a structure 25  Masʿūd, Ādāb 4–5. 26  Masʿūd, Ādāb 53. 27  I discuss this rhetorical structure of masculine addressee-in-the-text as a construction of social hierarchy in Booth, Women, Before, Classes, and Educating.

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that parallels his invocation of the ideal masculine, though “woman” unmodified replaces “the refined [male]”: “It befits the woman to set before her eyes that painting the face is permissible only for actresses, in places of entertainment and theatres, and that it is very dangerous to the face, very soon blemishing it and taking away its freshness.”28 Having dealt with the carriage of the body and the usages of head and face, we turn to that which covers them. Masʿūd’s chapter on clothing reminds us that if there was intensive scrutiny in print of urban upper- and middle-strata women’s and girl’s apparel choices—including strong criticism of alleged preferences for European styles and materials (deplored also as draining hardworking men’s incomes)—this did not obviate attention to masculine attire. Young men’s penchant for European styles was also the butt of satire and attack in the nationalist press; it almost represented traitorous behavior, whether because it signaled an attraction to European ways or because it used up precious national resources and wasted time better spent in pursuits to strengthen the nation. In this partly Europeanizing text, though, proper sartorial choices are indexed not as local or foreign, but as tasteful, thrifty, sober and appropriate versus loud, clashing, or unkempt. Al-tajammul (beautifying [the self]) applies critically to both genders in Ādāb al-liyāqa. But the directives aimed at women are uniquely constraining. The text criticizes “some women [who] intentionally wear worn-out garments at home, including jalābiyyas unfit to be seen [lit., to appear in]. Such negligence exposes them to the scorn of servants and children and to the loathing of husbands; it is a practice they must avoid.”29 Yet women must exercise constant vigilance about appearing too attractive: they must not practice al-tabarruj in the streets, “for women’s adornments are strictly for the home.”30 Masʿūd explains, “A woman practices tabarruj if she shows her adornment/beauty [zīna] to men.” This was not simply a matter of clothing. “It is blameworthy” also, on grounds of social distinction, “indeed, it is a marker of a complete lack of taste, when a woman wears rings on all of her fingers and many bangles all along her arms.” A single ring on one finger “and two bracelets on two wrists, will exhibit her zīna more than does hiding these body parts beneath gold and

28  Masʿūd, Ādāb 5. Females are object of the reader’s (assumed masculine) gaze in embedded anecdotes, for example, a jāriya who believes a pious man is blind, but she is told he is simply averting his eyes “from that which God prohibited him” (Ādāb 8). 29  Masʿūd, Ādāb 30. 30  Masʿūd, Ādāb 31.

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diamonds.”31 (Presumably this was meant as a husband-only exhibition, since readers had learned that a woman was not to show her zīna otherwise, and tabarruj for pre-modern as well as modern commentators connoted specifically a woman ‘showing her adornments’ or ‘displaying herself’ to men other than her husband or close relatives.)32 And so on, through shoes and headgear, and on to habits of sleeping and eating. A long section on “etiquette of inviting people to dinner parties” followed by one on “table manners” is directed to male heads of household, adumbrating by exclusion the strictly gendered roles concerning provision, preparation, consumption and sharing of food in the elite household.33 Unlike manuals written for females that tend to dwell on food choice, thrifty shopping, and preparation and presentation, the focus here is on the sociable and polite consumption of food in the company of one’s (male) guests. Homosocial gatherings are not the only focus of attention; a sense of the social life which rising effendis might encounter emerges in discussion of greetings. Readers needed to know how to conduct themselves in gendermixed gatherings. For this writer, in 1913, this is strictly a matter of European interlocutors. “If you attend a social gathering that includes a European woman [sayyida ifirānkiyya] or meet a European friend with his wife, accustomed etiquette is that you not put your hand out first. Stay as you are, and if she puts her hand out, then shake it; if not, then do not.”34 Another distinction between local and foreign women is made in the section on visiting: “Eastern mores do not permit women to have their own cartes de visite printed with their names.”35 Readers are reminded of accustomed practices: “If your conversation concerns your addressee’s wife, do not utter her kunya or ism or address him by saying something like ‘Your wife said’ . . . or [refer to] ‘So-and-so’ [Fulāna] by name.” Rather, it should be couched as an allusion to her: “It was said in the women’s quarters,” or “in the room,” or “from behind the curtain.” ’36 In his own rhetorical framework, the author seems to take his own advice: women are never directly addressed, but only through the mediation of the presumptively male reader. 31  Masʿūd, Ādāb 31. Men are to wear “no more than one ring, on the little finger of the right hand.” 32   Tabarruj also came to mean ‘removing the face-veil’ in front of unrelated men. 33  Masʿūd, Ādāb 46–52, 52–65. 34  Masʿūd, Ādāb 69. Sections on etiquette when traveling and in hotels also suggest changing times. 35  Masʿūd, Ādāb 100. 36  Masʿūd, Ādāb 108.

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The section on walking in public is similarly addressed to men: “if you must cross a wooden bridge over a canal . . .”; “if you meet a friend . . .”37 But—as objects of discourse, in the third person—women are singled out: “Women in particular must not walk in a strutting or swaying manner [tatabakhtaru] down the middle of the street but rather must walk on the side of it.”38 While this follows ‘non-gendered’ instructions on staying to the right side and avoiding the path of carriages and animals, only women are said to “strut” or “sway.” This is followed by a passage said to be from ḥadīth: “The middle of the street is not for women, but rather the edges.” The section also includes a sharp notice on sexual harassment, another recognition, perhaps, of the growing presence of middle-strata urban women in public space: A person’s baseness . . . is proven if he follows women in the street to flirt with them or fling licentious expressions at them. As long as she is careful to preserve the obligations of good behavior and modesty in the street, a woman may appropriately treat someone approaching them [in this way] fiercely, informing a policeman or a man of honor and chivalry so [the culprit] can be arrested and taken to where he can be punished for his ugliness and base character.39 The final fifty-some pages of this 160-page manual move from sociability to niceties of communication—modes of address, language use, the art of conversation, the necessity of avoiding gossip, the etiquette of debate, praise, counsel, and correspondence. The ideal man who emerges from these pages is as adept at the arts of sociable interchange, and as prudent in exercising them as he is careful with his own appearance, demeanor, and resources. And, though he may appreciate and draw on European-provenant practices, he must maintain the boundaries of the national-ethnic through language; otherwise, he becomes illegible. Among what constitutes good speech is avoidance of an artificial kind of Arabic, adopting an affected accent that causes it to approximate a European language, especially by using European-like sounds. You will not be understood by either Arabs or Europeans.40

37  Masʿūd, Ādāb 75, 76. 38  Masʿūd, Ādāb 73. 39  Masʿūd, Ādāb 77. 40  Masʿūd, Ādāb 113–14.

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But what about the possible, unaddressed but alluded-to, female speaker of Arabic, clearly as much an object of Masʿūd’s socialization project as was his presumed male interlocutor? Since at least the 1890s, the notion of ‘companionate marriage’ had been one of several interrelated arguments made by those pushing for greater attention to the formal education of girls in Egypt. For the health of the family—and thus of the nation, envisaged as an ensemble of (middle-class, nuclear) families—women were to be trained in not only informed, scientific childrearing methods and techniques of orderly and ‘modern’ household management but also into becoming well-informed, appealing companions for the new effendi class of professionals, who would then want to stay home rather than spend their evenings (and the nation’s income) at foreign-run bars and gambling parlors. Some even envisioned the cautious introduction of mixed-gender gatherings, where the educated, intelligently articulate female spouse would be an asset. In this respect Masʿūd’s program falters. Discussing “the etiquette of conversation in social gatherings, founded on sincerity, integrity and benefit,” Masʿūd cannot extend his ideal of sociability beyond the sphere of adult males, indeed, beyond those who meet his criteria for al-liyāqa. “If for the ignorant, silence is a veil, and if for the inadequate person whose powers of expression are feeble, it is a protection against the evil of scandalizing oneself in sociable company, then it is the adornment [zīna] of women and children, ever to be a cherished goal.”41 By using the term zīna Masʿūd likens women’s speech to (his characterization of) their appearance. If al-tabarruj is showing one’s adornments (zīna) to ‘men’ (that is, other than one’s husband), then displaying women’s voice, as zīna, becomes tabarruj, inexcusable and immoral showiness, when exercised outside the marital home. Encouraging women’s silence by labeling their voices as zīna was perhaps the more palatable modern patriarchal equivalent to an older discourse that equated women’s voices with ʿawra, private parts, illicit to reveal outside the most intimate company.

A Girl’s Manual for Girls

In 1911, a young graduate of the government teacher-training school for females published Ḥusn al-thabāt fī muṭālaʿa ʿalā l-sahla lil-banāt (The excellence of persistent effort, concerning easy reading for girls). Invoking “the God of Muslims, who taught us by the pen,” she explains her motivations and aim: 41  Masʿūd, Ādāb 116.

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I was called to write this book when I observed how girls’ schools have proliferated in this era, that of our master ʿAbbās Pasha Ḥilmī II, may God preserve him, on account of the zeal of the excellent Ministry of Education and the honorable provincial councils. Yet, they [the girls] lack the sort of written text that could be an outcome of the education they receive, one of the fruits yielded by their cultivation. Thus I have wanted to present this first result to my sisters, young Egyptian women, to rectify this lack and in fulfillment of the duty incumbent upon me to serve my country. I hope it will elevate the Egyptian girl’s thinking to a level that would mean good training for everyone and everywhere. May God accept this work from one who is in the seventeenth year of her life . . . 42 Seventeen-year-old Firdaws Ṣāliḥ wants to model her own education by demonstrating the skills it has given her, while also providing rising schoolgirls with appropriate reading material. Her 60-page book comprises 58 readings in a range of genres: anecdote, sermon, poem, aphorism, biographical sketch. This is reading material that offers directives on daily living, models the author’s notion of good behavior, exhorts young women to hold certain aspirations, and holds up examples drawn from the lives of early Muslims and contemporary Egyptians. Within the field of conduct literature then, this work is unusual in being female-authored, which may be the reason it is also unusual in its subject focus and emphases. The work is framed by a specific structure of address, as the narrator hails ayyatuhā al-tilmīdha (O female pupil). The first entries follow a conventional didactic progression found in earlier works: one’s duty to love God, the prophets, and one’s parents. The invocation defining and calling to a specific audience of schoolgirls is made even more specific and exhortatory as the author invokes the “intelligent female pupil” as her audience, conveying at once respect and encouragement, an attitude quite different than that implied in Masʿūd’s book. The fourth entry sounds a familiar note: “Love of the homeland is part of one’s religion.”43 Readers are interpellated into a social gospel of aid to the needy, the orphan and the invalid, “so that the children of the homeland are akin to one family”: like Masʿūd though from a different perspective, Ṣāliḥ makes the elite and professional middle classes—those who were accepting the ‘national’ duty to educate their daughters formally—the makers of a nation where class, regional and urban-rural differences are to be elided or 42  Ṣāliḥ, Ḥusn 3–4. 43  Ṣāliḥ, Ḥusn 7.

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managed through these strata’s benevolent intervention. Ṣāliḥ turns next to ‘the benefits of educating girls’: significantly, I think, she uses taʿlīm rather than tarbiya, the former tending to signify formal academic education as opposed to moral training or upbringing. This entry is not introduced with direct address to young females but is a more generally aimed polemic (for parents?) that girl readers would ‘overhear’ and perhaps read out loud to family members.44 While the content of taʿlīm is couched as religious and domestically oriented training rather than scholastic training, one point of difference here and throughout is the author’s emphasis on ‘benefit to the self’ as well as the nation, rather than the wholly instrumental language employed by many conduct books, wherein the trained female is to benefit husband and children, and thence the nation, through her domestic work; but benefit to her ‘self’ either goes unmentioned or appears a subsidiary benefit at best. ʿAlī Fikrī’s Ādāb al-fatāt (Etiquette for girls, 1899) simply declares: “The educated girl is a thing of pride to her family, a help to her spouse, a treasure-house of benefits, an exemplar of good behavior and refinement to her children.”45 In Ṣāliḥ’s volume, next comes an anecdote on “The girl of the school and the girl of the home,” first in a series of starkly contrasting pairs that are meant to set exemplary lessons wherein the schoolgirl represents all that is commendable and models cleanliness, godfearingness, and awareness of the benefits of knowledge. A girl was heading one day to school, when she came upon another girl, seated in front of her home, engrossed in handling the soil surrounding her. Her clothes and hands were thoroughly dirty—her state of filth would bring on disease. [The schoolgirl] observed her scornfully, with a belittling laugh, and went on her way praising God who had permitted her to preserve her health and had rescued her from the darkness of ignorance, bringing her into the light of knowledge, due to the school.46 This passage seems to resist the message of social-communal duty to the nation mentioned above, in its urgent construction of a binary of female behavior that could stand in for the polemics on national womanhood more generally: clean schoolgirl versus dirty and ignorant uneducated girl, health versus disease, and enlightenment versus the darkness of ignorance. But what I also want to highlight here is the sense of movement and visibility: the clause 44  Ṣāliḥ, Ḥusn 7. 45  Fikrī, Ādāb 4. 46  Ṣāliḥ, Ḥusn 8.

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“a girl was heading one day to school” sets up the ordinariness of a girl, walking on her own, from home to school. Armstrong argues that conduct literature in eighteenth-century England set up ideals of modern gendered social organization before their social counterparts actually existed. Something of the same may be going on here, where the schoolgirl on the street is discursively mundane while as part of the urban social fabric, she is still becoming something other than a troublesome anomaly. This volume does not signal anxieties about the girl in the street. Fikrī similarly assumes the girl’s daily journey to school and back, but among the directives about not getting ink on one’s fingers, listening to one’s teachers, and avoiding dirt in the play yard, we find: “When you leave school, do not go off with girls who are unrefined or play in the streets. Do not stop to peer into shops and markets. Instead, go directly home with decorum. When you reach home, greet your parents politely and kiss their hands, arrange your books . . . and do not tease your siblings.”47 This contrasts with the unremarked ordinariness of the walk to school for Ṣāliḥ’s subject, where the assumption of traversing public space safely is a kind of gendered territorialization of (a little piece of) the city. In Ṣāliḥ’s reader, further anecdotes display models and anti-models: the arrogant, wealthy girl growing suddenly meek when her teacher scolds her; the invalid girl resisting medicine but only until chided by her father; the urban schoolgirl returning to her natal village and learning a lesson about hard work (and women’s double burden!) from a peasant woman—a momentary departure from the urban middle-class focus of conduct books, but one that hardly disturbs the class or urban-rural hierarchy, as the schoolgirl remains comfortably within her own experiential sphere. In another anecdote, a recalcitrant girl suffers badly, picking a flower after being warned by a peasant of the surrounding vermin, and thus receiving a fatal viper bite.48 Clever dialogues critique prevailing behavior: a girl asks her teacher, “Why do we see so many women inattentive to prayer? Is it not their duty?” She carries the teacher’s response home, whereupon her mother takes her daughter’s advice and returns to her “abandoned prayers.”49 Two schoolgirls on the street rescue an elderly woman who has been knocked over by a carriage; other passersby are merely laughing. The Egyptian schoolgirl figure in this 1911 text is agential, questioning, interactionally responsible and reformist, visible and mobile. She is the model modern subject. This ideal is buttressed by the choice of biographical sketches in the work which are not limited to pre-modern figures (as was often the 47  Fikrī, Ādāb 13–14. 48  Ṣāliḥ, Ḥusn 20. 49  Ṣāliḥ, Ḥusn 13.

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case in such volumes). Contemporary Muslim women in Egypt are profiled, beginning with the poet and writer ʿĀʾisha Taymūr, as a paragon of literate womanhood.50 It is related that one of the princesses of Europe came to Egypt in the era of the former Khedive, and was guest of the harem in ʿAbdīn Palace. From the Khedive’s mother she requested to see a woman who could read and write well. The only one they found was ʿĀʾisha Taymūr . . . [The European princess] was delighted to see an educated eastern woman.51 Taymūr not only exemplifies the literate female subject; she represents her society before the gaze of ‘the West’ as one in which women are educated. Princess Naẓlī Hānim and the mother of Khedive ʿAbbās I, who founded an important school, are also featured. But so is an unnamed woman from the Delta who defended herself against an intruder, stabbing him fatally, and becoming an item in the local press. This contrasts sharply with Masʿūd’s woman on the street who is to seek the help of “police and chivalrous men” if harassed. Two texts toward the end of the book encapsulate an attitude to girls’ training that is strikingly at odds with Masʿūd’s or Fikrī’s. A girl is in conversation with a classmate, who is astounded that her friend will travel alone from her village to Cairo when the school break is over. “Why should I not? I will ride in a carriage from my home to the station; there, I pay someone one dirhām to fetch my ticket, and then I am in the women’s train car all the way to Cairo Station. I ride a carriage to my school. I don’t stare at people, and I don’t concern myself with what is not my business. This moral courage [here the narrator and the schoolgirl are one] is the most blessed companion to have.”52 The text shows an independent-minded yet circumspect schoolgirl, the paragon of sober behavior, traveling on her own—surely a ‘lesson’ aimed at parents, too, and opponents of girls’ schooling on ‘moral’ grounds. That Ṣāliḥ shows the schoolgirl, here and in the earlier encounter with the peasant, traveling from 50  ʿĀʾisha Taymūr (1840–1902) was an Egyptian writer from an intellectually distinguished elite family of Turkish origin; first known as a poet, she also wrote an extended work of prose fiction that some have considered as an important early Arabic novel, as well as social commentary. Her work of fiction is prefaced by a passage that has become famous for its autobiographical evocation of a young girl’s desire for education, in the face of social expectations of that time and place. See Booth, ʿĀʾisha; Hatem, Literature. 51  Ṣāliḥ, Ḥusn 40. 52  Ṣāliḥ, Ḥusn 43–4.

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and then to the city, constructs her as essentially urban—with rural family roots—and thus suggests the city as the space of feminine modernity, one which allows the modern girl to maintain or renew links to a broader national community-in-the-making.53 To portray this female figure traveling alone is boldly unusual. It accentuates the notion, upheld by supporters of girls’ education, that the well-trained young female is her own best protection, as the highly self-conscious schoolgirl on the train intimates. The last but two of Ṣāliḥ’s readings finally comes to the topic of home management. It is a homily on the importance of the “intelligent woman knowledgeable about managing her home,” as a source of family happiness and preserver of family wealth.54 That this comes so late, and is only one of 58 readings, suggests that Ṣāliḥ’s agenda was not primarily a home-making one, even if at the start she spells out a domestic curriculum, and intersperses brief mentions of cooking, embroidery and childrearing in certain readings. The overall contents, if they do not counter a domestic-centered training, suggest that a girl’s focus need not be trained only on the home.55

Towards Domesticity

In 1901, Fransīs Mīkhāʾīl had published his first home-management manual serially in the journal al-Marʾa fī l-Islām (Woman in Islam), founded as a discussion forum on Qāsim Amīn’s books. There Mīkhāʾīl also published a ‘translation’ of the famous French work De l’éducation des filles (1687) by François de la Mothe-Fénelon, which had been translated into many languages and adapted as a voice in debates over education, gender and nationhood in societies across the globe. Mīkhāʾīl’s adaptation transformed Fénelon’s pedagogic guide for childhood education into a domestically focused how-to manual for mothers, a text that naturalized gendered attributes in a way that Fénelon’s original had not. Mīkhāʾīl went on to make a career out of home management, producing at least seven other books (the 1901 manual became a two-volume 53  Wilson’s study of women in urban space (Sphinx) emphasizes the city as emancipatory space for females, yet one fraught with danger—an insight articulated in representations of women in public space in Egypt. 54  Ṣāliḥ, Ḥusn 44. 55  A dialogue describes one girl’s admiration for another’s embroidery. Hearing that she acquired this skill at school, the interlocutor says, “Wonderful! I must tell my parents, so they will send me to school. Then I can be like you” (26–7). A domestic focus, but perhaps above all a way to get girls into schoolrooms?

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work in 1910, adding “modern” to the previous title of “Home management,” and was reprinted often, into the 1930s). On the cover of the sixth printing of Modern Home Management (1926) he is defined as “originator/proprietor [ṣāḥib] of the project for home management schools and specialist in the art of home management.” Mīkhāʾīl’s program for girls’ education was wholly domestic, and he emphasized domesticity as females’ natural and sole domain. This was the dominant strain in polemics and conduct books on femaleness, feminine experience, and the gendered division of labor in Egypt then; Mīkhāʾīl’s work both followed and contributed to this emphasis. His transformation of Fénelon’s text naturalized gender into immutably sexed roles. The message for schoolgirls was harsh. If proper domesticity was the province of the trained woman, whose reward was the exercise of authority over her ‘little kingdom’, this well-trained woman could never move beyond that sphere nor overcome the ‘natural’ disabilities she had inherited. Within this dominant conduct-literature message, it is important to listen to texts which, although part of this same literature of advice and conduct, seemed to propose other avenues for young women, partly through the very assumption of their public and vocal presences. But as time went on—and as young women in Egypt began to enter the professions—in the world of conduct literature, the strictly domestic message seemed to grow if anything more strident, perhaps partly as a rearguard action. In 1925, now “Director of the Publications Division in the Ministry of the Interior,” Muḥammad Masʿūd published a book on and ‘for’ girls and women, al-Marʾa fī adwārihā al-thalātha: Fatātan wa-zawjan wa-umman: kitāb ʿaṣrī. This title defined “woman” according to three stages or roles (the double meaning was useful): unmarried girl/young woman, wife, mother. He subtitled this work—part advice book, part polemic on gender and social organization— “a book of its time” and yet, in a decade when at least a small group of urban upper- and middle-class women was taking professional positions, publishing books and magazines, assuming public political stances and representing their nation at women’s events internationally, he gave explicit support to those who sought to educate girls only insofar as an education would “lift them out of ignorance” and prepare them for “woman’s function in her domestic life.”56 He did allow that

56  Masʿūd, al-Marʾa, unpaginated preface.

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this does not prevent educating some girls in the higher sciences if they have a special readiness and ability to excel, on condition that they have sufficient wealth to spare them the need to perform their duties by themselves. But since this group of women is very small, the priority is to teach the girl the knowledge she must have . . . to lift her out of ignorance and stupidity.57 Twenty years before, Masʿūd noted, he had acquired works by “the skilled writer Baroness Staffe . . . to whom the French resorted when facing dilemmas of family life.”58 He had planned to translate Staffe into Arabic for local readers’ benefit. “But I saw that pure translation—not to mention what it would demand of prolixity, due to the writer’s immersion in her topics suitable to the environment of those for whom she wrote—would lead me astray, away from my end goal . . . so I decided to adapt.” He would make her work the “structure” for a work that would be clothed in Egyptianness. “So it emerged to people’s gazes as a little book whose topics—even with preserving her original headings—were neither pure translation nor outright composition. The aimed-for hope is that its reading and grasping its elevated principles on social etiquette would have clear benefit in our domestic society.” In a sense, Masʿūd’s adaptation of Staffe reads as more ‘local’ in its contents than had been his 1913 work, for which he acknowledged no close source. An Arabic work focused on women as wholly domestic beings could so easily localize Victorian-era European domestic advice literature. In 1913, Masʿūd had invoked Staffe’s name once in his text: as an authority on women’s silence as their ‘adornment.’ Bibliography Amīn, Q., al-Marʾa al-jadīda, Cairo 1901. Amīn, Q., Taḥrīr al-marʾa, Cairo 1899. Armstrong, N., Desire and domestic fiction: A political history of the novel, Oxford 1987. 57  Masʿūd, al-Marʾa, unpaginated preface. 58  Masʿūd, al-Marʾa, unpaginated preface. Staffe’s book of manners and self-care was translated from French into English by Lady Colin Campbell and published in 1892 with an appropriately Victorian-sounding title, The Lady’s Dressing Room. When Masʿūd cited her once in his 1913 volume, he described her as “an expert on etiquette and home management.” Masʿūd, Ādāb 69.

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Armstrong, N., The Rise of the domestic woman, in N. Armstrong and L. Tennenhouse (eds.), The ideology of conduct: Essays in literature and the history of sexuality, London 1987, 96–141. Baron, B., The women’s awakening in Egypt: Culture, society and the press, New Haven 1994. Berenguier, N., Conduct books for girls in Enlightenment France, London 2011. Booth, M., ʿĀʾisha ʿIṣmat bint Ismāʿīl Taymūr, in R. Allen (ed.), Essays in Arabic Literary Biography 1850–1950, Wiesbaden 2010, 366–76. Booth, M., Before Qasim Amin: Writing histories of gender politics in 1890s Egypt, in M. Booth and A. Gorman (eds.), The long 1890s in Egypt: Colonial quiescence, subterranean resistance, Edinburgh 2014, 365–98. Booth, M., Classes of ladies of cloistered spaces: Writing feminist history through biography in fin-de-siècle Egypt, Edinburgh 2015. Booth, M., Disruptions of the local, eruptions of the feminine: Local reportage and national anxieties in Egypt’s 1890s, in A. Gorman and D. Monciaud (eds.), Between politics, society and culture: The press in the Middle East and North Africa, 1850–1950: Politics, Social History and Culture, Edinburgh forthcoming. Booth, M., Educating Rayya: Fénelon’s 17th-century treatise De l’éducation des filles as an Egyptian work, two centuries later (1901, 1909), workshop presentation, Edinburgh, December 2015. Booth, M., May her likes be multiplied: Biography and gender politics in Egypt, Berkeley 2001. Booth, M., Woman in Islam: Men and the ‘women’s press’ in turn-of-the-century Egypt, in IJMES 33 (2001), 171–201. Fikrī, ʿA., Ādāb al-fatā, Cairo 1900 (1900–23). Fikrī, ʿA., Ādāb al-fatāt, Cairo 1899 (1899–1937). Fikrī, ʿA., Musāmarāt al-banāt, i, Cairo 1903 (1903–23). Fikrī, ʿA., Musāmarāt al-banāt, i-ii, Cairo 1925. Hatem, M.F., Literature, gender, and nation-building in nineteenth-century Egypt: The life and works of ʿĀʾisha Taymūr, London 2011. Jones, V., Introduction, in Dr. Gregory et. al., The young lady’s pocket library, or Parental monitor [1790], V. Jones (ed.), Bristol 1995, v–xxxv. Masʿūd, M., Ādāb al-liyāqa, Cairo 1913. Masʿūd, M., al-Adab al-lāʾiq, Cairo, 31931. Masʿūd, M., al-Marʾa fī adwārihā al-thalātha: Fatātan wa-zawjan wa-umman. Kitāb ʿaṣrī, Cairo 1925. Metcalf, B.D., Islamic reform and Islamic women: Maulānā Thānawī’s Jewelry of Paradise, in B.D. Metcalf (ed.), Moral conduct and authority: The place of adab in south Asian Islam, Berkeley 1984, 184–95.

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Metcalf, B.D., Perfecting women: Maulana Ashraf ʿAli Thanawi’s Bihishti Zewar, Berkeley 1992. Mīkhāʾīl, F., Muqtaṭafāt min al-Tadbīr al-manzilī lil-banāt, in al-Marʾa fī l-Islām 1 (1901), 7–13. Mīkhāʾīl, F., al-Tadbīr al-manzilī al-ḥadīth, Cairo, 61926. Minault, G., Secluded scholars: Women’s education and Muslim social reform in colonial India, Delhi 1998. Naim, C.M., Prize-winning adab: A study of five Urdu books written in response to the Allahabad Government Gazette notification, in B.D. Metcalf (ed.), Moral conduct and authority: The place of adab in south Asian Islam, Berkeley 1984, 290–314. Nuṣayr, ʿA.I., al-Kutub al-ʿarabiyya allatī nushirat fī Miṣr fī l-qarn al-tāsiʿ ʿashara, Cairo 1990. Nuṣayr, ʿA.I., al-Kutub al-ʿarabiyya allatī nushirat fī Miṣr bayna āmay 1900–1925, Cairo 1983. Rakhā, M.A., Tahdhīb al-banīn, Cairo 1918? (1918?–26). Rakhā, M.A., and M. Ḥamdī, Kitāb al-akhlāq lil-banāt, Cairo 1918 (1918–26). Rakhā, M.A., and Z.M. al-Muhandis, Kitāb al-akhlāq lil-banīn, Cairo 1925 (1925–31). Russell, M., Creating the new Egyptian woman: Consumerism, education, and national identity, 1863–1922, New York 2004. Ṣāliḥ, F., Ḥusn al-thabāt fī l-muṭālaʿa al-sahla lil-banāt, Cairo 1911. Staffe, Baroness, The Lady’s Dressing Room, trans. Lady C. Campbell, London 1892. Stūbis, M. (al-duktūra) [Dr. Mary Stopes], Jannat al-azwāj, trans. S. Khūrī and ʿA. Ḥāfiẓ, Cairo 1925. Sutherland, K., Writings on education and conduct: Arguments for female improvement, in V. Jones (ed.), Women and literature in Britain, 1700–1800, Cambridge 2000, 25–45. Wilson, E., The Sphinx in the city: Urban life, the control of disorder, and women, Berkeley 2001. Yavari, N., Advice for the sultan: Prophetic voices and secular politics in medieval Islam, London 2014.

CHAPTER 23

When Jews Attack: Toward a Social Psychology of Inter-Communal Violence in Yemen Mark S. Wagner Within the realm of tribal norms, violence against a woman, guest, or client represented, in the words of A.Z. al-Abdin, “one of the gravest crimes called al-ʿayb al-aswad (the black shame) . . .”1 “In Yemen it was a given that a Muslim was forbidden from raising his hand against a Jew or a woman . . .” writes one Jew.2 Anecdotal material suggests that tribesmen indeed saw Jews under their protection as extensions of their honor and avenged attacks on them.3 Moreover, tribal law tied compensatory damages to the status of the deceased, a practice that the ulema decried. As weak clients of the tribe, damages against Jews were multiplied elevenfold.4 Furthermore, many writers, Muslim and Jewish, describe the legal reforms undertaken by Imām Yaḥyā in the period between the two world wars as having led to a period of law, order, and tranquility. For their part, the Jews’ contract with the Islamic state was widely understood to demand non-aggression (at the very least) from the Jews themselves. Judaism itself also reinforced the idea that Jewish powerlessness constituted part of a divine plan. The Sharīʿa’s disparities regarding witness testimony presumably served as well to dissuade Jews who might otherwise attack Muslims in view of others. Yet the approximately sixty memoirs by Jews from Yemen that have been published in the past thirty years describe many violent altercations between Muslim and Jewish men. These fall into four broad categories: Muslims killing or assaulting Jews during robberies; Muslims assaulting Jews for violating the sumptuary laws relating to riding etiquette; Jews killing Muslims; and Jews assaulting Muslims, generally in private. Here I aim to explain the last category, 1  Al-Abdin, The role of Islam 202–3; Bene Moshe, Sefer dor le-dor 91, 97; Riḍā, Temanah 78–81; Zandani, Yalquṭ ʿovadiah 44–9; Āl Yaḥyā, al-Yaman 306–7. 2  Yitshari, Ḥayyim soʿarim 281. 3  See, for example, Aharon Ḥamdi, Zeh sefer ḥokhmah 18; Gamlieli, Ḥevyon teman 13. 4  On this multiplication by eleven (muḥaddʿash) see Dresch, Tribes 60–2; Weir, A tribal order 156; Obermeyer, Ṭāghūt, Manʿ, and Šarī‘a 368–9; Naṣr, Shiʿr wa-dhikrayāt 50–2; Zandani, Yalquṭ ʿovadiah 46.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_024

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instances of Jews assaulting Muslims, in the light of research in sociology and social psychology. Keeping in mind that no one saw such beatings, which seem to have occurred with some regularity, what benefits would Jews derive from attacking Muslims that might outweigh the considerable risks?5 It is tempting to view such anecdotes of Jew-on-Muslim violence as attempts by authors living in Israel to stake a claim to a Zionist narrative in which violent clashes with Muslims play a role and/or to dispel the idea that Jews in Yemen were thoroughly cowed by the Muslim majority. Yet the memoirs counterbalance violent episodes with anecdotes of friendship and other forms of boundary-crossing between Muslims and Jews that would undermine any depiction of their relationship as one of unadulterated antagonism. Furthermore, most authors make clear that they reject key aspects of mainstream political Zionism (particularly its secularism) and that their intended audience constitutes other Jews from Yemen who share their point of view. In one of many thought-provoking passages in David Nirenberg’s 1996 study of violence against minorities in fourteenth-century Europe, the historian suggests that one would do well to avoid the dichotomy of tolerance versus intolerance, function versus dysfunction, instead viewing conflict as constructive of coexistence. He cites Georg Simmel, who is claimed as a progenitor by both sociologists and social psychologists. Simmel concluded in 1908 that conflict is an essential form of human socialization. Moreover, even violence preserves “an element of community” and accounts for both warring parties’ observance of unspoken codes of conduct as well as the functional community that conquerer and conquered form.6 However, when he applied this insight to a specific case, Nirenberg qualified it, suggesting instead that the violence possessed a “double-register” and was capable of generating either (or both) stability and “explosive change.”7 Appropriately enough for the topic at hand, the groundwork for social psychology’s appraisal of violent intergroup conflict was laid by a Muslim and a Jew. Muzafer Sherif (1906–1988), who narrowly survived the Greco-Turkish War, attributed such conflict to competition over resources (“Realistic Conflict Theory”). Such conflict could be overcome when such groups had to pursue superordinate goals that required cooperation. In three experiments from 1949–1954 Sherif and his team, posing as summer camp staff, introduced groups of boys to one another, split them into groups, had them compete in sporting 5  Tsadoq, Ha-Yaḥasim 155; Ben David, Bet ha-even 18–19, 181; Nissim Binyamin Gamlieli, Soleleha-derekh 136. 6  Nirenberg, Communities of violence 9; Simmel, Conflict 25–7, 35. 7  Nirenberg, Communities of violence 227–9.

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events, then saw hostility develop between the groups. In the first experiment, two groups banded together to fight a third group from a nearby town. In the second, the boys figured out that they were being manipulated and mutinied. In the third, the “Robber’s Cave Experiment,” researchers tasked both groups with solving common problems relating to food and water, and the researchers concluded that this had reduced hostility.8 According to Frances Cherry, social scientists’ embrace and wide citation of the final experiment stemmed from the post-war hope in the complete elimination of violence.9 Social psychologist Michael Billig offered a competing interpretation. He described the researchers themselves as having constituted a third party who institutionalized competition and conflict between two (or more) less powerful groups of boys. Thus the boys’ aggression towards one another constituted false consciousness, a fact that the boys in the second experiment realized and overcame when they turned against the researchers.10 Sherif’s experiments also suggested that the very fact of social division into groups, however arbitrary, itself represented the necessary precondition for ingroup favoritism. Social psychologist Henri Tajfel (1919–1982), who narrowly survived the Holocaust, postulated a scale between interpersonal relationships fully determined by individual characteristics (e.g. lovers) and intergroup relationships determined by membership in a social group (e.g. military conscripts). In situations of conflict, or in societies perceived as being highly stratified, the second category could be expected to constitute the norm. Tajfel argued that the ostensibly “realistic” element of the boys’ conflict, and the competition that resulted from it, did not in itself account for their aggressive behavior.11 He tested this hypothesis in his “minimal group studies” in the early 1970s in which children and adults who, having been assigned to one of two groups based on trivial or even meaningless criteria, granted advantages to members of their own group.12 A further experiment by John Turner in 1973 suggested that an arbitrarily assigned identity could even lead group members to act against their own personal interest in favoring members of the group.13 Building on Leon Festinger’s “social comparison theory,” Tajfel argued that individuals experience pressure to enhance their self-esteem through favorable 8  Cherry, Stubborn particulars 103, 110. 9  Stubborn particulars 102–3. 10  Billig, Social psychology 308–11; Cherry, Stubborn particulars 110. 11  Tajfel and Turner, An integrative theory 34–5. 12  Billig, Social psychology, 342–5. 13  Tajfel and Turner, An integrative theory 42; Billig, Social psychology 345, 347.

