Charity and Giving in Monotheistic Religions (Studien zur Geschichte und Kultur des islamischen Orients) 3110209462, 9783110209464

Table of contents :
Frontmatter
Contents
Introduction
The Early Byzantine State and the Christian Ideal of Voluntary Poverty
Charitable Ministrations (Diakoniai), Monasticism, and the Social Aesthetic of Sixth-Century Byzantium
Charity and Piety as Episcopal and Imperial Virtues in Late Antiquity
Healing the world with righteousness ? The language of social justice in early Christian homilies
Almsgiving, Donatio Pro Anima and Eucharistic Offering in the Early Middle Ages of Western Europe (4th–9th century)
Christian Pious Foundations as an Element of Continuity between Late Antiquity and Islam
Charity and Piety for the Transformation of the Cities
Piety and Charity in Late Medieval Egypt and Syria
Forms and Functions of Charity in Al-Andalus
“When Death Will Fall Upon Him”: Charitable Legacies in 15th Century Granada.
Charity and Gift Giving in Medieval Islam
Charity and Repentance in Medieval Islamic Thought and Practice
Geniza Documents for the Comparative History of Poverty and Charity
Charity in Jewish Society of the Medieval Mediterranean World
Benefaction (Ni˘ma), Gratitude (Shukr), and the Politics of Giving and Receiving in Letters from the Cairo Geniza
An Indigent Scholar’s Plea for Charity: A Geniza Letter

Citation preview

Charity and Giving in Monotheistic Religions

≥

Studien zur Geschichte und Kultur des islamischen Orients Beihefte zur Zeitschrift „Der Islam“

Herausgegeben von

Lawrence I. Conrad

Neue Folge

Band 22

Walter de Gruyter · Berlin · New York

Charity and Giving in Monotheistic Religions

Edited by

Miriam Frenkel and Yaacov Lev

Walter de Gruyter · Berlin · New York

앝 Printed on acid-free paper which falls within the guidelines 앪 of the ANSI to ensure permanence and durability.

ISBN 978-3-11-020946-4 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Charity and giving in monotheistic religion / [edited by] Miriam Frenkel and Yaacov Lev. p. cm. ⫺ (Studien zur Geschichte und Kultur des islamischen Orients, ISSN 1862-1295 ; Bd. 22) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-3-11-020946-4 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Genorosity. 2. Genorosity ⫺ Religious aspects. 3. Monotheism. 4. Charity. I. Frenkel, Miriam. II. Lev, Yaacov. BJ1533.G4G46 2009 2051.677⫺dc22 2009004216

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. 쑔 Copyright 2009 by Walter de Gruyter GmbH & Co. KG, D-10785 Berlin. All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreign languages. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Printed in Germany Cover design: Christopher Schneider, Laufen

In Memoriam Zeev Rubin (1942 – 2009)

Preface This book is an outgrowth of the activity of an international research group on Charity and Piety in the Middle East in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages conducted at The Institute for Advanced Studies (IAS), Jerusalem, during summer 2006-winter 2007. The theme of continuity and transformation was at the heart of the group’s work as well as deliberations built around weekly seminars given by the group’s members, visiting scholars, and guests. A concluding conference, held on 11 – 12 February 2007, marked the high point of the group’s activities. All of us who were associated with the group enjoyed the unflagging hospitality and services of the IAS and we owe a great debt of gratitude to IAS’ staff: Ofer Arbeli, the computer expert, Dalia Avieli, Smadar Bergman, Pnina Feldman, the administrative director, Shani Freiman, Hanoch Kalimian, Batia Matalov, Efrat Shvily, and chef Shoshana Yazdii, whose cooking we enjoyed every day. The academic program of the group was approved and guided by Benjamin Z. Kedar, the former director of the IAS, and Eliezer Rabinovici, the current director. We are much obliged to both of them for their valuable suggestions and advice. The editors are much indebted to Susan R. Holman and Marina Rustow, members of the editorial board, for their counsel, assistance, and work. We would also like to express our deep gratitude to all the scholars who were associated with the group. This book is their book too. This volume is dedicated to the memory of our dear colleague Zeev Rubin (1942 – 2009), who was an outstanding member of our research group. Rubin was professor of History at Tel Aviv University. During his long teaching career he taught a variety of courses, ranging from Homer to Sigmund Freud: Greek and Roman history, Byzantine history and historiography, early Medieval Europe, the Crusades, and even the myth of Oedipus throughout the ages. His exceptionally wide and diversified range of scholarly interests and his unusual gift for languages both ancient and modern were in evidence in all his written works. His publications deal with many aspects of Late Antiquity, among them the political history of the Roman Empire, the conversion of the Roman world and its neighbours to Christianity, the history of Jerusalem and Palestine

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under late Roman and Byzantine rule, as well as Sasanid historiography and history, including charity and poverty. He excelled in the interpretation of the primary sources, be they Patristic texts in a variety of languages, royal Sasanid inscriptions, the Babylonian Talmud or medieval Arabic historiography. He was learned, friendly, but outspoken, and we miss him greatly.

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

1

Part One The World of Late Antiquity and Early Middle Ages Avshalom Laniado The Early Byzantine State and the Christian Ideal of Voluntary Poverty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

15

Daniel Caner Charitable Ministrations (Diakoniai), Monasticism, and the Social Aesthetic of Sixth-Century Byzantium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

45

Claudia Rapp Charity and Piety as Episcopal and Imperial Virtues in Late Antiquity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

75

Susan R. Holman Healing the world with righteousness? The language of social justice in early Christian homilies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

89

Eliana Magnani Almsgiving, Donatio Pro Anima and Eucharistic Offering in the Early Middle Ages of Western Europe (4th–9th century) . . . . .

111

Part Two Medieval Islam Johannes Pahlitzsch Christian Pious Foundations as an Element of Continuity between Late Antiquity and Islam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

125

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Stefan Heidemann Charity and Piety for the Transformation of the Cities. The New Direction in Taxation and Waqf Policy in Mid-Twelfth-Century Syria and Northern Mesopotamia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

153

Yehoshua Frenkel Piety and Charity in Late Medieval Egypt and Syria . . . . . . . . .

175

Ana Mar a Carballeira Debasa Forms and Functions of Charity in Al-Andalus . . . . . . . . . . . . .

203

Amalia ZomeÇo “When Death Will Fall Upon Him”: Charitable Legacies in 15th Century Granada. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

217

Yaacov Lev Charity and Gift Giving in Medieval Islam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

235

Daniella Talmon-Heller Charity and Repentance in Medieval Islamic Thought and Practice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

265

Part Three The Jewish World

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Miriam Frenkel Charity in Jewish Society of the Medieval Mediterranean World

343

Marina Rustow Benefaction (Ni ma), Gratitude (Shukr), and the Politics of Giving and Receiving in Letters from the Cairo Geniza . . . . . . .

365

Yvonne Friedman An Indigent Scholar’s Plea for Charity: A Geniza Letter . . . . . .

391

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Mark R. Cohen Geniza Documents for the Comparative History of Poverty and Charity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Abbreviations Annales Islamologiques Bulletin d’ tudes Orientales Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies Max Van Berchem, Mat riaux pour un Corpus Inscriptionum Arabicarum E.I.1 Encyclopedia of Islam, 1st Edition E.I.2 Encyclopedia of Islam, 2nd Edition EQ Encyclopedia of the Qur an JAOS Journal of the American Oriental Society JESHO Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient JQR Jewish Quarterly Review JSAI Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam JSS Journal of Semitic Studies MSR Mamlu¯k Studies Review RCEA t. Combe, J. Sauvaget and G. Wiet, R pertoire Chronologique d’ pigraphie Arabe SI Studia Islamica ˘

AI BEO BSOAS CIA

Contributors Daniel Caner is Associate Professor of History and Classics at the University of Connecticut at Storrs, where he specializes in late antique cultural history. He is currently working on monastic notions of wealth and gift-giving in early Byzantium. This is intended as a sequel to his book, Wandering, Begging, Monks: Spiritual Authority and the Promotion of Monasticism in Late Antiquity (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 2002), a study of the history of ascetic poverty in early monasticism. Ana Mar a Carballeira Debasa has a doctorate in Semitic Philology from the University Autonoma of Madrid. One of her principal lines of investigation is the study of the social history of the medieval Muslim world, with special reference to al-Andalus. She has continued her research at the cole des Hautes tudes en Sciences Sociales (Paris). At present, she is a Tenured Researcher in the Escuela de Estudios rabes (Spanish National Research Council, Granada). One of her major publications is the book entitled Legados p os y fundaciones familiares en al-Andalus (siglos IV/ X-VI/XII), (Madrid: CSIC, 2002). Mark R. Cohen is Professor of Near Eastern Studies at Princeton University. His publications include Under Crescent and Cross: The Jews in the Middle Ages; Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt; and The Voice of the Poor in the Middle Ages: An Anthology of Documents from the Cairo Geniza. He has guest taught at the Hebrew University, the Free University in Berlin, and the Central European University in Budapest, and has held fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the Institute for Advanced Studies (Jerusalem), the Wissenschaftskolleg in Berlin, the National Endowment for the Humanities, and the National Humanities Center in North Carolina. Stefan Heidemann, 1982 – 1993 Islamic studies and economics in Regensburg, Berlin, Damascus and Cairo; 1993 Ph.D at Free University Berlin; 1994 – 2001 Research Assistant and 2001 Habilitation at Jena University; visiting Full Professor 2001 – 2003 at Leipzig University; 2002 – 2004 Senior Research Assistant and since 2004 Hochschuldozent

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(temporary Associate Professor) at Jena University; fellowships: 2004 Center of Byzantine Studies Dumbarton Oaks, 2006 – 2007 Institute for Advanced Studies at Hebrew University, 2007 – 2008 Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Aga Khan Program for Islamic Architecture; 2008 Fitzwilliam Museum/Wolfson College, Cambridge UK. For the past 16 years, Heidemann was a member of German, French, British and Syrian archaeological missions in Syria. Miriam Frenkel, Ph.D. The Hebrew University, Jerusalem, is a Geniza researcher and specializes in the cultural encounters between Judaism and Islam in the Middle-Ages. She is a Lecturer at the Hebrew University and serves as deputy chair at the Ben Zvi Institute for the research of the Jewish communities in the lands of Islam. Her recent Hebrew book: “The Compassionate and Benevolent” The leading Elite in the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Middle Ages, 2006, won the Shazar Prize for the year 2007. Another book edited by her and by Haggai Ben Shammai ,The Jewish Medieval Library; Booklists from the Cairo Geniza, 2006, won the Association of Jewish Libraries, RAS Division Bibliography, Award for 2006. Yehoshua Frenkel is a Senior Lecturer at the University of Haifa, teaching medieval history of the Arab Middle East. Among his recent publications are: “Public Projection of Power in Mamluk Bilad al-Sham”, Mamluk Studies Review, 11(2007), pp. 39 – 54; “Popular Culture (Islam, Early and Middle Periods)”, Religion Compass, 3(2008), e-publication. Professor Yvonne Friedman teaches European medieval history at BarIlan University. She has published extensively on Christian-Jewish polemics and on medieval pilgrimage. During the last decade she has concentrated on the study of the Crusades and the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, emphasizing the intercultural relations and the fate of the vanquished in the holy war. Currently, she is working on peace processes in the medieval Middle East. Her forthcoming book entitled Interludes of Peace: Negotiating Peace in the Latin East deals with ways the cultural and linguistic gaps between Muslims and Christians were bridged. She is the author of “Charity Begins at Home? Ransoming Captives in Jewish, Christian and Muslim Traditions”, Studia Hebraica, 6(2006), 55 – 67; Encounter between Enemies: Captivity and Ransom in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, (Leiden, Brill, 2002), which received the prestigious Yad Ben Zvi Award.

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Susan R. Holman does research and writing at the FranÅois-Xavier Bagnoud Center for Health and Human Rights at Harvard School of Public Health. She is author of The Hungry Are Dying: Beggars and Bishops in Roman Cappadocia, (Oxford University Press, 2001). Avshalom Laniado is a Senior Lecturer at the Department of History, Tel Aviv University. He teaches ancient and Byzantine history. He is the author of Recherches sur les notables municipaux dans l’empire protobyzantin, (Paris, 2002), and of articles about administration, taxation, municipal institutions, onomastics and prosopography. Yaacov Lev is Professor of Islamic medieval history at Bar Ilan University. He is the author of Charity, Endowmemnts, and Charitable Institutions in Medieval Islam, (Florida University Press, 2005). Johannes Pahlitzsch has studied medieval history and Arabic and Byzantine studies at the Freie Universitaet Berlin where he received his doctorate in 1998, for his study on the Greek Orthodox patriarchate of Jerusalem in the 12th and 13th centuries (published as Graeci und Suriani im Pal stina der Kreuzfahrerzeit, 2001). In the spring term of 2004, he was a member of the Institute of Advanced Studies in Princeton. He is also working on a comparative study of the Byzantine pious foundations and the Islamic waqf. In this context he has co-edited (with Astrid Meier and Lucian Reinfandt) Islamische Stiftungen zwischen juristischer Norm und sozialer Praxis (in press). He is currently a researcher at the Johannes Gutenberg University in Mainz, Germany. Eliana Magnani is a researcher at the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique in Auxerre and Dijon (France). She is a historian of Western Middle Ages, working on gift-exchange, social history, and literacy. She published her Ph. D. in 1999, Monast res et aristocratie en Provence – milieu Xe – d but XIIe si cle, M nster-in-W., Lit-Verlag, 620 p. (Vita regularis, 10), and, in 2007, she edited the book on Don et sciences sociales. Th ories et pratiques crois es, Dijon, EUD, 244 p. Claudia Rapp is a Professor in the Department of History at UCLA, and specializes in Late Antique and Byzantine history and culture. She studied at the Freie Universit t Berlin and obtained her D.Phil. at Oxford University. Much of her research stems from an interest in the literary aspects of Byzantine hagiography and its reception by the audience. Her current

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work focuses on the idea of mimesis, and its social, religious and literary applications, in Late Antiquity and Byzantium. She is the author of Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity. The Nature of Christian Leadership in an Age of Transition, (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 2005), and co-editor of Bosphorus. Essays in Honour of Cyril Mango (=Byzantinische Forschungen 21 [1995]), and Elites in Late Antiquity (=Arethusa 33 [2000]). Marina Rustow is an Assistant Professor of History with a joint appointment in the Tam Institute for Jewish Studies at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia. Her book Heresy and the Politics of Community: The Jews of the Fatimid Caliphate has been published by Cornell University Press in June, 2008. She has recently published an article in Past & Present, has articles forthcoming on medieval Jewish literacy and book production and on Arabic chancery documents from the Geniza, and is working on a book on the relationship between Jews and caliphal courts in the Middle Ages. Daniella Talmon-Heller, Ph.D. The Hebrew University, Jerusalem, is a Senior Lecturer of Islamic Medieval History at Ben-Gurion University. She is the author of Islamic Piety in Medieval Syria: Mosques, Cemeteries and Sermons under the Zangids and Ayyubids (1146 – 1260), (Brill, Leiden, 2007). Amalia ZomeÇo is a researcher at the Centro de Ciencias Humanas y Sociales (CSIC-Madrid). She holds a Ph. D. in Arabic philology from Barcelona University and was a postdoctoral fellow at Princeton University (1998 – 2000). The main topic of her research is Islamic law and she is the author of Dote y matrimonio en al-Andalus y el norte de frica. Estudio sobre la jurisprudencia isl mica medieval, (Madrid: CSIC, 2000). She is currently studying the collections of Arabic legal documents preserved in the archives of Granada and has written several papers on the subject.

Introduction An illuminating illustration of the importance of charity in the thinking of medieval people is provided by Ibn Hawqal’s characterization of the Copts. The following passage is taken from his tenth-century geography of the world, and reads as follows:

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The inhabitants of Egypt are Christian Copts and they have many large churches, but many of them are ruined. They are not a malicious people except toward the tax collectors [responsible for] collecting taxes from them. There are among them very rich people of immense wealth [who distribute] charity (sadaqa¯t) and perform good deeds (ma ru¯f, meaning in the narrow sense a gift). It would take too long to enumerate the rich people among them and their benevolence (ma ru¯f ) toward the Muslims. ˘

˘

By modern standards Ibn Hawqal’s passage can be read as a kind of “national characterization” of the Copts or, perhaps, even of “Coptic mentality”. Whatever may be the value of such attempts, medieval and modern alike, one can not but be intrigued by the reference to charity and good deeds/gifts (ma ru¯f ) as typifying the conduct of the rich Copts. Our knowledge of Coptic society in the Muslim period is patchy and limited. We know much more about the Church as an institution and Coptic patriarchs: their internal policies, dealings with the Muslim authorities, and various charitable services provided by them. Many patriarchs, beginning with John III the Merciful (677 – 686) up to John VI (1189 – 1216), and surely beyond, were involved in charitable works such as distribution of food at times of shortage and the ransoming of Christian captives brought to Alexandria by pirates and slave-dealers. How these services were financed is rarely attested to by the sources. John IV (775 – 799), for example, unhesitatingly committed the resources of the Church to charity and urged the rich Copts to do the same. His charities were also handed out indiscriminately to people outside the Coptic community. Other patriarchs, such as John VI, spent their private wealth on charity for the poor. Ibn Hawqal’s observation about Copts and charity must have reflected a reality which formed the image of the Copts in the eyes of outsiders. The charitable role of Coptic bishops was a continuation of a long tradition that went back to Late Antiquity, when an inextricable bond be-

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Introduction

tween charity and the theory and practice of the Christian religion was forged. Many aspects of this protracted and fascinating process are dealt with in Part One. It took place against a wider matrix of intra-dependent relations between the state, religious ideology, and the Church. Avshalom Laniado’s chapter examines the attitude of the state toward monastic poverty and alienation of property. The state’s interests and religious ideals diverged. While voluntary poverty was rooted in the teachings of the New Testament, alienation of property, especially by the wealthy people of the upper urban class, who were responsible for the performance of compulsory public services, clashed with the wishes of the state. Laniado discusses imperial legislation concerning alienation of property and demonstrates the potential collision between the state and the monastic movement, especially as epitomized by the laws of the emperor Valens (365 – 378). Eventually, the state, as reflected by the laws of the emperor Justinian promulgated in 534 and 535, endorsed the notion of monastic poverty. The examination of the interplay between the state’s laws, social realities, and the institutionalization of religious ideals, as embodied by the monastic movement, leads Laniado to conclude that “…early Byzantine law and public life were not as thoroughly Christianized as imperial rhetoric and propaganda would imply…”. Church structure and monasteries distinguished between the way Christian charity was dispensed and that of Judaism and Islam. However, the ideal of personal involvement in charitable work was a notion shared by the three monotheistic religions. At the heart of Daniel Caner’s chapter is the discussion of the social aesthetic of sixth-century Byzantium. This is achieved through the scrutiny of the diakoniai institutions for the care of the sick. Personal involvement in the diakoniai was regarded as “an exercise of discretion and humility for God”. It became a Christian ideal, manifesting the implementation of Jesus’ teaching. Sixth-century Byzantium is characterized by Caner as “an intensely hierarchical society, both in structure and in sentiment”. The involvement in the diakoniai demanded that the individual put aside self-regard and class boundaries that kept the high and rich and the poor and the low on the social ladder apart. The monastic world through the institutionalization of the diakoniai, as a process for training and socializing the initiates, was perceived by contemporary observers as the embodiment of humility and virtue. Within the broader social structure, monks were perceived “As the ideal facilitators, qualified by their liminal status and training as the ‘poor in spirit’, to bridge the gap between society’s rich and the ordinary

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Introduction

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poor, while at the same time helping to keep both groups separate from each other”. Nevertheless, Caner concludes that “What enabled early Byzantine monasticism to occasionally transcend that dominant aesthetic was its insistence that monasteries provide direct access to all, regardless of their status”. The concept that personal involvement in charity was considered as an embodiment of virtue also permeated the Islamic discourse concerning charity, and is widely attested to in medieval Arabic literary sources. Personal involvement in the distribution of charity signified willing relinquishment of the privileges bestowed by status and class, the things that spared the privileged person from facing the grim realities of poverty and social misery. Personal involvement, at least for the duration of the charitable act, served as a kind of social leveler between the high-ranking giver and the needy poor. Sibt ibn Jawzı¯ (1185 – 1256), for instance, describes Abu¯ Abd Alla¯h al-Fara¯wı¯ of Nishapur and Baghda¯d (1049 – 1135), a jurist versed in Prophetic traditions (hadı¯th) who also issued legal opinions and preached to the public, as a generous and noble person of agreeable manners who “personally served the strangers”. In economic terms, al-Fara¯wı¯ could be described as belonging to the middle class, but he made no impact on the world of learning of his time and place. He was appreciated as just a transmitter of hadı¯th who, nevertheless, went beyond the impersonal distribution of charity and whose personal involvement was perceived as significant enough to be pointed out since it betokened his humanity. Another example is Ibn al-Aska¯f (1160 – 1244) who was a Baghda¯dı¯ merchant who traveled extensively and, as befitted his considerable economic means, he established charitable pious endowments, handed out charity (sadaqa), and distributed gifts (ma ru¯f ). Ibn al- Adı¯m (1192 – 1262), the historian of Aleppo, describes him as being endowed with muru¯ a which was an ancient Arab concept that signified the qualities and virtues of the ideal man. In the context of the mercantile Muslim and Jewish middle class, however, S. D. Goitein has defined muru¯ a as generosity towards the needy and as “characteristic of a man who does more than his duty”. In Ibn al-Aska¯f ’s case, the description of him as being endowed with muru¯ a was not a meaningless phrase since, as Ibn al- Adı¯m continues, at night he used to visit the poor and widows and hand out charity to them incognito (for other examples, see Lev’s chapter). The social order and Christian charitable ideals are also at the heart of Claudia Rapp’s chapter, which examines the role of bishops and emperors ˘

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Introduction

in the dispensation of charity. Rapp assumes “that the existing social hierarchies of the Later Roman Empire spilled over into the church and its organizational structure”. The requirements for the appointment of clergy were spelled out for the first time in late fourth century sources, which incorporated earlier materials. The ideal bishop was supposed to be endowed with agreeable personal qualities, to be merciful, to dispense charity and to be favorably inclined toward the weaker elements in society. Many of the fourth-fifth century bishops lived up to these expectations and became renowned for their charitable work. On the state level, in the imperial vision of proper rule, which derived from Greek concepts, justice was considered to be the most important attribute, while philanthropy was merely a useful tool for wielding power. Sixth-century political treatises, including those influenced by Christian ethics, reflect an instrumental approach toward imperial charity which aimed at buying popular support for the ruler as well as securing God’s favor. Rapp concludes by stating that by the end of Late Antiquity, “the Episcopal and imperial models of charity become fused” and imperial charity became imbued with Christian meanings. Susan R. Holman acknowledges the methodological difficulties inherent in the study of social justice in pre-modern texts and societies. She writes: “In considering these texts (i. e. Greek and Syriac texts from the fourth to sixth centuries) in light of modern religious responses to poverty and issues of human rights, justice, and mercy, one must naturally seek to avoid imposing inappropriate modern constructs on historical texts from another time and culture, even to something as timeless as human need and ideologies of ownership, distribution, and justice”. Holman begins with a socio-linguistic inquiry into the meaning of terms pertaining to justice and charity in Hebrew, Syriac, Arabic, and Greek. She emphasizes the converging meaning of justice and righteousness in the Jewish and Christian traditions, while in the Greek tradition the concepts of justice and mercy were distinct. Nonetheless, she states “…There is no question that Greek-speaking Christians perceived a close relationship between alms, divine justice, and righteousness….” Furthermore, building on the Greek terminology available to them, several authors developed concepts “…that we now associate with ‘human rights’: language: equality, common race, common humanity, common good, and restorative justice”. Holman concludes by saying that early Christian texts from Late Antiquity not only reveal an association with the idea of “healing the world through righteousness” (tikkun olam) but also lay the foundation “for modern human rights language in religious tradition”. Although

Introduction

5

the issue of social justice in Muslim and Jewish medieval thinking about society and the social order is scantily studied, some insights are offered by the chapters presented by Friedman and Carballeira. The last chapter of Part One is devoted to Western Europe during the early Middle Ages. Eliana Magnani’s chapter discusses both the meaning and the function of charity during the fourth-ninth centuries. She draws attention to Cyprian of Carthage (d.285) who formulated the idea of redemptive almsgiving as a concept in its own right within Christian religious ideology. On the practical level, Cyprian exhorted the believers to donate to churches and emphasized the role of the bishops as distributors of charity to the poor. The involvement of bishops in the dispensation of charity goes back to early Church history and also served as the ideological underpinning justifying accumulation of wealth. Augustine (354 – 430) perceived the Church’s wealth as belonging to the poor, with the bishops acting only as stewards for it. Magnani traces these developments to the Eucharistic model conceptualized by Ambrose (d.397). During the seventh century, the growing role of the Church in commemorating the dead, which also involved alms donations, reflected increasing concern for the salvation of the soul. The Church assumed a crucial role in turning donations into everlasting heavenly goods for the benefit of the donor. Magnani concludes by emphasizing the fusion between the Church’s central role in the religious, ritual, and social life of the people and its institutional eminence in society. Part Two deals with medieval Islam and can be described as consisting of three sections. The first section contains three chapters that focus on the institution of pious endowments. The first chapter in this section discusses the transition from Late Antiquity to early Islam, while the other two chapters focus on the proliferation of endowments in Islam and their significance. The second section deals with various manifestations of charity in Muslim Spain, including how charity was reshaped in Muslim society which was relegated to the status of a subject population following the fall of Muslim Granada in 1492. The third section is thematic and consists of two chapters dealing with gift giving and repentance. Johannes Pahlitzsch discusses the endowment institution in the transition from Late Antiquity to early Islam, a period characterized by him as remarkable both for its continuity and for its change. The endowment institution was widely spread in Egypt and the Middle East of Late Antiquity. Pahlitzsch points out that the Christian Ghassanid kings, Arab al-

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Introduction

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lies of the Byzantines, were involved in the foundation of monasteries, as were the Christian wives of the Persian kings and their husbands. The Christian endowment institution continued to proliferate in the Umayyad and early Abbasid periods, and caliphs such as Abd al-Malik (685 – 705) and Harun al-Rashid (789 – 809) donated money for the foundation of monasteries. Pahlitzsch draws attention to the 726 inscription at the public bath in Hammat Gadar, designated for the sick, which commemorates its renovations approved by the caliph and carried out by his governor. The inscription testifies to the continuity of the concept of charitable donations for public welfare. Pahlitzsch concludes with a cautious suggestion about the possible Christian influence on the Muslim practice of charity and calls for a comparative study of the Islamic pious endowment institution. One of the most fascinating aspects of medieval Muslim and Jewish charity was the possibility of institutionalizing charity through the pious endowment system. The fact that the pious endowment institution was the embodiment of charity is promulgated both by Islamic law and the by earliest surviving endowment inscriptions and documents. A valid pious endowment (waqf pl. awqa¯f, in Spanish and North African usage hubs pl. ahba¯s) was created by dedicating and setting aside a fully owned private property for the cause of God (which legally means inalienable in perpetuity). The creator of the pious endowment had the right to name the beneficiaries, be they people, institutions, or charitable causes, as well as the administrators of the endowment. His stipulations concerning the endowment acquired a legally binding sacred status. Stefan Heidemann’s chapter discusses the waqf policy of the sultan Nur al-Din of Syria (1146 – 1174) who, alongside with his wars against the Franks, became known for his social policies. Heidemann describes twelfth-century Syria and northern Mesopotamia as a period of urban renewal and, within this context he focuses on the pious endowment institution and its role in this process. He writes: “In fiscal terms, the establishment of an increasing number of waqfs allowed for an efficient skimming of urban economic activities for public purposes”. How this skimming of funds was done is epitomized by a text dealing with a meeting between Nur al-Din and the leading jurists of Damascus concerning how the incomes generated by the pious endowments of the Umayyad mosque could be diverted for the financing of other urban purposes. Heidemann’s examination of the text reveals the composition of the properties supporting the Umayyad mosque, their legal status, and hints at how they were accumulated. Unsurprisingly, with the jurists’ ap-

Introduction

7

proval, Nur al-Din did find how: “… To tap the revenues of a major patrimony for the funding of public and semi-public duties”. Heidemann’s discussion sheds light on the utility and flexibility of the Islamic pious endowment institution. It can be argued that Nur al-Din’s massive use of the pious endowment institution set a powerful precedent that the Mamluk rulers of Egypt and Syria (1250 – 1517) emulated. Yehoshua Frenkel’s chapter discusses the immense proliferation of pious endowments in the Mamluk period and focuses on two questions: why people give charity and how the pious endowments of the Mamluk period should be explained (the question of why people dispensed charity is also asked by Marina Rustow, in the Jewish context). On the one hand, Yehoshua Frenkel amply illustrates how deeply the concept of charity was embedded in Muslim thought and practice. On the other hand, he argues that the religious dimension does not provide the whole answer as to why people gave charity and, especially why they set up pious endowments. Yehoshua Frenkel draws our attention to the political considerations of the Mamluk rulers who “…used the pious foundations to preserve their fame and immortality”, and “…as a device to preserve their hegemony”. The second section of Part Two begins with Ana Mar a Carballeira’s chapter which discusses the forms and functions of charity in al-Andalus. Charity was dispensed by private people, people of the ruling circles, and rulers, and took the form of alms-giving and distribution of basic necessities such as food and clothing. Charitable people and rulers also set up pious endowments and stipulated charitable clauses in their legacies. Carballeira’s discussion of the functions of charity is set within a twofold context: charity as religious duty and the embodiment of piety, and also as reflecting the social awareness of the giver. Carballeira emphasizes that charity in its various manifestations must also be studied “within the context of Islamic notions of equality and social justice”. It can clearly be argued that religious inspiration for giving charity on the one hand and social awareness on the other were not mutually exclusive motivations. She concludes with the rather sober observation about the social impact and usefulness of medieval charity: “…charity in al-Andalus constituted a stabilizing element, exercised not so much with the aim of eliminating social differences as of maintaining an equilibrium between the different groups, to prevent the resentment at social inferiority from escalating into a threat to the established order”.

8

Introduction

Amalia ZomeÇo’s chapter discusses charitable giving and pious deeds as reflected by Muslim legacies in fifteenth century Granada, spanning the period before and after the conquest of the city by the Catholic Monarchs in 1492. ZomeÇo puts forward the argument that these documents reflect a Muslim society adjusting to the traumatic political changes that denied them their independence and relegated them to the status of a subjected minority. According to Islamic law, a valid legacy must not exceed one third (thulth) of the total value of the estate. In the Granada legacies various stipulations were made concerning how this thulth should be disposed. Typical charitable designations in the pre-1492 period were made for dowries of orphaned girls, for expiation for making false oaths, and for distributing food and money to the poor. The repercussions of 1492 and the shifts in people’s order of priorities are epitomized by the legacies of the childless Bahtan family of Umm Fath al-Shalyani, the wife, and Muhammad, her husband. In the pre-1492 legacies of both of them, the whole thulth was designated for charitable causes, while in the post-1492 legacies, except for expiation, the beneficiaries of the thulth were people affiliated in various ways with the Bahtan family. ZomeÇo makes the observation that in a society in crisis, the designation of charity changed “from collectivities and institutional charity, to a smaller circle of beneficiaries, both inside and outside the family”. The third section in Part Two consists of two chapters dealing with gift giving and repentance. Charity and gift giving, in the context of the Fatimid state (909 – 1171), are discussed in Lev’s chapter. Lev perceives charity as a form of devotion rooted in a religiously inspired system of beliefs and offered in the search for closeness to God and redemption. The perception of medieval charity as sacred does not mean that it was not used as a tool to legitimize political rule and enhance the social status of the giver. With few exceptions, however, monotheistic charity envisaged no human chain of reciprocity and, as such, was different from the expectations associated with gift giving and gift exchange. Gift giving permeated the political culture of the Fatimid state and involved three circles: it was used as a tool of foreign policy, gifts were given in the context of court relations, and gifts were bestowed by the rulers on state employees. The study of gift giving in medieval Islam is still in its initial stages, and further research is needed in order to put the findings within a broader comparative framework.

Introduction

9

The last chapter in this section is by Daniella Talmon-Heller and focuses on the perception of repentance in mainstream Muslim society and the rites associated with it. The link between charity and repentance in Islamic thought and practice is strong but not exclusive. The Koran, for example, perceives distribution of sadaqa (charity) as only one of the possible deeds considered as appropriate for the expiation of sins (the other being supporting the poor, freeing slaves, and fasting). In Muslim thought sinning is deemed as inherent in human existence and repentance implies an inner struggle for moral improvement that involves remorse and personal resolution to avoid recurrent sinning. Talmon-Heller, however, draws our attention to the fact that public rituals of repentance did take place and became part of the religious life in late medieval Baghdad and Damascus. Some preachers earned fame for their ability to bring the audience to tears and remorse, inducing people to repent. Her discussion also indicates that handing out charity as a means of repentance won popularity, although other deeds signifying repentance did not fall into disuse. Talmon-Heller’s chapter draws attention to the need for further study of the economic dimension of repentance. Feeding and clothing the poor, not to mention freeing of slaves, required considerable economic resources, whereas charitable giving was an option available even to the lower middle class. Although these donations were necessarily of low value, more symbolic and less significant economically, they fulfilled the requirement of giving motivated by pure intention (niyya), turning the symbolic act into spiritually satisfying repentance. Part Three contains four chapters that deal with the Jewish communities of the medieval Muslim world which maintained an impressive array of charitable services. Of these, the best known and most fully documented is the Jewish community of Fustat, which is at the focus of Mark R. Cohen’s chapter. The charitable services offered by the community marked a modification of the model prescribed by the Talmud. The Talmudic model involved a weekly distribution on Friday called quppa, designated for the resident poor, and a daily bread distribution (tamhui), also opened for the transients. The Fustat community offered one weekly distribution open to both the local and the transient poor. Cohen’s chapter includes a translated and annotated publication of alms lists from 1107, which contain names of people and the number of bread loaves handed out to them. The community financed the

10

Introduction

bread dole from private contributions and frequently experienced difficulties in meeting this weekly expenditure. Therefore, the changing needs of the poor were closely monitored. The community also helped its poor members with the payment of the poll-tax. The pertinent document published by Cohen is a list of donors names and the contributions pledged by them. The study of the names of people, appearing in these documents and their ascription opens new vistas for the study of both the underclass made up of structural and conjunctural poor and the slightly better-off segments of the Jewish population, including those who moved back and forth between subsistence and poverty. Cohen’s chapter, however, offers more than a broader and deeper insight into the charitable services provided by the Fustat community; it calls for a comparative approach to the study of poverty. Cohen here publishes a Geniza letter of a poor person, appealing for charity, together with an 1828 pauper letter addressed to a Poor Law Administrator in Norwich, England. Although these two letters emanate from two completely different historical periods and socio-religious backgrounds, there are nonetheless points of similarity that make a comparative approach possible. Given the current rudimentary stage of the comparative study of charity in different cultures, Cohen’s approach is cautious. These documents, he writes, offer “…a taste of the kind of evidence available for comparative study of poverty and charity…”. Miriam Frenkel’s chapter deals with the role of charity in the Jewish society of the Geniza period (tenth-thirteenth centuries) or, “the Geniza society”, to use an expression coined by Goitein. Miriam Frenkel discusses the functions of charity in the Geniza society and its uses and misuses. Many of these aspects are illustrated through the issue of ransoming of captives. Communal leaders, for example, used to launch fund-raising events for this goal, which also symbolized their authority and ability to motivate people to give. For the audience such events served as an occasion for enhancing social solidarity at both the communal and the national levels. In spite of all these efforts the plight of the ransomed captives was harsh; they were sent with letters of recommendation to other communities to beg for sustenance. Miriam Frenkel shows how the dispatch of the captives from community to community was also used for correspondence between the members of the elite, which had nothing to do with the captives and the collection of charity for them. Miriam Frenkel’s main argument is that the discourse of charity permeated many aspects of the social relations of the Geniza society, including commercial life. Contemporary people preferred to present labor re-

11

Introduction

˘

lations as partnerships, and commercial relations as the disinterested exchange of favors. At the personal level, dispensation of charity signified social status and for parvenus functioned as a way to win recognition and acceptance. This aspect is epitomized through the discussion of the charitable clauses in al-Wuhsha’s legacy. Al-Wuhsha was a businesswoman of low social background and unorthodox life-style whose extravagant charitable donations signified her quest for respectability. Within the confines of the Mediterranean world dominated by Islam, Judaism and Islam were intertwined cultures, to use an expression coined by Hava Lazarus-Yafeh. The transmission of Islamic socio-political concepts into the Jewish context is at the focus of Marina Rustow’s comparative chapter about non-charitable giving in the medieval Middle East. The notions of benefaction (ni ma) and gratitude (shukr) were key socio-political concepts that shaped Buyid and Abbasid political life during the tenth-eleventh centuries. Relying on, and elaborating upon, Roy P. Mottahedeh’s seminal study of the Buyid-Abbasid political culture, Rustow demonstrates how reciprocal exchanges based on ni ma and shukr underpinned complex and volatile relations between the caliph al-Muqtadir (902 – 932) and the army. If we adopt Lazarus-Yafeh’s characterization of the relations between Judaism and Islam, the transplanting of Muslim socio-political notions into the Jewish context would seem quite natural. Rustow, however, draws attention to the large influx of Iraqi emigrants, including many Jews, to Egypt of the tenth-eleventh century, seeking the kind of political and economic stability which the Fatimid state of that time had to offer. Rustow’s examination of ni ma, shukr, and other cognate notions within the Jewish context comprises three partially overlapping circles: internal Jewish politics and the quest for posts and appointments; family relations and trade relations between family-based trade firms; and appeals of Jewish leaders to the Fatimid rulers, asking them to uphold their authority within the community. The discussion of giving as a tool in political and social life brings Rustow to ask “to what degree was giving motivated by injunctions in religious law that required it”? Her opinion is clearly stated: “…I am not convinced that it is ever enough to explain human activity with resort to legal injunctions, particularly when those injunctions could not enforced through coercive mechanism. Sedaqa may indeed have been motivating them, but we still must understand why”. It can be said without exaggeration that the question of why is an issue that members of the re˘

˘

12

Introduction

search group and contributors to this book are constantly grippling with, offering a wide range of answers. Yvonne Friedman’s chapter discusses a letter written in the 1210 s by Rabbi Joseph ben Gershon, from Jerusalem to the Jewish community and leaders of Bilbais, Egypt, requesting charity. The text and Friedman’s discussion reveal on what grounds Joseph ben Gershon asked for charity and why he expected the community to respond. The text of the letter is fascinating. In Joseph ben Gershon’s perception, the economic order is God’s creation, He made the poor and rich. Within these parameters of God’s envisaged order, the two groups have a role to play: the poor ask for charity, while the rich grant charity and thus both become meritorious. Furthermore, the poor are instrumental for the spiritual wellbeing of the rich. In Joseph ben Gershon’s words, benevolence (hesed) is the attribute of the rich (literally, the kings of Israel) and their good deeds are known to God and bring them God’s rewards (gemul). The poor gain merit by asking for charity and beseeching God on behalf of the rich. One is tempted to say that Joseph ben Gershon describes a symbiotic world in which economic gaps are bridged by charity which sustains the poor and brings spiritual rewards to rich and poor alike. Charity is builtin into God’s world and being sacred and redemptive no coercive mechanism is needed or, to put it differently, its sacred and redemptive nature provides the coercive mechanism that ensures its flow from the rich to the poor.

Part One The World of Late Antiquity and Early Middle Ages

The Early Byzantine State and the Christian Ideal of Voluntary Poverty* Avshalom Laniado la m moire d’ velyne Patlagean

In several laws established between 535 and 546 C.E., the Byzantine emperor Justinian (527 – 565) set rules for monastic poverty. According to these rulings, a new monk was free to dispose of his property up until the time he entered the monastery, which would then become the rightful property owner even if the new monk did not expressly state so. An exception to the latter rule existed for the monk’s spouse and offspring.1 In this way, monastic poverty was legislated and shaped for the first time by the secular powers, an important development in the history of monasticism. At the same time these rulings are of interest for the history of Roman private law, since they deprived citizens of their property rights.2 *

1 2

Abbreviations: CI = Codex Iustinianus; CTh = Codex Theodosianus; GCS = Die Griechischen Christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten Jahrhunderte; PG = Patrologia Graeca; PL = Patrologia Latina; PLRE = A.H.M. Jones (et alii), The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, vol. I-III (Cambridge 1971 – 1992); PO = Patrologia Orientalis; SC = Sources Chr tiennes. Justinian, Novella 5, 5, ed. R. Schoell and G. Kroll, Corpus Iuris Civilis, vol. III (Berlin 1895), pp. 32 – 33; Novella 22, 5, p. 150; Novella 76, pp. 379 – 381; Novella 123, 38, p. 621; Novella 133, 1, p. 667. For Byzantine legislation on monastic poverty, see C. Perdiky-Casandjes, Beitr ge zur byzantinischen Rechtsgeschichte, vol. I: ber die Erbfolge der Regularen der griechischen Kirche (Leipzig 1888), 32 – 68; B. Granicˇ, “Die privatrechtliche Stellung der griechischen Mçnchen im V. und VI. Jahrh.”, Byzantinische Zeitschrift 30 (1929 – 1930), 669 – 676; A. Steinwenter, “Byzantinische Mçnchstestamente”, Aegyptus 12 (1932), 55 – 64; E. Herman, “Die Regelung der Armut in den byzantinischen Klçstern”, Orientalia Christiana Periodica 7 (1941), 406 – 460; R. Orestano, “Beni dei monaci e monasteri nella legislazione Giustinianea”, in Studi in Onore di Pietro De Francisci, vol. III (Milan 1956), 563 – 593; P.J. Panagiotakos, “Peri tes apo tou Ioustinianou mechri tou Leontos ST tou Sofou nomothesias peri tes monachikes aktemosynes”, in Akten des Internationalen Byzantinistenkongresses (Munich 1960), 430 – 437; I.M. Konidares, Nomike theorese ton monasteriakon typikon (Athens 1984; 2nd edition Athens 2003), 157 – 160; N.

16

Avshalom Laniado

As imperial legislation both inspired by Christianity and favourable to it began with the reign of Constantine the Great (306 – 337), one might wonder why more than two centuries had to elapse before a law of the state turned monastic poverty into a binding rule. While the secular laws on monasticism are very few before the 6th century,3 the fact that none of them dealt with monastic poverty requires an explanation. In a 1984 study of the legal aspects of Byzantine monastic foundation documents, the Greek law historian I.M. Konidares argued that imperial legislation prior to the reign of Justinian was simply indifferent to this fundamental tenet of monasticism.4 While the absence of regulations on monastic poverty in pre-535 imperial legislation is indeed conspicuous, this was hardly due to indifference. As a matter of fact, several laws of the fifth and early sixth centuries indicate that monks did have property rights.5 Moreover, the validity of these laws was confirmed by their inclusion in the second and definitive edition of the Code of Justinian, published on 16.11.534, just a few months before the first law on monastic poverty by the same emperor (17.3.535). Thus the secular power implicitly rejected the tenet of monastic poverty. In addition, emperors ranging from Theodosius the Great (379 – 395) to Justinian himself repeatedly limited the freedom of an important group of landowners to disown their property. While legislation on that matter was not directed against prospective monks in particular, it implicitly restricted their

3

4 5

Van der Wal, Manuale Novellarum Justiniani. AperÅu syst matique du contenu des Novelles de Justinien, 2nd edition (Groningen 1998), §§ 1037 – 1039. For these laws, see Ch.A. Frazee, “Late Roman and Byzantine Legislation on the Monastic Life from the Fourth to the Eighth Centuries”, Church History 51 (1982), 264 – 279; A. Sterk, Renouncing the World Yet Leading the Church. The Monk-Bishop in Late Antiquity (Cambridge Mass. and London 2004), 163 – 168; A. Isola, “De monachis: un titolo controverso (Codex Theodosianus 16, 3, 1/2)”, Wiener Studien 119 (2006), 199 – 214; V. D roche, “L’entr e en religion l’ poque protobyzantine: changement de nom, contr le de l’identit ”, in C. Moatti and W. Kaiser (ed.), Gens de passage en M diterran e de l’Antiquit l’ poque moderne. Proc dures de contr le et d’identification (Paris 2007), 418 – 421. The following book has been inaccessible: G. Barone Adesi, Monachesimo ortodosso d’Oriente e diritto romano nel tardo antico, Pubblicazioni dell’Istituto di diritto romano e dei diritti dell’Oriente Mediterraneo 65 (Milan 1990). Konidares [n. 2], 157 n. 5. Perdiky-Casandjes [n. 2], 25 – 32; Herman [n. 2], 410 – 411; Orestano [n. 2], 565 – 567. This was also the case with bishops: see J. Beaucamp, “Le testament de Gr goire de Nazianze”, in D. Simon (ed.), Fontes Minores 10 (Frankfurt am Main 1998), 85.

The Early Byzantine State and the Christian Ideal of Voluntary Poverty

17

freedom to fulfill the Christian ideal of voluntary poverty, out of which monastic poverty evolved. As a Christian ideal, voluntary poverty has its roots in the New Testament.6 The locus classicus in the Gospels is Jesus’ advice to a rich young man (Matthew, xix, 21): “If you really want to be perfect […] go and sell everything you have and give the proceeds to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come! Follow me!”7 According to the Acts of the Apostles (iv, 32 – 37; cf. ii, 43 – 45):8 The whole body of those who had placed their faith in Jesus was united in heart and soul. None of them claimed that anything he possessed was his own; they had everything in common. […] All who possessed estates and houses sold them, and brought the proceeds of the sales, and handed them over to the apostles, and it was shared out to each of them as anyone might require. Joseph, who had been given the name Barnabas by the apostles […], had a piece of ground. He sold it, and brought the money, and handed it over to the apostles.

The following chapter (Acts of the Apostles, v, 1 – 11) tells the story of Ananias and his wife Sapphira, who were punished by untimely death for having kept a part of the proceeds of the sale of their property. An attempt to mitigate the severity of the ideal of voluntary poverty is already present in apostolic times.9 It continued with early Church fathers such as Clement of Alexandria (ca. 150 – 215), who argued that the com6

7

8

9

For voluntary poverty before Christianity, see M. Von Dmitrewski, Die christliche freiwillige Armut vom Ursprung der Kirche bis zum 12. Jahrhundert, Abhandlungen zur Mittleren und Neueren Geschichte 53 (Berlin and Leipzig 1913), 7 – 9; A. Bigelmair, s.v. “Armut II (freiwillige)”, Reallexikon f r Antike und Christentum, vol. I (1950), 705 – 707. Cf. Mark, x, 21; Luke, xviii, 22. All translations of the New Testament are taken from W. Barclay, The New Testament. A New Translation, vol. I (London 1968). For Jesus’ advice to the rich young man, see S. Schiwietz, Das morgenl ndische Mçnchtum, vol. I: Das Ascetentum der drei ersten christlichen Jahrhunderte und das egyptische Mçnchtum im vierten Jahrhundert (Mainz 1904), 7 – 10; K. Heussi, Der Ursprung des Mçnchtums (T bingen 1936), 25 – 26; G.E.M. De Ste. Croix, “Early Christian Attitudes to Property and Slavery”, in Idem, Christian Persecution, Martyrdom, and Orthodoxy, ed. M. Whitby and J. Streeter (Oxford 2006), 342 (originally published in Studies in Church History 12 [1975]). For these paragraphs, see L.W. Countryman, The Rich Christian in the Church of the Early Empire: Contradictions and Accomodations, Texts and Studies in Religion 7 (New York and Toronto 1980), 78 – 80; D.J. Kyrtatas, The Social Structure of the Early Christian Communities (London and New York 1987), 38 – 41. Bigelmair [n. 6], 707 – 708; P. Brown, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman Empire (Hanover and London 2002), 17 – 18.