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comparisons with a relevant out-group. When barriers to leaving the group are strong, a low status group might choose a similarly low status group to whom to compare themselves in an act of “social creativity.”14 Such social competition for superiority stands apart from (but may be implicated in) a realistic self-interest. Furthermore, unlike a realistic conflict and providing that the competitors act in a way that seems fair, “ . . . the losing group may acquiesce in the superiority of the winning out-group.”15 Alternatively, members of the lowstatus group might achieve a positive self-image at the expense of increased repression or a new rivalry with another low-status group.16 Let us now examine some concrete examples. During the Monday market in a village in Lower Yemen, probably in the late Thirties, a Jewish boy sold some matches and string to a young Muslim. The Muslim did not pay and scuffled with him. The boy complained to an adult Jew, who was a wealthy merchant. The adult Jew confronted the young man, who responded by trying to hit him. The Jew slapped him in the face. This outraged Muslim buyers and sellers in the market. A soldier knocked the Jew out with his rifle butt and brought him to the shaykh’s house for judgment. The man who had been slapped and the crowd of witnesses followed. The shaykh advised the man to hide the fact that he had been slapped by the Jew, “for this will be an eternal shame for you and your offspring. Your children will be a source of mockery and derision among all creatures and you will never again be able to lift this shame from atop them.” While this admonition guaranteed the Muslim’s silence, the Jew would still have to make amends for his infraction. He began throwing money at the would-be witnesses to his crime. Once the hefty sum of seventy Maria Theresa thalers (riyāls) had been distributed, the mob who had been clamoring for his punishment began singing his praises. The Jewish boy regained his matches and string as well.17 As Turner suggested would happen, the older Jew acts against his own selfinterest in favoring a member of his group. What did he gain? By standing up for the boy, the man proved the ability to inflict violence in defense of a compatriot, a tribal ideal that Muslim tribesmen would ordinarily project by brandishing weapons. While the Jew overreached by striking a Muslim in the presence of Muslim witnesses, the Muslim arbitrator’s attempt to avoid a legal proceeding against the Jewish aggressor by shaming the victim into silence 14  Tajfel and Turner, An integrative theory 43–4. 15  Tajfel and Turner, An integrative theory 40–1, 43–4 (quotation at 41). 16  Tajfel and Turner, An integrative theory 45. 17  Bene Moshe, Sefer Bamsilah 49–50 (quotation at 50). On the theme of overzealous (and false) Muslim witnesses to Jewish crimes see Gamlieli, Ḥadre teman 175–6.

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suggests that he acquiesced to the Jew’s victory, as Tajfel suggested might happen in cases of psychosocial competition. Yemeni society is highly stratified. For the purposes of this essay, it is sufficient to know that the elite class of Muslims (sayyids and qāḍīs) placed great value on learning while the majority (tribesmen) valued fighting ability (among other things). For many Jews, the Muslim elite provided an “aspirational” comparison. Yet in instances of Jew-on-Muslim violence, the Jews seem to implicitly compare themselves to tribesmen, a group of lower status, as Festinger and Tajfel predicted might happen. A Jew in Dhamār had a shop. The sayyids of the town, who despised manual labor, had little more to do than chew qāt and attend to their prayers. One such indolent young sayyid loitered around the entrance to the Jew’s shop, fingered his merchandise, and insulted it and him. Although the sayyid was armed with rifle and knives, at one point the Jew snapped. He quoted the Yemeni proverb “one who makes himself into feed gets scattered by roosters.” He pulled the sayyid into his shop, shut the door, and beat him up. The next morning the sayyid, in tears, was on his way to the bruise assessor in preparation for a lawsuit against the Jew when an older sayyid stopped him. (A notary who assessed bruises was part of the criminal justice system in Yemen.)18 After telling him what had happened, the older man counseled him never to tell a soul about it, “for shame and ignominy will be your lot and you will never again be able to show your face in the street.” After the young man took his advice, the old man went to the Jew’s shop. He told him of the great favor he had done for him, asked only for a riyāl in payment, and received it.19 In each of the two anecdotes, the older Muslim arbiter not only acquiesces to the Jew’s victory, but acts to condition the behavior of a younger Muslim man who has not yet mastered the unspoken rules of intergroup competition for social status. In the second anecdote the beating occurs in secret, which is the norm in cases of Jew-on-Muslim violence. This fact, combined with the shame attached to being beaten by a Jew, would serve the purpose of pursuing self-esteem at another’s expense. At the same time, the shame attached to 18  An example of such an assessment report, conducted on a Jewish woman as part of a divorce proceeding, can be found among the Yemeni material in the Ben Zvi Institute (middle of BZF 357—water-damaged, without paperclips). Nissim Gamlieli describes this post as belonging to “a learned faqīh knowledgeable in the law of damages” (Ḥevyon teman 32 note 8). See also Shalom Gamliel, Ha-Yehudim i, 368; Nissim Gamlieli, Shne sippurim 13; Messick, The calligraphic state 136–7. 19  Gamlieli, Shne sippurim, 10–12.

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being beaten by a Jew would guard against retaliation or general deterioration of the larger group’s status. In the late Thirties, two prominent Muslim families of Radāʿ, the Daylamīs and the Ghālibs, became embroiled in a land dispute and a qāḍī from Sanaa arbitrated it.20 The attorney for the Daylamīs told a prominent Jew that his clients had bribed the qāḍī. Around the same time, a Jewish woman attacked her daughter’s drunken husband and she and her daughter sought refuge in the qāḍī’s house. The Jew, accompanied by a younger Jewish man, went to the qāḍī’s house to fetch the errant women. The qāḍī and his son-in-law got into a brawl with the two Jews. The court quickly intervened. The Jews were jailed. Under interrogation they lied about what had happened, one claiming that the qāḍī’s wounds came from his son-in-law, who had been disoriented by the darkness. While out of jail on bond, a number of the qāḍī’s relatives started fights with the younger Jew, lost them, and kept quiet about it. When the tension became too great he left the country for Africa. The qāḍī’s son-in-law hired false witnesses but after an elaborate sting operation they were discovered. Despairing of convicting the Jews on serious charges, the qāḍī sought monetary damages, to be determined by arbitrators. The arbitrators ordered the elder Jew to pay a substantial fee, buy a cow or a bull, accompany them to the qāḍī’s house and present the animal there for slaughter. Men of the Ghālib clan went to the market to buy a bull, loudly informing all passers-by that its slaughter would appease the qāḍī for the blows he received from a Jew. At this insult, the qāḍī waived his right to the bull and the matter came to an end.21 In this case, Tajfel’s model falls short in some respects. Despite the open conflict between Jews and Muslims, the Jews got away with beating the qāḍī and his son-in-law, and thus “winning” their social competition, precisely because many Muslims chose their interpersonal allegiances to them over their group allegiance. Yet the biggest winner was the patrician Ghālib family, who shouldered much of the legal fees and used the Jews as an instrument to humiliate and punish a Muslim who had wronged them. The biggest losers were the Jewish women, whose challenge to male authority (and monopoly over violence) was overturned. In this sense, the episode resembles Billig’s interpretation of the “Robber’s Cave Experiment” insofar as a powerful third party benefited from an intergroup conflict through which the status quo remained more or less intact.

20  I describe this case in much greater detail in Jews and Islamic law 135–46. 21  Yitshari, Ḥayyim soʿarim 261–90.

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A similar case is reported from Taʿizz in 1948 or 1949. A Jew was assaulted and robbed in a desolate border area by a Muslim whose identity he knew. He complained to two provincial governors and was rebuffed. (There were no witnesses.) He then turned to a powerful shaykh who is said to have been particularly solicitous towards Jews. The shaykh informed the Imam in no uncertain terms that the Jew’s testimony was to be accepted even in the absence of witnesses. The thief was arrested and fined and when the Jew asked to be allowed to strike the man in the palace courtyard, he was allowed to do so.22 The fertile and populous area around Taʿizz was notoriously difficult to rule and the Imam needed the help of local power brokers like the shaykh but he was also suspicious of his influence. In light of this, his taking a permissive stance towards a Jew under the shaykh’s patronage may have been a relatively painless way to improve the strained relationship between the two Muslim leaders. A Jew from Lower Yemen describes three instances in which Jews joined forces with low-status Muslims to attack members of the Muslim elite. In one, set in the 1920s, an encounter with a sayyid who demanded he dismount led “Blackjack Cohen,” a Jewish tanner from Lower Yemen, into a career of highway robbery with his accomplice, a Muslim of low status.23 In another anecdote, a sayyid encountered a Jew and a Muslim camel-driver while traveling in Yemen’s Red Sea coast, a very hot region. Using fine Arabic, he upbraided the camel-driver for wearing only a loincloth while the Jew was fully clothed. The camel-driver knocked him off his donkey.24 In the early 1930s in Sanaa a Muslim on horseback ordered a Jew riding a donkey with a young relative to dismount. Immediately afterwards a flying projectile struck the Muslim’s horse, causing it to rear. The horse threw its rider. His foot caught in a stirrup on his way down and his robe bunched up around his head, “his bottom bare before the eyes of the sun and the sky.” A Muslim shepherd boy who nursed a pathological hatred for sayyids had thrown the projectile, a chunk of wood. The shepherd was a marksman of sorts when it came to throwing chunks of wood. The two boys, Jew and Muslim, became close friends and blood brothers. The Muslim boy even grew sidelocks in solidarity with his new “twin.”25 Could Jew-on-Muslim violence transcend the subjective psychosocial quest for self-esteem based upon the terms of tribal manhood? Might low-status groups band together to mutiny against those in 22  Riḍā, Temanah 94–6. 23  Halevi, Mi-ʿolam le-ʿolam 64–5. 24  Halevi, ʿAlilot 37–8. 25  Halevi, ʿAlilot 66–72.

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control, as happened in Sherif’s second experiment? These last anecdotes suggest that it could be so. Bibliography Al-Abdin, A.Z., The role of Islam in the state: The Yemen Arab Republic (1940–1972), Ph.D. dissertation, University of Cambridge 1975. Āl Yaḥyā, S. al-D.S., al-Yaman fī ʿuyūn al-baʿthah al-ʿaskariyyah al-ʿirāqiyyah, 1940– 1943m., al-Ḥāzimiyyah, Lebanon 2006. Ben David, A., Bet ha-even: Halikhot yehude tsfon teman, Qiryat ʿEqron 2008. Bene Moshe, Sh., Sefer dor le-dor yesaperu, ed. Shimʿon Graydi, Reḥovot 1985. Bene Moshe, Sh., Sefer Bamsilah naʿaleh, Reḥovot 1988. Billig, M., Social psychology and intergroup relations, London 1976, Cherry, F., The “stubborn particulars” of social psychology, London 1995. Dresch, P., Tribes, government, and history in Yemen. Oxford 1989. Gamliel, Sh., Ha-Yehudim ve-ha-melekh be-teman, Jerusalem 1986. Gamlieli, N.B., Ḥadre teman: Sippurim ve-aggadot, Tel Aviv 1978. Gamlieli, N.B., Ḥevyon teman: Zikhronot, sippurim, aggadot ḥayyim mi-ʿolam aḥer, Ramlah 1983. Gamlieli, N.B., Solele-ha-derekh le-ʿaliyat “al kanfe nesharim” be-reʾi teʾudot u-mikhtavim, in Sh. Gamliel et al. (eds.), Orḥot teman, Jerusalem 1984, 132–87. Gamlieli, N.B., Shne sippurim mi-ḥayye ha-yehudim be-ʿir damar, in Tehudah 19 (1999), 10–14. Halevi, R., Mi-ʿolam le-ʿolam, Bene Beraq 2002. Halevi, R., ʿAlilot me-ʿolam le-ʿolam, Tel Aviv 2005. Ḥamdi, A., Zeh sefer ḥokhmah u-musar, Netanyah 1996. Messick B., The calligraphic state: Textual domination and history in a Muslim society, Berkeley 1993. Naṣr, Y.M., Shiʿr wa-dhikrayāt, Beirut 1986. Nirenberg, D., Communities of violence: Persecution of minorities in the Middle Ages, Princeton 1996. Obermeyer, G.J., Ṭāghūt, manʿ, and šarī‘a: The realms of law in tribal Arabia, in Studia arabica et islamica: Festschrift for Ihsan Abbas on his sixtieth birthday, ed. W. al-Qadi, Beirut 1981, 365–71. Riḍā, Y., Temanah: Mavo le-erets al-ḥugariyah, ed. E. Yaʿaqov, Nahariyah 1995. Simmel, G., Conflict, trans. K.H. Wolf, Glencoe 1955. Tajfel, H. and J. Turner, An integrative theory of intergroup conflict, in W.G. Austin and S. Worchel (eds.), The social psychology of intergroup relations, Monterey 1979, 7–24.

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Tsadoq, M., ha-Yaḥasim bein ha-yehudim ve-ha-ʿaravim be-teman, in Y. Tobi and Y. Yeshayahu (eds.), Yahadut teman: Pirqe meḥqar ve-ʿiyyun, Jerusalem 1975. Wagner, M., Jews and Islamic law in early 20th-century Yemen, Bloomington 2015. Weir, S., A tribal order: Politics and law in the mountains of Yemen, Austin 2007. Yitshari, M., Ḥayyim soʿarim, Netanyah 1996. Zandani, ʿO., Yalquṭ ʿovadiah: Mi-hare baraṭ le-moshav yinon, ed. N. Binyamin Gamlieli, Tel Aviv 1986.

CHAPTER 24

Scope for Comparatism: Internationalist and Surrealist Resonances in Idwār Al-Kharrāṭ’s Resistant Literary Modernity Hala Halim To propose internationalism as a concept that comparatism should espouse more forcefully may seem contrarian in view of cosmopolitanism’s dominance in the discipline of Comparative Literature. That “cosmopolitanism” should have been nominated one of the “ideas of the decade” by a contributor to the American Comparative Literature’s most recent (2014–15) State of the Discipline Report is par for the course. Indeed, the notion has been revised repeatedly in the American humanities and social sciences since the early 1990s. The issues driving this ongoing scholarly recouping of cosmopolitanism as a conceptual framework and an ethical standard include the canon debate between conservatives and liberals/postcolonial scholars, intensified ethnocentrisms, and, perhaps most importantly, globalization and transnationalism.

* I wish to thank the editors for the opportunity to contribute to this Festschrift for my esteemed colleague Everett Rowson. Conversations over the years with poet Bashīr al-Sibāʿī, translator of Georges Henein, have been an inspiration; I thank him for several leads and for sharing valuable material. I thank Prof. Gilbert Achcar for permission to quote unpublished documents from the Trotskyist movement in Egypt in his personal archive, as shown to me with his permission, by al-Sibāʿī. I am grateful to Reda Farag, whom I consulted concerning Trotskyism; any shortcomings are my responsibility alone, more so given that he has not read this essay. Sylvie Younane graciously supplied me with a number of issues of the journal alMajalla al-Jadīda under her father Ramsīs Yūnān’s editorship. Parts of this essay are adapted from a chapter on Idwār al-Kharrāṭ in my doctoral dissertation, “The Alexandria Archive.” As I revised and developed my work on al-Kharrāṭ, I gave several presentations drawn from it, including at: the University of California, Los Angeles’ Humanities Consortium; New York University; the conference on “The Egyptian Surrealists in Global Perspective” in Cairo coorganized by the Sharjah Art Foundation, The American University in Cairo’s Visual Cultures Program, and Cornell University’s Institute for Comparative Modernities; the Institute for Comparative Modernities at Cornell. I thank Prof. Salah Hassan (Cornell) for the invitations to give the two latter presentations and the audiences at all these presentations for their comments and questions. Finally, the anonymous reviewer’s suggestions were quite helpful.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_025

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While the Eurocentric universalist genealogy of cosmopolitanism that traces a line of descent from the Stoics via Immanuel Kant in the Enlightenment has not been without its promoters, such as Martha Nussbaum, a substantial portion of the recent scholarship has favored relativized formulations as a mediation between the local and the global.1 Yet, it is not only within the universalist trend that scholars continue to endorse cosmopolitanism as a perceived antithesis to nationalism construed as inevitably chauvinistic. It is in that spirit that Haun Saussy, the contributor of the article on “cosmopolitanism” to the above-mentioned ACLA report, claims the concept for a Comparative Literature that he would have us believe he has held aloof from “identifying . . . with a universal, ecumenical or cosmopolitan drive.” Thus, he asserts that “[i]t is perhaps natural that comparatists would be quicker to identify the ills of cosmopolitanism, which are the sort of error we might make. But rather than allowing nationalisms and sectarianisms to set the agenda of cultural mediation, as readers and scholars we might heed the ‘cosmopolitan right of hospitality’ . . . that Kant thought no human being could deny any other.”2 That Saussy uses the plural for “nationalism” is insufficient indication that he entertains the possibility of a nationalism that is not in tune with, or is indeed capable of standing against, “sectarianisms.” In contrast to his view, the introduction to an issue of Public Culture devoted to cosmopolitanism steers clear of Western universalism in a commitment to inventorying “cosmopolitical genealogies” that “provincialize Europe.” Yet, like him, the editors, despite making a stringent concession to nationalism’s mobilizing power in anticolonial movements, dismiss it as motivated by an increasingly “retrograde ideology” producing “evil” and “harm”; they maintain that “the modernist (and nationalist) insistence on territorialized imaginations of identity has produced horrendous conflicts in recent history.” The vital question of social justice, both within the nation and internationally, is not infrequently muddled in discussions of cosmopolitanism. The Public Culture introduction identifies “refugees, peoples of the diaspora, and migrants and exiles [as] represent[ing] the spirit of the cosmopolitical community” with which “transdisciplinary knowledges” in the academy are in dialogue.3 This apparent celebration of a transnationalism that the editors distance from a globalization they rightly critique loses sight of the various and considerable forms of duress sustained by the many who continue to live in their homelands, 1  See, among many other texts by Nussbaum on the subject, Patriotism and cosmopolitanism. 2  Saussy, Cosmopolitanism. 3  Breckenridge, et al., Cosmopolitanisms 2, 3, 6. This volume was first published in Public culture in 2000.

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and who need not be more parochial in outlook for it. The editors’ statement also loses sight of the sharp differences in positionalities in the list “refugees, peoples of the diaspora, and migrants and exiles.” If, by contrast, Anthony Appiah’s appeal to cosmopolitanism makes it compatible with patriotism, he takes us even further into elitism. He claims that a “rooted cosmopolitanism” can celebrate a world that accommodates attachment to the homeland and “the circulation of people between different localities . . . involv[ing] not only cultural tourism (which the cosmopolitan admits to enjoying) but migration, nomadism, diaspora.” That refugees are absent from Appiah’s list is no coincidence: “[i]n the past,” he continues, “these processes have usually been the result of forces we should deplore: the old migrants were often refugees.” Where he locates conflict, as in Rwanda, is in the allegiance to “nations” (hence his preference for “patriotism” to “nationalism”) which he considers to be “arbitrary” albeit “matter[ing] morally . . . [and] desired by autonomous agents,” in contradistinction to states, which “matter morally intrinsically” and which he proposes that the cosmopolitan not be dismissive of “because the cultural variability that cosmopolitanism celebrates has come to depend on the existence of a plurality of states.”4 Elsewhere, I critiqued the dismissal of nationalism in some of the scholarship on cosmopolitanism by adducing both a given trajectory of anticolonial nationalism that was decidedly Third Worldist international—from Bandung, the Afro-Asian movement, to the nonalignment movement—and, more recently, the spread of radicalism in 2011 from the Arab world to oppressed groups in the North in a movement that was simultaneously nationally enunciated and international in its reverberations.5 Here, I propose to pursue the radical congruities between nationalism and internationalism in what I hope to be a more engaged discussion of class, in relation to ethnicity, and solidarity, albeit without altogether abandoning certain valences of cosmopolitanism. I do so by turning to Egypt in the mid-twentieth century and a few decades later, specifically addressing literary and critical texts by the Egyptian novelist, poet and critic Idwār al-Kharrāṭ (1926–2015). To situate the discussion of internationalism in relation to Surrealism in al-Kharrāṭ’s texts, the essay provides context on the Cairene Egyptian surrealists and their position within the left, and goes on to trace uncharted interconnections between them and Alexandrians of the novelist’s generation, including previously uncited documentary evidence. I then turn to al-Kharrāṭ’s criticism on literary modernity as well as Surrealism and, setting it in dialogue with criticism by other writers 4  Appiah, Cosmopolitan patriots 22, 28. 5  Halim, Alexandrian cosmopolitanism 9; see also 5–11.

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from the Global South, I elicit resistances to the long-standing dominance of European literary modernity. Although criticism of Arabic literature has increasingly undermined the Nahda thesis whereby the Arab world awakens into modernity at the hands of the West and witnesses a literary revival by dint of translation and borrowing of genres from Europe, much scope remains to foreground challenges to that narrative. Taking up a selection of al-Kharrāṭ’s literary texts, I demonstrate the resonances of internationalism and Surrealism in his novels both aesthetically and thematically. Analyzing specific passages, I argue that they construct the reader as a comparatist attuned to internationalism, even as they radically intervene into the discourse of Alexandrian cosmopolitanism. From there, I turn to folk practices of syncretism and interfaith reciprocity in the novels as non-elite valences of cosmopolitanism before discussing the effect of al-Kharrāṭ’s experimentation with pastiche in rewriting the Eurocentrism of Alexandrian cosmopolitanism. In foregrounding the compatibility between nationalism and internationalism as a more generative framework than cosmopolitanism tout court, I find myself in agreement with Timothy Brennan. “If cosmopolitanism springs from a comfortable culture of middle-class travelers, intellectuals and businessmen,” he writes, “internationalism . . . is an ideology of the domestically restricted, the recently relocated, the provisionally exiled and temporarily weak.” Internationalism “is addressed to those who have an interest in transnational forms of solidarity, but whose capacities for doing so have not yet arrived.” As such, internationalism is not in disagreement with nation-states, which are dually “manageable communities”: on the one hand, “coercive” structures that administer resources and profit and preserve social disparities; and, on the other, structures that contain a degree of space in which “the subalterns” can make claims to equity “with a rhetoric of the ‘popular’ that appeals to a shared cultural identity.” Persuasively countering critiques of the nationstate by insisting on the distinction between (neo)colonial nation-states and Third World/developing ones presenting resistance thereto, Brennan elaborates that the nation-state can be seen as an “arena, which for the moment contains the only structures through which transnational forms of solidarity might emerge” gradually.6 This point, cited here from a 2001 text and revisited by Brennan in later texts, corresponds to my reading of al-Kharrāṭ.7 Cosmopolitanism, so ineluctably associated with Alexandria, might seem to be a ready framework within which to read al-Kharrāṭ’s texts not least the ones about his native city. In another context, I have argued that the dominant 6  Brennan, Cosmopolitanism and internationalism 77, 82–4 (emphasis in original). 7  See e.g. Brennan, Wars 136 and 215.

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account of Alexandrian cosmopolitanism is a Eurocentric, colonial discourse that presses into service the Greeks of the city, the largest of the colonies, as the cultural connective tissue between the modern city and a Hellenistic Alexandria construed as a Golden Age. Simultaneously, all things Egyptian, Arab and Islamic are placed under the sign of “barbarian”: hence historiography labels the Arabo-Islamic period in Alexandria as one of “decline” and later folds over that account onto the post-Suez city; and literary criticism constructs a European canon (C.P. Cavafy, E.M. Forster and Lawrence Durrell) that excludes Arabic texts.8 As for the Kharrāṭian text, this may speak of Alexandria as “ʿāṣimat al-ʿālam” (capital of the world) and extol “al-anāqa al-kuzmūpulītiyya al-Iskandarāniyya” (cosmopolitan Alexandrian elegance); but then it also emphatically makes reference to “al-umamiyya” (internationalism) and “al-duwaliyya al-rābiʿa” (the Fourth International).9 I am by no means suggesting that resonances of the discourse of Alexandrian cosmopolitanism are absent from al-Kharrāṭ’s texts, as I myself have analyzed elsewhere; rather, my claim is that the cosmopolitanism at stake is often imbued with, and not infrequently subsumed by, the revolutionary compatibility between nationalism and internationalism. It has long been known that al-Kharrāṭ was involved in radical politics in the 1940s; criticism, however, has paid insufficient attention to the structuring effect of his Trotskyist orientation on his output, as well as the related influences of Surrealism on the resistant modernity that his texts, both literary and critical, adumbrate.10 I use “resonances,” however, 8  See Halim, Alexandrian cosmopolitanism. 9  Al-Kharrāṭ, Unshūda 194, and idem., Ṭarīq 341, 374, and 164. Unless indicated, translations from Arabic and French are mine. When translating from Turābuhā zaʿfarān and Yā banāt Iskindiriyya, I provide references to the corresponding passages in published translations by Liardet. 10  Scholarship on al-Kharrāṭ is considerable. Key terms used by critics addressing al-Kharrāṭ’s output are: autobiography (in part what underwrites al-Kharrāṭ’s Random and Mujāladat 92–6); memory (Al-Nowaihi); fragmentation (Fārūq and Caiani); cosmopolitanism in relation to postcoloniality and nation (Halim); intertextuality (Ostle, Starkey, Caiani and Halim); nation and ideology (Badawī); pastiche (Halim); polyphony (Caiani)—among broad frameworks such as modernism and experimentation. See Caiani, Contemporary; Badawī, al-Riwāya; Fārūq, Jamāliyyāt al-tashazzī; Halim, Alexandria; Al-Nowaihi, Memory; Ostle, From intertext; and Starkey, Intertextuality. Critics who touch on but do not analyze at length the Trotskyism of the narrator in different novels by al-Kharrāṭ include: Fārūq, Jamāliyyāt al-tashazzī 93 (on Yā banāt); Farīd, al-Ighāra 84 (on the Rama trilogy) and, esp., 121–3 (on Ṭarīq); and Badawī, al-Riwāya 107–8 (on al-Zaman). Other critics briefly touch on Surrealism in his texts, including: Caiani, Contemporary 29; al-Shārūnī, al-Lā maʿqūl 53; Darrāj, Naẓariyyat al-riwāya 164–7 (on Rāma, esp. in relation to Breton); and Farīd, al-Ighāra 67, 79 and—this about Ṭarīq specifically where he observes that the novel

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quite deliberately to qualify the internationalism and Surrealism in al-Kharrāṭ: albeit “committed” to the empancipatory, broadly conceived, his texts are neither doctrinaire nor dogmatic; rather, they are eclectic, nay omnivorous, in the intertexts, genres, modes, cultures and ideologies with which they dialogue. The outlines of al-Kharrāṭ’s biography—whether sketched in interviews, autobiographical commentary, reflections on the autobiographical component of his novels, or bio data in his books—are well-established.11 Born in Alexandria into an increasingly impoverished family to a mother from the Delta and an Upper Egyptian father who was a trader, al-Kharrāṭ later joined the Faculty of Law, Alexandria University. In the 1940s, while supporting his family after his father’s death by undertaking various jobs, he became a member of an underground Trotskyist group in Alexandria, which was to cost him two years in detention from 1948 to 1950. Having moved to Cairo in the mid1950s, al-Kharrāṭ later started working at the Afro-Asian People’s Solidarity Organization (AAPSO) and then the Afro-Asian Writers’ Association (AAWA), serving as editor of the trilingual journal issued by the latter, Lotus: Afro-Asian Writings. After the publication of his first book, the short story collection Ḥīṭān ʿāliya (High Walls, 1959), there would be a thirteen-year (1959–1972) dry period during which he published no books of creative writing. His literary endeavors during that spell were mainly confined to translation, a few articles and short critiques, mostly in the context of Lotus and the cultural programming of the radio. From 1972 onwards, al-Kharrāṭ was to publish prolifically in a variety of genres, eventually resigning from AAPSO and AAWA in 1983 to devote himself to writing. He rose to prominence and his work, translated into several languages, increasingly garnered laurels, until his passing in 2015. Al-Kharrāṭ’s literary texts that I have selected to analyze are primarily his two Alexandrian autobiographical novels, the 1986 Turābuhā zaʿfarān (City of Saffron) and its 1990 sequel Yā banāt Iskindiriyya (Girls of Alexandria), and his 2002 autobiographical novel Ṭarīq al-nisr (The Way of an Eagle). The first two novels between them span the period from the late 1930s until the mid-’50s combines “a surrealist imagination and historical documentation”—122. The chapter on Ṭarīq in Farīd, al-Ighāra 119–28, albeit thought-provoking, does not deal with internationalism, as such, nor analyze any of the surrealist passages. 11  See, among others, al-Kharrāṭ, Random Variations, idem., Murāwadat al-mustaḥīl, esp. 7–9 and 71–7, and idem., Mujādalat al-mustaḥīl, esp. 92–6 and 238–47. A bibliography of his publications, sometimes including secondary sources about his work, and short biographical data are usually appended at the end of al-Kharrāṭ’s novels; see. e.g., Ṭarīq 431–9. See also Ghazzāwī, dir., Ṭarīq and Halim, Edwar El-Kharrat, and idem., Edwar El-Kharrat (1926–2015).

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and contain extended references to the narrator’s 1940s activism. Ṭarīq al-nisr charts the Alexandrian counterpart of the more chronicled Cairene events of the uprising against the British in 1946, as well as the activities and debates of the narrator’s Trotskyist group, the two-year period of detention at the end of the ’40s, into his release in 1950 and a few years after, with flash-forwards to the following decades. There are notable differences between the first two novels and the third. The two Alexandrian autobiographical novels, narrated in a mixture of first and third person voices, are more compact texts, each composed of nine titled chapters; the title of a given chapter contains the image on which it centers. Ṭarīq al-nisr, by contrast, is much longer, more monumental in scope, narrated in its entirety in the first person (apart from authorial metafictional interjections into the first-person narrator’s discourse), its chapters numbered and untitled. While Ṭarīq al-nisr was not conceived as a sequel, it is clear that it affiliates itself to the first two texts by dint of modulating and elaborating on the theme of the narrator’s political experience; and indeed some events, passages and even a few characters from al-Kharrāṭ’s Turābuhā zaʿfarān and Yā banāt Iskindiriyya are reproduced in Ṭarīq al-nisr. Published between the mid1980s and 2002, the literary texts by al-Kharrāṭ I tackle are thus dually informed by the attrition of the demand for social justice with Egypt’s growing assimilation into neo-liberalism and the rise of conservatism, particularly Islamism. Far from lapsing into colonial nostalgia, these texts, in my view, prompt us to reconsider the ethnic heterogeneity associated with Alexandria in relation to class and map into the city’s space something of the history of progressive trends it supported.

Egyptian Surrealism and the Left: Beyond Cairo

Surrealism in Egypt was situated in the left, the figures associated with it, such as Georges Henein (1914–1973), Anwar Kāmil (1913–1991), and Ramsīs Yūnān (Ramsés Younan; 1913–1966), being a generation older than al-Kharrāṭ. Their “Art et liberté” group, established in 1938–9, derived its name from the 1938 manifesto by André Breton and Leon Trotsky, “Pour un art révolutionnaire independent,” and issued a manifesto titled “Long Live Degenerate Art” in 1938 opposing fascism in Europe.12 The group, together with the overlapping later group “Pain et liberté,” issued magazines such as al-Taṭawwur and 12  For Manifesto for an Independent Revolutionary Art, see Breton, What is Surrealism? 183–7 and the editor’s headnote on 183. For Long Live Degenerate Art, see Rosemont and Kelley, Black 148–9. See also Gharīb, al-Siryāliyya 17.

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La part du sable, owned a publishing house (Éditions Masses), and organized a series of exhibitions in Cairo. Progressive in art and politics, the group was not exclusively (nor continuously) Trotskyist, just as it was not exclusively surrealist despite being marked by Surrealism. As the poet, writer and critic Luwīs (Louis) ʿAwaḍ (1915–1990)—the friend of “Art et liberté” members— was to observe, the group reflected the split in the Egyptian left in the 1940s. The members of the group “adopted to various degrees a Trotskyist trend opposed to the Stalinism” of the larger groups, “or, to be more precise, let us call them the Free Marxists.” ʿAwaḍ astutely underscores “two characteristics [that] distinguished” their membership: “first, the group was Egyptian to the core in that you hardly sensed the presence of local foreigners among the leadership [in contrast to other communist groups which were led by locals of foreign descent]; and second, they represented the elite of Egyptian leftist intellectuals . . . most of them mastered a cultivated French as if they were part and parcel of the international intelligentsia . . . and most manifested a developed surrealist sensibility.”13 Scholars’ reservation that the Cairo-based movement was largely “confined to a small intellectual circle of young Egyptians” and that “their communism was that of highbrows and not the communism of the toiling classes” may be valid; and such reservations have been made about other communist groups.14 But “Art et liberté” group’s unique combination of indigenous backgrounds and internationalist orientation would yield positions contrasting to those of the other leftist parties. Avowedly against Fascism and the totalitarianism of the USSR, their internationalism did not mitigate their support of the nationalist cause of Egyptian independence, to which they were as committed as other communist groups. While the USSR espoused the policy of “socialism in one country,” the Comintern approved the prioritization of national independence in colonized countries, a position adopted by most of the left in Egypt in the 1940s. By contrast, for these “Free Marxists” (ʿAwaḍ’s term), that demand did not come at the expense of the socialist orientation both nationally and internationally.15 13  ʿAwaḍ, Dhikrayāt 122. 14  Botman, The rise 12 and ʿAwaḍ, Muqaddima, in Yūnān, Dirāsāt 12 (it should be noted that ʿAwaḍ’s name as the author of this introduction has been dropped from this edition, but internal references, as to his book Bulūtūlānd, identify him as the author); see also ʿAwaḍ, Muqaddima, in ʿAwaḍ, al-ʿAnqāʾ 10, 12, 14–15. For similar reservations about other communist groups, see Botman, The Rise xx, and Jīrfāzyū, al-Ḥaraka esp. 177–8, 188 and passim. 15  See Renton, Georges Henein 84, 93; see also Gharīb, al-Siryaliyya 53–63 and Jīrfāzyū, al-Ḥaraka esp. 190 and 195. Relevant in this context is the group’s 1945 Manifesto in Rosemont and Kelley, Black 150–1.

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Albeit somewhat eclectic, their internationalism was informed by Trotsky’s concept of “permanent revolution.” Although conceding national specificities, Trotsky maintained that, the completion of the socialist revolution within national limits is unthinkable . . . The socialist revolution begins on the national arena, it unfolds on the international arena, and is completed on the world arena. Thus, the socialist revolution becomes a permanent revolution in a newer and broader sense of the word; it attains completion only in the final victory of the new society on our entire planet . . . Insofar as capitalism has created a world market, a world division of labor and world productive forces, it has also prepared world economy as a whole for socialist transformation. Different countries will go through this process at different tempos.16 As Ernest Mandel glosses it, the “different tasks faced by the proletariat and the revolutionaries in different parts of the world”—the “colonial and semicolonial countries,” the “bureaucratised workers’ states,” and the “imperialist countries”—are such that the “revolution does not break out simultaneously in all countries.” In the “colonial and semi-colonial countries” the proletariat “must support every anti-imperialist mass movement,” whether against foreign exploitation or “native dictatorships,” before overthrowing the “native bourgeoisie” and rising to power. As for the “bureaucratised workers’ states,” the task is to protest “against the bureaucracy’s monopoly over the exercise of power” and to “demand the running of the workers’ state by the workers themselves.” In the “imperialist countries,” the process is that “mass movements against capitalist exploitation” are eventually “transformed . . . into struggles for the overthrow of the bourgeois state . . . for the collective ownership of the means of production and socialist planning.” The aim of “revolutionary Marxists” is to achieve “unification” of the different processes. Such a unification occurs through “the internationalist politics and education of the revolutionary vanguard, which will bring to the present struggles more and more experiences of

16  Trotsky, Permanent revolution 313. The seminal Marxist slogan, “workers of the world unite”—see Marx and Engels, Communist manifesto 258—and the subsequent history of the first three Internationals cannot be addressed in this paper, to which the Fourth International is the more relevant context. Of interest here is the editorial on nationalism and internationalism, initialed by Henein, to al-Majalla under Yūnān’s editorship, Bayn al-waṭaniyya.

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the international solidarity of the workers and oppressed people of all countries.” The vanguard “will fight in a systematic manner against chauvinism, racism, and nationalist prejudices of any kind in order to infuse this internationalist consciousness into broader and broader masses.”17 While it is true that the USSR’s recognition of Israel “imbricated” the Egyptian “communist parties in a very difficult situation,” particularly given that they “viewed Moscow as ‘the mecca of communism’ ” and the fact that Jews Egyptianized to various degrees were at the helm, the Cairene Trotskyistleaning group did not suffer the same dilemmas in view of its anti-Stalinist position and its indigeneity.18 Members of that group, however, were to take firm stances on the founding of Israel and the continuing conflict. Despite remaining in touch with André Breton and other French Surrealists, Henein and his cohort eventually distanced themselves for both aesthetic and ideological reasons, the latter, according to Samīr Gharīb, including the Egyptians’ opposition to French surrealists’ support of Israel, an opposition that bespeaks both their nationalism and anti-colonial orientation.19 And it is known that Yūnān, having exiled himself to France where he worked as editor in the Arabic department of French radio, refused, together with Egyptian colleagues, to broadcast statements against Egypt at the time of the Suez War in 1956, and hence was dismissed from his post. Accounts of Egyptian Surrealism, which generally represent it as Cairobased, tend to place emphasis on Francophone output, and suggest that it gradually petered out with the repression, dispersal, emigration, internal exile, and death of the original members of the “Art et liberté” group, its influences continuing in the visual arts but not so much in literature.20 The case of al-Kharrāṭ and some of his Alexandrian cohort seems to me to provide a 17  Mandel, From class society 126, 127 and 128; emphasis in original. 18  Jīrfāzyū, al-Ḥaraka 195 and 188. 19  See Gharīb, al-Siryāliyya 15–16, 19, 30–1, esp. 34–5 and 50–2. See also the editors’ headnote in Rosemont and Kelley, Black 149. Al-Sibāʿī, Jurj Ḥunayn 48, maintains that it was Henein’s sense that Parisian Surrealism had come to suffer from orthodoxy, hence his distancing himself from its luminaries without reneging on Surrealism. On Yūnān’s position in 1956, see ʿAwaḍ, Muqaddima, in Yūnān, Dirāsāt 19. 20  By virtue of its selection, the section on Egypt in Rosemont and Kelley, Black 148–67 perpetuates the sense that Surrealism falls off after Henein and his cohort. Gharīb, al-Siryāliyya 138–9, suggests that the group’s legacy continued in the visual arts but was less palpable in literature on account of several members having been Francophone. Apart from al-Kharrāṭ’s references to surrealist strains in his, Mursī’s, and Ramzī’s texts, the only other source I am aware of to address resonances of Surrealism in Alexandria is al-Shārūnī, al-Lā maʿqūl 53–7, on al-Kharrāṭ’s early writings, as well as Ramzī’s, as part of

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corrective. “The Alexandria School” is how al-Kharrāṭ has referred to his circle of contemporaries and friends in the city in the 1940s and ’50s who made contributions to a variety of cultural fields. Regarding what constitutes this diverse eclectic generation as a school, his comments are inconsistent. On the one hand, al-Kharrāṭ speaks of his cohort as eclectically composed of both “rebels and revolutionaries and also those with a classical inclination who are well-versed in turāth.” On the other, he posits the signal characteristic of his Alexandrian generation as being identical to that of the Hellenistic school of Alexandria, in the poetry produced by the Mouseion of the city under the Ptolemies. The features of the Alexandria school that “challenge time” are: “a denial of time wherein passion for life is prioritized, wherein the atemporal at the heart of history is experienced, the past is ever present and the future is contemporaneous and conjugated in the present tense, skillful use of language ranks high, and the quotidian is elevated to transcendent status.”21 If al-Kharrāṭ’s ahistorical statements seem to replicate the discourse of Alexandrian cosmopolitanism’s standard move of harking back to the Hellenistic period, it is not in the service of Eurocentrism since he reclaims ancient Alexandria for Egyptians in an indigenizing move that he also makes in his comments on Surrealism elsewhere. But I would allude briefly to a common denominator, albeit not a shared aesthetic project, in the form of resonances of Surrealism, between three writers from the 1940s so-called Alexandria school—al-Kharrāṭ, the poet and painter Aḥmad Mursī (b. 1930) and the poet Munīr Ramzī (who took his own life at the age of twenty in 1945).22 Al-Kharrāṭ and his contemporaries—a single generation younger than Henein and his group—encountered Surrealism in some instances through its Egyptian manifestation in the form of the “Art et liberté” group, and in other instances, by virtue of their Alexandrian space, through its European manifestation via quite diffuse channels of exposure. Mursī recalls that while Europe was suffering the ravages of war and its aftermath, the latest European the broader phenomenon his slim, smart monograph addresses, namely what he refers to as “al-lā maʿqūl” (the irreal). 21  Al-Kharrāṭ, Muwājahat al-mustaḥil 99–100. The cameos of figures he sketches as belonging to The Alexandria School contributed to a variety of fields, including: psychoanalysis (the Lacanian Muṣṭafā Ṣafwān), acting (Maḥmūd Mursī), playwriting (Alfrid Faraj), film directing (Tawfīq Sāliḥ), visual arts, musicology, philosophy, literary criticism (Muḥammad Badawī), translation and literature. 22  See Mursī, al-Aʿmāl and Ramzī, Barīq. I draw in the preceding paragraphs on Halim, Afterlife, and hope to elaborate this point in a future article. The introduction by Muḥammad Badawī, a friend of Ramzī’s, to the latter’s Barīq (Barīq 14), notes a “surrealist hue” in Ramzī’s poems. See also al-Kharrāṭ, Mā warāʾa 56, 59.

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artistic trends (including Surrealism) found a hospitable environment in the Alexandria of the 1940s, so that he saw Picasso originals both in exhibition galleries and Alexandrian private collections in his youth.23 Briefly, the Alexandrian forums that enabled the encounter with both international and Egyptian Surrealism include: the Atelier, at which Henein had given a lecture on Surrealism in 1937, to be followed in 1940 by a letter from his collaborators enquiring whether the institution would be willing to host the first exhibition they organized, and where, years later, Mursī was to have his own studio, frequented by his friend al-Kharrāṭ; the Hussein Sobhi Museum of Fine Arts; the Alexandria Biennale for Mediterranean Countries, the first round of which included works by Mursī, and for which al-Kharrāṭ did translation work; the Alliance française at which Mursī participated in group shows that included Egyptian surrealist artists such as ʿAbd al-Hādī al-Gazzār and Ḥāmid Nadā; the Amitiés françaises, at which al-Kharrāṭ first heard the poetry of Yves Bonnefoy (a contributor to the Cairene surrealist publication La part du sable); not to mention informal, indirect encounters such as Mursī’s having frequented the studio of Sayf Wānlī, the Alexandrian artist who had contributed to the Cairene Francophone newspaper Don Quichotte, issued by Henein and his cohort.24 Al-Kharrāṭ, for one, in the course of reflecting on his long-standing fascination with Albert Cossery’s work (whose writing evinced for him “a kind of excessive realism that verges on fantasy, Surrealism and black humor”), has credited his reading of al-Taṭawwur for his first encounter with the writer when it published translated extracts from his book Les hommes oubliés de Dieu.25 23  Author interviews with Mursī. 24  Henein, Bilan; See Mursī’s website and idem. in interviews with the author; al-Kharrāṭ, Fī nūr 6; on Wanlī see Gharīb, al-Siryāliyya 22 and, on Bonnefoy, 35; and al-Kharrāṭ, Muwājahat al-mustaḥīl 100; Gharīb, al-Siryāliyya 109, notes that the “Art et liberté” painter Fuʾād Kāmil would much later participate in the Alexandria Biennale. Dāwistāshī, Tārīkh 44, reproduces a letter written on “Art et liberté Al-Taṭawwur magazine” letterhead sent to the Alexandria Atelier, dated March 30, 1940, offering that the Alexandrian institution host the Cairene group’s first “Exposition de l’Art indépendant.” The letter identifies three “representatives in Alexandria, [a] Work Committee” composed of Edouard Lévy, [Laurent] Marcel Salinas, and Cecil Baldock. Lévy and Salinas were signatories of “Long Live Degenerate Art” (see Rosemont and Kelley, Black 148–9). Baldock participated in the group’s first “Exposition de l’Art indépendant” in 1940 and Salinas in the second in 1941 (see Gharīb, al-Siryāliyya 89–91 and 100). There is no evidence that the exhibition proposed by the Cairene group took place at the Alexandria Atelier. 25  Al-Kharrāṭ, Murāwadat 91. Cossery was a signatory of “Long Live Degenerate Art”; see Rosemont and Kelley, Black 148. According to Gharīb, al-Siryāliyya 29, Cossery’s La maison de la mort certaine was published by Éditions Masses. Cossery’s Les hommes exercised

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The attractions of Surrealism for al-Kharrāṭ, I wager, would have been both aesthetic and political—as ciphered in his fiction, for example, in a reference to the Cairene “icons of the surrealist and Trotskyist movement.”26 Beyond his texts, there is hardly any information about the Alexandrian Trotskyist group to which he belonged; however, from interviews he gave and archival material cited here for the first time that corroborates the depiction of the group’s activities in his fictional work, it is possible to piece together some information. The Trotskyist group for which al-Kharrāṭ served as secretary-general (he refers to it as “our Revolutionary Group”) was apparently particularly small and meagerly funded as its members came from less privileged classes than their counterparts in Cairo. Slightly eclectic in their orientation, their activities included recruiting among workers and students, coordinating with trade unionists, organizing demonstrations, printing leaflets that would be affixed to walls and tram stations, and issuing and distributing a magazine called al-Kifāḥ al-thawrī (Revolutionary Struggle).27 In the aftermath of World War II, amid the “revolutionary ferment against the British military occupation and the exploitation by the Pachas, the palace and corrupt governments . . . the amazing thing was that there was actually a kind of solidarity and cohesion between the students and the workers,” he was to recall apropos of 1946 in Alexandria.28 In an unpublished letter dated 4 April 1947, addressed to an unnamed “Comrade” clearly based in the USA and signed by “Edward Kolta” (Kolta was part of his full name), al-Kharrāṭ writes: such fascination that al-Kharrāṭ and a friend, Shafīq Maqār, started translating Cossery’s La maison at the age of sixteen with barely any knowledge of French—a lost translation that al-Kharrāṭ was to mention to the Francophone novelist when he met him some half a century later in Paris. See al-Kharrāṭ, Murāwadat 91 and Miṣriyyūn 8. The narrator in al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 27, owns a copy of the French original of Cossery’s Les hommes; meanwhile, the narrator in al-Kharrāṭ, Yā banāt 55, has the cutout portraits of Cossery and Trotsky hanging side by side in a room that serves as a meeting place for the cell. 26  Al-Kharrāṭ, Maḍārib 145. By contrast, Mursī, whose poetry and paintings evince surrealist influences, does not relate to Surrealism politically. Mursī interviews with the author. 27  For one reference to “our Revolutionary Group,” as well as the poverty of its members, see al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 7; on the contrast between the Alexandrian group’s paucity of resources and their Cairene counterparts’ situation, 185–6, and 356; and on the trends within the Alexandrian group, 63. On the Trotskyist group in Alexandria and their magazine, see Ṭarīq 40, 48–9, 184, 204 (where the narrator estimates that the group and its sympathizers did not exceed 50 people), and passim. See also Ghazzāwī, dir., Ṭarīq and Halim, Edwar El-Kharrat. 28  Al-Kharrāṭ in Ghazzāwī, dir., Ṭarīq. See Abdalla, The Student 63–79, for an account of the period.

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We have exchanged communications, for a long period, with the RCP in London and with our section in Palestine, with the International Secretariat through comrade L.S. in Cairo, but we feel it conformant with the international character of our organization to try and establish a regular connection with our comrades in the USA [. . .] We are tirelessly under the most ruthless police terror—working at the building of the Egyptian Section of the IV International. [. . .] We shall be really grateful if we may be so happy as to receive any of your papers and periodicals (Militant, Fourth International etc.) . . . as we are in a great need of party literature, for the purpose of translating the outstanding works of Trotsky and the movement into Arabic and educating our cadres and workers.29 The “comrade L.S. in Cairo” is none other than Lotfallah Soliman (Luṭf Allāh Sulaymān; 1918–1994), the leftist Egyptian intellectual, publisher and bookseller of Syro-Lebanese origin who came to be associated with the “Art et liberté” group. Soliman was later to have a rift with the group, in part on account of what he perceived as an ambivalence that led them “to wish for the revolution but not act out the revolution,” a feature he locates in all surrealists, adding that international Surrealism was assimilated into the establishment, and Egyptian Surrealism was inaccessible to Egyptians resisting the overwhelming political realities of the time.30 Cameos, reminiscences about and allusions to the Cairene Trotskyists and members of the “Art et liberté” are interspersed particularly in al-Kharrāṭ’s 29  Letter among the Trotskyist documents, GA collection (emphasis in original). “Al-Kharrāṭ” was a nisba that functioned as the novelist’s last name. Al-Kharrāṭ usually reproduces his full name, Kolta included, in the biographical data that he appends at the end of his books. The sender’s address, Ibn Zahr Street in Alexandria, is the same as the narrator’s in al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 35, 171 and as mentioned by al-Kharrāṭ as his address in Ghazzāwī, Ṭarīq. The narrator in al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 20–1, carries a bunch of Le Militant (the French edition of the American Militant newspaper), among publications that his group requested from Paris, London and New York. 30  See Soliman’s powerful, enigmatic Lettre (dated 7 June 1974) 98, concerning “the years of complicity” between him and Henein, in what he described as “the project . . . to want to violate the real by introducing into it the dream,” followed by “the years, just as numerous, of rupture.” He is more forthcoming in a posthumously published interview from which I quote above, Qubaysī, Ḥadīth (part 1). Here he cites among the reasons for the rupture the fact that he continued to support the USSR, which he explains on account of the importance of the Soviet Union’s backing of Egypt in its struggle for independence. See also idem, Ḥadīth (part 2) and, for an obituary of Soliman, see al-Saʿīd, Luṭf Allāh Sulaymān. I thank Bashīr al-Sibāʿī for copies of these articles.

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texts, particularly the novel Ṭarīq al-nisr (The Way of an Eagle).31 The testimony of Ṭarīq al-nisr corresponds closely to the evidence yielded by an unpublished letter in French, dated 18 December 1947, addressed to “camarades Soliman et Kolta,” and signed, on behalf of the International Secretariat of the Fourth International, by “Pilar,” the pseudonym of the Trotskyist American poet and writer Sherry Mangan, expressing the wish that either one of them would participate at the World Congress of the Fourth International in spring 1948.32 Only in one instance—an enumeration of names of leftists and public intellectuals detained in July 1946—is Lotfallah Soliman given his true full name in the novel, an occasion for metafictional commentary.33 Elsewhere in the novel, we learn that the narrator, whose pseudonym is Yūsuf, is delegated by his group to establish relations with the surrealist Trotskyists of Cairo and that—as the archival letters attest about al-Kharrāṭ’s own period of militancy—he works more closely with the Syro-Lebanese “ ‘Atallah Soliman.” It is at his home that the narrator first meets the Cairene leftists of “Art et liberté” such as Amjad Kāmil (an alias for Anwar Kāmil), who seem to him—this perhaps corroborating the assessment of the group by Lotfallah Soliman (as well as ʿAwaḍ)—leisured and less of a political organization than an intellectual “group of friends.”34 Indeed, the narrator himself faces a dilemma centering on the choice between art (“I remain at heart an eternal dreamer, the poet who recognizes no vocation for himself but art”) and political activism, one that he resolves by prioritizing involvement in politics because in “the current period in the life of the nation . . . the struggle for freedom is more important than working to create an Egyptian art that may not have been written thus far.” He therefore vows to pursue justice through “social, revolutionary work now, and, as I wish and hope, through art later.”35 Much later, Yūsuf is to meet 31  Although labeled a “novel,” al-Kharrāṭ’s Ṭarīq corresponds closely, not only to the unpublished letters I cite, but also to events he narrates in Ṭarīq, the documentary directed by Ghazzāwī. A story in al-Kharrāṭ’s Maḍārib (145) names the Cairene surrealists, as well as other leftists. 32  The letter from Pilar is among the Trotskyist documents, GA collection; this includes other letters addressed to Soliman. On Sherry Mangan, see Wald, The revolutionary imagination. I thank Bashīr al-Sibāʿī for information on Pilar (Mangan) and this reference. 33  Al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 83–4. 34  Al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 184–6. Renton, Georges Henein 94, maintains that “Bread and Freedom” did some recruitment in Alexandria; the group depicted by the novelist seems to have been formed independently, the narrator having been delegated by his group to meet their Trotskyist counterparts in Cairo “with whom we had [hitherto] had no relation.” Al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 184. 35  Al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 119.

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with Soliman again when both are in detention, in the late 1940s, and then again at his Cairo bookshop in the mid-1950s, only to lose touch with him when Soliman is detained once more. Later, Soliman is released and, at the request of the then Algerian president Ahmed Ben Bella to the Nasser regime, moves to Algeria to serve as Ben Bella’s advisor, eventually settling in France—all of which is identical to the biography of the original of this figure.36 Al-Kharrāṭ depicts a visit to Yūnān in Cairo in 1946 at which the then surrealist painter and art critic advised the Alexandrian of the need to think of Marxism flexibly and not as a dogma. Yūnān’s statements seem in keeping with the spirit of a manifesto he and other members of the group signed only a year earlier. Informed by the group’s anti-USSR position and “the partition of the globe into . . . two antagonistic blocks,” the manifesto attacks the dogmatism of Marxists, construing this “wretched infallibility . . . as a common denominator for both Marxist and Fascist parties.” Thus, “[o]ur grievance against Marxism lies not in its leaning towards revolution, but on the contrary, [in] its taking a starchy, stagnant, reactionary stance towards the revolutionary growth of science and thought.”37 That the 1946 meeting with Yūnān should be depicted in both al-Kharrāṭ’s literary and critical texts, and that a manifesto-like text by Yūnān should likewise be reproduced by al-Kharrāṭ in both his fiction and criticism, should also be read in terms of the novelist’s experimental reworking of the codes of literary genres, which is a key aspect of his literary criticism.38

Al-Kharrāṭ as Critic: Resistant Literary Modernity and the Indigenization of Surrealism

In his overlapping roles of novelist, poet, and critic, al-Kharrāṭ has sought to adumbrate and uphold experimental writing and articulations of “ḥadātha” (in this context, literary modernity, rather than modernism) that resist Eurocentrism and counter authoritarian discourse in its various guises as well as establishment aesthetics at home.39 His critical texts certainly display 36  Al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 356–62. Like his original, Atallāh went on to author a book on Palestine. 37  Manifesto, in Rosemont and Kelley, Black 150–1; the signatories include Henein. 38  Al-Kharrāṭ, Maḍārib 147–8; idem., Ṭarīq 227–30, esp. 227; and idem., Fī nūr 7, 39–71, esp. 39–40. For the manifesto-like text (dated 1947), see Yūnān, Dirāsāt 67–8; for the extracts from it see al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 229 and Fī nūr 43. 39  While ḥadātha can be rendered as either modernity or modernism, depending on the context, I have largely opted for modernity (as in the title of this essay) in view of al-Kharrāṭ’s formulation of the concept. There are instances, however, where al-Kharrāṭ would seem

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familiarity with European theory—as in a fleeting reference, in Latin letters, to “écriture” and in a short aperçu, amid extended reflections on the question of ambiguity and clarity in “artistic expression,” on continental philosophy of language and linguistics, adducing structuralism, “métalangage,” and “la sémantique,” again in Latin script.40 In this context, al-Kharrāṭ mentions Roland Barthes, marked echoes of whose theoretical texts one can detect in his own criticism, such as the statement in the same volume that, “in writing there is a measure of impassioned love [walah], both pleasure [al-mutʿa] and suffering. Indeed, the suffering of writing is akin to the suffering of love. It is as if writing, in itself, is an erotic process [ʿamaliyya shabaqiyya].”41 One might gloss al-Kharrāṭ’s espousal, in both criticism and creative writing, of, among other features, a challenging, dense textuality as sharing kinship with Barthes’s espousal of the “writerly” text.42 (It is an interesting coincidence that Barthes was teaching in Alexandria in 1949–50 during the period when al-Kharrāṭ was in detention.) However, it seems to me much more pertinent to seek the affinities of his project among other intellectuals from the Global South, in particular, their shared anxiety about a derivativeness attendant on colonial modernity. Literary modernity, al-Kharrāṭ observes, is not associated with a particular period in time, but is a transhistorical quality of revolt and iconoclasm. “As for modernity [al-ḥadātha],” he adds, “it is, in my view, a value [inherent] in the artistic work; the value of perpetual questioning. Modernity, as I see it, is synonymous with aṣāla [authenticity/indigeneity].” He maintains that Arab literary modernity has a “clear-cut relationship” with the “turāth” (heritage) of Arab to be using the term or its derivatives to refer to modernism, as in, “al-mughāmarāt al-ḥadāthiyya al-shakliyya” (formal modernist adventures). See al-Kharrāṭ, al-Ḥassāsiyya 20. For a discussion of al-Kharrāṭ’s “al-ḥassāsiyya al-jadīda” see Kendall, Literature 96–108. See also the insightful section on al-Kharrāṭ as critic in Farīd, al-Ighāra 129–51, where the European and Arab (pre-modern and modern) frameworks of his criticism are noted (133), and the novelist is aptly described as performing “workshop criticism” (134, 135), by which Farīd designates an artist writing criticism, in contradistinction to both academic and journalistic criticism. 40  Quotations from the introduction in al-Kharrāṭ, al-Qiṣṣa 4 and Unshūda 18. 41  Al-Kharrāṭ, Unshūda 43. 42  I allude to Barthes’ Pleasure of the text and his S/Z. On a panel in which I participated at the annual meeting of the Society for French Historical Studies in April 2013, Thomas Broden (Purdue University) presented a paper entitled “1950s Alexandria ad Aegyptum” that addressed Barthes’ and A.J. Greimas’ time in Alexandria. The title of al-Kharrāṭ’s Unshūda lil-kathāfa (Hymn to Density) is almost certainly a riposte to Yaḥyā Ḥaqqī’s Unshūda lil-basāṭa (Hymn to Simplicity).

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culture, including sagas, folklore, The Thousand and One Nights, the abstraction of decorative elements, the maqāmāt, and Sufism.43 That al-Kharrāṭ elaborates slightly more on the innovative Abbasid poet Abū Nuwās (seventh-eighth century CE) as an exemplar in that respect should cue us to the quite similar articulation of Arab literary modernity, specifically poetics, by the Syrian poet and intellectual Adūnīs (b. 1930). Briefly, Adūnīs (penname of ʿAlī Aḥmad Saʿīd) had criticized what he saw as a “dual dependency” (tabaʿiyya muzdawija) in two trends in the modern Arab world “in the period of Western colonialism”: imitativeness of the West, and a traditionalism that harks back to a traditional Arab canon while eschewing the innovative trends that the latter suppressed. The two trends, in his view, “efface, each following its own specificity and mechanism, the dimensions of modernity and values of creativity within Arab turāth” which witnessed their apogee in the eighth, ninth and tenth centuries CE, as exemplified, among others, by Sufism and Abū Nuwās.44 Al-Kharrāṭ and Adūnīs visibly overlap in the resistance to imitation of the West and in the resources for literary modernity that they locate in turāth. However, they stand in contrast, among other things, in that Adūnīs prescriptively construes these resources as a missed opportunity while al-Kharrāṭ descriptively supports an indigeneity he believes has been revived in literature in the latter part of the twentieth century. The appeal to indigeneity likewise comes to mark al-Kharrāṭ’s account of Surrealism, which he refers to either by the loan-word siryāliyya or by an Arabic translation, as in the title of his 1997 book Mā warāʾa al-wāqiʿ (a gloss— more literally translatable as “metarealism”—that can be translated back 43  Al-Kharrāṭ, al-Ḥassāsiyya 21–2. 44  Adūnīs, al-Shi‘riyya 85, 82, and 86; see also 84 and 95. Darrāj, Naẓariyyat al-riwāya 255– 6, faults al-Kharrāṭ for an obliviousness to a substantial number of experimental Arab writers of previous generations, an insufficient attention to earlier critical texts that have grappled with the same issues—including Adūnīs’—and a cavalier approach in his usage of terms such as “ḥadātha”; see 255–83, esp. 256–63. Among the figures Darrāj, Naẓariyyat al-riwāya 256, persuasively reproaches al-Kharrāṭ for eliding is Luwīs ʿAwaḍ, in particular the latter’s Bulūtūlānd. The book—not least its 1947 introduction and the afterword written in 1988, Baʿd niṣf qarn, appended to the 1989 reprint—is a muted key intertext of al-Kharrāṭ’s “new sensibility” as well as his “transgeneric writing,” although al-Kharrāṭ does occasionally refer to ʿAwaḍ. There is a slightly ironic portrait of ʿAwaḍ in al-Kharrāṭ’s Ṭarīq, at 188, where the older intellectual is referred to by the name Maurice ʿAwaḍ. Al-Kharrāṭ does, however, cite ʿAwaḍ’s praise in Muqaddima, in Yūnān, Dirāsāt 14, of Yūnān’s groundbreaking work as an artist that enabled so much Egyptian art in later generations; see al-Kharrāṭ, Fī nūr 41 and Mā warāʾa 43–4. ʿAwaḍ’s creative writing as an intertext of al-Kharrāṭ’s, too, deserves to be discussed in another study.

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as Surrealism). In a cluster of essays on international Surrealism and on its Egyptian manifestations, he maintains that “Surrealism . . . did not spring fully formed like Athena from Zeus’ head” but rather had precedents that trace back to Plato’s conception of poets and, closer in time, to Arthur Rimbaud (often cited by earlier surrealists). This longue durée enables a strategic move he makes when turning to Egypt under the telling rubrics of “An Egyptian Surrealism in the Plastic Arts” and “An Egyptian Surrealism in Literature.” Addressing the canonical names associated with “Art et liberté,” al-Kharrāṭ states that, Egyptian Surrealism was not an imitation or a copy of the Surrealism with which Europe became acquainted in the wake of World War I. Surrealism in Egypt was associated with revolution, not frustration. It was associated with hope for change and was not a byproduct of the horrors of war. But it was primarily Egyptian because it drew inspiration from a heritage [turāth] exclusively its own, this being Egyptian popular legends. Not only did it benefit from the symbols of Egyptian folklore, in the visual arts it went as far as deriving a palette from distinctive Egyptian colors: Pharaonic terracotta, Alexandrian blue, and that [shade of] green of the shrouds of holy men and their mausoleums.45

45  Al-Kharrāṭ, Mā warāʾa 13 and 41 (emphasis added). Al-Kharrāṭ had been writing about Surrealism and translating surrealist texts since at least the mid-1950s. According to the author’s notes in al-Kharrāṭ’s Mā warāʾa (at 40), the first essay in that book, on international Surrealism, was written in Alexandria in 1954. Later, al-Kharrāṭ wrote about Surrealism in both journalistic forums (see, inter alia, his 1973 article al-Siryāliyya on Surrealism in the short story, and his 1975 two-part serialized article on Surrealism in literature, al-Siryāliyya fī al-adab 1 and 2; all these articles deal with international, rather than Egyptian, Surrealism) and academic forums (see his Miṣriyyūn), as well as in bookform, particularly in his Mā warāʾa and Fī nūr. His translations pertaining to Surrealism include both primary and secondary sources. In al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 429, the narrator speaks of having made translations of Paul Éluard’s poems in the 1950s. This appears to be autobiographical: al-Kharrāṭ’s translation, titled Khams qaṣāʾid, includes a poem by Éluard, 111. The bibliography of his publications at the end of Ṭarīq 437, indicates that al-Kharrāṭ published a translation of Éluard poems under the title al-Sarīr al-māʾida in 1997. Al-Kharrāṭ, Khams qaṣāʾid, includes a translated poem by Aimé Cesaire, 111 (the headnote announces that he “was in close contact with the surrealists”); a translation of a poem by Georges Schéhadé, 115 (the headnote observes that he was born in Alexandria); and a headnote to another poem that refers to the International Surrealist Exhibition of 1959–60, 116. Al-Kharrāṭ also co-translated Azār, al-Taṣwīr, see esp. 51–77, which addresses the visual arts in the period from 1938 to 1947.

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He substantiates this genealogy by adducing the Alexandrian artist al-Gazzār whom he sees as instrumental in “the flourishing of Egyptian Surrealism.” He dwells on al-Gazzār’s vocabulary drawn from the Ancient Egyptian lexicon— as in the cat, and the owl—and also from the folk lexicon—as in the tattoo, and the palm with fingers spread to ward off the evil eye. Al-Gazzār’s merging of “the human and the non-human,” of the “world of reality with that of legend,” of daily phenomena with the magical and fantastical, is “invariably inspired by folk heritage as much as it is by the mundane implements of life.”46 While similar statements have been made about al-Gazzār, al-Kharrāṭ emphatically describes the Francophone surrealists, more vulnerable to charges of inaccessibility and foreignness, as “Francophone in mold, Egyptian to the core.” Thus, when discussing the Egyptian Francophone surrealist poet Joyce Mansour, he remarks that her “surreal . . . extravagant imagination,” akin to his own “ravings [shaṭaḥāt],” is by no means foreign to “Egyptian taste which, throughout history, has known imagination so unbridled” as to attain to that which is beyond “the earthly real.” He cites the popular Sufi practice of dhikr, “the towering loftiness of ancient obelisks and temples that rise above all equilibrium to reach into the skies of atemporal fantasy,” and Coptic icons and mosques.47 Across the Atlantic, the Cuban writer and intellectual Alejo Carpentier (1904–1980) would resist mimicry of Metropolitan trends by famously lashing out at a Surrealism that he cast as willful and mechanical: “the result of willing the marvelous or any other trance is that the dream technicians become bureaucrats.” The indigeneity Carpentier appeals to would seem to be set in opposition to Surrealism, rather than continuous with it as in the case of al-Kharrāṭ: he pits against it “the presence and vitality of [the] marvelous real” that is “the heritage of all of America.”48 This arises from the very landscape, from the mestizaje of the people, from a mystical turn, and from a faith in myth, ritual, and living folk practices. I detect a parallel here to what I argue is a dimension of interfaith solidarity in al-Kharrāṭ’s literary texts, namely syncretism and an appeal to folk practices, to be analyzed below. Where Carpentier makes a move similar to al-Kharrāṭ’s harking back beyond Surrealism’s presumed origin in post-World War I Western Europe in order to harness it to Egypt is in a later text where he redefines the baroque to make it continuous with the marvelous real. Carpentier argues that the baroque is “a human constant that absolutely cannot be limited to an architectural, aesthetic and 46  Al-Kharrāṭ, Mā warāʾa 45–6. On ancient Egypt in Surrealism, see Kober, Magic. Mursī, it should be noted, was a longtime collaborator with al-Gazzār. 47  Al-Kharrāṭ, Miṣriyyūn 14. 48  Carpentier, On the marvelous real 85, 87.

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pictorial movement originating in the seventeenth century,” one that “has flourished in all ages, sporadically at times, and at times as the main characteristic of a culture,” its hallmark being “an art that fears a vacuum.” Observing that “the development of Surrealism was totally baroque,” thus subsuming it to the baroque, Carpentier proclaims “Latin America the chosen territory of the baroque” since “all symbiosis, all mestizaje, engenders the baroque” which is continuous with the marvelous real.49 For al-Kharrāṭ, on the other hand, Surrealism would be conjoined with another concept in Egyptian literature, namely “al-ḥassāsiyya al-jadīda” (the new sensibility), itself including a trend generally associated with Latin America, namely magical realism. In contradistinction to his notion of literary modernity as a transhistorical value, al-Kharrāṭ presents the new sensibility as the product of a specific historical moment and suggests that it is capable, in time, of becoming ossified. The new sensibility supplanted the “traditional sensibility”—this largely associated with derivative Romanticism and a realism invested in “mimesis” of a presupposed objective, fixed, external reality.50 Al-Kharrāṭ represents the new sensibility as a heterogeneous constellation of trends: a trend where narrative is totally non-committal and objectifying; a trend of subjective, internal description and monologue that does away with linear narrative and barely has any elements of dialogue or plot; a trend that appropriates folklore and pre-modern canonical and non-canonical texts for its own purposes; a magical realist trend, which, to my mind, overlaps with Surrealism; and a neo-realist trend which partially draws on realist modes, while consistently questioning authority.51 The chronology of the new sensibility in his account is virtually identical to that of Surrealism as he presents it elsewhere: a late 1930s/early ’40s blossoming, followed by a “latency” period, while realism in its various guises rose to the fore, to be succeeded by a reemergence starting in the late ’60s and the ’70s.52 Among the socio-political factors al-Kharrāṭ advances to account for the emergence of the new sensibility are: the riposte to bankrupt official discourse 49  Carpentier, The Baroque 94, 98, 100. 50  Al-Kharrāṭ, al-Ḥassāsiyya 8–9 and also Aṣwāt 13–16. 51  Al-Kharrāṭ, al-Ḥassāsiyya 15–20. Abū Aḥmad, al-Wāqiʿiyya 5–22, discusses Latin American magical realism as deriving from three sources: the marvelous, the mythical and the surrealist (he underscores the influence of Surrealism on South American writers). He also addresses the influence of the pre-modern Arab literary heritage (including the Thousand and One Nights) on Latin American magical realism. See also his chapter on al-Kharrāṭ, 93–111. 52  Al-Kharrāṭ, al-Ḥasāsiyya 13–15 and idem, Mā warāʾa 53–60.

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(particularly after 1967) and dominant forms, the later massive changes wrought by the Sadat regime including drastically altered social values and consumerism (consequent on the Open Door Policy), “the brain drain,” the dissolution of socialist practices, the Peace Treaty with Israel and hence rupturing of relations with the rest of the Arab world, the rise of Islamic fundamentalism in Egypt and “sectarian violence from time to time,” as well as a paternalistic nationalist discourse. The forums al-Kharrāṭ identifies as sustaining both Surrealism and the new sensibility are identical (among them the journals al-Taṭawwur and Gallery ’68—the novelist served as one of the editors of the latter); and he includes his own literary texts, as well as those of Badr al-Dīb (1926– 2005), Mursī and Ramzī in the account of literature marked by Surrealism.53 But the further significance of indigenizing Surrealism and articulating it with the new sensibility are more important to underscore. Al-Kharrāṭ’s upholding both Egyptian Surrealism and the new sensibility, to my mind, serves two related purposes: a critique of realism, particularly socialist realism which was promoted in Maḥmūd Amīn al-ʿĀlim and ʿAbd al-ʿAẓīm Anīs’ 1955 benchmark book Fī l-thaqāfa al-miṣriyya (On Egyptian Culture), albeit far from being in favor of conservatism; and lending credence to an experimentalism that he conceives of as seeking “a value system that is more just, more broadly emancipatory, and more profound in its belief in fundamental human dignity.”54

Internationalism and Surrealism in al-Kharrāṭ’s Literary Texts

In now turning to al-Kharrāṭ’s literary texts I shall analyze selected resonances of internationalism and Surrealism and glean the resistant modernity they project. Much of his fiction, specifically the novels, is non-linear narrative, sometimes “episodic [in] structure,”55 densely allusive, “iterative” and linguistically quite demanding as it can deploy a whole gamut of registers in a single passage. Bearing in mind David Gascoyne’s observation that, “[i]t is the avowed aim of the surrealist movement to reduce and finally to dispose altogether of the flagrant contradictions that exist between dream and waking life, 53  Quotations from al-Kharrāṭ, al-Ḥasāsiyya 10; see also his Aṣwāt 19 and Mā warāʾa 56–9. 54  Al-Kharrāṭ, al-Ḥasāsiyya 33; see also his Aṣwāt 9–16, esp. 13. Of relevance here, too, are the novelist’s reflections on “commitment.” See al-Kharrāṭ, Kull minnā, esp. 71–2, 74–7. 55  Al-Kharrāṭ in an interview with Ḥāfiz, Ḥiwār 108–9, comments on the “episodic structure” of his texts and reads it in terms of the Arabian Nights, Pharaonic cartouches, and Arabesques. Fārūq, Jamāliyyāt al-tashazzī 40, speaks of al-Kharrāṭ’s “iterative narrative” (transcribed in Latin letters) in the 1993 novel Ḥijārat Būbillū.