18

Avshalom Laniado

plete alienation of property was not the only possible way for a rich man to achieve salvation.10 While by the fourth century, voluntary poverty was a fundamental tenet of the rising monastic movement,11 it was no longer expected that each and every believer fulfill this ideal, with the exception of some heretical sects.12 Throughout the stages of its evolution, the ideal of poverty maintained its voluntary character, already inherent in Jesus’ own words from the Gospel of Matthew: “if you really want to be perfect,”13 and it was a consensus amongst Christian authors that voluntary poverty depended exclusively on an individual and free decision. John Chrysostom (ca. 347 – 407) often insisted on its voluntary character in his homilies,14 as did his contemporary Jerome (ca. 345 – 420). In a letter to his friend Pammachius, a senator who hesitated to give away his property and only resolved to do so towards the end of his life, Jerome wrote that “there is no compulsion laid upon you: if you are to win the prize it must be by the exercise of your own free will.”15 Nilus of Ancyra (died 10 Clement of Alexandria, Quis Dives Salvetur, ed. O. St hlin (et alii), Clemens Alexandrinus Werke, vol. III, GCS 17, 2nd edition (Berlin 1970), 159 – 191; ed. trans. G.W. Butterworth, Clement of Alexandria, The Loeb Classical Library (London 1919), 270 – 367. For this and other authors who dealt with this subject, see Schiwietz [n. 7], 42 – 43; Von Dmitrewski [n. 6], 12 – 18; Bigelmair [n. 6], 707 – 708; De Ste. Croix [n. 7], 358 – 365; Countryman [n. 8], 47 – 102; Kyrtatas [n. 8], 177; S. Lunn-Rockliffe, “A Pragmatic Approach to Poverty and Riches: Ambrosiaster’s quaestio 124”, in M. Atkins and R. Osborne (ed.), Poverty in the Roman World (Cambridge 2006), 115 – 129. 11 Von Dmitrewski [n. 6], 19 – 37; Heussi [n. 7], 251 – 253; Herman [n. 2], 406 – 409; Bigelmair [n. 6], 708 – 709. 12 Von Dmitrewski [n. 6], 43 – 47; Bigelmair [n. 6], 708; De Ste. Croix [n. 7], 365 – 367. 13 It is precisely for this reason that Church fathers preferred here the version of Matthew to its parallels in Mark and Luke: see De Ste. Croix [n. 7], 355 – 357. For Clement of Alexandria, Jesus’ advice to the rich young man was “a divine declaration of the free-will of the soul that was talking with Him” (Quis Dives Salvetur, c. 10, 1, ed. St hlin, 165; ed. trans. Butterworth, 289). 14 E.g. John Chrysostom, Homiliae XLIV in Epistolam Primam ad Corinthios, XXI, 5, PG 61, 176; Homiliae XXXIV in Epistolam ad Hebraeos, XVIII, 3, PG 63, 138. 15 Jerome, Letter 66, 8, ed. trans. J. Labourt, Saint J r me. Lettres, vol. III (Paris 1953), 174; trans. W.H. Fremantle, Jerome. Letters and Select Works, A Select Library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, 2nd Series, vol. 6 (Grand Rapids 1893), 137. For Pammachius and his relationship with Jerome, see PLRE I, 663; S. Rebenich, Hieronymus und sein Kreis. Prosopographische und sozialgeschichtliche Untersuchungen, Historia Einzelschriften 72 (Stuttgart 1992), 199 – 200; Ch. Krumeich, Hieronymus und die christlichen feminae clarissimae, Habelts

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19

ca. 430) distinguished between involuntary poverty (akousios penia) and aktemosyne, a free and spontaneous decision to live a life of oligarkia (contentment with little).16 Quoting a saying from the Gospel of Luke (xii, 33), “sell your possessions, and give them away in charity”, Cyril, archbishop of Alexandria (412 – 444), considered voluntary poverty a commandment (entole), yet he argued that Jesus knew that it would not be fulfilled by many, due to the weakness of the human mind (anthropinos nous).17 In the sixth century, Dorotheus of Gaza wrote that neither virginity nor voluntary poverty were commandments (entolai), but rather presents offerred to God.18 While insisting on the paramount importance of free will, in part as an effort to encourage the ideal of voluntary poverty,19 Christian writers tended to ignore obstacles such as the restrictions imposed by the state. References to such restrictions in literary texts are indeed rare, and of dubious interpretation. Antony (ca. 251 – 356) was one of the founders of eremitic monasticism in Egypt. According to his biography, written shortly after his death by Athanasius, archbishop of Alexandria (328 – 373), Antony and his younger sister lost their parents when he was 18 or 20 years old. Inspired first by the Acts of the Apostles (iv, 35 – 37) and then by the Gospel of Matthew (xix, 21), he decided to give away his property. He sold the whole of his mobile belongings and distributed most of the proceeds to the poor while keeping some of it for his sister. He eventually donated the rest of his belongings, offering his landed property to his fellow villagers.20

16 17 18 19 20

Dissertationsdrucke. Reihe Alte Geschichte 36 (Bonn 1993), 153 – 157; C. Pietri (et alii), Prosopographie de l’Italie chr tienne (311 – 604), vol. II (Rome 2000), 1576 – 1581. Nilus Abbas, De voluntaria paupertate, c. 2, PG 79, 969D. Cyril of Alexandria, Commentarius in Lucam, PG 72, 825A-B ; see also Isidorus of Pelusium, Epistolarum Libri Quinque, II, 113, PG 78, 553C-556A. Dorotheus of Gaza, Instructions, I, 12, ed. trans. L. Regnault and J. de Pr ville, Doroth e de Gaza. Œuvres Spirituelles, SC 92, 2nd edition (Paris 2001), 164 – 165 (=PG 88, 1629C). D. Brakke, Athanasius and the Politics of Asceticism (Oxford 1995), 237 – 238. Athanasius of Alexandria, Vita Antonii, c. 2 – 3, ed. trans. G.J.M. Bartelink, Athanase d’Alexandrie. Vie d’Antoine, SC 400 (Paris 1994), 132 – 135 (=PG 26, 841B844B); trans. R.C. Gregg, Athanasius. The Life of Antony and the Letter to Marcellinus (Mahwah, New Jersey 1980), 31 – 32. Ch. Doukakes, “Land Possession and Rural Economy in the Byzantine Egypt in Two Lives of Saints (4th century)”, Vizantiisky Vremmenik 65 (2006), 60, argues that Antony gave his land to those who cultivated it for him. However, Athanasius writes that he gave it to “those of the village” (apo tes komes; translated as “townspeople” by Gregg), ren-

20

Avshalom Laniado

Antony fulfilled the ideal of voluntary poverty in a different way than the New Testament recommends, for neither Jesus nor the Apostles made a distinction between landed and mobile property.21 Some scholars have suspected that Antony was not free to sell his landed property due to a fiscal system which considered all tax payers communally responsible for the taxes owed by each one of them.22 If this interpretation is correct, then the implementation of the ideal of voluntary poverty did not depend exclusively on Antony’s free will. He had to reckon with the interests of the state, as Jesus alludes to in the Gospel of Matthew (xxii, 21): “Pay to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and to God what belongs to God.” Because Antony renounced the world under the regime of pagan emperors, his example, instructive as it may be, is too early for the subject of this paper. During the century following Antony’s birth, the position of Christianity in the Roman world changed radically. From Constantine the Great (306 – 337) onwards, most emperors who ruled the eastern part of the Roman Empire were Christians, and considered it their duty to promote the once persecuted faith. The only exception was the short reign of Julian the Apostate (361 – 363), who was very critical of this Christian ideal of voluntary poverty. In his lost polemical work Against the Galilaeans, he quoted Jesus’ words in the Gospel of Luke (xii, 33), “sell your possessions, and give them away in charity..,” and then asked: Can anyone quote a more statesmanlike (politikotera) ordinance than this? For if all men were to obey you who would there be to buy? Can anyone praise this teaching when, if it be carried out, no city, no nation, not a single family will hold together? For, if everything has been sold, how can any house or family be of any value? Moreover, the fact that if everything in

dered as kometai (fellow villagers) by Sozomenus, Ecclesiastical History, I, 13, 2, ed. J. Bidez, Sozomenus Kirchengeschichte, GCS 50 (Berlin 1960), 27 (=PG 67, 896B). 21 The very fact that Antony gave away his property in a way which deviated from the model put forward in the New Testament pleads against the attempt of J.E. Goehring, “Monasticism in Byzantine Egypt: Continuity and Memory”, in R.S. Bagnall (ed.), Egypt in the Byzantine World, 300 – 700 (Cambridge 2007), 402 – 403, to interpret this episode as a literary construct. 22 Schiwietz [n. 7], 343 – 344; Bartelink [n. 20] 134 – 135, n. 2 (with further bibliography); Brakke [n. 19], 233 – 234. For the collective responsibility of taxpayers, see N. Lewis, Life in Egypt under Roman Rule (Oxford 1983), 172.

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21

the city were being sold at once there would be no one to trade is obvious, without being mentioned.23

Though hostile and polemical as an author, Julian did not make use of his legislative powers as emperor in order to restrict, let alone forbid, the voluntary alienation of property, although this should not be taken as a sign of tolerance on his part.24 It remained to his Christian successors to do so. Late Roman and early Byzantine emperors approved of the right of their subjects to adopt the monastic way of life as long as the interests of the state were left unharmed. However, the voluntary alienation of property and subsequent withdrawal from society, the very steps Christians took when they wished to renounce the world, occasionally posed a threat to these interests. As a consequence, some of Julian’s Christian successors, from Valens (365 – 378) to Maurice (582 – 602), explicitly restricted the freedom of their subjects to renounce the world. With the possible exception of Valens,25 there is nothing to suggest that any of the emperors who issued these laws was motivated by personal hostility or ideological opposition to the monastic movement. With a single exception which we will discuss below, these laws dealt either with slaves and coloni, who were not allowed to join monasteries without the consent

23 Iuliani Imperatoris Librorum contra Christianos quae Supersunt, ed. C.I. Neumann (Leipzig 1880), frg. 12; Giuliano imperatore contra Galilaeos, Testi e Commenti 9 (Rome 1990), ed. E. Masaracchia, frg. 100, pp. 188 – 189; ed. trans. W.C. Wright, The Works of the Emperor Julian, vol. III, The Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge Mass. 1923), 430 – 431. For this fragment, see P. Renucci, Les id es politiques et le gouvernement de l’empereur Julien, Collection Latomus 259 (Brussels, 2000), 263 – 265; for criticism of the ideal of voluntary poverty by pagan authors, see D.H. Raynor, “Non-Christian Attitudes to Monasticism”, Studia Patristica XVIII/2 (1989), 267 – 273; G. Rinaldi, “Obiezioni al monachesimo da parte dei pagani in area mediterranea (secoli IV e V)”, in Cristianesimo e specificit regionali nel mediterraneo latino (sec. IV-VI), Studia Ephemeridis Augustinianum 46 (Rome 1994), 43 – 45. 24 In fact, he confiscated the property of the Arian church of Edessa, and justified his decision by a reference to the ideal of voluntary poverty: see L’empereur Julien. Œuvres Compl tes, vol. I/2, ed. J. Bidez, 2nd edition (Paris 1960), Letter 115, pp. 196 – 197; ed. trans. Wright [n. 23], Letter 40, pp. 126 – 129; R.P. Coleman-Norton, Roman State and Christian Church. A Collection of Legal Documents to A.D. 535 (London, 1966), vol. I, no. 123, pp. 292 – 293. 25 Schiwietz [n. 7], 344 – 345; N. Lenski, “Valens and the Monks: Cudgeling and Conscription as a Means of Social Control”, Dumbaton Oaks Papers 58 (2004), 93 – 117.

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of their masters, or with people in the service of the state, such as soldiers and civil servants.26 In other laws, emperors from Theodosius the Great to Justinian restricted the freedom of their subjects to alienate their property, without particularly targeting prospective monks. These laws were connected to the key role of landed property in an administrative system where paying regular taxes was just one of the obligations of wealthy citizens towards their cities as well as the state.27 Alienation of property could therefore be abused by people wishing to avoid their public obligations. This was first and foremost the case with the municipal councillors (decuriones or curiales in Latin, bouleutai or politeuomenoi in Greek), also known in modern research as the “curial class.” These were the officially recognized local aristocrats of the Roman Empire as well as of early Byzantium. Their role was twofold, for they managed both the administration of their cities as well as the collection of taxes, and they were collectively responsible for the execution of the latter task.28 By the fourth century, their status had become obligatory.29 At the same time, the administrative reforms of the late third century and the first half of the fourth provided new arenas for promotion and social mobility, of which municipal coun-

26 A.H.M. Jones, The Later Roman Empire. A Social, Economic and Administrative Survey (Oxford 1964, reprinted in two volumes, Baltimore 1986), vol. II, 931; H. Bellen, Studien zur Sklavenflucht im rçmischen Kaiserreich, Forschungen zur antiken Sklaverei 4 (Wiesbaden 1971), 86 – 91; E. Patlagean, Pauvret conomique et pauvret sociale Byzance (4e-7e si cles), Civilisations et Soci t s 48 (Paris 1977), 334 – 335; Frazee [n. 3], 268 – 269; A. Laniado, Recherches sur les notables municipaux dans l’empire protobyzantin, Travaux et M moires—Monographies 13 (Paris 2002), 37 – 38. 27 For these obligations (munera in Latin, leitourgiai in Greek), see W. Langhammer, Die rechtliche und soziale Stellung der Magistratus Municipales und der Decuriones (Wiesbaden 1973); L. Neesen, “Die Entwicklung der Leistungen und mter (munera et honores) im rçmischen Kaiserreich des zweiten bis vierten Jahrhunderts”, Historia 30 (1981), 203 – 235; F. Millar, “Empire and City, Augustus to Julian, Obligation, Excuses and Status”, Journal of Roman Studies 73 (1983), 76 – 96; for property as a prerequisite for appointment to these tasks, see C. Drecoll, Die Liturgien im rçmischen Kaiserreich des 3. und 4. Jh. n. Chr., Historia Einzelschriften 116 (Stuttgart 1997), 35 – 43. 28 Laniado [n. 26], 116 – 128. 29 F. Jacques, “Obnoxius curiae. Origines et formes de l’astreinte la cit au IVe si cle de notre re”, Revue historique de droit franÅais et tranger, 4e s rie, 63 (1985), 303 – 328.

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cillors took advantage more than any other group.30 Because the government considered their attempts to leave the curial class to be a threat to its interests, it tried to prevent this phenomenon, known in modern research as “the flight of the councillors,”31 by instituting more laws on this topic than on any other aspect of public life.32 Valens’ government was alarmed by municipal councillors joining the monastic movement, as we see in one of his laws: Certain devotees of idleness have deserted the compulsory services of the municipalities, have betaken themselves to solitudes and secret places, and under the pretext of religion have joined with bands of hermit monks. We command, therefore, by Our well considered precept, that such persons and others of this kind who have been apprehended within Egypt shall be routed out from their hiding places by the Count of the Orient and shall be recalled to the performance of the compulsory public services of their municipalities, or in accordance with the tenor of Our sanction, they shall forfeit the allurements of the family property, which We decree shall be vindicated by those persons who are going to undertake the performance of their compulsory public services.33

This law may be an expression of hostility to the monastic movement, as some scholars argue, but this is not the only possible explanation. In fact, the words “under the pretext of religion” (specie religionis) suggest that this law is only aimed at the municipal councillors who pretended to be monks to avoid their obligations. As it threatened them with confiscation of their property, it is clear that they had not given it away. We may even suspect that their failure to detach from their property marked them as 30 P. Heather, “New Men for New Constantines? Creating an Imperial Elite in the Eastern Mediterranean”, in P. Magdalino (ed.), New Constantines. The Rhythm of Imperial Renewal in Byzantium 4th-13th Centuries (St. Andrews 1992), Society for the Promotion of Byzantine Studies—Publications 2 (London 1994), 11 – 33. 31 See, for instance, the section of that title in J.H.W.G. Liebeschuetz, Antioch. City and Imperial Administration in the Later Roman Empire (Oxford 1972), 174 – 186. 32 Jones [n. 26], vol. I, 739 – 748; W. Schubert, “Die rechtliche Sonderstellung der Dekurionen (Kurialen) in der Kaisergesetzgebung des 4.–6. Jahrhunderts”, Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung – Romanistische Abteilung 86 (1969), 287 – 333; Laniado [n. 26], 3 – 26. 33 Codex Theodosianus [henceforward CTh], ed. Th. Mommsen, Theodosiani Libri XVI cum Constitutionibus Sirmondianis (Berlin 1905), XII, 1, 63; trans. C. Pharr, The Theodosian Code and Novels and the Sirmondian Constitutions (Princeton 1952), 351. For this law, see Schiwietz [n. 7], 344 – 345; Heussi [n. 7], 302 – 303; Coleman-Norton [n. 24], vol. I, no. 147, pp. 322 – 323; Frazee [n. 3], 264; Lenski [n. 25], 99 – 100; Sterk [n. 3], 164 – 165.

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insincere in the eyes of the author of this law. And while the emperor Justinian was far from hostile to monasticism,34 the committee which prepared the Code which bears his name deemed this law worthy of inclusion.35 It was still valid in 534, when the second edition of his Code was published. Until the last decades of the fourth century, legislation against the “flight of the councillors” dealt mainly with matters of personal status of either the members of the councils themselves or of their offspring. However, a systematic attempt to limit the freedom of municipal councillors to dispose of their property so as to hinder their efforts to leave the curial class began under the reign of Theodosius the Great.36 The first law was issued in 386: If any decurion should be forced by necessity to alienate landed estates, either rustic or urban, or any slaves whatever, he shall appeal to a competent judge and shall set forth in detail all the causes by which he is being constrained, so that if he should prove his claim, he shall obtain a decree that will be permanently valid for the purchaser. For thus it will take place that no unregulated seller or unjust purchaser can be found. Furthermore, hereafter there shall be no grounds whereby any seller shall complain that he was circumvented by the stratagems or overwhelmed by the power of a purchaser, since indeed the necessity of the seller and the wishes of the buyer shall be made clear by the trustworthy testimony of the public records. But if any man, contrary to this prohibition, by secret devices and through persons interposed by fraud, should become the purchaser of any place whatever that is sold by a decurion, he shall know that he will be deprived of the price that he gave and of the place that he bought.37

A municipal councillor selling his property was thus required to petition “a competent judge”, normally the provincial governor, to prove that his decision to do so was necessary. While this law does not explicitly mention prospective monks, one might assume that the wish to fulfill the 34 Sterk [n. 3], 173 – 175. 35 Codex Iustinianus [henceforward CI], ed. P. Krueger, Corpus Iuris Civilis, vol. II (Berlin 1914), X, 32, 26. 36 P. Petit, Libanius et la vie municipale Antioche au IVe si cle apr s J.-C., Biblioth que arch ologique et historique 62 (Paris 1955), 354; R. Ganghoffer, L’ volution des institutions municipales en Occident et en Orient au Bas-Empire, Biblioth que d’histoire du droit et droit romain 9 (Paris 1963), 128 – 132; Jones [n. 26], vol. I, 747 – 748; Schubert [n. 32], 317 – 322; Laniado [n. 26], 21 – 22 and 52 – 54. 37 CTh XII, 3, 1 (=CI X, 34, 1); trans. Pharr [n. 33], 371; see also CTh XII, 3, 2 (423); trans. Pharr [n. 33], 371.

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Christian ideal of voluntary poverty could not be recognized by the state as a necessity.38 In 399, Honorius, emperor of the West (395 – 423), declared null and void “clandestine contracts” of sale concluded by municipal councillors in an attempt to evade their obligations.39 From the reign of Theodosius II (408 – 450) onwards, the municipal council was entitled to one quarter of the heritage of a member whose heirs did not belong to the curial class.40 This same emperor forbade the sale of curial property without the approval of the municipal council.41 In 451, a law of Valentinian III, emperor of the West (425 – 455), ordered that the sale of property by a municipal councillor must receive the approval of the leading members of the council (primores curiae), “who cannot be ignorant of the necessity of his selling.”42 In 458, another emperor of the West, Majorian (457 – 461), ruled that the sale of curial property required the approval of the praetorian prefects, the highest officials of the civil administration.43 Zeno, emperor of the East (474 – 491), set a detailed regulation of which the first paragraph is quoted here: We forbid decurions to sell any real property (res immobiles) […], or any slaves attached thereto (mancipia rustica), without first applying for a decree. They are, however, permitted to make donations, or exchanges, or enter into any other contracts whatsoever, as the Imperial Constitutions, which have been promulgated by former Emperors, have stated in many places that the purchase-money is not to be refunded, and for this reason it is clearly to be understood that a contract of sale cannot be entered into by decurions without a decree.44 38 According to a sixth century formula written in Italy, paying a debt is the only justification for the sale of curial property: see Magni Aurelii Cassiodori Variarum Libri XII, ed. T. Mommsen, Monumenta Germaniae Historica—Auctores Antiquissimi 12 (Berlin 1894), VII, 47, pp. 226 – 227; trans. Th. Hodgkin, The Letters of Cassiodorus, Being Condensed Translation of the Variae Epistolae of Magnus Aurelius Cassiodorus Senator (London 1886), 345 – 346. 39 CTh III, 1, 8 (=CI IV, 44, 17); trans. Pharr [n. 33], 64. 40 CI X, 35, 1 (428); trans. S.P. Scott, The Civil Law, vol. XV (Cincinnati 1932), 130; Theodosius II, Novella 22, 2 = CI X, 35, 2 (443); trans. Pharr [n. 33], 508 – 510. 41 CI X, 34, 2 (428); trans. Scott [n. 40], 129. 42 Valentinian III, Novella 32, 5; trans. Pharr [n. 33], 543. 43 Majorian, Novella 7, 9; trans. Pharr [n. 33], 558. 44 CI X, 34, 3; trans. Scott [n. 40], 129. This law was promulgated either between 476 and 480 or in 484: see T.C. Lounghis (et alii), Regesten der Kaiserurkunden des ostrçmischen Reiches von 476 bis 565, Zyprisches Forschungszentrum. Quellen und Studien zur Geschichte Zyperns 52 (Nicosia 2005), no. 26.

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This law did not prevent a municipal councillor from imitating the young Antony by selling his mobile belongings, but he needed the approval of his fellows at the municipal council to follow Jesus’ advice to the rich young man (Matthew, xix, 21) or the example of Barnabas (Acts, iv, 37). On the other hand, a municipal councillor still had the right to hand over or exchange a piece of landed property without the council’s consent. He thus could, for instance, secure himself an appointment to a position in the imperial administration which would enable him to leave the curial class by offering a part of his landed property to a powerful person in the imperial court.45 While the ideal of voluntary poverty required those who wished to renounce the world to give away the whole of their possessions,46 there is plenty of evidence, despite the negative example of Ananias and Sapphira (Acts of the Apostles, v, 1 – 11), for gradual and even for partial alienation of property as well as for propertied monks.47 As far as cenobitic monks were concerned, neither phenomenon was illegal prior to 535, 45 For this kind of transactions, see Jones [n. 26], vol. I, 393, n. 56; D. Liebs, “ mterkauf und mterpatronage in der Sp tantike”, Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung – Romanistische Abteilung 95 (1978), 182 – 183. 46 See, for instance, Jerome’s letter to Pammachius [n. 15]: “If therefore you will to be perfect and desire to be as the prophets, as the apostles, as Christ Himself, sell not a part of your substance […] but all that you have”. For other relevant texts, see Von Dmitrewski [n. 6], 19 – 21 and 25 – 27. 47 Steinwenter [n. 2]; E. Wipszycka, “Les aspects conomiques de la vie de la communaut de Kellia”, in P. Bridel (ed.), Le site monastique copte des Kellia. Sources historiques et explorations arch ologiques (Geneva 1986), 117 – 144, reprinted in Eadem, tudes sur le christianisme dans l’ gypte de l’Antiquit tardive, Studia Ephemeridis Augustinianum 52 (Rome 1996), 337 – 362; Laniado [n. 26], 55 – 56; Goehring [n. 21]; R.S. Bagnall, “Monks and Property: Rhetoric, Law and Patronage in the Apophthegmata Patrum and the Papyri”, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 42 (2001), 7 – 24, reprinted in Idem, Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Ashgate 2006), no. XXII. According to Bagnall, 21, “true renunciation of property was, like not drinking wine, at the heroic end of the spectrum, not in the average part.” For the senatorial aristocracy of Rome, see J. Harries, “‘Treasure in Heaven’: Property and Inheritance Among Senators of Late Rome”, in E. Craik (ed.), Marriage and Property. Women and Marital Customs in History (Aberdeen 1984), 54 – 70; J.R. Curran, Pagan City and Christian Capital. Rome in the Fourth Century (Oxford 2000), 313 – 316. For a later period, see A. Guillou, “La classe dei monaci-proprietari nell’Italia bizantina (sec. X-XI). Economia e diritto canonico”, Bullettino dell’Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medio Evo 82 (1970), 159 – 172, reprinted in Idem, Culture et Soci t en Itatlie Byzantine (VIe-XIe s.), (London 1978), no. XI.

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while Justinian’s laws on monastic poverty did not apply to anchorites.48 The Byzantine Church was even slower to endorse monastic poverty than the secular powers were, with the only canon on this matter having been issued by a Constantinople council in 861.49 As we have already pointed out, several laws of the fifth and early sixth centuries included in the Code of Justinian did recognize the property rights of monks.50 In one of these laws, Theodosius II ordered that the inheritance of bishops, clerics and monks who died intestate and left no relatives “shall be incorporated entirely into that of the sacrosanct Church or the monastery to which the decedent had been dedicated.” However, this law included a restriction motivated by the interests of the state, for it added that: Excepted from this rule shall be those properties left by clerics or monks of either sex who are, perchance, registered in the tax rolls, or persons subject to the rights of a patron or obligated to the status of decurion. For it is not just that the churches should retain estates or peculia that are due by law to the patron or to the owner of a landholding on whose tax list one of the aforesaid men had been enrolled, or that they should keep property known to belong to the municipal councils.51

While a fourth century Egyptian abbot was critical of the idea of monks keeping their property until the end of their life and then leaving it to their brethren,52 Theodosius II approved of it. He followed here a tradition which entitled corporate bodies such as military units, municipal councils, staffs of provincial governors (officia) and weapon-manufactur-

48 Steinwenter [n. 2], 56; Herman [n. 2], 411; Van der Wal [n. 2], 157, n. 139. 49 Synodus Prima-Secunda, canon 6, ed. trans. P.-P. Joannou, Discipline g n rale antique (IVe-IXe si cle), vol. I/2 (Grottaferrata—Rome 1962), 457 – 458 (=PG 137, 1032 – 1033); see also Perdiky-Casandjes [n. 2], 54 – 56; Herman [n. 2], 414; Panagiotakos [n. 2], 434 – 435; Konidares [n. 2], 158, n. 10. 50 Supra n. 5. 51 CTh V, 3, 1 = CI I, 3, 20 (434); trans. Pharr [n. 33], 107; Coleman-Norton [n. 24], vol. II, no. 421, pp. 698 – 700. 52 Liber Sancti Orsiesii, c. 27, ed. A. Boon, Pachomiana Latina, Biblioth que de la Revue d’Histoire Eccl siastique 7 (Leuven 1932), 127 – 128 (=PG 40, 881 – 882): “Hoc quoque observandum est: ne quis stulta cogitatione deceptus, immo diaboli laqueis inretitus, dicat in corde suo: Quando morior, tunc dono fratribus quod habuero.” For other abbots and Church fathers who were critical of the retention of wealth by monks, see Les Apophtegmes des P res. Collection syst matique, vi, ed. trans. J.-Cl. Guy, SC 387 (Paris 1993), 314 – 335; R. Finn, Almsgiving in the Later Roman Empire. Christian Promotion and Practice, 313 – 450 (Oxford 2006), 91 – 92.

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ers (fabricenses) to inherit from intestate members.53 At the same time Theodosius II decreed that whenever the interests of the state were at stake, secular society had a better claim to the inheritance of intestate and solitary monks than their monasteries. The harshness of legislation against the “flight of the councillors” reached its peak under Justinian. The prospect for a change of status was more limited than ever before, as leaving the curial class became a personal privilege conferred by the emperor upon the holders of the highest positions in the civil administration and the army as well as upon some groups of civil servants.54 As for curial property, Justinian maintained the laws of his predecessors by including them in his Code,55 while his own legislation introduced further restrictions. A law now lost modified the above-mentioned rule of Zeno’s by requiring a decree for every transaction which would result in alienation of curial property. Another lost law forbade donations of curial property, with the exception of antenuptial ones as well as of dowries. As for the law of Theodosius II which gave the municipal council one-quarter of the heritage of a member whose heirs did not belong to the curial class, Justinian modified it in more than one way. A third law now lost preserved this portion for the municipal council in every case of alienation of curial property. It was later ordered that the state would share this portion with the municipal council. Finally, this portion was augmented from one to three-quarters.56 Despite the harshness of Justinian’s legislation, there still was a case where change of status did not require a personal privilege from the emperor. In 531, sons of municipal councillors were allowed to become monks on the condition that they do so “from infancy and not yet emerged from adolescence” (ek nepias helikias kai oupo ten ephebon ekbases).57 To judge by this age indication, these sons of municipal councillors 53 Herman [n. 2], 409; R. Delmaire, Largesses sacr es et Res privata. L’aerarium imp rial et son administration du IVe au VIe si cle, Collection de l’ cole FranÅaise de Rome 121 (Paris 1989), 615 – 616. For the dubious case of shipowners (navicularii), see A.J.B. Sirks, Food for Rome. The Legal Structure of the Transportation and Processing of Supplies for the Imperial Distributions in Rome and Constantinople, Studia Amstelodamensia ad epigraphicam, ius antiquum et papyrologicam pertinentia 31 (Amsterdam 1991), 285 – 286. 54 Laniado [n. 26], 47 – 49. 55 CI X, 34; X, 35; trans. Scott [n. 40], 128 – 132. 56 Laniado [n. 26], 52 – 54. 57 CI I, 3, 52, 1 (531); trans. Coleman-Norton [n. 24], vol. III, no. 629, p. 1111; see also Laniado [n. 26], 49 – 50.

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were too young to make a free choice to renounce the world, and it is therefore plausible that they became monks through oblation.58 Since they had not yet “emerged from adolescence”, they must have been under twenty-five years old, and thus too young to enjoy full property rights.59 This may explain why they were not required to alienate their property at that stage, except for the portion they had to cede to their municipal council. If these monks were later on to be ordained as priests or bishops – and they were the only members of the curial class whom the Church had the right to ordain – ,60 they had to give away all their property. From the late fourth to the early sixth centuries Christian emperors restricted the freedom of an important group of landowners, the municipal councillors, to alienate their property. Unlike Julian the Apostate, these emperors were not motivated by hostility to the Christian ideal of voluntary poverty, nor did they share the concern of the last pagan ruler of the Roman world, who asked who would buy property put up for sale.61 These emperors’ concern was administrative and fiscal. Their laws, whether preserved in full or excerpted by later compilers,62 did not explicitly aim to restrict prospective monks, and there is no proof that any of the legislation was instigated by municipal councillors who wanted to fulfill the ideal of voluntary poverty. Indeed, renunciation of

58 For this practice in early monasticism, see M. De Jong, In Samuel’s Image. Child Oblation in the Early Medieval West, Brill’s Studies in Intellectual History 12 (Leiden 1996), 16 – 23. 59 M. Kaser, Das rçmische Privatrecht, vol. II, 2nd edition, Handbuch der Altertumswissenschaft X.3.3 (Munich 1975), 116 – 119. 60 This rule was repeated in 535 (Justinian, Novella 6, 1, 1, ed. Schoell and Kroll [n. 1], p. 36) and then modified in 546 (Novella 123, 1, pp. 594 – 595; see also Novella 137, 2, p. 697, from 565). According to the last ruling, a person of the curial class could not be ordained as bishop unless he had been monk for 15 years. 61 Supra n. 23. 62 As is almost always the case with imperial legislation preserved by the Codes of that period, the omission of the preambles may have deprived us from invaluable information on the problems that these laws were meant to solve. For the treatment of imperial laws by the compilers of the Codes, see E. Volterra, “Il problema del testo delle costituzioni imperiali”, in Atti del II Congresso Internazionale della Societ Italiana di Storia del Diritto, vol. II (Florence 1971), 821 – 1097; N. Van der Wal, “Die Textfassung der sp trçmischen Kaisergesetze in den Codices”, Bullettino dell’Istituto di Diritto Romano 83 (1980), 1 – 27.

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the world, whether genuine or insincere, does not seem to have been widespread among municipal councillors.63 On the other hand, it is perhaps significant that the first of these laws was promulgated as late as 386, though sale of property as a means to leave the curial class is already seen under Constantius II (337 – 361) and Julian the Apostate.64 By 386, the monastic ideal had acquired followers from all social strata, from the poorest to the wealthiest.65 Henceforward, the implementation of voluntary poverty by just a few persons could involve larger fortunes than ever before. It may be equally significant that there were more restrictions on alienation of curial property in the Eastern part of the Roman world, where monasticism began and where it seems to have had the majority of its followers, than in the Western one.66 At any rate, it is clear that once promulgated, these laws applied to all cases of alienation of curial property deemed unnecessary by the government. It is striking that in their attempt to restrict alienation of curial property, pious and charitable lawgivers such as Theodosius the Great, Theodosius II and Zeno refrained from making any exception on behalf of Christians renouncing the world. As already pointed out, such an exception was only made in 531,67 and it only applied to minors.68

63 Schiwietz [n. 7], 345; Heussi [n. 7], 303. More important and better attested is the phenomenon of municipal councillors becoming clercs and bishops: see C. Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity. The Nature of Christian Leadership in an Age of Transition, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 37 (Berkeley 2005), 183 – 188 and 203 – 207. For restrictive legislation on this matter, see Jones [n. 26], vol. I, 745 – 746; vol. II, 923 – 926; Schubert [n. 32], 305 – 308; K.-L. Noethlichs, “Zur Einflussnahme des Staates auf die Entwicklung eines christlichen Klerikerstandes”, Jahrbuch f r Antike und Christentum 15 (1972), 136 – 152; Laniado [n. 26], 49 – 51. 64 Petit [n. 36], 340; Liebeschuetz [n. 31], 183. 65 Patlagean [n. 26], 333 – 334. For the senatorial aristocracy of Rome, by far the wealthiest social group of the empire, see Harries [n. 47]; Rinaldi [n. 23], 48 – 50; Curran [n. 47], 269 – 320. 66 Cf. Jones [n. 26], vol. II, 1064; W. Speyer, “Das christliche Ideal der geschlechtlichen Askese in seinen negativen Folgen f r den Bestand des Imperium Romanum”, in M. Wacht (ed.), Panchaia. Festschrift f r Klaus Thraede, Jahrbuch f r Antike und Christentum. Erg nzungsband 22 (M nster 1995), 224 – 225. 67 For a privilege of dubious authenticity given to prospective monks by Constantine the Great, see Sozomenus [n. 20], I, 9, 3, p. 20 (=PG 67, 884B); Kaser [n. 59], 485, n. 4; J. Evans Grubbs, Law and Family in Late Antiquity. The Emperor Constantine’s Marriage Legislation (Oxford 1995), 130 – 131, n. 110. 68 Supra n. 57.

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Due to the scarcity of documentary evidence, the impact of the restrictions imposed by the state on alienation of curial property is difficult to assess, as is often the case with late Roman and early Byzantine imperial legislation. This scarcity of evidence may be the reason that scholarly attitude changed more than once during the last century. In the late nineteenth century and during the first half of the twentieth, there was a consensus that the later Roman Empire was a totalitarian state or, to use the term coined by German historical research, a Zwangstaat (a coercive state). Historians argued that all social classes, including the privileged ones, were subordinated to the interests of the state, with social mobility becoming illegal. At the same time, they assumed that imperial legislation, the main kind of evidence for this historical interpretation, was effectively enforced.69 In the 1960’s, scholars began to question both the Zwangstaat approach and the effectiveness of imperial legislation. In 1964, A.H.M. Jones wrote that “many, if not most, laws were intermittently and sporadically enforced” and considered them “clues to the difficulties of the empire, and records of the aspirations of the government and not its achievement.”70 A year later, R. MacMullen wrote that “it should not then be so unexpected to find, in all the literature of the time subsequent to the introduction of laws restricting social movement, hardly a hint that these laws were even known to exist, let alone observed.”71 These and many other historians argued that the attempts of the late Roman and early Byzantine states to check social mobility in general and the “flight of the councillors” in particular were a failure.72 Nowadays the Zwangstaat approach seems obsolete, while the theory that imperial legislation was seldom enforced is not as widespread as it 69 See, first and foremost, M.I. Rostovtzeff, The Social and Economic History of the Roman Empire, 2nd edition (Oxford 1957), vol. II, 502 – 534. For criticism of this approach, see A. Demandt, Der Fall Roms. Die Auflçsung des rçmischen Reiches im Urteil der Nachwelt (Munich 1984), 209 – 210; R. Rilinger, “Die Interpretation des sp ten Imperium Romanum als Zwangstaat”, Geschichte im Wissenschaft und Unterricht 36 (1985), 321 – 340, as well as the reply of A. Heuss, “Das sp tantike rçmische Reich, kein Zwangstaat?”, Geschichte im Wissenschaft und Unterricht 37 (1986), 603 – 618; K. Vçssing, “Staat und Schule in der Sp tantike”, Ancient Society 32 (2002), 243 – 262. 70 Jones [n. 26], vol. I, viii. For his criticism of the Zwangstaat theory, see his article “The Caste System in the Later Roman Empire”, Eirene 7 (1970), 79 – 96, reprinted in Idem, The Roman Economy (Oxford 1974), 396 – 418. 71 R. MacMullen, “Social Mobility and the Theodosian Code”, Journal of Roman Studies 54 (1964), 50. 72 For further bibliography, see Laniado [n. 26], 9 – 14.

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used to be. According to J. Harries, for instance, “Roman law in Late Antiquity was more frequently invoked and effectively enforced than at any previous period in Roman imperial history.”73 Despite this change of attitude, the fact remains that without documentary evidence, modern scholars cannot determine what resulted from of most laws after their promulgation. The only exception in this respect is Egypt, where documentary papyri show that new laws were known to exist and had some effect on daily life.74 Whenever documentary evidence is lacking, historians rely on the laws themselves, along with the occasional contribution of literary texts. In the case of the “flight of the councillors”, it is notable that the legislation became more restrictive with each iteration, suggesting that it was circumvented rather than explicitly violated.75 Moreover, the available evidence suggests that measures against alienation of curial property were enforced more effectively than those against change of personal status.76 Literary evidence has little to say about the alienation of curial property by prospective monks. As the first law was issued as late as 386, it was irrelevant to municipal councillors who became monks prior to that date, such as to the Cappadocian Fathers and their circle,77 or to Publius, a municipal councillor of Zeugma (province of Euphratensis) who renounced the world ca. 350.78 From the late fourth through the seventh centuries, 73 J. Harries, Law and Empire in Late Antiquity (Cambridge 1999), 98. See especially the chapter “The Efficacy of Law” (77 – 98). For a similar approach, see T. Honor , Law in the Crisis of Empire (Oxford 1998), 23 – 29; J.F. Matthews, Laying Down the Law. A Study of the Theodosian Code (Yale 2000), 292. 74 See now J. Beaucamp, “Byzantine Egypt and Imperial Law”, in R.S. Bagnall (ed.), Egypt in the Byzantine World, 300 – 700 (Cambridge 2007), 271 – 287. 75 See in particular Heather [n. 30], 27: “The evolving legislative sequence (closing one loophole after another) does imply that individual measures were enforced effectively enough to make curials find new ways of avoiding obligations.” 76 Laniado [n. 26], 59 – 62. 77 For their curial background, see Th.A. Kopecˇek, “The Social Class of the Cappadocian Fathers”, Church History 42 (1973), 453 – 466, who rejects the attempt of B. Treucker, Politische und sozialgeschichtliche Studien zu den Basilius-Briefen (Munich 1961), 7 – 16, to prove that they belong to the senatorial aristocracy; see also R. Van Dam, Families and Friends in Late Roman Cappadocia (Philadelphia 2003), 192, n. 7. For the way the Cappadocian Fathers disposed of their property, see Treucker, 21 – 26; Beaucamp [n. 5]. 78 Theodoret, Historia Religiosa, 5, 1, ed. trans. P. Canivet and A. Leroy-Molinghen, Th odoret de Cyr. Histoire des Moines de Syrie, SC 234 (Paris 1977), 328 – 330 (=PG 82, 1352B-C); trans. R.M. Price, A History of the Monks of Syria by Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Cistercian Studies Series 88 (Kalamazoo 1985), 58.

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mentions of municipal councillors gradually disappear from inscriptions, literary texts, and documentary papyri,79 while the fate of the property of those who became monks is rarely known. Alexander, a native of Cyrene (province of Libya Superior) adopted the monastic way of life as a meirakion (a young man or an adolescent), and was then ordained deacon and priest. Later on, the archbishop of Constantinople John Chrysostom (398 – 404) appointed Alexander as the bishop of Basilinopolis (province of Bithynia). His career is strikingly similar to the pattern stated more than a century later by Justinian, who forbade ordination of members of the curial class unless they had been monks “from infancy and not yet emerged from adolescence”.80 In 404, Alexander had to leave his see, as did other bishops who remained loyal to John Chrysostom after his deposition.81 Despite a later decision to restore these bishops to their sees, Alexander was still in his native province as late as 411, as we learn from a letter of Synesius of Cyrene to Theophilus, archbishop of Alexandria (385 – 412).82 We do not know whether Alexander renounced the world before or after the law of 386,83 and there are no details about the fate of his curial property. It does not seem to have been at his disposal any more, since he needed the hospitality of his compatriot Synesius, now bishop of Ptolemais (province of Libya Superior). According to the Chronicle of Pseudo-Joshua the Stylite, Thomas was a chorepiskopos (a subordinate of a bishop in charge of the rural area of the bishopric) before his ordination as bishop of Amida, then the only city in the province of Mesopotamia, in 504/505. According to the Chronicle of Zachariah of Mitylene, however, he was “a monk and a councillor (bouleutes).”84 If we understand Thomas to have been simultaneously munic79 Laniado [n. 26], 71 – 87. 80 Supra n. 57 and n. 60. 81 However, his name is not included in the list of these bishops given by Palladius, Dialogue, c. 20, ed. trans. A.-M. Malingrey, Palladios. Dialogue sur la vie de Jean Chrysostome, SC 341 (Paris 1988), 396 – 399 (=PG 47, 71). 82 Synesius, Letter 67 [66], ed. A. Garzya, Synesii Cyrenensis Epistolae (Rome 1979), 121 – 124 (=PG 66, 1407 – 1408); Letter 66 [67], 120 (=PG 66, 1432A-B); T. Schmitt, Die Bekehrung des Synesios von Kyrene, Beitr ge zur Altertumskunde 146 (Munich 2001), 54. 83 D. Roques, Syn sios de Cyr ne et la Cyr na que du Bas-Empire (Paris 1987), 378, argues that it occurred ca. 380. 84 The Chronicle of Pseudo-Joshua the Stylite, trans. F.R. Trombley and J.W. Watt, Translated Texts for Historians 32 (Liverpool 2000), c. 83, pp. 100 – 101; The Syriac Chronicle Known as that of Zachariah of Mitylene, trans. F.G. Hamilton and E.W. Brooks (London 1899), VII, 5, pp. 163 – 164; on Thomas, see E. Hon-

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ipal councillor, monk, and chorepiskopos, one may surmise that his property was still at the disposal of the municipal council, administered by a replacement (substitutus), as required in the case of persons of the curial class who joined the clergy.85 Another person of the curial class who became a monk and was afterwards appointed bishop is the monophysite Church father Severus (ca. 465 – 538), patriarch of Antioch from 512 to 518.86 According to Zacharias, his fellow student and biographer, Severus’ family belonged to the municipal council of Sozopolis in the province of Pisidia. After his father’s death (ca. 485), he was sent, together with two elder brothers, to study grammar and rhetoric in Alexandria. He then moved to Beirut, where he studied law. At an unknown date, he shared with his brothers the inheritance of his parents and distributed most of his own part to the poor. When he took the monastic habit (ca. 490), he bought a monastery with the rest of his inheritance.87 Since Severus was born ca. 465,88 he had to live under the legislation on curial property promulgated before this date, likely even under the above mentioned law of Zeno, issued in 484 at the latest.89 To judge by his Life, either Severus himself or his biographer, despite their legal training, thought that these laws were better ignored.

85 86 87

88

89

igmann, vÞques et vÞch s monophysites d’Asie Ant rieure au VIe si cle, Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium. Subsidia 127 (Leuven 1951), 100; Laniado [n. 26], 59. Noethlichs [n. 63]; Laniado [n. 26], 49; Rapp [n. 63], 282 – 283. For his life, see P. Allen and C.T.R. Hayward, Severus of Antioch (London and New York 2004), 5 – 30. Zacharie le Scholastique, Vie de S v re, ed. trans. M.-A. Kugener, PO II/1 (Paris 1907), 10 – 11, 46 – 47 and 97; trans. R.A. Darling Young, “Zacharias. The Life of Severus”, in V.L. Wimbush (ed.), Ascetic Behavior in Greco-Roman Antiquity. A Sourcebook (Minneapolis 1990), 316, 319 and 326. According to Allen and Hayward [n. 86], 5, Severus was born “around 456”, no doubt a misprint for 465, the date often indicated in the secondary bibliography as well as in reference books. Had Severus been born ca. 456, he would have begun his higher education in Alexandria about the age of 30 years old, while his brothers would have been even older. A wide rang of evidence suggests, however, that higher education normally began before the age of 20 years old: see P. Petit, Les tudiants de Libanius. Un professeur de facult et ses l ves au Bas-Empire, tudes prosopographiques 1 (Paris 1957), 139 – 144; A. Laniado, “La carri re d’un notable de Gaza d’apr s son loge fun bre”, in C. Saliou (ed.), Gaza dans l’Antiquit tardive. Arch ologie, rh torique et histoire (Poitiers, 6 – 7 May 2004), Cardo. tudes et textes pour l’identit culturelle de l’Antiquit tardive 2 (Salerno 2005), 223 – 224. Supra n. 44.

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Though lacking explicit evidence, it would be imprudent to conclude that imperial legislation on curial property was irrelevant to prospective monks of the curial class, or to argue that there is “hardly a hint that these laws were even known to exist, let alone observed.”90 Imperial legislation seems to have been well-known enough to inspire a fictional description of an alienation of property in the Life of Alexander Akoimetos (ca. 355/360 – 427), probably written towards the end of the fifth century or at the beginning of the sixth.91 According to this text, Rabbula, a pagan municipal councillor of a pagan city and future bishop of Edessa (415 – 435/436), converted under the influence of Alexander and gave away his property: And since he (sc. Rabbula) wished to be undisturbed in his contemplation of God, he gave the city council (boule) its property (ktemata) and gave his wife’s property to his wife, daughters, and their handmaids. His wife agreed to her husband’s plan and organized an ascetic community where she remained with her daughters and maids, serving the Lord with her whole heart. Rabbula himself set his own slaves (paides) free after giving them sufficient means for a degree of comfort. Then after selling off all his clothing and property (ktemata) he gave to the destitute poor and went out to the desert.92

The value of the Life of Alexander Akoimetos as a source for the early life and conversion of Rabbula has rightly been questioned. It differs from the Life of Rabbula, a Syriac text which ignores Alexander’s role completely.93 Moreover, it is not free from anachronisms.94 It is therefore highly 90 Cf. MacMullen [n. 71], 50. 91 For the chronology of his life, see D. Caner, Wandering, Begging Monks. Spiritual Authority and the Promotion of Monasticism in Late Antiquity, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 33 (Berkeley 2002), 252 – 253, n. 25; for the date of the text, see ibid., 249 – 250. 92 Vie d’Alexandre l’Ac m te, ed. trans. E. de Stoop, PO VI/5 (Paris 1911) c. 20, p. 673; trans. Caner [n. 91], 261 (with adjustments; Caner translates paides as servants; as for the plural ktemata, it is translated first as property and then as possessions); Laniado [n. 26], 24. 93 R. Doran, Stewards of the Poor. The Man of God, Rabbula, and Hiba in Fifth Century Edessa, Cistercian Studies Series 208 (Kalamazoo 2006), 45 – 47 and 67 – 72; for the historical value of this text, see G. Bowersock, “The Syriac Life of Rabbula and Syrian Hellenism”, in Th. H gg and Ph. Rousseau (ed.), Greek Biography and Panegyric in Late Antiquity, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 31 (Berkeley 2000), 255 – 271. 94 According to an earlier chapter (Vie d’Alexandre l’Ac m te [n. 92], c. 11, p. 664), Rabbula held the office of pater civitatis (pater tes poleos in Greek). This detail is anachronistic, as already pointed out by D. Feissel in G. Dagron and D. Feissel,

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probable that the chapters dealing with Rabbula are a later addition to an earlier, lost version of the text,95 and there is no reason to believe that its author had access to genuine information about him. At any rate, the reference to property handed over to the municipal council is neither a scriptural reminiscence nor a hagiographical clich . This suggests that monastic circles such as those of the author were aware of imperial legislation.96 Another case is that of Hilarius, a pagan municipal councillor of Antioch in Syria. According to a fragment of the Life of Isidorus, written in the early sixth century by the Neo-Platonist philosopher Damascius of Damascus,97 Hilarius “came late to the study of philosophy, for, being obliged to spend his life in the public administration of his country, he had no free time to devote to philosophy.” When his wife was caught in flagrante delicto with Moschus, a close friend of his, Hilarius took advantage of this misfortune and bequeathed to him his wife as well as a part of his property.98 Moschus could thus serve as a municipal councillor in his stead, according to the law (kata ton nomon). Hilarius then left Antioch and went to Caria and Lycia, “where he converted to the philosophical life.” He then arrived in Athens, where Proclus (ca. 410 – 485) refused to accept him as a pupil because of his luxurious manners.99 There is nothing in Damascius’ words to suggest that Hilarius ever tried to secure for himself a senatorial dignity as a path to leave the curial class, while contemporary evidence suggests that similar attempts of municipal councillors of Antioch met with difficulties.100 Though Hilarius

95 96 97 98 99

100

Inscriptions de Cilicie, Travaux et M moires—Monographies 4 (Paris 1987), 218. For the earliest genuine reference to the pater civitatis see F. Mitthof, Neue Dokumente aus dem rçmischen und sp tantiken gypten zu Verwaltung und Reichsgeschichte, Corpus Papyrorum Raineri XXIII (Vienna 2002), no. 32, pp. 192 – 198 (Heracleopolis; 450). Caner [n. 91], 250 (with further bibliography). Caner [n. 91], 261, n. 74, suspects that we have here a reference to Rabbula’s renunciation of his position as pater civitatis, but this would be an awkward way to say so. This text was written in 526 at the latest: see PLRE II, s.v. Isidorus 5, 628. For Paul the Simple, a Christian who decided to renounce the world under similar circumstances, see The Lausiac History of Palladius, ed. C. Butler, vol. II (Cambridge 1904), c. 22, pp. 69 – 70 (=PG 34, 1076C-D). Damascii Vitae Isidori Reliquiae, ed. C. Zintzen, Bibliotheca Graeca et Latina Suppletoria 1 (Hildesheim 1967), frg. 222, p. 187; ed. trans. P. Athanassiadi, Damascius. The Philosophical History (Athens 1999), frg. 91a, pp. 226 – 229; Laniado [n. 26], 25. CI X, 32, 61 – 62; Laniado [n. 26], 24.

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was not committed to voluntary poverty, let alone to chastity, alienation of property played a role in his attempt to pursue a contemplative life, just as it did in the case of Christians who renounced the world. The fact that he had to find a replacement suggests that holders of curial property, whatever their personal status, were liable to the municipal and fiscal obligations of its former owners. To judge by this piece of evidence, laws whose basic aim was to maintain curial property at the disposal of the municipal councils remained active and binding. As we have already seen, Justinian was the first emperor to turn monastic poverty into a binding rule. However, his legislation did not repeal previous restrictions on alienation of curial property. Thus landowners who were not free to give away the whole of their wealth prior to 535 were still not allowed to do so afterwards. We do not know what became of these restrictions after Justinian’s reign, and there is no sign that they were repealed by any of his immediate successors. They had presumably become inactive by the reign of Leo VI (886 – 912), who officially abolished the municipal councils long after they actually ceased to exist.101 According to G. Dagron, “c’est par son statut fiscal que se d finit sous le Bas-Empire et pendant tout le Moyen Age oriental une cat gorie sociale.”102 In other words, every social group, not just the curial class, had a particular set of fiscal obligations and fiscal privileges. This was notably the case with the senatorial order, the most prestigious group in late Roman and early Byzantine society.103 While emperors attempted to limit the “flight of the councillors”, there were no laws about the “flight of senators”, so to speak. Though members of the senatorial order did join the 101 Leo VI, Novella 46, ed. trans. P. Noailles and A. Dain, Les Novelles de L on VI le Sage (Paris 1944), 182 – 185 (=Jus Graecoromanum, vol. I, ed. J. Zepos and P. Zepos [Athens 1931], 116). The last piece of evidence for the curial class in the Byzantine empire is from 668: see R. Schieffer, “Kreta, Rom und Laon. Vier Briefe des Papstes Vitalian vom Jahre 668”, in H. Mordek (ed.), Pappstum, Kirche und Recht im Mittelalter (T bingen 1991), 29 (=PL 87, 1003B-C); W. Brandes, “Byzantine Cities in the Seventh and Eighth Centuries—Different Sources, Different Histories?”, in G.P. Brogiolo and B. Ward-Perkins (ed.), The Idea and Ideal of the Town Between Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, The Transformation of the Roman World 4 (Leiden 1999), 30. 102 G. Dagron, Naissance d’une capitale. Constantinople et ses institutions de 330 451, Biblioth que Byzantine— tudes 7 (Paris 1974), 147. 103 For the fiscal status of senators, see Jones [n. 26], vol. I, 535 – 542; Dagron [n. 102], 147 – 152; G. Gera. and S. Giglio, La tassazione dei senatori nel tardo impero romano (Rome 1984); A. Chastagnol, Le s nat romain l’ poque imp riale (Paris 1992), 298 – 310.

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clergy and especially the episcopate,104 they do not seem to have been subject to legal restrictions similar to those imposed upon municipal councillors.105 Ch. L crivain argued that “la fortune du s nateur est engag e au s nat comme celle d’un curiale la curie”,106 yet no extant law explicitly restricted the freedom of senators to alienate their property. Only a few members of the senatorial order, mainly women, tried to fulfill the ideal of voluntary poverty, and their situations concerned their relatives, fellow aristocrats, and even the emperors.107 Other women of rank proved generous towards clerics and monks, without necessarily aspiring to fulfill the ideal of voluntary poverty.108 This is probably the context of the promulgation of two laws which restricted property rights of women without referring explicitly to members of the senatorial order. The first law, which dealt with widows and female wards, was addressed in 370 to Damasus, archbishop of Rome (366 – 384).109 The second one was addresssed in 390 to Tatianus, a pagan who was then praetorian prefect of the East. It forbade ordination of widows under 60 years old as deaconnesses, and it may have been related to the case of Olympias, a

104 Rapp [n. 63], 188 – 195. 105 Noethlichs [n. 63], 151. 106 Ch. L crivain, Le s nat romain depuis Diocl tien Rome et Constantinople, Biblioth que des coles FranÅaises d’Ath nes et de Rome 52 (Paris 1888), 86. 107 Dagron [n. 102], 502; Patlagean [n. 26], 334; Harries [n. 47]; Rinaldi [n. 23], 50 and n. 98; Curran [n. 47], 269 – 320. For Pharetrios, the son of a senator of Rome who joined a monastery in Constantinople together with his sons and gave it his wealth, see La vie ancienne de saint Marcel l’Ac m te, ed. G. Dagron, Analecta Bollandiana 86 (1968), c. 12, pp. 296 – 297; Caner [n. 91], 279, n. 173. For a senator who was criticized for having kept some of his property, see Les Apophtegmes des P res. Collection syst matique [n. 52], vi, 14, p. 324 – 325 (PG 65, 245C). 108 For pagan criticism of excessive generosity of Christian women, see Porphyry’s Against the Christians. The Literary Remains, trans. R.J. Hoffmann (New York 1994), 45; Ammianus Marcellinus, Histories, XXVII, 3, 14, trans. J.C. Rolfe, The Loeb Classical Library (London and Cambridge Mass. 1964), vol. III, 20 – 21. 109 CTh XVI, 2, 20; trans. Pharr [n. 33], 443 – 444; Coleman-Norton [n. 24], vol. I, no. 150, pp. 326 – 327; R. Bruno Siola, “Viduae e coetus viduarum nella chiesa primitiva e nella normazione dei primi imperatori cristiani”, Atti dell’Accademia Romanistica Costantiniana. VIII Convegno Internazionale (Naples 1990), 415 – 418; Rebenich [n. 15], 160; Curran [n. 47], 285 – 286.

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member of the senatorial aristocracy of Constantinople who lost her husband as a young lady. This law was abolished two months later.110 If we are to believe a hagiographical text, an imperial decree directly relevant to our subject was issued by Honorius, emperor of the West, on behalf of Melania the Younger and her husband Pinianus.111 Both were members of wealthy senatorial families of Rome,112 who solicited the help of Serena (?389 – 408) in their attempt to counter the opposition of their relatives, as the text states: When the empress (sc. Serena) heard these things, she was much edified and straightway informed her truly pious, devout brother, the very blessed emperor Honorius, who issued a decree in every province that their possessions should be sold under the responsibility of the governors and the municipal councillors, and that the money deriving from them should be remitted to Melania and Pinianus, once again under their responsibility (of the governors and the municipal councillors).113

Some scholars have argued that in 408, the year of their meeting with Serena, both Melania and Pinianus were under twenty-five years old. In that case, they would have been too young to enjoy full property rights, which Honorius could confer upon them through a personal privilege known as venia aetatis. 114 This explanation is far from satisfactory. First, their exact age in 408 is not known, and they may well have been already older than twenty-five years.115 Second, the text says that Melania and Pinianus, inspired by Jesus’ advice to the rich young man 110 CTh XVI, 2, 27 – 28; trans. Pharr [n. 33], 444 – 445; Coleman-Norton [n. 24], vol. II, no. 225, pp. 429 – 432; no. 227, pp. 433 – 434; Dagron [n. 102], 502, n. 7; Bruno Siola [n. 109], 415 – 418; Curran [n. 47], 286 – 287. 111 For this couple, see PLRE I, s.v. Melania 2, 593; s.v. Pinianus 2, 702; Krumeich [n. 15], 117 – 153; Pietri [n. 15], 1483 – 1490 and 1798 – 1802. 112 For their wealth, see A. Giardina, “Carit eversiva: le donazioni di Melania la Giovane e gli equilibri della societ tardoromana”, Studi Storici 29 (1988), 127 – 142; Chastagnol [n. 103], 329 – 331. For further bibliography see below. 113 Vie de sainte M lanie, ed. trans. D. Gorce, SC 90 (Paris 1962), c. 12, p. 152; trans. E.A. Clark, The Life of Melania the Younger, Studies in Women and Religion 14 (Lewison 1984), 36 – 37 (with adjustments). For the Latin version of this decree, see G rontius, La Vie Latine de sainte M lanie, ed. trans. P. Laurence, Studium Biblicum Franciscanum. Collectio Minor 41 (Jerusalem 2002), c. 12, 9, pp. 180 – 181. 114 Gorce [n. 113], 138, n. 1; 152 – 153, n. 4; A. Demandt and G. Brummer, “Der Prozess gegen Serena im Jahre 408 n. Chr.”, Historia 26 (1977), 488; Curran [n. 47], 303. For the venia aetatis, see Kaser [n. 59], 119. 115 According to Pietri [n. 15], 1483, Melania would have been born in 380, while Pinianus would have been born between 376 and 380 (ibid., 1798).

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(Matthew, xix, 21), had begun to sell their property before they applied to Serena.116 Furthermore, even minor beneficiaries of venia aetatis were not entitled to sell landed property without a special decree.117 And finally, the text does not use the terms one could expect to find in a document conferring a venia aetatis. 118 Another explanation, proposed by J. Gascou in 1985, has been unfortunately neglected by scholars who wrote about the Life of Melania during the last two decades. Gascou cautiously inferred from the passage quoted above that alienation of senatorial property was not merely a commercial transaction, for it required the involvement of the state.119 If this explanation is correct, then the responsibility assigned to provincial and municipal authorities might reflect the concern of the government for its own interests rather than the good will of a pious ruler. Whatever the aim of this decree, its authenticity remains in doubt. Honorius is reported to have acted under the influence of an empress (basilissa in Greek, regina in Latin) called Serena.120 This is a serious mistake, since Serena, a member of the imperial family, wife of the mighty general Stilicho, and mother-in-law of Honorius, was not an empress and never bore the female imperial title of Augusta.121 This text should therefore be read with caution. Despite its dubiousness, it remains a worthwhile contribution to our subject, for it reports a decree whose aim was to assert, rather than to restrict, the right of members of the senatorial order to fulfill the ideal of voluntary poverty. Moreover, it is a rare example of an early Byzantine text that posits the fulfillment of this ideal as more than just a matter of free will. 116 Vie de sainte M lanie [n. 113], c. 9, pp. 144 – 145; trans. Clark [n. 113], 33; G rontius [n. 113], c. 9, 2, pp. 172 – 173. 117 Kaser [n. 59], 119, n. 32. 118 For a sixth century formula aetatis veniae written in Italy, see Cassiodorus, Variae [n. 38], VII, 41, pp. 222 – 223; trans. Hodgkin [n. 38], 342. 119 J. Gascou, “Les grands domaines, la cit et l’ tat en gypte byzantine”, Travaux et M moires, 9 (1985), 33: “Les p rip ties de la liquidation des biens de M lanie et de Pinien, au d but du Ve si cle, montrent que la r alisation d’une fortune s natoriale, loin d’Þtre une simple affaire commerciale, engageait activement les plus hautes instances de l’ tat.” 120 Vie de sainte M lanie [n. 113], c. 11, p. 146; trans. Clark [n. 113], 33; G rontius [n. 113], c. 11, 1, pp. 174 – 175. 121 For an unconvincing attempt to explain away this difficulty, see V.A. Sirago, “Funzioni di Serena nella Vita Melaniae”, Vetera Christianorum 22 (1985), 381 – 386. For Serena, see PLRE I, 824; Demandt and Brummer [n. 114]; Pietri [n. 15], 2028 – 2029.

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Higher than senators stood emperors and their relatives, by far the greatest landowners of the empire as well as the greatest benefactors of Christianity. One of them, Theodosius II, “rendered his palace little different from a monastery,”122 while his sister Pulcheria is said to have taken the vow of chastity.123 However, no emperor or member of an imperial family, except for legendary figures,124 is reported to have fulfilled the ideal of voluntary poverty.

Conclusions While insisting on the paramount importance of free will in any attempt to fulfill the ideal of voluntary poverty, Christian authors seldom referred to objective obstacles, such as the restrictions imposed by the state. However, administrative and fiscal considerations induced more than one Christian emperor to restrict the freedom of an important group of landowners, the municipal councillors, to alienate their property. While this legislation did not target prospective monks in particular, no exception was made on their behalf prior to the reign of Justinian. Unfortunately, the impact of these laws is difficult to assess due to the paucity of documentary evidence, as is often the case with late Roman and early Byzantine legislation. It would therefore be imprudent to conclude that these laws remained inactive. As for members of the senatorial order, no similar restrictions seem to have been imposed, with the possible exception of two laws which dealt only with women. On the other hand, an imperial decree of dubious authenticity asserts the right of Melania and her husband Pinianus, both of them members of the senatorial aristocracy of Rome, to fulfill the ideal of voluntary poverty. It may be considered a paradox that restrictions on alienation of curial property began with Theodosius the Great, the first Christian emper122 Socrates, Ecclesiastical History, VII, 22, 4, ed. G.Ch. Hansen, Sokrates Kirchengeschichte, GCS. N.F. 1 (Berlin 1995), 368 (=PG 67, 785A); trans. A.C. Zeno, The Ecclesiastical History of Socrates Scholasticus, A Select Library of the Christian Church. Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, 2nd Series, vol. 2 (Buffalo 1890), 164. 123 Sozomenus [n. 20], IX, 1, 3, p. 390 (=PG 67, 1593B); PLRE II, 929 – 930. Pulcheria’s motive may have been a political one: see K.G. Holum, Theodosian Empresses. Imperial Dominion in Late Antiquity, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 3 (Berkeley 1982), 93 – 96. 124 See, for instance, the story of Sopatra, supposedly a daughter of the emperor Maurice, in Acta Sanctorum Novembris, vol. IV (1925), 217 – 219; cf. PLRE III, s.v. Cleopatra, 318.

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or who ruled that the faith of his subjects should be the same as his.125 It is true that the successors of Julian the Apostate ruled a society which was by and large Christian, often making use of their legislative powers in order to promote Christianity, but fundamental tenets of this religion were not always given the support of the secular power. Indeed, early Byzantine law and public life were not as thoroughly Christianized as imperial rhetoric and propaganda would imply at face value. Voluntary poverty is a good example of it, for its value was never endorsed by any early Byzantine emperor, not even by Justinian. Indeed, his legislation on monastic poverty did not stipulate that prospective monks sell everything they have and give the proceeds to the poor. His real concern, inspired no doubt by a cenobitic tradition which began in the fourth century,126 was to assure that property not yet alienated by new monks would belong to their monasteries. Thus his legislation on monastic poverty owed much more to the ideal of communal property depicted in the Acts of the Apostles than to the locus classicus in the Gospel of Matthew. Even after the reign of Justinian, authors of normative texts in the Byzantine Empire made little use of Jesus’ advice to the rich young man. According to a canon of 861, new monks were free to decide how to divest of their property before joining a monastery. The abbot or the bishop would sell any property a monk was later found to possess, distributing the proceeds to the poor.127 It is notable both that the monastery did not become the owner of that property and that Jesus’ advice to the rich young man inspired a sanction against monks who failed to follow it scrupulously. A century afterwards, the emperor Nicephorus Phocas (963 – 969), a pious Christian who considered becoming a monk himself, promulgated a remarkable law whose explicit aim was to restrict the growth of monastic property. Inter alia, this law ordered “persons wishing to be pious and undertake good deeds and works of charity to proceed in accordance with the commandment of Christ by selling their goods to give to the poor.”128 This was apparently the first and 125 This is the subject of the so called “Edict of Thessalonica”: see CTh XVI, 1, 2; trans. Pharr [n. 33], 440. 126 P.G. Caron, “Gli inizi della propriet monastica nella legislazione del tardo impero”, Atti dell’Accademia Romanistica Costantiniana. X Convegno Internazionale (Naples 1995), 467 – 479. 127 Supra n. 49. 128 N. Svoronos, Les Novelles des empereurs mac doniens concernant la terre et les stratiotes (Athens 1994), 157 – 161 (=Jus Graecoromanum, vol. I [n. 101], 249 – 252); trans. E. McGeer, The Land Legislation of the Macedonian Emperors, Mediaeval

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last secular law in Byzantium to refer to Jesus’ advice to the rich young man.129 It did not have an enduring influence on the subsequent history of Byzantine monasticism, for it either became inactive or was repealed in 988 by a law of dubious authenticity.130

Sources in Translation 38 (Toronto 2000), 92 – 96; for this law, see R. Morris, Monks and Laymen in Byzantium, 843 – 1118 (Cambridge 1995), 166 – 199; F. Dçlger, Regesten der Kaiserurkunden des ostrçmischen Reiches, vol. I/2, 2nd edition by A.E. M ller and A. Beihammer (Munich 2003), no. 699. 129 See, however, Julian the Apostate’s letter to the city of Edessa [n. 24]. 130 Svoronos [n. 128], 189 (=Jus Graecoromanum, vol. I [n. 101], 259); trans. McGeer [n. 128], 109 – 110; for this law, see J. Ph. Thomas, “A Disputed Novel of Basil II”, Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 24 (1983), 273 – 283; cf. Dçlger [n. 128], no. 772 (with further bibliography).

Charitable Ministrations (Diakoniai), Monasticism, and the Social Aesthetic of Sixth-Century Byzantium Daniel Caner “Among the various charitable institutions at Constantinople which had sprung from Christianity, no mean place was held by the diakoniai, which were institutions for the care of the sick and of persons in distress”. So writes John of Ephesus in his late sixth-century Church History. 1 Elsewhere John attributes the spread of such charitable institutions to a monophysite layman named Paul of Antioch. It was the object of Paul’s religious zeal, says John, “to carry poor and old and sick persons by night” and “bathe and anoint them, bring them [something] to drink, and give small coins, as was suited for them each”. Paul taught his household to do the same, and soon other members of society secretly joined in: Even many of the great and eminent men of the city, having put off their apparel and clothed themselves in poor men’s apparel and hoods… would thus put straps on their necks and carry the chairs of the sick and poor… and perform all the ministration to them, while in their earnest zeal they gladly spent money for each man, according to his state in life.

Paul went on to organize diakoniai in other cities, including Constantinople.2 It was to one of its “diakonia that bathe the sick at night” that John says another layman named Ishoq repaired after forsaking his family to pursue eternal life. Once a leading citizen on the Roman frontier, Ishoq served in that diakonia until he began to attract acclaim, whereI thank Miriam Frenkel and Yaacov Lev for inviting me to participate in the Charity and Piety research group at Hebrew University in January-February 2007, and the group itself for stimulating many of the ideas pursued here. I also thank the Providence Patristics group for kindly reading a draft of this essay and providing so many helpful remarks in February 2008. 1 Jo. Eph., Histora ecclesiastica [= h.e.] III, 2.14; trans. R. Payne Smith, The Third Part of the Ecclesiastical History of John Bishop of Ephesus (Oxford, 1860), 113, substituting diakoniai for Payne-Smith’s “diaconates”. 2 Jo. Eph., “Life of Paul of Antioch”, v.SS.Or. 46, ed. and trans. E.W. Brooks, PO 18.672 – 73, slightly adapted for clarity.

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upon he changed his clothing for sackcloth and went to work in a hospital. There he served until he died, when his wife (according to John) affirmed that it had been out of “humility for God’s sake, and not as a man in need, that he had submitted to minister to the sick”.3 These vignettes offer precious details regarding a Christian institution and practice that has been called one of the “distinctive features of Byzantine worship”.4 According to John, such sixth-century diakoniai differed from other charitable institutions of the time, because unlike hospitals and orphanages run by clerics or monks, they gave ordinary lay people an opportunity “to devote themselves to works of active benevolence”.5 In other words, these diakoniai provided an opportunity to engage in direct, charitable contact with sick and poor strangers, whether by carrying them, washing them, serving them food, or giving them coins. Would that John and others had said more. While the Christian promotion of charity to the poor has been recognized to be one of the major ideological developments of early Byzantine history,6 and while it is well known that hospitals, orphanages, and other such institutions were invented in this period to do the charitable work that resulted,7 few sources from the early fourth to the early seventh centuries actually reveal how such work was carried out on the level where ideology was put to test, i. e., in interactions between individual givers and receivers. Modern research on this development has therefore tended to focus instead on ei3 4 5

6

7

Id., “Life of Isaac”, v.SS.Or. 44 (PO 18.668 – 71). Cf. “Isaacius 3”, in J. Martingdale, ed., Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, vol.3 (1992), 718. P. Magdalino, “Church, Bath, and Diakonia in Medieval Constantinople”, in R. Morris, ed., Church and People in Byzantium (Birmingham, 1990), 165 – 188, at 184. Jo. Eph., h.e. III 2.14; trans. Payne Smith, The Third Part, 114. For the role of monks and low-level clerics in the daily operation of hospitals and other churchrun charitable institutions, see T. Miller, The Birth of the Hospital in the Byzantine Empire (Baltimore, 1997), 118 – 27. The classic study is E. Patlagean, Pauvret conomique et pauvret sociale Byzance, 4e-7e si cles (Paris, 1977). For overviews see J. Herrin, “Ideals of charity, realities of welfare: The philanthropic activity of the Byzantine Church”, in R. Morris, ed., Church and People in Byzantium (Birmingham, 1990), 154 – 66, and D. Constantelos, Byzantine Philanthropy and Social Welfare (New Brunswick, N.J., 1968). P. Brown, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman Empire (Hanover, N.H., and London, 2002), 26 – 44, O. Constable, Housing the Stranger in the Mediterranean World: Lodging, Trade, and Travel in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Cambridge, 2003), 1 – 67, and Patlagean, Pauvret conomique et pauvret sociale, 190 – 93.

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ther the theological arguments and rhetorical methods that were crafted to promote charity in early Byzantium,8 or on the role of charity in enhancing episcopal authority in early Byzantine cities.9 Such studies make clear that the transition from a Greco-Roman model of civic patronage (“euergetism”) that privileged one’s fellow citizens, to a Christian model of charity that embraced sick and poor strangers, was by no means easy: it required not only the founding of new institutions to deliver charity in a systematic fashion, but more fundamentally, it required the reconceptualization, of not only the poor, but of the very bonds of society itself.10 Such observations go well beyond earlier scholarship, which tended to decry early Byzantium as the place in which Christian charity was first “professionalized”—i.e., in which charitable work was, for the most part, entrusted to church and monastic institutions, thereby isolating it from lay practice and a direct expression of Christian love.11 John’s descriptions show that alternatives to such professional care continued to exist even in the late sixth century, when the institutional and social structures of early Byzantium had become most refined and entrenched. Yet more may be said about how the practice of charity was imagined to foster new Christian social bonds and identities in this period, even if placed in the hands of religious specialists. 8 M. DeVinne, “The Advocacy of Empty Bellies: Episcopal Representations of the Poor in the Late Roman Empire”, Ph.D. Diss. (Stanford University, 1995), S. Holman, The Hungry are Dying: Beggars and Bishops in Roman Cappadocia (Oxford, 2001), ead., “The Entitled Poor: Human Rights Language in the Cappadocians”, Pro Ecclesia 9 (2000), 476 – 89, and R. Finn, “Portraying the poor: descriptions of poverty in Christian texts from the late Roman empire”, in M. Atkins and R. Osborne, eds., Poverty in the Roman World Cambridge, 2006), 130 – 44. 9 P. Brown, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity: Towards a Christian Empire (Madison, Wis., 1992), 71 – 117 and R. Finn, Almsgiving in the Later Roman Empire: Christian Promotion and Practice (313 – 450) (Oxford, 2006), 34 – 89, 221 – 57. 10 Brown, Poverty and Leadership, 77. 11 Characteristic of the nineteenth-century surveys of . Chastel, tudes historiques sur l’influence de la charit durant les premiers si cles chr tiens (Paris,1853) and G. Uhlhorn, Christian Charity in the Ancient Church, trans. S. Taylor (New York, 1883). Both discussed in Finn, Almsgiving in the Later Roman Empire, 27 – 28. For similar views (based partly on nostalgia for the small, early christian communities described in apologetic literature), see A. Hamman, Vie liturgique et vie sociale: repas des pauvres, diaconie et diaconat, agape et repas de charit , offrande dans l’antiquit chr tienne (Paris, 1968).

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To explore these issues I have found it illuminasting to focus on the ideals and practices broadly associated with the word diakonia. Originally this Greek word referred to any delicate task that a servant undertook for a master. Hence in Christian Scripture it was applied to the act of serving tables at the wedding at Cana and within apostolic communities (Mt 22.13; Mk 1:31; Lk 10:40, 12:37, 17:8, 22:26; Jn 2:5,9, 12:26; Act 6:2; 11.29, 12:25). It was additionally applied to the collection of donations for the poor (Rm 15:25,31; 1 Cor 16:5; 2 Cor 9:1; Act 11:29, 12:25) and the provision of hospitality in general (Lk 8:3; Phil 13). Thus in early Byzantine usage it could include a wide variety of charitable ministrations, ranging from providing alms to other forms of service. Although in church contexts the word became especially associated with liturgical service and office, it retained its scriptural sense of charitable ministrations in other Christian institutions—not least in those specifically denominated diakoniai in Greek, Latin, and Syriac.12 Johns’ vignettes, though brief, shed light on what participating in such services was thought to entail in sixth-century Byzantium. As he presents them, the hallmark of such diakoniai was direct, physical contact between lay servers and sick or poor people. But his narratives indicate that asceticism was also a likely concomitant: he notes, for example, that Ishoq was “constantly occupied in the practice of asceticism”, and that members of a diakonia in Constantinople aspired to live “with the strictness of a monastic rule”.13 Moreover, his narratives indicate that efforts to visibly alter one’s identity attended such work: thus eminent men of Antioch are depicted as changing their clothing for that of the poor,

12 See H. Leclerq, “Diacre”, Dictionnaire d’arch ologie chr tienne et de liturgie 4.1 (Paris, 1920), 738 – 46. and Hamman, Vie liturgique et vie sociale, 67 – 83. M. Metzger, Les Constitutions apostoliques, vol. 1 (Paris, 1985), 51, notes that the term diakonia is often used in combination with that of rpeqes¸a (“service”) in third-century portions of the Apostolic Constitutions, and that it was virtually synonymous with that term when describing the activities of deaconesses. That diakonia has a gendered aspect is illustrated by the fact that it is especially emphasized in hagiography regarding women, inspired partly by 1 Tim 5:10 and the role assigned to Martha in Lk 10:25 – 38. This aspect deserves further elucidation, but I refrain from pursuing it here, since the monastic texts discussed below appear more sensitive to “class” or master-slave associations. 13 Jo. Eph., h.e. III 2.16, trans. Payne-Smith, The Third Part, 116; “Life of Paul of Antioch”, v.SS.Or. 44 (PO 18.669). Cf. “Life of Isaac”, v.SS.Or. 46 (PO 18.676).

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while Ishoq draped himself in sackcloth before performing work that John calls “an exercise of discretion and humility for God”.14 From these passages it is apparent that John did not consider the value of participating in such diakoniai to be merely that of helping the sick or poor. He focuses on the charity providers, not the charity receivers: diakonia interests him primarily as a spiritual exercise, tantamount to an ascetic practice itself, the object of which was achieving “humility for God”. In other words, for John, interacting with the anonymous sick and poor provided a means of expressing one’s humility, and, in effect, of humbling oneself. No doubt Christians of his day had other reasons for participating in such diakoniai, and of course it must also be noted that John was writing hagiography rather than mere descriptions of fact. Indeed, his vignettes recall the early Byzantine motif of “secret saints”, whose sanctity was revealed by the efforts they made to keep their good works concealed.15 But they also seem to reflect the actual religious practices of certain Christian aristocrats of the day who pursued good works as a “middling” form of asceticism that enabled them to accentuate their religious identity while preserving their worldly status. Examples of this phenomenon begin to appear in fifth-century sources. In the Life of Melania the Younger, for instance, the aristocratic couple Melania and Pinian, before adopting a full monastic life in Jerusalem, are portrayed as pursuing a regimen of charitable ministrations in 14 Jo. Eph., “Life of Paul of Antioch”, v.SS.Or. 44 (PO 18.671). In early monastic texts, change of clothing often indicates change of mentality: see P. Oppenheim, Symbolik und religiçse Wertung des Mçnchskeidung im christlichen Altertum (M nster, 1932), 1 – 29. 15 When not “holy fools”, such saints are usually anonymous lay people who practice charity, and serve the function of shaming to humble action the better known ascetics or church leaders who discover them: e. g., Historia monachorum in Aegypto 14.2 – 22 and The Man of God of Edessa, now trans. R. Doran, Stewards of the Poor: The Man of God, Rabbula, and Hiba in Fifth-Century Edessa (Kalamazoo, Mich., 2006), 17 – 25, to which Palladius, Historia Lausiaca [h. Laus.] 68.1 – 4, on an anonymous monk who serves the poor in secret at night, is an interesting antecedent. See S. Ashbrook Harvey, “The Holy and the Poor: Models from Early Syriac Christianity”, in E.A. Hanawalt and C. Linberg, eds., Through the Eye of a Needle: Judeo-Christian Roots of Social Welfare (Kirksville, Mo., 1994), 58 – 64, D. Kruger, Symeon the Holy Fool: Leontius’s Life and the Late Antique City (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1996), 66 – 71, and T. Vivian, “Figures in the Carpet: Macarius the Great, Isaiah of Scetis, Daniel of Scetis and Monastic Spirituality in the Wadi al-Natrun (Scetis) from the Fourth to the Sixth Century”, The American Benedictine Review 56:2 (June 2005), 149 – 51.

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Rome, lest they fall short of practicing “asceticism beyond their strength”. After dressing down in cheap clothes, they chose for themselves the following course: they made the rounds of all the sick and poor people without exception, visiting them and giving them treatment. They entertained strangers and sent them on their way with generous supplies of provisions and money. They gave unsparing help to the needy and to beggars… following the example of Job [Jb 21:32], the blessed servant of the Lord, they left their door open to anyone without power or means.16

In a similar vein, the church historian Theodore Lector describes how a Roman consul named John Vincomalus divided his time between being an imperial dignitary and being a monk: after participating in the daily court processions and procedings, John would slip off his official regalia and into monastic garb so as to “serve in the diakonia of the kitchen and stables, etc.” within a monastery at Constantinople.17 As in John of Ephesus’ examples, diakonia work is presented here as a spiritual exercise that linked self-effacement to self-abasement. It offered a means not only of connecting high to low in early Byzantium, but of turning high into low, at least temporarily, “for God’s sake”. Such behavior would not have been so religiously significant, of course, were it not for Jesus’ proclamation that, “He who wishes to be the first among you will be a slave of all: for the Son of Man came not to be served [diakonÞthÞnai], but to serve [diakonÞsai] (Mk 10:44 – 45)”. It enabled Christian leaders and aristocrats to imitate Christ while legitimizing their pre-eminence within the community. But that is not all. In his 2002 book, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman 16 Gerontius, v.Melaniae 9, ed. D. Gorce, Vie de Saint M lanie (Paris, 1962), 142 – 44. Gerontius was a Jerusalem monk, and this may reflect an ascetic perspective there: In the Life of Peter the Iberian, Peter decides to personally serve strangers in Jerusalem before being admonished to both serve and practice asceticism in the isolation of a monastery, “for that is for the more advanced”: See John Rufus, v.Petri Iberi, ed. and trans. R. Raabe, Petrus der Iberer. Ein Charakterbild zur Kirchen- un Sittengeschichte des f nften Jahrhunderts (Leipzig, 1895), 45 – 47 (Syr). and 46 – 47 (Germ.). Peter was said to be inspired by the example of Passarion and his Jerusalem hospital. As in Melania’s case, wealth enabled him to carry out his charitable ministrations; indeed, diakonia becomes a basic theme of praise for saints who had some wealth. Cf. Palladius, h. Laus. 14.1 – 5 (on Paesius and Isaias). 17 Thdr. Lect., h.e. frg. 387, ed. G.C. Hansen, Theodoros Anagnostes Kirchengeschichte (Berlin, 1995), 109. See Martingdale, Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, vol. 2 (1980), 1109.

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Empire, Peter Brown notes the importance of Jesus’ incarnation in the social imagination of the fifth and sixth centuries. Crucial to that imagination was Paul’s description of Jesus as one who, “though rich, made Himself poor for our sake” (2 Cor 8:9), and “though He was in the form of God… emptied Himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in a likeness of human beings (Phil 2:6 – 7). As Brown observes, this fusion of high and low within Jesus provided a basis for social cohesion in the early Byzantine world, whereby “widely separated segments of society—emperors and subjects, rich and poor—were thought to be bound together by mysterious ties of common flesh”.18 It was not simply that poor people represented Christ incarnate, thereby meriting the rich man’s mercy. Rather, Christ was imagined to be present in rich and poor, as in slave or free, alike, since Christ had adopted the essential lowliness that typified all humanity in relation to God. Christians were therefore to regard each other, despite all outward differences, as isotimoi, “equal in honor”,19 in recognition of the fact that, beneath their worldly status, “all bore the image of Christ in themselves”.20 By the sixth century, this social ideal had superceded that of the earlier Stoics. Stoic philosophers like Seneca had argued that one should do good to people of different social strata merely on the basis of a common humanity.21 These were radical ideals for the aristocratic societies in which they were born. Those who formulated them, whether Christian or Stoic, sought some transcendent basis for social identity and charitable action in societies that otherwise depended upon wide-ranging distinctions in social status, outwardly maintained by clothing and privileges and inwardly attended by commensurate perceptions of material need and intrinsic worth. Of course, historians might question whether such radical ideals had any impact upon contemporary practice. Perhaps more demonstrable is the question whether structures were put in place to attain them. Elsewhere Brown has used the phrase “aesthetic of society” to describe the imagery by which a society perceives and represents itself as good, bad, or 18 Brown, Poverty and Leadership, 97, based in part on P. Angstenberger, Der reiche und der arme Christus: Die Rezeptionsgeschichte von 2 Kor 8,9 zwischen dem zweiten und dem sechsten Jahrhundert (Bonn, 1997). 19 Chrys., Hom. 30.3 in 1 Cor (PG 61.253). 20 Brown, Poverty and Leadership, 95 – 96. 21 See A.R. Hands, Charities and Social Aid in Greece and Rome (Ithaca, N.Y, 1968), 82 and 84.

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otherwise.22 The phrase aptly describes two images of social order, or eutaxia, that are found in early Byzantine sources: in one, proper social order is defined by clear separation of social ranks; in the other, it is defined by charitable interaction between social ranks, based on the perception that “wealth and poverty in the present life are only masks”.23 Although these two ideals were not necessarily incompatible, the latter “social aesthetic” required all to seek out and honor “Christ” in their fellow human beings. Where, we might ask, would contemporaries have expected this to actually happen in early Byzantium? Most likely in early Byzantine monasteries. As noted above, we hear little about organized diakoniai in this period apart from the writings of John of Ephesus. Historians have sought parallels for them in lay confraternities of the period variously known as the philiakoi, philoponoi, or spoudaioi. 24 But it is in early Byzantine monasticism that we find the closest parallels to what John describes, and in monastic literature of the sixth and seventh centuries that diakonia receives its fullest elaboration as a 22 P. Brown, “Remembering the Poor and the Aesthetic of Society”, Journal of Interdisciplinary History 35 (2005), 513 – 22. 23 Chrys., de Lazaro 2 (PG 47.986); cf. Bars. ep. 764, cited below, n.98. For the theme, see F. Cardman, “Poverty and Wealth as Theater: John Chrysostom’s Homilies on Lazarus and the Rich Man”, in S. Holman, ed., Wealth and Poverty in Early Christianity (Grand Rapids, Mich., 2008), 159 – 75. 24 S. P trid s, “Le monast re des spoudaei a J rusalem et les Spoudaei de Constantinople”, chos d’Orient 4 (1900 – 01), 225 – 31, id., “Spoudaei et philopones”, chos d’Orient 7 (1910), 341 – 48; Patlagean, Pauvret conomique et pauvret sociale, 191 – 92; E. Wipszycka, “Les confr ries dans la vie religieuse de l’ gypte chr tienne”, in R. Samuel, ed., Proceedings of the Twelfth International Congress of Papyrology (Toronto, 1970), 511 – 25; P.J. Sijpestejin, “New Light on the Philopones”, Aegyptus 69 (1989), 95 – 99; P. Horden, “The confraternities of Byzantium”, in W.J. Sheils and D. Wood, eds., Voluntary Religion (Oxford, 1986), 25 – 45; and J. Russell, The Mosaic Inscriptions of Anemurium (Vienna, 1987), 61 – 64, discussing an inscription (no. 11) that identifies one such group as philiakoi (“companions”). This seems to clarify Zacharias Scholasticus’s remark (preserved in the Syriac text of his Life of Severus of Antioch, ed. A. Kugener, PO 2.24) that those called philoponoi in Alexandria were elsewhere called “companions” as well as “zealous ones”. We cannot assume such groups regularly performed charitable work: Zacharius merely describes attendance of church services, bible study, or promotion of church policy, and perhaps they should be compared to modern church vestries. Susan Holman has suggested to me that some of these groups may have been akin to, or have developed out of, the lay ambulance workers (decani, parabalani, lecticarii) attested at Constantinople, Alexandria and Antioch earlier in the fifth century.

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Christian ideal.25 Historians have rightly questioned the degree to which sixth-century monks or monasteries were actually involved in performing charitable ministrations themselves—and it must be admitted that the evidence is patchy, due in part to the emphasis placed in monastic sources on physical isolation or spiritual work that required social isolation.26 Nonetheless is is also clear that serving all strangers, apart from one’s fellow monks, was considered not only basic training in monastic humility and the imitation of Christ. It was also considered basic proof of a community’s commitment to serve all humanity—and thus God—as a whole. As explained in the sixth-century Life of Symeon Stylites the Younger, The boast of a monk is pure brotherly-love and hospitality and unfeigned diakonia towards all, both big and small, rich and poor, as to our savior Christ Himself… Seek God in a rich man and in a poor man, because He is Creator and Master of each and every one, and has given to each as He wished… Therefore, joyfully receive the rich as the poor, and the poor as the rich, regarding every human as one…27

In this passage, performing charitable services to all respectfully, sincerely (“without a mask”, hence “unfeigned”), and regardless of worldly status, is not only presented as an exemplary form of charity, one tantamount to almsgiving.28 It is also presented as an occasion to seek out and honor 25 See H. Marrou, “L’origin orientale des diaconies romaine”, M langes d’arch ologie et d’histoire 57 (1940), 95 – 142, T. Sternberg, “Der vermeintliche Ursprung der westlichen Diakonien in gypten und die Conlationes des Johannes Cassian”, Jahrbuch f r Antike und Christentum 31 (1988), 173 – 209, and R. Hermes, “Die stadrçmischen Diakonien”, Romische Quartalschrift f r christliche Altertumskunde und Kirchengeschichte 91 (1996) 23 – 24. 26 P. Hatlie, The Monks and Monasteries of Constantinople, ca. 350 – 850 (Cambridge, 2007), 128. Emphasis probably varied from region to region: e. g., see above, n. 16. 27 v. Sym.Styl. Iun. 27, ed. Paul van den Ven, La vie ancienne de S. Sym on stylite le Jeune (521 – 592), vol. 1 (Brussels, 1962), 23.25 – 25.57: ja¼wgla lomawoO B eQr p²mtar, ¢r eQr aqt¹m t¹m syt/qa Wqistºm, lijqo¼r te ja· lec²kour, p´mgt²r te ja· pkous¸our, "cmµ vikadekv¸a ja· vikonem¸a ja· !mupºjqitor diajom¸a… 1m pkous¸\ d³ ja· 1m p´mgti t¹m He¹m f¶tei, fti aqtºr 1sti dgliouqc¹r ja· despºtgr t_m "p²mtym, dido»r 2j²st\ ¢r Abouk¶hg… Di¹ 1m Rkaqºtgti d´weshe to»r pkous¸our ¢r to»r p´mgtar, ja· to»r p´mgtar ¢r to»r pkous¸our, p²mta !mhqypom ¢r 6ma bq_mter… 28 The passage refers to all as a form of almsgiving (1keglos¼mg). Note that early Byzantines drew little distinction between providing hospitality and providing other charitable gifts: all were considered to be facets of almsgiving: see D. Gorce and O. Hiltbrunner, “Gastfreundschaft”, Jahrbuch f r Antike und Christentum 7 (Stuttgart, 1972), 1110 – 20. Hence Chrysostom advises lay people to

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God’s presence in each human being. Yet evidently this could be problematic even within the monastic domain: for though described as a “boast of a monk”, the passage otherwise presents performing “unfeigned diakonia towards all” as a laudable goal rather than a natural inclination. Under what circumstances was that goal thought to be achieved, to become a monastic “boast”? What impediments lay in the way? In the following pages I seek to clarify how social tensions endemic to “worldly” Byzantine society were addressed through the institutionalization of diakonia practices within contemporary monastic settings, and thus how the competing social aesthetics of sixth-century Byzantium were to some extent reconciled and realized through contemporary monastic structures.

Social Order and Charitable Ministrations in Early Byzantine Society To put the monastic boast of Symeon’s biography into perspective, we should note how one contemporary, the historian Agathias, described the chaos that ensued in Constantinople after the earthquake of 557. “The ordered structure of society, with its respect for privilege and proper distinctions of rank”, he says, “was thrown into wild confusion”. Not only did women of different ranks roam the streets and mingle freely with men, but “men of authority and men of no consequence were placed on an equal footing”, as tremors continued “to disrupt any remaining semblance of order”.29 Meanwhile, things that are always praised in word, but are very rarely put into practice, were then most eagerly pursued… Many gifts were brought to the holy shrines, and prominent citizens walked the streets at night distributing free food and blankets to the helpless and pitiful wrecks who lay maimed and mutilated on the ground.

set aside a room for the poor in a sermon dealing with almsgiving, Hom. 45.4 – 5 in Act. (PG 60.319 – 20). This also helps explain why he refers to Abraham’s hospitality to strangers (Gen 18:1 – 8) as a model of almsgiving, as discussed below. 29 Agathias, Histories V.3.7 – 8, ed. R. Keydell, Agathiae Myrinaei historiarum libri quinque (Berlin, 1967), 105: t²nir te %pasa ja· aQd½r ja· B t_m ceq_m lecakauw¸a… !metet²qajto. Trans. J. Frendo, Agathias: The Histories (Berlin, 1975), 138, slightly adapted.

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Such activities ceased as the tremors subsided, causing the historian to observe that “it is only under the stimulus of fear that we get… even a taste of good works”.30 Agathias’s conclusion regarding the whims of human charity seem familiar enough today. More revealing of an early Byzantine mentality are his remarks regarding what constituted social chaos: the open mingling of men or women of different social rank. This reminds us that sixth-century Byzantium was an intensely hierarchical society, both in structure and in sentiment. Agathias’s regard for eutaxia—“good social order”, based on clear distinction of ranks, affirmed by privileges and respect for status—was shared by others, and may be considered a hallmark of the early Byzantine worldview.31 Imperial law, court culture, and a system of taxation that made one’s work and place of work hereditary all combined to foster and reinforce this particular social aesthetic from the fourth century onward, reaching it full form in the sixth century. For church and monastic authors, however, such eutaxia was believed to reflect nothing less than the arrangements of Providence. This was said to have divided humanity into rich and poor, as into rulers and subjects, to ensure that society might function as harmoniously as possible after the Fall.32 As Symeon’s biographer put it, God had “given to each as He wished”. According to this essentially static worldview, the purpose of charity was not to change a person’s position in the world, but to honor and help out each where they were (or should be) in their original station or place.33 In this light we should appreciate two apparent axioms of Christian charity in sixth-century Byzantium. First of all, impartiality regarding its recipients. As one sixth-century author noted, the fact that God allowed 30 Agathias, Histories V.5.4 – 6, ed. Reydell, 107; trans. Frendo, Agathias, 140 – 41, slightly adapted. 31 C. Mango, Byzantium, The Empire of New Rome (New York, 1980), 34 – 43. Cf. Libanius’s description of civic eutaxia in fourth-century Antioch: or. 56.22 – 23. 32 See esp. Theodoret of Cyrrhus, provid 6 – 7 (PG 83:652A-684D) and J. Viner, Religious Thought and Economic Society: Four Chapters of an Unfinished Work byJacob Viner, ed. J. Melitz and D. Winch (Durnham, N.C., 1978), 1 – 45; also Bas., Ep. 161, Const. Ap. 8.31.3, Ps.-Dionysius, Ep. 8; for its expression in the works of Pope Gregory I, see C. Straw, Gregory the Great: Perfection in Imperfection (Berkeley, 1988), 28 – 45. 33 As Constantelos, Byzantine Philanthropy, 48, notes, “[The] church was not interested in changing the world but ameliorating it. Paul’s admonition, ’every man should remain in the condition in which he was called’ (1 Cor 7:20), was taken literally”.

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His sun to shine and rain to fall on good and bad alike (cf. Mt 5:45) demonstrated that He loved all humanity, and was, as New Testament texts stated, “no respecter of persons” (Acts 10:34, Rom 2:11, Col 3:25; cf. Jas 2:1 – 9).34 Contemporaries were likewise expected to transcend human preferences and show benevolence towards all. At the same time, however, they were also supposed to follow apostolic precept and dispense “according to the need of each” (Acts 2:45; 4:35). By the sixth century (if not earlier) that naturally meant accounting for status. We see this most plainly in dispensations recorded by Pope Gregory the Great (590 – 604 C.E.): whereas a blind man was allotted half a solidus a year, and nuns received a full solidus each, widows of eminent Roman officials were granted 20 – 40 solidi a piece, as well as enough grain to support a large household.35 We find similar discrepancies based on status in sixth-century descriptions of Theodosius, abbot of a large monastery not far from Jerusalem. Abba Theodosius was known to possess three outstanding virtues: orthodoxy, asceticism, and lavish charity to strangers and the poor, offered “without any respect for persons”.36 He is said to have manifested such charity in two ways: first, by setting out one hundred tables a day to feed whatever stranger came by;37 and second, by building several different guesthouses so as to cater to different needs according to category: one for monks, an unspecified number of others for secular people “of various sorts”, and yet one more for those “who are called the poor, but are of the same kind as us in nature”. In this way, Theodosius “received some guests one way, others another, but similarly cared for them all”, with the result that, “equality was preserved in [there being] fairness for all, and the ancient apostolic 34 Eusebius of Alexandria, De eo qui gratiam communicare possit non habenti (PG 86:341D). Cf. Basil of Caesarea, reg. br. 303; id., Hom. in illud, Destruam horrea mea 1; Chrys., Hom. 19.1 in Matt., and Hom. 60.5 in Jo. For earlier Christian communities see G. Schçllgen, Die Anf nge der Professionalisierung des Klerus und das kirchliche Amt in der Syrischen Didaskalie (M nster, 1998), 173 – 95. 35 Gregory I, ep.1.39, 44, and 7.23 (noted in Brown, Poverty and Leadership, 60). Cf. Leont. N. (ed. Geltner), v.Jo. Eleem. 6. 36 Cyril Scyth., v.Theod. 4; ed. E. Schwartz, Kyrillos von Skythopolis (Leipzig, 1939), 238, 26 – 27. Cf. D. Caner, “Towards a Miraculous Economy: Christian Gifts and Material Blessings in Late Antiquity”, Journal of Early Christianity 14 (2006), 363. 37 Thdr. Pet., v.Theod., ed. H. Usener, Der Heilige Theodosios (Leipzig, 1890), 36.10 – 15; see also Palladius, h. Laus. 14.3; Jo. Eph., “Life of Z’ura” (PO 17.34).