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the ‘unreal’ and the ‘real,’ the unconscious and the conscious, and thus to make what has hitherto been regarded as the special domain of poets, the acknowledged common property of all,” I proceed with the reservation that not all of al-Kharrāṭ’s texts or any given text in its entirety can be described as surrealist.56 Among the instantiations of Surrealism I would identify are passages where the boundaries between dream and reality are blurred in what may seem to be excesses of wild “ravings,” where something in the order of stream-of-consciousness automatic writing unfolds, or where traditional generic codes, in particular the distinction between poetry and fiction, are undermined. Cues to generic indeterminacy might be given in titles (the title of Yā banāt Iskindiriyya [Girls of Alexandria] is taken from a folk song) or subtitles (Turābuhā zaʿfarān [City of Saffron] is subtitled Nuṣūṣ Iskandarāniyya, meaning, Alexandrian texts, and Tabārīḥ al-waqāʾiʿ wa-l-junūn [Agonies of Events and Madness] is subtitled Tanwīʿāt riwāʾiyya, meaning, novelistic variations). But I wish to revisit certain passages by revising al-Kharrāṭ’s term “al-kitāba ʿabra al-nawʿiyya” (transgeneric writing), which is part of the new sensibility. By “transgeneric writing” he means the story-poem, typified by concision and condensation, the layout and typographical presentation of the text, as well as the priority it retains for narrative as opposed to poetry, in contradistinction to the prose-poem, in which the poetic takes precedence.57 I maintain that embedded within his novels are story-poem passages, of a surrealist tenor, that sometimes resort to pastiche or collage. Before I analyze such passages, I would add that collage and pastiche operate not only within a given text, but between/across texts. Al-Kharrāṭ has sometimes extricated such passages and, by dint of adopting shorter lines and revisions to layout, published them under the rubric of “poems” although one might prefer to think of them as prose-poems.58 Likewise, passages from given novels (in this case the two Alexandrian novels) can be extricated and differently assembled in another text, as in Iskandariyyatī madīnatī al-qudsiyya al-ḥūshiyya, subtitled “(Kūlāj riwāʾī)”—“My Alexandria, My City Sacred and Untamed (A Novelistic Collage).”59 Such passages often serve to orchestrate the nationalist and internationalist thematics of radical solidarity that my reading throws into relief.

56  Quoted in Rosemont and Kelley, Invisible 3. 57  Al-Kharrāṭ, al-Kitāba 15. 58  For one such passage, see al-Kharrāṭ, al-Zaman 102–3 and his Ṭughyān 114–15. 59  Al-Kharrāṭ, Iskandariyyatī; see also his comments, in Fī nūr 7, on having used the technique of collage not only in his literary texts but also in seven paintings exhibited in a group show at the Atelier (presumably in Cairo).

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Placed center-stage in al-Kharrāṭ’s Alexandrian texts are the southern quarters of the city, working-class and lower middle-class neighborhoods with semirural names like Kafr ʿAshrī and Ghayṭ al-ʿInab, whose inhabitants, largely migrants, earned their living in the past through cattle breeding and dairy production, as craftsmen, or as workers in dockyards and warehouses. This perspective on the city—which is in sharp contrast to European representations of Alexandria that, if at all, might feature such areas as “native quarters”— emphatically elicits social justice or lack thereof. Thus, in a chapter of Yā banāt Iskindiriyya largely concerned with the Trotskyist activities of Mikhāʾīl (the narrator of several of al-Kharrāṭ’s novels) we encounter these reflections concerning an Alexandrian villa in a posh area: . . . And I would think that such architectural luxury is the right of all people. I seethed with suppressed fury at the thought of the ugly, shabby dwellings in which we lived all our lives, the kind of dwellings where I visited factory workers in Mex, Bacos, and Hagar al-Nawatiyya, to instruct, incite, and prepare them for the [communist revolutionary] movement. My heart trembled with rebelliousness and a passionate yearning for some form of justice and truth.60 The ethnic heterogeneity that constitutes one of the hallmarks of Alexandrian cosmopolitanism is differently articulated in the context of underprivileged quarters, by representing ethnicities overlooked in European texts, such as Tunisians, and eliciting an internally diverse nation, including regional differences among Egyptians, and subaltern classes in relation to the middle class.61 If the Kharrāṭian text responds to the “challenge of Islamic advocacy” of the late twentieth century in Egypt, it is not by an unquestioning “nostalgia for the cosmopolitanism of previous decades”62 in its long-standing definition as elite and Westernized, but, in my view, by reaching into local, popular practices of inter-communal solidarity. This response, I posit, is reinforced by the texts’ nuancing, along class, as well as gender, lines, of the association between that key constituency of Alexandrian cosmopolitanism, those of foreign descent, specifically Greeks, and colonial complicity. I thus consider the half-Greek Sylvana, one of the female figures in the extended eulogy of the ethnically diverse “girls of Alexandria” in Yā banāt Iskindiriyya. Mikhāʾīl is introduced 60  Al-Kharrāṭ, Yā banāt 79 and El-Kharrat, Girls 71. 61  See, e.g., al-Kharrāṭ, Turābuhā 179–80, and the discussion of this portion of the text in Halim, The Alexandria archive 345–6. 62  Zubaida, Cosmopolitanism 31.

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to Sylvana by a friend at a skating-rink frequented by a variety of ethnicities, that serves as a pick-up place, particularly for prostitution. The friend, George, who has designs on Sylvana that Mikhāʾīl disapproves of, observes that, “ ‘The girl stays at home alone with her mother, an old hag, the Armenian bitch. Her dad’s Greek, and he’s in prison. Remember the story of the mutiny on the Greek ships?’ [. . .] He said, ‘The girl’s toothsome, I tell you—still green and got her cherry.’ ”63 The figure of Sylvana marks the collision of the discourse of Alexandrian cosmopolitanism with internationalism. Launched on a career of prostitution in World War II Alexandria, Sylvana invites comparison with the feminization of Alexandria in Western texts often figured, per the Hellenizing discourse of Alexandrian cosmopolitanism, as a Cleopatra-like courtesan (thus Lawrence Durrell: “Alexandria, princess and whore. The royal city and the anus mundi. She would never change so long as the races continued to seethe here like must in a vat”64). The episode involving Sylvana cited above comes from the sixth chapter of Girls of Alexandria; in the preceding chapter of this non-linear narrative, Mikhāʾīl meets an older Sylvana, clearly the same person, who is an “artiste” at a nightclub called Scarabée. In a stream-of-consciousness description of a sexual episode involving Mikhāʾīl and Sylvana, we encounter the words “. . . an Alexandrian Cleopatra, she rehearses profuse words of love’s art and moans with the pleasure of the act of love . . .”65 Here, al-Kharrāṭ’s narrator likewise slips into a commodification of womanhood and an attribution of a timeless courtesan quality to this woman and, through her, to the city, apparently lapsing into an obfuscation of the issues at stake. But bracketing any identification of the narrator with the author, and further bracketing authorial intentionality, we may wish to bear in mind that in the following chapter Sylvana’s background and her father’s involvement in the Greek sailors’ mutiny are disclosed. Thus the reference to Cleopatra can be read retroactively as an intertextual nod towards the Hellenistic feminization trope that goes on to undercut that trope by mapping in the historical and material relations that effect Sylvana’s commodification. In this sense, one can read the Scarabée episode as indicative of how the colonized man (Mikhāʾīl), no matter how disenfranchised, can, under given conditions, be more enfranchised than a woman 63  Al-Kharrāṭ, Yā banāt 102; my translation overlaps with Liardet’s in El-Kharrat, Girls 93. I abridge and revise here the discussion in Halim, Alexandria 348–56, which includes a comparison with Durrell’s feminization of Alexandria. On al-Kharrāṭ in relation to Durrell, see also Halim, The face. 64  Durrell, Clea 63. 65  Al-Kharrāṭ, Yā banāt 91.

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of European origins (Sylvana) in the Alexandria of the time. While the time and place might have given her a position of greater privilege, her exploitation has been effected at the nexus of class and a doubly-determined patriarchy, reinforced, that is, by the additional layer of British imperialism. Here I wish to bring to the fore a whole historical nexus of British imperialism, communist resistance thereto, and an Egyptian-Greek internationalist solidarity encoded in the fleeting reference to “the story of the mutiny on the Greek ships.” The mutiny of the Greek navy in the Middle East, which was serving the Allied cause, took place in the spring of 1944. Centered in Alexandria, the mutiny by sailors on the Greek warships was also paralleled by that in Greek army troops elsewhere in Egypt.66 Although it had in common with Greek factions its opposition to the Greek monarchy and apprehension that the return of the king after the war would mean a return to dictatorship, the insurrection was predominantly communist and aimed to “topple the emigré government and push things towards the establishment of a government of national unity on whose composition the factions disagreed.”67 Britain crushed the rebellion, given its strategic interest in Greece, as part of its imperial project, quite apart from the impairment that the naval mutiny was causing to the war effort. Fearing a communist takeover of Greece, the “British decided to starve the besieged Greeks [and force them] to surrender by cutting off water and food supplies to the Greek ships and the brigade.”68 In the end, the mutiny was put down, with a number of sailors getting killed in the process, the rest being sent to concentration camps.69 But the siege lasted longer than the British had anticipated, partly due to the sympathy of Egyptians, who helped replenish the Greeks’ supplies. Drawing on the studies and documents of Egyptian communists, Sayyid ʿAshmāwī points out that the Greek sailors and troops were offered support and backing by Egyptian communist groups, members of the Greek community having also played a role in the Egyptian communist movement.70 Thus, ciphered in the fictional figure of a Sylvana whose father belonged to the rebel communist sailors defeated and imprisoned by the British is the particular facet of the Greek presence in Egypt with which the Kharrāṭian text identifies. I claim that what might appear to be ascribed to a ready discourse 66  See Spyropoulos, The Greek military 358–65. 67  Spyropoulos, The Greek military 380 and 416. 68  Spyropoulos, The Greek military 364. 69  Spyropoulos, The Greek military 368–9, and 403. 70  ʿAshmāwī, al-Yunāniyyūn 132–3 and, on the left-wing political role of the Greeks in Egypt, 119–76.

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of Alexandrian cosmopolitanism—not least given the Hellenic inflection via the figure of Sylvana—is undermined by an anti-imperial internationalist solidarity. Indeed, I wish to explore that solidarity further by drawing out another passage from the same text that concerns the mutiny of the Greek sailors: Near the huge oil storage tanks with their sparkling, ever-flickering flame, I saw a row of tough Afrikaner soldiers on the shore with their backs to us, looking out to sea, their weapons tensely raised while the huge white British frigate stood motionless on the sea, its cannons pointed at the small battleship with Greek letters on it, a red flag fluttering from afar on its mast—as though in a final, desperate gesture of defiance71—and I saw a row of soldiers in helmets and bullet-proof glass visors, heavily armed, blocking the narrow streets once paced by prophets, poets, and dreamers, in Jerusalem, Ramallah, Nazareth, Bethlehem and al-Khalīl, shooting children with machine-guns and hurling tear-gas grenades at them; soldiers surrounding the circular granite memorial that gleams by night in Tahrir Square and beating boys and girls with their batons; soldiers escorting prisoners to the closed, suffocating train carriages and the filthy, cold trenches in Warsaw and Siberia and the gas-chambers of Dachau; chasing the workers of the textile factories in Maḥalla and Kafr al-Dawwār and Karmūz and pursuing the students from Law, Medicine and other faculties on the ʿAbbāsiyya hill [in Alexandria]. Their yellow tanks know full well their business and their long old-fashioned rifles open fire, so that hundreds drop in the spacious square in front of the Winter Palace; the sirens of the black cars howling in front of the Sorbonne; soldiers dragging by the leather leash trained, ferocious dogs to gnaw the legs of Blacks in Johannesburg and Mississippi alike. I was to find out, years later, that the British had executed hundreds of the rebel Greek sailors who had joined the liberation army in Greece, and that they had imprisoned the rest, until the revolution was smashed, after the war.72 In what it presents as free-association the passage branches out from the 1944 incident of the Greek sailors in Egypt, the narrating I training our eye, both analeptically and proleptically, onto diverse instances of state oppression and 71  Al-Kharrāṭ’s account here is consonant with Spyropoulos, The Greek military 365: “Several British ships had also isolated the Greek ships at the port of Alexandria.” 72  Al-Kharrāṭ, Yā banāt 18–19. Cf. my translation of El-Kharrat, My city 186–7. “Afrikaner” renders the original’s amrikān, which is no doubt a typo. In discussing the passage, I draw on Halim, Alexandria 350–2. See the corresponding passage in El-Kharrat, Girls 10–11.

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authoritarianism from different parts of the globe, as well as revolt there. With only a two-sentence break, we are prompted to compare these instances vastly dispersed across time and space, and elicit the mutuality of oppression. The passage pairs the victims of racism, Apartheid, Stalinism, Nazism, and Zionism, as well as instances of repression of anti-colonial demonstrations (the ones of Alexandria University of the 1940s), of uprisings against autocracy, as in the allusion to the 1905 Bloody Sunday in Saint Petersburg, of workers’ strikes (“workers of the textile factories in Maḥalla and Kafr al-Dawwār . . .”), including those crushed by the Nasser regime, and of student movements (those of the early 1970s against the authoritarianism of Sadat, involving student demonstrations in Tahrir Square in Cairo, being dovetailed with the events of 1968 in Paris), before returning again to the Greek mutiny. Al-Kharrāṭ’s later novel Ṭarīq al-nisr both thematizes and aesthetically instantiates Surrealism and internationalism in the narrator’s involvement in the Trotskyist movement followed by detention among a wide ethnic and ideological variety of inmates. These inmates include communists of different currents and ethnicities, primarily Egyptian but also locals of foreign or mixed descent, White Russians, “veterans” of the Greek mutiny discussed above, Yugoslav dissidents from Tito’s regime, Wafdists, members of the Muslim Brotherhood, local Zionist Jews, workers and students; as well as later glimpses of a few detained members of the Cairene “Art et liberté” group.73 This long novel, albeit slightly marred by a maudlin strain, deserves a study unto itself. It is fueled by the wish to document (often reproducing, as it does, a substantial number of documents of the time) the experience of the left of the period, if in autobiographical fictional form, more so in view of the impact on Egypt of privatization and globalization.74 For my purposes, I wish to extricate the functions of the dream within the text in relation to my theme. In a credo-like passage, the narrator asserts, “with my surrealist comrades,” that “the dream is a positive force for social change,” that “we must heed the voice of the dream” which emanates from the same “wellsprings of life” that are the wellsprings of “the people’s” power and desire for “freedom and justice.”75 A series of surrealistic passages—paeans, dreams, visions, nightmares and daydreams—are embedded in the text, whether at the beginning or the end of a chapter, or somewhere in between. These story-poem passages, embedded 73  Al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 250–1, 254, 295 and 355–8. 74  For the narrator’s commentary on late twentieth-century Egypt, see al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 96, 74, and 209. I draw here on Halim, Internationalist. 75  Al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 269. For lack of space, the narrator’s reflections on Freud in relation to Marx, e.g. Ṭarīq 171–5, cannot be discussed here.

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within a novel that in other parts is markedly realist, serve to condense and overdetermine the relationship between nationalism and internationalism that the novel broaches more explicitly elsewhere. The novel depicts the Trotskyist group’s program as calling for: full national independence and evacuation of British forces; the nationalization of the Suez Canal, banks and major industries; the rejection of treaties that might result in “dependency”; maintaining independence from the “Socialist Bloc,” while defending and calling for its democratization and the purge of “party bureaucracy that has usurped the people’s authority”—“all as a prelude to eliminating the tyranny of the monarchy, putting an end to the rule of feudalism which is organically allied with colonialism, aiming towards proclaiming the socialist republic and paving the way to permanent revolution.”76 In practice, it should be noted, the relationship between nationalism and internationalism is depicted as not invariably congruous: there is at least one moment where, informed by the anti-colonial struggle, as well as the exploitative role of local foreigners and questions surrounding the loyalties of particularly those of them involved in the leftist movement, nationalism gets the upper-hand, as the group acknowledges.77 76  Al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 65 and also 8, 48, and 119. The narrator here alludes to, among others, Trotsky, The permanent revolution. 77  I borrow “condense” and “overdetermine” from Freud, Interpretation. For the instance of a break between internationalism and nationalism see al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 169–71, in which a discussion in the Trotskyist group centers on whether or not to include a local foreigner, and the majority vote against. The man in question, Arturo Schwartz, was an Alexandriaborn Jew of Italian-German origin and Trotskyist sympathizer who owned a bookstore in the city. During a visit to Schwartz’s home, the narrator overhears a family discussion about buying shares in a capitalist company in which reference is made, in racist terms, to the agitations of the “Arab” workers. Schwartz is later detained with the narrator and then—much to his anguish as the narrator empathically recounts—is deported to Italy. See al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 163–6 and 289–90. The same letter I quote above, dated April 4, 1947, from “Edward Kolta” (al-Kharrāṭ), requests that publications be sent to “Mr. [illegible] Schwartz, ‘Culture’ Bookshop, 2 Rue Centrale, Alexandria.” An undated letter from “Pilar” (Mangan) in French, addressed to “camarades” and sent to “A. Schwartz Librairie ‘Culture’,” acknowledges receipt of Kolta’s letter, expresses pleasure that an organization of the 4th International is being established in Egypt and confirms that the publications requested will be sent. Trotskyist documents, GA collection. According to Homage, after settling in Italy Schwartz opened an art gallery in Milan and built up a collection of surrealist and Dada artwork, which he eventually donated to the Israel Museum in Jerusalem. The narrator in al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 163, distinguishes this Schwartz from Hillel Schwartz, the prominent and controversial Cairene figure in the Egyptian communist movement specifically in an organization called Iskra, on whom see Botman, The Rise 47–9 and Jīrfāzyū, al-Ḥaraka 187, 192, and 194–5. Al-Kharrāṭ’s Ṭarīq 49, refers to Iskra and other Cairene

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One of the surrealist passages is sparked by the narrator’s recollection of “Pola” (sometimes Boula) or Iqbāl al-ʿAlāyilī—the Cairene surrealist who was to become Henein’s wife—that gives rise to reflections that her extravagant flouting of social conventions constituted “a message, in some sense” of “rebellion, vehement love,” and “revolt against traditions.” This is followed by a long hymn to different female figures—whether drawn from real life, such as Pola, from al-Kharrāṭ’s fictional cosmogony, such as Rāma who figures the beloved and the homeland, or from Ancient Egyptian mythology, such as the Goddess Hathor—all fusing together as facets and figurations of “Kemet” (the text uses the country’s Ancient Egyptian name) as part of what the narrator describes as “the hallucinations of my passion for you, my homeland.” Making allusion, couched in myth, to authoritarianism in the latter part of the twentieth century in Egypt (“you were not deluded by . . . the guardianship of he who usurped for himself the mask of your father Ra the Glorious before the mask fell”), the passage also contains a melancholy reference to “the dawn of [the] October [Revolution] that has withdrawn, its clouds having melted like funereal candles.”78 Other passages place an emphasis on the revolutionary continuity between nationalism and internationalism precisely by dint of imperceptible transitions between Egyptian protests, the Paris commune, and signal moments in the history of the Bolshevik Revolution. Thus, “is this the square of the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg where the roaring multitudes have converged from all the side streets sending throngs to storm the gates of the Karmūz Factory [in Alexandria]?”79 Music—itself the subject of a meditation comparing it to existence in relation to freedom, replete with speculations about the role of chance versus imperceptible “internal and external laws”—functions in some of the surrealistic passages as a leitmotif that enhances the internationalist interconnections.80 In a dream-like meditation, “the rhythm of an internal music,” polyphonically drawn from different cultures, serves as a revolutionary theme that accompanies a vision of “the cheering of vast crowds calling for justice and freedom in all the languages of the time-honored ‘Internationale,’ ” onto quoted verses from an Arabic version of the “International,” a reference to the organizations that, in February 1946, sent representatives to Alexandria, and with which his group were in some contact while retaining their independence. See also Ṭarīq 92. The narrator was to glimpse briefly Hillel Schwartz, as well as another prominent figure in the Cairene communist movement, Henri Curiel, while in detention. Ṭarīq 355. 78   Ṭarīq 344–5. Rāma is the central figure in al-Kharrāṭ’s trilogy, Rāma, al-Zaman and Yaqīn. 79  Al-Kharrāṭ, Ṭarīq 26. 80   Ṭarīq 386.

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Ancient Egyptian harp, to “Arab Scheherazade, and the fluttering of ‘Bandiera Rossa’ over masses in close rows breaking into the Winter Palace [in Saint Petersburg] and ʿAbdīn Palace [in Cairo] and Rās al-Tīn Palace [in Alexandria] in a victory that will never come, oh but it will, it will . . .”81 The musical modulation of the theme reaches its most complex and condensed in a long passage from which this extract is taken: Black Aida recedes with the resonances of Verdi’s melodies and as the spacious vault acquires human proportions Aida takes on the guise of Mary Magdalene while from the grave arises the exultation of resurrection; my arms embrace her broad proud back, embrace the femininity of the world, embrace the body of Aida gently swaying on the ripples of the Eastern Harbor; the engine rumbles, frothy waves twist and turn on either side, the cannon shot targets the august fortified building and the blow, the crashing waves, the cheering of thousands who throng the harbor dock send a tremor through the body; Aurora fires so the clouds of Saint Petersburg catch flame and Alexandria’s tranquil sky blazes. The wall of Rās al-Tīn Palace [in Alexandria] crumbles, the huge cannon on the Sīdī Bishr dune responds, and the thunderous shots reverberate through the city’s sudden complete silence followed by Tommy guns from the dark red towers of Montazah, that have long inspired dread, the successive sharp retorts drawing a rejoinder—the defiance of that almost impossible resistance—of bullets from the old rifles of revolutionary snipers hidden behind the sand dunes of Mandara [in Alexandria] and the barricades of Paris; I saw multitudes surrounding the palace of Sultan Fuʾād in al-Azhār Square [in Cairo] and chanting slogans calling for the fall of the tyrants and heard the echoes of the proclamation of the republic throughout Egypt’s regions in revolt sending me back to the palace of the traitor Khedive Tewfik in the days of the ʿUrābī Uprising [in Egypt in 1881–2] striving for the dream of a republic—and was a republic founded?—Robespierre’s republic, the republic of the commune, the October republic, or Muhammad Naguib’s republic? The sailors of Kronstadt revolt in the dawn of that red-letter day in October according to the old-style calendar and the whistle resounds shrill with a hope that cannot be muffled, to be answered by a whistle from Aida that suddenly falls silent, while on land, in front of the venerable Winter Palace, crowds roar with the exhilarating boldness of breaking in, and as the strong-men 81   Ṭarīq 374.

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of Baḥarī and Anfūshī [Alexandrian] neighborhoods stream in from the alleys the iron fence falls under their feet . . .82 The reference in the opening line of the quotation to Verdi’s opera serves as an overture to all the sound imagery which—to orchestrate the commonality of the class struggle and internationalist solidarity in tableaus where the different contexts are not merely parallel but intertwined—is structured as something we might describe as revolutionary call-and-response: just as with the coevalness of the two ships’ whistles, the Tommy guns’ shots in Alexandria simultaneously draw a “rejoinder” from the “revolutionary snipers” of that city and the Paris communards. The passage is akin to montage in its juxtaposition of different contexts of monarchy/authoritarianism and revolution. Aida is the name of a female comrade, a factory worker campaigning for trade union rights who has “a very dark Ethiopian face,” associated with Rāma/Egypt as the eternal feminine. The emphasis on her blackness here, in conjunction with Verdi’s Aida, refers us to Egypt’s anti-colonial struggle. Along one chain of associations, Aida is also the name of an Egyptian ship on which the detainees would be transported to a prison in Sinai, this then leading to an association with the Aurora of the October Revolution.83 The conjunction of the two ships in itself reverses the moment of defeat of leftists aboard the Egyptian vessel, and is followed by “the dawn of that red-letter day in October.” Far from being a callto-arms, Ṭarīq al-nisr, it has been aptly observed, is constituted “of a collection of questions” on both the “level of the microcosm of the novel” and on that of “the macrocosm or the larger world” that lends the novel its context.84 The rhetorical questions in the passage quoted above, to my mind, prompt us to interrogate the social content of different forms of the republic, even as the entire passage, like similar ones in this novel, tunes us in to comparative work among what might appear to be widely removed contexts to place center stage the intertwined and mutual concerns of social justice and emancipatory striving. Along another chain of associations, Aida/Rāma takes on the role of Mary Magdalene, which points us to a Biblical/Christian leitmotif interwoven with the narrator’s socialism. To start with, the title of the novel, Ṭarīq al-nisr (The Way of an Eagle), is taken from the Old Testament (Proverbs 30: 18–20), the relevant verses furnishing the epigraph to the book. The opening lines of the passage quoted above refer us to an earlier passage where the narrator, identifying 82   Ṭarīq 43–4. 83   Ṭarīq 22. On the ship Aida, see Ṭarīq 364. On the connection between the character Aida and Rāma, see Ṭarīq 121. The narrator’s dead sister is also called Aida. Ṭarīq 215, 217. 84  Farīd, al-Ighāra 120.

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with the eagle as a symbol of freedom, has a dream-vision of himself as “a bird soaring in the sky of a grave radiant with life from which all the dead . . . have been resurrected after aeons of subjugation and exploitation.”85 The Biblical leitmotif is also interwoven in reflections on the narrator’s Coptic heritage (he is keen to refute any notion of the Copts as a minority), and his embrace of Trotskyism with a fervent “faith” transposed from a Christianity he has left behind; indeed, he draws a parallel between the stormy conceptual debates at his Trotskyist group’s meetings and theological debates among recent converts to Christianity in the secret vaults of Alexandrian churches “away from the eyes of Romans and Byzantines alike.” This is further highlighted in a suggested parallel drawn between the assassination of Trotsky and the crucifixion of Christ—“I shall never be cured of either Trotsky or Christ”86—that encourages us to read this leitmotif as highlighting the entwinement of the profane and the spiritual , the social and the metaphysical in the narrator’s quest for/ questioning of justice; that is, a justice that would be both emanicapatory and redemptive.

Syncretism and Folk Practices of Interfaith Solidarity

The Third Worldism of a later period (the 1950s, ’60s and ’70s), that of Bandung and the Afro-Asian movement, registers in al-Kharrāṭ’s texts.87 While this aspect cannot be elaborated here, I now wish to address a point made earlier regarding a non-elite form of cosmopolitanism in his texts. I am referring to practices of interfaith reciprocity that are unbeholden to the West and, being indigenous and even vernacular, thus have a broader constituency and a more egalitarian potential. Representations of such practices in Egyptian literature in the latter part of the twentieth century are by no means confined to al-Kharrāṭ, written as they are in response to increasing conservatism and sectarian incidents.88 But in eliciting from the Kharrāṭian text the appeal to popular inter-communal reciprocity and syncretism, I relate it to the emphasis on indigeneity and folklore in his resistant articulation of literary modernity, reminiscent of Carpentier. Across al-Kharrāṭ’s texts we encounter reflections on or incidents that instantiate intersections as much as parallels between 85   Ṭarīq 23. See the beginning of this vision, Ṭarīq 19. 86   Ṭarīq 374. The narrator reflects on the influence of his “Coptic heritage” in Ṭarīq 33; see also 118–19 and 237–8. On the comparison to early Christians in Alexandria, see Ṭarīq 56. 87  See Halim, Lotus. 88  See, e.g., Ṭāhir, Khālatī and Aḥmad al-Khamīsī’s work discussed in Halim, Tugging.

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Christianity and Islam in the Egyptian context. These include the importance of relics and of martyrdom shared by the two religious groups; the notion of survival of Ancient Egyptian gods in Christian and Muslim holy figures; and popular mysticism, as shared by Sufism and the Egyptian church, and witnessed for example in mūlids (or festivals held on saints’ and holy figures’ days). One meditation on the Egyptian interfaith parallels and cross-faith identifications by the protagonist of al-Zaman al-ākhar (1985) ends with, “all of them are also braided strands, organic ones, [woven into] the texture of myself.”89 The metaphor comprising the coda is an apt paraphrase of “syncretism”: a “word [that] could most plausibly derive from the Ancient Greek prefix syn, ‘with’, and krasis, ‘mixture’ which combined in words such as syngkrasis, ‘a mixing together, compound’, or ideosyngkrasia, meaning ‘(peculiar, individual) temperament’.”90 For his part, the Egyptian social scientist Sayyid ʿUways, in the conclusion to a study of phenomena that attest to survivals and syntheses of religious practices, uses the expression “ʿamaliyya tawfīqiyya,” meaning a process of synthesis or reconciliation.91 Monotheistic religions, it has been argued, manifest “a variety of conduct and practice with regard to aspects of cosmopolitanism” even while “forms of worship, culinary taboos and laws of purity erect . . . strong barriers around the believers”—barriers that are not absent from the Kharrāṭian text.92 However, al-Kharrāṭ’s texts also foreground extant Egyptian folk culinary interfaith rituals via an alternative (to authority and patriarchy) constituency, that of women. The reader of the autobiographical novel Turābuhā zaʿfarān is well-acquainted with the significance of the Archangel Michael for the narrator, one of whose earliest memories is of a childhood illness during which his mother pledges to dedicate him to the Archangel if he recovers, and the child’s recollection of a quasi-miraculous episode that ensues.93 Hence the added personal significance for Mīkhāʾīl of the feast of the Archangel, and the purchase of special oil and all the rituals associated with his mother’s preparation of pastries for that occasion: My mother used to get out of bed at the end of the night to knead the Angel pastries in a big earthenware vessel. I would wake up to the sound of the 89  Al-Kharrāṭ, al-Zaman 103. For a discussion of this passage, see Halim, Alexandria 318–31. 90  Shaw and Stewart, Introduction 3. 91  ʿUways, al-Aʿmāl 549. 92  Zubaida, Cosmopolitanism 17. See al-Kharrāṭ, Turābuhā 88. 93  Al-Kharrāṭ, Turābuhā 105–6. See the discussion of this passage in Halim, Alexandria 306–11.

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patting of the dough and rush, barefoot, to stand and watch her. In the early hours of the morning the hot pieces of pastry would come from the oven, flakey, rounded, and flattened out. Their surface was a crisp, browned yellow that glistened with sesame oil and carried Coptic letters and the cross with leafy tips. Every year, my mother would arrange the pastries in a glass “kursī ʿAbbās” . . . She would send pastries in large, flat china plates, white with a motif of small blue flowers, to [her] neighbors and loved ones—Umm Maḥmūd, Umm Ḥasan, Umm Tūtū, my maternal Uncle Ḥannā and maternal Aunt Labība. Those among her neighbors and nearest and dearest who were Muslim would send her plates of ʿashūra in its season, and pitchers full of khushāf in Ramadan. And we would exchange plates of kaḥk, biscuits, ghurayyiba, and ara‌ʾīsh made with milk on the occasions of the feasts of Easter, the Greater Bairam, Christmas, and the Lesser Bairam. The plates would be covered with ironed towels, either immaculately white or checked, with a frizzy fringe. My mother would always spend time comparing the merits and shortcomings of each woman neighbor’s kaḥk, its consistency and the softness of its filling, the smoothness of the ghurayyiba or its graininess, and would try to guess, by tasting and slowly savoring, the kind of ghee, whether made from cow or buffalo milk, Upper Egyptian or from the Delta, used in making the biscuits.94 There are three lists, of which the first, that of the names of recipients of Angel pastries from the narrator’s mother, is both interfaith and cross-ethnic, for we know from another part of the novel that Umm Tūtū (meaning, the mother of Katrina) is Greek, the rest of the names being those of Coptic relatives and of Muslim friends. From this list which mixes kith and kin, we move to specifically Muslim friends and neighbors and an enumeration of the gifts they return in the form of desserts and pastries typical of religious occasions such as Ramadan and Ashura (the tenth of the Islamic month Muharram—associated with the murder of al-Ḥusayn at Karbalāʾ, and celebrated by a pudding by the same name). This is followed by a list that mixes the various pastries and religious occasions, alternating Muslim and Christian feasts (even though in reality, on account of the Islamic lunar calendar, they would not necessarily occur in the order given), braiding two religious calendars into a pattern of exchange of inter-communal culinary gifts that spans the year. The mother’s assessment of the pastries indicates another aspect to the exchanges, namely that of mild rivalry, or a sense of honor, being attached to them. 94  Al-Kharrāṭ, Turābuhā 107. See the corresponding passage in El-Kharrat, City 86–7.

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By dwelling on folk traditions of hospitality and highlighting inter-communal affiliations through religiously marked foods, the passage speaks to Marcel Mauss’ The Gift. Mauss analyzes a pre-monetary system of exchange of possessions within and between groups, such as clans and tribes premised on a threefold obligation, that of giving, of receiving, and of reciprocating. Involving a sense of honor, the exchange pertains to services rendered and goods obtained through credit, establishing a delay between service and counter-service and is, ultimately, “the basic act of ‘recognition,’ ” establishing solidarity as against the potentiality of war.95 The passage, however, draws on constituencies which Mauss’ account—confined, if with some exceptions, to chiefs of clans—does not address, specifically, as in the passage from al-Kharrāṭ, women in their capacity as those in charge of “nurture.” While the text may appear to subscribe to traditional gender roles here, it posits women as agents in processes of exchange and the consolidation of interfaith solidarity.

The Import of Pastiche and Collage into al-Kharrāṭ’s Rewriting of Eurocentric Alexandrian Cosmopolitanism

With the foregoing discussion in mind, I wish to substantiate further my earlier claim about the Kharrāṭian text’s radical rewriting of the Eurocentric discourse of Alexandrian cosmopolitanism. To do so I turn to a passage that employs a collage-like or pastiche technique from Yā banāt Iskindiriyya: The yearnings of my passion have interlaced my city, Alexandria the Great, the God-safeguarded port, golden harbor, vision of Dhū al-Qarnayn [the Two-Horned One], masterpiece of Sostratus the master builder, pearl of Qulbaṭra [Cleopatra] the immortal beauty; a city so luminous, so white is its marble, it need not be lit by night; Mouseion of Archimedes, Eratosthenes the philosopher and the poets Apollonius and Callimachus; haven of all muses and capital of saintliness and licentiousness alike; land of St. Mark and St. Anianus, of the founders of the Bucalis church, Origen and Bishop Dionysus, and Patriarch Athanasius—a solitary, apostle-like figure upholding the truth against the whole world; city of Patriarchs, staunch pillars of true Orthodoxy, and diadem of the seventy thousand martyrs who shall be resurrected to take their place at Christ’s side, their pure faces milky-white, while the Seraphim chant their deeds and glorify the Lord; the head of Pharos casts its light from Eleusis Ḥadara to 95  Mauss, The gift 40, and at 35–6 and 82–3.

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Canopus Abū Qīr, from the Gymnasium and Poseidon’s Temple to the Emporium and the Stadium, from the Hippodrome to the Serapeum, from Rhakotis Kūm al-Shuqāfa to Silsila Cape Lochias, from the mound of Paneion Kōm al-Dikka and Camp César to Petrai Hagar al-Nawātiyya; and the resplendent harbor is unrivalled, save by Qaliqut’s [Calicut’s] in India; from its heart springs an immense obelisk, matchless in magnitude and firmness, naught can sunder it . . . ʿAmūd al-Sawārī [Pompey’s Pillar] hewn out of the red marble of the mount of Ibrim, most delicately girdled, its capital most exquisitely carved, without peer; city of promenades, of hostels [maḥāris], of schools, of theatres, of gardens, of pillars, of four thousand baths, of four thousand places of entertainment fit for kings, of four thousand grocers who sell only greens—not to mention thousands of others; siren of the seas that stretch from al-Qulzum [Red Sea] to al-Zuqāq [Gibraltar], embracing the shrines of Sīdī al-Mursī Abū al-ʿAbbās and Sīdī Abū al-Durdār and Sīdī al-Shāṭibī and Sīdī Jābir and Sīdī Kurayyim: may they all repose in God’s favor; city of wide avenues and sound, arched monuments; noble city of high renown, most exalted of pride, Alexandria, O Alexandria: exuberant sun of my childhood, thirst of my boyhood, and passion of my youth.96 Pastiche in this and other postcolonial texts, “ironically enunciat[ing] the signs of the colonizer in order to subvert their meaning,” is vested here with an oppositional vitality.97 Collating elements from heterogeneous cultural sources, the passage does so without hierarchizing them. The cast of icons of the Hellenistic cosmopolis in Western texts is present—the names of Apollonius and Sostratus are faithfully transliterated into Arabic—yet here they share textual space with Arabo-Islamic and Coptic elements. There is the ironic reinscription of the spelling of Cleopatra’s name, Qulbaṭra, as it is rendered in Arabic Medieval texts (and not as in the modern, more Westernized Arabic version, Klyūbaṭra), as well as, similarly, the reference to the founder of the city as “Dhū al-Qarnayn” (the Two-Horned One), the quranic semblable of Alexander who materializes in Arab Medieval accounts of the city and is speculated to have been the true founder.98 The pairing of “Dhū al-Qarnayn” with Sostratus yields an equal acceptance of foundation myths elsewhere perceived as mutually exclusive.