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precept was fulfilled, ’distribution was made to each, according to his need.’”38 Thus early Byzantine providers were to be “no respecters of persons”, but keen respecters of status. A similar approach to charity was condoned in Judaism, where “social status was itself considered a need”.39 Having evolved within aristocratic societies, both traditions placed special emphasis on protecting one’s status against any possible degradation, and protecting one’s honor against any possible shame.40 It is unclear whether that emphasis stemmed from a religious concern that social orders ordained by God had to be affirmed, or from an ingrained assumption that aristocrats were, generally speaking, better folk. A pragmatic consideration would have been the fact that so many dependents simply hung on the fate of a wealthy household in this period.41 In any case, the emphasis is important to note here, partly because it called for expert sensitivity in the practice of diakonia. One sign of such expertise was an ability to sense the hidden need of those who had experienced loss in worldly status, but were ashamed to reveal it: A monk of the Thebaid had received from God the charism of diakonia, so that he distributed to each who came according to their need. It happened once in a village that he was giving charity, when behold!, a woman came to him to receive charity wearing old rags. Seeing that she was wearing rags, he intended to give her much, but his hand faltered, and offered little. Then another came to him dressed well. Seeing her clothes, he meant to give her little, but his hand opened and offered much. Asking about the two, he was told, “The one wearing good clothing is from a notable family but be38 Thdr. Pet., v.Theod., ed. Usener, 34.14 – 35.5: %kkym l³m %kkyr nemodowoul´mym, p²mtym d³ blo¸yr heqapeuol´mym7 toO c±q Usou ûpasim 1m Qsºtgti vukattol´mou, pkgqoOtai B !qwa¸a t_m !postºkym paq²dosir t¹ “died¸doto 2j²st\ jah’ fti %m tir wqe¸am eWwem..”.. 39 G. Hamel, Poverty and Charity in Roman Palestine, First Three Centuries C.E. (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1990), 196 – 97, 218. Historically, aristocratic societies have tended to assess need on the basis of social status rather than shared human nature: see M. Ignatieff, The Needs of Strangers (New York, 1984), 29. 40 For Jewish tradition see I.A. Silber, “Beyond Purity and Danger: Gift-Giving in the Monotheistic Traditions”, in A. Vandevelde, ed., Gifts and Interests (Leuven, 2000), 115 – 32; for early Byzantine Christian tradition, see below. n.54. 41 Hence Pope Gregory I’s provision of large quantities of grain to the widows noted above, and Emperor Justinian’s gift to a Chrisitan aristocrat who had scattered all his wealth on the poor, to the distress of his slaves and clients: Jo. Eph., “Life of Theodore the Castrensis”, v.SS.Or. 57 (PO 19.203 – 205). Cf. Jo. Mosch., prat.. 93.

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came poor. She was wearing good clothes in order to keep up appearances. But the other was wearing rags to receive more.42

Barsanuphius, a sixth-century recluse who lived outside Gaza, advised alms-distributers to provide extra charity (though “according to need”) not only to the sick, but also to those who were too embarrassed to receive in public due to the nobility of their birth.43 Similar calculations also benefitted clerics and monks. As Barsanuphius elsewhere explains, when given a choice between giving one’s premium goods to poor people or monks, the premium goods must go to the latter, “since they are God’s slaves, and it is written, ‘to whom the honor [is owed, give] the honor’ [Rom 13:7]: for indeed, the Lord has honored them first”.44 In giving such advice, Barsanuphius and other Christian leaders sought to shape the early Byzantine worldview so that it might give special consideration to “the poor in spirit”, i. e., the religious aristocracy whose members had voluntarily gone down in worldly status so as to serve God. Indeed, Christian benefactors seem to have privileged the poor in spirit, especially ascetics, when bestowing charity from the late fourth century onwards. One reason for their doing so was their sense that these were the poor who might offer something in return,45 and could be trusted to pass on charity to others in need (an important consideration, for reasons discussed below).46 But another reason for their doing so was that these were deemed the honorable poor, with whom pious Christians felt inclined to build special relationships—if not as pa42 Apophthegma Patrum, anonymous series. no.287; ed. F. Nau, “Histoires des solitaires gyptiens (MS Coislin 126, fol.158 f.)”, Revue de l’Orient chr tien 14 (1909), 375. 43 Bars., ep. 630: 1quhqi_mter vameq_r kabe?m di± tµm eqc´meiam, ed. F. Neyt and P. de Angelis-Noah, Barsanuphe et Jean de Gaza, Correspondance, Vol. III: Aux La cs et aux vÞques; lettres 617 – 848 (Paris, 2002), 56 – 58. 44 Bars. ep.636: b J¼qior pqoet¸lgsem aqto¼r ; ed. Neyt-de Angelis-Noah, 62 – 64. 45 W. Mayer, “Poverty and Generosity to the Poor in the Time of John Chrysostom”, in S. Holman, ed., Wealth and Poverty in Early Christianity (Grand Rapids, Mich., 2008), 140 – 58. Cf. Basil of Caesarea, ep. 150. The relation of monks to the ordinary poor was usually described as a kinship relation (“our brothers, the poor”), but otherwise seems to have been ambivalent. Some hagiographers note how benefactors would give to both the poor and to monks, as if sensing them to be related but separate categories: John Rufus, v.Petri Iberi, ed. Raabe, 53 (Syr.) 61 (Germ.) and v.Danielis Scetiotae 9. Cf. v.Alexandri Acoemeti 36. 46 Finn, Almsgiving in the Later Roman Empire, 91 – 92. Cf. John Cassian, Coll. 21.33.3 – 4; Palladius, h. laus. 67; Gerontius, v.Melaniae 30; Besa, v.Sinuthi 33 – 34.

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trons or disciples, then as diakonites, i. e., as personal servers and attendants. Unfortunately we have little information about such lay diakonites, and what we do have pertains mostly to those who served desert solitaries, whose diakonites are said to have made purchases or provided housing when they came to town, thereby buffering them from undue exposure to “the world”.47 Obviously this entailed some time and cost for the lay people involved. From a monastic perspective, however, the chief requirement was that their lay server be devout, and keep “a clean record” in which a monk could trust.48 As that implies, one further responsibilty of a lay diakonitÞs was to uphold a monk’s honor as a professional Christian by keeping it free from scandal or shame. We may infer that providing such ministrations was attractive to such lay people not only because it enabled them to form intimate relationships with Christian exemplars, but because it meant that they had been judged worthy to do so. Through such ministrations lay people helped fulfill the Gospel paradox that “the last shall be first” (Mt 19:30, 20:16, Lk 13:30). Considerably different was the challenge of promoting direct charity to the ordinary poor. As Agathias makes clear, this was hardly a society in which “great and eminent men” were normally seen walking the streets at night, succoring strangers. There was of course the genuine fear that such efforts might be wasted on “imposters” and professional beggars: hence church manuals of the third and fourth centuries recommended that Christians channel their alms through local church deacons, since “these alone know who the poor are”.49 Yet the late fourth-century sermons of John Chrysostom (delivered in Antioch from 386 – 398, then in Constantinople from 398 – 404) reveal other issues involved. Apparently wealthy members of his congregations, when forced to dispense charity in the street, preferred to do so through the mediation of their slaves. Their reason, he says, was “shame at being seen talking with a 47 Palladius h. laus. 52; John Mosch., prat. 39 and 205. Cf. P. Escolan, Monachisme et glise: Le monachisme syrien du IVe au VIIe si cle (Paris, 1999), 201 – 25. 48 Zacharias of Sakh , Encomium on the Life of John the Little 77, trans. M. Mikhail and T. Vivian, Coptic Church Review 18 (1997), 51, and John Mosch., prat. 237, ed. E. Mioni, “Il Pratum Spirituale di Giovanni Mosco: gli episodi inediti del Cod. Marciano greco II,21”, Orientalia christiana periodica 17 (1951), 88, trans. J. Wortley, The Spiritual Meadow of Johm Moschus (Kalamazoo, Mich., 1992), 221. 49 Apostolic Constitutions 2.4.1, 2.25.2, 3.3.2, 3.4.1 – 4. Cf. Bas. ep. 150 and the letter of Atticus, Bishop of Constantinople (406 – 425) ap. Socrates, h.e. 7.25.

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poor person”.50 To dissuade them from this practice, he repeatedly invoked the example of Abraham (Gen 18:1 – 8), who not only welcomed strangers into his tent, but even bowed down before them, washed their feet and served their table himself. For John, such direct, personal diakonia, as he calls it,51 revealed extraordinary humility. It meant that the patriarch had willingly “assumed the form of a household servant”, despite having three hundred servants who could have performed the task for him instead.52 At the same time, by serving his guests with zeal—though not knowing that he was actually serving Christ—Abraham’s example showed the proper approach for receiving any stranger in need: “for strangers”, notes John, “are apt to feel embarrassed and ashamed, unless a host display extra joy”.53 These sermons attest the reluctance of John’s contemporaries to give directly to the poor, and draw attention to one reason in particular: namely, the shame (aischynÞ) or indignity (apaxia) associated with interacting with the poor. It should be noted that Chrysostom was unusual among preachers of his day in explicitly advising people to give directly to the sick and poor, unmediated by church agencies. Evidently his particular emphasis was motivated in part by an acute awareness of the shame that those in dependency and need felt for having to seek charity from others.54 But it also reflects his obsessions with aristocratic vainglory 50 Chrys., Hom. 35.4 in Mt (PG 57.412). Cf. Hom. 21.3 ad Rom (PG 60.607); Hom. 11.5 in 1 Thess (PG 62.467), Ps.-Chrys., Hom. 23 de eleemosyna et hospitalitate (PG 63.719 – 20). 51 Chrys., Hom. 14.2 in I Tim (PG 62.573): t¹ pk´om t/r diajom¸ar ja· aqt¹r di’ 2autoO 5pqatte. Cf. Hom. 41.5 in Gen (PG 53.381), Ps.-Chrys., Hom. 23 de eleemosyne et hospitalitate (PG 63.720). 52 Chrys., Hom. 41.6 in Gen (PG 53.382): £ tapeimovqos¼mgr rpeqbokµ… eQst¶jei to¸mum b patqi²qwgr jat²peq oQj´tgr, lec¸stgm ta¼tgm Bco¼lemor, toO jataniyh/mai rpgqet¶sashai.. Hom. 21.3 ad Rom (PG 60.606): sw/la !m´kabe ja· oQj´tou. 53 Chrys., Hom. 45.3 – 4 on Acts (PG 60.318 – 19); Hom. 14.2 in I Tim (PG 62.573 – 74). 54 Especially emphasized in Chrys., Hom. 13.3 on 2 Cor (PG 61.495). For Chrysostom on almsgiving, see esp. K. Br ndle, Matt. 25:31 46 im Werk des Johannes Chrysostomus (T bingen, 1979). Few have sufficiently noted Chrysostom’s emphasis on direct almsgiving, but this is what distinguishes him from nearly all other church fathers on the subject, and still needs to be explained. It is of course true that others occasionally advocated direct almsgiving, e.g Bas. ep. 42. But that letter, if genuinely his, also indicates how a Christian thinker might change his position once he had become a church offical, for Basil of Caesarea is perhaps

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and pride. As others have noted, John was convinced that aristocratic vanities prevented the cities of his day from becoming fully Christian.55 In his view, one remedy for this problem was for wealthy Christians to directly engage in almsgiving themselves: for “to give with one’s own hand”, he insisted, “dispels pride”.56 Indeed, to do so would have been a highly significant gesture in his world, where slaves were used to clear streets for their masters in order to buffer them from contact with social inferiors.57 It is in this light, at least, that we should note the tendency of early Byzantine hagiographers to depict Christian exemplars as ministering to the sick and poor in person, or with their “own hands”, as when Theodoret of Cyrrhus (d. c. 460) praises Empress Placidia for personally feeding and cleaning the sick (work described as “proper to domestic servants and attendants”),58 or when John of Ephesus illustrates the “humility and compassion” of a Syrian abbot named Z’ura by describing how he “would, with his own hands, make himself into an attendant with cheerfulness and joy” at the tables his monastery set out for the poor.59 Such figures were considered exemplary precisely because they were willing to transcend the social boundaries and antipathies that attended the “worldly” early Byzantine notion of eutaxia. Nonetheless, with Z’ura and other exemplars we are confronted with fully-formed saints, for whom such charitable diakonia is presented as unproblematic. Historians who wish to study the impact of John’s belief that personal involvement in charity “dispels pride” are hampered by the fact that, for early Byzantium, most of our information from the fifth century onward comes from hagiography. This genre rarely treats its subjects in terms of process or inner change: while hagiographers might refer to charitable work or ascetic exercises as signs of a saint’s hu55 56

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most known for requiring that lay people give alms indirectly, i. e., through their church. Thanks to Susan Holman for this observation. A.M. Hartney, John Chrysostom and the Transformation of the City (London, 2004), 156 – 81. Chrys., Hom. 14 in I Tim (PG 62.573): toOto… ja· vqºmgla jataspø. Cf. Ps.– Chrys., Hom. 23 de eleemosyna et hospitalitate 1 (PG 63.716): 1keglos¼mg jq¸metai… t0 daxike¸ô t0r cm¾lgr. Finn, Almsgiving in the Later Roman Empire, 107 – 108. Chrys., Hom. 40.5 on 1 Cor, trans. p.248 (PG 61.354). Cf. Nil. Ancyr., De mon. exercit. 8 (PG 79.728CD). Theodoret Cyr., h.e. 5.18 (PG 82.1237C): aqtouqc¹r cicmol´mg… fsa oQjet_m ja· heqapaim¸dym 3qca memºlistai. Jo. Eph., “Life of Z’ura”, v.SS.Or. 2 (PO 17.34): makkekeh w-rehmt . Cf. Cyril Scyth., v.Cyriaci 21.

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mility, they rarely describe that state as being fostered by such activities. Likewise, hagiographers rarely suggest that their subjects might be susceptible to the faults commonly associated with direct almsgiving in this period—namely, vainglory and pride. Awareness of these stumbling blocks was grounded in Jesus’ criticism of “hypocrites” who gave alms for the sake of human applause (Mt 6:2 – 4), but was also amplified by GrecoRoman traditions of benefaction and patronage, whereby benefactors expected good works to be acknowledged with acclamations and honor.60 Especially sensitive to the problem of vainglory was the monk Jerome (c. 347 – 420). Perhaps best known among his examples of sham piety in Christian Rome is his depiction of a wealthy matron who, surrounded by eunuch slaves, issued coins “with her own hand, in order to be thought more holy”, only to punch an elderly beggar who dared return for more.61 Jerome’s description not only highlights the vainglory he associated with direct almsgiving in this period, but also his awareness of its possible consequences, namely the humiliating treatment of inferiors in need. For his part, John Chrysostom addressed such problems partly by recalling once more the example of Abraham. Noting “how much honor, how much humility” this patriarch had shown to strangers at his tent, Chrysostom points out how different his behavior was from that of most people, “who, if they ever do something similar, think themselves superior to the recipients and often despise them for the attention shown to them”.62 What he and other preachers sought in their audiences were charitable acts of condescension that would transcend their worldly sense of eutaxia. Of course, the ultimate model for such condescension was Christ himself, whose adoption of poverty and the form of a slave had been done out of divine compassion “for our sake” (2 Cor 8:9; Eph 2:6).63 In Chrysostom’s view, as we shall see, such condescension 60 Cf. B. Leyerle, “Chrysostom on Alsmgiving and the Use of Money”, Harvard Theological Review 87 (1994), 37 – 42. 61 Jerome, ep. 22.32; ed. I. Hilberg, Hieronymus epistolae pars I (Vienna, 1996), 194: propria manu, quo religiosior putaretur. Cf. id., ep. 130.7, Comm. in Ezech. 6.18, Comm. in Jer. 2.11. On the passage see Finn, Almsgiving in the Later Roman Empire, 206 and J. Curran, “Jerome and the Sham Christians of Rome”, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 48 (1997) , 215 – 17. 62 Hom. 41.6 in Gen (PG 53.382): leh’ fsgr til/r, leh’ fsgr tapeimovqos¼mgr t± t/r vikonem¸ar 1pede¸jto7 oq jah²peq oR pokko·, j#m poi¶sys¸ pot´ ti toioOtom, l´ca vqomoOsi jat± t_m rpodewh´mtym, ja· pokk²jir ja· rpeqoq_sim aqt_m di± tµm vh²sasam eQr aqto»r heqape¸am. Cf. Hom. 14.2 in 1 Tim. (PG PG 62.573). 63 Chrys., Hom. 7.9 in Rom. (PG 60.454): “He that would become rich, then, let him become poor [p´mgr], that so that he might be rich”; Cf. Hom. 6.1 in Titus

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was precisely what typified the social interactions of monks in the monasteries of his day. But an ability to humble oneself and properly practice charity could not be taken for granted even there. Indeed, Barsanuphius in the sixth century advised a fellow anchorite not to dispense alms for someone who had asked him to. Such diakonia, he explained, properly belonged only to those who had already “achieved tranquility and mourned their sins”.64 Given this perception of the qualifications involved, we may ask once more why the biographer of Symeon Stylites the Younger would have considered “unfeigned diakonia towards all” to have especially been a monastic voice.

Social Order and Charitable Ministrations in Early Byzantine Monasteries The answer undoubtedly lies in the central role that diakonia played in early Byzantine monastic training. Note how John Chrysostom had described monasteries to fourth-century congregations. There, he says, one could see “humility at its height”. For in such places one would find men, [though formerly] illustrious in worldly rank or wealth, putting themselves down in every way, by their clothing, by their dwellings, and by those whom they serve, all of which expresses their humility as if marked out in letters. Gone are the incentives of arrogance—fine dress, splendid houses, multiple servants—that make men arrogant, even against their will; all such things are absent here. Instead, they themselves light fires, chop logs, cook, and minister [diakonÞsai] to whosoever comes… all are devoted to those to whom they minister, each one washing the feet of strangers… this diakonia is fulfilled in every case.65

(PG 62.693). See Angstenberger, Der reiche und der arme Christus, 138 – 40; also Brown, Poverty and Leadership, 93 – 94 and id., The Rise of Western Christendom: Triumph and Diversity, A.D. 200 – 1000, 2nd ed. (London, 2003), 208. 64 Bars., ep. 618, ed. Neyt-de Angelis-Noah, 40: oq p²mter wyqoOsi bast²nai… !kk’ oR vh²samter Bshw²sai ja· pemh/sai t±r 2aut_m !laqt¸ar. 65 Hom. 72.3 in Mt. (PG 58.671): 1je? t¹ vxor t/r tapeimovqos¼mgr bxºleha toOto. %mhqypoi c±q oR l³m !p¹ t_m 5nyhem !niyl²tym, oR d³ ja· !p¹ wqgl²tym emter kalpqo·, p²mtohem 2auto»r jatast´kkousim, !p¹ t/r 1sh/tor, !p¹ t/r oQj¸ar, !p¹ t_m diajomoul´mym… p±mter t_m diajomoul´mym eQsi, ja· 3jastor to»r pºdar m¸ptei t_m n´mym, ja· pokkµ peq· to¼tou l²wg… 1p· pamt¹r tµm diajom¸am ta¼tgm pkgqo?.

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In such settings, according to Chrysostom, the same table was shared not only by both servers and served, but even with the poor and maimed. As a result, he says, there is “much equality” in monasteries, as well as “much opportunity for virtue”.66 So does “confusion” reign there as a result? Far from it, he assures his audience, only “first-rate order” (protÞ eutaxia): “For if anyone be lowly, he that is great does not see this, but regards himself as inferior, and in that way becomes all the greater”.67 Thus Chrysostom portrayed monasteries as places of alternative eutaxia, in which equality prevailed, except to the degree that humility made one greater. John expressed this ideal at a time when monasticism was still a novel social experiment. No one else describes monastic society in such paradoxically hierarchical terms as John does here. But it was precisely this conception of a monastery as a hierarchical organization structured around the pursuit of humility—the new social virtue of the Christian age—that made it not only extraordinary in early Byzantium, but also a comprehensible inversion of early Byzantine social norms. Here, ideally, men from different social backgrounds could join together and form a common identity, yet without “confusion”. As John indicates, one key to making that ideal a reality was the institutionalization of diakonia within coenobitic (i. e., communal) monasteries: for it was through the lowly work of monastic service that aspirants were first expected to acquire the humility necessary for becoming a monk. By the seventh century, a monastery’s entire system of initiation and advancement was called its diakonia. 68 Stripping initiates of worldly trappings of wealth and clothing came first. Thereafter, according to John Cassian (c. 360 – 435), training in Egyptian communities began with a probationary year of service at the monastery’s vestibule. Novices in this liminal position were required to serve visiting strangers under the supervision of an elder considered adept at treating guests “diligently 66 Hom. 72.4 in Mt. (PG 58.672): pokkµ paq’ aqto?r Qsºtgr7 di¹ ja· eqjok¸a pokkµ t/r !qet/r. 67 Hom. 72.3 in Mt. (PG 58.671): s¼cwusir ; lµ c´moito7 !kk’ B pq¾tg eqtan¸a. j#m c±q Ø tir lijq¹r, b l´car oqw bqô toOto, !kk± ja· 1je¸mou p²kim jatade´steqom 2aut¹m eWmai memºlije, ja· ta¼t, c¸metai le¸fym. 68 Athanasius of Sinai, Paterika 29, ed. F. Nau, ’Le texte grec des r cit du moine Anastase sur les saints p res du Sina ’, Oriens Christianus 2 (1902), 77: eQr t¹ lesom d¼o 1t_m diajom¸am, refering to a two-year period of service. Duration of novitiate service differed from monastery to monastery: John of Ephesus considered three months of probationary service at a monastery in Amida to be exemplary: v.SS.Or. 20 (PO 17.280).

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and humanely”. Cassian notes that providing such hospitality was considered basic training in the foundational virtues of humility and patience.69 Eventually it was hoped that servers would learn to greet visiting monks and seculars alike with proper care and discernment, acknowledging themselves to be no more than “earth and ash”(Jb 42:6).70 In any case, only if performed “without complaint” would novices be allowed to join the rest of the community, advancing thereafter in a series of ministrations, all called diakoniai, now mostly directed towards fellow monks. These ranged from the basic “hebdomon” (weekly) services at refectory tables and latrines, to more refined year-long appointments as gardener, baker, gatekeeper, sick warden, and steward.71 According to the fifth-century Rules of Marutha, the last three services should be reserved for those whose zeal showed that they had their brothers’ needs resting “on their hearts”. They were to be appointed by the abbot so as to “take care of the monastery, each one in his place”.72 As for the abbot, tradition specifies that he must assess merit only upon good deeds done, showing no preference to those who were free-born over those who had formerly been slaves; moreover, he would ideally participate in the various ministrations himself, lest the “server of all be served”.73 Although no source describes any single system in full detail, enough survives to indicate that “performing unfeigned diakonia to all” was considered essential to life in early Byzantine monasteries, especially as a 69 John Cassian, Inst. 4.7, ed. J.-C. Guy, Jean Cassien: Institutions C nobitiques (Paris, 1965), 130: Cumque ibidem integro anno deserviens absque ulla querella suum circa peregrinos exhibuerit famulatum, inbutus per haec prima institutione humilitatis ac patientiae atque in ea longa exercitatione praecognitus, admiscendus ex hoc congregationi fratrum. Cf. v.Pach. graec. prim. 28 and Bas., De renuntiatione saeculi 9 (PG 31.645b). For diakonia and related terms in Cassian and in monasticism generally, see Sternberg, “Der vermeintliche Ursprung”; P. E. Kahle, Bala’izah: Coptic Texts from Deir el-Bala’izah in Upper Egypt, vol. 1 (Oxford, 1954), 30 – 40; and B.R. Guevin, “The Language of ’Service’ in the RM and the RB: A Comparative Study”, Revue Benedictine 108 (1998), 25 – 43. 70 Bars., ep. 360, ed. F. Neyt and P. de Angelis-Noah, Barsanuphe et Jean de Gaza: Correspondence. Vol II (aux C nobites) (Paris, 2000), 382 – 84. 71 This list follows the order of diakoniai presented in Cyril Scyth., v.Cyriaci 7 and v.Jo. Hes. 6 – 7. Cf. v.Pach. boh. 42 and v.Theodorae, ed. K. Wessely, Jahreberichte des Staatsgymnasiums im 17. Bezirke (Hamals) 13 (1887), 29. 72 Rules of Marutha, can. 49; ed and trans. A. Vççbus, Syriac and Arabic Documents regarding Legislation Relative to Syrian Asceticism (Stockholm, 1960), 129 – 30. 73 reg. mag. 2.16 – 20, ed. A. de Vog , La r gle de ma tre, vol. 1 (Paris, 1964), 354; v.Pach. boh. 61, trans. A. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, vol. 1 (Kalamazoo, Mich., 1980), 81. Cf. Ant. Choz., v.Georg. Choz. 2.19.

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means of instilling the requisite humility in novices. What must be emphasized is that the acquisition of such humility, at least in its initial stages, was imagined in terms of social humiliation, and monastic diakonia as an edifying form of self-degradation.74 When John of Ephesus’ contemporary, Emperor Justin II, decided to punish female heretics “of high birth” in Constantinople, he sent them to perform “the most menial labors”—serving tables, washing dishes, cleaning latrines, etc.—in local monasteries.75 Not surprisingly, we hear of resistance among novices. Pachomius is said to have set the tables, tended the gate and cared for the sick at his monastery initially all by himself, since his novices had “not yet attained to such a disposition as to serve each other”.76 The humiliating nature of such service was compounded by the fact that novices would sometimes be required to take orders from monks who, outside the monastery, might have been considered their social inferiors. Augustine of Hippo (354 – 430) actually maintained that “it would not be decent” for monks of wealthy origins (ex divite) to assume the same labors as monks of poorer origins (ex paupertate); they should be given administrative duties instead.77 But no such arrangement is advocated in early Byzantine tradition. One of the edifying tales collected by John Moschus (d. c.619/ 634) tells of an adult novice who, upon joining a monastery near Jerusalem, gave it a substantial gift of gold. Though zealous at first, he soon grew weary of the diakonia assigned to him, grumbling that he had already contributed enough to the monastery upon entry. This offended the other monks, “especially those from poorer backgrounds”. And so the abbot reprimanded him:

74 Cassian concludes his chapter on monastic initiation by describing a well-born novice who learned “Christ’s humility” by performing work “without caring about its indignity or his splendor of birth” (Inst 4.29: nec considerans indignitatem rei nataliumque splendorem, ed. Guy, p. 164) and an elder who trained in humility by performing work in a monastery that was considered both “disagreeable and degrading” (4.30: aspera vel indigna atque ab omnibus ducebantur horror ed. Guy, p. 166). 75 Jo.Eph., h.e. III.2.12 – 13, trans. R.Payne Smith, 109 – 111. 76 v.Pach. graec. prim. 24; trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 312. 77 Aug., De op. mon. 25.33. ed. J. Zycha, S. Aureli Augustini De fide, et symbolo, etc.(Vienna, 1900), 580. See D. Caner, Wandering Begging Monks: Spiritual Authority and the Promotion of Monasticism in Late Antiquity (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 2002), 17, 201 – 202.

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I will not break the rule of the community or offend the brothers or anger God for the sake of your coins. As for diakonia, I took you in to be as one who does it just as the other brothers do, and as I did in my youth and still do now as far as I can… Strive with your brothers in every diakonia assigned to you, performing them without shame for Christ’s sake, remembering the Lord’s words: “The Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve (Mk 10:45)”.

The novice did as he was told, and thus “acquired great humility and obedience towards all”.78 As Cassian explains regarding other aspects of Egyptian monastic initiation, one purpose of making all perform such services was to ensure that none would blush to be “on equal level with the poor, meaning the monastic brotherhood, with whom Christ would not blush to be included or call himself a brother”.79 There was always a danger that monks would bring to their monasteries the social antipathies that prevailed outside. Shenoute of Atripe, abbot of the White Monastery in Egypt (385 – 465), addressed this problem by threatening to expel those who, “out of pride”, reviled others with names like “dumb slave” or “good-for-nothing slave”.80 It was chiefly through the testy, humbling, and often humiliating interactions between server and served that monks were challenged, on a daily basis, to identify and treat each other differently. Dorotheus of Gaza in the sixth century urged his monastic readers to “perform every diakonia with love and humility, deferring to one another, honoring one another, and consoling one another”.81 Thus monastic diakonia gave the opportunity for monks to exericise charity towards each other. But expectations went beyond that: monks were also instructed to bow down before visit78 Jo. Mosch., Nissen additions no.13, ed. Th. Nissen, “Unbekannte Erz hlung aus dem Pratum spirtuale”, Byzantinische Zeitschrift 38 (1938), 371: 1jt¶sato lec²kgm tape¸mysim ja· rpajoµm pq¹r p²mtar. Cf. Ant. Choz., v.Georg. Choz. I.19. 79 Cassian, Inst. 4.5, ed. Guy, p.128: nec erubescat pauperibus id est corpori fraternitatis aequari, quibus connumerari Christus et quorum se fratrum non erubuit nuncupare. 80 Shenoute of Atripe, de vita monachorum 1, ed. I. Leipoldt, Sinuthi Archimandritae vita et opera IV (Louvain 1954), 28. For context see R. Krawiec, Shenoute and the Women of the White Monastery: Egyptian Monasticism in Late Antiquity (Oxford, 2002), 20 – 29. 81 Dorotheus of Gaza, Disc. 4.60; ed. L. Regnault and J. de Pr ville, Doroth e de Gaza: Oeuvres spirituales (Paris, 1963), 248: poi/sai let± !c²pgr 2j²stgm diajom¸am rl_m, let± tapeimovqos¼mgr rpojkimºlemoi !kk¶koir, til_mter, paqajakoOmter. The sixth-century Rule of the Master identifies infirmary service (see below) as an opportuntiy to display brotherly love (caritas): reg mag. 70.

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ing monks in recognition that these were, in fact, “God”,82 told to perform their services with such zeal as if “serving the Lord himself ”,83 and taught that ingratitude towards one’s fellow servers was tantamount to “ingratitude towards Christ”.84 Diakonia, in other words, challenged a monk to perceive Christ in other members of his community. Service in the sick ward seems to have posed the greatest challenge. Early Byzantine monasteries may have been innovative in their effort to “destigmatize the sick”,85 but this required monastic attendants to adopt a novel outlook themselves. The biographer of Symeon Stylites the Younger has his saint urge his disciples not to abhore or be ashamed to touch a monk whose illness made him stink; instead, they were to “minister (diakonÞson) to him as a slave to his own master.”86 Dositheus, a novice in sixth-century Gaza, is said to have occasionally lost patience with those he tended in his monastery’s infirmary. This prompted stern reprimands from his mentor: “Aren’t you ashamed to speak harshly towards your brother? Don’t you know that he is Christ, and that you are vexing Christ?”87 As such remarks demonstrate, diakonia was crucial to the process of socialization in early Byzantine monasteries, training initiates to both “descend to the humility of Christ” and to see Christ in their fellow monks. This served, in turn, as the basis for mutual affection among monks of different social backgrounds. Of course, not all attained to the same degree of humility, patience, or charity. Hence the most sensitive diakoniai were reserved for those who possessed the necessary qualities: the Rules of Marutha specify that those in charge of the monastery gate “shall be longsuffering and shall endure also those who revile him; he shall despise no one, neither rich nor poor… and give honor to all, as it is proper”.88 Yet 82 Apothegmata patrum, Greek series alph., Apollo 9 (PG 65.136B). Cf. Evagrius Ponticus, Eulogius 24. 83 Bas., reg. fus. 34 (PG 31.1001A): ¢r oqj !mhq¾poir !kk’ aqt` t` Juq¸\. 84 Shenoute, de vita monachorum 1, Latin trans. Leipoldt, p. 25. 85 See A.T. Crislip, From Monastery to Hospital: Christian Monasticism and the Transformation of Health Care in Late Antiquity (Ann Arbor, 2005), 118 – 20. 86 v. Sym.Styl. Iun. 27, ed. Paul van den Ven, p.28.139 – 41. 87 v.Dosithei 6, ed. L. Regnault and J. de Pr ville, Doroth e de Gaza: Oeuvres spirituelles (Paris, 1963), 130 – 32. Cf. Bas., de renuntione saeculi 9 (PG 31.645A). 88 Rules of Marutha, 51.3 – 4; ed. and trans. Vççbus, 132. The apophthegmata patrum are divided on relative merits of monks who minister to the sick generally, and those who eiither minister to elder monks or dedicate themselves to asceticism and prayer; Verb. sen. 14.19 exalts the latter, but 17.18 remarks that even if

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ideally, what was achieved by some could be achieved by all. As John of Ephesus said of the monks of a monastery in sixth-century Amida, “they did not in the case of any one of their brothers who came to them hold him to be merely a man of flesh, but he appeared in their eyes—by means of his contemptible, poor body—as God who became flesh, and so they were eager to serve, refresh, wash, and honor him as if he were Christ”.89

Monasticism and the Social Aesthetic of Sixth-Century Byzantium In a landmark study of church and monastic economies in Byzantine Egypt, Roger R mondon concluded that, despite hagiographical representations of their defiance to powerful laymen, monks and monasteries remained ever dependent on wealthy landowners for their prosperity, and so ever remained “prisoners of the established order”.90 Be that as it may, one reason monasticism never lost its prestige in early Byzantium was its effort to preserve its ideals despite its dependence upon that order. Indeed, instead of seeking to change the established order, monks became viewed, at least by the sixth century, as its ideal facilitators, qualified by their liminal status and training as the “poor in spirit” to bridge the gap between society’s rich and ordinary poor, while at the same time helping to keep both groups separate from each other. The pillars, for example, of both Symeon Stylites the Elder and Symeon Stylites the Younger served as places in Syria where wealthy Christians could deposit gifts for poor people to take away, without either group having to mix or interact.91 At the same time landowners in Egypt were using monasteries on their estates as outlets for dispensing bread to dependent villagers, while Abba Theodosius in Palestine provided guesthouses for all, while keeping them segregated according to status.92 In these different ways 89 90 91 92

such a monk “should hang himself by the nostrils, he still could not be equal to one who ministers to the sick” (PL 73.976B). Cf. Palladius, h. Laus. 14.1 – 5. Jo. Eph., “Life of a Poor Stranger”, v.SS.Or. 17 (PO 17.250), slightly adapted. R. R mondon, “L’ glise dans la societ gyptienne l’ poque byzantine”, Chronique d’Egypte 47 (1972), 254 – 77, at 275. v.Sym. Styl. Sen. 57 – 58; v.Sym. Styl. Iun. 123, 163. Cf. v.Teclae 28 and Harvey, “The Holy and the Poor”, 55. Chrysostom presents monks as ideal mediators between rich and poor in comp. regis et monachi 3 (PG 47.390). J. Gascou, “Monasteries, Economic Activities of ’, in A.S. Atiya, ed., The Coptic Encyclopedia, vol.5 (New York, 1991), 1641 – 42. Cf. v.Pach. graec. prim. 28; trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 315.

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monks and monasteries fulfilled obligations of charity while buffering one major segment of sixth-century society from the other. To contemporary observers, the monastic policies described above would have no doubt seemed reassuring because they conformed to, and so ultimately confirmed, ingrained notions of eutaxia. What enabled early Byzantine monasticism to occasionally transcend that dominant aesthetic was its insistence that monasteries provide direct access to all, regardless of their status. That meant, first of all, direct access to God’s material blessings: monasteries were supposed to share whatever surplus they received from God through their benefactors, so that “equality” in that regard might be enjoyed by all.93 But it also meant access to help, or at least a sympathetic hearing. Given the role and size of the early Byzantine bureaucracy, it is not surprising to find sixth- and seventh-century stories based upon the difficulty of gaining access to secular officials to hear one’s case. More surprising are indications that church officials had become similarily remote. The early seventh-century Life of John the Almsgiver, for example, describes how John, Bishop of Alexandria, decided to hold open hearings in front of his church twice each week that were free of staff interference, just so that he might be more accessible to the poor. Yet this episcopal saint otherwise moved about with a large retinue, and when it came to almsgiving, is repeatedly described as bestowing coins through subordinate diadotes (“alm-distributers”) who followed him through the streets.94 Only saintly abbots, it seems, were expected to behave differently. True, the stories that illustrate this point actually chastise their subjects for not being promptly available to the poor, or for receiving only the rich.95 Those stories, however, reveal the ideal: monaster93 See Caner, “Miraculous Economy”, 348 – 50. This is how I interpret the word “equality” put in the mouth of the Coptic Abbot Matthew the Poor: “The Lord counts on you to be good stewards, so that you might give to the poor and beggars, and so that absolute equality may be established among all humanity”, cited in R mondon, “L’ glise dans la soci t gyptienne”, 255. The word isotÞs in Thdr. Petr., v.Theod. 34.14 (cited above, n.38) may also refer to access to material goods (certainly social equality is not implied). For a Roman antecedent to this early Byzantine idea of equality as “access for all” despite unequal allocations, see J. D’Arms, “The Roman Convivium and the Idea of Equality’”, in O. Murray, ed., Sympotica: A Symposium on the Symposium (New York, 1990), 306 – 30. 94 Leont. N., (ed. Geltner) v.Jo. Eleem. 5 (church court); 2,7,9, 27, 37 (use of diadotes). Restricted access to imperial court: Cyril Scyth., v. Sab. 51; Anastasius of Sinai, pat. 36. 95 v. Alexandri Acoemeti 37; Ant. Choz., v.Georgi Choz. 6.25; v.Sym. Styl. jun. 27.

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ies were supposed to be permeable to everyone, regardless of status—places where all might find immediate attention or succor. But most fundamentally, monks were supposed to “honor all” who sought such attention or succor. This meant being able to see beneath and beyond all outer appearances. It is startling to find Theodore of Petra describing the poor in his sixth-century Life of Theodore as “those called the poor, but of the same kind in nature as ourselves, for whom He Who became poor for our sake took special care”.96 Besides reminding readers that the poor shared their nature, it also indicates the challenge of promoting in this period empathy for a social entity (“the poor”) that clearly was regarded as somewhat alien. Such perceptions had to change if monastic ideals were to be put into practice. As Symeon Stylites the Younger’s biographer put it, monks were not to prefer the demon “dressed deceitfully in golden raiment”, and, “through worldly misperception, insult Christ when he comes round in a poor person’s poverty”.97 Rather, they were to seek God by “seeing every human as one”.98 If that transcendent sense of social perception ever took hold in sixthcentury Byzantium, it was due in no small part to the institutionalization of diakonia in early Byzantine monasteries. A monastery’s gate was regarded as “the gate of God”. Beyond it, different rules were supposed to apply, in support of a “true” aristocracy based on good works and the monastic understanding that “all are God’s creatures, and none is more eminent than the other, except for him who does God’s will”. Only vainglory, Barsanuphius explained, made humans see things differently.99 Monastic diakonia helped inculcate the humility necessary to ac96 Thdr. Pet., v.Theod., ed. Usener, 35.3 – 4: ptyw_m dµ to¼tym amolafol´mym, bloeid_m d³ t0 v¼sei emtym Bl?m, §m 1poie?to l²kista pqºmoiam b toO di’ Bl÷r ptywe¼samtor… 97 v. Sym. Styl. jun. 27, ed. van den Ven, p.24: lµ pqotil¶s,r t¹m 1m wqus¸\ ja· Rlatisl` let± dºkou jejqull´mom da¸loma… lµ t0 joslij0 vamtas¸ô 1mubq¸s,r tºm 1m t0 pem¸ô toO p´mgtor peqiewºlemom Wqist¹m. 98 Greek text above, n.27. The Life of Auxentius describes a festival at Hypatius’ monastery outside Constantinople where “the monastery became like Abraham’s tent, for everyone was received, whether they were people of rank or not (eVte !n¸our eVte !man¸our), as if they were angels”: v.Auxentii 36 (PG 114.1405). 99 Bars., ep. 764, ed. Neyt-de Angelis Noah, vol.3.208: p²mter c±q pk²slata heoO 1slem, ja· oqde·r toO %kkou kalpqºteqor eQ lµ b poi_m t¹ h´kgla toO heoO, !kk jemodon¸a po?ei paq± to?r !mhq¾poir diavoq²m. For “gate of God”, see Bars. ep. 360, ed. Neyt-de Angelis-Noah, vol.2.382. Pachomian tradition describes a vision in which angels of different rank are sent to receive dying men according

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knowledge and appreciate the lowliness one shared with one’s fellow human beings.100 In this light we might understand the particular emphasis placed on washing people’s feet or bodies in contemporary descriptions of diakonia practices, monastic or otherwise. As often noted, this feature of ancient hospitality (and, apparently, sick care) was one that had been traditionally left to female slaves. It was therefore regarded as a gesture of humility when performed by free males. But it was also a gesture that exposed the common nature shared between washer and washed. As expressed in a sermon attributed to John Chrysostom, it might be shameful for an aristocrat to wash a stranger’s feet, but it would be all the more shameful if he refused: “for even if you think him exceedingly eminent and illustrious, he partakes of the same nature as the one being washed, and is the fellow slave of the one being tended, and of the same honor”.101 Although the word diakonia is not used in the Gospel of John to describe Jesus’ washing of his disciples’ feet (Jn 13:5 – 17), that episode became viewed and imitated in early Byzantium as a symbol of Christ’s lowly diakonia for humanity.102 From a modern perspective, such diakonia might be considered a means of expressing or attaining empathy for people distinctly different from oneself. In this period, however, it was regarded above all as a religious act that not only revealed the “lowliness to the virtues and “merit of the works” accomplished by them in lifetime This procedure is contrasted with that of earthly authorities, who “act with partiality, impressed by riches and empty glory, and treat those who are despised or poor according to their condition of scorn and poverty”: v.Pach. boh. 82; trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 105. 100 For the challenge of promoting the novel social ideal of humility in early monastic communities, see D. Burton-Christie, The Word in the Desert: Scripture and the Quest for Holiness in Early Christian Monasticism (New York and Oxford, 1992), 236 – 60, and G. Gould, The Desert Fathers on Monastic Community (Oxford, 1993), 77 – 78, 118. 101 Ps.-Chrys., Ecloga de humilitate animi, hom 7 (PG 63.617): eQ c±q eqcem¶r tir eUg ja· peqicamµr ja· kalpq¹r ja· 1p¸sglor, aqt¹r toO n´mou m¸xei to»r pºdar ; ja· p_r oqj aQswqºm ; AQswq¹m l³m owm t¹ lµ m¸pteim l÷kkºm 1sti. J#m c±q luqi²jir aqtoO tµm eqc´meiam 1p²q,r ja· tµm peqiv²meiam ja· tµm kalpqºtgta, t/r aqt/r let´wei t` miptol´m\ v¼seyr, ja· sumdoukºr 1sti toO heqaleuol´mou ja· blºtilor. 102 Greg. Naz., In laud. Basil. 35 (PG 36.582D); See Hamman, Vie liturgique et vie social, 74 – 76; Th. Sch fer, Die Fusswaschung im monastischen Brauchtum und in der lateinishcn Liturgie: Liturgie: Liturgiegeschichtliche Untersuchung (Beuron in Hohenzollern, 1956), 18 – 27.

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of the Savior” within the washer,103 but also put him in direct contact with the lowliness of another human being: or as John of Ephesus put it, in contact with God made visible “by means of a contemptible, poor body”.104 Thus it helped one perceive in oneself and others the honorable lowliness intrinsic to all humanity. That, I conclude, was one way to see and honor “Christ”, however temporarily, in sixth-century Byzantium.

103 Canons of Athanasius, no.66; ed. and trans. W. Riedel and W.E. Crum, The Canons of Athanasius, Patriarch of Alexandria, ca 293 – 373 (London, 1904), 43. 104 Jo. Eph., “Life of a Poor Stranger”, v.SS.Or. 17 (PO 17.250): bir pagr shita wmeskana. Cf. id., “Life of Sergius”, v.SS.Or 5 (17.95).

Charity and Piety as Episcopal and Imperial Virtues in Late Antiquity Claudia Rapp “We are not children of misanthropy but of the philanthropy of God. If the one who was rich became poor for our sakes, we too must imitate his sublime poverty; for we were made by God for works of philanthropy.”1 This is the generous response of the presiding archbishop at the Council in Constantinople in 448 to the news that the monastic leader Eutychius, who was suspected of heresy, was too unwell to attend the meeting. This statement establishes an intimate link between God’s philanthropy made manifest in the incarnation of Christ and the human obligation to imitate that philanthropy as a response. This obligation extends to all Christians, of course, and the potential of Christian charity to erase—detractors would say: threaten—social hierarchies has been much discussed ever since Ananias and Sapphira were said in the Acts of the Apostles to have suffered divine retribution for their reluctance to share all their belongings with the community (Acts 5:1 – 11).2 This study moves in the opposite direction. Rather than looking at the elimination of social distinctions that Christian charity might accomplish, it is assumed that the existing social hierarchies of the Later Roman Empire spilled over into the church and its organizational structure. This opens up interesting questions regarding the charitable role of emperors and bishops, the highest representatives of church and state, respectively: is the imitation of the philanthropy of God expected in a special way and in greater measure by these men in leadership positions? If so, how is this explained and justified? And does it make a difference whether these leadership positions are within the church or within the empire? In order to 1

2

A partial reading of the Acts of 448 was held at Chalcedon, Session 1. 415, ed. E. Schwartz, Acta Conciliorum Oecumenicorum II/1: Concilium Universale Chalcedonense (Berlin and Leipzig, 1933), p. 130, line 23 – 26, trans. R. Price, M. Gaddis, The Acts of the Council of Chalcedon, 2 vols., Translated Texts for Historians 45 (Liverpool, 2005), p. 207. The most comprehensive treatment for our period is P. R. L. Brown, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman Empire (Hanover, NH, 2002).

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explore this topic, I will examine the normative texts on the episcopate and on the imperial role and compare them to some narrative descriptions of bishops and emperors.3 The timeframe for this brief study is the fourth to seventh century, the crucial period during which the Christian church morphed from persecuted minority into a social and political force. Its geographical focus is on the Greek-speaking areas of the Roman Empire in the Eastern Mediterranean. The structure, administration and activities of Christian communities became the subject of written guidelines in the course of the first to fifth centuries. The Church Orders of the first Christian centuries, however, are less concerned with delineating the qualifications for the ideal bishop than they are with prescribing rituals and establishing rules for the admission to the community through baptism. The first time that the conditions for appointment to the clergy are spelled out is in the last quarter of the fourth century, in the Apostolic Constitutions which were compiled, probably in Antioch, on the basis of earlier materials. Out of the five books of the Apostolic Constitutions, Books I and II show the closest parallels with the Didaskalia, a work compiled in Greek in Syria in the midthird century, which survives only in Syriac and in Latin. In other words, the Apostolic Constitutions represent the condensation of a long tradition and thus may reflect earlier usages and interpretations. After addressing concerns of the laity in Book I in 10 precepts, Book II of the Apostolic Constitutions contains no fewer than 63 precepts regarding bishops, presbyters and deacons. The character of the ideal bishop is explained early on. He must be gentle, merciful (eleemon), and a peace maker.4 Further down in the text, more adjectives are used: compassionate (eusplagchnos),

3

4

A similar approach in comparing theory and practice of imperial philanthropy is taken by D. Stathakopoulos, “Philoptochos basileus: Kaiserliche Armenf rsorge zwischen Rhetorik und Realit t in Byzanz,” Modi der Inklusion/Exklusion von Fremden und Armen: Praktiken und Repr sentationen im Wandel von Herrschaft und Gesellschaft, ed. L. Raphael, G. Gestrich, H. Uerlings, Inklusion/Exklusion. Studien zu Fremdheit und Armut von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, 5 (Frankfurt a. M., 2008). I am grateful to Dionysios Stathakopoulos for sharing a pre-publication version of his work with me. For bishops, see R. Finn, Almsgiving in the Later Roman Empire: Christian Promotion and Practice (313 – 450) (Oxford, 2006), chapter 2: Episcopal Almsgiving. Apostolic Constitutions, ed. M. Metzger, 3 vols., SCh 320, 329, 336 (Paris, 1985 – 87), II 1. 5 – 7; cf. II 24. 7.