96  Al-Kharrāṭ, Yā banāt 81–2. I adapt here my translation in El-Kharrat, My City 180–1. See the discussion of this passage in Halim, Alexandria 335–9. 97  Mufti, Reading 110. 98  On this figure, see Doufikar-Aerts, Alexander.

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Indeed, the leitmotifs that echo from one Medieval Arabic account about the city to another are present here, primarily the two phrases about Alexandria, found for example in the tenth-century Arab historian al-Masʿūdī, about a city “so luminous, so white is its marble, it need not be lit by night,” and a “city of wide avenues and . . . arched monuments.”99 Similarly, the text reproduces the famous quotation from the missive ʿAmr ibn al-ʿĀṣ sent to Caliph ʿUmar upon taking Alexandria—enumerating: a city of four thousand baths, of four thousand (in other versions, twelve thousand) greengrocers. The syntax and phraseology of medieval Arab historians and geographers has been preserved, as in the hyperbolic tone and the run-on sentence. The spelling and nomenclature from medieval Arab accounts is also reproduced; hence, the obsolete “maḥāris” (hostels) is drawn from an admiring description of the city given by the twelfth-century Andalusian pilgrim Ibn Jubayr and the later traveler Ibn Baṭṭūta furnishes the epithet “the God-safeguarded port” and (as paraphrased by al-Kharrāṭ) “the resplendent harbor . . . unrivalled, save by Qaliqut’s [Calicut’s] in India.”100 Indices of the spiritual city, in a possible extension of the syncretism that al-Kharrāṭ’s texts project, are all-embracing, since they do not neglect the Pagan (as in the references to the Serapeum), highlight the city’s contribution to formulating cardinal issues of Christianity (such as Monophysitism), and invoke the many shrines of Muslim mystics. The passage thus places Alexandria along a continuum with North Africa and Andalusia, from which several of these writers hail, in a medieval intercultural route often occluded by the ascription of Alexandria to Europe ciphered in the Roman epithet Alexandrea ad Aegyptum, which depicts the city off the coast of Egypt.101 The passage serves as a blueprint for a hyphenation between a more inclusive Alexandrian cosmopolitanism and a more inclusive nation, not least in its pairing, if with a modicum of poetic license, Hellenistic place names with their present, colloquial Egyptian-Arabic form (as in “Rhakotis Kōm al-Shuqāfa”). Collating European with Arab textualities, a pastiche such as this yields a far more inclusive archive for the city even as it intertextually taps into different resources for Arab literary modernity. While internationalism and Surrealism have further resonances in al-Kharrāṭ’s critical and literary texts, to be elaborated elsewhere, the “afterlife” of Egyptian Surrealism, it should be added, continues beyond his corpus, both in Egypt and abroad. Internationally, solid scholarship has long been produced about Henein, as well as “Art et liberté”; and, bracketing instances of the 99  Al-Masʿūdī, Murūj 103. 100  See Ibn Jubayr, Riḥlat Ibn Jubayr 15, and Ibn Baṭṭūta, Voyages 27–8. 101  See Halim, Alexandrian cosmopolitanism 145–53.

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commodification and dubious circulation of the group’s artwork in the international art market, recent and forthcoming conferences and traveling exhibitions continue to celebrate the group’s legacy.102 In Egypt, apart from the 1986 monograph by Gharīb on the group, which served to draw attention to them, two fascinating, overlapping engagements with that legacy can be traced. A later Trotskyist group established in the 1970s, albeit by no means in a direct line of descent from the 1940s group, was to discover and reclaim these “illustrious predecessors.”103 It was primarily the poet Bashīr al-Sibāʿī, a leading figure in founding the 1970s Trotskyist group, who undertook to write about “Art et liberté” and to translate into Arabic texts by these 1940s intellectuals, including Henein and Mansour. Indeed, one of al-Sibāʿī’s translations of Henein’s texts was undertaken in collaboration with Anwar Kāmil, “Art et liberté” member and later founder of “Bread and Freedom.” Kāmil, meanwhile, had been disseminating his friends’ texts in informally printed pamphlets. The independent experimental literary journal al-Kitāba al-ukhrā, edited by poet Hishām Qishṭa, has also been quite instrumental in reclaiming the group’s legacy, in an endeavor strongly supported by al-Sibāʿī, and welcomed by Kāmil. The journal published a commemorative issue in 1992 after the passing of Kāmil, carrying a testimony by him, as well as devoted a dossier to “Art et liberté” in 1999 to mark the group’s 60th anniversary. Indeed, al-Kitāba al-ukhrā undertook to reprint issues of al-Taṭawwur, the copies of which, long unavailable in Egypt, were secured for Qishṭa by Kāmil.104 Beyond that, and side-stepping for now 102  For one example of the scholarship, see the collected works of Henein, Oeuvres, ed. Vilar et al. The article Magic that I cite by Kober is part of his work on Henein. Regarding the dubious circulation of art, see the article criticizing Christie’s for putting up for sale what appears to be a forged painting by co-founder of “Art et liberté” Kāmil al-Tilmisānī (Kamel Telmisany) written by his niece, writer and scholar (May Telmissany) al-Tilmisānī, Lawḥat al-Tilmisānī. I also allude here to the November 2015 “The Egyptian Surrealists in Global Perspective” conference in Cairo co-organized by the Sharjah Art Foundation, The American University in Cairo’s Visual Cultures Program, and Cornell University’s Institute for Comparative Modernities, followed by a touring exhibition and another separate exhibition, titled “Baby Elephants Die Alone: Rupture, War and Surrealism in Egypt (1930s–1940s),” co-curated, under the auspices of the Centre Pompidou in Paris, by Sam Bardaouil and Till Fellrath, inaugurated in France in September 2016 and heading to venues in Germany and the United Kingdom. 103  Jīrfāzyū, al-Ḥaraka 352. 104  I refer to Henein’s Lā mubarrirāt, co-translated by Kāmil and al-Sibāʿī, and draw on Qishṭa, Qirā’a. See al-Sibāʿī’s translations of Ḥunayn [Henein], Mandhūrāt and Manṣūr [Mansour], Iftaḥ. See also Kāmil, Shahāda; al-Taṭawwur; and the 1992 and 1999 issues of al-Kitāba al-ukhrā. It should be added that al-Kitāba al-ukhrā also reprinted Gallery ’68.

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resonances in recent literary texts, I would merely gesture towards signs of a renewed interest in Egypt in the earlier surrealist legacy since 2011, more so as the 80th anniversary of “Art et liberté” approaches.105 In arguing for the internationalist scope for comparatism, this essay, rather than follow what may be a more standard procedure of comparing literary texts by different writers, has analyzed texts by a single writer. Nevertheless, it is hoped that the essay has demonstrated that al-Kharrāṭ’s literary texts tackled here project a comparative reading strategy hinging on internationalist connection-making between seemingly disparate cultural contexts of variously-underwritten oppressions. I maintain that there is much scope for comparatists in working with the concept of internationalism. Among a variety of forms that such a comparatist turn may take, I will only note here one fruitful and underexplored area: Global South comparatism.106 Straining against the dominance of Metropolitan trends, not least the abiding, if much contested, centrality of Euro-America to Comparative Literature as a discipline, a comparatist turn to internationalism would orient its work towards South-South thematics and solidarities, while remaining resolutely attuned to interconnected articulations among oppressed classes and groups in the North. Bibliography Abdalla, A., The student movement and national politics in Egypt 1923–1973, London 1985. Abū Aḥmad, Ḥ., al-Wāqiʿiyya al-siḥriyya fī al-riwāya al-ʿArabiyya, Cairo 2009. Adūnīs, al-Shiʿriyya al-ʿarabiyya, Beirut 1985. Appiah, A., Cosmopolitan patriots, in J. Cohen (ed.), For love of country? Boston [1996] 2002, 21–9. ʿAshmāwī, S., al-Yunāniyyūn fī Miṣr 1805–1956, Cairo 1997. ʿAwaḍ, L., Bulūtūlānd, Cairo [1947] 1989. ʿAwaḍ, L., Dhikrāyāt baʿīda, in Hommage à Georges Henein, Cairo 1974, 121–5. ʿAwaḍ, L., Muqaddima, in L. ʿAwaḍ, al-ʿAnqāʾ aw Tārīkh Ḥasan Muftāḥ, Beirut 1966, 7–54. ʿAwaḍ, L. [?], Muqaddima, in R. Yūnān, Dirāsāt fī l-fann, Cairo [1969] 2011, 9–21. Azār, A., al-Taṣwīr al-ḥadīth fī Miṣr ḥatta ʿām 1961, trans. I. al-Kharrāṭ and N. ʿAṭiyya, rev. I. al-Kharrāṭ, Cairo [rpt.] 2009. 105  The article al-Thawra al-miṣriyya, reporting on a seminar held by Egypt’s Supreme Council of Culture (part of the Ministry of Culture) on Yūnān in May 2011, cites commentators to the effect that the homage to the leftist artist was a byproduct of the 2011 revolution. I would also suggest a few affinities with Surrealism in some of the graffiti output in Egypt since 2011, such as the folksy component, the dream, and revolution. 106  See Halim, Lotus.

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Badawī, M., al-Riwāya al-jadīda fi Miṣr: dirāsa fi al-Tashkīl wa ‘l-aydiyūlūjiyya, Beirut 1993. Barthes, R., The pleasure of the text, trans. R. Miller, New York 1975. Barthes, R., S/Z, trans. R. Miller, New York 1974. Botman, S., The rise of Egyptian communism, 1939–1970, Syracuse 1988. Breckenridge, C.A. et al., Cosmopolitanisms, in C.A. Breckenridge et al. (eds.), Cosmopolitanism, Durham 2002, 1–14. Brennan, T., Cosmopolitanism and Internationalism, in New left review, 2nd series, 4 (2000), 75–84. Brennan, T., Wars of Position: The Cultural Politics of Left and Right, New York 2006. Breton, A., What is surrealism?, ed. F. Rosemont, New York 1978. Broden, T., 1950s Alexandria ad Aegyptum as marginal and intercultural space: Francophone cosmopolitanism and the origins of structuralism, Presentation at the Society for French Historical Studies’ 59th Annual Meeting, April 2013. Caiani, F., Contemporary Arab fiction: innovation from Rama to Yalu, London 2005. Carpentier, A., On the marvelous real in America, in L. Parkinson Zamora and W.B. Faris (eds.), Magical realism: Theory, history, community, Durham 1995, 75–88. Carpentier, A., The Baroque and the marvelous real, in L. Parkinson Zamora and W.B. Faris (eds.), Magical realism: Theory, History, Community, Durham, 1995, 89–108. Darrāj, F., Naẓariyyat al-riwāya wa-l-riwāya al-ʿarabiyya, Casablanca 1999. Dāwistāshī, ʿI., Tārīkh li-atilyih al-Iskandariyya, Alexandria 2005. Doufikar-Aerts, F., Alexander the Great and the Pharos of Alexandria in Arabic literature, in M. Bridges and J. Ch. Burgel (eds.), The problematics of power: Eastern and western representations of Alexander the Great, Bern and Berlin 1996, 191–202. Durrell, L., Clea, London 1960. Farīd, M., al-Ighāra ʿala al-ḥudūd: dirāsāt fi adab Idwār al-Kharrāṭ, Cairo 2003. Fārūq, al-S., Jamāliyyāt al-tashazzī: dirāsāt naqdiyya fi adab Idwār al-Kharrāṭ wa-Badr al-Dīb, Cairo 1997. Freud, S., The Interpretation of Dreams, The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, ed. J. Strachey, vols. 4 and 5, London 1953. Gharīb, S., al-Siryāliyya fī Miṣr, Cairo 1986. Ghazzāwī, B., dir., Ṭarīq al-nisr, prod. Al Jazeera, n.d., . Ḥāfiz, S., Ḥiwār maʿa Idwār al-Kharrāṭ, in Alif 2 (1982), 90–113. Halim, H., Afterlife of Egyptian Surrealism: Edwar al-Kharrat’s texts and the so-called Alexandrian School, presentation, “The Egyptian surrealists in global perspective” conference, Cairo co-organized by the Sharjah Art Foundation, The American University in Cairo’s Visual Cultures Program, and Cornell University’s Institute for Comparative Modernities, November 28, 2015; The Alexandria archive: An archaeology of Alexandrian cosmopolitanism, PhD dissertation, University of California, Los Angeles, 2004; Alexandrian cosmopolitanism: An archive, New York 2013; Edwar

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El-Kharrat: Mikhail and the dragon, in Al-Ahram weekly, 27 June–3 July 1996; Edwar El-Kharrat (1926–2015): ‘Waves Without End,’ in Ahram Online, December 8, 2015; The Face of Memory, in Al-Ahram Weekly, July 14–20, 1994; Internationalist and surrealist inflections in Edwar al-Kharraṭ’s resistant literary modernity, presentation, The Institute for Comparative Modernities, Cornell University, March 8, 2016; Lotus, the Afro-Asian nexus, and global South comparatism, in Comparative studies of South Asia, Africa, and the Middle East 32 (2012), 563–83; Tugging at the closed door, in Ahram Online, November 1, 2011. Ḥaqqī, Y., Unshūda lil-basāṭa: Maqālāt fī fann al-qiṣṣa, Cairo 1987. Henein, G. [J.H.], Bayn al-waṭaniyya wa-l-duwaliyya, in al-Majalla al-jadīda 14 (April 1942). Henein, G., Bilan du movement surréaliste, in G. Henein, Oeuvres: Poémes, récits, essais, articles et pamphlets, ed. P. Vilar et al., Paris 2006, 365–75. Henein, G. [Hunayn, J.], Lā mubarrirāt al-wujūd, trans. A. Kāmil and B. al-Sibāʿī, Cairo 1987. Henein, G. [Hunayn, J.], Mandhūrāt, trans. B. al-Sibāʿī, Cairo 1997. Homage to Arturo Schwartz, Wall street international, August 8, 2014, online, accessed March 14, 2016. Ibn Jubayr, Riḥlat Ibn Jubayr, Beirut 1964. Ibn Baṭṭūta, Voyages d’Ibn Batoutah, trans. C. Defremery and B.R. Sanguinetti, vol. 1, Paris 1853. Jīrfāzyū, J. [Gervasio, G.], al-Ḥaraka al-mārkisiyya fī Miṣr (1967–1981), trans. B. ʿAbd al-Raḥman and K. Kārtrūlanū, Cairo 2010. Kāmil, A., Shahāda: Miṣriyya am ʿālamiyya, in al-Kitāba al-ukhrā, 3 (December 1992), 7–10. Kendall, E., Literature, journalism and the avant-garde: intersections in Egypt, London 2006. Al-Kharrāṭ, I., Aṣwāt al-ḥadātha, Beirut 1999; [al-Kharrat, E.], City of saffron, trans. F. Liardet, London 1989; Fī nūr ākhar: dirāsāt wa-īma’āt fi al-fann al-tashkīlī, Cairo 2005; [al-Kharrat, E.], Girls of Alexandria, trans. F. Liardet, London 1993; al-Ḥasāsiyya al-jadīda, Beirut 1993; Iskandariyyatī madīnatī al-qudsiyya al-ḥūshiyya (kūlāj riwāʾī), Alexandria 1994; al-Kitāba ʿabra al-nawʿiyya, Cairo 1994; Kull minna multazim, in M. Barrāda (ed.), Taḥawwulāt mafhūm al-iltizām fī al-adab al-’arabī al-hadīth, Beirut 2003, 70–99; Mā warāʾa al-wāqiʿ: Maqālāt fī l-ẓāhira al-lā-wāqiʿiyya, Cairo 1997; Maḍārib al-ahwāʾ, Cairo 2003; Miṣriyyūn qalban . . . frankūfūniyyūn qāliban: Shahāda shakhṣiyya, in Alif 20 (2000), 8–28; Mujādalāt al-mustaḥīl: Maqātiʿ min sīra dhātiyya lil-kitāba, Cairo 2005; Murāwadat al-mustaḥīl: Ḥiwār maʿa al-dhāt wa-l-ākharīn, Amman 1997; [al-Kharrat, E.], My city, sacred and untamed, trans. H. Halim, in R. Ilbert and I. Yannakakis (eds.), Alexandria, 1860–1960, Alexandria 1997, 179–187; Rāma wa-l-tinnīn, Beirut 1980; Random variations on an autobiographical theme, in Robin Ostle, Ed de Moor and Stefan Wild (eds.), Writing the

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self: Autobiographical writing in modern Arabic literature, London 1998, 9–17; al-Siryāliyya fī l-adab 1, in al-Bayān, January 1975, 44–47; al-Siryāliyya fī l-adab 2, in al-Bayān, February 1975, 25–29; al-Siryāliyya fī l-qiṣṣa al-qaṣīra, in Rūz al-Yūsuf 24 September 1973, 34–5; Tabārīḥ al-waqāʾiʿ wa-l-junūn, Cairo 1998; Ṭarīq al-nisr, Cairo 2002; Turābuhā zaʿfarān, Cairo 1986; Unshūda lil-kathāfa, Cairo 1995; Yā banāt Iskindiriyya, Beirut, 1990; Yaqīn al-ʿaṭash, Cairo 1996; al-Zaman al-ākhar, Cairo 1985; (ed.), al-Qiṣṣa al-qaṣīra fī l-sabʿīniyyāt: Mukhtārāt, Cairo 1982; trans. Khams qaṣāʾid mutarjama, in Gallery ’68 [rprt. vol. 2, al-Kitāba al-ukhrā n.d.] October 1969, 112–116. Al-Kitāba al-ukhrā, ed. H. Qishta, issue 3 (December 1992). Al-Kitāba al-ukhrā, ed. H. Qishta, issue 19–20 (February 1999). Kober, M., The magic powers of Ancient Egypt: Georges Henein, André Breton and Horus Schenuda, in Dada/Surrealism 19 (2013), n.p., online, accessed December 27, 2015. Mandel, E., From class society to Communism: an introduction to Marxism, trans. L. Sadler, London 1977. Manṣūr [Mansour], J., Iftaḥ abwāb al-layl, trans. B. al-Sibāʿī, Cologne 1998. Marx, K. and F. Engels, The Communist Manifesto, trans. S. Moore, London 1967. Mauss, M., The gift, trans. W.D. Halls, New York 1990. Al-Masʿūdī, Murūj al-dhahab wa-maʿādin al-jawhar, vol. 2, ed. C. Pellat, Beirut 1966. Mufti, A., Reading the Rushdie affair: An essay on Islam and politics, in Social Text 29 (1991), 95–116. Mursī, A., al-Aʿmāl al-shiʿriyya al-kāmila, Cairo 2012. Mursī, A., Interviews with the author, New York, September 6, November 7, and December 28, 2015. Mursī, A., Website: . Al-Nowaihi, M., Memory and imagination in Edwar Al-Kharrat’s Turābuhā za’farān, in Journal of Arabic Literature 25 (1994), 34–57. Nussbaum, M., Patriotism and cosmopolitanism, in J. Cohen (ed.), For love of country? Boston 2002, 2–17. Ostle, R. C., From Intertext to Mixed Media: the case of Edwār Al-Kharrāṭ, in L. Deheuvels, B. Michalak-Pikulska and P. Starkey (eds.), Intertextuality in modern Arabic literature since 1967, Durham 2006, Manchester 2009, 133–48. Qishta, H., Qirāʾa istiʿādiyya li-majallat al-Taṭawwur, presentation, “The Egyptian surrealists in global perspective” conference, Cairo co-organized by the Sharjah Art Foundation, The American University in Cairo’s Visual Cultures Program, and Cornell University’s Institute for Comparative Modernities, November 2015. Qubaysī, Ḥ., Ḥadīth lam yunshar lil-mufakkir al-miṣrī al-rāḥil Luṭf Allāh Sulaymān [part 1], in al-Ḥayāt March 13, 1995. Qubaysī, Ḥ., Ḥadīth lam yunshar lil-mufakkir al-miṣrī al-rāḥil Luṭf Allāh Sulaymān [part 2], in al-Ḥayāt March 14, 1995. Ramzī, M., Barīq al-ramād, Cairo 1997.

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Renton, D., Georges Henein: Surrealism and socialism, in D. Renton (ed.), Dissident Marxism, London 200o, 82–103. Rosemont, F. and R.D.G. Kelley, Invisible surrealists, in F. Rosemont and R.D.G. Kelley (eds.), Black, brown & beige: Surrealist writings from Africa and the diaspora, Austin 2009, 1–19. Rosemont, F. and R.D.G. Kelley, eds., Black, brown & beige: Surrealist writings from Africa and the diaspora, Austin 2009. Al-Saʿīd, R., Luṭf Allāh Sulaymān Arsīn Lūbīn al-yasārī, mushāghib, turūtiskī, mufakkir, in al-Yasār 63 (1995), 67–69. Saussy, H., Cosmopolitanism, American Comparative Literature Association, State of the Discipline Report, March 7, 2014, online, accessed December 24, 2015. Al-Shārūnī, Y., al-Lā maʿqūl fī al-adab al-muʿāṣir, Cairo 1969. Shaw, R. and C. Stewart, Introduction: Problematizing syncretism, in R. Shaw and C. Stewart (eds.), Syncretism/Anti-Syncretism: The Politics of Religious Synthesis, London and New York 1994, 1–26. Al-Sibāʿī, B., Jurj Ḥunayn [Georges Henein]: Namūdhajan li-sīryāli miṣrī, in Alif 20 (2000), 29–53. Soliman, Lotfallah. Lettre, in Hommage à Georges Henein, Cairo 1974, 98–9. Spyropoulos, E., The Greek military (1909–1941) and the Greek mutinies in the Middle East (1941–1944), Boulder 1993. Starkey, P., Intertextuality and the Arabic literary tradition in Edwār Al-Kharrāṭ’s Stones of Bobello, in L. Deheuvels, B. Michalak-Pikulska and P. Starkey (eds), Intertextuality in modern Arabic literature since 1967, Durham 2006, Manchester 2009, 149–59. Ṭāhir, B., Khālatī Ṣafiyya wa-l-dayr, Beirut 1999. Al-Taṭawwur (issues of January 1940–September 1940), rprnt. al-Kitāba al-ukhrā, Cairo n.d. Al-Tilmisānī, M., Lawḥat al-Tilmisānī, al-Qāhira, March 1, 2016, online, accessed March 26, 2016. Al-Thawra al-miṣriyya tukarrim al-fannān al-rāʾid Ramsīs Yūnān, al-Waṭan, May 31, 2011, online, accessed March 26, 2016. Trotsky, L., The permanent revolution & Results and prospects, J.G. Wright and B. Pearce (trans.), Seattle 2010. Trotskyist movement in Egypt unpublished documents. Gilbert Achcar personal archive. GA. ʿUways, S., al-Aʿmāl al-Kāmila, vol. 1, Cairo 1998. Wald, A.M., The revolutionary imagination: The poetry and politics of John Wheelwright and Sherry Mangan, Chapel Hill 1983. Yūnān, R., Dirāsāt fī l-fann, Cairo [1969] 2011. Zubaida, S., Cosmopolitanism and the Middle East, in R. Meijer (ed.), Cosmopolitanism, identity and authenticity in the Middle East, Surrey 1999, 15–39.

CHAPTER 25

Securing Consent: Islamic Development and the Movement to Transform Egypt James Toth Introduction Working-class participation in the Islamic movement in countries like Egypt has been questioned, challenged, and criticized ever since the trend first began.* Of course, when Islamism did first start, as an anti-Western, anti-­ colonial, and pro-Sharia movement with Jamāl al-Dīn al-Afghānī in the 1870s, it was, for all intents and purposes, a literary movement among the educated middle and upper classes. Yet over the years, the movement dug deeper down into the class system, for while Islamist production (and leadership) remained the privileged domain of the learned, consumption (and rank-and-file membership) increasingly included those left un- or under-schooled. As the mantle of the movement shifted from al-Afghānī to Muḥammad ʿAbduh and onto Rashīd Riḍā, it remained within an elite cluster of those opposed to the growing westernization of the country. But it took Ḥasan al-Bannā and his Muslim Brotherhood to seriously popularize Islamist doctrine and recruit among the lower-middle and working classes. Al-Bannā was an orator and an organizer, two qualities that were handy for encouraging working and lower class participation. His ideological successor, Sayyid Quṭb, was more a writer, though his literary style was direct and uncomplicated. He produced “an accessible, highly readable and incisive discourse that avoided the complex methodologies, rhetorical devices and flourishes” of educated Azhar scholars and that was “well received in a population just recently introduced to mass public education.”1

* Everett Rowson was a very important contributor to my work and book on Sayyid Quṭb published in 2013. His painstaking review and commentary on early draft manuscripts were extremely helpful in pulling together both my ideas and my text into a coherency that did not exist before his reading. I hope that this essay on class and Islamism reflects my appreciation for his exhaustive and generous assistance. 1  Calvert, Sayyid Qutb 131, and Toth, Sayyid Qutb: The life and legacy 97.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi ��.��63/9789004343290_026

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By the time I conducted field research on local Islamic associations in southern Egypt in the 1990s, these organizations had come to include two class segments that had both experienced the spatial and cultural dislocation of rural-to-urban migration: middle-class professionals who had left the village to pursue university education and careers requiring high qualifications, and working-class indigents who had been pushed out of the countryside in their search for adequate employment.2 Ex-rural workers and ex-rural technocrats became strongly linked together in urban religious associations that recreated and reinforced the intimacy and paternalism of the village. When middle-class Islamist professionals—doctors, engineers, lawyers, teachers, accountants, and bureaucrats—entered numerous political contests in provincial, city, town, and district level election campaigns and partisan appointments, they received overwhelming approval and loyalty from their working-class clients. When pious but alienated professionals exhorted their followers to berate and attack the government for its fiscal and moral corruption that had eliminated the state’s services and compromised its ethical obligations, working class supporters obliged and joined them to actively promote their agenda. Islam then provided the moral basis for reforming what both workers and professionals viewed as a corrupt, dishonest, and repressive government. The central controversy here focuses on the reasons behind working-class participation in such doctrinaire movements. Martin Riesebrodt argued3 that in the Iranian revolution, lower class involvement was based less on abstract religious ideology and more on cliental ties to charismatic, middle-class leaders. Asef Bayat claimed further, though,4 that in 1979 Iran, there were actually two separate revolutions because of class-segregated neighborhoods and the lack of “meaningful formal associations,” such as mosques, that seriously inhibited any cohesion between the two strata. Still, urban Egypt lacks the occupational and class homogeneity found in Tehran neighborhoods and, moreover, mosques, schools, clinics, coffee houses, and indeed, weddings, funerals, birthdays, and holiday celebrations constitute important sites where both middleand working-class men meet and mingle.5 Yet the most important locations 2  Riesebrodt, Pious passion 186, concluded that these rural-born urban-bound job seekers constitute two key segments participating in religious fundamentalist movements, if not worldwide, then at least in the two case studies he investigated, the United States and Iran. It certainly is the case in Egypt as well. 3  Riesebrodt, Pious passion 158. 4  Bayat, Street politics, ch. 3, and Revolution without movement. 5  Toth, Rural-to-urban migration.

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where inter-class paternalism glues together these two segments are the service centers that provide the critical aid and assistance that not only prove so necessary in maintaining social life in urban neighborhoods, but which, significantly, have not come from their most expected source, the government itself. It is this “paternalistic glue” and the eudaemonic legitimacy6 of numerous independent Islamist associations that have been so very important in mobilizing the rank-and-file who have consistently provided the ballast that keeps this religious-political movement afloat. In this essay, therefore, I wish to examine just how well the interests of these two class segments converge and overlap. I argue that these social services clearly constitute a key and critical element of the Islamic movement that explains the preponderance of working-class participation either within the confines of legitimate political activity, or even outside those boundaries. Moreover, it is the presence or absence of these services that so critically distinguishes local Islamic organizations that strive for reform, from those such as Al Qaeda or the Islamic State that, in eschewing such assistance, have lost their crucial connections to local communities and have ceased to be an “expression of local Egyptian . . . socioeconomic frustration and political anomie.”7

Islamic Philanthropy/Charity/Development

In 1985 while managing an American NGO program in southern Egypt, I attended a small conference of local development organizations. Out of 30 participating agencies, three were foreign-funded, including my own.8 The remainder consisted of local, privately-financed, Islamic associations that operated on a much smaller scale and budget, but had a much greater success rate in providing services that were not forthcoming from government line ministries. These associations provided hospital beds for the poor, low-cost medical clinics, affordable housing, after-school tutoring, complimentary textbooks,

6  I am using the term “eudaemonic legitimacy” as it is used by Hesham al-Awadi (who borrows it from Arnold Gehlen) to mean the credibility and loyalty that comes from a welfare agency or welfare state that provides very necessary (and desirable) goods, services, and material benefits to its members or citizens. Al-Awadi, In pursuit of legitimacy 9–11; Gehlen. Studien 254. 7  Ould Mohamedou. The militarization of Islamism 309. 8  The other two included an international agency from a neighboring province and a Coptic organization with international funding.

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clothing exchanges, veterinary services, small-scale business assistance and low-cost credit, and guidance through the labyrinthine state bureaucracy for permits, licenses, and tax abatements. All of these constituted critically important services that the government simply could not or would not provide.9 The vast scope of these Islamic philanthropic activities was subsumed under the name of good deeds and pious acts and delivered a wide range of important social benefits. After the conference, I spoke with a number of neighborhood agency directors. To them, Cairo had written off the south and neglected to provide essential social services. The gap was being filled by a myriad of small community initiatives funded by labor remittances, zakāt funds, and Islamic investment companies, and all of which intended to provide a strong Islamic presence. For example, by the early 1990s, government schools had become so ineffective that many parents who had foregone family income in order to give their children an education in the first place were then forced to sacrifice even more by enrolling them in after-school tutorial programs and private lessons that could improve their chances for better scores on the Thānawiyya ʿĀmma examination.10 (There was a common rumor that government teachers purposely under-taught their charges in the morning and then re-taught them in the afternoon as private tutors in order to augment their miserably low salaries.) In order to provide better instruction unavailable from the Education Ministry, a number of Islamic associations built and operated five private, comprehensive schools. In a separate project, 15 devout Muslim teachers

9  The ability of the Egyptian government to provide critical social services was severely limited by its adoption of Economic Reform and Structural Adjustment Programs (ERSAPs) as the price it paid for economic and financial assistance from the International Monetary Fund (IMF). This neoliberal program involved guaranteeing fiscal discipline, curbing budget deficits, reducing public expenditures, promoting foreign investment, reforming taxation, deregulation, privatization, and free-market trade liberalization. Although it was officially initiated in 1991, similar neoliberal agreements with the IMF pre-date this time, going back as early as 1977—resulting in the infamous Bread Riots of January 1977—and a debt rescheduling agreement in May 1987 to resolve the country’s balance of payments deficit.  That said, the available funds were also eaten up by extensive government corruption and the lavish budgets of the Defense and Interior Ministries. In the end, little, if anything, was left over for ordinary citizens. 10  The Thānawiyya ʿĀmma constitutes the large comprehensive examination at the end of high school that determines the discipline of beginning college students and hence their subsequent occupation and career.

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joined together under the auspices of the Jamʿiyyat al-Daʿwa al-Islāmiyya11 to offer poor students private tutoring lessons at low cost. Since the 1970s, the cost of health and medical services had risen enormously. Class and location fundamentally determine the availability of these necessities. At one time, Cairo had had a disproportionately higher share of doctors, but after the oil boom of 1975–1985 and the rise in remitted incomes, rural Egypt began to witness more medical clinics and offices opening up. Even so, the south and especially the countryside had fewer doctors per capita than the rest of the nation. Those who suffered the most from this maldistribution of medical specialists were those who were least able to afford the cost of the relatively few professionals who remained. Consequently, a group of Muslim doctors, pharmacists, and clinicians established the Jamʿiyya al-Muḥammadiyya al-Islāmiyya and staffed an Islamic clinic. In 1994, they charged a £E3 fee for examinations, treatment, and prescriptions when other doctors were charging £E15 for examinations alone. They also admitted any and all patients, “regardless of what was on their wrist”—a reference to the Coptic custom of etching a cross tattoo on their lower arm and an indication that the clinic was open to both Christians and Muslims alike. Other associations had similar, yet more specialized projects. Jamʿiyyat al-Tawḥīd wa-l-Nūr al-Khayriyya built an entire dormitory near the local university campus for rural students who did not have family in the city and therefore needed local accommodations. Jamʿiyyat al-Hudā al-Khayriyya added a 24-bed wing to one of the city’s private hospitals reserved exclusively for indigent patients. Every month, the Jamʿiyyat al-Ṣaḥwa al-Islāmiyya distributed clothes, food, textbooks, and prescription medicine to neighborhood families. Arguably these endeavors just involved short-term charity, not long-term development, but it is more academic than practical to debate which was the case, for such projects provided beneficiaries with a range of services otherwise unavailable from large government or foreign offices. Many of the latter’s development activities, despite their sophisticated planning, deteriorated in the long run due to mismanagement and improper funding, while those undertaken in the name of Islamic charity continued to thrive for as long as their endowments remained viable and their donors remained un-incarcerated. The south was not alone in receiving Islamic philanthropy. In October 1992, an earthquake caused unusual devastation throughout Egypt. I was in Cairo when it struck and damaged several poor urban neighborhoods. Old, neglected buildings were particularly susceptible, and the vibrations toppled a number 11  This and other association names are pseudonyms.

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of apartment complexes. When the general populace recovered from its shock, shelter, clothing, and food were foremost on people’s minds. Yet the government was particularly slow in providing aid. Local Islamic organizations, on the other hand, rushed immediately to the stricken areas in order to deliver material assistance. Government officials defended their delay by pointing out that they needed time to investigate all the requests since many petitioners would present fraudulent claims to the government. The Islamic groups, however, had little need to investigate supplicants since they felt that few would lie before God. Observers I talked to noted that both sides were probably correct.12 A year later, when long-term instability brought about by the earthquake caused large mud slides beneath the Muqaṭṭam hills on the east side of the capital, government troops were ordered to assist the victims without delay, worried that yet another public relations blunder would once again help expand the influence of the Islamic opposition. The state soon declared private aid and assistance illegal except through the Egyptian Red Crescent.13 This effectively eliminated any Islamic philanthropy. All these private sector achievements, initiated by Islamic associations of devout and pious believers, clearly surpassed government and foreign undertakings in people’s minds. Poor Egyptians received many essential services from these community projects, gratefully appreciated these efforts, and faithfully heeded the political message behind them. Pious acts of charity and community support seemed to make the difference in their lives between endurance and deprivation. This urban underclass gained tangible benefits from such programs, unlike the ineffective efforts of government offices or international agencies, which mostly served the middle-class bureaucrats who staffed them. It was clear to me from visiting these projects and associations and talking to their staff and members, that these professionals were Muslims seriously committed to easing the lives of those they served. The religious benefactors who helped out the poor and needy under the banner of Islam benefitted in turn from the allegiance they won from doing their good deeds and pious acts. The devotion and loyalty these workers were accustomed to bestowing on their patrons in the workplace flowed beyond the workshop, construction site, or maintenance activity, and even spilled over from the evening school lessons and the medical check-ups to embrace the realm of radical activism within and outside the community. Whether these

12  Petitioners were also endorsed by two witnesses personally known to both Islamist benefactors and beneficiaries. 13   Al-Shaʿb, October 20, 1992.

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devout but déclassé professionals participated lawfully in community politics or unlawfully in militant action, their supporters found it easy to translate their paternalism into support for their new patrons. Thus poor ex-villagers approved of and followed those who had once helped them with difficult problems and who were now gaining their support in strengthening their religious message and in establishing what they saw as a virtuous and honest administration. Thus, when the burning question became how to radically refashion and reform what many saw as a profoundly corrupt and dishonest government, the fundamental reply became “Islam.” Mobilization The middle-class Islamists I met were inevitably university students from the countryside who had first come from village farm families that had benefitted from the new free education policies implemented by the administration of Gamal Abdel Nasser in the 1960s and who had since graduated into an uncertain urban job market. These included well-educated but nonetheless frustrated white-collar professionals. They were highly motivated and accomplished, were among the best and brightest students in their class, and who, bereft of the family connections and the polished mannerism of upper-class urbanites, achieved their brilliance through hard, diligent work and demonstrated merit. Many participated in the state-supported campus Islamic associations of the 1970s. Upon graduation, however, these students, coming as they did from the stigmatized countryside, discovered that despite their costly education—dearly paid for not only in money but also in the personal sacrifice of their families— the road to gaining better professional employment and achieving higher class status that leads inevitably to the capital city was essentially blocked by the ascriptive wall of Cairene elite society. Frustrated when wealthy family connections took precedence over merit, they instead migrated to Libya, Iraq, and the Gulf to acquire the better incomes unavailable at home. However, beginning in 1985 when regional oil revenues began to decline, these professionals returned home to stay. They reactivated the piety and spirituality learned during their college days and reinforced while working abroad. They chose to emulate the life of the Prophet Muḥammad, to grow beards and dress in white robes, and to perform charitable acts and good deeds that would bring them closer to their religion. But they also remained thwarted in their quest for upward mobility. These professionals therefore channeled their frustration into mobilizing an equally discontented ex-village working class.

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The tone was one of moral outrage. The adversaries became those corrupted by opportunism and contact with Western authorities.14 Those who supported these middle-class leaders included disgruntled members of the working class who labored on construction crews, service sector activities, or small informal sector businesses (when they were employed at all, which was rarely full-time). As ex-village workers coming from a depressed agricultural sector, they had had to migrate from the village to the city but were still unable to change the misfortunes and hardship caused by Egypt’s faltering economy. Once in the city, and constrained by high prices, low wages, and unemployed kin, they came to rely heavily on the largesse of private benefactors to get them through tight times. Proletarianization and rural-to-urban migration had been taking place in Egypt for decades, if not longer. But in the 1970s, this process accelerated rapidly after the seven years of economic stagnation following the Six Day war of June 1967.15 This exodus was less a torrent of rural workers and ex-peasants moving abroad but more an immense flow into urban neighborhoods to replace those who had emigrated outside Egypt. Yet after 1985, fewer skilled urban workers traveled abroad, and those who did so came home sooner. Back home, so I learned, they mixed with their unskilled colleagues who had never emigrated and, together, both groups sought work in an informal sector whose investments were already in decline. Together, these ex-village workers and ex-village technocrats became closely allied through the pervasive mutuality of paternalism that was first forged in the countryside where the favors and privileges from employers were exchanged for service and loyal commitment from workers. When employment later shifted to the city, the personalized relations and reciprocity of paternalism enabled patrons to preserve a readily available work force in periods of temporary inactivity, and allowed clients to guarantee employment so they would not have to return to their villages where conditions were seen as even more hopeless.16 These loyalties were then readily transferred to other benefactors even outside the actual labor process, so that critical services from middle-class professionals were exchanged for faithful support from workingclass beneficiaries. Both groups joined religious association that recreated and reinforced the familiarity of an imagined but bygone village community. Middle-class village students attending urban universities for the first time in the history of their 14  Ibrahim, Anatomy 430–2; Ansari, Egypt, chs. 9 and 10. 15  Ibrahim, Cairo 100, and Waterbury, The Egypt of Nasser and Sadat 112–17. 16  Toth, Rural labor movements, ch. 7.

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families were unfamiliar with the impersonality of large campuses, crowded classrooms, and indifferent professors. Rural workers moving into the city and finding employment in construction crews, workshops, and services were unaccustomed to the cold bureaucracy of government offices and large companies and the rapid transactions of commercial exchange. This sentiment and uncertainty drove both groups into the more informal and intimate surroundings of Islamic associations. This contrasted sharply with urban organizations like professional syndicates, labor unions, and political parties, the anonymity and coldness of which alienated these potential members. Instead, these impersonal—and secular—organizations attracted the urban-born activist more.17 Yet, ironically, the doctrines of these religious associations were not the same as those which these villagers had left behind. Village Islam had been textured by the passive and tolerant quietism of sufism, saint shrines, and miracles. Urban Islamist associations rejected such “superstition,” as they called it, and instead exhibited the indignant political activism of salafism, legalism, and self-righteousness.18 The shift from rural to urban had been paralleled by a transformation from “traditional” to “modern.” However, it was not a secular modernity based on the European Enlightenment, but rather a religious one inherited from the doctrines of (early) Muḥammad ʿAbduh, Ḥasan al-Bannā, and Sayyid Quṭb.19

Imbaba, 1992

The Siege On December 8, 1992, the Egyptian government ordered 12,000 to 16,000 regular policemen and 2,000 officers from its Central Security Forces (al-Amn al-Markazi) to set in motion a harsh anti-terrorist campaign in the workingclass town of Imbaba, in the western part of Giza, and, in particular, in the shantytown of al-Munīra al-Gharbiyya on Imbaba’s western perimeter.20 Supported by 100 armored personnel carriers, bulldozers, and police dogs, it 17  Ibrahim, Anatomy 452. 18  Gilsenan, Recognizing Islam, ch. 10. 19  See Toth, Elders of Islamism, forthcoming; and Toth, Sayyid Qutb. 20  Denis, La mise en scène. Actual numbers vary according to different reports. See, for example, Lars Bostrom, Fattigdom föder fundamentalism (Poverty breeds fundamentalism). Egypt’s minister of interior, ʿAbd al-Ḥalīm Mūsā, said later that the estimates of the number of security forces involved were greatly exaggerated: “Certain newspapers said

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was the biggest operation of its kind, intended to flush out entrenched Islamist activists and their weapons stockpiles from one of Cairo’s poorest informal housing neighborhoods. New York Times reporter Chris Hedges described the campaign as follows:21 The huge security operation began Tuesday morning when armored personnel carriers and troops armed with shotguns and automatic rifles tipped with bayonets blocked off dirt streets and ringed small sections of Imbaba, a stronghold of many Muslim fundamentalist groups. The crackdown had been planned for several weeks, security officials said. Many residents of Imbaba, fearing arrest, hid indoors today and the normally crowded and noisy streets, littered with rotting garbage, had only a scattering of pedestrians and solitary fruit vendors. For the next two months, in what the press soon labeled “the Siege of Imbaba,” the government imposed a “dusk-to-dawn curfew.”22 Initially, over 600 activists were arrested, 100 on both sides were injured,23 and Islamists and nonIslamists, men, women, and children were brutalized and held hostage while the law enforcement forces locked down the community in their zeal to “regain” control of the area. Of the hundreds who were arrested, most were released without charge. One of the dozen Islamist organizations in Imbaba, the Islamic Association (al-Jamāʿa al-Islāmiyya), had declared the town to be an independent “Islamic Republic” or even emirate24 and the government was intent on “taking it back.”25 In order to reclaim its sovereignty, the Egyptian state declared war on the Islamic Association.26 At first, people reacted hysterically, running for cover in every direction in order to avoid the paramilitary troopers clubbing, shooting, and kicking their way through along the small, unpaved alleys and narrow streets. Very quickly, though, residents ran inside and locked their doors and windows. In the interim between disorientation and self-preservation, women and children were seized and beaten until their male kinsmen—leaders of the various we entered the quarter with 12,000 men. When I read this I laughed. Were we invading the area?” Al Ahram, December 23, 1992. Indeed, they were. 21  Hedges, Egypt tightens the net. 22  Hedges, Egypt tightens the net. 23  Ibrahim, Changing face 76. 24  Singerman, The siege 114. 25  Dorman and Stein, Informality versus the state? 585. 26  Abdo, No god but God 20.

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Islamic associations—decided to come out and surrender. Yet even bolted doors and windows soon proved to be no barrier, as police broke into homes, smashed windows, and destroyed furniture and personal possessions. Men wearing beards and white galabiyyas were beaten and hauled off to jail in massive numbers. Women were dragged out by the hair, their hijabs ripped off and defiled. The area was quickly sealed off, and truckloads of soldiers secured strategic intersections, while others conducted ‘search-and-destroy’ missions down Imbaba’s myriad alleyways.27 The government cleared the market, set up roadblocks, and located checkpoints on exit roads. The streets, as Geneive Abdo described them, became “a sea of broken glass.” For weeks, Imbaba was “an island of terror,” isolated and quarantined from normal, everyday Cairene life.28 In 1994, a report from Human Rights Watch described the horror and humiliation of the December government campaign in Imbaba, relying heavily on reports from the Egyptian Organization for Human Rights (EOHR): On December 8, 1992, thousands of security force members began a weeks-long search-and-arrest operation in Imbaba. EOHR documented major abuses during the campaign. Security forces “entered the homes of suspects who belonged to Islamic militant groups in the late hours of the night and occasionally destroyed furniture and terrorized the inhabitants, assaulting and insulting them,” EOHR reported. There were widespread arbitrary arrests. Persons were detained on mere suspicion or because they had beards; periods of detention typically ranged from fifteen to thirty days. Relatives of wanted suspects—including mothers, sisters and wives, and children as young as eight years old—were arrested “to force [suspects] to give themselves up or to obtain information from victims as to their whereabouts.” EOHR found that some of the women were beaten with rods, forced to undress and sexually molested by officers at the Imbaba police station. Numerous male detainees were moved to security police camps on the Cairo-Alexandria desert road, where they were blindfolded and questioned by SSI officers [State Security Investigations, or the Mabāḥith Amn al-Dawla]. According to EOHR, torture methods during interrogation included beating with coiled wires, beating on the soles of the feet with the body held in awkward positions, electric shocks

27  Egyptian security searches Cairo for militants; 250 suspects held. New York Times, December 8, 1992. 28  Abdo, No god but God 20.

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on sensitive body parts, and standing outdoors while naked, followed by dousing with cold water.29 Islamist militants refused, however, to succumb or remain passive. Instead, they fought back by shooting security forces and bombing targets of corruption. Fierce gun battles soon erupted between the militants and government forces on an almost daily basis.30 What is more, with all the police and security forces focused on Imbaba, other communities in Giza became relatively unguarded and exposed. Video stores were particularly high on the target list, and soon, militants threatened tourist sites in the nearby Pyramids district and foreign embassies across the river in Cairo. Police were warned not to drive through Imbaba; militants threatened police cars with Molotov cocktails and other incendiary and explosive devices in drive-by bombings. Although southern Egypt had been witness to numerous independent attacks by local militants both before and during the Imbaba campaign, Imbaba militants contacted their associates in Upper Egypt and asked them to commit more violent incidents in order to divert government forces.31 Such dragnets had happened before, in other near-by shantytowns like Bulaq al-Dakrur in Giza and Ain Shams near Heliopolis. Mary Anne Weaver reported one Imbaba resident’s experience during the December security operation when “Imbaba [was] effectively sealed off from the world.” They cordoned off the entire area at four or five strategic points. People woke up in the morning to find themselves under siege. There had been so many police operations here before that people got used to it. But there had never been anything like this. It was unprecedented in its intensity, in its viciousness, in its length of time, and in the number of arrests. Not even in the worst of times—when Sadat was assassinated, 29  http://www.hrw.org/reports/1994/WR94/Middle-02.htm. I have been unable to locate the original EOHR report—entitled “Imbaba: An intense image of the deterioration of the state of human rights and respect of the law in Egypt” and published on March 20, 1993— but only its reference in the HRW report. 30  Hedges reported a 3-hour gun battle north of Cairo that left three fugitives from Imbaba dead. Hedges, Egypt tightens the net. 31  Here is a sampling of representative headlines: “ ‘Extremist’ Groups Attack Shops,” al-Ahram, December 9, 1992; “ ‘Normalcy’ Restored in Imbabah District,” Middle East News Agency, December 10, 1992; “Prime Minister Says Terrorism Affecting Tourism,” al-Ahram, December 13, 1992; “Islamic Group Threatens Embassies, Tourists,” AgenceFrance Press, December 14, 1992, and “More ‘Fundamentalists’ Arrested,” Agence-France Press, December 16, 1992.

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for example—had there been anything like this. It went on night and day, for five weeks. By the first evening, the idea of collective punishment was the defining line: they would arrest all [suspected Islamists], their mothers and fathers, their children and wives. Babies were even taken in. And children less than ten years old were herded into police stations and tortured, to pressure their fathers to turn themselves in.32 The main target was al-Jamāʿa al-Islāmiyya, and its leadership, who had had the audacity to declare the organization as a “state within a state.” Mass arbitrary arrest, temporary disappearances, widespread torture, and death under detention were commonplace. Large numbers of family members were taken hostage in order to force militants to surrender and capture those who had gone into hiding. There were no fewer than 5,000 long-term arrests, not counting those detained and quickly released. Suspects were hunted down and shot without trial. Those who reached the police stations were jailed, brutally tortured, and forced to confess to crimes that they had never committed or that were not considered violations in other countries. Women hauled to the police station were often ordered to strip naked in order to humiliate them and their male relatives. Sexual abuse and rape were not uncommon. Children were beaten to obtain information about their fathers and older brothers and then “taught lessons” by witnessing their elders’ harsh interrogation. Over the next year, about 4,500 prisoners were released. Of the remaining 500, approximately one hundred were tried in court, with some convicted to many years of prison and some acquitted and released. But the rest, some 400 suspects, remained in prison without trial for lack of evidence. Under Egypt’s Emergency Law, these were remanded and stayed forever behind bars.33 The Shantytown of Imbaba Shantytowns like Imbaba lie on the perimeter of urban areas, or once did until the growing conurbations caught up and then passed by these impoverished areas. Saad Eddin Ibrahim stated that there are approximately four hundred slum neighborhoods in Egypt and that in Cairo alone, 62 percent of the population resides in shantytowns that constitute 53 percent of the city’s residential area.34 Far from actually being wooden shanties, these communities of red brick, concrete, and rebars of several stories sprout up on unoccupied and 32  Weaver, Portrait of Egypt 76. 33  Weaver, Portrait of Egypt 25–6; Abdo, No god but God 24; Lorenz, Egyptian Human Rights Organization documents abuses. 34  Ibrahim, Reform and frustration 125, and Dorman, Demolitions and donors 272.

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often un-used (but not necessarily un-owned) land in heretofore agricultural or desert regions. They are informal insofar as they lack legal deeds to their property and lack utilities (water, electricity, sewage) and essential government services (clinics, schools, busses, and police). These are areas ignored by the government, either by intent or neglect, and those who do provide these needed services are Islamic philanthropic and development organizations inspired to provide good deeds, charitable acts, and material welfare to those at the bottom of the social hierarchy. Andrea Lorenz once described Imbaba as “a warren of crumbling apartment houses and narrow, dusty streets, many lined with open sewers. It was one of the areas hardest hit by the October 1992 earthquake.”35 Geneive Abdo added: “Despite huge population growth, it remains at heart a village, punctuated by dirt roads and alleyways no more than two yards wide. A thick layer of soot hangs overhead from the choking traffic. On most days, the black air mixes with smoke from smoldering piles of garbage strewn across the paths.”36 Imbaba is located in the northwest quadrant of Giza province, across the river from Cairo. It is less than three kilometers from the upper-class neighborhood of Zamalek located in the middle of the Nile—spatially close, but the resemblances could not be further apart.37 Though not adjacent, the two have an intimate relation: the upper classes in Zamalek heavily employ or utilize the services peddled and marketed by the lower classes of Imbaba. Imbaba was established in the 1950s to house those employed in Egypt’s burgeoning industrial sector under Abdel Nasser’s national development plans. Bill Dorman points out that when the government established housing projects, common sense might have suggested building them in the industrial areas like Helwan (to the south of Cairo) and Shubra al-Khayma (to the north). Instead, though, they were built on the east and west side of Cairo “to shield future workers from the enticements of the then still influential Egyptian communist movement.”38 As a result, Imbaba is less an industrial community and more a site of housing for those in the “lower end” service sector—auto repair, domestic and cleaning services, and construction work—catering to the middle class communities of Mohandessin, Zamalek, and Dokki as well as the more suburban gated communities located further out beyond the Cairo-Alexandria desert road in October 6th and Shaykh Zayed Cities.39 35  Lorenz, Egyptian Human Rights Organization documents abuses 62. 36  Abdo, No god but God 26–7. 37  Ibrahim, The changing face 87. 38  Dorman, Informal Cairo 432. 39  Ismail, Political life 29.

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But it was not until the 1970s that Imbaba actually began to expand, as adjacent farm land became converted into blocks of residential housing. Despite regulations that forbade encroaching on agricultural land, landlords and new tenants began surveying the property, carving it up into plots, and selling these tracts to new families. These families, in turn, built their own apartment buildings in the intermittent fashion of self-help construction, erecting them floor by floor, as funds and construction material became available. Most of this construction, as Salwa Ismail points out, was unlicensed, illegal, and unequipped with basic utilities.40 Then, as skilled workers emigrated to the Gulf and Saudi Arabia, they returned home, bringing back with them both religion and remittances. The new religious practices and beliefs reflected the strong influence of Wahhabi Islam or, more generally, the conservative Islam of Arabia.41 Their remittances went, in part, to upgrade their neighborhoods, build more floors, buy furnishings, and acquire services. Stretched to their utmost, this made the most recently built parts, such as al-Munīra al-Gharbiyya on the west side, even more desolate. Today, buildings crush up against the new ring road and burst out beyond, transforming even more agricultural farmland into housing districts. Saad Ibrahim went on to describe Imbaba—and particularly its west side— as a “Hobbesian” world because it lacked “schools, hospitals, clubs, sewage system, public transportation, or even a police station” that might “civilize” or bring the area under better government supervision. It is hard to guess whether the violence and militancy in Imbaba was a result of the people’s unceasing deprivation or else the government’s attempt at renewing its sovereignty. It seems clear, though, that as members of the Islamic Association and other Islamic groups were arrested or shot, the provision of public services declined drastically, and the government was unable or unwilling to fill the void. Imbaba, like most shantytowns, has had a mix of working-class residents. Some were families moving out from the older (“traditional”) parts of Cairo (east of ʿAtaba Square) and others were families migrating north from Upper Egypt. The population in 1992 was approximately 650,000, with roughly 80 percent from the south and 20 percent from across town. About a third of those from Upper Egypt were Christian.42 Despite the new kinship arrangements of smaller extended families that abounded in the community, local identities differed little from southern Egypt and from the old quarters of Cairo. It is an acknowledgement to the constant marginality of Imbaba and other 40  Ismail, Political life 7. 41  Ibrahim, The changing face 88. 42  Denis, La mise en scène 125.

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shantytowns that there has been a stability and continuity. In spite of any upward mobility, as and when it occurred, most people have remained in the neighborhood. The average monthly income in 1992 was on the order of $40.43 Al-Munīra al-Gharbiyya sprang up on the west side of Imbaba in the 1970s and 1980s and became attached to the district of North Giza in 1980. The community did not appear on any official map until 1992. There was no running water nor a single police station, school, or hospital until after the Siege of Imbaba when the government sought to reverse the serious inroads made by al-Jamāʿa al-Islāmiyya and other Islamist groups.44 In the late 1980s, when the government began attacking Islamists in southern Egypt, many of them fled and sought refuge with their relatives and kinsmen in Imbaba who had already migrated north to Cairo. This group of fugitives especially included activists who had, for some time, left behind the pacifism of the small, local Islamist organizations and “graduated” to more militant circles. For example, Abdo reported two groups belonging to Tanẓīm al-Jihād who left Asyut in 1980 and moved to Imbaba and Ain Shams. Still, as the militants in and around Cairo were hunted down in 1992, they reversed course and sought sanctuary back in the south.45 The first reports of violent conflict between the government and the Islamists appeared in 1988 in Ain Shams.46 Four years later, this aggression exploded on the streets and alleyways of Imbaba. The Rise of al-Jamāʿa al-Islāmiyya in Imbaba The Islamic Association, which dates back to 1974,47 was present in Imbaba due to “the miserable conditions [that] provided a fertile ground for Islamic activists.”48 Initially, there was little or no tension between the Association and the government. It enjoyed a great degree of independence, like other Islamic charity organizations, and, as Bill Dorman concluded, “straddled the boundary between being encouraged, tolerated, and illegal.”49 Eric Denis concurred, suggesting a trade-off between the government and the Islamic Association at this earlier time:

43  Abdo, No god but God 22. 44  Ibrahim, Reform and frustration 127. 45  Abdo, No god but God 26. 46  Dorman, Informal Cairo 5, and Ismail, Popular movement 381. 47  Dorman and Stein, Informality versus the state? 6. Ismail claims that al-Jamāʿa al-Islāmiyya began a decade later, in the mid-1980s. Popular movement 380. 48  Shadid, State within a state. 49  Dorman and Stein, Informality versus the state? 6.

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A kind of division of labor [existed with] the Islamists, left free to Islamize their environment as they pleased in consideration of the social services they provide in overcoming the deficiencies of the state and local authorities, mediating between the Islamist groups and central government while preserving the appearance of maintaining the republican order.50 The Jamāʿa al-Islāmiyya and other Islamic associations appeared in Imbaba and other shantytowns in order to deal with the poverty, misery, and lack of basic resources. It was hardly a “foreign implantation,” as some analysts portray it,51 as if it were an invasive, foreign object inserted forcibly into the social body. Instead, the original pioneers came both from within and outside the community, and they remained or set up shop in order to provide social services otherwise unavailable from the government. If these early leaders were not themselves from Imbaba, and thus already known for their piety and professionalism, then as outsiders, they nevertheless soon blended into the community as their assistance became both desirable and appreciated. Social Services and Islamic Development Despite the allegation that al-Jamāʿa al-Islāmiyya was a “state within a state,” it was not the only Islamist organization in Imbaba and not the only militant organization in town. It shared the stage with a number of other Islamist groups. Reports indicate that the Muslim Brotherhood, Tanẓīm al-Jihād (the Jihad Organization), al-Nājūn min al-Nār (Survivors of Purgatory), al-Takfīr wa-l-Hijra (Excommunication and Migration), Jamāʿat al-Tablīgh wa-l-Daʿwa (God’s Message and Call Association), Jamāʿat al-Tawaqquf wa-l-Tabayyun (Association of Stopping and Identification), and Jamāʿat al-Salaf al-Ṣāliḥ (Righteous Ancestors Association) all operated in the community.52 That is to say, many small and varied organizations operated to provide services and material welfare to members of the Imbaba community, as they did for other communities in need throughout the city and elsewhere in Egypt, and not unlike those I had once visited in the south. With more organizations than mosques, many of the smaller ones opened “store-front” prayer rooms while the larger organizations came to dominate the larger places of worship that proliferated throughout the community.53

50  Denis, La mise en scène 120. 51  Ismail, Popular movement 375, 379–82. 52  Singerman, The siege 129. 53  Weaver, Portrait of Egypt 146–7.

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These Islamist organizations offered a wide range of services otherwise not forthcoming from government ministries, including charity, credit, health care, education, and conflict arbitration. These organizations—and especially al-Jamāʿa al-Islāmiyya, but also the Muslim Brotherhood—supported orphans and day-care centers, opened and administered low-cost health care clinics, built and ran private schools, distributed textbooks, clothes, and pharmaceutical medicines, and passed out food. These activities were funded by religious donations contributed inside Imbaba as well as from wealthier communities outside the community borders such as Mohandessin, Zamalek, and further afield.54 Charities and philanthropic organizations existed in Imbaba for helping individuals and families who were unable to support their own needs. These were financed by zakāt contributions given intermittently throughout the year, but most often during Ramadan, the holy month of fasting. Just as frequent were individual donations given to people personally known in the community for being in need of assistance. Since giving zakāt was a voluntary religious duty, little fraud or corruption took place. In addition to cash outlays, grocery goods were regularly distributed. Anthony Shadid later reported about an Imbaba that existed after the Islamists had been crushed, after the government’s pitiful development efforts petered out, and once the Islamists had returned to service the community. He noted that the Muslim Brotherhood dispensed sugar, oil, and rice “to hundreds of the most needy.” Widows receive monthly payments—“$15, sometimes a little more.” A committee of 20 Brothers provided support to 1,500 orphans with a budget of $330,000. “Some people say that the services I provide are equivalent to that of 50 members of Parliament” the chair of the committee is quoted as saying.55 It was just this provision of material resource during and after the earthquake of October 1992, and the ineptitude of a government wracked by financial, political, and moral corruption, that embarrassed the Hosni Mubarak administration, challenged the state, and got the Islamists into hot water. As the government dithered, the Islamists quickly provided food, blankets, and temporary housing and tents. Their presence on the streets gave the Islamists a huge publicity windfall. It laid the basis for a “state within a state.”56

54  Ismail, Political life 75; Ismail, Popular movement 75; and Singerman, The siege 113. 55  Shadid, In crowded Cairo quarter. 56  Weaver, Portrait of Egypt 101.

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Local Institutions What made the Jamāʿa al-Islāmiyya particularly popular in Imbaba was its ability to graft onto local institutions such as the police, the futuwwa (the traditional “gang” of old Cairo that supported local elites in the ḥāra or quarter), and the mosque, and to “use them” to provide goods and services.57 The police in Imbaba,58 as elsewhere throughout the country, were viewed with suspicion and fear. Residents reasoned that if there was crime in Imbaba, such as illegal drugs or extortion, then it existed because the police permitted it by turning a blind eye in exchange for bribes and free store goods. People avoided dealing with the police even in those instances when police protection and intervention would have brought positive results. The explanation people gave was that the police were disinclined to intervene unless it was to their personal benefit. Then, when the police did get involved, people were arbitrarily arrested, abused, and humiliated. Most crimes, therefore, went unreported. Islamists, then, and particularly the more muscular organizations, provided essential protection and intervention that proved very successful. Their private police secured the streets, stopped harassment, responded to real problems, and protected ordinary people from predation.59 Gangs of young men, armed with knives and sticks vigorously patrolled the community, “driving away prostitutes and drug dealers, burning shops that rented Western videos, and threatening women not wearing the veil.”60 Conflict resolution through local but informal councils was immediate, direct, and familiar. Mediators were community members respected for their piety, honesty, and kinship and economic status. When people did resort to the official government system, this avenue seemed constantly clogged and ended up consuming years of effort and energy. Informal tribunals, on the other hand, resolved such conflicts quickly and worked in more traditional ways that not only decided guilt or innocence, but also maintained congenial community relations.61 They brought the conflicting sides together and worked to create concord and justice, and not discord and domination. They combined features 57  Ismail, Political life xl, and Haenni, Cousins, neighbors, and citizens. 58  The material here on social services comes from Ismail, Political life, ch. 2. 59  Dorman reports the existence of “night watchmen committees” that guaranteed safe streets. Dorman, Informal Cairo 426. 60  Shadid, State within a state. 61  Very often, the second—community relations—triumphed over the first. Robbery, for example, did not result in ḥudūd (corporal or capital) punishments nor did it result in jail time. Instead, compensation took place, public shame through identifying the miscreant was achieved, but the offender’s family was not penalized by losing its bread-winner, and further transgressions were avoided by charity and welfare services.

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from tribal law and custom and from earlier procedures found in Sharia law.62 The role for Islamists in this informal system seemed especially clear. Their piety and dedication endorsed their position as mediators; their fair and just verdicts reinforced the legitimacy of their authority. In other shantytowns, the leading shaykhs of the community were frequently called upon by the state and the police not only to resolve conflicts between local people and the government, but also to carry out directives for gathering security information and making arrests, making them the lowest rung in the ascending hierarchy of government officials. In Imbaba, however, Islamist leaders were not called upon, but instead were hunted down, since they challenged state legitimacy and refused to be co-opted. This made their reputation, legitimacy, and authority even more authentic and unsullied. Commercial and manufacturing businesses in the community owned by Islamists were operated on just principles that benefitted the community. Profit margins were low, contracts were reasonable, credit was favorable, debt was tolerable, and paternalism was rife. These businessmen were well known for their Islamic charity and moral propriety. Islamists in Imbaba were also enforcers of exacting ethical norms, rules, codes of behavior, and punishments. They promoted a conservative vision of modesty, decency, and fairness. Street life was at once more secure and unmolested yet at the same time, more under the surveillance of Islamist moralists. Women were safer on the streets as long as they complied, but were increasingly subject to moral admonishments if their dress and demeanor were inappropriate. Gender mixing was forbidden, music was sometimes banned, and a stricter understanding of the Sharia was prescribed.63 If admonition was not successful, some Islamists resorted to a more muscular enforcement of moral and religious regulations. Video stores were attacked and burned for selling Western movies that were considered indecent. Weddings that crossed the line into improper celebration (alcohol, belly dancing) were disrupted and terminated. There was, as Bill Dorman put it, “a heavy emphasis on the remoralization of Egyptian society,”64 though workingclass Cairenes and Southerners were both fairly conservative to begin with, so little complaining or opposition emerged.

62  Wael Hallaq’s description of pre-modern Sharia courts shows that they deliberately avoided the adversarial climate commonly found in Western law. Introduction 59. 63  Ismail, Political life xl; Ismail, Popular movement 381; and Abdo, No god but God 21. 64  Dorman, Informal Cairo 426. See also Singerman, The siege 138.

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“When we have trouble, the Muslims come quickly to help,” said Ragab Gabir Mohammed, a 58-year-old shop owner. “If someone treats you unfairly, you can go to the Muslims and they will speak to him or beat him. If someone tries to flirt with your daughter, they threaten him. If you are in debt, they tell the money lender to be patient.” As The New York Times’ Chris Hedges explains: The honesty of the militants and their attempts to alleviate the grinding poverty impress many Egyptians, who are often cynical about the graft and corruption in the Government. “When you go see a government clerk, he just opens his drawer to take your money,” said Mr. Mohammed.65 The Jamāʿa al-Islāmiyya had been operating in Imbaba for some time. Ordinarily, the government turned a blind eye and ignored this and other Islamic associations as long as these organizations remained below the radar of the Interior Ministry. As long as the Islamists addressed the needs of the community, then the state did not have to, and this allowed the government to shift budgetary outlays to other priorities. Bill Dorman has suggested that since informality is cheap for the state, it has no real motivation to reform these neighborhoods. But when the leadership of the Jamāʿa al-Islāmiyya arrogantly declared Imbaba to be an Islamic Republic at an international news conference reported by Reuters and the Associated Press, the Mubarak administration felt it had no choice but to respond to this challenge with overwhelming force.66 The government was already waging a long-term war against Islamic groups, and the Siege of Imbaba occurred in the midst of a larger campaign, mostly waged in the south, to eradicate Egypt of socalled extremists and terrorists. Yet the declaration of the Emirate of Imbaba proved to be the final straw in a series of setbacks for the Mubarak administration, notwithstanding its powerful instruments of public control. It was one thing for Islamists and security forces to wage battle in the underdeveloped south; it was something else entirely when it started happening in the heart of Cairo, the nation’s capital. Clearly the Islamic Association was gaining strength at the expense of the government, and its rhetoric and tactics were becoming more audacious and more confrontational. It had to be stopped.67

65  Hedges, Militants thunder. 66  Dorman, Demolitions and donors 273; Ibrahim, Islamic activism 88. 67  Singerman, The siege 114.

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Imbaba after the Siege

Stung by the criticism of neglect and instability, the government reversed its previous indifference and began investing funds into improving and upgrading Imbaba’s infrastructure, small businesses, employment, and religious instruction. These development schemes attracted funds from a number of international donors and the Department of Public Works in the local Giza government. These efforts targeted utilities (water, electricity, telephone land lines), sewage and sanitation, markets, road paving, schools, youth clubs, and clinics. Streets were widened, street lighting installed, police and fire stations were built, and offices for local administration were erected. Mosques were either closed down or renovated with new, Azhar-educated staff. Charitable religious associations continued to operate, but only after they had been properly vetted and approved. These alleged successes were heralded in the press as the new dawn for the poor and an end to crime and terrorism. The Imbaba upgrade was intended to be a prototype of how the government intended to improve shantytowns so they no longer represented dens of Islamist lawlessness. Imbaba soon became, as Diane Singerman noted, an international showcase.68 Yet far from being a model for success, the Imbaba project was the only such effort undertaken in Giza to rid the province of blight and bloodshed.69 Other informal communities continued to fall short in receiving basic utilities and other fundamental services. Then, once the construction projects were complete, once the government’s attention turned elsewhere, and once the media spotlight had dimmed, Islamism gradually came back to Imbaba, along with countless other working-class communities similarly neglected by the government. It is not surprising, then, that after the January 2011 revolution, the Muslim Brotherhood opened two offices in Imbaba to handle the myriad of material and spiritual issues that confronted the local population. “The people here are poor, and they have no idea about democracy or politics,” said Ayman Abdel-Wahab, a Brotherhood member sitting in the group’s office, which opened here in July. “They’ll side with those they think can offer them help.”70

68  Singerman, The siege 136, and Dorman, Informal Cairo 429. 69  Dorman, Informal Cairo 429. 70  Shadid, In crowded Cairo quarter.

Securing Consent

491

Conclusion The relationship between Islamists and working-class members of poor urban communities is immediate, organic, and synergistic. Middle-class leaders appear genuinely interested in alleviating the poor’s dire circumstances, and the working-class rank-and-file become loyal supporters, sympathetic to the ideas and doctrines of their leaders. Patrons service clients and ask for their support, and clients endorse the patrons’ ethical concerns and pledge their allegiance in return. Is there an ideological or doctrinal commitment here? Certainly, the leaders see service as a religious duty, and the rank-andfile similarly see their obligations as moral imperatives. As for holding “theological challenges and debates,” there are clearly sites that host these types of doctrinal discussions—informal mosque study groups that examine religious texts take place on a regular basis, Friday sermons that offer moments of deliberation and contention over issues of faith and practice, and televangelists who reach out to wide audiences of various educational levels.71 Thus, to suggest that working-class Egyptians are intellectually incapable or disinclined to engage in such doctrinal and theological discourse is more a classist statement than one of fact. Yet there can be no doubt that the “glue” that fastens middle-class professionals and working-class rank-and-file is the exchange of services and loyalty that constitute the core of Islamic philanthropy, charity, and development. This can be demonstrated in the massive voter turnout in the free and fair elections that took place after the fall of Hosni Mubarak but before the rise of Abdel Fattah el-Sisi. The subsequent decline of Islamist support seems more a case of repression than an outright loss of interest or commitment. Yet it becomes extremely difficult to argue with and challenge the national security establishment in the West that has concluded without hesitation or doubt that this provision of goods and services is merely an opportunistic, Machiavellian ploy to dupe would-be supporters and gain power in the struggle to win hearts and minds in Egypt and elsewhere. According to this 71  Egyptians from all walks of life engage in lengthy discussions after Friday noon prayers. But Fridays are not unique in this regard. There are Islamic evangelists who flood television programming and international scholars who have developed a global audience. These include such luminaries as Shaykh ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd Kishk, ʿAmr Khālid, Muʿizz Masʿūd, Muṣṭafā Ḥusnī, Muṣṭafā Maḥmūd, Muḥammad Mutawallī al-Shaʿrāwī, Muḥammad al-Ghazālī, and Brotherhood fellow-traveler Yūsuf al-Qaraḍāwī. Gaffney, The Prophet’s pulpit; Salvatore, Social differentiation; Moll, Islamic televangelism; and Gräf and Skovgaard-Petersen, Global mufti.

492

Toth

view, these social services prove to be a cynical manipulation that plays on feeble minds and that allows Islamists to advance their interests and impose them on a naïve, uncomplicated group of Muslims. It is, so the argument goes, raw power and brute force that are the real goals of the Islamic movement. Counterarguments that reverse this logic—that a true spirituality prevails and that militancy only comes later when the philanthropists are attacked and arrested—prove impossible to advance, given the strength and domination of Homeland Security.72 But it is still important to point out that global terrorist networks which commit heinous acts of violence and brutality, monopolize the limelight, and, therefore, define the Islamic movement in Western minds, are distinctly different from those local associations that cater to the needs of the poor in order to win divine blessings and grace. A shift in values whereby defense (and a militant defensive jihad at that) becomes prioritized and valorized over non-violent zakāt activities gradually emerges as arrests, imprisonment, and torture take place. That the provision of social services should cease and disappear, and that engaging in militancy should be promoted as the sole activity should not be surprising under these circumstances. But this shift in attitude results in separating new, global Islamist organizations from a belief in reforming society, and propels them, instead, into becoming mere expressions of hate and brutality. Muhammad-Mahmoud Mohamedou documents73 the trajectory that in the 1990s combined the Service Office (Maktab al-Khadamāt) that first engaged Usama bin Ladin in Afghanistan—itself providing a particular type of social service, after all—with remnants of crushed Islamist groups seeking refuge outside their homeland. The eradication of the Islamic movement in so many countries undoubtedly proved successful, but it also sowed dragon’s teeth— blowback—in return. It transformed the Islamist movement, Mohamedou concludes, by severing its populist roots and eventually elevating it to hover precariously over apocalyptic battles of good (Islam) over evil (the West). The Service Office and remnants joined forces and morphed into Al Qaeda, a transnational non-state armed group. After 9/11, and after substantial attacks from the United States and its western allies, Al Qaeda morphed yet again into a number of decentralized “franchise” operations that acted somewhat independently, although united in seeking to achieve the same goals. Then, as men, material, and funds shifted from one franchise to another, depending on the strength of Western attacks and in an attempt to disperse and regroup, one 72  Toth, Review of three books on the Muslim Brotherhood. 73  Ould Mohamedou, The militarization of Islamism.