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not vulgar, full of brotherly love.5 Additionally, he is expected to be a generous giver, a lover of widows and of strangers, and no hater of the poor.6 Eleemon is a recurrent word that is loaded with meaning. It is usually translated as “merciful” or “charitable.” But what does it actually refer to? Charitable actions, such as financial donations, gifts, and alms, which one might make as a permanent or recurring commitment? Or some kind of sentiment or emotion in the sense of “mercy,” “compassion” (close to the sense of eusplagchnia, literally “being moved in one’s guts”) which may or may not result in an act of charity, and in any case is punctual and fleeting? In a seminal study, Wolfgang Schadewald has shown that in ancient Greek literature, eleos was a sentiment of being touched, even moved to tears by the misfortune of another.7 Aristotle identified three elements that constitute eleos: first, a terrible and painful evil or misfortune that has befallen another person; second, the knowledge that one might potentially experience the same, and third, that the other is innocent in his suffering.8 The Christian interpretation of eleos as a sentiment of fellow-suffering rather than being touched as an observer, Schadewaldt shows, is a gradual development that becomes fully evident only in the fourth century CE.9 In the passages in the Apostolic Constitutions that refer to bishops, there is a striking preponderance for the word eleos and its derivatives. Significantly, it does not appear most frequently in the context of charity as concrete assistance to those in need, but rather in the context of the bishop’s pastoral care for sinners. He is supposed to show eleos with sinners,10 weeping with those who weep, imitating Christ’s self-abasement for the sake of those who have transgressed. Eleos here is clearly an emotional response before it can become an action; and it is not directed at 5 Op. cit., II 3. 3. Compare the characterization of the ideal “presbyter” (a term that in the early second century CE may still designate any leader of a Christian community) in the Epistle of Polycarp 6 (The Apostolic Fathers, ed. and trans. J. B. Lightfoot [London, 1893]), p. 170, trans. p. 179: they should be “compassionate [eusplagchnoi], merciful towards all men [eleemones], turning back the sheep that are gone astray [i.e. the sinners in the community].” 6 Op. cit., II 4. 1; II 6. 1. 7 W. Schadewaldt, “Furcht und Mitleid?,” Hermes 83 (1955), 129 – 171. 8 Op. cit., p. 140 f. 9 The neologism formed by Latin apologists, compassio, only gradually gains currency since the late second century. This places eleos in the vicinity of sympatheia, “suffering along with someone” and it is in the same vein that the Latin of the Didascalia renders eleemon with misericors. 10 Apost. Const. II 15. 3.

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the poor, but at community members in spiritual need. According to the advice of the Apostolic Constitutions, then, the ideal bishop should first and foremost have compassion with sinners in order to reconcile them with God. As his public role within his city expanded in the course of the fourth to sixth centuries, the bishop’s care for sinners was increasingly eclipsed by the expansion of his administrative responsibilities, including the care of the poor.11 How does this ideal of episcopal charity translate into reality? Here it is useful to look at saints’ Lives that celebrate bishops, rather than ascetics. This new variant of hagiography gained popularity in the Latin- and Greek-speaking areas of the Later Roman Empire in the fifth century, with the composition of the Lives of Epiphanius of Salamis, Martin of Tours, Ambrose of Milan, Augustine of Hippo and Porphyry of Gaza. The Life of Epiphanius, bishop of Salamis (Constantia), who lived from ca. 310 to 403, was probably composed some time between 450 and 475 either on Cyprus or, more likely, in Palestine. Epiphanius began his life as the son of a Jewish farmer near Eleutheropolis (Bet Guvrin), then received an education in the house of the rabbi Tryphon, before his conversion and entry into a monastery. At that moment, he gave up all his possessions “to the poor” (ch. 12).12 His election to the most important episcopal see in Cyprus in 367 is the result of divine providence, helped along by his qualifications as a monk and the advantage of being an outsider in this large and faction-ridden city. Epiphanius’ first deed as a bishop was the ransoming of a Roman merchant from imprisonment by one of the prominent local pagans. This did not endear him to the local lite, nor to his church finance committee, whose funds he simply appropriated for this purpose (ch. 63). Epiphanius also intervened when it became known that Bishop John of Jerusalem was neglecting his care of the poor. He traveled to Jerusalem and then tricked John into lending him all his finest table silver, only to sell it and then distribute the proceeds to the poor (ch. 77 – 79). Back in Cyprus, during a time of famine, he miraculously came upon a sum of money which he then used to purchase grain for the needy (ch. 93). On a visit to Constantinople, he resisted imperial 11 On the evolution of the role of the bishop, see C. Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity. The Nature of Christian Leadership in a Time of Transition (Berkeley etc., 2005). For Late Antique models of pastoral care, see G. Demacopoulos, Five Models of Spiritual Direction in the Early Church (Notre Dame, Ind., 2007). 12 The only print version of the Vita currently available is in PG 41, col. 23 – 113. The chapter numbers employed here refer to the forthcoming edition of the text, based on my D. Phil. Dissertation, Oxford, 1991.

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grandstanding and secured the possession of a vineyard for the wife of an exiled officer (ch. 109 ff ). These five interventions are the sum total of Epiphanius’ charitable actions; there is no mention of his pastoral care for his community,13 let alone his compassion for others. A much larger part of Vita is taken up by miracles of exorcism, healing and resurrection, represented with a total of 18 stories. Epiphanius’ charity has the important side-effect of upsetting and alienating all the important political forces of his day: elite pagans, church administrators, a patriarch and even the emperor himself. Charity in this way becomes a militant virtue that challenges the established status quo, both outside and inside the Church. The second text of episcopal hagiography that deserves scrutiny is the Life of Porphyry of Gaza, who died in 420. Although this Vita is of uncertain date (a fifth-century date seems plausible) and dubious authenticity, it can still throw some light on the conduct of a Late Antique bishop.14 Miracles that help restore the physical well-being of others are relatively scarce, a total of 7, and Porphyry’s charitable actions are even fewer. Like Epiphanius, he gave away his property when he entered the monastic life.15 Later, when Porphyry had achieved the greatest accomplishment of his episcopate, the construction of a large basilica in Gaza on the foundations of an ancient temple of Zeus that had been razed to the ground, he gave a financial donation to each and every visitor who had come to attend the inaugural festivities.16 These two episodes of active charity are counterbalanced by the hagiographer’s frequent praise of Porphyry’s mercy and compassion. A character profile at the beginning of the Vita describes him as “a man without reproach, most gentle, merciful (eleemon)… He loved the poor, was full of fellow-suffering (sympathetikos), always ready to shed tears.”17 Two further stories bear this out. 13 The possible exception being his reprimand of a deacon who had violated the rule of abstaining from sexual intercourse prior to serving at the altar the following day (ch. 68). 14 For a recent discussion of this Vita, mainly in the context of pagan-Christian conflict, see F. Trombley, Hellenic Religion and Christianization, c. 370 – 529, 2 vols. (Leiden, 1993). 15 Life of Porphry of Gaza, ed. H. Gr goire, M.-A. Kugener (Paris, 1930), ch. 9, p. 8 – 9. 16 Op. cit., ch. 94, p. 72 – 73. 17 Op. cit., ch. 8, p. 8, l. 10 – 14. The English translations are a preliminary version of my forthcoming translation and commentary of this text in Translated Texts for Historians, which will be accompanied by a translation of the Georgian version and Scriptural commentary by Jeff Childers.

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Once, in church, he overheard the fervent prayer of a Christian household servant on behalf of her pagan mistress who was suffering to the point of death in protracted labor. “When the holy man heard the woman’s reason, he too began to cry. For he was compassionate (eusplagchnos) to an extreme.”18 He also arranged for the burial of the Manichaean preacher Julia who had died from sudden apoplexy in the midst of a disputation with the good bishop. He did so “out of mercy for human nature. For he was compassionate (eusplagchnos) to an extreme.”19 In his compassion and his ability to shed tears with others, Porphyry enacts precisely those ideal qualities that the Apostolic Constitutions outlined as especially befitting a bishop. Epiphanius, by contrast, represents the model of a bishop that would become typical in subsequent centuries, for whom the practice of charity is one of the many administrative obligations of his office. In the fifth century, when their hagiographers were active, Porphyry’s compassion for sinners and Epiphanius’ active support of the needy were both considered suitable qualities of the ideal bishop, although they may not be present in the same person in equal measure. The Apostolic Constitutions remind the bishops that, “to the lay people among you, you are prophets, civic leaders, monastic leaders, and emperors” (archontes, hegoumenoi and basileis).20 Just as the bishops have the mimesis of Christ as their goal, they themselves must become models of conduct for their flock. This mimesis, as we have seen, also extends to the practice of certain virtues, such as compassion and mercy (eusplagchnia and eleemosyne).21 Thus, the larger context for what I would like to call the episcopal theory of charity is that of piety and of Christian morality. The central event that makes both the bishop’s compassion and his charity a necessity is the philanthropy of Christ in his incarnation. The imperial theory of charity provides a noteworthy contrast. It is indebted to earlier theories of kingship, especially the Hellenistic concepts of the ruler as savior (soter) or benefactor (euergetes) that took deep root in Roman imperial ideology. In the inscriptions and papyri of the Hellenistic period, the most prominent quality of a ruler is his sense of justice. Benevolence and benefactions are also expected, but these stem less from the sentiment of pity or mercy (eleos), but rather from the disposi18 19 20 21

Op. cit., ch. 29, Op. cit., ch. 90, Apost. Const. II Apost. Const. II

p. 25, l. 10. p. 70, l. 15 – 16. 25.7. 24. 7.

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tion of philanthropia. 22 The Latin translation of the Greek word philanthropia as humanitas further underlines this point. What makes the philanthropy of a ruler a necessity is the mere fact that he holds power and needs to maintain it. Encapsulated in the popular slogan “bread and circuses” of the Roman Empire is the expectation that the emperor provide food and entertainments for his subjects in order to prove his benevolence and his ability to rule. The emperor’s public display of his piety (eusebeia, philanthropia) serves the same function. Whether he takes part in the translation of relics, leads religious processions, or distributes charity to the needy, he inscribes his power on the urban fabric of the capital of Constantinople and secures the continued acceptance and loyalty of his citizens.23 In contrast to the potentially de-stabilizing effect of episcopal charity in Late Antiquity, imperial charity is first and foremost intended to strengthen the established social order. The philanthropy, real or expected, of emperors had become proverbial by the Later Roman Empire, so much so that it became a synonym for the emperor, especially in legal writing when, for example, it was “our philanthropy” that issued decrees.24 “Philanthropy” could also be a shorthand expression for concrete imperial benefactions or donations, such as building projects. With the increasing influence of Christian thought, philanthropy was considered a virtue especially befitting and indeed required of the emperor as part of his imitation of God’s care for humankind, as expressed especially in the Letter to Titus 3:4 “But when the 22 W. Schubart, “Das hellenistische Kçnigsideal nach Inschriften und Papyri,” Archiv f r Papyrusforschung 12 (1936), 1 – 26. C. Spicq, “La philanthropie hell nistique, vertu divine et royale,” Studia theologica 12 (Lund, 1958, repr. Oslo and Bergen, 1966), 169 – 191, however, seems to see a closer link between philanthropia and eleos. 23 S. Diefenbach, “Frçmmigkeit und Kaiserakzeptanz im fr hen Byzanz,” Saeculum 47 (1996), 35 – 66. 24 S. Lorenz, De progressu notionis philanthropias, Diss. Leipzig 1914, esp. p. 42 – 54; H. I. Bell, “Philanthropia in the Papyri of the Roman Period,” Hommages Joseph Bidez et Franz Cumont, Collection Latomus 2 (Brussels, s.a.), 31 – 37. S. Tromp de Ruiter, “De vocis quae est philanthropia significatione et usu,” Mnemosyne 59 (1932), 271 – 306; G. Downey, “Philanthropia in Religion and Statecraft in the Fourth Century after Christ,” Historia 4 (1955), 199 – 208; H. Hunger, “Philanthropia. Eine griechische Wortpr gung auf ihrem Wege von Aischylos bis Theodoros Metochites,” sterreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-historische Klasse, Anzeiger 100/1 (1963), 1 – 20; id., Prooimion. Elemente der byzantinischen Kaiseridee in den Arengen der Urkunden. Wiener Byzantinistische Studien, 1 (Vienna, 1964), p. 143 – 153.

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goodness and loving kindness [philanthropia] of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because of any works of righteousness that we had done, but according to his mercy [eleos] through the water of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit.” This notion of philanthropy as virtue surpassing all others which enables humans to imitate God and is therefore particularly fitting for a ruler is not a Christian innovation, but has a long tradition in theories of kingship that reaches back to the Hellenistic period and beyond. In the late fourth century CE, the pagan orator Themistius relates an anecdote of the compassion of Lycurgus to his enemies which leads him to conclude that the Spartan king’s qualities as a ruler were: “his mildness (praotes), righteousness (dikaiosyne), and piety (eusebeia)—and the leader of these virtues is philanthropia, by which means alone the emperor can become like god.”25 Elsewhere, he declares: “Philanthropy is a beautiful good in a private person, but for the emperor it is a special adornment and more suitable than all other virtues. For all other virtues must come together in philanthropy; otherwise, even if they are present, they have no use.”26 For abstract theories on the expectations of the ideal emperor in Late Antiquity, we need to turn to two treatises of the sixth century, the Political Dialogue attributed to Menas, and Agapetus’ Ekthesis. Imperial panegyrics and other speeches held before emperors, especially those by the fourth-century pagan orator Themistius, would also bear further investigation, but I chose to focus here on texts that present themselves as being of a more generalized, abstract nature and thus provide a closer parallel to the Apostolic Constitutions. The Political Dialogue was composed early in Justinian’s reign, in 532 or 533. It records a conversation between Menas, the former city prefect of Constantinople, and a certain Thomas who was a referendarius in the imperial bureaucracy. The Dialogue replicates ancient thoughts on the ideal ruler with no explicit concessions to Christianity. It follows Stoic philosophy in assuming a benevolent creator God in whose creation it is the highest human goal to participate. Thus, Menas declares that the perfect and blessed life of the homo politicus consists in the mimesis of God by imitating God’s benefactions for mankind in creating a polis that is just. The ruler will benefit and save his citizens in a variety of ways, according to their needs, by providing them with understanding 25 Themistius, Or. 19, 226 d-227 a. Trans. L. J. Daly, “Themistius’ Concept of ‘Philanthropia’,” Byzantion 45 (1975), 22 – 40, p. 28. 26 Themistius, Or. 11, 146 cd.

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(episteme), right doctrine (doxa), faith (pistis), habitual conformity to a just life, fear of the laws, and by inspiring them to imitate his upright life.27 In this theoretical edifice, there is no place for charity, mercy or compassion. The focus is on the perfection of the person of the ruler that invites and indeed compels others to imitate his example. Agapetus, our second imperial theorist, was a deacon at the patriarchal church of Saint Sophia under Justinian. His Ekthesis (Capitula admonitoria) is an early, Christian example of a Mirror of Princes that nevertheless shows the influence of ancient theories of rulership. It enjoyed great popularity in Byzantium and in the Slavic world, as well as in the Europe.28 For Agapetus, there are four interconnected reasons why the emperor should engage in charity: first, to make himself popular with his subjects so that his position remains secure—a real concern in view of the devastating Nika riot of 532 that almost cost Justinian his throne. “If you want to be honored by all, be a common benefactor to all. For nothing generates good will as much as the grace of benefactions given to the needy.”29 Second, because the emperor’s elevated position requires an equal measure of generosity towards those in need. “You should strive to eclipse all through your deeds in the same measure as you surpass all in power. Be aware that doing good deeds is demanded of you in proportion to the greatness of your power.”30 Third, as a kind of insurance policy so that God will show mercy on him as recompense for the mercy extended by the emperor to his subjects. “You open your ear to those who are assailed by poverty, so that you may find God’s ear opened.”31 The instrumentality of imperial charity in amassing heavenly rewards is also expressed in the statement that the ruler’s love of the poor acts as the most beautiful purple imperial garment that is not only impervious to de-

27 Dialogus, ed. C. M. Mazzucchi, Menae patricii cum Thoma referendario De scientia politica dialogus (Milan, 2002), p. 188 – 191. 28 I. Sˇevcˇenko, “Agapetus East and West. The Fate of a Byzantine Mirror of Princes,” Revue des tudes sud-est europ ennes 16 (1978), 3 – 44; R. Frohne, Agapetus Diaconus. Untersuchungen zu den Quellen und zur Wirkungsgeschichte des ersten byzantinischen F rstenspiegels, Diss. T bingen, 1985. 29 Agapetus, Capitula admonitoria 19, ed. R. Riedinger, Agapetos Dioakonos. Der F rstenspiegel f r Kaiser Iustinianos (Athens, 1995), p. 38. 30 Agapetus, Capitula admonitoria 53, ed. Riedinger, p. 62; cf. 45, p. 56; 51, p. 60. 31 Agapetus, Capitula admonitoria 8, ed. Riedinger, p. 30.

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struction, but also ensures his rule in the heavenly kingdom.32 Finally, Agapetus echoes a sentiment expressed by Themistius and many others, when he explains that the exercise of philanthropy renders a ruler similar to God and is thus the most befitting to him.33 In these sixth-century theories of imperial charity, the thrust of the mimetic move begins with the emperor whose task it is to elevate his subjects with him in the imitation of God. Such uplifting action may then, at least according to Agapetus, be recompensed by calling down God’s mercy on the emperor. In their emphasis on the emperor as the initiator of his mimesis theou (imitation of God), these two theorists of imperial rule thus show their indebtedness to the ancient model of imperial philanthropy. This is a model marked by the absence of the incarnation of Christ as the motivational starting point that is essential to the episcopal theory of charity. It is interesting to see how these different notions of charity are applied in concrete descriptions of emperors. For the sake of brevity, I focus here on Eusebius’ Life of Constantine, a literary hybrid between biography of a statesman, historical narration, and panegyric.34 A search in the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae shows that eleos and sympatheia and their cognates are mentioned only three times each. Instead, Eusebius has a distinct predilection for the word philanthropia in all its forms, which appears no less than 26 times. In his use of philanthropia, Eusebius stitches together ancient ideas of rulership and Christian notions of virtue. There are two contexts in which the association of Constantine with philanthropia is especially prominent. First, it is invoked several times in the context of the conflict with his adversary Licinius in the 320 s, who is painted as a senseless, irrational and vindictive brute in stark contrast to Constantine’s measured equanimity and unwavering care (philanthropia) for his subjects.35 Second, there are three generalized pronouncements on the nature of Constantine’s rulership that resonate with both the imperial and the episcopal models of charity. Interestingly, they all occur in Book I, which may still show traces of the original purpose of the Life of Constantine as an imperial panegyric. After comparing Constantine—posi32 Agapetus, Capitula admonitoria 60, ed. Riedinger, p. 66; the emperor’s charity is also compared to a safe fortress on a hill, Capitula admonitoria 58, ed. Riedinger, p. 66. 33 Agapetus, Capitula admonitoria 40, ed. Riedinger, p. 52. 34 For a detailed discussion of this text, see the introduction to Eusebius, Life of Constantine. Intr., transl., comm. Av. Cameron, S. G. Hall (Oxford, 1999). 35 Eusebius, Life of Constantine, I 54. 2; II 3. 1; II 11. 2.

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tively of course—with King Cyrus of Persia and Alexander of Macedon, Eusebius summarizes: “By the magnanimity of his helpful actions he enslaved those who knew him, and ruled by humane laws, making his government agreeable and much prayed for by the governed. Then finally the God he honoured…crowned him with the prizes of immortality, and removed him from a mortal reign to that endless life which he has reserved for holy souls.”36 These ideas of the ruler’s philanthropy as originating in his elevated position, as an essential means for securing the support of his subjects, and as eventually recompensed with divine rewards anticipate what Agapetus would two centuries later formulate in the abstract. Eusebius is particularly generous with his praise in describing Constantine’s dealing with heretics and schismatics. The emperor’s reaction to the Donatist schism in North Africa was that “they ought to be pitied (eleeisthai) rather than punished; [Constantine] was in no way harmed by their lunatic folly, except in so far as he felt pain for them (to sympathein autois) out of extreme kindness of heart (hyperbole philanthropias).”37 This is the kind of compassion with the sinner that the Apostolic Constitutions singled out as befitting a bishop. Eusebius’ choice of words is more than coincidence. He begins this particular chapter on Church disputes with the declaration that Constantine acted “like a universal bishop,” koinos episkopos. His emphasis on Constantine’s eleos with the fallen reinforces his point. The theme continues further down in the text. “Thus then the Emperor, serving God the overseer (ephoron) of all with his every action, took untiring care of his churches. God repaid him by putting the barbarian nations beneath his feet, so that always and everywhere he raised trophies over his foes, …and [he repaid him by] making him a terror to foes and enemies, though he was not naturally such, but the gentlest (hemerotaton), mildest (praotaton), and kindest man (philanthropotaton) there ever was.”38 These adjectives “gentlest, mildest, kindest” resonate with the characterization of the ideal bishop in the Apostolic Constitutions. In the deft handling of Eusebius in the early fourth century, philanthropy and pity are a political virtues that are befitting an emperor who 36 Eusebius, Life of Constantine I 9. 1, trans. Cameron, p. 71. 37 Eusebius, Life of Constantine I 45. 3, trans. Cameron, p. 88. 38 Eusebius, Life of Constantine I 46. 1, trans. Cameron, p. 88. Constantine’s donations to the poor—another parallel to bishops—are also mentioned in this general context, I 43. 1.

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also acts as a bishop—an important theme in the Life of Constantine. 39 In his formulation of an ideal of rulership where secular and religious aspects are inseparable, Eusebius was ahead of his time.40 It would take until the sixth century that bishops assumed far-reaching responsibilities that paralleled those of provincial governors. Their advocacy of the poor was an important element in securing this position of power within their communities.41 Two and a half centuries after the Apostolic Constitutions and 200 years after Constantine, the bishop had assimilated the public, imperial connotations of charity as the foundation of power that serves to stabilize urban society. The expanded role of the bishop-as-administrator may be seen in the Life of John the Almsgiver, a member of the Cypriot elite who joined in the conspiracy of Heraclius to seize the throne in Constantinople and was appointed as the Chalcedonian patriarch of Alexandria in 610. John’s claim to sanctity did not rest on miracles of healing or resurrections; in fact, his first real miracle occurred posthumously. Instead, his hagiographer, Leontius of Neapolis, tells story after story of John’s abundant, sometimes even excessive, generosity to the poor and needy, and the ways in which this brought him into conflict with Nicetas, the governor of Egypt.42 Interestingly, Epiphanius’ tricking of John of Jerusalem for the sake of charity is explicitly mentioned as important precedent for John’s actions.43 The hagiographer’s insistence that John’s Christian charity was more pleasing in the eyes of God than Nicetas’ administrative efforts as governor, shows that compassion and weeping with sinners was eventually eclipsed by the effective administration of charity as the hallmark of a successful episcopate. 39 C. Rapp, “Imperial Ideology in the Making: Eusebius of Caesarea on Constantine as ‘Bishop’,” Journal of Theological Studies, n.s. 49 (1998), 685 – 695. 40 For the later, Byzantine trajectory, see G. Dagron, Emperor and Priest (Cambridge, 2003, first published in French Empereur et prÞtre: Etude sur le “c saropapisme” byzantin [Paris, 1996]). 41 Brown, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman Empire; J. Herrin, “Ideals of Charity, Realities of Welfare. The Philanthropic Activity of the Byzantine Church,” Church and People in Byzantium, ed. R. Morris, Society for the Promotion of Byzantine Studies Twentieth Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Manchester 1986 (Birmingham, 1990), 151 – 164, p. 158. 42 On the relation between John and Nicetas, see C. Rapp, “All in the Family: John the Almsgiver, Nicetas and Heraclius,” Nea Rhome. Rivista di ricerche bizantinistiche 1 (2004=Studi in onore di Vera von Falkenhausen), 121 – 134. 43 Leontius of Neapolis, Life of John the Almsgiver 19, ed. A. J. Festugi re, L. Ryd n, L ontios de N aopolis, Vie de Sym on le Fou, Vie de Jean de Chypre (Paris, 1974), p. 367, l. 71 – 76.

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By the end of Late Antiquity, the episcopal and the imperial models of charity had become fused. Charity becomes a means of exercising, strengthening and securing episcopal power similar to the effect of imperial munificence, while imperial charity, following Eusebius, is steeped with Christian meaning. This goes to prove, once again, why the categories of church and state, religion and power, prove so resistant to dissection, analysis and interpretation in the newly Christianized Roman Empire.

Healing the world with righteousness? The language of social justice in early Christian homilies Susan R. Holman The very word for ‘charity’ in the Bible, sedaqa, which in its more inclusive semantic usage means ‘righteousness,’ is often paired with the term mishpat in the sense of ‘(social) justice.’ For the giver it is a duty (misva) commanded by God; for the needy, it is an entitlement.1 By performing these mitzvot, tzedakah and gemilut hasadem, we engage in tikkun olam, repair of the world.2

1. Introduction In both Jewish and Islamic traditions of late antiquity, the Hebrew and Arabic words commonly transliterated tzedakah or sedaqa / sadaqa were generic terms for charity or alms that simultaneously meant “righteousness.” By this inseparable double meaning—as an act done toward the needy as well as a state of being toward the divine (i. e., moral correctness)—tzedakah/sadaqa encompassed the idea of justice or, perhaps more precisely, social justice, in both of these traditions of the late antique Mediterranean world. Mark Cohen’s definition (the first quote at the

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I wish to thank Professors Yaacov Lev and Miriam Frenkel, not only for their invitation to join the Research Group as a Visiting Scholar, but also for their supreme hospitality and kindness during my stay in Jerusalem. The paper was improved immeasurably by the dialogue that followed its conference presentation, for which I particularly thank Miriam Hoexter and Amitai Spitzer. Drs. Johan Leemans, Johan Verstraeten, and Brian Matz of the Centre for Catholic Social Thought at the Catholic University of Leuven enabled further research on the link between patristic studies and modern human rights. Thanks also to Brian Daley, SJ, for transatlantic advice on terms, and to Sarah Coakley, for suggested references as well as sponsoring Moshe Halbertal’s lecture on justice and mercy in rabbinic Judaism in her 2007 Harvard Divinity School course on “Justice and Mercy in Jewish and Christian Tradition and American Criminal Law.” Mark R. Cohen, Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005), 5 – 6. Barbara Diamond Goldin, Creating Angels: Stories of Tzedakah (Northvale, NJ and London UK: Jason Aronson Inc., 1996), xv.

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head of this chapter) emphasizing entitlements or rights echoes Gildas Hamel’s observation in 1990 that “the most frequent word used by the rabbis to express charity, sedaquah, meaning ‘righteousness’ or justice, reveals a basic attitude, namely that of the donor’s obligation and the poor’s right.”3 As Miriam Hoexter has noted, the Arabic sadaqa was “a generic term for a charitable gift and in fact voluntary charity of all sorts,” although the Arabic word, zakat, eventually became the term for a tax incumbent on all believers until, as Hoexter notes, the tax “fell into desuetude”4 and the waqf, which regulated endowment institutions, emerged as the preferred structure of administrative charity in Islamic society. Thus despite perhaps diverging applications and usages, the root zdk expressed for both Jewish and Islamic texts an innate understanding of charitable actions associated with religious “righteousness,” almsgiving being one of the five pillars of Islam, and Jewish tzedakah being, as Ephrat Habas (Rubin) notes in her contribution to this volume, “simply the right thing to do.” Bound into this broad concept are implied ideals such as respect for the poor person’s possessions and land (if they had any), their need to stay warm at night, “fair” lending practices and interest rates, rights to benefit from social resources such as food, and certain rights to community hospitality. Further, as Barbara Goldin attests in the second quote at the head of this chapter, from a book written for a broad, popular audience, social justice, righteousness, and acts of lovingkindness (chesed) within Judaism are sometimes associated with tikkun olam, the idea of “world healing” or “world repair,” a cosmic restoration that may also be linked in modern thought to ideals of peace, righteous balance, or environmental or ecological harmony.5 Indeed in modern Jewish 3 4

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Gildas Hamel, Poverty and Charity in Roman Palestine: First Three Centuries CE, Near Eastern Studies 23 (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1990), 216. Miriam Hoexter, “Charity, the Poor, and Distribution of Alms in Ottoman Algiers,” in Poverty and Charity in Middle Eastern Contexts, ed. Michael Bonner, Mine Ener, and Amy Singer (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2003), 145. This opening paragraph summarizing the conceptual meanings of tzedakah and sadaqa in Judaic and Arabic studies, topics that are outside my own expertise, is based on the following sources: For discussion of Hebrew terms and an understanding of how “justice and mercy” are paired in Hebrew biblical texts, I depend largely on Moshe Weinfeld, Social Justice in Ancient Israel and in the Ancient Near East. (Jerusalem / Minneapolis: Magnes Press/Fortress, 1995), esp. 25 – 44. For contemporary Jewish views on tzedakah and chesed, see Avroham Chaim Feuer, Tzedakah Treasury: An Anthology of Torah Teachings on the Mitzvah of Charity–To

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social consciousness, “the first thing that comes to mind when many people think about tikkun olam is our duty to help the poor” and “the closest of those classical words for what we mean today by tikkun olam are, on the personal level, chesed, and, on the social level, tzedek and mishpat.”6 How might these observations on terminology in Judaism and Islam contribute to an understanding of the relationship between alms and social justice as it related to giving in early Christian texts from the late antique Mediterranean world? Christians from this period included those whose first language was Syriac, a dialect of Aramaic—thus obviously sharing cognates with Hebrew- and Arabic-speakers—as well as those whose first language was Greek, Latin, or Coptic, who used different sets of words altogether. By the time of the Islamic conquests in the seventh and eighth centuries, a number of early Christian texts on poverty relief were available and were being translated and used in settings outside their original contexts. How was the language of alms in these early Christian sermons related to concepts of social justice, “righteousness,” and perhaps even the idea of “healing the world” that is now associated with tikkun olam? How did linguistic differences inherent in Greek vocabulary influence the development of philanthropic rhetoric in Greekspeaking Christian communities? This essay focuses particularly on two overlapping linguistic contexts in which such rhetoric developed. The first is the Syriac usage of terms and concepts in several texts where the language itself shared both the Jewish and emerging Arabic understanding of tzedakah / sadaqa as meaning simultaneously alms and righteousness. The second is the context of the major Greek-speaking “players” who wrote about social welfare in the fourth century using available

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Instruct and Inspire (Brooklyn, NY: Mesorah Publications, 2000); Yisrael Meir Kahan (“The Chafetz Chaim”), ‘Ahavath Chesed’: The Love of Kindness as Required by God, trans. Leonard Oschry, 2nd ed. (Jerusalem and New York: Feldheim Publishers, 1976); Jacob Neusner, Tzedakah: Can Jewish Philanthropy Buy Jewish Survival? Brown Judaic Studies 205 (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1990); Eli Shear and Chaim Miller, The Rich Go to Heaven: Giving Charity in Jewish Thought (Northvale, NJ and Jerusalem: Jason Aronson, 1998); and Meir Tamari, ‘With All your Possessions’: Jewish Ethics and Economic Life (NY: The Free Press, 1987). For a brief discussion on the volitional aspects of Jewish charity see e. g., Jochanan Muffs, Love and Joy: Law, Language and Religion in Ancient Israel (NY: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, distributed by Harvard University Press, 1992), esp. 177 – 186. On charity in Islam, in addition to Bonner et al. see also Adam Sabra, Poverty and Charity in Medieval Islam: Mamluk Egypt, 1250 – 1517 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000). Elliot N. Dorf, The Way into Tikkun Olam (Repairing the World) (Woodstock, VT: Jewish Lights Publishing, 2005), 107, 13 – 14.

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Greek terms to build concepts (also inherent within the range of biblical texts on justice and Jewish tzedakah) that we now associate with “human rights” language: equality, common race, common humanity, common good, and restorative justice.7 Since in Greek the word for “mercy” was not necessarily equivalent to the words for “righteousness” or the idea of social justice, and since traditional Graeco-Roman views on righteousness, justice, and mercy did not include the needy poor qua poor,8 how did Greek-speaking Christians argue for social justice (which they certainly did) on religious grounds based on expectations for the concrete human behaviors of sacred acts of piety and charity? Given that ideas such as mercy and love are frequently the dominant operating terms for Christian charity in the Greek language of the fourth century, how did authors construct a case for philanthropy as part of “justice” and “righteousness”? What were the perceived conflicts (if any) between these various terms in the eastern Christian tradition of this period?9 This essay explores these questions and their potential implications for interreligious dialogue on social welfare issues today.

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For a more detailed study on human rights language in early Christian tradition, see Susan R. Holman, “The Entitled Poor: Human Rights Language in the Cappadocians,” Pro Ecclesia 9 (2000): 476 – 89; and idem, “Out of the Fitting Room: Rethinking Patristic Social Texts on ‘The Common Good,’ in Reading Patristic Texts on Social Ethics: Issues and Challenges for 21st Century Christian Social Thought, ed. Johan Leemans, Brian Matz, and Johan Verstraeten, Catholic University of America Studies in Early Christianity (Washington: Catholic University of America Press, forthcoming). On the difference in focus between traditional Graeco-Roman justice/philanthropy and early Christian views, see esp. Peter Brown, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman Empire, The Menahem Stern Jerusalem Lectures (Hanover and London: University Press of New England for Brandeis University Press, 2002). This study is limited to “eastern” early Christian texts in Syriac and Greek and does not consider Latin or Coptic sources. Nor do I discuss Greek “pagan” views on almsgiving, on which see now Anneliese Parkin, “‘You do him no service:’ An exploration of pagan almsgiving,” in Poverty in the Roman World, ed. Margaret Atkins and Robin Osborne (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 60 – 82.

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2. Terminology in Early Syriac and Greek Christian Sermons The close relationship between the various Hebrew terms used for justice and mercy is inevitably rooted in biblical texts. As Moshe Weinfeld’s study of social justice in ancient Israel and the ancient Near East has demonstrated, the tightly-bound biblical association between tzedakah, mishpat, rachamim (mercy), and chesed, and the phrase commonly translated “justice and righteousness” “does not refer to the proper execution of justice, but rather expresses, in a general sense, social justice and equity, which is bound up with kindness and mercy.”10 That is, rather than civic legal “judgment,” such terms evoke ideals of civic order.11 Unlike juridical rulings in which legal “justice” might appear at odds with clemency, biblical texts suggest no such conceptual conflict when it comes to acting charitably toward the poor and those in need. Indeed, true social justice is understood as demanding an inseparable application of both justice and mercy, and this package of prescribed behavior manifested “righteousness” as well as “lovingkindness.” This close pairing is so tightly integrated in the modern Christian tradition that the late Krister Stendahl, Lutheran bishop of Stockholm, well known for his contributions to global ecumenical dialogue, could write, The basic point is that we should not think of judgment and mercy as two different things. … Mercy, salvation, liberation are part of God’s judgment. Judgment is mercy for those who need mercy. Judgment is justice for those who hunger and thirst after it, since they do not have it. … In the world one speaks about justice and in the church one speaks about righteousness. But Hebrew, Greek, and Latin do not offer this distinction.12

10 Weinfeld, Social Justice in Ancient Israel and in the Ancient Near East, 36. 11 For modern views on the relationship between justice and mercy as it may relate to religious discussion, see e. g., Martha C. Nussbaum, “Equity and Mercy,” Philosophy and Public Affairs 22 (1993):83 – 125; Krister Stendahl, “Judgment and Mercy,” in The Context of Contemporary Theology: Essays in Honor of Paul Lehmann, ed. Alexander J. McKelway and E. David Willis (Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1974), 147 – 154; “The Attribute of Justice and the Attribute of Mercy,” in The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs, ed. Ephraim E. Urbach, and trans. Israel Abrahams (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 448 – 461; and Jacob Neusner, “The Theological Category-Formations of Rabbinic Midrash: [3]: God’s Justice and God’s Mercy,” in idem, The Theological Foundations of Rabbinic Midrash (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2006), 63 – 89. I thank Sarah Coakley for these references. 12 Stendahl, “Judgment and Mercy,” 148 – 149.

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Although, as Stendahl notes, justice and righteousness may not be distinguished in biblical terms in Jewish or Christian traditions, justice/righteousness may be clearly distinct from mercy in other languages used in the ancient Mediterranean world. In Greek it is the word for mercy (eleos), not the words commonly translated “justice” (dikaios) or “judgment” (krisis), that forms the backbone of charity rhetoric and the most prevalent term for alms, eleemosyne. In Greek Christian texts about poverty relief, “charity” concepts used not only eleemosyne (acts of mercy), but also other terms such as philanthropia (love of humankind), philoptochia (love of the poor), euergetism (good works, traditionally associated with patronage and sometimes translated into or equated with the Latin beneficentia) and agape (love). Not one of these words is inherently associated with the idea of divine justice and righteousness. Authors from both Jewish and Christian traditions have occasionally noted the apparent ideological chasm between social action for the needy that is based on entitlements and that based on “soft” concepts like “love” and “mercy.” Yet there is no question that Greek-speaking Christians in the ancient world perceived a close relationship between alms, divine justice, and righteousness. They expressed this most often in commentaries on Gospel texts such as Matthew 25:31 – 46, the parable of Judgment Day, when humankind will be divided into heaven-bound “sheep” and hell-bound “goats” purely by how each treated persons in need. Attentive Greekspeaking Christians drew this close association of justice and mercy in the biblical pattern from the Septuagint, and it was also present in the New Testament. For example, in Matthew’s version of the Beatitudes the saying, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness (dikaiosune¯)” is followed immediately by “Blessed are the merciful for they shall obtain mercy (eleemosyne)”(Matt. 5:6 – 7). And there is no evidence that readers perceived any tension between Matthew 5:48, “Be perfect (teleos) as your heavenly Father is perfect,” and its obvious synoptic parallel in Luke 6:36, which, by simply omitting the letter tau, reads, “Be merciful (eleos) just as your Father is merciful.”13 The audience who assumed these texts as complementary might easily view mercy as an intrinsic element within the very nature of a perfectly just God. Despite overlapping ideas, however, righteousness was by necessity expressed in Greek using a distinctly different word from that for charity/alms if only because there is no single-word equivalent (in either Greek 13 I thank Robert J. Daly, S.J., for drawing my attention to this point.

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or English) for the full meaning of tzedakah. Consequently, the association between mercy and justice in almsgiving depended on interpretive exegesis of translated terms rather than on a lexical equivalent. Any Hellenic Jewish readers who did not speak Hebrew or Aramaic would have had the same challenge; Septuagint texts most commonly translate chesed as eleon (mercy), mizpat as krima or krisis (justice, most commonly legislative justice), and tzedakah as dikaiosyne (righteousness),14 although sometimes tzedakah might be translated eleemosyne (e. g., Ps. 33:5). How did these linguistic differences influence the development of Christian philanthropic rhetoric? To explore these questions, let us turn now to the Syriac and Greek Christian texts. 2.1 Alms as justice in Syriac tradition For Syriac-speaking Christians, there appears to have been a direct transfer of the Hebrew double concept inherent in tzedakah, that is, they used virtually the same word. The Syriac word for alms is zedqto, meaning “the right or due of God or neighbor;” and “almsgiver” was mzadqana, literally “the one who justifies.” Three texts illustrate how early Christians used this root word in philanthropic rhetoric: Aphrahat’s fourth century Demonstration 20, “On the love of the poor;” the fifth-century Life of the bishop Rabbula of Edessa; and Jacob of Sarug’s sixth-century poetic sermon, also titled “On the love of the poor.” Aphrahat’s reference is somewhat obscure. Referring to the divinelyruled relational exchange that charity effects in building a treasure-house for the rich, Aphrahat writes, “see how the almsgiver (mzadqana) begins to take from the needy so that through the needy his own need is fulfilled while they are alive. For he [possibly the almsgiver?] would have enough to not be in utter need but, when he has done this, from him the merchandise of the needy, which was purloined … the rich man gives to the poor. And when he receives, the poor man thanks the Lord of the two of them.”15 14 Here I draw on a random comparative sample of LXX translations of these terms in Gen. 18:19, 2 Sam. 8:15, Micah 6:8, Amos 5:24, and Isaiah 5:7. 15 Trans. Adam H. Becker, “Anti-Judaism and Care for the Poor in Aphrahat’s Demonstration 20,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 10 (2002):305 – 327, at 311. The Syriac text is that of J. Parisot, “Aphraatis Sapientis Persae Demonstrationes,” in Patrologia Syriaca, ed. R. Graffin, Paris: Firmin-Didot, part 1, vol. 1 (1894), pp. 893 – 930, here at p. 900. ll. 15 – 24. For a French translation, see

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While Adam Becker and Sebastian Brock agree that the sense here is somewhat obscure, this passage clearly assumes alms as justice, that is, for the donor a balance between sharing goods with the needy and retaining an adequate portion for one’s individual survival, “enough not to be in utter need.” This theme of living minimally as essential to righteous almsgiving is also evident in the hagiographical depiction of Rabbula, the bishop of Edessa between 411/412 and 435/436. Rabbula was a pagan convert whose mother was a Christian and whose episcopate is famous for his zeal in material divestment. Rabbula argued that “The poor are sustained not by what belongs to us, but by the righteousness (zedqto) of God. … According to an honest assessment, to us leaders is allowed as much as the body needs, so that we may use some of it in a simple manner—like the rest of the poor—and not as our body, which desires what is hurtful to our spirit, wills.”16 In both Aphrahat’s and Rabbula’s examples, “alms” imply a divestment by which the donor keeps personal goods to a bare minimum, here defined by general principles rather than explicit proportions. The texts about Rabbula also include language about mercy and lovingkindness as part of righteous alms. According to the brief, earlysixth century Syriac Life of the “Man of God” (an anonymous holy beggar in Rabbula’s Edessa later venerated as St. Alexis), the beggar’s holy life inspired Rabbula to constantly encourage his congregation to “the love of strangers”17 and “not neglect to support them with his gifts so that he might share in God’s blessing for those who have mercy.”18 Indeed, Rabbula himself is lauded in biblical terms for his “love of the poor”19 as he ensured food and clean bedding for the hospitalized sick, appointing deacons and deaconnesses as their nurses. To the needy wherever he found them, “On the one hand, his justice was boundless [against those who tried] to commit injustice against the poor. On the other hand, there was no limit to the riches of his kindness. … In his justice and in his 16 17 18 19

Marie-Joseph Pierre, trans., Aphraate le sage Persan: Les Expos s, vol. 2 (= Demonstrations 11 – 23), SC 359 (Paris: ditions du Cerf, 1989), 789 – 807. “The Heroic Deeds of Mar Rabbula,” in Robert Doran, trans., Stewards of the Poor: The Man of God, Rabbula, and Hiba in Fifth-Century Edessa, Cistercian Studies Series 208 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 2006), 90. “The Man of God:” The Original Syriac Life, in Doran, trans., Stewards of the Poor, 24. “The Man of God:” The Original Syriac Life, in Doran, trans., Stewards of the Poor, 25. “The Heroic Deeds of Mar Rabbula,” in Doran, trans., Stewards of the Poor, 100.

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mercy he was always guided only as God willed.”20 Thus Rabbula’s example illustrates the linguistic coinherence of righteousness, lovingkindness, justice, and mercy in Syriac charity. This Syriac elision of alms with justice is perhaps most clearly emphasized in the homily “On the love of the poor” by Jacob, bishop of Sarug (d. 521). Known for his many sermons and poems addressed largely to village audiences, it is no surprise that his sermon on the poor draws largely on agricultural imagery. After referring to sowing and picking fruit from the two trees in Eden and its garden, Jacob then literally defines the poor as soil, that is, as the earth into which he begs his audience to plant alms like seeds. He writes, “The poor are (like) a vast (piece of ) land (for the purposes) of justice” and “the needy are the ‘good soil’ [Mt. 13:8,23] of justice … The soul does not have anywhere to sow justice if the poor are not serving as the soil (on which) to sow.” In this translation, Sebastian Brock has here rendered zedqto as “justice” in each instance, but the translation might equally read “alms.”21 These three texts demonstrate the Syriac Christian usage of tzedakah and there is really nothing extraordinary about their use of this particular word. In each the poor recipient is defined as including those one might expect: orphans, widows, homeless beggars, or other poor persons in acute need of goods for survival. While “mercy” and “kindness” are implied as imperative values within assistance, the failure to assist is fundamentally an injustice before God.

20 “The Heroic Deeds of Mar Rabbula,” in Doran, trans., Stewards of the Poor, 90, 91. 21 For the Syriac see Paul Bedjan, Homiliae Selectae Mar-Jacobi Sarugensis Vol. 2 (Paris: Lipsiae, Otto Harrassowitz, 1906), 828 – 829; the whole homily is pp. 816 – 36. Translation here is that of Sebastian Brock, personal communication, 2001, publication forthcoming. For a brief biography on Jacob, see William Wright, A Short History of Syriac Literature (Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias Press, 2001), 67 – 72. On his prolific output, Wright (70) notes that Bar Hebraeus says that Jacob had “70 amanuenses to copy out his metrical homilies, which were 760 (Jacob of Edessa says 763) in number, besides commentaries and letters and odes (madhra¯she¯) and hymns (sughya¯tha);” nearly 300 survive in European collections and very few are published.

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2.2 Rights and entitlements in fourth-century Greek homilies While Greek-speaking Christians in late antiquity sometimes had close ties with those who also spoke Syriac, Syriac-speaking Christians were more likely than Greek-speakers to know the other’s language, and thus texts such as those quoted above, which were probably in their day available only in Syriac, did not necessarily influence Greek concepts of philanthropy. Given this limited direction of influence, how did those whose first language was Greek develop philanthopic rhetoric? The basic terms in Greek have been outlined in the introduction above. This section examines how specific terms were actually used in the case for social justice that we find in texts from several Cappadocian bishops whose writings profoundly influenced not only theology but the rise of organizational Christian charity in the Greek east: Basil of Caesarea, his brother Gregory of Nyssa, and their friend and colleague, Gregory of Nazianzus. We also find very similar terms in two sermons by a neighboring fourth-century bishop, Asterius of Amasea. While this study does not examine the abundant social justice themes in their slightly later contemporary, John Chrysostom, he too is famous for demanding alms to the poor as a morally imperative act owed to God.22 Key themes that are suggested by the very specific use of terms in these texts of the Cappadocians and Asterius include common nature and equal rights, the question of the “deserving” poor, and the appeal to “justice and mercy” as an essential paired element in truly righteous almsgiving. 2.2.1 The language of common nature and equal rights Gregory of Nyssa’s two sermons “On the love of the poor” and Gregory of Nazianzus’s Or. 14, a single homily with the same title,23 call for direct 22 On John Chrysostom’s preaching about poverty relief and social welfare, see esp. Wendy Mayer, “Poverty and Society in the World of John Chrysostom,” in Social and Political Life in Late Antiquity, ed. William Bowden, Adam Gutteridge, and Carlos Machado, Late Antique Archaeology 3.1 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 465 – 84; and idem, “Poverty and Generosity toward the Poor in the Time of John Chrysostom,” in Wealth and Poverty in Early Church and Society, ed. Susan R. Holman, Holy Cross Studies in Patristic Theology and History (Grand Rapids: BakerAcademic, 2008), 140 – 58; and Rudolf Br ndle, “‘This Sweetest Passage:’ Matthew 25:31 – 46 and Assistance to the Poor in the Homilies of John Chrysostom,” in Wealth and Poverty in Early Church and Society, 127 – 39. 23 Gregory of Nyssa: De pauperibus amandis. Oratio duo, ed. Arie van Heck (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1964), 1 – 37=W. Jaeger, ed., Gregorii Nysseni Opera [GNO]

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aid to homeless outcasts and deformed “lepers,” individuals (both local and displaced strangers) who the community were rejecting as repulsive, polluted, and functionally subhuman, consequently treating them, the bishops charged, worse than animals. Arguing for a direct compassion that will turn this dynamic around and create mutual interdependence between donors and sick beggars, these authors appeal to civic rights and equality, although in these particular sermons the marginalized poor, being outcasts, are not ordinary or recognized members of the church or the broader community. In Or. 14.24, Gregory of Nazianzus exhorts his audience to imitate the isote¯s, equality or evenhandedness, of God, which one translator renders “the justice of God.”24 He also uses the word isonomia, a Greek political term that could mean either “equity” or “equality of rights.” Appealing to Eden he says, “I would have you look back to our primary equality of rights,” not the later diversity … As far as you can, support nature, honor primeval liberty, show reverence for yourself and cover the shame of your race (genos), help to resist sickness, offer relief to human need.” (Or. 14.26).25 He uses these terms to make an appeal that is not based on an ethnicity or politico-civic identity that might lead to practices of exclusion, but rather intentionally broadens the definition of these terms in ways that include most, if not all, needy persons. While some beggars are identified as locals, most of them are never identified by geographical or religious origins; they are not called Cappadocians, Greeks, nor even Christians. Some are explicitly identified as wandering strangers who were victims of natural or political disasters. Describing these homeless outcasts in his two sermons, Nyssen argues that they deserve social justice simply be9.1 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1967), 93 – 108 (=Paup. 1, also in Migne’s Patrologia Graeca [PG] 46.453 – 70) and 111 – 127 (=Paup 2, also in PG 46.471 – 90), trans. Susan R. Holman, The Hungry are Dying: Beggars and Bishops in Roman Cappadocia, Oxford Studies in Historical Theology (NY: Oxford University Press, 2001), 193 – 199 and 199 – 206. Gregory of Nazianzus: Or. 14 (PG 35.857 – 910); for English trans., see Martha Vinson, trans., St. Gregory of Nazianzus: Select Orations (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2003), 39 – 71; and Brian Daley, S.J., Gregory of Nazianzus, The Early Church Fathers (NY: Routledge, 2006), 76 – 97. 24 M. F. Toal, ed. and trans., The Sunday Sermons of the Great Fathers (Chicago: Henry Regnery, 1963), vol. 4, p. 55. 25 Trans. Daley, Gregory of Nazianzus, 90.

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cause they are anthropon anthropoi, “human persons.”26 And while Gregory of Nyssa does not share Nazianzen’s tendency to use iso- words or similar allusions to equality, he does appeal to the concept of “common nature” (koine physis).27 Both Gregories and Asterius (discussed below) also explicitly use broader racial and kinship terms to argue that these needy are rightly due the appropriate community obligations one owes neighbors and kin, and Nyssen also uses homogene¯s (of [your] same race) at least once,28 as well as syngene¯s (kin), and homophylos (same race or species).29 We see the same terminology in Nazianzen, who also uses syngene¯s twice,30 as well as “same” or “equal race,” phylos. In hom. 14.28, he writes, “If we are expected to show philanthro¯pia even to brute beasts, how much do we owe those of equal race (homophylos) and equal worth (homotimos)?”31 Both Gregories use homotime¯, meaning

26 Gregory of Nyssa, Paup. 2: van Heck p. 115, lines 21 – 23; and p. 120, lines 11 – 13 (also at PG 46.476 and PG 46.481). 27 See e. g., Gregory of Nyssa, Paup. 2: van Heck p. 117, lines 22 through p. 118, line 10; p. 118, lines 6 – 9; and p. 120, lines 11 – 13 (also at PG 46.477, 480; PG 46.480; and PG 46.481). 28 For Gregory’s use of homogene¯s see e. g., Paup. 2, where he emphasizes how in the incarnation God “took on stinking and unclean flesh and soul to effect a total cure of your ills by his touch-but you flee your own race (ton homogene¯)(PG 46.476.) 29 Gregory of Nyssa, Paup. 2 (van Heck p. 115, lines 8 – 10; also at PG 46.476); and Paup. 1 (van Heck p. 103, lines 21 – 25; also at PG 46.465). On Asterius, see below. 30 Twice: in Or. 14:5 and 14.9, which Brian Daley translates, “compassion and sympathy for our own flesh and blood,” and “brothers and sisters, we must care for what is part of our nature and shares in our slavery” (Gregory of Nazianzus, 78 and 79 respectively). 31 Trans. Vinson, 61, modified. Commenting on this passage, Daley notes, “It is interesting that Gregory is using philanthropia here to make his point. This, of course, is the word that really dominates this oration, especially in the first five chapters or so, where he identifies it as the chief of virtues, a reflection of God’s creative love. But here, he’s talking about kindness to animals with a term that basically means ‘love of humans.’ So the irony in what he’s saying is increased: we show philanthropia (and should!) to animals that are not humans, when they are in trouble; how much more should we show it to the anthropoi that are homophyleis and of equal dignity with ourselves, precisely because they are anthropoi.” (personal communication) And in Or. 14.14 Gregory writes, “They have been made in the image of God in the same way (isos) you and I have, and perhaps preserve that image better than we, even if their bodies are corrupted.” (trans. Daley, p. 83).

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“due the same honor,” in their allusions to the desperate beggars whose basic needs and nature are being ignored. Asterius of Amasea also used homophylos in two of his sermons, “On the rich man and Lazarus” and “Against Avarice,”32 arguing against those who claim that economic inequalities reflect qualitative differences in human nature. In his sermon on the rich man and Lazarus, he writes, if “the nature of things were such that our life was truly represented by the inequality (anomalia) of [the beggar Lazarus’s] career with that of the rich man, I should have cried aloud with indignation: that we who are created equal, live on such unequal terms (anisos) with those of the same race (to¯n homophylo¯n)!”33 And in “Against Avarice,” he condemns covetousness precisely because it creates a “marked disparity in the conditions of life between human persons created equal in worth.”34 As seen above, Asterius also understands inequality as an abnormality, explicitly using the Greek word anomalia, a word we do not find in the Gregories’ sermons; for him, “covetousness is the mother of inequality, unmerciful, misanthropic, cruel. Because of it human life is full of anomalia. 35 The philanthropic rhetoric of their contemporary, Basil of Caesarea, also consists of strong, imperative, and at times apparently radical appeals for social justice and material redistribution in the interest of equity and a mercy that is rooted in divine justice and eschatological restoration. Both Gregory of Nyssa and Basil also demonstrate a certain focus on cosmic healing or “healing the world” that depends on acts of justice to the poor. Nyssen does this through his appeals to the perfect divine order of original creation and its anticipated restorative culmination, and Basil through his appeals to social order, ecological balance, and heavenly judgment (especially in his hom. 8, “In time of famine and drought”). In hom. 6, a sermon addressed to the rich who were stockpiling grain during 32 For the Greek, see the critical edition of C. Datema, Asterius of Amasea: Homilies I-XIV: Text, Introduction and Notes (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1970), 6 – 15 (hom. 1 “On the rich man and Lazarus”) and 26 – 37 (hom. 3 “Against Avarice.”). For the text given here see p. 12, lines 6 – 7. An imprecise translation consulted but frequently modified here is Galusha Anderson and Edgar Johnson Goodspeed, trans., Ancient Sermons for Modern Times by Asterius, Bishop of Amasia, circa 375 – 405 A.D. (NY: The Pilgrim Press, 1904). 33 Asterius, hom. 1.8.1, trans. Anderson and Goodspeed, Ancient Sermons by Asterius, 34. 34 Asterius, hom. 3.12.3 (Datema p. 35, l. 11 – 14). 35 Asterius, hom. 3.12.1, my trans. (Datema 35, lines 1 – 2).

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the early days of a famine around 369, Basil appeals to the “common good” (koinopheles), meaning that which benefits all persons within a society, writing, “riches grow useless left idle and unused in any place, but moved about, passing from one person to another, they serve the common good and bear fruit.”36 And in his two sermons on fasting, de jejunio 1 and 2, Basil explicitly relates communal ideals with personal piety. Not only does the wise abstinence of fasting build one’s treasure in heaven, he says, but the one who practices the proper detached control of liturgical fasting incidentally “ensures dignity to the city, right ordering in the courts, household peace and salvation;” (de jejunio 1.11, PG 31.184B); “it is no less useful to the public, for it maintains good order among the population” (de jejunio 2.5; PG 31.192B) and “greatly benefits the household, the marketplace, night and day, city and wilderness.” (de jejunio 2.7, PG 31.196A); ultimately resulting in the “crown of justice” (de jejunio 2.1, PG 31.185B).37 The justice of the common good, for Basil, is ultimately rooted in God’s goodness for, he says (in Hom. 20), “You have not known God by reason of your justice, but God has known you by reason of His goodness.”38 Common goodness is therefore based not only on ideals of harmonious community, but on all that goodness means for the individual within the very nature and person of God. Basil also reflects the influence of Aristotelian ideas on civic and social harmony in his second sermon on Psalm 14. Following several Biblical allusions, he writes, The Word orders us to share (koino¯nikos) and to love one another, in natural kinship. After all, humankind is a civic and sociable (or gregarious) animal (politikon gar zo¯on kai sunangelastikon ho anthro¯pos). Liberality for the purpose of restoration is a necessary part of the common life (koine¯ politeia) and helping one another upwards.39

The sentence that translates, “Humankind is a civic and sociable animal,” likely reflects an Aristotelian source, since Aristotle’s Politics 1.1.9 notes, “Humankind is by nature a civic animal,” or, in the Loeb translation, 36 Basil, hom. 6.5, trans. M. F. Toal, Sunday Sermons of the Great Fathers (Chicago: Henry Regnery, 1959), 3.329, slightly modified. 37 My translation. 38 Basil, hom. 20, trans. M. Monica Wagner, Saint Basil: Ascetical Works (NY: Fathers of the Church, 1950), 480. 39 Basil, Hom Ps. 14/15a, PG 29.261CD, my translation. For further discussion see Holman, The Hungry are Dying, 112.

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“Man is by nature a political animal.”40 It is virtually certain that Basil is consciously quoting something, perhaps mediated through a later philosopher, like Posidonius, rather than composing an original sentence. These examples demonstrate how concepts familiar to modern human rights dialogue existed in some form in these late antique writers and demonstrate concerns that resonate with certain similar modern interests in social and distributive justice. 2.2.2 Who are the deserving poor and what measure is “equal”? As familiar as these ideas may seem to modern readers trained in “human rights” rhetoric, these authors spoke into and from a very different culture, one that was far less “democratic” about “equality” and the “justice” of alms. Daniel Caner’s contribution to this volume addresses some of these challenges in greater depth,41 but certain tensions should not be overlooked here. For example, most third- and fourth-century Christian Greek writers on philanthropy argued that all needy human beings merit aid regardless of who they are or their religious affiliations. John Chrysostom wrote, for example, “If you see anyone in affliction, do not be curious to inquire further. His being in affliction gives him a just claim to your help. … He is God’s, whether he is a heathen or a Jew; since even if he is an unbeliever, still he needs help.”42 Other texts reflect similar views. But it is also evident that these ideals of “equality” were not applied in a strictly egalitarian manner. In some cases, members of the group seem to receive preference, and the group itself is defined in various ways. Nazianzen’s Or. 14.25 is particularly interesting for its description of God’s equity: Let us imitate God’s highest and first law, which makes the rain fall on the just and sinners, and makes the sun rise equally on all. … he lavishes the basic supports of living ungrudgingly on all … [but without limit] sets them forth as the rich and common possessions of all, not in any way less40 H. Rackham, trans., Aristotle XXI: Politics. Loeb Classical Library 264 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1932), 8 – 9. 41 See also Daniel Caner, “Towards a Miraculous Economy: Christian Gifts and Material ‘Blessings’ in Late Antiquity,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 14 (2006), 329 – 377; and idem, “Wealth, Stewardship, and Charitable ‘Blessings’ in Early Byzantine Monasticism,” in Wealth and Poverty in Early Church and Society, 221 – 42. 42 Hom. Hebr. 10.4 (PG 53.88), trans. Rudolf Br ndle, “‘This Sweetest Passage:’ Matthew 25:31 – 46 and Assistance to the Poor in the Homilies of John Chrysostom,” in Wealth and Poverty in Early Church and Society, 130.

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ened for this reason. Beings of like rank in nature he honors with equal gifts, so he shows how rich his own generosity is.43

This assumption that “equal gifts” fall to those “of like rank in nature” may hint at Gregory’s own typically upper-class perception of natural differences in status reflecting natural abilities. And in Or. 14.6, where he clearly ranks the poor and says they all deserve our open-hearted generosity, he notes that those whose “sufferings contradict their dignity are even more wretched than those who are used to misfortune;”44 that is, the “genteel poor” deserve special courtesies. In general, however, it is rare to find sources that categorically exclude unbelievers, and philanthropic texts more often call for responses that range from cautious, attentive stewardship of resources to intentionally indiscriminate generosity. As church-funded charity took formal shape in the fourth and fifth centuries, it was often the ascetics who opted to practice and advise extreme generosity, while legislators skeptical about the public poor opted for cautions that resulted, for example, in the first imperial law attempting to control public begging, at least in Italy, under Gratian, Valentinian and Theodosius in 382 C.E.45 Fifth and sixth-century ascetic texts and hagiographies may speak to this critical skepticism when they encourage “truly righteous” donors to give beggars the benefit of the doubt even if they come back for second and third portions, since Matthew 25:31 – 46 taught that Christ dwells in the physical bodies of the poor and judges the fate of the donor’s soul by how he or she treats those in need. When a sixth-century Alexandrian beggar slips into the bishop’s line for handouts no less than three times in a row, for example, John the Almsgiver becomes more generous rather than less, saying, “perchance it is my Christ and He is making trial of me.”46 Another Egyptian administrator of church alms, troubled by a beggar who swindled him into giving the man four coats instead of one, dreams he sees Christ himself clothed in all four layers.47 While these authors, like the Gregories and 43 44 45 46

Daley, Gregory of Nazianzus, 89. Trans. Daley, Gregory of Nazianzus, 78, slightly altered. Theodosian Code 14.18, De mendicantibus non invalidis. Chapter 9 in Leontius’ “Supplement” to the Life of St. John the Almsgiver, in Three Byzantine Saints, trans. Elizabeth Dawes and Norman H. Baynes (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1977), 216. 47 John Moschus, Spiritual Meadow 230, in The Spiritual Meadow of John Moschos, trans. John Wortley, Cistercian Studies 139 (Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications, 1992), 212 – 13; it is “Nissen 12” (BHG 1450p among the “Supplementary Tales;” see Th. Nissen, “Unbekannte Erzaehlungen aus dem Pratum spirituale,”

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John Chrysostom, identify the poor with the divine, others, like Basil. were more likely to identify rich donors with the divine model of generosity, appealing to them to imitate God’s equity, justice, and mercy, and through this imitation attain a life characterized by a God-pleasing righteousness.48 2.3 A homily “On mercy and justice” One anonymous fourth-century homily explicitly addresses the distinction between justice and mercy in Greek philanthropic rhetoric for a Christian audience. Titled “On Mercy and Justice” (Peri eleous kai kriseo¯s), its focus may suggest that there was some community tension about the distinction between these two ideas. As outlined below, the homilist advocates exactly the same essential integration between the two that is evident in the biblical sources. This sermon was apparently popular among fourth- and fifth-century Greek and Coptic audiences. While some Greek manuscripts attribute it Basil of Caesarea,49 Coptic manuscripts attribute it variously to three other fourth-century Greek bishops.50 These varied attributions suggest a broadly-copied and distributed text that likely both reflects and influenced popular views on social Byzantinische Zeitschrift 38 (1938), 367, f. no 12, from the Vienna Codex of the Pratum (cod. hist. gr. 42). 48 This appeal to the rich to imitate divine generosity is also evident in rabbinic sources. TB Sanhedrin 98a, for example, relates the tale of Rabbi Joshua ben Levi meeting the prophet Elijah at the city gates of Rome. “Upon asking him what he was doing there he learned that Elijah was attending the Messiah. And what was the Messiah doing there? While he was waiting for the day when he would redeem the Jewish people he was busy treating the sores of all the lepers who lived outside the city gates. Rabbi Joshua ben Levi concluded that if taking care of lepers was not below the dignity of the Messiah, then taking care of other sick people certainly should not be below the dignity of ordinary Jews.” Frank M. Loewenberg, From Charity to Social Justice: The Emergence of Communal Institutions for the Support of the Poor in Ancient Judaism (New Brunswick, NY and London UK: Transaction Publishers, 2001), 146. 49 De misericordia et iudicio (CPG 2929), PG 31.1705 – 1714, trans. Sister M. Monica Wagner, Saint Basil: Ascetical Works (NY: Fathers of the Church, 1950), 507 – 512. For commentary, see Paul Jonathan Fedwick, Bibliotheca Basiliana Vniversalis: A Study of the Manuscript Tradition, Translations and Editions of the Works of Basil of Caesarea [=BBV], vol. 2.2, pp. 1189 – 90. The Greek word krisis as it is used throughout this text appears to interchangeably denote either “justice” or “judgement.” 50 The Coptic manuscripts attribute it variously to Athanasius, archbishop of Rakote; Epiphanius of Salamis; and Athanasius of Alexandria (Fedwick, BBV II,2, 1189 – 90).

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justice. Throughout the text, the homilist recognizes that justice must find its meaning for this audience within the broad ideal of eleemosyne. This sermon argues that true social beneficence is possible only when one practices both justice and mercy. Like Nazianzen, the author appeals to isote¯s, “equality,” although in this particular reference meaning the equality (or “fairness”) that one applies to the justice (dikaios) used in treating slaves. Krisis, usually used for legal justice, seems here interchangeable with dikaiosune¯, “righteousness.” The sermon was probably originally intended for rural villagers, since forms of work, either trade, agricultural production, or manual labor, serve as common examples in the discussion of justice. The text speaks to some problematic situation—otherwise unknown—in which so-called benefactors provide aid to the needy (euergesia) that is “financed by unjust (adikia) gains.”51 The author appeals to Proverbs 3:9, “Honor the Lord with your righteous labors (dikaio¯n pono¯n) and give him the fruits of your righteousness (dikaiosune¯).” He condemns, first, “honest toil” that shares nothing with God to feed the poor, which he calls robbery; and second, “defiled offerings,” those gained by injustice, oppression, force, or cheating. The idea that dishonest business practices taint alms is also present in other early Christian texts.52 Exercise philanthro¯pia to the one you have wronged, the homilist tells his audience, “and you will fulfill mercy with justice (eleon meta kriseo¯s).”53 Alluding to Gospel texts, the sermon exhorts the audience to “share with the needy, not only the produce of our fields and our profits, but also the work of our hands,”54 and by this work to become, through charity, both comrade (koino¯nos) and coworker (synergos) with Christ.55 The text also qualifies Christian ideals of total divestment by classifying them into two separate groups, its concluding references to at least some of the recipients as “the saints”56 suggesting a focus on aiding coreligionists. Such “saints” are described in the sermon as the “perfect,” ascetics who gave up all their goods and who practice an immaterial and philosophical charity (through “reason and the spirit”). But the author 51 Trans. Wagner 507; PG 31.1708. 52 See for example the third-century Syriac church manual, the Didascalia Apostolorum 18 (trans. R. Hugh Connolly [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1929], 156 – 160) and the Acts of Peter 1, where the concept is directly refuted. 53 Trans. Wagner 509; PG 31.1709. 54 Trans. Wagner 511; PG 31.1712. 55 PG 31.1713. 56 In context probably religious ascetics.

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equally assumes an audience of “others”—i. e., those who are less than “perfect”—who ought to practice “a continual sharing and common division of that which they possess that, by showing mercy, sharing their goods, and conferring benefits, they may reproduce in themselves God’s philanthropia.”57 This bifurcation of poverty choices and alms options is one we find in other texts as well. Nazianzen’s Or. 14.18 reflects the same two options, of ascetic total divestment on the one hand, and, on the other, the majority group who chooses to retain (and chronically share) their possessions. Gregory writes, “We must either give all things away for Christ’s sake … or else we must share our goods with Christ, so that our possession of them may at least be sanctified by our possessing them well, by our sharing them with those who have nothing.” Although Gregory’s own wealth and class distanced him personally from any goal of manual labor, he too immediately associates these ideas with agricultural work: “Even if I were to sow for myself alone, I would still be sowing what others would later eat … so that I would have labored in vain … Shall we not, then, cast off our stinginess?”58 And discussion of charity dynamics in some other Syriac texts, such as the Book of Steps, also imply a community distinction between the “upright” and the “perfect.”59 The anonymous sermon “On Mercy and Justice” is somewhat unusual among Christian texts for its strong emphasis on giving charity from the fruit of manual labor, but as a whole it is representative in how this culture within late antique society imaged social justice in the language of day-to-day realities.

57 “A continual sharing and common division (metadoseis kai koino¯nias die¯nekeis parangello¯n) of that which they possess that, by showing mercy, sharing their goods, and conferring benefits (eleountes te kai metadidontes kai charizomenoi), they may reproduce in themselves the benevolence (philanthropia) of God.” Trans. Wagner, 511; PG 31.1712, ll. 29 – 36, slightly altered. 58 Or. 14.18 – 19, trans. Daley, Gregory of Nazianzus, 85. 59 See e. g., Nancy A. Khalek, “Methods of Instructing Syriac-speaking Christians to Care for the Poor: A Brief Comparison of the Eighth Me¯mra¯ of the Book of Steps and the Story of the Man of God,” Hugoye 8(1) (2005), online at http://syrcom.cua.edu/Hugoye/Vol8No1/HV8N1Khalek.html, accessed 5/3/05.

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3. Conclusion In conclusion, this essay offers a brief overview of some very specific terms used in philanthropic rhetoric of late antiquity, and possible differences that may have affected their practical applications. These examples identify basic terms that Syriac- and Greek-speaking Christians in late antiquity used to describe concepts of social justice between the fourth and the sixth centuries C.E. The texts that use these terms do so in a manner that clearly reflects dependence on the Septuagint as well as the New Testament, using terms that appeal to concepts such as equality, civic order, and racial or kinship ties, in order to draw the needy poor into a cultural context where they might be recognized as having a legitimate place and voice. These limited examples do not represent the opinions of every homilist from this period. For instance, Sister Nonna Verna Harrison has recently argued that Nyssen’s views on social justice—seeing all of humanity as fundamentally equal—contrast sharply with that of John Chrysostom, who understood true justice as functioning best within the inherent and strict social hierarchies.60 And while these texts do not identify a distinctive conflict between social justice and mercy, or between alms and justice, the anonymous homilist’s pointed pairing of these two concepts may suggest the existence of a tension in some communities. In considering how such texts might be relevant to modern religious responses to poverty and issues of human rights, justice, and mercy today, we must naturally be sensitive to avoid imposing inappropriate modern constructs on historical texts from another time and culture, even as they relate to something as timeless as human need and the ideologies of ownership, distribution, and justice. Despite this need for a mature caution, however, when we examine these Greek and Syriac texts from the fourth to sixth centuries, we find that they do explicitly use very similar language to that of our own day, including terms such as justice, equality, righteousness, and appeals to global trans-ethnic inclusion, with phrases such as “common human nature,” “common human race,” and the use of terms like koino¯phele¯s, “common good.” While these authors’ meanings might not exactly match our own, the treatment of the poor as part of community justice is a standard cultural ideal in 60 Nonna Verna Harrison, “Greek Patristic Perspectives on the Origins of Social Injustice,” in Evil and Suffering in Early Church and Society, Holy Cross Studies in Patristic Theology and History (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, forthcoming).

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these texts, and one for which tzedakah remains perhaps the best single term for its nuances of the sacred and acts of cosmic redemption or healing that may drive a vision of restorative righteousness in any age. How a culture imagines charity and the poor depends on both the concepts of its moral tradition and the terms available in its primary language; these factors determine how these concepts are described and discussed and what inevitable nuances will coexist. A comparison such as this paper offers—between one word that has similar roots in Hebrew, Syriac and Arabic, compared to the construction of related concepts by Christians whose primary language was Greek—is even more complex than it appears since it also rests on common understandings and translations into yet another language (English) and into the various cultures of the readers. The use of different words (philanthropia or tzedakah / sadaqa) for charity does not necessarily imply a radically different set of human actions or different moral assumptions, but the lack of fixed meaning-associations may result in a tension in one language culture (such as charity being innately opposed to justice) that simply does not hold in the other (where alms and justice are expressed using the same word). Obviously, charitable responses to poverty in any culture depend on more than how one uses a few words. They depend on a much wider range of issues, needs, tensions, cultural systems, resources, and personalities. In comparing tzedakah-based ideas with Greek language terms in the late antique Christian context, I am not in any way suggesting that either model is preferable over the other. In any culture, charitable terms may be used uncharitably, or narrowed into codified labels and catchwords that serve other purposes; certainly we find evidence for this across the spectrum of philanthropic texts in any religious tradition. In consideration of these various issues, in conclusion, I suggest that these Christian texts reveal an association with the broader idea of “healing the world through righteousness” that is not incompatible with that of tzedakah and which has not been adequately explored elsewhere in depth as it may relate to late antiquity. Although expressed using different sets of terms—the Christian homilies more often imaging participating and entering into the ultimate realization of global restoration as part of divine lovingkindness and justice—this parallel image invites further discussion on the relationship between the broad ideas that are, in Hebrew, encapsulated in the terms tzedakah and tikkun olam. While I leave further examination of the Hebrew associations to scholars in Judaic studies, the conceptual associations in such early Christian texts offer an

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important witness to intersecting ideas that may encourage any contemporary dialogue engaged in applying human rights language to a vision for social justice—and mercy—across religious traditions.

Almsgiving, Donatio Pro Anima and Eucharistic Offering in the Early Middle Ages of Western Europe (4th–9th century)* Eliana Magnani During the early Middle Ages in Western Europe, charity practice, the pro anima donations and alms given to churches and monasteries, had at its heart a complex system of historically defined representations in which the Eucharistic offering stood for a model of the exchanges between men and God. This system of representation evolved in three discrete periods of time, as we see through an exploration of writings on the doctrine of almsgiving and of epigraphic inscriptions and diplomatic acts from the fourth through the ninth centuries. From the fourth to the sixth century, the doctrine of almsgiving developed as a result of the creation of the social category of the poor, an evolution that affected the behaviour of the aristocracy. Following this development, in the seventh and eighth centuries, as the amount of alms and gifts made to churches and monasteries increased, the clergy progressively established itself as the mediator in the exchanges between men and God. Finally, the Carolingian shift of the ninth century heralded the expansion of the seigniorial age, when the relation between the earth and heaven began to be seen as a mystery similar to that of the Eucharist.1 *

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Translated by Anne-Sophie Maret. Abbreviations: ARTEM—“Atelier de Recherche sur les textes m di vaux”, Universit de Nancy, CNRS. See La diplomatique franÅaise du haut Moyen ffge. Inventaire des chartes originales ant rieures 1121 conserv es en France, par M. Courtois et M.-J. Gasse-Grandjean, sous la dir. de B.-M. Tock, Turnhout, Brepols, 2001, 2 vol.; CCSL—Corpus Christianorum. Series Latina; PL—Migne, J.-P., Patrologia Latina, Paris, 1800 – 1875; RICG—Recueil des inscriptions chr tiennes de la Gaule ant rieures la Renaissance carolingienne, H.-I. Marrou dir., t. XV. Viennoise Nord (province eccl siastique de Vienne), F. Descombes ed., Paris, CNRS, 1985; t. VIII. Premi re Aquitaine, F. Pr vot ed., Paris, CNRS, 1997. Magnani, Eliana: “Du don aux glises au don pour le salut de l’ me en Occident (IVe-XIe si cle): le paradigme eucharistique”, Pratiques de l’eucharistie dans les glises d’Orient et d’Occident (Antiquit et Moyen ffge), dir. Nicole B riou, B atrice Caseau, Dominique Rigaux, Institut d’ tudes Augustiniennes, 2009, vol. II, p.

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In Late Antiquity, the doctrine of almsgiving spreads through bishops’ teaching, very often against old evergetic practices. As Peter Brown, Paul Veyne, and Evelyne Patlagean have documented,2 between the fourth and the sixth centuries, emerges the social category of the poor—which did not exist in Antiquity—created by the bishops risponsables of important transformations during the centuries of conversion to Christianity. The generic category of the poor included sub-categories of various stages of poverty: the destitute, the needy, and a wide range of “middle classes,” including rich people who had lost their rank (such as widows or orphans), as well as those with unstable situations who were likely to fall into poverty. The bishop thus becomes the protector of the plebians, he who intercedes on their behalf with the imperial authorities. By reinvigorating the Old Testament model of communal solidarity of Judaism, the Christian believers were invited to make donations to support those poor dependent upon the Church and supervised by the clergy. This model of Christian donor incorporates several aspects of the civic evergetic model popularized by the converted emperor Constantine (274 – 337) and his successors. It transformed the traditional Christian charity in a kind of public service. Indeed, the service of caring for the poor helped to define the place of the Church in the Roman society and to control the clergy action. Additionally, the identification of Christ with the poor formed the core justification for the Church’s keeping of goods in the Middle Ages. From a theological perspective, the doctrine of almsgiving connected the salvation of man with his donations to churches, with his exchanges with God. In his third century work De opera et eleemosynis, Cyprian of Carthage (d. 258) first explicitly stated the idea (implicit in Scripture and in Greek writings) that almsgiving redeems sin. While his formulation of almsgiving as redemptive stands distinctly separate from the remission of

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1021 – 1042; Iogna-Prat, Dominique: Ordonner et exclure. Cluny et la soci t chr tienne face l’h r sie, au juda sme et l’islam (1000 – 1150), Paris, Aubier, 1998. See also, about gift and charity, Guerreau-Jalabert, Anita: “Caritas y don en la sociedad medieval occidental”, Hispania. Revista EspaÇola de Historia, 60/1/ 204 (2000), p. 27 – 62. Brown, Peter: Poverty and Leardeship in the Later Roman Empire, Hanovre-Londres, Brandeis University Press, University Press of New England, 2002 (The Menahem Stern Jerusalem Lectures); Veyne, Paul: Le pain et le cirque, sociologie historique d’un pluralisme politique, Paris, Seuil, 1976; Patlagean, Evelyne: Pauvr t conomique et pauvr t sociale Byzance, 4e-7e si cles, EHESS-Mouton, ParisLa Haye, 1977 (PhD, univ. Paris IV, 1973) and “The Poor”, The Byzantines, ed. G. Cavallo, Chicago, 1997, p. 15 – 42.

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sins made after baptism, he does link it to the general doctrine of salvation.3 Cyprian’s formulation of the doctrine of charity encompasses many of the biblical themes used in the following centuries and in the Middle Ages. Cyprian, along with the other bishops that follow him, does not exhort believers to give alms directly to the poor and needy, but rather to donate to the churches for bishops to ensure their distribution.4 He thus asserts the roles of the Church and clergy as intermediaries to maintain the initiatives that guarantee salvation. In essence, the clergy represents the figure of the sacrificer. Moreover, by playing on the image of Christ standing behind the poor who receive alms, and by using the example of Job who offers sacrifices for his children, Cyprian compares almsgiving to sacrifice, opening it to an association with the Eucharist.5 From a very early point in Werstern history, bishops began to hold the monopoly on the organization of assistance to the needy, both by ensuring their protection and by distributing alms. As early as the fourth century, this task is proposed as a justification of the wealth of churches. According to Augustine (354 – 430), the collected goods did not belong to bishops but to the poor, with the bishops acting as their stewards.6 In the sixth and seventh centuries, the notion that the goods of the Church belong to the poor appears very clearly in the Merovingian councils. For instance, these councils present those who are accused of seizing church propreties or of disrespecting their own donations as “murderer of [the] poor” [necator pauperum].7 3

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Cyprian of Carthage: De opere et eleemosynis, (La bienfaisance et les aum nes), ed. & trans. M. Poirier, Paris, Cerf, 1999 (Sources Chr tiennes, 440) p. 168. See Jobert, Philippe: La notion de donation, Convergences 630 – 750, Publ. de l’Universit de Dijon, Paris,1977, p. 161 – 164; Garrison, Roman: Redemptive Almsgiving in Early Christianity, Sheffield, 1993 (Journal for Study of the New Testament, Supplement Series 77). Cyprian of Carthage: De opere et eleemosynis, introd. p. 52, 55. Cyprian of Carthage: De opere et eleemosynis, ch. 18 and 15. Augustine: Epistulae, Al. Goldbacher ed., Vindobonae, 1911 (Corpus scriptorum ecclesiasticorum latinorum 57), 185, 9, 35, p. 32: …si autem privatim quae nobis sufficiant, possidemus, non sunt illa nostra, sed pauperum quorum procurationem quodammodo gerimus, non proprietatem nobis usurpatione damnabili vindicamus. Les Canons des conciles m rovingiens (VIe-VIIe si cles), trans. J. Gaudemet, B. Basdevant, Paris, Cerf, 1989, 2 vol. (Sources Chr tiennes 353, 354): Orl ans V, 549 (c. 13, 15, 16); Arles, 554 (c. 6); Tours II, 567 (c. 25, 26); M con I, 581 – 583 (c. 4); Clichy, 626 – 627 (c. 12); Chalon, 647 – 653 (c. 6). See Pontal, Odette: Histoire des conciles m rovingiens, Paris, 1989; Ewig, Eugen: “Beobachtungen

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The idea that the Church manages the goods of the poor gives birth to the concept that it is the depository on earth of the goods that good people will find in heaven. Isidore of Seville (died c. 636) explains that the church will keep as a security the goods which good people will find and enjoy in the future, because what matters is the use one makes of earthly goods that God indifferently distributed to good and bad people.8 The clergy not only starts considering itself as a necessary intermediary for the donations made to God, but also as a guarantor for the passage of goods from here below to the beyond. Such views, whose usefulness in social relations is obvious, are built on the Eucharistic sacrifice model, in which offerings brought by the believers are put on the altar and consecrated by the celebrant in order to be approved by God and taken to the altar “on high” by the angels’ hands. Ambrose (d. 397), in his De Sacramentis (IV, 27), is the first to evoke this extract from the canon of the mass: “and we ask and pray that thou wouldst receive this oblation on thy altar on high by the hands of thy angels, as thou didst vouchsafe to receive the presents of thy righteous servant Abel, and the sacrifice of our patriarch Abraham, and that which the high priest, Melchizedek offered to thee”.9 With regard to practice, epigraphic inscriptions enable us to measure how much the doctrine of almsgiving affects the behaviour of the aristoc-

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zu den Bischofslisten der Merowingischen Konzilien und Bischofsprivilegien”, H. Atsma ed., Sp tantikes und Fr nkisches Gallien. Gesammelte Schriften (1952 – 1973), t. II, Munich, 1979, p. 427 – 455; Champagne, Jacques and Szramkiewicz, Romuald: “Recherches sur les conciles des temps m rovingiens”, Revue d’Histoire du Droit franÅais et tranger, 49 (1971), p. 5 – 49. Isidore of Seville, De ecclesiasticis officiis, C. M. Lawson ed., Turnhout, Brepols, 1989 (CCSL 113), II, XXIIII (XXIII), 6 (p. 101, 1. 65 – 75): Bona quoque temporalia bonis malisque communia a deo creari, eiusque dispensatione singulis quibusque uel tribui uel negari; quorum bonorum in unoquoque fidelium non habitus sed usus aut inprobandus est aut probandus. Certa uero aeternoaque bona solos posse bonos in futuro consequi; quorum pignore ecclesiam nunc informatam credimus detineri, hic habentem primitias spiritus in futuro perfectionem, hic sustentari in spe, postea pasci in re, hic uidere per speculum in enigmate, in futuro autem facie ad faciem cum ad speciem fuerit perducta per fidem. Quod donec perficiatur in nobis ut summi dei bonis fruamur aeternis, fruendum in deo nouerimus et proximis. Ambrose: De Sacramentis, B. Botte ed., Paris, Cerf, 1961 (Sources chr tiennes, 25 bis) IV, 27: …et petimus et pecamur uti hanc oblationem suscipias in sublime altare tuum per manus angelorum tuorum, sicut suscipere dignatus es munera pueri tui iusti Abel et sacrificium patriarchae nostri Abrahae et quod tibi obtulit summus sacerdos Melchisedech. See Botte, Bernard: “L’ange du sacrifice et l’ picl se de la messe romaine au Moyen ffge”, Recherches de th ologie ancienne et m di vale (1929), p. 285 – 308.

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racy, associated with a notable widening of what is considered as a donation to God. From the fourth century onwards, in the funerary inscriptions, next to the traditional qualities in connection with the noble origin of the deceased and the praise of his public career, pater pauperum, amator pauperum, pauperibus pius or pia as well as other similar expressions, present the donations for the needy as being amongst the virtues and initiatives characteristic of the aristocracy.10 These inscriptions convey the idea that one finds in heaven the goods distributed to the poor, that one can reach heaven by donating earthly goods.11 Roughly speaking, the central question between the fourth and the sixth century is to know how to make good use of earthly goods, what men have been temporarily given by God, enabling them to constitute “treasures in heaven” (Mat. 6, 19 – 20) and receive “God’s real gifts”, “the eternal rewards”.12 A major change takes place in the seventh century as the clergy consolidates his function of intermediation and claims to be indispensable in the conversion of donations of earthly goods into heavenly treasures. This evolution is closely linked to the growing part played by the Church in commemorating the dead. Augustine, who becomes an authority on the question, considers that only the sins of “intermediate” deceased, those who aren’t either too bad to be already lost, or too good to be saved, can be redeemed by almsgiving and the prayers of the living.13 10 Diehl, Ernest: Inscriptiones latinae christianae veteres, Berlin, Dublin, Zurich, Weidmann, 3 vol., 1925 – 193., n8 46, 170, 1072, 1073, 1103, 1269, 1310, 1462, 1700, 1740, 1778, 2138b, 2148, 2477a, 2816 bis; RICG, XV, n8 41, 78, 172, 176, 227, 249; RICG, VIII, n8 11. 11 RICG, VIII, 11—Limoges, Fortunatus, Carmina, IV, 5: v. 17 – 18—Plurima pauperibus tribuentes diuite censu, / Misere ad caelos quas sequerentur opes; v. 20 – 21—Felices qui sic de nobilitate fugaci, / Mercati in caelis iura senatus habent! RICG XV, 99—Vienne, Saint-Pierre (6th c.), l. 19 – 21: Quin etiam sumpto mercedes addet honore:/Pauper laetus abit, nudus discedit opertus,/ Capituus plaudit liber sese esse redemptum. 12 RICG, XV, 121—Vienne, Saint-Pierre (6th c.): l. 4—[quae]rentem munera uera Dei; l. 11 – uicit auaritiam quae uincere cuncta solebat; l. 16 – Saeculis obtinuit praemia… See Magnani, Eliana: “‘Un tr sor dans le ciel’. De la pastorale de l’aum ne aux tr sors spirituels (IVe-IXe si cle)”, Le Tr sor au Moyen ffge, Colloque B le-Neuch tel, novembre 2006, dir. L. Burkart, Ph. Cordez, P.-A. Mariaux, Y. Potin (Micrologus—forthcoming). 13 Augustine: Enchiridion, 29, 110, p. 108 – 109 [De Fide rerum invisibilium. Enchiridion ad Laurentium de fide et spe et caritate…, Turnhout, Brepols, 1969 (CCSL 46)].

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He also believes that the best way to help the dead is to offer the salutary sacrifice and give alms.14 According to these principles, which will continuously be used afterwards,15 even though not mistaken with one another, Eucharistic sacrifice and almsgiving bear similar effects. Concerning practice, in Augustine’s times, commemorating the dead during the Eucharistic celebration was an old custom.16 However, from the end of the sixth century onwards, “private masses” as well as “votive masses” celebrated for the dead appear, steadily growing in number up to the ninth century.17 These celebrations are supplied with alms, while salvation begins to be a value shared in society, implying that more and more donations are made to churches. Donations with a view to redemption start expanding within a new, very precise documentary context. As was emphasised by Philippe Jobert, first evidence of donatio pro anima are found in the early seventh century,18 and widely spread afterwards in the Occident. Rather than the transformation of a juridical act, donations “for the salvation of the soul” represent a juridical formulation of the doctrine. They are the result, the concrete and coherent expression of the doctrine of almsgiving, visible in the very structure of the acts. Analysing acts preambles thus permits to understand the Eucharistic context within which they lie. In acts as well as in epigraphic inscriptions we find a wide range of actions likely to be compared with donations for the salvation of the soul. As long as they concern the poor, the priests, the monks and the 14 Augustine: Sermo, 172, 2 (PL 38, 936): Orationibus vero sanctae Ecclesiae, et sacrificio salutari, et eleemosynis, quae pro eorum spiritibus erogantur, non est dubitandum mortuos adiuvari; ut cum eis misericordius agatur a Domino, quam eorum peccata meruerunt. 15 Isidore of Seville, De ecclesiasticis officiis, I, XVIII, 11 (p. 22 – 23, l. 91 – 110). 16 Augustine: Sermo, 172, 2 (PL 38, 936): Hoc enim a patribus traditum, universa observat Ecclesia, ut pro eis qui in corporis et sanguinis Christi communione defuncti sunt, cum ad ipsum sacrificium loco suo commemorantur, oretur, ac pro illis quoque id offerri commemoretur. 17 Amiet, Robert: “Le culte chr tien pour les d funts”, r veiller les morts. La mort au quotidien dans l’Occident m di val, D. Alexandre-Bidon and C. Treffort eds., Lyon, Presses Univ. de Lyon, Association des amis des biblioth ques de Lyon, 1993, p. 280 – 281 and “Masses, votive”, Dictionary of Middle Ages, t. 8, p. 200 – 201; Angenendt, Arnold: “Missa specialis: Zugleich ein Beitrag zur Entstehung der Privat-Messen”, Fr hmitteriaterliche Studien, 17 (1983), p. 153 – 221. 18 Jobert, Philippe: La notion de donation, p. 205 – 225.

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churches, they are seen as charitable works that can be offered to God.19 With fragile ephemeral things, one can obtain eternal rewards,20 transform worldly goods into heavenly wealth, take earthly goods to heaven.21 Thanks to this transfer/transformation phenomenon, triggered by charity, donations and good deeds towards the churches and those in the service of God, it is possible to constitute “treasures in heaven”. Passages of the Gospel according to Matthew ensure that donators will be able to amass treasures for eternity.22 However, this “hoarding” depends on those who directly benefit by the donations: Luke (16, 9) thus invites to “make to yourselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness; that when ye fail, they may receive you into everlasting habitations”.23 It is therefore about forming ties, establishing a “friendship” with those who are in charge of interceding for the donator’s salvation. 19 Marculfi Formularum libri duo, A. Uddholm ed. and trans., Uppsala, 1962, p. 18 (qui non minor a Domino retribucio speratur futura pro succiduis contemplante temporibus quam a presens munera pauperibus offerentem), p. 34 (pro eterna retribucionem benefitium), p. 46, 346 (nobis aput aeternum retributorem mercidum suffragia largiantur), etc.; ARTEM n8 4474 (696—unde mercis nostra apud Domino retributure perennis temporibus debiat convalere), 3870 (727—retributorem omnium bonorum dominum Jhesum Christum), 2929 (766—pro animae suae salutis remedium vel aeterna retributione), 4788 (804—pro aeterna remuneratione), etc. 20 Marculfi Formularum libri duo, p. 350: de caducis rebus mercare aeterna. 21 Marculfi Formularum libri duo, p. 348, 352; Chartae Latinae Antiquiores. Facsimile Edition of the Latin Charters prior to the Ninth Century, t. XIII—France I—H. Atsma and J. Vezin eds., 1981, n8 564 (673) = ARTEM n8 4462: de terrena substantia se transferat in caelestia… 22 Mt 6, 19 – 21—nolite thesaurizare vobis thesauros in terra ubi erugo et tinea demolitur ubi fures effodiunt et furantur thesaurizate autem vobis thesauros in caelo ubi neque erugo neque tinea demolitur et ubi fures non effodiunt nec furantur ubi enim est thesaurus tuus ibi est et cor tuum; Mt. 19, 21 – si vis perfectus esse vade vende quae habes et da pauperibus et habebis thesaurum in caelo; Cyprian of Carthage: De opere et eleemosynis, ch. 7 and 20. See Iogna-Prat, Dominique: Ordonner et exclure, p. 211 – 217; Buc, Philippe: “Conversion of objects”, Viator (1997), p. 99 – 143; Magnani, Eliana: “‘Un tr sor dans le ciel’…”. 23 Marculfi Formularum libri duo, p. 350: Oportit climenciae princepale, inter citeras peticionis, illut, que pro salute adescribetur et pro divine nominis postolatur, plagabile auditum suscipere et, procul dubium, ad aefectum perducere, quatenus de caduces rebus presente secoli aeterna conquiretur, juxta preceptum Domini dicentis: Facetis vobis amicis de mamona iniquetatis. Ergo de mamona iniquaetatis, juxta ipsius dictum, nos oportit mercare eterna celestia et, dum sacerdotum congrua inpertemus beneficia, retrebutorem Domino ex hoc habyre meriamur in eterna tabernacola [ARTEM n8 4483 (716), 2931 (768), 2935 (769), 2944 (775), 2943 (775) 2953 (778), 4981 (631/32)]. See Cyprian of Carthage: De opere et eleemosynis, ch. 12.

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Gregory “the Great” (d. 604) recounts for instance that someone had discovered how Deusdedit, a devout man, had had a house built in the beyond. The builders (constructores) only worked on Saturdays: indeed, every Saturday, Deusdedit brought to Saint Peter the surplus of his weekly work so as to give it the poor.24 Besides the role played by the “friends” who work for their benefactors, this story is an example of the immediate correspondence, in both worlds, between actions, things and the people involved. In the charters of the seventh to the ninth centuries and after, donators request the intercession (intercedere, intercessio, intercessor) of the Saints and of the Virgin, of the monks “serving Christ” as well as the poor, most of the time through prayers for the remission of sins.25 The mediators’ place in the relations between men and God is made more complex and reinforced by the multiplicity of possible intercessors. In concrete terms, what is actually consolidated is the clergymen’s domination. Through the interplay of correspondences and by reversing the roles, they consider themselves poor, on top of collecting and redistributing the alms to the “real” poor. In doing so, they become necessary media in the communication with the beyond. The numerous liturgical celebrations dispensed by the monks for the benefactors’ salvation, besides prayers, are supposed to be lasting after the donor’s death. With the intercession for the souls of the deceased, mass celebration and Eucharistic offering are increasingly compared with alms and donations to churches as a way to obtain the salvation of the soul. In the course of the ninth century, this comparison becomes more obvious. For instance, in acts of Charles the Bold (d. 877), the connection directly made between vineyards that have been given, the wine obtained from them and its use in the Eucharist during the mass celebrat24 Gregory ‘The Great’: Dialogues, A. de Vog ed., P. Antin trans., Paris, Cerf, 1978 – 1980, 3 vol. (Sources chr tiennes, 251, 260, 265), IV, 38, 1, see also IV, 37, 7 – 10, 15 – 16. 25 Marculfi Formularum libri duo, p. 164: Ait enim scribtura: “Absconde aelimosynam in corde pauperis, et ipsa pro te deprecabitur Domino” [Ecc 29, 15]. Abscondamus ergo elimosynam in corde pauperis, ut proveniat nobis deprecatio pauperum ad remissione peccatorum. ARTEM n8 4511 (654): ut per intercessionem sanctorum illorum in caelesti regno cum omnebus sanctis mereant particepari et vitam aeternam percipere; 2952 and 2949 (777): ut Dominus per suam misericordiam et intercessiones sanctorum et orationes pauperum mihi in pace et misericordia debeat recipere. See Mclaughlin, Megan: Consorting with Saints: Prayer for the Dead in Early Medieval France, Ithaca (Ill.), Londres, Cornell University Press, 1994.