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“licensed” group in particular thrust aside the parent organization and struck out independently to achieve even greater notoriety—the Islamic State. This departure from alleviating plebian privation proves crucial, though clearly many in the West remain oblivious to such distinctions. But as a result, this shift has generated a tremendous loss of legitimacy and has justified a frontal assault by the international community. Yet it is important to retain and even emphasize this difference. Local Islamist organizations are rooted in the needs of local citizens who have been denied their entitlement. No matter how “muscular” such organizations may become, they still retain a legitimacy and authenticity as a social movement that strives, after all, to reform what many still view today as a corrupt, dishonest, and repressive state. The local Islamic movement is by no means a refurbished Marxist campaign; class distinctions are still honored, as long as they incorporate the social justice that remains at the core of Islamist doctrine.74 But as a campaign to transform society, it deserves our study and analysis in order to arrive at a better understanding of Egypt and its history and character. Bibliography Abdo, G., No god but God: Egypt and the triumph of Islam, New York 2000. Ansari, H., Egypt: The stalled society, Albany 1986. Al-Awadi, H., In pursuit of legitimacy: The Muslim brothers and Mubarak, 1982–2000, London 2004. Bayat, A., Revolution without movement, movement without revolution: Comparing Islamic activism in Iran and Egypt, in Comparative studies in society and history 40 (1998), 136–69. Bayat, A., Street politics: Poor people’s movements in Iran, New York 1997. Bostrom, L., Fattigdom föder fundamentalism. Islam segrar i Kairos trånga gränder. Sociala tjänster lockar egyptierna till religionen (“Poverty breeds fundamentalism. Islam wins in Cairo’s narrow alleys. Social services attracts the Egyptians to religion”), DN.se (Dagens Nyheter) Stockholm. December 18, 1992. Calvert, J., Sayyid Qutb and the origins of radical Islamism, New York 2010. Denis, E., La mise en scène des ‘ashwaiyyat: Premier acte: Imbaba, Décembre 1992 (“Staging the shantytown scene: Act 1: Imbaba, December 1992”), in Egypte, Monde Arabe 20 (1994), 117–32.

74  See Quṭb, al-ʿAdāla al-ijtimāʿiyya; and Toth, Sayyid Qutb: Life and legacy.

494

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Dorman, W.J., Of demolitions and donors: The problematics of state intervention in informal Cairo, in D. Singerman (ed.), Cairo contested: Governance, urban space, and global modernity, Cairo 2009, 269–90. Dorman, W.J., Informal Cairo: Between Islamist insurgency and the neglectful state, in Security dialogue 40 (2009), 419–41. Dorman, W.J. and E. Stein, Informality versus the state? Islamists, informal Cairo and political integration by other means, in Alternatives: Turkish journal of international relations 12 (2013), 5–19. The Egyptian Organization for Human Rights (ed.), Imbaba: An intense image of the deterioration of the state of human rights and respect of the law in Egypt, published March 20, 1993 (cited in online Human Rights Watch report at . Egyptian security searches Cairo for militants; 250 suspects held, The New York Times, December 8, 1992. Gaffney, P., The Prophet’s pulpit: Islamic preaching in contemporary Egypt, Berkeley 1994. Gehlen, A., Studien zur Anthropologie und Soziologie, Neuwied am Rhein 1963. Gilsenan, M., Recognizing Islam: Religion and society in the modern Middle East, New York 1992. Gräf, B. and J. Skovgaard-Petersen (eds.), Global mufti: The Phenomenon of Yusuf alQaradawi, New York 2009. Haenni, P., Cousins, neighbors, and citizens in Imbaba: The genesis and selfneutralization of a rebel political territory, in D. Singerman (ed.), Cairo contested: Governance, urban space, and global modernity, Cairo 2009. Hallaq, W., An introduction to Islamic law, Cambridge 2009. Hedges, C., As Islamic militants thunder, Egypt grows more nervous, The New York Times, November 12, 1992. Hedges, C., Egypt tightens the net around its militant opposition, The New York Times, December 10, 1992. Ibrahim, S.E., Anatomy of Egypt’s militant Islamic groups: Methodological note and preliminary findings, in IJMES 12 (1980), 423–53. Ibrahim, S.E., Cairo: A sociological profile, in S.E. Ibrahim (ed.), Egypt, Islam, and democracy: Twelve critical essays, Cairo 1996. Ibrahim, S.E., Islamic activism and the Western search for a new enemy, in S.E. Ibrahim (ed.), Egypt, Islam, and democracy: Twelve critical essays, Cairo 1996. Ibrahim, S.E., The changing face of Egypt’s Islamic activism, in S.E. Ibrahim (ed.), Egypt, Islam, and democracy: Twelve critical essays, Cairo 1996. Ibrahim, S.E., Reform and Frustration in Egypt, in Journal of democracy 7 (1996), 125–35.

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Ismail, S., The popular movement dimensions of contemporary militant Islamism: Socio-spatial determinants in the Cairo urban setting, in Comparative studies in society and history 42 (2000), 363–93. Ismail, S., Political life in Cairo’s new quarters, Minneapolis 2006. Lorenz, A.W., Egyptian human rights organization documents abuses, in Washington report on Middle East affairs, ed. Middle East Watch (June 1993). Middle East Watch (ed.), Hostage-taking and intimidation by security forces, a Middle East Watch report 7 (1995), available at: . Moll, Y., Islamic televangelism: Religion, media and visuality in contemporary Egypt, in Arab media and society 10 (2010), . Ould Mohamedou, M.-M., The militarization of islamism: Al-Qāʿida and its trans­ national challenge, in MW 101 (2011), 307–23. Riesebrodt, M., Pious passion: The emergence of modern fundamentalism in the United States and Iran, trans. D. Reneau, Berkeley 1993. Salvatore, A., Social differentiation, moral authority, and public Islam in Egypt, in Anthropology Today 16 (2000), 12–15. al-Sayyid Quṭb, al-ʿAdāla al-ijtimāʿiyya fī l-Islām (Social justice in Islam), Cairo 1949. Shadid, A., Once a state within a state, Imbaba now Egyptian government showcase, Associated Press, February 26, 1996. Shadid, A., In crowded Cairo quarter, Islamists try to seize mantle of a revolution, The New York Times, October 17, 2011. Singerman, D., The siege of Imbaba, Egypt’s internal “other,” and the criminalization of politics, in D. Singerman (ed.), Cairo contested: Governance, urban space, and global modernity, Cairo 2009. Toth, J., Rural labor movements in Egypt and their impact on the state, 1961–1992, Gainesville 1999. Toth, J., Rural-to-urban migration and informal sector expansion: Impediments to Egyptian development, First Mediterranean Social and Political Research Meeting, Robert Schuman Centre of the European University Institute, Florence, Italy, March 22–6, 2000. Toth, J., Sayyid Qutb: The life and legacy of a radical Islamic intellectual, New York 2013. Toth, J., Review of three books on the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt, in Contemporary Islam 10 (2016), 123–69. Toth, The elders of Islamism in Egypt, forthcoming. Waterbury, J., The Egypt of Nasser and Sadat: The political economy of two regimes, Princeton 1983. Weaver, M.A., A portrait of Egypt: A journey through the world of militant Islam, New York 2000.

Index of Quran Citations 2: Baqarah 28 13 87 7, 9 236 45 237 44 253 9

18: Kahf 104

131

19: Maryam 17 57

9, 11 348

4: Nisāʾ 3 4 20 24 129 171

380–381 44 44 44 381 9, 12, 13

20: Ṭā Hā 120

154

21: Anbiyāʾ 5 107

151 296–312

5: Māʾida 5 33 110

44 74 9

7: Aʿrāf 20 171 172

154 11 11

11: Hūd 13

24: Nūr 4–5 283 26: Shuʿarāʾ 27 151 193 9 224–25 150 224–26 167 27: Naml 16

96

191

12: Yūsuf 28

32: Sajda 9

11

27, 29, 30, 31

13: Raʿd 7

37: Ṣāffāt 36

151

56

15: Ḥijr 6 29

38: Ṣād 72

11

151 7, 11

40: Ghāfir 82

267

16: Naḥl 2 78

9 279

41: Fuṣṣilat 11

8

17: Isrāʾ 1 85

353 5, 12, 13, 15, 16, 20

42: Shūrā 52

10

498

Index Of Quran Citations 68: Qalam 2 51

44: Dukhān 14

151

50: Qāf 16

154

51: Dhāriyāt 39 52

69: Ḥāqqa 41–42 151

151 151

70: Maʿārij 4

9

78: Nabaʾ 38

9, 12, 13

52: Ṭūr 29 151 33–34 191

151 151

54: Qamar 9

151

81: Takwīr 19–21 296–312 22 151

56: Wāqiʿa 41

62

90: Balad 8–9 182

58: Mujādila 22

7

97: Qadr 4

7, 9

66: Taḥrīm 12

9, 11

114: Nās 4 5

154 154

General Index A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Shakespeare) 150 ʿAbbās I (khedive of Egypt) 410 ʿAbbās Pasha Ḥilmī (khedive of Egypt) 407 ʿAbbāsah bint al-Mahdī (half-sister of Hārūn al-Rashīd) 248 Abbasids (Abbasid) 122, 124, 146, 152, 153, 166, 192, 195, 196, 220, 223, 224, 235, 248, 250, 251, 259, 262, 285, 287, 288, 292, 369, 371, 442 ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz bin Bāz 47–48 ʿAbd al-Jabbār (Muʿtazilī theologian) 98 ʿAbd al-Laṭīf al-Baghdādī 257, 261, 268–269 ʿAbd al-Munʿim al-Jilyānī 140 ʿAbd al-Qāhir al-Baghdādī 182 ʿAbd al-Qāhir al-Jurjānī 132 ʿAbd al-Raḥīm al-Damurdāsh 389 ʿAbd al-Raḥmān III (Umayyad caliph of al-Andalus) 225 ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn al-Ḥakam (ʿAbd al-Raḥmān II, emir of Córdoba) 223–224 ʿAbdallāh (first Fāṭimid Imam) 55 ʿAbdallāh al-Aftāḥ ibn Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq 55 ʿAbdallāh ibn ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz (Umayyad commander) 248 ʿAbdallāh ibn al-Ḥasan (descendant of ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib) 285–286, 292 ʿAbdallāh ibn Mālik (caliph al-Mahdī’s servant) 227–228 ʿAbdallāh ibn Ṭāhir (governor of Khurāsān) 70 ʿAbdallāh ibn ʿUmar (son of caliph ʿUmar II) 284–285 ʿAbdallāh ibn Wahb (Mālikī jurist) 40–41 ʿAbdallāh al-Ṭayfūrī (Syrian Christian physician) 288–289 al-Abdin, A.Z. 416 Abdel Nasser, Gamal 440, 452, 475, 482 Abdo, Geneive 479, 482, 484 ʿAbduh, Muḥammad 375–390 Abraham (patriarch) 53, 54, 256, 260 Abū l-ʿAbbās al-Nāshiʾ al-Akbar 71 Abū l-ʿAbbās al-Saffāḥ (Abbasid caliph) 285 Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Qurṭubī 9, 14–16, 17 Abu Aḥmad al-Kātib 131–132 Abū l-ʿAlāʾ al-Maʿarrī 131, 144–145

Abū l-Aswad al-Duʾalī 98 Abū l-ʿAtāhiya (Abbasid poet) 76, 291 Abū ʿAṭāʾ al-Sindī (Umayyad poet) 285 Abū Bakr (first caliph) 284, 292 Abū Bakr ibn Muḥammad ibn ʿAmr ibn Ḥazm al-Anṣārī 230–231 Abū l-Barakāt al-Baghdādī 318, 320–321 Abū Dāwūd al-Sijistānī 36 Abū Dharr al-Ghifārī 55, 56 Abū Dulaf al-ʿIjlī (Abbasid military commander) 290 Abū l-Duqaysh al-Aʿrābī 4, 5 Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī 42, 71, 72, 81, 165–166, 212–219, 220, 221–223, 227–228, 229–231, 235–238, 244–245, 281, 289–291 Abū l-Faraj al-Jayyānī 146 Abū l-Ḥadīd al-Shannī (Khārijite leader) 248 Abū Ḥashīsha (Muḥammad ibn ʿAlī ibn Umayya, singer) 220–221 Abū l-Hawl (Sphinx), of Giza 263–268 Abū Ḥayya al-Numayrī 152, 165–166 Abū Ḥayyān al-Muwaswis 153, 161–162 Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī 1 Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī 184 Abū Ḥumayd (Abbasid military officer) 285 Abū Jaʿfar al-Idrīsī 263, 266–268 Abū Jaʿfar al-Naḥḥās 303 Abū Muḥammad al-Ḥijārī 226 Abū Nuwās 76, 141–142, 162, 166, 288, 347–348, 442 Abu l-Qāsim al-Khiraqī 46 Abū Salama (Abbasid propagandist) 285 Abū Shamir (Ḥanafī scholar) 114 Abū Tammām 134, 154 Abū ʿUbayda 5 Abū Yāsīn (mad poet) 166 Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sakkākī 135, 143 Abū Yūsuf (al-Ansārī) 45 Abū Yūsuf al-Kindī 177, 181–182, 183–184, 185 Abū Zakariyyāʾ al-Farrāʾ 5–6 Abū Zayd al-Balkhī 176 Abū Zayd al-Sarūjī (of al-Ḥarīrī’s Maqāmāt) 134, 303 acrostics, Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī on 123, 125, 136–138, 146

500 Ādāb al-fatāt (ʿAlī Fikrī) 408, 409, 410 Ādāb al-liyāqa (Muḥammad Masʿūd) 393, 397, 398, 399–406 Adam 11, 12, 14, 17, 19, 54, 102–105 ʿAdī ibn Zayd (poet) 68, 80, 216, 240–241 Adūnīs (poet) 442 Ādurbād ī Ēmēdān (mobed, compiler and editor of Dēnkard) 195–196, 198, 204 Ādurfarnbag (mobed) 196–199, 204 al-Afghānī (Islamic ideologist) 375, 379, 469 Africa 99, 223, 225–227, 257, 384, 421, 462 agency (istiṭāʿa) in animals, al-Jāḥiẓ on 100, 105–107, 111 Aghlabids (Aghlabid, Banū Aghlab) 223–224 agnatic relatives, marriage and 43, 45, 46, 47 Aḥmad ibn Faḍlallāh al-ʿUmarī (historian) 358 Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal 36–40, 43, 45–46 Aḥmad ibn al-Qāsim ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa 281, 282, 288–289 Aḥmad ibn al-Ṭayyib al-Sarakhsī 177, 181, 183 Aḥmad al-Maqqarī 226 al-Aḥwaṣ al-Anṣārī 83 Aida (Verdi’s opera) 455–456 Ain Shams (Egypt) 480, 484 al-ʿAkawwak (Abbasid poet) 290 Akhenaton (pharaoh of Egypt) 249 al-ʿAlāyilī, Iqbāl 454 Aldine Press 367 Aleppo 69 Alfonso the Wise 367 Alexander the Great (Dhū al-Qarnayn) 181, 193, 194, 264, 460, 461 Alexandria (Egypt) 428–437 passim, 448–453 passim, 457, 460–462 Alexandria Biennale for Mediterranean Countries (Egypt) 436 Alexandria School (circle of al-Kharrāṭ’s contemporaries and friends) 435 Ali, A.Y. 27 Ali, Zahid (Bohra reformer) 52 ʿAlī ibn ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Ḥuṣrī al-Qayrawānī (poet) 350 ʿAlī ibn Abī al-Qāsim al-Qazwīnī 307, 321, 322–324 ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib 15, 16, 17, 18, 38–39, 50, 56, 64, 129, 285, 286, 292

General Index ʿAlī ibn ʿĪsā ibn Māhān (military commander) 287 ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm, prison poetry of 67–91 al-ʿĀlim, Maḥmūd Amīn 446 allegorical interpretation, of Arabic alphabet 53–65 Alliance française (Alexandria, Egypt) 436 ʿAllūya (singer) 220–223 Almoravids 225 alphabet symbolism, in Kitāb Taʾwīl al-ḥurūf al-muʿjam 53–65 Al-Qaeda (Al-Qāʿida) 471, 492 āmān 372 El-Amarna Correspondence, offense-causing marriage proposal in 249–251 ambulant marriage (al-zawāj al-misyār) 47–48 Amenḥotep III (pharaoh of Egypt) 249, 250 al-Āmidī 318 Amīn, B.S. 134, 140 Amīn, Qāsim 385, 388, 389, 395, 411 al-Amīn (Abbasid caliph) 288 Amitiés françaises (Alexandria, Egypt) 436 ʿAmr ibn al-ʿĀṣ 462 The Anatomy of Melancholy (Burton) 152 al-Anbārī 304 Andalusia (Andalusian) 226, 227, 307, 369, 462 animal communication, al-Jāḥiẓ on 94–119 animal speech, in the Quran 96, 100, 101, 108, 109–110, 117 Anīs, ʿAbd al-ʿAẓīm 446 Ansāb al-ashrāf (al-Balādhūri) 44 ant communication, al-Jāḥiẓ on 96, 108, 109–110 al-Anṭākī, Dāwūd 157 ʿAntara ibn Shaddād 224–225 Anthony, S.W. 53 anthropocentrism, in interpretation of rūḥ in the Quran 1, 2, 18–20, 21 Anūshirwān (Khosrow I) 245 Anwār ʿulwī l-ajrām fī l-kashf ʿan asrār al-ahrām (al-Idrīsī) 266–268 Appiah, Anthony 427 ʿaql (reason) in animals, al-Jāḥiẓ on 105–113, 118, 119 Arab literary modernity (ḥadātha) 440–446 Arabi, Oussama 47

General Index Arabic alphabet, allegorical interpretation of 52–65 Arabic epistolography 338–358 Arabic intermedial poetry 122–147 Arabic lexicography, rūḥ-qua-soul connotation in 3–7, 9, 28 Arabic mad poets 150–172 Arabic mystical verse 169–172 Arabic nonsense verse 168, 172 Arabic pattern poetry 123, 125, 138–141, 146 Arabic poetry, visual representation of 124, 125–133, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140 Arabic prison poetry 67–91 Arabic script-related sources of beauty, in poetry 130–133 Aramaic 192, 193, 203–204, 205–206 Arberry, A.J. 23, 27–28 Aristotelian physics, rhopē in 318–321 Aristotle 94, 95, 118, 150, 182, 318–321, 368 Armenia (Armenian) 195, 449 Armstrong, Nancy 394, 409 “Art et liberté” (Egyptian artists and writers’ group) 431, 432, 434, 435, 438–439, 443, 452, 462–463, 464 Asad, Muhammad 27, 31 Asatryan, Mushegh 53, 65 Ashʿarīs, on human nature 2 al-Ashʿath ibn Qays 45 al-Sayyid ʿAshmāwī 450 al-Aṣmaʿī 5 al-ʿAsqalānī 339, 341–342 ʿAṭarrad (Quran-reciter and singer-composer of Medina) 212–213, 218 al-ʿAttābī (poet) 347 Avempace (Ibn Bājja) 318 Avesta, languages of 190–207 Avicenna 318, 320–321, 324, 326, 328, 329–330, 334–335, 371 ʿAwaḍ, Luwīs (Louis) 432, 439 al-ʿAzīz (governor of Egypt, in Sūrat Yūsuf) 22–24, 27, 29, 31 Babylon (Babylonian) 203, 250, 264 Badhl (singer) 219–220 Badīʿ al-Zamān al-Hamadhānī 271–275, 276–278, 295, 351, 354 Baghdad 70, 81, 147, 156, 161, 162, 164, 177, 195, 196, 213, 231, 307, 364, 368, 369, 371, 372

501 al-Baghdādī See ʿAbd al-Laṭīf al-Baghdādī; ʿAbd al-Qāhir al-Baghdādī; Abū l-Barakāt al-Baghdādī bailo 361, 365 Balaam (prophet) 200, 201 al-Balādhurī 44 Balʿamī 243–244, 245–246 al-Bannā, Ḥasan 469, 477 Banū l-Munajjim 93 Bar Bahlul 201–202 Barthes, Roland 441 Baruch (prophet Jeremiah’s disciple) 201 Basilios Bessarion (Cardinal) 362, 365 bayān, al-Jāḥiẓ on 98, 100–101, 110, 117, 119, 124, 129 Bayat, Asef 470 al-Bayḍāwī (Quran exegete) 29–31 Bayezid (Ottoman sultan) 362, 371 Bāzand (Pāzand, commentary to Zand) 191 Bazīʿa (singer) 225 Beecroft, Alexander 299 Ben Bella, Ahmed 440 Benveniste, E. 206 Biblical accounts 2, 199, 200, 256, 258, 259, 261, 456, 457 Biblioteca Marciana 362, 366 Bidez, J. 196 Billig, Michael 418, 421 bird speech, in the Quran 95, 96, 100, 101, 117 al-Bīrūnī 190, 198 Blake, William 166 body-and-soul conception, in Islamic thought 1–7, 11–21 Bohra community, in India 52 Bolshevik Revolution (October Revolution) 454, 456 Bonnefoy, Yves 436 Boxtmārē (Persian Christian enquirer of Ādurfarnbag) 196–197 Bravmann, M.M. 44 Brennan, Timothy 428 Breton, André 431, 434 bride social class/status, in marriage 35, 41, 42–48 Britain 431, 437, 450–452, 453 Brockelmann, C. 29 al-Buḥturī (poet) 358 Bukhara 368

502 al-Bukhārī 284 Bukhtīshūʿ ibn Jibrīl 71 Bulaq al-Dakrur (Giza province, Egypt) 480 Burhān ad-Dīn al-Qīrāṭī (Egyptian poet) 338–358 Buridan, John 318 Burton, Robert 152 al-Būṣīrī (poet) 355 al-Busṭānī, Buṭrus 378 Byzantine (Byzantines) 361–368 passim, 370, 371, 372, 457 Cairo 176, 234, 262, 271, 300, 309, 310, 311, 339, 343–345, 348–349, 358, 364, 368, 369, 371, 372, 383, 393, 398, 410, 430, 431, 432, 434, 437, 438, 439, 440, 452, 455, 472, 473, 478, 479, 480, 481, 482, 483, 484, 487, 489 Carpentier, Alejo 444–445, 457 Caruth, C. 88 castration of effeminate singers, in Medina 229–231 cat communication, al-Jāḥiẓ on 96, 97, 99–100, 102, 105 Cavafy, C.P. 429 Cherry, Frances 418 child communication, al-Jāḥiẓ on 98–99, 101 childhood education, in Egypt 393–413 Christianity (Christian) 12, 15, 71, 105, 193, 196–197, 198, 199, 200, 207, 216, 263, 288, 289, 319, 364, 366, 456, 457, 458–460, 462, 473, 483 Clare, John 166 Cleopatra 449, 460, 461 clitoris sucking, as insult in Classical Arabic 279–292 collective punishment, of musical performers, in Mecca and Medina 212–218 Collins, William 166 communism, internationalism and 432, 433–434, 448, 450, 452 comparatism, internationalism in 425–464 conduct and advice books, in turn-of-thetwentieth century Egypt 393–413 conflict resolution, Egyptian Islamist associations and 487–488

General Index conjugal family, Muḥammad ʿAbduh on 376–379, 381, 388, 389 Constantinople 361–362, 365, 368 conveniencia 362 Cook, Michael 260, 264 Cooperson, M. 263 Copts (Coptic) 261, 262, 263, 444, 457, 459, 461, 473 cosmopolitanism, in Alexandria (Egypt) 428–429, 435, 448–449, 451, 460–462 Cossery, Albert 436 Cromwell, Thomas 241 crucifixion poem, of ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm 70–91 passim cryptograms, Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī on 123, 125, 136–137, 146 Ctesiphon 238–239 Cumont, F. 196 al-Ḍaḥḥāk (Kharijite leader) 285 al-Ḍaḥḥāk (Quran exegete) 8, 10, 11 Dahriyya (Dahrīs, ahl al-dahr) 96, 108 al-Dalāl (effeminate singer of Medina) 229–231 Damascus 213, 221–222, 344–345, 348–349, 353, 357, 358 David (king of Israel) 53 Dāwūd al-Qayṣarī 370 Dāwūd ibn ʿAlī (founder of Ẓāhirī school of law) 122 de Blois, F. 196 De caelo (Aristotle) 318–319 De l’éducation des filles (François de la Mothe-Fénelon) 411, 412 De Lauretis, Teresa 85–86 De sensu et sensibilibus (Aristotle) 182 Denis, Eric 484–485 Dēnkard (compendium of Zoroastrian lore) 195–196, 198, 199 Depping, G.-B. 379 al-Dhahabī 308 Dhū l-Rumma 4, 5, 6, 153 Dhū Qār, battle of 240 al-Dīb, Badr 446 divorce, Muḥammad ʿAbduh on 376–381, 386, 387, 388 Dīwān al-Tadbīj (al-Jilyānī) 140 Dols, Michael W. 152, 153, 157

General Index Don Quichotte (French language newspaper, Cairo, Egypt) 436 Dorman, W.J. 482, 484, 488–489 double entendre (tawriya) 303, 340–341, 343, 345, 346, 354, 356, 357 dower (mahr), kafāʾa and 44–46 Durrell, Lawrence 429, 449 dynamics (physics), in medieval Islam 317–335 East-Syrian Church (Church of the East) 199–201, 205, 207 Edirne 361, 362, 364, 365, 368 education, in Egypt 393–413, 472–473 effeminates (mukhannathūn) 212, 229–231 Egypt See specific entries Egyptian language 205, 265 Egyptian Organization for Human Rights (EOHR) 479–480 Egyptian Red Crescent 474 El-Amarna Correspondence, offense-causing marriage proposal in 249–251 El-Daly, Okasha 257, 264, 265 Ēmēd ī Ašawahištān (Zoroastrian chief priest) 193 Emirate of Imbaba (Egypt), declaration of 489 English language, insults in 280, 291–292 enjambment (taḍmīn), Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī on 142–145 Enoch 53, 170, 259, 260, 261 Ephraem (of Nisibis) 200 epistolography, Arabic 338–358 euphemism, in prison poetry of ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm 76–77, 81 expulsion of singers, as punishment, in Mecca and Medina 211, 213, 214, 215, 217, 218, 220, 225 al-Faḍl ibn Hāshim 166–167 al-Faḍl ibn Ṣāliḥ (cousin of caliph al-Manṣūr) 285–286 Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī 18–19, 129–135, 317, 321, 324–335 family in Ottoman Egypt, Muḥammad ʿAbduh on 375–390 al-Farrāʾ 5–6 Al Fārūqī, Isma‘īl 2

503 Fawwāz, Zaynab 379, 388 female slave singers 211–212, 224–226, 231 feminism, in modernist family discourse 377 Fénelon, François 411, 412 Festinger, Leon 418, 420 Fī ajzāʾ khabariyya fī l-mūsīqī (al-Kindī) 181– 182, 185 Fī maʿrifat al-ʿaql (On Knowledge of the Intellect) 52, 57–65 Fī l-thaqāfa al-miṣriyya (On Egyptian Culture, al-ʿĀlim & Anīs) 446 figurative language (kināya), in prison poetry of ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm 78–79 Fihrist (Ibn al-Nadīm) 177, 191 Fikrī, ʿAlī 408, 409, 410 Fiqh al-lugha (al-Thaʿālibī) 155 al-Fīrūzābādī 282 folk traditions in Egypt, interfaith solidarity and 428, 444, 457–460 Forster, E.M. 429 forum shopping, in Muslim family law 383–384 Fourth International, Egyptian Section of 429, 438, 439 Franco, Abel 318 Frederick II (Holy Roman Emperor) 364 al-Fuḍayl ibn ʿImrān (counsel to Jaʿfar, son of caliph al-Manṣūr) 287 Gabriel (archangel) 55, 62, 63, 302, 303, 304 Galen 107, 108, 112, 113, 184 Gallery ’68 (Egyptian magazine) 446 Gascoyne, David 446–447 al-Gazzār, ʿAbd al-Hādī 436, 444 gendered conduct manuals, in turn-of-thetwentieth century Egypt 393–413 George of Trebizond 362 Georgious Gemistos Plethon 362, 368, 370 Gharīb, Samīr 434, 463 ghināʾ (entertainment music) 212, 213, 214, 215, 216, 230 Gilhuly, Kate 86 Giustiniano Patricpazio (Doge of Venice) 366 Giza province, Egypt 264, 477, 480, 482, 484, 490 Goldziher, I. 41–42

504 Gospel of Matthew 2, 199 Graeco-Arabic tradition 184, 362, 364, 369 Grand Mufti of Egypt (Muftī al-Diyār al-Miṣriyya) 382 Greece (Greek) 68, 86, 94, 145, 162, 163, 177, 185, 187, 193, 202, 204, 205, 206, 256, 258, 259, 260, 261, 265, 273, 318, 321, 362–372 passim, 396, 429, 448, 449, 450–452 Greek navy in the Middle East, mutiny of 450–452 Greenblatt, S. 252, 253 Guizot, Francois 379 Gurgān (Hyrcania) 205, 206 Guyard, S. 52 Haarmann, Ulrich 266, 267 ḥadātha (literary modernity) 440–446 ḥadhf (exclusion of a specific letter from verse) 128–129 al-Hādī (Abbasid caliph) 288–289 ḥadīth collections 2–3, 4, 5, 39, 41, 45, 114, 267, 282, 284, 397, 405 al-Ḥalabī 358 Halm, H. 53 al-Hamādhānī 271–275, 276–278, 295, 351, 354 Ḥamāh 346, 354 Hämeen-Anttila, J. 351 Ḥanafī jurisdiction, Sharīʿa courts and 376, 382–386, 389 Ḥanbalī school of law 35–48, 383, 384 al-Ḥarīrī 135–136, 295–312, 338, 351 Hārūn al-Rashīd 223, 224, 227, 228, 248, 288 al-Ḥasan ibn Ḥabīb al-Nīsābūrī 152, 155, 158, 169 al-Ḥasan ibn Muḥammad (transmitter) 72 Hasnaoui, Ahmad 318 al-ḥassāsiyya al-jadīda (new sensibility), in al-Kharrāṭ’s literary texts 445–446, 447 Ḥassūna al-Nawāwī (Grand Mufti of Egypt) 385 Hathor (Egyptian goddess) 454 Ḥāzim al-Qarṭājannī 144 health and medical services, in Egypt 473, 486 Heath, Peter 176 Hebrew 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 259, 260, 265

General Index Hedges, Chris 478, 489 Heinrichs, W. 119 Henein, Georges 431, 434, 435, 436, 454, 462, 463 Henri IV (King of France) 397 Hermes 170, 203, 256, 258, 259–261, 262, 265, 268, 269, 370 Hermes Trismegistus 259 ḥidāʾ (Bedouin-style singing) 215, 218 hidden Imāms, in Kitāb taʾwīl al-ḥurūf al-muʿjam 54–55 hieroglyph deciphering efforts, by medieval writers 264–266 Higgins, D. 124–125, 139, 141 al-Ḥijārī 226 Ḥijāz 231 al-Hilāl (Egyptian magazine) 398 al-Ḥillī 128–129 al-Ḥīrah 238, 240, 244 home-management manuals, in Egypt 411–413 hoopoe conversation with Solomon, in the Quran 96, 108, 110–111, 119 al-Ḥujāwī (Ḥanbalī scholar) 46 human language, al-Jāḥiẓ on 95, 99, 101–105 human nature, in Islamic tradition 2–3 Human Rights Watch 479 humiliation (tashhīr), in ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm’s crucifixion poem 68, 70, 73–74, 77, 84 Ḥunayn ibn Balūʿ al-Ḥīrī (singer) 216–217, 218 ḥurma (inviolability), in ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm’s crucifixion poem 79–81, 83–84 al-Ḥusayn ibn ʿAlī (Prophet Muhammad’s grandson) 237–238 Ḥusn al-thabāt fī l-muṭālaʿa al-sahla lil-banāt (Firdaws Ṣāliḥ) 398, 406–411 al-Ḥuṣrī al-Qayrawānī (poet) 350 Hussein Sobhi Museum of Fine Arts (Alexandria, Egypt) 436 Iberia, royal intermarriage in 251 Ibn ʿAbbās (quranic exegete) 10, 12, 13, 15 Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih 86–87, 91, 166, 223, 224 Ibn Abī ʿAtīq (great-grandson of Caliph Abū Bakr) 214–215 Ibn Abī Duʾād 71 Ibn Abī al-Iṣbaʿ 142

General Index Ibn Abī Ṭāhir Ṭayfūr 220 Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa 281, 282, 288–289 Ibn ʿĀʾisha (singer) 218–219 Ibn al-Anbārī 6 Ibn ʿArabī 170–172, 369–371 Ibn ʿĀshūr 9, 17–18, 19 Ibn al-Athīr 132 Ibn ʿAṭiyya (Quran exegete) 16, 18 Ibn al-ʿAṭṭār (Andalusian poet) 356–357 Ibn Bājja (Avempace) 318 Ibn Barrī 304–305 Ibn Baṭṭūta 462 Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī 122–147 Ibn Ḥajar al-ʿAsqalānī 339, 341–342, 358 Ibn Ḥanbal (jurist) 36–40, 43, 45–46 Ibn Ḥazm al-Anṣārī 230–231 Ibn Ḥijja al-Ḥamawī 340, 342, 352, 353, 358 Ibn al-Jarrāḥ 167 Ibn Jubayr 462 Ibn Juljul 259 Ibn Khallikān 69 Ibn al-Khashshāb 296–297, 301–311 Ibn al-Khaṭīb (historian and poet from Granada) 358 Ibn Manẓūr 2, 4–6, 7, 14, 281, 282 Ibn Maʿṣūm 131, 135 Ibn Maṭrūḥ 142 Ibn al-Munajjim 193 Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ 192, 194, 203 Ibn al-Muʿtazz 71–72, 83, 152–153, 161, 162, 164, 347, 348 Ibn al-Nadīm 177, 191, 192, 193, 195, 198, 204 Ibn Nāqiyā 276 Ibn Nubāta 338–358 Ibn al-Qifṭī 181 Ibn Qudāma (Ḥanbalī jurist) 46, 47 Ibn Rashīq al-Qayrawānī 142 Ibn al-Rūmī 154 Ibn Saʿd 38, 45 Ibn Shihāb al-Zuhrī 41 Ibn Taghrī Birdī 340 Ibn Wahb See ʿAbdallāh ibn Wahb; Isḥāq ibn Wahb Ibn Waḥshiyya 257, 264, 265 Ibn Zayd (quranic exegete) 10 Ibrāhīm (brother of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān III, caliph of al-Andalus) 225 Ibrahim, Saad Eddin 481, 483

505 Ibrāhīm ibn ʿAbdallāh al-Qīrāṭī (Egyptian poet) 338–358 Ibrāhīm ibn al-Aghlab 224 Ibrāhīm al-Mawṣilī (Abbasid court musician) 220, 223, 227–228 Idrīs (prophet) 259, 260, 261, 370 al-Idrīsī 263, 266–268 Ifriqiya 225 Imbaba (Egypt), anti-terrorist campaign in 477–490 impetus theory, in medieval Islamic dynamics 317–335 improvisation, revenge and 252–253 Imruʾ al-Qays 168–169 India (Indian) 52, 65, 101–102, 226, 311, 362, 394, 461, 462 indigenizing, of Egyptian surrealism 435, 440–446 informal tribunals, in Egypt 487–488 Institute for Ismaili Studies (London), manuscripts at 50–65 insult, in Classical Arabic 279–292 insult, in English language 280, 291–292 intercessions, in repression of musical performers 213–214, 217–218 interfaith solidarity, in Egypt 428, 444, 457–460 intergroup conflicts, in Yemen 416–423 intermedial poetry, Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī on 122–147 internationalism, in comparatism 425–464 inversion in poetry, Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī on 125, 133–135, 136 al-ʿIqd al-farīd (Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih) 86–87, 91 Iranian languages 191, 205, 206–207 Iranian revolution, lower class participation in 470–471 Iraq 38, 39, 125, 204, 216, 246, 257, 260, 272, 302, 475 Irshād al-arīb ilā maʿrifat al-adīb (Yāqūt) 177 ʿĪsā ibn ʿAlī (Išoʿ bar ʿAli) 201–202 ʿĪsā ibn Mūsā (nephew of caliph al-Mahdī) 287 al-Iṣfahānī See Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī; Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī; al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī Isḥāq ibn Ibrāhīm ibn Hāniʾ al-Nīsābūrī 36–37, 44, 45