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ed for the King’s soul, refers to series of transformations.26 Worldly goods becoming eternal rewards, the oblation that angels move from the altar here below to the altar on high, the change of bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ: all these phenomena are pure mystery. If we refer to Charles the Bold’s tutor, Walahfrid Strabo (808/9 – 849), a parallel can be established between these phenomena and the transformations taught by Christ when instituting a new type of sacrifice, without blood, different from that of the Patriarchs: “He has taught the passage from carnal to spiritual, from the earth to heaven, from temporal to eternal, from imperfection to perfection, from resemblance to substantive, from the image to reality”.27 After the Carolingian shift, the comparison made with Eucharistic types of offering is particularly noticeable in the donations and tax paid to monasteries under the form of wine, wheat or bread, as shown by numerous examples from the tenth century onwards.28 At the same time, the number of testimonies increases, following the example of oblation, of the charter where a donation or a return of goods is recorded and which is put on the altar, as well as ceremonies taking place down by the altar (penance, reconciliation, resolution of conflicts…). At that time too, what is expressed in the charters is the need to accompany alms and donations with the conversion of men, to turn sinners into new men. Augustine, by connecting the redeeming efficiency of charity with the real conversion of the heart and the changes in the do26 See Guerreau, Alain: L’avenir d’un pass incertain. Quelle histoire du Moyen ffge au XXIe si cle, Paris, Seuil, 2001, p. 191 – 205 and “Vinea”, Les historiens et le latin m di val. Colloque tenu la Sorbonne les 9, 10 et 11 septembre 1999, M. Goullet, M. Parisse eds., Paris, Publications de la Sorbonne, 2001, p. 67 – 73. About Charles the Bold, see Hen, Yitzhak: The royal patronage of liturgy in Frankish Gaul to the death of Charles the Bald, 877, Woodbridge, Boydell & Brewer, 2001 (Subsidia 3), p. 121 – 145; Nelson, Janet L.: Charles the Bald, London, New York, Longman, 1992. 27 Walahfrid Strabo: Libellus de exordiis et incrementis quarundam in observationibus ecclesiasticis rerum. A translation and liturgical commentary, A. L. Harting-Correa ed., Leiden-New-York, Kçln, E. J. Brill, 1996 (Mittellateinische Studien und Texte, 19), p. 102 (et a carnalibus ad spiritualia, a terrenis ad caelestia, a temporalibus ad aeterna, ab imperfectis ad perfecta, ab umbra ad corpus, ab imaginibus ad veritatem docuit transeundum). See Cristiani, Marta: Tempo rituale e tempo storico, comunione cristiana e sacrificio: le controversie eucaristiche nell’alto medioevo, Spoleto, Centro italiano di studi sull’alto Medioevo, 1997, (Collectanea 8). 28 ARTEM n8 1085 (911 – 916), 1820 (926), 3953 (933), 3788 (950), 2508 (951), 2510 (951 – 2), 1608 (954), 1635 (999), etc.

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nor’s behaviour, paves the way for a “spiritualist trend” of alms, which implicates those who absolve any sinner for having given alms, without assessing his faults or his way of life.29 To evoke the necessary transformation of man, certain donation acts refer to a passage in the Book of Ezechiel (33, 11), in which God asserts that he does not want the sinner to die but to become a convert and live.30 This theme reflects the debates that took place in the eleventh century on the quality of donation, either pure or not, depending on the donor’s actions, as is recorded in Peter Damian’s (d. 1072) correspondence.31 From the viewpoint of representations, the spreading of these preoccupations in the documents of practice is a turning point, linking the “traditional” transformation of things offered to the transformation of man. After the first donation acts for the salvation of the soul in the seventh century, the question of transfer and transformation underlies the perception of the processes triggered by alms and donations to churches in the preparation for salvation. The latter is viewed as the obtaining of a recompense from the beyond, which would take the form of an enjoyment proportional to charity practice on earth, these actions aiming at erasing the sins of man. The phenomenon thanks to which worldly goods are turned into everlasting heavenly goods, which makes it possible to constitute “treasures in heaven” and urges “friends” to intercede on behalf of the donor, can be compared to the mystery of the Eucharist. More than in the simple analogy, already present in the third century, between the Eucharistic offering during mass and the goods “sacrificed” for God and his representatives on earth, the mystery lies in the transformation undergone by things to go from one sphere to the other, from here below to the beyond. And only the clergy can execute it. The scope of the stakes around the Eucharist broadens insofar as the clergy intends to impose his pre-eminence on society. The shifts in what is said in the 29 Jobert, Philippe: La notion de donation, p. 172 – 178. 30 ARTEM n8 3994 (1016), 4000 (1021), 4019 (1033), 4028 (1036), 3343 (1086); ARTEM n8 541 (1020): Piissimus ac miserator omnium suorum Dominus, quotidie operariis suis clamat dicens: O cuncti mei coloni, date et dabitur vobis. Ipse iterum dicit: Date helemosina et ecce omnia munda sunt vobis. Certe cunctipotens Dominus quotidie nos expectat, ut convertamur de malum ad bonum de ignorantia ad scientiam de peccatis ad veram penitentiam; ARTEM n8 1664 (1033): me omni cordis intentione converti. 31 Peter Damian: Epistolae, K. Reindel ed., Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Die Briefe der deutschen Kaizerzeit, IV, 1, M nchen, 1983, n8 14, p. 145 – 150, see Iogna-Prat, Dominique: Ordonner et exclure, p. 238.

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donations preambles are further clues of this process initiated in the Carolingian times and achieved in the seigniorial society. The fact that they managed, in the eleventh century, to connect donations with the conversion of man, to make the altar the place of new rites and to word the different types of transactions (trade, sales, etc…) as donations, evidences that the ecclesiastical doctrine builds around the Eucharistic paradigm the foundations of the representations of social practices.

Part Two Medieval Islam

Christian Pious Foundations as an Element of Continuity between Late Antiquity and Islam Johannes Pahlitzsch 1. Change and Continuity The transition from Late Antiquity to the early Middle Ages in Christian Europe and to Islam in the Levant in the Hellenistic Mediterranean world was accompanied by a multitude of social changes. Without doubt these changes constitute one of the most radical historical processes of transformation. But in analyzing both periods, one clearly notices that there was, among others, one specific institution of great social importance extant in both Late Antiquity and in the Middle Ages: the pious foundation. In the context of this chapter the term foundation describes, in the sense of the German “Stiftung”, the designation of property or of the revenues of endowed property to support a definite purpose determined by the founder. In contrast to a gift, the creation of a foundation is a not single act but a permanently repeated donation for an indefinite period of time.1 Throughout changing times the institution of the foundation thus represents an element of continuity. Because of its permanent character and since the intention of the founder as laid down in the endowment deed is at least in theory, unchangeable, foundations could transmit social, political, economic and religious concepts and ideas from one period to another. It is true that the institution of the foundation remained This paper is based on research that has been conducted in the frame of a project funded by the Gerda Henkel Stiftung on a comparison between Byzantine and Islamic foundations as well as at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton and at the Institute for Advanced Studies of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. 1 Michael Borgolte, “Totale Geschichte” des Mittelalters?—Das Beispiel der Stiftungen (Humboldt-Universit t zu Berlin, ffentliche Vorlesungen 4), Berlin 1993, 8; idem, Einleitung, in: Stiftungen in Christentum, Judentum und Islam vor der Moderne. Auf der Suche nach ihren Gemeinsamkeiten und Unterschieden in religiçsen Grundlagen, praktischen Zwecken und historischen Transformationen (Stiftungsgeschichten 4), ed. Michael Borgolte, Berlin 2005, 9 – 21, here 9 – 12.

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not untouched by all the changes caused by the passage of time. Thus it will be an interesting task to bring out which significant changes this institution underwent during the transition from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages and how foundations adapted to the different emerging cultures, or how these new societies dealt with the conservative element of the foundation and to what extent they admitted the transmission of older social concepts into their own time. What I hope to do now is to present evidence that may help to answer some of these questions. The extant Islamic literary sources, mostly written down not before the 9th century AD, reduce the transition from Late Antiquity to Islamic civilisation to “a simple change of actors: exeunt the Byzantines, taking classical culture with them; enter the Arabs, bringing theirs”.2 According to the archaeological evidence however, Syria and especially its countryside, with certain exceptions, was still intact at the moment of the Arab conquest and apparently still enjoyed the same social and economic conditions that it had through Late Antiquity. In the case of Gadara (Umm Qais) or Capitolias (Beit Ras), for example, no archaeological indication of the fact that the cities came under Islamic rule has been found. Indeed from the end of the 7th century onwards pro-development activities of the Umayyads brought new economic benefits to the region.3 Several cities were newly founded by the Umayyad dynasty in Syria at the beginning of the eighth century as such ar-Ramla and Anjar. In these 2

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Patricia Crone, Roman, Provincial and Islamic Law. The Origins of the Islamic Patronate (Cambridge Studies in Islamic Civilization), Cambridge 1987, 17. Robert G. Hoyland, Seeing Islam as Others Saw It. A Survey and Evaluation of Christian, Jewish and Zoroastrian Writings on Early Islam (Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam 13), Princeton 1997, 15 f. Mark Whittow, Ruling the Late Roman and Early Byzantine City. A Continuous History, in: Past and Present 129 (1990), 16; Thomas Maria Weber, Gadara— Umm Qes I. Gadara Decapolitana. Untersuchungen zur Topographie, Geschichte, Architektur und der bildenden Kunst einer “Polis Hellenis” im Ostjordanland (Abhandlungen des deutschen Pal stina-Vereins 30), Wiesbaden 2002, 83 f.; Alan Walmsley, The Social and Economic Regime at Fihl (Pella) Between the 7th and 9th Centuries, in: La Syrie de Byzance l’Islam (Publications de l’Institut FranÅais de Damas 137), ed. Pierre Canivet and Jean-Paul Rey-Coquais, Damascus 1992, 249 – 261. In general for the development cf. Clive Foss, Syria in Transition, A.D. 550 – 750. An Archaeological Approach, in: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 51 (1997), 189 – 269; Alan Walmsley, Production, Exchange and Regional Trade in the Islamic East Mediterranean. Old Structures, New Systems?, in: The Long Eighth Century (The Transformation of the Roman World 11), ed. Inge Lysen Hansen and Chris Wickham, Leiden, Boston and Cologne 2000, 265 – 343.

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cases the guiding principles of town planning followed the classical orthogonal plan.4 But while the Muslims accepted the planning norms obtaining in the region, they used them for their own purposes. Robert Hillenbrand has described how in the case of Anjar Muslim elements have been poured into the classical city plan. These elements are the mosque and the palace of the governor (dar al-imara), placed in the center of the city at the junction of the two main streets, and a system of domestic housing based on the Arab bait system of inter-dependent rooms disposed around a courtyard. According to Hillenbrand “the classical model is being transformed from within.”5 In the same way the transformation of the Basilica of St. John in Damascus into the central mosque of the Umayyad capital could be interpreted as a deliberate choice of the caliph for a policy of continuity, based on the material and spiritual conditions of the city as well as building on existing structures. These structures were not left intact, however, but were modified to accommodate the exigencies of the new dominant community. So the structure of the town is maintained but its main public spaces were Islamicized.6 Actually, the early Islamic period is remarkable for both its continuity and its change. Old identities as well as institutions were maintained, especially at the local level, but at the same time new ones were formed. However while foreign elements were adopted 4

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Nimrod Luz, The Construction of an Islamic City in Palestine. The Case of Umayyad al-Ramla, in: Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, series 3, 7 (1997), 27 – 54; Robert Hillenbrand, Anjar and Early Islamic Urbanism, in: The Idea and Ideal of the Town between Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (The Transformation of the Roman World 4), ed. Gianpietro Brogiolo and Bryan Ward-Perkins, Leiden, Boston and Cologne 1999, 59 – 98; Walmsley, Production, 283, 296 (on Ayla/Aqaba); Alan Walmsley, The “Islamic City”. The Archaeological Experience in Jordan, in: Mediterranean Archaeology 13 (2000), 1 – 9; Rebecca M. Foote, Commerce, Industrial Expansion, and Orthogonal Planning. Mutually Compatible Terms in Settlements of Bilad al-Sham during the Umayyad Period, in: Mediterranean Archaeology 13 (2000), 25 – 38. Hillenbrand, Anjar and Early Islamic Urbanism, 76 f. Hillenbrand, ibid., 95, however regards Anjar as a failed experiment since “the two concepts of urban life—classical and Islamic—could not readily coexist for long.” Be that as it may, the example nevertheless shows to which extent the Umayyads adopted patterns of Late Antique culture. Richard van Leeuwen, Waqfs and Urban Structures. The Case of Ottoman Damascus (Studies in Islamic Law and Society 11), Leiden, New York and Cologne 1999, 7; Elizabeth Key Fowden, The Barbarian Plain: Saint Sergius between Rome and Iran (The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 28), Berkeley and Los Angeles 1999, 177 f. ˘

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these elements were transformed in a translation process and adjusted to the new structures and concepts.7 Regarding early Islamic culture, Garth Fowden, in his book on the Umayyad castle Qusayr Amra reaches the following conclusion: “But what is borrowed is put together in novel ways and for thoroughly contemporary ends”.8 Charles Halperin interpreted the discrepancy between the actual takeover of the conquered people’s culture and the total concealment of this fact in the Muslim sources as the result of conscious intention. Its goal was to overcome the conflict between the conquerors’ claim to cultural superiority and their actual behaviour towards the conquered. This method is called by Halperin “the ideology of silence”. Otherwise the conquerors would have been obliged to justify ideologically the takeover of traditions or institutions of the subordinated population.9 Against this background the question is whether such a disguised takeover took place in the case of the institution of the foundation as well, and whether there is any evidence for Christian influence on the emergence of the Islamic foundation, the waqf. According to Peter Hennigan the waqf was based on a wide variety of customary locutions, which were influenced by Byzantine, Jewish, Sassanian or pre-Islamic Arabic models. This theory corresponds to the approach presented above that Islamic culture developed over a long period of time in interaction between 7

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Glen W. Bowersock, Hellenism in Late Antiquity (Jerome Lectures 18), Cambridge 1990; Averil Cameron, The Eastern Provinces in the Seventh Century AD. Hellenism and the Emergence of Islam, in: Hellenismos. Quelques jalons pour une histoire de l’identit grecque, ed. Suzanne Sa d, Leiden 1991, 287 – 313 [reprint in: Changing Cultures in Early Byzantium (Variorum CS 536), Aldershot 1996]; Ahmad Shboul and Alan Walmsley, Identities and Self-Image in Syria-Palestine in the Transition from Byzantine to Early Islamic Rule. Arab Christians and Muslims, in: Mediterranean Archaeology 11 (1998), 287. Gerald R. Hawting, John Wansbrough, Islam, and Monotheism, in: Islamic Origins Reconsidered. John Wansbrough and the Study of Early Islam, ed. Herbert Berg [= Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 9 (1997)], 23 – 38. For cultural translation processes cf. Doris Bachmann-Mehdick, Cultural Turns. Neuorientierungen in den Kulturwissenschaften (Rowohlts Enzyklop die), Reinbek 2006, 238 – 254. Garth Fowden, Qusayr Amra: Art and the Umayyad Elite in Late Antique Syria (The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 36), Berkeley, Los Angeles and London 2004, XXIII. Charles Halperin, The Ideology of Silence. Prejudice and Pragmatism on the Medieval Frontier, in: Comparative Studies of Society and History 26 (1984), 442 – 466.

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the new Muslim rulers and the subjected population.10 The sources concerning Sassanian influences have lately been presented by Maria Macuch11, while possible Christian influences have not yet been studied. As John Philip Thomas has demonstrated, the evidence afforded by Egyptian Greek and Coptic papyrus documents of the fifth through the eighth centuries provides a vivid picture of a society profoundly shaped by Christian foundations of monasteries, churches, xenodochia and the like, from the largest cities to the smallest villages. This society created, nurtured, directed and exploited its religious foundations as integral parts of its social and economic order.12 Regarding Syria and Iraq we unfortunately do not have the kind of evidence like that provided by the Egyptian papyri.13 Nevertheless there is some information available, especially on the foundation of monasteries. In connection with the so called “social atomization” of Late Antique society,14 Carola J ggi and Hans-Rudolf Meier attribute the high numbers of churches and monasteries in the sixth and seventh centuries to the general attitude of wealthy founders who preferred to build their own churches rather than donating money to the bishops as they did before. These private foundations functioned as family foundations, which served not only spiritual but in certain cases secular purposes as well by providing a source of income for members of the family.15 In the follow10 Peter Charles Hennigan, The Birth of a Legal Institution. The Formation of the Waqf in Third-Century A.H. Hanafi Legal Discourse (Studies in Islamic Law and Society 18), Leiden 2004, 50 – 70. 11 Cf. Maria Macuch, Die sasanidische fromme Stiftung und der islamische waqf. Eine Gegen berstellung, in: Islamische Stiftungen zwischen sozialer Norm und juristischer Praxis (Stiftungsgeschichten 5), ed. Astrid Meier, Johannes Pahlitzsch and Lucian Reinfandt, Berlin 2009, 19 – 38. 12 John Philip Thomas, Private Religious Foundations in the Byzantine Empire (Dumbarton Oaks Studies 24), Washington 1987, 59. 13 One exception is the Nessana papyri, cf. Casper J. Kraemer Jr., Excavations at Nessana, vol. 3: Non-literary Papyri, Princeton 1958. 14 Alexander Kazhdan and Anthony Cutler, Continuity and Discontinuity in Byzantine History, in: Byzantion 52 (1982), 448. 15 Carola J ggi and Hans-Rudolf Meier, “… this great appetite for church building still needs adequate explanation”: Zum Kirchenbauboom in der Sp tantike, in: Pratum Romanum, Richard Krautheimer zum 100. Geburtstag, ed. Renate L. Colella and Meredith J. Gill, Wiesbaden 1997, 181 – 198. At the end of the 6th and the beginning of the 7th century in many cases up to 12 churches and more existed not only in big cities but also in smaller towns. For example, inside the town of Umm al-Jimal in Jordan 14 churches have been identified, ibid., 196 f. I owe this reference to Isabel Toral-Niehoff. Thomas, Private Reli-

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ing section, the evidence for the Miaphysite Syrian orthodox Church (the so called Jacobites), the Nestorians and the Greek orthodox Church will be presented.

2. Christian Pious Foundations in Early Islamic Syria and Iraq 2.1. The Syrian Orthodox Church Greco-Roman as well as Christian traditions were integrated into Arab culture in Syria, particularly by the tribe of the Miaphysite Ghassanids who had been allies of Byzantium until the Islamic conquest. According to the Greek historian Sozomenos of the 5th century, the Arabs in the 4th century had already been familiar with Christianity through their encounters with priests and monks who lived close to them.16 The diffusion of monastic institutions in the province Arabia, the heartland of Ghassanid rule, is demonstrated in a letter from the 560 s in which the abbots of this province condemned the tritheistic heresy. All in all 137 abbots signed this document.17 Although we do not have concrete accounts of the establishment of endowments for monasteries by the Ghassanid kings there is however the statement of al-Isfahani (897 – 967) in his Kitab ad-diyarat (The Book of Monasteries), that points to the involvement of the Ghassanid kings as well as others in the foundation of monasteries: ˘

“Three groups of Yamanite Christians used to compete with one another in the construction of churches (biya ) with attention to their decoration (ziyy) and the beauty of their structures: the house of al-Mundhir in Hira (i. e. the Lakhmids), and Ghassan in ash-Sham and Banu al-Harith ibn-Ka b, the ˘

gious Foundations, 63 – 69, 71 – 75 and 96 f. I am preparing a comparative study on family foundations in Byzantium and the Islamic world. 16 Sozomenos, Historia ecclesiastica (Sources chr tiennes 494), ed. Joseph Bidez, Paris 2005, 6.38.14, 464. Elizabeth Key Fowden, Christianity and the Umayyads, in: Garth Fowden and Elizabeth Key Fowden, Studies on Hellenism, Christianity and the Umayyads (Meletema 37), Athens 2004, 149. 17 Documenta ad origines monophysitarum illustrandas (Corpus scriptorum christianorum orientalium 17, Scriptores Syri 17), ed. Jean-Baptiste Chabot, Paris 1908 (reprint Louvain 1955), 145 – 156. Theodor Nçldeke, Zur Topographie und Geschichte des damaszenischen Gebiets und der Haurangegend, in: Zeitschrift der deutschen morgenl ndischen Gesellschaft 29 (1875), 419 – 444; Georg Graf, Geschichte der christlichen arabischen Literatur (Studi e testi 118), vol. 1, Citt del Vaticano 1944, 17; Irfan Shahid, Byzantium and the Arabs in the Sixth Century, vol. 1, part 2, Washington 1995, 821 – 838; and vol. 2, part 1, Washington 2002, 148 and 183 f.

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Harithids in Najran. Their monasteries (diyarat), which were exceedingly high, were located in places that abounded with trees, gardens, and streamlets. They used to have the appointments/furnishings (alat) of these structures made of gold and silver, and their veils/curtains made of brocade. In their walls they had mosaics and in their ceilings gold.”18

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One specific example of the giving of generous donations to monasteries is provided by the 6th century historian John of Ephesus. According to him the Ghassanid king al-Mundhir, after a successful campaign against the Lakhmids in 575, distributed gifts to monasteries, churches and the poor from the spoils of the war.19 As founders of monasteries local bishops were also active with the intention of spreading Christianity among the indigenous population. Ahudemmeh (559 – 575), the Miaphysite metropolitan of the East in Beth Arabaye ( Arbaya), i. e. Upper Mesopotamia, was active as a missionary among the Arab nomads of that region. One of his means of achieving his goal was the construction of sacred buildings and monasteries. It is noteworthy here that local chiefs of tribes are mentioned as patrons and supporters of the monasteries.20 These monasteries which were founded in the desert at places with sufficient water supply functioned as harbours for nomads, merchants and travelers as in the case of the Sergius monastery that had been founded by Marutha (629 – 649), the Mi˘

18 Al-Isfahani’s book is lost but quotations have been transmitted in the works of other authors, in this case in Yaqut, Mu jam al-buldan, ed. Ferdinand W stenfeld, vol. 2, Leipzig 1867, 703. The translation follows Shahid, Byzantium and the Arabs in the Sixth Century, vol. 2, part 1, 161. For the genre of books on monasteries cf. Hilary Killpatrick, Monasteries through Muslim Eyes: the diyarat Books, in: Christians at the Heart of Islamic Rule. Church Life and Scholarship in Abbasid Iraq (The History of Christian-Muslim Relations 1), ed. David Thomas, Leiden and Boston 2003, 19 – 38. 19 John of Ephesus, Historia Ecclesiastica (Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium 105, Scriptores Syri 3), ed. Ernest Walter Brooks, Louvain 1935, 287 (Syriac), 217 (Latin translation). Shahid, Byzantium and the Arabs in the Sixth Century, vol. 1, part 1, Washington 1995, 381. 20 “He established churches and gave them the names of the chiefs of their tribes so that they might extend their assistance to these churches in all matters that they need. … Their alms spread over all men and in every place but especially more over the holy monasteries, which are to the present day still sustained by them as far as their material needs are concerned …”, Histoires d’Ahoudemmeh et de Marouta, m tropolitains jacobites de Tagrit et de l’Orient (VIe et VIIe si cles) (Patrologia orientalis 3, 1), ed. and transl. FranÅois Nau, Paris 1905 (reprint Paris and Turnhout 1982), 27 f. The translation follows Shahid, Byzantium and the Arabs in the Sixth Century, vol. 2, part 1, 177 f. ˘

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aphysite metropolitan of Takrit in the middle of the 7th century, in the desert near his bishopric.21 According to these reports the Miaphysite monasteries did rely mostly on donations of rulers or chiefs of tribes and on the gifts of travelers and pilgrims. Endowments of landed property are not mentioned although they may have been made. In the just quoted passage of al-Isfahani it is already stated that the monasteries owned agricultural lands.22 The biography of Saint Symeon of the Olives who was made bishop of Harran in 699/700 and died in 734 gives a very detailed description of endowments of landed property to Syrian orthodox monasteries. I will now discuss this very exceptional source more extensively.23 Although the Vita has clearly acquired numerous accretions since its first draft by Symeon’s grandnephew Mar Ayyub, a historical kernel is nevertheless discernible.24 A later copyist most probably would not have been interested in interpolating lists and descriptions of properties which were in any case not detailed enough to base any claims of property on it. Since these pieces of information do not have any topical function it stands to reason to assign them to the original version of the text. Symeon’s origins were in Habsenas in the mountainous region of Tur Abdin; after having spent some time in the monastery of Qartmin, he went to a dependency of that monastery in a valley near Sirwan furnished with “many lands for the food of the table in the monastery”. Symeon

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21 Fowden, The Barbarian Plain, 125 f.; and eadem, Christianity and the Umayyads, 150 – 156. 22 Cf. above note 18. 23 The text of the Saint’s Life is not yet published, cf. Andrew Palmer, Monk and Mason on the Tigris Frontier. The Early History of Tur Abdin (University of Cambridge Oriental Publications 39), Cambridge 1990, 159 – 165; Sebastian Brock, The Fenqitho of the monastery of Mar Gabriel in Tur Abdin, in: Ostkirchliche Studien 28 (1979), 168 – 182, especially 174 – 179, gives a paraphrase according to the abridged and linguistically revised version in: Maktabzabne dumra qaddisha d-Qartmin, ed. Philoxenus Y. Dolabani, Mardin 1959, 125 – 158. I have used the reprint Losser by 19912, 81 – 100. For reading the Syriac text I am indebted to Dorothea Weltecke. In the following I am relying on the 19th manuscript Paris, syr. 375, cf. FranÅoise Briquel-Chatonnet, Manuscrits syriaques de la Biblioth que nationale de France (nos. 356 – 435, entr s depuis 1911), de la Biblioth que M janes d’Aix-en-Provence, de la Biblioth que municipale de Lyon et de la Biblioth que nationale et universitaire de Strasbourg. Catalogue, Paris 1997, 57 – 60; and eadem, Note sur l’histoire du monast re de SaintGabriel de Qartamin, in: Le Mus on 98 (1985), 95 – 102. For the translation of this manuscript text I am indebted to Richard Payne. 24 Cf. Brock, The Fenqitho, 174; and Palmer, Monks and Mason, 161 f. ˘

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administered this monastery and “his fame spread in all the land of Tur Abdin, and God also performed many miracles through him.” It seems that his biographer hastens to add that he became famous not only because of his administrative skills.25 Mar Ayyub, the hagiograph, proceeds with the story of a treasure that was found by Symeon’s nephew David in a cave. This nephew henceforth provided Symeon with gold from the treasure which the Saint spent not only for strangers, the poor or widows and orphans, but for the purchase of many fields and villages, as well as for the purchase of income-producing property inside of cities. These included courtyards (daratha), which can mean either farms or economic facilities of some kind, perhaps connected with trade, as well as shops, mills and gardens.26 The topos of a treasure trove is not very common but we know it, interestingly enough, from the life of another Saint from Northern Mesopotamia, the Melkite Theodosios Kionites, who lived in the first half of the 9th century and also used the treasure he found to establish a monastery and a hospital in a city. In the case of Symeon the function of this topos might have been to resolve the inherent contradiction between the ascetic life of the monks and the great wealth of the monastery of Qartmin.27 So it seems likely that Symeon indeed used the resources of his monastery for these investments. He was especially famous for planting 2000 olive trees which he brought from distant lands and which he protected by a high stone wall and a thorny hedge. He invested great care and much labour in this plantation which after five years, already bore fruit. This was deemed a great success, since the region was not suited for olive-growing. Olives were sought-after in the Tur Abdin mountains since their oil was needed for the lighting of its many churches and monasteries. To quote the Saint’s Life: “because of this matter of the olives, Mar Symeon is called ‘of the Olives’ until today”.28 Actually his Vita is remarkable for its emphasis on economic matters, although it naturally contains many stories of miracles worked by Symeon. It must be pointed out that even the Saint’s epithet “of the Olives” was deduced from a successful economic ˘

25 Life of Symeon of the Olives, Paris, syr. 375, fol. 154 f. 26 Life of Symeon of the Olives, Paris, syr. 375, fol. 159 – 161; Brock, The Fenqitho, 175. 27 Thomas Pratsch, Der hagiographische Topos. Griechische Heiligenviten in mittelbyzantinischer Zeit (Millennium-Studien 6), Berlin 2005, 255 f. 28 Life of Symeon of the Olives, Paris, syr. 375, fol. 161 – 163; Brock, The Fenqitho, 175 f.

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enterprise. Thus it is quite reasonable to assume that Symeon’s fame was indeed mainly based on his abilities as administrator of the funds of the monastery of Qartmin. This conclusion is confirmed by his activities in Nisibis, which are described in detail in the saint’s Life. After giving up his life as stylite Symeon betook himself to Nisibis, where with the permission of the local authorities29, he first purchased an abandoned and run-down building outside the eastern gate of the city to found a large and richly decorated monastery with a high column for anchorites. In the south of this new foundation he added a hospice (daira putqa) as lodging for travelers and merchants. He also bought five millstones and three gardens for the monastery. Inside the town he built a church in honor of Mary.30 Somewhere near the eastern gate he replaced the “old temple of Mar Febronia” with the “great church of the martyr Theodoros”. Furthermore he rebuilt the monastery of the Nativity of Christ as well the monastery of Saint Febronia which was situated to the west of the newly founded church of Saint Theodoros,31 for which he purchased many fields inside the town near the eastern gate.32 Thus it seems that the new church of St. Theodoros stood on the site of the church of the monastery of St. Febronia. In the rebuilt monastery of Febronia, Symeon settled nuns (dairayatha and banath qyama) whom he provided with a monastic rule. The monastery of Mar Domet (Dimat) was founded by him as well to the southwest of the church of St. Theodoros. For the supply of these three monasteries he acquired shops (hanwatha), courtyards (daratha) and houses (bate). Outside of the city wall he erected a mill which he connected with a wall and a tower to the city wall. Moreover he opened a gate to give access to the mill which was named after him, “Mill of Mar Simeon of the Olives” and endowed (shakken) this mill to the monastery of Qartmin. Furthermore he bought beautiful baths and endowed them for the monastery of Mar Elisha, another of the Saint’s foundations.33 29 For this cf. Hoyland, Seeing Islam as Others Saw It, 170 f. 30 Life of Symeon of the Olives, Paris, syr. 375, fol. 165 f.; the activities of Symeon in Nisibis are summarized in Brock, The Fenqitho, 176 f. 31 Life of Symeon of the Olives, Paris, syr. 375, fol. 170. 32 Life of Symeon of the Olives, Paris, syr. 375, fol. 166. 33 Life of Symeon of the Olives, Paris, syr. 375, fol. 177 f. Where this monastery might have been, remains an open question. Maybe it could be identified with the above mentioned monastery with the column.

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The overall picture that emerges is that the Syrian orthodox community of Nisibis was revived and strengthened with a focus on the northeastern part of the town by Symeon’s foundations.34 Regarding the economics of their construction, Symeon’s foundations were independent, self-sufficient institutions endowed with the typical types of property such as agricultural lands, shops, houses (which were most probably rented), bath-houses which also produced income, and courtyards. As mentioned before, these courtyards may have been khan-like structures where merchants could stay and store and sell their merchandise. Indeed, to endow a bath or a khan would later become a very common means of financing an Islamic endowment. The two above mentioned chuches, the Church of Mary and the Church of St. Theodore, however, were obviously differently constructed institutions in comparison to the monasteries. Endowments are not mentioned in connection with them. Actually, the smaller churches may not have needed their own clerics and their own income. They could be supported and operated by other institutions. Regarding the St. Theodore church, the Vita provides us with some information. The Vita describes the church in the following terms: All the faithful went to pray (in the newly erected church). This is the reason the church grew rich through the countless faithful, all the ascetics and the poor, vagrants and wage laborers, who came to the city of Nisibis. They took rest in this church and their every need was satisfied by it. They came to it at night and during the day. Because he (Symeon) enriched it with all bodily and spiritual needs, the saint was assisted by all the faithful in all our land. Gifts and supplies were sent to him.35

Thus, the Church of St. Theodore was the center of Syrian orthodox life in that region. However it is not known whether Nisibis at that time was a Syrian orthodox bishopric although the majority of the Christian population did belong to the Nestorian church.36 The church was financed 34 Cf. the plan of Nisibis in the appendix. A general archaeological survey of Nisibis/Nasibin has not yet been conducted to my knowledge so that the information from the literary sources presented here cannot be compared with the archaeological evidence. 35 Life of Symeon of the Olives, Paris, syr. 375, fol. 175 f. 36 Jean Maurice Fiey, Nisibe. M tropole syriaque orientale et ses suffragants des origines nos jours (Corpus scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium 388, subsidia 54), Louvain 1977, 72 – 74. The Nestorians strongly resisted the building of the church, Hoyland, Seeing Islam as Others Saw It, 171; Palmer, Monks and Mason, 164.

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by donations of travelers and visitors. But it can be assumed that at regular intervals it received some kind of dues and taxes from the Syrian orthodox community. At least the building itself had been financed by the Qartmin monastery. In the so called Chronicle of 819, a history of the Qartmin monastery, it is explicitly mentioned that “Lord Simeon, bishop of Harran, built and completed the church of the orthodox in Nisibis, all the necessary expenses and outlay for it being provided by the same bishop, out of the monastery of Qartmin.”37 The monastery also might have contributed to the maintenance of the church. Not only the Theodoros church but also the other foundations of Symeon were probably financed by the Qartmin monastery. Thus the independence of the monasteries in Nisibis and its main church was somewhat limited according to the Vita: He (Symeon) wrote and decreed that everything that was beyond the needs of these monasteries that he had built, and of the church of Mar Theodore should proceed to the monastery of Qartmin, and that the monks of the monastery should receive the first fruits of every believer who went down and participated in the feasts of that church.38

According to this statement the whole system of endowments and foundations in Nisibis is presented as one foundation made by the monastery of Qartmin which, as “founder”, still had access to the revenues of these foundations and thus regarded these institutions as its property. This actually is in accordance with the attitude of the private founders of pious foundations in Egypt and Byzantium in the same period.39 Athanasios bar Gumaye of Edessa is another prominent founder. As governor of Egypt around the year 700 he became very rich and used his wealth for patronage toward his church. He founded churches and monasteries in Egypt and a baptistery in his hometown Edessa where he also owned a number of shops.40 Using the revenues of these shops he built 37 Translation after Hoyland, Seeing Islam as Others Saw It, 170. 38 Life of Symeon of the Olives, Paris, syr. 375, fol. 178. 39 Cf. the list of Symeon’s endowments in Nisibis in the appendix. Thomas, Private Religious Foundations, 71 f., 95. 40 Michael the Great, Chronique de Michel le Syrien, patriarche jacobite d’Antioche (1166 – 1199), ed. and transl. Jean Baptiste Chabot, vol. 2, Paris 1901, 475 f. (French transl.); vol. 4, Paris 1910, 447 f. (Syriac). Michael Morony, Michael the Syrian as a Source for Economic History, Hugoye 3, 2 (2000) (http://syrcom. cua.edu/Hugoye/Vol3No2/HV3N2Morony.html), § 40, suggests that the number of 3 shops given by Michael the Syrian has to be corrected to 400 according to Bar Hebraeus.

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the church of the Mother of God in Edessa. Athansios may have endowed the shops’ revenues permanently for the maintenance of his foundation as in the case of the great church of Edessa which was held by the Melkites. According to Michael the Syrian, at the beginning of the 9th century, the income of this church came from inns, shops and similar buildings that it owned.41 2.2. The Nestorians The Nestorian church in Iraq provides ample evidence for foundations endowed with landed property. The Church synods of 576 and 585 stipulated explicitly that the founders of monasteries were required to set aside sufficient funds for their maintenance.42 For al-Hira, the former capital of the Lakhmids, 40 monasteries and churches inside and outside of the town are still mentioned in the Abbasid period.43 If one takes the

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41 Michael the Great, Chronique, vol. 3, Paris 1905, 74 (French transl.); 4, 523 (Syriac). Morony, Michael the Syrian as a Source for Economic History, §43. 42 For the synod of 576 cf. Synodicon orientale ou recueil de synodes nestoriens, ed. Jean-Baptiste Chabot, Paris 1902, 127 (Syriac), 386 (French transl.); the canon XI of the synod of 585 states: “Les anciens, par suite du z le qui les excitait accomplir la volont du Christ, r tablirent et fond rent Å et l de nombreux monast res, qui maintenant par suite de n gligence sont tomb s en ruines, ainsi qu’il est crit dans le canon pr c dent. C’est pourquoi nous enseignons et nous enjoignons qu’aucun chr tien ne batisse de nouveaux monast res en dehors de la conaissance de l’ vÞque qui gouverne le dioc se; et s’il en b tit, l’ vÞque en ayant connaissance, qu’il leur assigne et leur donne un revenu suffisant pour leur subsistance et pour l’hospitalit des p lerins; car celui qui r pare les couvents ruin s agit beaucoup mieux que celui qui en b tit de nouveaux qui ne sont pas n cessaires. …”, 147 (Syriac), 408 (French transl.). These canons are actually very similar to regulations of the Codex Iustinianus on that matter issued some 40 years before, cf. nov. 67, c. 2: “Deinde non aliter quempia ecclesiam ex novo aedificare, priusquam loquatur ad Deo amabile episcopum, et definiat mensuram quam deputat et ad luminaria, et ad sacrum ministerium, et ad incorrumpendae domus custodiam, et observatium alimenta, et si sufficieter habere videtur, faciat prius donationem eorum quae futura sunt deputari: et ita domus aedificetur.” 43 Isabel Toral-Niehoff, Stammesf rsten und Dichterkçnige—die arabischen Christen und das Reich der Lahmiden (Habilitationsschrift Freie Universit t Berlin ˘ 2008) (forthcoming). Information on monasteries in the region of al-Hira has been collected by Arif Abd al-Ghani, Ta rikh al-Hira fi l-Jahiliyya wa-l-Islam, Damascus 1993, 43 – 84; and Jean Maurice Fiey, Assyrie Chr tienne, vol. 3: B t Garma , B t Aramay et Maisan nestoriens (Recherches publi es sous la direction de l’Institut de Lettres Orientales de Beyrouth 42), Beirut 1968, 212 – 230.

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observations of J ggi and Meier on Syria in account it may be assumed that these churches and monasteries were private foundations since the majority of them are named after their founders instead of a saint.44 So the monastery of Hind the Elder (dayr al-Hind al-Kubra) had been built by this Lakhmid princess, according to its building inscription, to achieve remission of sins.45 Regarding the support of monasteries by the Lakhmid kings, the statement of al-Isfahani in his Kitab ad-diyarat has already been mentioned.46 The last Lakhmid king Nu man III, at the turn of the 6th to the 7th century, donated 500 lamps made of gold and silver for the Dayr Hind the Younger.47 A more detailed case for the establishment of a foundation is the School of Nisibis which was founded at the end of the 5th century, as the Nestorian bishop of the town bought for its first director Mar Narses a stable of camels near the cathedral to serve as a site of the school.48 At the beginning of the 6th century however, the then director of the school, Saint Abraham of Beth Rabban built a xenodochion, a hospice or guesthouse, so that the students would not have to roam the town, and also as a place for the treatment of the ill. Furthermore he constructed two bath-houses, one for the monks, i. e. the students, the other for the use of its revenues to the support the hospice (xenodocheion). The construction of a bath as a source of income is one of the most common ways of financing a foundation, as mentioned above. In the statutes of the school from 590 a special administrator of the hospital (aksenadakra, i. e. xenodokos) is mentioned. So we have a quite sophisticated institution here. However, according to the “Ecclesiastical History” of Barhadbeshabba Arbaia, the students as yet had no cells to live in. Since at least some of them obviously did not live in Nisibis they could not regularly visit the church and the school. To find a remedy for this problem, the director of the school, Saint Abraham of Beth Rabban, asked Qashwi, an influential physician at the Sasanian court, to donate a piece of land on which the Saint built 80 cells at his own expense. As the school ˘

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Toral-Niehoff, Stammesf rsten und Dichterkçnige. This inscription is quoted by Yaqut, Mu jam al-buldan, vol. 2, 709. Cf. above note 18. Shahid, Byzantium and the Arabs in the Sixth Century, vol. 2, part 1, 163. Barhadbeshabba Arbaia, Histoire eccl siastique (IIe partie) (Patrologia Orientalis 9, fasc. 5), ed. FranÅois Nau, Turnhoult 1913 (repr. 1983), 608. Adam H. Becker, Fear of God and the Beginning of Wisdom: the School of Nisibis and Christian Scholastic Culture in Late Antique Mesopotamia, Philadelphia 2006, 79 – 81. ˘

44 45 46 47 48

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did not have the resources for the subsistence of its teachers, Abraham bought a village for 1000 staters and ordered that its revenues be used for the salaries of the teachers while the remaining surplus should go to the xenodocheion. 49 Hence this is a quite explicit description of a functioning pious foundation. At the beginning of 8th century, Saint John of Daylam (died 738) founded three monasteries in the province of Fars near the coast of the Persian Gulf in an effort to spread Christianity in that region. These foundations will be discussed in more detail below. Here it suffices to quote what is said about the way he founded the third institution, the Monastery of the Suryaye (the Syrians): John sent some monks to the local dihqans (a class of Persian landed proprietors) who owned the land, bought up the whole of the Pashkar area, and got written confirmation of the sale, with mobeds (Zoroastrian priests) and local dignitaries acting as witnesses.50

So this sale was completed with the cooperation of the local notables, some of whom at least were non-Christians. The building of the monastery which is described as spacious and extraordinarily beautiful was obviously financed by the gains from long-distance trade enterprised by John, since it is mentioned that for just that purpose he sent two monks to “the great sea”, and who brought back 70,000 pieces of silver from Ceylon.51

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49 Barhadbeshabba Arbaia, Histoire eccl siastique, 622 – 624. Cynthia Villagomez and Michael Morony, Ecclesiastical Wealth in the East Syrian Church from Late Antiquity to Early Islam, in: After Bardaisan. Studies on Continuity and Change in Syriac Christianity in Honour of Professor Han J. W. Drijvers (Orientalia Lovanensia Analecta 89), ed. Gerrit Jan Reinink and Alexander Cornelis Klugkist, Leuven 1999, 304; Michael W. Dols, The Origins of the Islamic Hospital: Myth and Reality, in: Bulletin of the History of Medicine 61 (1987), 374 f. A further example mentioned by Dols, The Origins of the Islamic Hospital, 376, is Mar Babai who gave up most of his worldly goods, became a monk, led an ascetic life, went back home to Beit Zabdai, and built on his family’s land a monastery that contained large schools. 50 Sebastian Brock, A Syriac Life of John of Dailam, in: Parole de l’Orient 10 (1981 – 1982), 172 f. (version C). Version C contains according to Brock, 126 f., many episodes absent from the standard version H and follows a source that might have been based on oral tradition going back to the saint himself; cf. also ibid., 164 n. 54. 51 Sebastian Brock, A Syriac Life of John of Dailam, 173. In version H a palm garden, and further gardens and orchards are mentioned, ebd. 150.

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In the early Abbasid period the Nestorian catholicos Timothy I (780 – 823) mentions in one of his letters in 790 that he had founded a hospital in Ctesiphon and spent for it about 20,000 zuze (silver coins). However if he got the money from wealthy Christians at the caliphal court, as Michael Dols suggests, is a matter of speculation.52 2.3. The Greek Orthodox Church For Syria in general and the Greek Orthodox Church in particular we do not have comparable narrative sources describing the establishment of foundations with endowed property.53 However the numerous mosaics with inscriptions from churches and monasteries in Jordan demonstrate that donations were an important part of the social and religious life of the Christian population from the sixth to the eighth century.54 Especially rich in inscriptions from the Umayyad period is the Church of St. Stephen in Umm ar-Rasas, i. e. Kastron Mefaa: At the time of our most pious father, Bishop Sergios, the mosaic work of the holy and glorious [sanctuary] of the protodeacon and protomartyr Stephen was realized thanks to the zeal of Ioannes, son of Isakios, son of Lexos, the most loved by God deacon and archon of the Mefaonites [and] oikonomos, 52 Les lettres du Patriarche Nestorien Timoth e I (Studi e Testi 187), ed. Raphael J. Bidawid, Citt del Vaticano 1956, 117; Dols, The Origins of the Islamic Hospital, 379 f. 53 However cf. above, n. 41, the statement of Michael the Great regarding the Melkite Great Church in Edessa. 54 The inscriptions do not distinguish between permanent foundations with assets that generate income and one-time donations. For the most part the inscriptions refer probably to donations while the costs for the maintenance of the buildings were provided by a communal fund, Peter Baumann, Sp tantike Stifter im Heiligen Land. Darstellungen und Inschriften auf Bodenmosaiken in Kirchen, Synagogen und Privath usern, (Sp tantike—fr hes Christentum—Byzanz, Reihe B, Studien und Perspektiven 5), Wiesbaden 1999, 302 f. For the historical and social context in which the mosaics were created, cf. Pierre-Louis Gatier, Les mosa ques pal ochr tiennes de Jordanie et l’histoire de l’Arabie byzantine, in: Les glises de Jordanie et leur mosa ques. Actes de la journ e d’ tudes, organis e l’occasion de l’inauguration de l’exposition Mosa ques byzantines de Jordanie au mus e de la Civilisation gallo-romaine Lyon en avril 1989, ed. No l Duval, Beirut 2003, 289-296; Jean-Pierre Caillet, L’ verg tisme monumental chr tien dans la Jordanie de la fin de l’Antiquit , in: Les glises de Jordanie, 297 – 302; for the founders or donors respectively, as far as we do know anything about them, cf. Baumann, Sp tantike Stifter, 298 – 309.

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and [thanks to the zeal] of all the Christ-loving people of Kastron Mefaa, in the month of October of the second indiction in the year 680 of the Province of Arabia (= 785 AD; or 613 = 718 AD); for the memory and the repose of the Christ loving Phidos, son of Aias.55

This a typical example of a dedication inscription. Its formula, according to Peter Baumann, consists firstly of the mention of the bishop who had to give his permission for any building56 ; secondly, of the reference to the local cleric who had to oversee any building activity. He is usually introduced by the phrase spoude or dia/ek spoudes, i. e. “thanks to the zeal of ” here it is the deacon John.57 The reference to the people of Kastron Mefaa was probably meant to emphasize the collective responsibility of the community. Thirdly, the donor could be named, as will be seen below in the case of the inscriptions of the church of St. Menas in Rihab. In the church of St. Stephen in Umm ar-Rasas the names of the actual donors are given in discrete inscriptions.58 Fourthly commemorations of deceased persons could be included, be it a relative of the donor or of the donor himself if it is a donation causa mortis. 59 If the commemorated Phidos was in one of these categories is not known. The church of Mary in Madaba however was jointly furnished with a mosaic in 662 or 767 by the residents. Obviously future generations were expected to make donations to the church as well: At the time of our most pious father, Bishop Theophanes, this most beautiful mosaic work was realized in the glorious and venerable house of the holy and immaculate queen, the Mother of God. Thanks to the zeal and ardor of the people who love Christ in this city of Madaba, for the salvation of, and assistance and remission of sins of those who have made offerings, and of those who will make offerings, to this holy place. Amen, O Lord. Finished by the grace of God in the month of February in the year *74, of the fifth indiction“(= 662 or 767 AD).60

55 Baumann, Sp tantike Stifter, 179. 56 Cf. also Caillet, L’ verg tisme, 297 f. 57 He held all important positions in the town of Umm ar-Rasas. As archon he was the political leader of the community and as oikonomos he managed the funds of the local church. 58 Baumann, Sp tantike Stifter, 169 – 178. 59 Baumann, Sp tantike Stifter, 179 f., 277 – 288. 60 The Greek text with French translation in Anne Michel, Les glises d’ poque byzantine et umayyade de Jordanie (Provinces d’Arabie et de Palestine) VeVIIIe si cle. Typologie architecturale et am nagements liturgiques (avec catalogue des monuments) (Biblioth que de l’Antiquit Tardive 2), Turnhout 2001, 318 f.,

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The Church of St. Menas in Rihab was founded by a single family, probably as a private church for the family and its clients in 635, i. e. exactly in the year of the Arab conquest of this region61: By grace of Jesus Christ, our God and Saviour, was built, paved with mosaics and completed the Temple of Saint Menas at the time of Theodore, the most holy and honored by God metropolitan, by offerings from Procopius, [son] of Martyrius, and Comitissa, his consort, and of their sons for the remission of the sins and the repose of [their] parents. [It] was written in the month of March at the time of the eighth indiction of the year 529 [A.D. 635].62

Thus Procopius, his wife Comitissa and their sons are named as founders. The reward for this pious deed should go to their parents who are commemorated by this foundation. Another example for the continuing care of a family for their foundation is the Church in Salkhad that was founded immediately before the Arab conquest in 633 and received a new atrium in 665 as the donation of the original founder’s son.63

3. Transcultural Contacts and Exchange These examples demonstrate how Christian pious foundations were widespread in pre-Islamic times and that new foundations were continuously established. However these instances provide no evidence that transcultural exchange actually took place. To prove that cross-cultural contact and exchange did occur in the transitional period between Late Antiqutiy and Islam, cases of the transformation of pious foundations from one religion to another as well as examples of patronage of Christian foundations by non-Christians are of special importance.64

61 62 63 64

who also deals with the dating. Michele Piccirillo, The Mosaics of Jordan. Amman 1993, 65. For these rural churches of influential families and their clerics who were dependent on the founders, cf. Caillet, L’ verg tisme, 299 – 301. Michel, Les glises, 217; Piccirillo, The Mosaics, 313. Foss, Syria in Transition, 254. Fritz Graebner, Methodologie der Ethnologie (Kulturgeschichtliche Bibliothek, Reihe 1: Ethnologische Bibliothek 1), Heidelberg 1911, 91 – 125, tries to establish criteria on the basis of which it would be possible to decide if similar cultural phenomena emerged independently or because of cultural exchange. I am indebted to Benjamin Kedar for this reference.