506 Isḥāq ibn Ibrāhīm ibn Sulaymān ibn Wahb al-Kātib 129, 136, 184 Isḥāq ibn Manṣūr al-Kawsaj 43 Isḥāq ibn Rāhwayh 38–39 Isḥāq ibn Wahb 129, 136, 184 Isḥāq al-Mawṣilī (Abbasid court musician) 229 ishāra (non-verbal gesture), in Arabic poetry 124, 125, 141–142, 146 al-Ishbīlī al-Abyaḍ (Andalusian poet) 356–357 Iskandariyyatī madīnatī al-qudsiyya al-ḥūshiyya (al-Kharrāṭ) 447 Islamic State 471, 492 Islamist associations, in Egypt 469–493 passim Ismail, Salwa 483 Ismāʿīlīs 50–65 Išoʿ bar ʿAli (East-Syrian scholar) 201–202 Išoʿdād of Marw 201, 202–203, 204, 206 Isrāfīl (angel) 55, 62 Istanbul 362, 364, 367–371 Izutsu, Toshihiko 3 ʿIzz al-Dīn al-Zanjānī 128, 136 Jaʿfar (son of caliph al-Manṣūr) 287, 291 Jaʿfar al-Barmakī 248, 288 Jaʿfar ibn Manṣūr al-Yaman 51 al-Jafr (ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib) 50, 64 al-Jāḥiẓ 94–119, 124, 129, 142, 156, 165 Jahm ibn Badr (ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm` father) 70 Jalājil (mother of Aghlabid emir Ziyādat Allāh II) 224, 225 Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūṭī 256, 261, 262, 263, 269, 351–352 al-Jamāʿa al-Islāmiyya (Islamic Association) 478, 481, 483, 484–486, 489 Jamāʿat al-Salaf al-Ṣāliḥ (Righteous Ancestors Association, Egypt) 485 Jamāʿat al-Tablīgh wa-l-Daʿwa (God’s Message and Call Association, Egypt) 485 Jamāʿat al-Tawaqquf wa-l-Tabayyun (Association of Stopping and Identification, Egypt) 485 Jamāl al-Dīn al-Afghānī (Islamic ideologist) 375, 379, 469 Jamāl al-Dīn ibn Maṭrūḥ 142 Jamāl al-Dīn Ibn Nubāta 338–358 Jāmī (Persian Sufi author) 32–33

General Index al-Jāmiʿ li-aḥkām al-Qurʾān (al-Qurṭubī) 9, 14–16, 17 Jāmiʿ al-bayān (al-Ṭabarī) 9–19 al-Jamʿiyya al-Muḥammadiyya al-Islāmiyya (Egypt) 473 Jamʿiyyat al-Daʿwa al-Islāmiyya 473 Jamʿiyyat al-Hudā al-Khayriyya (Egypt) 473 Jamʿiyyat al-Ṣaḥwa al-Islāmiyya (Egypt) 473 Jamʿiyyat al-Tawḥīd wa-l-Nūr al-Khayriyya (Egypt) 473 al-Jarbāʾ bint Qasāma ibn Zuhayr (mother of ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib’s granddaughter Fāṭima) 286 al-Jawālīqī 301, 302 al-Jayyānī 146 Jerusalem 201, 353, 451 Jesus (al-Masīḥ, Messiah) 7–18 passim, 53, 54, 199, 200, 201, 350, 457, 460 Jew-on-Muslim violence, in Yemen 416–423 jinās (paronomasia) 350, 351, 355 John Buridan 318 John Philoponus 318, 319–321 Jönsson, Christer 250 Joseph’s dream, in Sūrat Yūsuf 22, 24, 25, 27, 31 Juʿayfirān al-Muwaswis (poet) 153, 156, 157–161 Kadashman-Enlil (Babylonian king) 250 kafāʾa (equality of status of bride and groom) 42–46, 47 Kāmil, Anwar 431, 439, 463 al-Kashshāf (al-Zamakhsharī) 283–284 al-Kawsaj 43 Kay Kāʾūs ibn Iskandar 184–185 kayd, in Sūrat Yūsuf 22–33 Kaʿba (Mecca) 15, 284 Kemal, Namık 378 Kennedy, Hugh 280 Khairallah, Asʿad E. 151 Khālid ibn ʿAbdallāh al-Qasrī (governor of Iraq) 216–217 al-Khalīl ibn Aḥmad 3, 5 Khalīl ibn Aybak al-Ṣafadī 4, 308–309 Khāqānī (poet) 238–239 al-Kharrāṭ, Idwār 427–464 Khayr al-Dīn al-Ramlī (Palestinian mufti) 383–384 al-Khiraqī 46

General Index Khosrow I (Anūshirwān) 245 Khosrow II Parvēz (Sasanid king) 240 Khurāsān 70, 71, 72, 78, 79 Khuzistan 99 al-Kifāḥ al-thawrī (magazine, Alexandria, Egypt) 437 kināya (figurative language), in prison poetry of ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm 78–79 al-Kindī 177, 181–182, 183–184, 185 Kisrā ibn Hurmuz 245 Kitāb al-Aghānī (Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī) 42, 71, 72, 81, 165–166, 212–238 passim, 244–245, 281, 289–291 Kitāb al-Āthār (al-Ansārī) 45 Kitāb al-ʿAyn (al-Khalīl ibn Aḥmad) 3 Kitāb al-Aẓilla 50, 53 Kitāb Baghdād (Ibn Abī Ṭāhir Ṭayfūr) 220 Kitāb al-Ḥadāʾiq (Abū l-Faraj al-Jayyānī) 146 Kitāb al-Haft wal-aẓilla 50, 53 Kitāb al-Ḥayawān (al-Jāḥiẓ) 94–119 Kitāb al-Ifāda (ʿAbd al-Laṭīf al-Baghdādī) 268–269 Kitāb al-ʿIqd al-farīd (Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih) 86–87, 91 Kitāb al-Jafr (ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib) 50, 64 Kitāb al-Kashf 64 Kitāb al-Kursī 64 Kitāb Maṣāliḥ al-abdān wa-l-anfus (Abū Zayd al-Balkhī) 176–187 Kitāb al-Mawāʿiẓ wa-l-iʿtibār fī dhikr al-khiṭaṭ wa-l-āthār (al-Maqrīzī) 262–264 Kitāb al-Muṣawwitāt al-watariyya (al-Kindī) 182–183, 185 Kitāb Risālat taʾwīl al-ḥurūf (al-Zāhirī) 50–65 Kitāb Shawq al-mustahām fī maʿrifat rumūz al-aqlām (Ibn Waḥshiyya) 257, 264, 265 Kitāb al-Ṣirāṭ (Mufaḍḍal ibn ʿUmar al-Juʿfī) 56 Kitāb Ṭabaqāt al-atịbbāʾ wa-l-ḥukamāʾ (Ibn Juljul) 259 Kitāb al-Ṭabaqāt al-kabīr (Ibn Saʿd) 38, 45 Kitāb Ṭabaqāt al-umam (Ṣāʿid al-Andalusī) 259 Kitāb al-Tanbīh wa-l-ishrāf (al-Masʿūdī) 190 Kitāb Taʾwīl al-ḥurūf al-muʿjam 51, 52, 53–65 Kitāb al-Zahra (Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī)  122–147, 247

507 al-Kitāba al-ukhrā (literary journal, Egypt) 463 Kurke, Leslie 86 Lang, Helen 319–320 Langermann, Tzvi 318 al-Lāt (pre-Islamic Arab goddess) 284, 292 Latin America 445 al-Layth ibn Saʿd 224 legal modernization, Ḥanafī law and 376, 382–386, 389 legal school choice (takhayyur), in divorce 376–377, 381–388 Lerner, Daniel 252 Les hommes oubliés de Dieu (Cossery) 436 letter symbolism, in Kitāb Taʾwīl al-ḥurūf al-muʿjam 53–65 Lisān al-ʿArab (Ibn Manẓūr) 2, 4–6, 7, 14, 281, 282 Lisān ad-Dīn Ibn al-Khaṭīb (historian and poet from Granada) 358 listening to music, al-Balkhī on 176–187 literary debate (mufākhara) 346, 348–349, 351, 353, 358 literary games, visual representation of Arabic writing in 132 Lorenz, Andrea 482 Lotus: Afro-Asian Writings 430 Love, Madness, and Poetry (Khairallah) 151 Lowry, J.E. 113 Lubnā See Qays and Lubnā love story al-Maʿarrī 131, 144–145 Maʿbad (singer) 217, 218–219 macaronic poetry, Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī on 123, 125, 145–146 Macdonald, Duncan 1 Madelung, W. 53, 55 madness, Arabic poets and 150–172 al-Maghribiyya (Maqāma of al-Ḥarīrī) 134 al-Mahdī (Abbasid caliph) 227–228, 287, 290 Maḥmūd ibn Salmān al-Ḥalabī 358 Majnūn Laylā legend 33, 152, 235–238 Mālik ibn Abī al-Samḥ (singer) 218–219 Mālik ibn Anas (Mālikīs) 38, 39, 40, 45, 224, 376, 383, 384, 386–387, 389 al-Malik al-Muʾayyad (ruler of Ḥamāh) 346, 354

508 Mālikī school of law, Sharīʿa courts and 376, 383, 384, 386–387, 389 Malte-Brun, Conrad 379 al-Maʾmūn (Abbasid caliph) 196, 219–223, 262–263, 268, 290–291, 368 maʿnā (meaning), al-Jāḥiẓ on 103–104, 118 al-Manār (Islamic magazine) 375 Mandaic 204 Mandel, Ernest 433–434 Mangan, Sherry 439 Mani (founder of Manichaeism) 196 Mānī al-Majnūn (Mānī al-Muwaswis, poet) 153, 162–165 Manichaeism (Manichaeans) 111, 163, 196 Mansour, Joyce 444, 463 al-Manṣūr (Abbasid caliph) 47, 285–286, 287, 292 manṭiq al-ṭayr (bird speech), in the Quran 95, 96, 100, 101, 117 manuscript variation, in al-Ḥarīrī’s Maqāmāt 295–312 al-Maqāma al-baḥriyya (al-Suyūṭī) 351–352 maqāma of Mosul (al-Hamādhānī) 272–278 maqāma of the Nile (al-Qīrāṭī) 349–352, 358 Maqāmāt of al-Ḥarīrī 128, 134, 295–312, 310–311 al-Maqrīzī 256, 262–264, 266 al-Marʾa fī adwārihā al-thalātha (Muḥammad Masʿūd) 412–413 al-Marʾa fī l-Islām (Fransīs Mīkhāʾīl) 411–413 al-Marghīnānī (Central Asian jurist) 384 Margoliouth, D.S. 157 marriage See specific entries marriage registrar (maʾdhūn) 382, 384 Marw (Marwazian) 70, 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206 Marxism (Marxists) 432, 433, 440, 493 Mary (Maryam) 7, 9, 10, 11, 12, 18 Mary Magdalene 455, 456 al-Marʾa al-jadīda (Qāsim Amīn) 395 Masrūr (Hārūn al-Rashīd’s executioner) 223, 288 Masʿūd I (Ghaznavid sultan) 182 Masʿūd, Muḥammad 393, 397, 398, 399–406, 412–413 al-Masʿūdī 190–191, 192, 194, 243, 462 Maṭlaʿ al-nayyirayn (al-Qīrāṭī) 339–358

General Index Matthew, Gospel of 2, 199 Maududi, S.A. 27, 31 Mauss, Marcel 460 mawlā status, marriage and 43, 46 mayl, in medieval Islamic dynamics 317–335 Mecca 42, 213, 217, 230, 231, 284, 340, 353 Medieval: Total war (computer game), royal intermarriage in 251–252 Medina 38, 212–217, 229–231, 285–286 Mehmed II (Fatih, Ottoman sultan) 362, 368–369, 370, 371 Meisami, Julie Scott 239 Mercury (Greek god) 203, 260 Mesene (Mesenian) 203, 204 Metaphysics (Aristotle) 182 Michael (archangel) 55, 62, 63, 458–459 Middle Persian 192, 193, 194, 199, 203, 204 Mīkhāʾīl, Fransīs 398, 411–412 Minūchihrī (court poet of Maḥmūd of Ghazna) 182 Mir, Mustansir 25 Mirʾāt al-taʾammul (ʿĀʾisha Taymūr) 388 Miṣrī, Maḥmūd 178 Mittani (kingdom) 250 Miʿyār al-nuẓẓār fī ʿulūm al-ashʿār (al-Zanjānī) 128 mobeds (Zoroastrian priests) 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 199 modernist family discourse 377–390 modernization, of Muslim family law 375–390 Mohamedou, Muhammad-Mahmoud 492 monogamous marriage 379, 389 moral behavior, in turn-of-the-twentieth century Egypt 393–413 Moreh, Shmuel 164 Moses 8, 53, 54, 193, 258 Mosul 271–278 Mubarak, Hosni 486, 489, 491 Mubārak, ʿAlī 378–379, 380 al-Mubashshir ibn Fātik 260, 269 Mudawwana (al-Tanūkhī) 40 Mufaḍḍal ibn ʿUmar al-Juʿfī 50, 56 mufākhara (literary debate) 346, 348–349, 351, 353, 358 Muftī al-Diyār al-Miṣriyya (Grand Mufti of Egypt) 382

General Index al-Mughnī (Ibn Qudāma) 46 Muhammad (Prophet) 5, 7, 8, 11, 15, 16, 19, 38, 41, 44, 45, 47, 54, 56, 62, 74, 138, 142, 150–151, 155, 193, 214, 238, 267, 284, 286, 292, 296, 301–307, 353, 397, 407, 475 Muḥammad ʿAlī Pasha (vice-roy of Egypt) 382 Muḥammad ibn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Panjdīhī 305–308, 312 Muḥammad ibn Aḥmad al-Makkī al-Murtajil 221 Muḥammad ibn Aḥmad al-Dhahabī 308 Muḥammad ibn ʿAlī ibn Umayya (Abū Ḥashīsha) 220–221 Muḥammad ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī 122–147 Muḥammad ibn Ḥamza Aq Shams al-Dīn 370 Muḥammad ibn al-Ḥasan al-Shaybānī 39 Muḥammad ibn Idrīs al-Shāfiʿī 45, 113, 116 Muḥammad ibn Ismāʿīl 55 Muḥammad ibn Muḥammad Balʿamī  243–244, 245–246 Muḥammad ibn al-Qāsim, Abū l-Ḥasan 153, 162–165 Muḥammad ibn Saʿd al-Kinānī 72 Muḥammad ibn Sinān al-Zāhirī 50–65 Muḥammad ibn ʿUmar al-Rāzī 18–19, 129–135, 317, 321, 324–335 al-Muḥassin ibn ʿAlī al-Tanūkhī (judge and prose author) 152, 157, 347–348 al-Muʿizz li-Dīn Allāh (Fāṭimid caliph) 52, 55 Muʿjam mufradāt alfāẓ al-Qurʾān (al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī) 28–29 Mukhtār al-ḥikam (al-Mubashshir ibn Fātik) 260, 269 al-Mukhtaṣar (al-Khiraqī) 46 al-Munīra al-Gharbiyya (shantytown of Imbaba, Egypt) 477, 484 al-Muqniʿ (Ibn Qudāma) 46 Murād I (Ottoman sultan) 362, 368, 371 Murād II (Ottoman sultan) 362 Mursī, Aḥmad 435–436, 446 Murūj al-dhahab (al-Masʿūdī) 190 Mūsā ibn Aḥmad al-Ḥujāwī 46 Mūsā ibn Jaʿfar 158 Mūsā Shahawāt (poet) 217 Muṣʿab (mad poet) 161, 162

509 Muṣʿab al-Zubayrī 229–230 al-Musayyab ibn Zuhayr (military commander) 287 music, in Ṭarīq al-nisr (al-Kharrāṭ) 454–457 music listening, al-Balkhī on 176–187 musicians, patronage of 211–232 Muslim Brotherhood 452, 469, 485, 486, 490 Muslim family law, Muḥammad ʿAbduh on 375–390 al-Muʿtamid ʿalā-llāh (Abbasid caliph) 201 al-Muʿtamid ibn ʿAbbād (ruler of Seville) 225–226 al-Mutanabbī 348, 349, 351 al-Mutawakkil (caliph) 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 79, 163, 196 Muʿtazilīs (Muʿtazilites) 2, 6, 71, 97, 290 al-Muʿtazz bi-llāh (caliph) 72, 347 Muwaffaq al-Dīn ibn Qudāma 46, 47 muwashshaḥāt (poetic form) 347, 356 muwaswis, as mad poet 153–156 Muwaṭṭaʾ (Malik ibn Anas) 39, 45 mystical verse, in Arabic poetry 169–172 Nadā, Ḥāmid 436 al-Naḍr ibn Shumayl 6 Nafḥ al-ṭīb (Aḥmad al-Maqqarī) 226 al-Naḥḥās 303 Najm al-Dīn al-Qazwīnī al-Kātibī 307, 321, 322–324 al-Nājūn min al-Nār (Survivors of Purgatory, Egypt) 485 Nāṣif, Malak Ḥifnī 379, 388 Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī 318 al-Nāṣir Ḥasan (Mamluk sultan of Egypt) 343–344, 358 nationalism in Egypt, internationalism and 428–430, 432–434, 447, 453–454 nāṭiq (nuṭq), al-Jāḥiẓ’s taxonomy of 114–119 al-Nawājī 340 al-Nawāwī, Hassūna (Grand Mufti of Egypt) 385 Naẓlī Hānim (Egyptian princess) 410 Nebo (Babylonian god of scribes) 203 Neubauer, Eckhard 176–177, 181 New Testament 2, 199 Nicaea 370 Nihāyat al-ījāz fī dirāyat al-iʿjāz (al-Rāzī) 129–135

510 Nile (river) 349–352 Nirenberg, David 417 al-Nīsābūrī See al-Ḥasan ibn Ḥabīb al-Nīsābūrī; Isḥāq ibn Ibrāhīm ibn Hāniʾ al-Nīsābūrī Nishapur 67, 68, 79, 81, 85, 87 Nishwār al-muḥāḍara (al-Tanūkhī) 152, 157 Nizārī Ismāʿīlī community of Syria 52, 65 Noah 52, 53, 54, 350 non-elite form of cosmopolitanism, in Egypt 457–460 nonsense verse, in Arabic poetry 168, 172 non-verbal gesture, in Arabic poetry 123, 124, 125, 141–142, 146 al-Nuʿmān III ibn al-Mundhir (last Lakhmid king of al-Ḥīrah) 238–252 Nuṣayrīs 50–65 Nussbaum, Martha 426 offense-causing marriage proposal  233–253 Old Avestan 191 Old Persian 190 Old Testament 200, 456 Orfali, Bilal 272 Orthodox Church 251, 364, 365, 367, 372, 460 Ottoman Egypt 375–390, 393–413 Ottomans 361–363, 367–372 “Pain et liberté” (Egyptian group) 431 palindromes, Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī on 123, 125, 133–135 al-Panjdīhī 305–308, 312 paronomasia ( jinās) 350, 351, 355 La part du sable (surrealist publication, Cairo, Egypt) 432, 436 patronage of singers and musicians, in Islam 211–232 pattern poetry, Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī on 123, 125, 138–141, 146 Pāzand (Bāzand, commentary to Zand) 191 Pera 361 Persia (Persian, Persianate) 94, 145, 162, 184, 190, 192–206 passim, 234, 238, 241–253 passim, 364, 368, 394 St. Peter (apostle) 193 Phaedrus (Plato) 150

General Index pharaohs of Egypt 8, 62, 240, 249–250, 258, 287 philanthropic activities, in Egypt 471–474, 482, 486, 491, 492 Philoponus 318, 319–321 physics, in medieval Islam 317–335 Picasso, Pablo 436 Pickthall, M.M. 27, 31 Pines, Shlomo 317–318 Plato 86, 150, 169, 184, 265, 362, 369–370, 369–371, 443 Poetics (Aristotle) 150 poetry See entries beginning with Arabic police violence, in Imbaba (Egypt) 477–481, 487, 488, 490 Pollock, Sheldon 298 polygyny 376, 377, 378, 379, 380–381, 388 poor urban communities in Egypt, Islamist associations and 469–493 Powers, David 241 Prendergast, W.J. 272 prison poetry, of ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm 67–91 projectile motion, in Aristotelian physics 319–320 prose poetry, Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī on 123, 125, 142–145 Public Culture (journal) 426–427 public humiliation (tashhīr), in ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm’s crucifixion poem 68, 70, 73–74, 77, 84 punishment of musical performers, patronage and 211–232 Das Pyramidenbuch des Abū Ǧaʿfar al-Idrīsī (Haarman) 266–268 pyramids of Egypt 258–269 Qābūsnāme (Kay Kāʾūs ibn Iskandar) 184–185 al-Qadi, Wadad 9 Qadrī, Muḥammad 385, 386 al-Qāʾim bi-Amr Allāh (Abbasid caliph) 250 Qālat Ḥubista poem (ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm) 74, 76–77, 78, 80–81, 82, 83, 88–89 al-Qalqashandī 338 al-Qāmūs al-Jinsī ʿind al-ʿArab (Ḥamza) 281 al-Qāmūs al-muḥīṭ (al-Fīrūzābādī) 282 al-Qarṭājannī 144

511

General Index Qāsim Amīn 385, 388, 389, 395, 411 Qaswara ibn Muḥammad 131–132 Qatāda ibn Diʿāma (quranic exegete) 10 al-Qayrawānī See al-Ḥuṣrī al-Qayrawānī; Ibn Rashīq al-Qayrawānī Qays and Lubnā love story 237–238 Qays ibn al-Mulawwaḥ (Majnūn Laylā) 151–152 al-Qazwīnī 307, 321, 322–324 al-Qīrāṭī (Egyptian poet) 338–358 Qishṭa, Hishām 463 quasi-Nuṣayrī tropes, in Kitāb Taʾwīl al-ḥurūf al-muʿjam 50–65 Qudāma ibn Jaʿfar 184 Quran See specific entries Quranic citations See Index of Quranic Citations quranic exegesis (tafsīr), on rūḥ in the Quran 9–18, 20 Quraysh (Qurayshites, tribe) 43, 285 al-Qurṭubī 9, 14–16, 17 Qusṭā ibn Lūqā 193–196, 198, 202, 204, 207 al-Rabīʿ ibn Anas (quranic exegete) 10 al-Rāḍī bi-llāh (Abbasid caliph) 195 al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī 28–29 Rainey, Anson F. 250 al-Ramlī (Palestinian mufti) 383–384 Ramzī, Munīr 435, 446 al-Raqṭāʾ (maqāma of al-Ḥarīrī) 128 al-Rāzī 18–19, 129–135, 317, 321, 324–335 Reeves, J.C. 200 revenge, offense-causing marriage proposal and 241–247, 252–253 rhopē, in Aristotelian physics 318–321 rhyme, Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī on 138, 141–142, 143, 144 Riḍā, Rashīd 469 riddle (lughz), Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī on 131–132, 136–137 Riesebrodt, Martin 470 Rimbaud, Arthur 443 Rowson, Everett 28, 73, 83, 176, 187, 231, 271–272, 338 Roxburgh, David 135–136 royal intermarriage, in Ancient Egypt 249–251 rūḥ in the Quran, interpretations of 1–21

Rūmī, Jalāl al-Dīn 369 Russell, Mona 398 Saʿd ibn Ibrāhīm ibn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn ʿAwf (governor of Medina) 217 Ṣadr al-Dīn al-Qunawī 369, 370 al-Ṣafadī 4–5, 308–309 al-Saffāḥ (Abbasid caliph) 285 Ṣafī al-Dīn al-Ḥillī 128–129 Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī (al-Bukhārī) 284 Saḥnūn ibn Saʿīd al-Tanūkhī (Maliki jurist) 40 Ṣāʿid al-Andalusī 259 Saʿīd ibn Abī ʿArūba 71 Saʿīd ibn al-ʿĀṣ 44 al-Sakkākī 135, 143 Saladin (Ayyubid sultan of Egypt and Syria) 263, 267, 268 Salāma ibn ʿAbd al-Bāqī al-Anbārī, Abū l-Khayr 304 Ṣāliḥ, Firdaws 398, 406–411 Sallāmat al-Qass (singer, in Medina) 214–216 Samarqand 364, 368, 369–372 Samarra 156, 196 Sappho 86 al-Sarakhsī 177, 181, 183 Sasanids (Sasanid) 192, 199 Satan (satanic) 23, 30–31, 62, 154, 172, 201 Saudi Arabia 47, 483 Saussy, Haun 426 Sawrīd (Sūrīd, builder of Egyptian pyramids) 261 Sayf al-Dīn al-Āmidī 318 Sayılı, Aydın 318 Sayyid Quṭb 469, 477 Schechner, Richard 84 Schmidt, Michael 172 Scholion (Theodore bar Konay) 204 schoolgirl conduct manuals, in Egypt 398, 406–411 Schubert, Franz 358 Schumann, Robert 358 script-related sources of beauty, in Arabic poetry 130–133 secret marriage, Ḥanbalī views on 35–48 Segestān (Sīstān) 202, 204, 205, 206 Seidensticker, Tilman 70

512 Sells, Michael 6 Seth (prophet) 200 Seville 225–226 sexual possessiveness, marriage offer and 244, 247–253 passim sexual tension, patronage of musical performers and 211–212, 219–220, 230–231, 232 Sezgin, Fuat 178 Shadid, Anthony 486 Shāfiʿī school of law 383, 384, 386, 387, 389 al-Shāfiʿī (founder of school of law) 45, 113, 116 Shakespeare 150 Shams al-Dīn al-Fanārī 370 shantytowns in Egypt, Islamist associations and 477, 480, 481–485, 486, 488, 490 Sharīʿa courts, in Egypt 375–389 passim al-Sharīshī 128, 134, 300, 307, 310, 311 al-Shaybānī 39 Sherif, Muzafer 417–418, 423 Shihadeh, Ayman 2–3 Shiʿism (Shiʿites) 50–65, 71 al-Sibāʿī, Bashīr 463 Sieburth, Richard 272 Sīh-rōzag (Avestan text) 204 Simmel, Georg 417 Simon Peter (St. Peter, apostle) 193 singers and musicians, patronage of  211–232 al-Sīrāfī (grammarian) 98 al-ṣirāṭ (bridge), in Nuṣayrism 56 el-Sisi, Abdel Fattah 491 Slavic 194, 202 Smart, Christopher 166, 172 social behavior, in Egyptian gendered conduct manuals 393–413 social class/status in Egypt, Islamist associations and 469–493 social services, of Islamist associations, in urban Egypt 470–493 Soliman, Lotfallah 438, 439, 440 Solomon (king of Israel) 96, 108, 109–111, 119, 250 Solomon of Baṣra 200 Sonneveld, Nadia 377 the Sorites paradox 107, 108, 119 Sostratus 460, 461

General Index soul conception, in Islamic thought 1–7, 11–21 space-off, in prison poetry of ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm 85–86 speech of birds, in the Quran 95, 96, 100, 101, 117 Sphinx (Abū l-Hawl), of Giza 263–268 Staffe, Baroness 413 St. Mark 362, 364–368, 372, 460 Stowasser, B.F. 31–32 al-Suddī (quranic exegete) 10 Sufism 164, 169, 182, 264, 369–371, 442, 444, 458, 477 Suḥaym ʿAbd Banī l-Ḥasḥās 76 Sulaymān, Luṭf Allāh 438, 439, 440 Sulaymān ibn ʿAbd al-Malik (Umayyad caliph) 230–231 Sumayr al-Aylī (effeminate singer) 230–231 Sumnūn (Sufi poet) 169–170 Surrealism, in Egypt 427–464 Sūrud (Sawrīd, builder of Egyptian pyramids) 261 al-Suyūṭī 256, 261, 262, 263, 269, 351–352 syncretism, in al-Kharrāṭ’s literary texts 428, 444, 457–460, 462 Syria (Syrian) 52, 221, 288, 302, 346, 442 Syriac 107, 194, 200, 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 264 Ṭabaqāt al-shuʿarāʾ al-muḥdathīn (Ibn al-Muʿtazz) 70–72, 73, 153, 161, 162 al-Ṭabarī 9–19, 47, 220, 281, 284–288 tafsīr (quranic exegesis) 9–18, 20, 31, 303 Tafsīr al-Manār 375, 381 Ṭāhir ibn ʿAbdallāh ibn Ṭāhir (governor of Khurāsān) 69–70, 78, 79, 81 al-Ṭāhir ibn ʿĀshūr 9, 17–18, 19 Taḥrīr al-marʿa (Qāsim Amīn) 395 Taḥrīr al-taḥbīr (Ibn Abī l-Iṣbaʿ) 142 al-Taḥrīr wa-l-tanwīr (Ibn ʿĀshūr) taḥsīn al-ḥabs (beautification of incarceration) 76 taḥsīn al-qabīḥ (beautifying what is ugly) 76, 80, 83, 84 al-Ṭahṭāwī, Rifāʿa Rāfiʿ 378–379, 380 Tāj al-ʿArūs min jawāhir al-qāmūs (al-Zabīdī) 282–283 Tajfel, Henri 418–419, 420, 421

513

General Index al-Takfīr wa-l-Hijra (Excommunication and Migration, Egypt) 485 takhayyur (choice of legal schools), for divorce 376–377, 381–388 Ṭalḥa ibn ʿUbaydallāh 47 Tansar-nāma 194 al-Tanūkhī See al-Muḥassin ibn ʿAlī al-Tanūkhī; Saḥnūn ibn Saʿīd al-Tanūkhī Tanẓīm al-Jihād (The Jihad Organization, Egypt) 484, 485 taqrīẓ (commendation), in al-Qīrāṭī  346–348, 351, 353, 357, 358 Tārīkh al-ḥukamāʾ (Ibn al-Qifṭī) 181 Tārīkh al-rusul wa-l-mulūk (al-Ṭabarī) 47, 220, 281, 284–288 Ṭarīq al-nisr (The Way of an Eagle, al-Kharrāṭ) 430–431, 439, 452, 456 tashhīr (public humiliation), in ʿAlī ibn al-Jahm’s crucifixion poem 68, 70, 73–74, 77, 84 taṣḥīf (script allowing for various possible readings) 131, 136, 300 al-Taṭawwur (magazine, Cairo, Egypt) 431, 436, 446, 463 al-Tawḥīdī 1 Taʾwīl al-ḥurūf al-muʿjam (ascribed to Jaʿfar ibn Manṣūr al-Yaman) 51 tawjīh (stylistic device) 354 tawriya (double entendre) 303, 340–341, 343, 345, 346, 354, 356, 357 Taymūr, ʿĀʾisha 379, 388, 410 al-Thaʿālibī 76, 155 Theodore bar Konay (bishop of Kaškar) 199–200, 204, 205 Theodore of Mopsuestia 203 Thoth (Egyptian god) 259 threshold concept, al-Jāḥiẓ on 107–108, 110, 111, 112, 118, 119 Thumāma ibn Ashras (Muʿtazilite theologian) 290–291 al-Tirmidhī 41 Toledo 363–364, 369–370 Tommaso Mocenigo (Doge of Venice) 362 Tower of Babel 203 Tristan (of Tristan and Isolde legend) 245, 252 Trotsky, Leon 431, 433, 438, 457 Trotskyist groups, in Egypt 429–439 passim, 448, 452, 453, 457, 463

Tughril Beg (Seljuk ruler) 250 Tunstall, Tricia 176 Turābuhā zaʿfarān (City of Saffron, al-Kharrāṭ) 430–431, 447, 458 Turner, John 418, 419 al-Ṭūsī 318 Ubayy ibn Kaʿb 11–12 ʿUdhrī romances 235–238 Ulugh Beg (Timurid sultan) 368 ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb (caliph) 38–39, 45, 462 al-ʿUmarī (historian) 358 Umayyads (Umayyad, Banū Umayya) 4, 216, 220, 221, 222, 223, 225, 248, 256, 284, 285, 292, 369 Umm al-kitāb 50, 53, 64 Umm Kulthum bint ʿAlī 38–39 unilateral divorce 376, 377–379 Upper Egypt 430, 459, 480, 483 Urban Dictionary (crowdsourced online dictionary of slang) 280 ʿUrwa ibn Ḥizām 152, 159 ʿUrwa ibn Masʿūd 284 Uṣūl al-dīn (ʿAbd al-Qāhir al-Baghdādī) 182 ʿUthmān ibn ʿAffān (caliph) 42, 47, 155 ʿUthmān ibn Ḥayyān al-Murrī (governor of Medina) 214–215 al-Sayyid ʿUways 458 ʿUyūn al-anbāʾ fī ṭabaqāt al-aṭibbāʾ (Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa) 288–289 van Bladel, Kevin 258–259, 260 van Gelder, G.J. 142, 143, 144, 280 Venice 361, 364, 365–367, 372 Verdi, Giuseppe 455–456 violence, between ethnic groups, in Yemen 416–423 visual representation of Arabic poetry, Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī on 124–140 passim Vitale Faliero (Doge of Venice) 366 von Wesendonk, O.G. 205, 206 Wahhabi Islam 483 al-Walīd ibn al-Mughīra 155 walīma (wedding banquet) 37, 41, 46 Wānlī, Sayf 436 al-Waqāʾiʿ al-Miṣriyya (newspaper in Egypt) 375

514 al-Wāsiṭī 310 al-Wāthiq (Abbasid caliph) 70, 167, 290 Weaver, Mary Anne 480–481 Wehr, Hans 153 Wištāsp (king, Zoroaster’s patron) 195 Witakowski, Witold 200 witnesses, in marriage 36–42 women, in Sūrat Yūsuf 22–33 women as witnesses, in marriage 38, 39 women’s education 379, 389, 394–395, 406–407 See also specific entries Women in the Qur’an (Stowasser) 31–32 word-palindromes (versus cancrini), Ibn Dāwūd al-Iṣfahānī on 134 working class participation in Islamist associations, in urban Egypt 470–493 Xudos (wife of king Guštāsp) 204 Yā banāt Iskindiriyya (Girls of Alexandria, al-Kharrāṭ) 430–431, 447, 448–452 Yaḥyā ibn Ḥamza al-ʿAlawī 130 Yaḥyā ibn Maḥmūd al-Wāsiṭī 310 Yaʿqūb (father of Yūsuf, in Sūrat Yūsuf) 22–23, 27, 29, 30, 31 Yāqūt 177, 300 Yazīd ibn ʿAbd al-Malik (caliph) 139, 218–219 Yazicizade Mühammed Effendi 370 Yemen, Jew-on-Muslim violence in 416–423 Younan, Ramsés 431, 434, 440 Young Avestan 192 Yūḥannā ibn Māsawayh (Christian physician) 289 Yūnān, Ramsīs 431, 434, 440 Yūsof-o Zoleykhā (Jāmī) 32–33

General Index Yūsuf (Joseph, prophet) 22–33, 258 Yūsuf ibn Tāshufīn (Almoravid ruler) 225–226 al-Zabīdī, Muḥammad Murtaḍā 282–283 Zabrāʾ (governor of Medina) 212–213 Zacharias of Marw 202, 205, 206 al-Zāhirī 50–65 Zāʿibī spear 75, 77 Zainab Nazlı Khanum Effendi (Egyptian princess) 410 zakāt contributions, to Islamist associations, in Egypt 472, 486, 492 al-Zamakhsharī 283–284 Zamalek (Cairo, Egypt) 482, 486 al-Zaman al-ākhar (al-Kharrāṭ) 458 Zand (Middle Persian translation of Avesta) 191, 192, 193, 197, 204, 206 al-Zanjānī 128, 136 Zaranj (Zrangian) 204, 205, 206 Zardušt (mobed, Ādurfarnbag’s son) 196, 201 al-zawāj al-misyār (ambulant marriage) 47–48 Zayd ibn ʿAdī 241–247, 252 Zaydān, Jurjī 398 Zimmermann, Fritz 318 Ziryāb (singer) 221, 222, 223–225 Ziyādat Allāh II (Aghlabid emir) 223–225 Zoroaster 190–207 passim Zoroastrianism 190–207 Zrang (Zrangian) 204, 205, 206 Zuhayr ibn Abī Sulmā (pre-Islamic poet) 239–240 al-Zuhrī 41 Zulaykhā (wife of al-ʿAzīz, governor of Egypt) 23, 26, 27, 29, 31–33