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3.1. Transformations of Pious Foundations Conversions of foundations from one religion to another are quite difficult to trace. A very illuminating example however is the case of the Nestorian Saint Qardagh of the 4th century who came from an old Persian family and served the Great king Shabuhr II (339 – 379) as governor in Iraq. His parents lived in a Zoroastrian fire temple that they had founded and endowed with rich property. According to his Vita, after his conversion the saint began to give away his property to the poor and the church, whereupon his father objected, saying that he might make a mockery of his family, but he should abstain from affecting the fire temple. The function of this type of foundation as a means to support the family and to keep together the property of the family becomes quite clear in this hagiographic text.65 However the saint did not heed the warnings of his father and converted the temple into a big, which propably means richly endowed, monastery.66 Another case is the transformation of a former heathen temple into a fire temple in the time of Khusraw I Anushirawan (531 – 579). Nevertheless the original owners retained the hereditary right of the new temple’s administration.67 These examples show clearly that at least in pre-Islamic times there existed some kind of interdependency between the various types of foundations in the Near East across religious boundaries. An example from the Umayyad period is the second foundation of the already mentioned John of Daylam in the province of Fars. At the approach of the yearly festival of the godhead Babi who was worshipped by the local Zoroastrians (Magians) in a temple, John demonstrated to them that Babi was just a demon and replaced his feast with the festival of Sts. Sergius and Bacchus since they were commemorated at about the same time. Then the lady who owned the property in which the temple, sacred garden and fig tree were situated, donated the land to John. On it, he built a church dedicated to St. Sergius.68 From the Umayyad period we 65 For the foundations of fire temples cf. Mary Boyce, On the Sacred Fires of the Zoroastrians, in: BSOAS 31 (1968), 52 – 58, hier 56 – 58; eadem, The Pious Foundations of the Zoroastrians, in: BSOAS 31 (1968), 270 – 289; and Macuch, Die sasanidische fromme Stiftung, which also deals with the Sassanian law of inheritance. 66 Acta Mar Kardaghi Assyriae praefecti qui sub Sapore II martyr occubuit, ed. Jean Baptiste Abbeloos, in Analecta Bollandiana 9 (1890), 5 – 106, especially 50 – 53. 67 Boyce, On the Sacred Fires, 63 f. 68 Brock, A Syriac Life of John of Dailam, 171 (version C).

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thus have an example of the direct transformation of a Zoroastrian temple with all its endowments to a Christian foundation, just as in the case of Saint Qardagh four hundred years earlier. The fact that Christians, when founding a monastery, were still influenced by older traditions is demonstrated by the case of the Persian nobleman Hugayr from the mid-eight century. He built a monastery to which he gave his own name Hugayr-abad “in the manner of the Magians”. Hugayr was obviously following the model of Zoroastrian foundations, such as fire temples, and regarded the monastery as being his own private memorial. The metropolitan, however, did not accept Hugayr’s viewpoint and refused to consecrate the building.69 3.2. Non-Christian Patrons of Christian Foundations The Sassanian Great king Khusraw I Anushirawan established a hospital on the advice of the Nestorian catholicos Joseph in the middle of the 6th century as reported in the Syriac chronicle: Because of [the king’s] compassion towards captives and the holy men, on the advice of the Christian doctors who are close to him, he has now, departing from custom, made a hospital [xenodocheion], and he has given one hundred mules and fifty camels, carrying provisions from the royal stores, twelve physicians, and whatever is needed is provided.70

Besides Christian clerics and physicians at the Sassanian court, the Christian wives of the great kings should be mentioned as well. Queen Shirin, the wife of Khusraw II (590 – 628) was famous for her foundations of and endowments to monasteries and churches.71

69 Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors. The Historia Monastica of Thomas Bishop of Marga A.D. 840, ed. and transl. Ernest A. Wallis Budge, 2 vols., London 1893 (reprint Piscataway, N.J., 2003), vol. 1, 136.10 – 137.5 (syr.), vol. 2, 282 – 3 (eng.), quoted after Becker, Fear of God, 81. 70 The Syriac Chronicle Known as That of Zachariah of Mitylene, transl. Frederick John Hamilton and Ernest Walter Brooks, London 1899, 331 f. Dols, The Origins of the Islamic Hospital, 373. 71 Fowden, The Barbarian Plain, 136 – 141; Wilhelm Baum, Schirin: Christin— Kçnigin—Liebesmythos. Eine sp tantike Frauengestalt—historische Realit t und literarische Wirkung (Einf hrungen in das orientalische Christentum 3), Klagenfurt and Vienna 2003, 48 f., lists various churches and monasteries that have been founded with the support of Shirin.

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A striking example of continuity of patronage is the shrine of Saint Sergius in Resapha/Rusafa. The Ghassanid king Mundhir (569 – 582) was especially devoted to this shrine on which he bestowed lavish gifts. However he was not the only one to do so. Khusraw II is known to have twice given donations to the Saint. At first in 591 he fulfilled his vow to give a cross to the shrine after he had successfully put down a rebellion against him. In 593 he entreated the Saint that a child by his wife Shirin might be granted to him an event which happened soon afterwards. Again Khusraw donated both a precious cross and also the amount of 5000 dirham, stipulating that one part of this money should be used for the decoration of the altar and the sacred vessels on which the donor’s name was to be engraved, another part for the support of the shrine as such.72 Elizabeth Key Fowden argues persuasively that these rulers were not simply displaying personal piety but were astutely engaged in accomplishing a combination of political, cultural and religious goals, since Rusafa was located in a strategically important position between the Roman and the Persian empires and was the most important pilgrimage site of the Christian Arabs in that region.73 The Umayyad caliph Hisham (724 – 743) had a special relation to Rusafa as well, and outside the walls built a palace as his summer residence, allegedly to be close to the Saint’s shrine.74 Instructive for the relationship between Christanity and Islam in the Umayyad period however is the contruction of a congregational mosque by the caliph to the north of the city’s main basilica which housed the martyrium of St. Sergius. Using a part of the church’s courtyard the mosque was directly connected with the shrine of St. Sergius so that Muslim worshippers could enter the courtyard directly from the mosque. Obviously, Hisham wanted to provide the Muslims with a place to benefit from the blessings of the Saint and to participate in his cult. Although we have no evidence for actual donations by the caliph to the shrine of Saint Sergius it seems that he nevertheless tried to continue the tradition of Khusraw, Mundhir and

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72 cf. Euagrios, The Ecclesiastical History of Evagrius with the scholia, ed. Joseph Bidez and L on Parmentier, London 1898 (reprint Amsterdam 1964), § 21, 235 – 238; Theophylaktos Simokattes, Historiae, ed. Carl de Boor, Leipzig 1887, V, 13, 1 – 6 (for 591), and V, 14, 7 – 12 (for 593). Baum, Schirin, 38 – 44. 73 Fowden, The Barbarian Plain, especially 130 – 173. 74 Yaqut, Mu jam al-buldan, vol. 2, 660 f.; Guy Le Strange, Palestine under the Moslems. A description of Syria and the Holy Land from A.D. 650 to 1500, London 1890 (reprint 1965), 432; Doroth e Sack, Resafa 4: Die große Moschee von Resafa—Rusa¯fat Hisˇa¯m, Mainz 1996, 156.

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other royal patrons by connecting the Muslim community with the shrine without Islamicizing it.75 The Umayyads were impressed and attracted by the monasteries with their gardens which served as sheltered spaces where they could retreat and celebrate on the occasion of Christian feasts.76 The Umayyad caliph and poet Walid II (743 – 744) is said to have frequently visited monasteries. In the numerous stories and poems about these visits the gardens, trees and above all the wine of the monasteries as well as the monks’ hospitality are praised again and again. So Walid, for example, gave the vintner of Dayr Hanna the gift 400 of dinars as an expression of his gratitude for having served him some wine of exceptional quality.77 During plague epidemics rural monasteries were also used by the caliphs as places of refuge. Lawrence Conrad has drawn attention to a report on the Umayyad caliph Hisham who fled from the plague to a rural monastery in Syria. There “the monk brought him into a garden of his, four jaribs in area (i. e. about 6.5 square kilometers), and began to give him the tastiest and ripest fruits.” The caliph was so taken with the garden that he wanted to buy it; however the monk was not interested in material wealth. Obviously, significant agricultural activity was centered at this monastery and it seems that Hisham was interested in the economic aspect as well.78 But we also have evidence of actual donations of the Muslim authorities to Christian monasteries. Around 701 the caliph Abd al-Malik (685 – 705) instructed his governor of Iraq al-Hajjaj (661 – 714) to give to the above mentioned Nestorian Saint John of Daylam 12000 zuze (pieces of silver) to be used for building monasteries. In addition, John received from the caliph and al-Hajjaj written permission to erect a mon-

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75 Fowden, The Barbarian Plain, 175 – 182. 76 Killpatrick, Monasteries through Muslim Eyes, 22 – 24; Toral-Niehoff, Stammesf rsten und Dichterkçnige; G rard Troupeau, Les couvents chr tiens dans la litt rature arabe, in La Nouvelle Revue de Caire 1 (1975), 265 – 279; Shahid, Byzantium and the Arabs in the Sixth Century, vol. 2, part 1, 160 and 190. A similar report is given of the Lakhmid king Nu man who used to spent Sundays and feast days with his retinue at Dayr al-Jujj near Hira, Shahid, ibid., 212. 77 Robert Hamilton, Walid and His Friends. An Umayyad Tragedy (Oxford Studies in Islamic Art 6), Oxford 1988, 86 – 90. 78 Al-Baladhuri, Ansab al-ashraf, quoted after Lawrence I. Conrad, Historical Evidence and the Archaeology of Early Islam, in: Quest for Understanding. Arabic and Islamic Studies in Memory of Malcolm H. Kerr, ed. Samir M. Seikaly, R. Baalbaki and P. Dodd, Beirut 1991, 271 f.

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astery wherever he liked.79 However, according to one version of the Saint’s Vita, he gave the money to people who suffered from the burden of taxes.80 Thus, as he founded his first monastery, the so called monastery of the Persians in the region of Fars, the Christian governor provided the funds for the building, quite similarly to his contemporary the Syrian orthodox governor of Egypt Athanasios bar Gumaye.81 Then this monastery was endowed with a palm grove of 400 trees.82 The example of these high ranking Christian officials may well have influenced the Muslim rulers. The Abbasid caliph Harun ar-Rashid (786 – 809) allocated the Nestorian catholicos Timothy the large amount of 84000 zuze (silver coins) for the monastery of Mar Pethion in Baghdad.83 His wife Zubayda supported the catholicos and the Nestorian church by persuading her husband to rebuild and even enlarge the monasteries he had destroyed, probably after he had suffered defeat by the Byzantine emperor Nicephoros I. She donated palm branches and crosses made of gold and silver and assisted the bishop of Basra in the reconstruction of churches.84 79 Brock, A Syriac Life of John of Dailam, 148 f. (version H) and 165 – 168 (version C). 80 Brock, A Syriac Life of John of Dailam, 168 (version C). 81 Cf. above n. 40. 82 Brock, A Syriac Life of John of Dailam, 169 f., 170 (version C); in version H a palm garden and orchards are mentioned, ibid. 151. 83 Timothei patriarchae I epistulae I (Corpus scriptorum christianorum orientalium 74, scriptores Syri 30), ed. Oscar Braun, Paris and Leipzig 1914 – 1915 (reprint Louvain 1972), vol. 1, 90 (Syriac), vol. 2, 58 (Latin translation). He reports in his letter that on three successive days he had visited the caliph who had received him joyfully and allocated him the sum of 84000. However he did not obtain this donation. As the caliph left Baghdad for Basra, Timothy wanted to follow him, maybe to get the promised money. Hans Putman, L’ glise et l’Islam sous Timoth e I (780-823). tude sur l’ glise nestorienne au temps des premiers Abbasides avec nouvelle dition et traduction du dialogue entre Timoth e et al-Mahdi (Recherches, Facult des Lettres et des Sciences Humaines de l’Universit Saint-Joseph, Beyrouth, nouvelle s rie B: Orient chr tien 3) Beirut 1975, 141. For the monastery called Dayr Mar Fathyun cf. Michel Allard, Les chr tiens Bagdad, in: Arabica 9 (1962), 378. 84 Mar Mari, in: Acta Martyrum et sanctorum, ed. Paul Bedjan, vol. 1. Paris 1890, 73/65; Putman, L’ glise et l’Islam, 139; Cynthia Villagomez and Michael Morony, Ecclesiastical Wealth in the East Syrian Church, 305. The reason for this support was according to the Syriac vita of Mar Mari that Timothy had helped her, as Harun had divorced his wife and then regretted it. Since according to Islamic law it would have been necessary for Zubayda to marry someone else before she could become the wife of Harun once more, Timothy proposed that she should

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However, the best example for continuity from Christian to Muslim patronage is probably the public bath of Hammat Gader near Gadara. This bath had been founded in the 2nd century A.D. and was rebuilt and renovated by several donors throughout the Byzantine period. This tradition was continued in the Umayyad period as an Greek inscription from 661 demonstrates: ˘

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In the day of Abdullah Mu awiya, the commander of the faithful, the clibanus (i. e. a furnace or oven) of the (baths) here was cleared and renewed by Abdullah son of Abuasemos (Abu Hashim) the governor, in the month of December, on the 5th day, Monday, in the 6th (year) of the indiction, in the year 726 of the colony, according to the Arabs the 42nd year, for the healing of the sick, under the care of Ioannes the Gadarene, the alderman (or according to another reading, the official).85

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In formal compliance with the above-mentioned inscriptions of the church of St. Stephen and of St. Menas a local Christian official, John of Gadara, functioned as inspector of the building activities. If he was a representative of the local community or an agent of the district administration is a question which has to remain open. Interestingly the inscription was dated December 5, i. e. the feast of Saint Sabas. The reason for this was, according to Leah Di Segni, that nearby a monastery had been founded by Sabas himself which probably still existed in the 7th century.86 The first Umayyad caliph Mu awiya is named as the current ruler, who supposedly gave his consent to the renovation of the bath.87 The actual financier seems to have been the governor of the district (symboulos) Abd Allah b. Abu Hashim.88 So the new rulers took over not only the language, Greek, and the style of Late Antique or in this case Byzantine inscriptions respectively, but also the concept of a charitable donation for

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86 87 88

convert to Christianity so that she would be under the death penalty by which all legal commitments regarding her would be dissolved. Then she could return to her original faith and remarry her former husband. As far as I know this story is not mentioned in the Islamic sources; cf. Nabia Abbott, Two Queens of Baghdad. Mother and Wife of Harun al-Rashid, Chicago 1974, with no reference to the divorce. Greek text with English translation and discussion of the differents readings in Leah Di Segni, The Greek Inscriptions of Hammat Gader, in: The Roman Baths of Hammat Gader. Final Report, ed. Yizhar Hirschfeld, Jerusalem 1997, 237-240. Di Segni, The Greek Inscriptions, 239. Robert Hoyland, New Documentary Texts and the Early Islamic State, in: BSOAS 69 (2006), 399. For the title cf. Hoyland, New Documentary Texts, 401 n. 33.

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the public welfare, since the renovation of the bath had a clear charitable goal: the healing of the sick.

4. Conclusion The goal of this paper has been to demonstrate, first, that pious foundations in Iraq and in Syria in the 7th and 8th centuries continued to be an important element in the religious and social life of the Christian communites. However, the scarcity of the sources does not allow a more thorough investigation of different types of foundations and their modes of organization. The transfer of foundations from one religion to another—albeit not from Christianity to Islam—could be proved as well as the involvement of Muslim authorities in the establishment of Christian foundations. The case of Hammat Gader comes very close to the establishment of a foundation on the Christian model by a Muslim ruler although it was probably a one-time donation. However, the difference between a donation and a permanent foundation is sometimes hard to determine as the Greek inscriptions of the Jordanian monasteries demonstrate. In the light of these arguments it seems safe to assume that the Christian tradition of pious foundations and donations had a degree of influence on the Muslim practice of charity in general and on the emergence of the Islamic foundation, the waqf, in particular. However, how and to what extent such a cultural transfer may have taken place, and how the differences between Zoroastrian-Christian, Christian-Muslim or Zoroastrian-Muslim transfer could be determined with regard to quality and quantity, could be established only by means of a thorough study of the early Islamic waqf, in a comparative perspective.

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Appendix Map of the Foundations and Endowments of St. Symeon of the Olives (d. 734) in Nisibis according to his Vita

Foundations of unknown location: Church of St. Mary Monastery of the Nativity (probably intra muros) St. Elisha Monastery (= Monastery with column?)

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List of the endowments of St. Symeon of the Olives in Nisibis Institution

Endowed Property

Monastery with column

5 millstones, 3 gardens; hostel

St. Febronia Monastery

Fields intra muros; shops, courtyards, houses

Monastery of the Nativity Shops, courtyards, houses St. Domet (Dimat) Monastery

Shops, courtyards, houses

St. Elisha Monastery

Baths

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Monastery of Qartmin (in Mill; surplus of the income of the churches and monasteries in Nisibis Tur Abdin) The Church of St. Theodore was supported by donations from visitors and “all the faithful in all our land”. It is unclear if it possessed endowed property as well.

Charity and Piety for the Transformation of the Cities The New Direction in Taxation and Waqf Policy in Mid-Twelfth-Century Syria and Northern Mesopotamia

Stefan Heidemann 1. Introduction1 This strange system by which the dead provide for the living is typical for a society which is becoming static and ceases to be competitive and enterprising.2

This is how Shlomo Dov Goitein, the author of A Mediterranean Society, perceived the impact of the endowment (waqf ) on Muslim societies during the period of Changes in the Middle East (950 – 1150). 3 Research efforts over the past 35 years have proved the opposite of Goitein’s claim. A thorough examination of the wealth of the Ottoman archives has led to this re-assessment. For Goitein’s period, however, deeds of waqf endowments are almost nonexistent. The impact of the institution of the

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2 3

This contribution would not have been possible without the splendid academic environment created by the Institute for Advanced Studies at Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Between September 2006 and February 2007 I had the honour to join the Institute as a fellow of the research group ‘Charity and Piety from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages’ organized by Miriam Frenkel and Yaacov Lev. I owe much to numerous discussions with all members of this group. At the same time this work is part of a larger research project ‘The New Economic Dynamics in the Zangid and Ayyubid Period’ supported by the German Research Foundations (DFG) since 2004. A German version of this study appears in Stiftungen im Islam. Rechtsentwicklung und soziale Bedeutung vom 7. bis zum 21. Jahrhundert, (eds) Astrid Meier and Johannes Pahlitzsch, (Berlin, forthcoming). I would especially like to express my gratitude to Emilie Norris for various comments and careful reading and improving the English draft. Sh. D. Goitein: “Changes in the Middle East (950 – 1150) as Illustrated by the Documents of the Geniza”, Islamic Civilisation 950 – 1150, Papers on Islamic History III, (ed) D. S. Richards, (Oxford, 1973), 17 – 32. See fn. 2.

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waqf during the period of urban transformation in the 6th/12th century, therefore, is far less known.4 One could describe the 6th/12th century in Syria and northern Mesopotamia as anything but static. It was a time of renewal and of the final Islamization of the cityscapes. A vast building program finally transformed the late Roman/early Islamic city of the sixth to the tenth centuries—followed by almost two centuries of decline—to the prosperous medieval5 city of the twelfth to the sixteenth centuries which can be still seen in the old towns of modern cities in the Middle East. The majority of the urban populations had become Muslim by now,6 and the appearance of the cities was dominated by Islamic buildings and institutions.7 While the urban decline prior to the Seljuq conquest, the beginning of the urban, political, and economic renaissance8, and the extensive Zangid building 4

5

6

7 8

M. Hoexter: “Waqf Studies in the Twentieth Century”, JESHO, 41 (1998), 474 – 495. Studies on the waqf in the 6th/12th century are rare, see Y. Frenkel: “Political and Social Aspects of Islamic Religious Endowments (awqaf): Saladin in Cairo (1169 – 1173) and Jerusalem (1187 – 1193)”, BSOAS, 62 (1999), 1 – 20, and J. Pahlitzsch: “The Transformation of Latin Religious Institutions into Islamic Endowments by Saladin in Jerusalem”, Governing the Holy City. The Interaction of Social Groups in Medieval Jerusalem, (eds) J. Pahlitzsch and L. Korn, (Wiesbaden, 2004), 47 – 69. The term ‘Middle Ages’ is here applied to the second flowering of Islamic civilization from the Seljuqs to the early Ottomans, in contrast to the early Islamic period and the period of the early modern Islamic empires, the Ottomans, the Safawids and the Mughals. According to estimates, the majority of the population in the Middle East became Muslim between the end of the ninth and the twelfth centuries, with regional differences. R. W. Bulliet attempts a statistical analysis based on collections of biographies; R. W. Bulliet: Conversion to Islam in the Medieval Period. An Essay in Quantitative History (Cambridge, London, 1979). M. G. Morony studies individual reports on conversions; M. G. Morony: “The Age of Conversions. A Re-Assessment”, Conversion and Continuity. Indigenous Christian Communities in Islamic Lands, Eighth to Eighteenth Centuries, Papers in Medieval Studies 9, (eds) M. Gervers and R. J. Bikhazi, (Toronto, 1990), 135 – 150. N. Levtzion studies conversion in Syria and Palestine within the context of historical developments in the region; Levtzion, N. “Conversion to Islam in Syria and Palestine and the Survival of Christian Communities”, Conversion and Continuity. Indigenous Christian Communities in Islamic Lands, Eighth to Eighteenth Centuries, Papers in Medieval Studies, 9, (eds) M. Gervers and R. J. Bikhazi, (Toronto, 1990), 289 – 311. E. Wirth: Die Orientalische Stadt im islamischen Vorderasien und Nordafrika, (Mainz, 2000). S. Heidemann: Die Renaissance der St dte in Nordsyrien und Nordmesopotamien. St dtische Entwicklung und wirtschaftliche Bedingungen in al-Raqqa und Har-

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programs9 are all comparatively well-known, less familiar are the economic structures behind this blossoming. After the Seljuqs had laid the military, administrative, and fiscal foundations, the Zangids conducted far-reaching economic and fiscal reforms that allowed for that urban transformation. At the same time the Zangids adjusted many of the existing political and economic institutions to the regulations and stipulations of the revealed law, the shari a. The Zangid’s care for Islam, its law and its jihad was vital for their legitimization of power; it distinguished their rule from that of other rival Seljuq principalities in the eyes of their contemporaries, and helped them to gain legitimacy as foreign Turkish rulers over the indigenous, mostly Arab and Aramaic population. Which legal and political instruments for this economic growth were at the disposal of the Zangids? This contribution will study the phenomenon of the waqf system as one important element that led to the final Islamization of the cities and to their economic revival. Related elements include taxation, iqta and the monetary system.10 In the middle of the 6th/12th century a new waqf-policy was inaugurated by a ruler from the Seljuq tradition, Nur al-Din Mahmud ibn Zangi (r. 541 – 569/1146 – 1174). The intention of his waqf policy went far beyond the mere financing of single institutions. Waqf policy meant the systematic use of a legal instrument of private law for general public duties11 and purposes which fell—in the broad sense—under the responsibility of the state.12 This ˘

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ran von der Zeit der beduinischen Vorherrschaft bis zu den Seldschuken, Islamic History and Civilization. Studies and Texts, 40, (Leiden, 2002). Y. A. al-Tabba: The Architectural Patronage of Nur al-Din (1146 – 1174), PhD dissertation, (New York, 1982). For these other elements see S. Heidemann: “Arab Nomads and Seljuq Military”, Shifts and Drifts in Nomad-Sedentary Relations, Nomaden und Sesshafte 2, (eds) S. Leder and B. Streck, (Wiesbaden, 2005), 289 – 305; S. Heidemann: “Financing the Tribute to the Kingdom of Jerusalem: An Urban Tax in Damascus. In: BSOAS 70 (2007), 117 – 142; and S. Heidemann: “Economic Growth and Currency in Ayyubid Palestine”, Ayyubid Jerusalem: The Holy City in Context, (ed) R. Hillenbrand, (London, 2009). The term ‘public duties’ does not exist as such in medieval Arabic terminology. It is used here in a hermeneutical sense: It means duties which are today usually assigned to the state, and which the early Islamic state like the late Roman performed. The term ‘masalih al-muslimin’ (welfare of the Muslims) might be the closest Arabic rendering. It is possible to use the term ‘economic policy’ for the Zangids: The policy makers were aware of the main economic impacts of their decisions and actions. They

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function of the waqf is familiar to scholars of the Mamluk and Ottoman periods, but it is not yet established when and why this conscious policy began in the Seljuq and Zangid period. In the 6th/12th century, the newly founded endowments generated their income primarily from urban real estate.13 In turn, they stimulated a vast building program, and financed a multitude of urban institutions. The waqf-model of financing was increasingly applied to public and semi-public institutions and duties. In fiscal terms, the establishment of an increasing number of waqfs allowed for an efficient skimming of urban economic activities for public purposes. This will be explained below. Additionally, the proceeds from the waqfs permitted the abolition of certain taxes and dues that shari a law deemed illegitimate, dues that had previously been the main source of cash income of the Seljuq state. The Zangid regime succeeded also in integrating the theological and judicial elite that were traditionally opposed to the state, by increasing the scope of positions for the elite in the service of these endowments with the number of newly established waqfs. They thus helped to build a “public sphere” of institutions within the Islamic society.14

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used their outcome intentionally for their ‘economic policy’. For a discussion of Zangid tax policy, see S. Heidemann: Renaissance, 11 – 12 fn. 28, 331 – 334. 13 References to endowments of agricultural real estate are rare in Syria and northern Mesopotamia until the Mamluk period. For the middle of the 5th/11th century see J. Sourdel-Thomine and D. Sourdel: “Biens fonciers constitu s waqf en Syrie fatimide pour une famille de sharifs damascain”, JESHO, 15 (1972), 269 – 296, and for the end of the 6th/12th century J. Pahlitzsch: “Transformation”, 51, 53 – 54. In Iraq under Seljuq-Abbasid rule, the waqf financed by agricultural rents seems to be predominant; Kh. J. al-Duri: Society and Economy of Iraq under the Seljuqs (1055 – 1160 A.D.) with Special Reference to Baghdad, PhD dissertation, (Ann Arbor, 1971), 157 – 159. The same situation seems to be the case in Seljuq Iran; A. K. S. Lambton: “Awqaf in Persia: 6th-8th/12th-14th Centuries”, Islamic Law und Society, 4 (1997), 298 – 318, here 300 – 304. After the conquest of Egypt, the Ayyubids tried to convert waqf lands into iqta s; D. Behrens-Abouseif: “Wakf. II. In the Arab Lands. 1. In Egypt”, Enc of Islam. 2, v. 11 (Leiden, 2002), 63 – 67. 14 J. E. Gilbert: “Institutionalization of Muslim Scholarship and Professionalization of the ulama in Medieval Damascus”, SI, 52 (1980), 105 – 134; M. Hoexter: “The Waqf and the Public Sphere”, The Public Sphere in Muslim Societies, (eds) M. Hoexter and Sh. N. Eisenstadt and Nehemia Levtzion, (Albany, 2002), 119 – 138; S. Leder: “Damaskus: Entwicklung einer islamischen Metropole 12.–14. Jahrhundert und ihre Grundlagen”, Alltagsleben und materielle Kultur in der arabischen Sprache und Literatur. Festschrift f r Heinz Grotzfeld zum 70. Geburtstag, Abhandlungen f r die Kunde des Morgenlandes, 45,1, (eds) T. Bauer and U. Stehli-Werbeck, (Wiesbaden, 2005), 233 – 250. For a general def-

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Exploration of the role of the waqf during this period of urban renaissance and transformation contributes to the theory of economic growth in pre-modern, non-European societies. At the same time, the legal rationale for the waqf holds within it the ideal of piety and charity that connects it to the Islamic religion. This role and function of the waqf in the Zangid period will be studied in five steps: – What is a waqf and how did it function? – How did the state finance its expenses in the early Islamic period in comparison to the later Seljuq period? – What characterizes the waqf policy of Nur al-Din Mahmud, and what distinguishes it from that of his Seljuq predecessors? – What were the function and the scope of this policy? A part of the answer becomes apparent in a protocol of a meeting regarding the disposition of revenues of the patrimony of the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus. – And in conclusion: What dynamic impacts did the new waqf policy have on the transformation of the cities in the 6th/12th century?

2. The rationale of the waqf in Islamic law What is a waqf ? 15 In the twelfth century the Aleppan legal scholar al-Kasani (d. 587/1189) defines the endowment in brief: ˘

The waqf is a continuous charitable act for the sake of God—He is exalted (al-waqfu sadaqatun jariyatun fi sabili llahi ta ala).16

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In the 3rd/9th century the regulations of the waqf developed as part of Islamic law. According to these regulations, an endowment—or waqf—is established by a legal deed that names the owner of the endowed property, the substance of the endowment ( ayn or asl), and the beneficiary (mawquf alayhi) of its income (manfa a). According to the Hanafi school ˘

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inition of public sphere in pre-modern Muslim societies see D. F. Eickelman and A. Salvatore: “The Public Sphere and Muslim Identities”, European Journal of Sociology, 43 (2002), 92 – 115, esp. 99 with reference to the waqf. 15 For a brief introduction into endowments according to Islamic law see M. Hoexter: “Huquq Allah and huquq al- ibad as Reflected in the Waqf Institution”, JSAI, 19 (1995), 133 – 156. 16 Al-Kasani (d. 587/1191): Kitab al-Bada i al-sana i fi tartib al-shara i , 7 vols, (Cairo, without date); reprint, (Beirut, 1406/1986), here v. 6, 218 – 221 (Kitab al-waqf wal-sadaqa), 221 line 4 (citation). M. Hoexter: “Huquq Allah”, 137. ˘

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of law, by the act of endowment, the founder relinquishes all his property rights, transforming it into a haqq Allah, an inalienable “claim of God”. The founder is essentially free to determine the beneficiaries with a few caveats. If he designates a general perpetual charitable purpose, such as the support of the poor and needy (al-fuqara wal-masakin) or the holy sites in Mecca and Medina, then it is referred to as waqf khayri, a beneficial, charitable endowment. The charity of the waqf was not meant as caritas, in the western sense of charity, nor as a pre-modern relief system for the poor. It was intended for the respectable poor, like the mystics or sufis who were referred to generically as the “poor”, or fuqara (singular faqir).17 The despised and in part violent urban lower class was not included in this definition.18 The founder can also designate a succession of beneficiaries, such as members of his own family or any other natural persons in the legal sense. Being a formal sub-group of the waqf khayri, it is referred to as waqf ahli or waqf dhurri. This type of waqf was usually established to maintain control over the family’s assets and to keep them together in light of the consequences of Islamic laws of inheritance, and at the same time to make the property—at least in theory—immune to the frequent practice of confiscation. The family endowment constituted the main type of waqf during the 3rd/9th century.19 Because a waqf must be perpetual in its legal nature, its founders have to name an ultimate perpetual beneficiary, like the aforementioned general category of the “poor and needy”. And as any line of beneficiaries of a family endowment can die out, nearly every waqf ahli ultimately transforms sooner or later into a waqf khayri. When the family line ended and the endowment reached the khayri stage, it was generally integrated into the patrimony of another institution or of another waqf. These patrimonies were composed of a large number of individual endowments and properties, but administered as one unit.20 For example, during the 6th/12th century, the patrimony of the waqfs of the Umayyad mosque in Damascus included numerous ancient endowed properties. 17 Compare N. A. Stillman: “Waqf and the Ideology of Charity in Medieval Islam”, Studies in Honour of Clifford Edmund Bosworth, v. 1. Hunter of the East: Arabic and Semitic Studies, (ed) I. R. Netton, (Leiden, 2000), 357 – 372, esp. 367 – 371. 18 Compare Y. Lev: “Charity and Social Practice in Egypt and Syria from the Ninth to the Twelfth Century”, JSAI, 24 (2000), 472 – 507, esp. 488 – 491. 19 P. Ch. Hennigan: The Birth of a Legal Institution. The Formation of the Waqf in Third-Century A.H., Studies in Islamic Law and Society, 18, (Leiden, 2003). 20 M. Hoexter: “Huquq Allah”, 146.

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3. Financing the state in the early Islamic and Seljuq period How did the early Islamic state finance its expenses in comparison to the later Seljuq state? Continuing the practice of the late Roman empire, the Umayyad and early Abbasid state financed the military21, and public and semi-public institutions and duties primarily from the revenues of the public treasury (bayt al-mal or diwan): building and maintaining facilities such as fortifications, streets, water supply, and mosques22, as well as the remuneration of its personnel23 and establishing and maintaining markets. As income, the state reaped revenue through the agricultural tax, the kharaj, which was usually collected by the civil administration as cash payments. Instances are known where the tax assessment was expressed in money but paid in kind.24 In the cities, the poll tax levied on non Muslims, jizya, was collected in cash. It was paid by the majority of the population which had remained Christian, Jewish, or Zoroastrian.

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21 H. N. Kennedy: The Armies of the Caliphs. Military and Society in the Early Islamic State (London, 2001), 78 – 88. 22 Compare for example H. N. Kennedy: “Gerasa und Scythopolis. Power and Patronage in the Byzantine Cities of Bilad al-Sham”, La ville en Syrie et ses territoires. H ritages et mutations, BEO, 52, (eds) J.-C. David and M. al-Dbiyat, (Damascus, 2000), 199 – 204, esp. 204; J. L. Bacharach: “Marwanid Umayyad Building Activities. Speculations on Patronage”, Muqarnas, 13 (1996), 27 – 44. 23 Compare H. J. Cohen: “The Economic Background and the Secular Occupations of Muslim Jurisprudents and Traditionalists in the Classical Period of Islam (until the Middle of the Eleventh Century)”, JESHO, 13 (1970), 16 – 61, here 24, 33 – 34. For the first two centuries, Cohen found that 53 percent of his sample of Islamic legal scholars was in the service of the state; then the number fell. In the 3rd/9th and 4th/10th century 75 percent of the scholars listed by him were merchants and craftsmen in the market. Along with the dwindling financial ability of the state, this ratio might also come from the growing inner distance of the scholars to the existing Islamic empire. But still, in the time of Nur al-Din Mahmud, ‘jurists, the respected poor, mystics and public Qur anreaders, (al-fuqaha wal-fuqara wal-sufiyya wal-qura )’ were supported by state coffers (lahum nasib fi bayt al-mal); Ibn al-Athir (d. 630/1232): Al-Tarikh alBahir fi l-dawla al-atabakiyya, (ed) Abd al-Qadir Ahmad Tulaymat (Cairo, 1382/1963), 118. The personnel of the endowments, though, were paid from the revenues of the waqfs; Abu Shama (d. 665/1267): Kitab al-Rawdatayn fi akhbar al-daulatayn al-nuriyya wal-salahiyya, (ed) Muhammad Hilmi Muhammad Ahmad and Muhammad Mustafa Ziyada, v. 1, part 1, (Cairo, 1957), 10. 24 H. N. Kennedy: “The Financing of the Military in the Early Islamic State”, A. Cameron (ed), The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East III—States, Resources, and Armies, Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam, 1, (Princeton, 1995), 361 – 378, here 366 – 367. ˘

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The highly developed monetary economy ensured the fiscal cycle of cash money, meaning tax income and state expenditure. Over the course of the 4th/10th and 5th/11th centuries, the military, political, administrative, and economic structures of the core lands of the Islamic empire collapsed.25 Archaeological settlement surveys in Syria, northern Mesopotamia, and Iraq consistently indicate a sharp decline in the number of rural settlements and in turn in primary production and in population.26 During the 4th/10th century, a further wave of nomadic migration from the Arab Peninsula into the core regions of the Islamic empire prompted further expulsion of the settled rural population as well as abandonment of villages and small towns. Nomadic camps (hilla) frequently became centres of military and political power. Archaeology, architecture, and narrative sources also point to a sharp decline in urban centres and report on ruinous and deserted city quarters. Since the beginning of the 4th/10th century, the ability of the state to maintain and support ‘public’ and ‘semi-public’ facilities, institutions and their personnel diminished considerably. This can be seen in many, especially small and medium sized, cities where state-financed central buildings, like congregational mosques, became dilapidated. This happened not only in the provinces27 but also in major cities like Damascus28 and Baghdad29. Writing in the middle of the 6th/12th century Imad al-Din al-Isfahani (d. 597/ 1201) estimated more than hundred dilapidated mosques in the realm of 25 S. Heidemann: Renaissance, 29 – 33. 26 Compare for example R. M. Adams: Land Behind Baghdad. A History of Settlement on the Diyala Plains, (Chicago, London, 1965); K. Bartl: Fr hislamische Besiedlung im Balikh-Tal/Nordsyrien, Berliner Beitr ge zum Vorderen Orient, 15, (Berlin, 1994). 27 S. Heidemann: “Ein Schatzfund aus dem Raqqa der Numairidenzeit, die “Siedlungsl cke” in Nordmesopotamien und eine Werkstatt in der Großen Moschee”, Gedenkschrift f r Michael Meinecke, Damaszener Mitteilungen, 11, (Mainz, 1999), 227 – 242; S. Heidemann: “Numayrid al-Raqqa. Archaeological and Historical Evidence for a ‘Dimorphic State’ in the Bedouin Dominated Fringes of the Fatimid Empire”, Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras, IV, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta, 140, (eds) U. Vermeulen and J. Van Steenbergen, (Leuven, 2005), 85 – 110. 28 J.-M. Mouton: Damas et sa principaut sous les Saljoukides et les Bourides 468 – 549/1076 – 1154. Vie politique et religieuse, Textes arabes et tudes islamique, 33, (Cairo, 1994), 257. 29 On 21 Jumada II 329/23 March 941 the Green Dome of the congregational mosque of Madinat al-Salam collapsed. The dome was a landmark, visible from the far distance and recognized as symbol of Abbasid might and power.

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Nur al-Din Mahmud.30 Numismatic evidence shows a sharp decline in the cash-based monetary economy, reaching a level presumably not seen since pre-Hellenistic antiquity. To support this evidence, contemporary legal scholars frequently complain about the state of the monetary system of their time.31 In the 5th/11th century, a new development started with the Seljuqs. Coming from eastern Iran, they conquered the Islamic world. In 479/ 1087, the Seljuqs succeeded in incorporating Syria. They were in command of a professional army of Turkish horsemen and an efficient administration in eastern Iranian-Samanid tradition. In contrast to their nomadic predecessors, they chose fortified cities and fortifications as their seats of power. About 150 years after the collapse of Abbasid rule, rulers in Syria and northern Mesopotamian again commissioned the construction of monumental representative buildings. Frequently, after a conquest, one of the first projects was to build minarets which may be seen as victory monuments of the Sunni renaissance.32 The Seljuq concept of financing the state was different from that of the early Islamic period and a reaction to the new social, demographic, economic, and monetary conditions. The basis of the Seljuq power was a seasonally available army of horsemen. To finance them, the hinterland of the conquered cities was divided into iqta -districts and distributed among army commanders, amirs, and their detachments. These troops and their leaders usually lived in their allotted iqta -district. The iqta was an immediate claim on the land-tax revenues (kharaj) of that district as remuneration for military service. Ideally—according to Nizam al-Mulk (d. 488/1095), the political architect of the Seljuq empire—the collecting tax administration and the beneficiary, the muqta , should be separated.33 Because of the political and ˘

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30 See fn. 47. 31 On the relationship between monetary economy and economic growth see S. Heidemann: Renaissance, 355 – 363; S. Heidemann: “Economic Growth and Currency in Ayyubid Palestine”. 32 S. Heidemann: Renaissance, 154 – 155. 33 Nizam al-Mulk envisaged a separation of both functions in his blueprint for the Seljuq state, the Siyasatnama. The assignment of an iqta to an amir entitled him in principle only to claim the tax yield. Tax monies were collected by the local/ regional fiscal authorities and handed over to him. The amir and his unit could be deployed in any province far away from his iqta . The iqta , in theory, was not meant to give the amir any political authority over his iqta ; Nizam al-Mulk (d. 488/1095), Siyasatname, (ed) Hubert Darke: Siyar al-Muluk also known as Siyasatnama of Nizam al-Mulk (Tehran, 1962), 48; translated into German by K. E. Schabinger Freiherr von Schowingen: Nizamulmulk. Das Buch der Staatskunst. ˘

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economic situation in the Western Seljuq empire, however, the beneficiary, the amir who held claims to the iqta , had to take over at the same time the civil and in particular the fiscal administration, as well as the military protection and political responsibility of the district where he levied taxes. Since the bulk of the dues were presumably paid in kind, the food could be directly consumed by the army without making a detour through the market. This system reflects the level of the shrunken monetary economy and the prevailing political and military conditions in Syria and northern Mesopotamia at the beginning of the 6th/12th century. For their provisions, the army of horsemen was almost independent from the Seljuq ruler. To cope with the centrifugal forces inherent in such a system, an elite troop of military slaves, mamluks or ghulams (plural ghilman), were built up, maintained, and financed through cash payments.34 Cash was also necessary for the construction of fortifications, monumental representative buildings, and court expenditures. To raise cash money, primarily urban economic activities were skimmed. In the 6th/12th century, the majority of the population—with regional differences—had become Muslim.35 As a result, the formerly important contribution of the jizya, paid in cash, to state revenues had significantly decreased, according to tax lists from various Ayyubid cities.36 In order to get income in cash money for the treasury, excise, mukus, which was a toll on long distance trade was imposed, and intra-urban dues on sales, rusum, dara ib ˘

Siyasatname, 2nd edition, (Zurich, 1987), 198. In the Western Seljuq empire, however, both functions, that of the muqta and amir, usually merged. Such a distinction which Nizam al-Mulk demanded might have been feasible only within a developed monetary economy which also included rural areas and which allowed an easy transportation of tax revenues over long distances to the iqta beneficiaries. In the Seljuq period, this was probably only the case in eastern Iran and in Egypt. In many regions of the Western Seljuq empire—meaning the core regions of the Islamic empire—a tax, paid in kind, was probably more efficient. For the relation between land tax, kharaj, and iqta see S. Heidemann: Renaissance, 306 – 315. 34 About the Seljuq military and its funding see S. Heidemann: “Arab Nomads and Seljuq Military”. 35 See fn. 6. 36 S. Heidemann: Renaissance, 323 – 324. Nevertheless, jizya payments were—according to the Geniza documents—extremely harsh for poor Jews and Christians, because the Ayyubids levied—at least in Egypt—the poll tax strictly. Alshech even supposes that this relentlessness was meant as an expression of the piety of the state; E. Alshech: “Islamic Law, Practice, and Legal Doctrine: Exempting the Poor from the Jizya Under the Ayyubids (1171 – 1250)”, Islamic Law and Society, 10 (2003), 348 – 375. ˘

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and huquq al-bay , were levied. These dues were illegitimate according to the shari a. 37 The contemporary legal scholar, theologian, and mystic alGhazali (d. 505/1111) leaves no doubt about that: ˘

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The assets of the sultans in our time (amwal al-salatin fi asrina) are all unlawful (haram) or to the greater part.38

4. The waqf policy of Nur al-Din Mahmud What significance did the waqf have prior to the period of Nur al-Din Mahmud? Narrative sources from the 150 years preceding the Seljuq conquest of Syria only occasionally mention endowments, and almost none was established by rulers or members of the ruling elite.39 Nizam al-Mulk’s policy of the Sunni renaissance included the establishment of schools of higher learning, madrasas, and of convents for the mystic Sufis, khanqahs. The madrasas served the education of religious scholars for the Sunni renaissance and of legal scholars for the civil administration. These new establishments were usually supported by waqfs. Educational policy and spiritual care were the main motivations behind this wave of endowments. The first Seljuq sultans, however, did not take the initiative for their establishment. The known waqfs were set up by governors, viziers, and others. Farm land leased to peasants formed the main financial base of these waqfs.40 According to Ann Lambton, the number of endow-

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37 S. Heidemann: Renaissance, 324 – 339. 38 Ghazali (d. 505/1111): Ihya ulum al-din. (ed) Abu l-Hafs Sayyid Ibrahim ibn Sadiq ibn Umran, known as Abu Hafs, 5 vols, (Cairo, 1414/1994), here v. 2, 216; translated into German by H. Bauer: Erlaubtes und verbotenes Gut. Das 14. Buch von al-Ghazali’s Hauptwerk, (Halle, 1922), 159. About al-Ghazali’s criticism of the Seljuq tax system see S. Heidemann: Renaissance, 302 – 305. 39 For an overview of the history of the waqf institution in Syria see A. Meier: “Wakf. II. In the Arab Lands. 2. In Syria”, Enc of Islam 2, v. 9, 823 – 828. The situation was different in Egypt where the Fatimid caliph al-Hakim bi-Amrillah established some waqfs, see Y. Lev: “Charity and Social Practice”, 493 – 495. For a document from the Fatimid period see J. Sourdel-Thomine and D. Sourdel: “Biens fonciers”. The presentation of Deborah Tor, “Piety in the Great Seljuq Era” at the research group’s concluding conference in February 2007 showed that the early Seljuq sultans, especially Tughrilbeg and Alb Arslan, were neither praised for piety, for sadaqa (benevolent charity) nor for the establishment of waqfs. 40 A. K. S. Lambton: “Awqaf in Persia”, 300. ˘

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ments in Iran did not increase significantly until the late 7th/13th century.41 After the Seljuq conquest of Syria and northern Mesopotamia, waqfs, endowed by the ruling dynasty and their households, were more commonly mentioned for this region. Prior to the period of Nur al-Din Mahmud, their number remained small and enumerable. In 491/1097 – 8, the first hospital, a madrasa, and a khanqah were built in Damascus and supported by a waqf endowed by the local Seljuq-Burid ruler and his mother.42 In 508/1114 – 5, a waqf of a judge, qadi, from the influential family al-Khashshab is mentioned for Aleppo.43 In 516/1122 – 3, the first madrasa in Aleppo (al-madrasa al-zujajiyya) was established, presumably funded by a waqf. 44 In al-Raqqa at the Euphrates, a waqf inscription, dated to the first decades of the 6th/12th century, names an Uqaylid amir as founder.45 Despite the small number of references to waqfs, it can be assumed that family waqfs and the patrimonies of established old waqfs and institutions played a major role in the economic life of the cities in Syria and northern Mesopotamia, even before the time of Nur al-Din Mahmud. In general, they were, however, no subject for the historical record. The importance of these endowments, though, is evidenced in the enumeration of real estate administered by the patrimony of the waqf of the Umayyad mosque in Damascus which will be discussed below in chapter 5.

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41 A. K. S. Lambton: “Awqaf in Persia”, 304. 42 A. Meier: “Wakf. II. In the Arab Lands. 2. In Syria”, 825. For the waqf under the Burids see J.-M. Mouton: Damas, esp. 87 – 88. See also J. E. Gilbert: “Institutionalization”, 115 – 117 and 127-128. 43 The qadi Abu l-Hasan Muhammad ibn al-Khashshab endowed an area of the Hammam al-Bayluna (hiql al-hammam al-bayluna) for the sustenance of the Masjid Jurn al-Asfar which he had established; Ibn Shaddad (d. 684/1285): Al-A laq al-khatira fi dhikr umara al-Sham wal-Jazira [v. 1 part 1], (ed) Dominique Sourdel: La description d’Alep d’Ibn Shaddad, (Damascus, 1953), 35 and 64. This endowment not only supported the mosque, but also the needy of the family al-Khashshab. 44 Ibn Shaddad: al-A laq, 96. 45 A fragment of an inscription in al-Raqqa reports on an endowment, a waqf, established by a son of the Uqaylid amir Abu l-Zimam Salim ibn Malik. The inscription dates the building which is not yet located in or after the year 500/ 1106 – 7; C.-P. Haase: “Inschriften der islamischen Zeit”, Raqqa II. Die islamische Stadt, (eds) S. Heidemann and A. Becker, (Mainz, 2003), 99 – 111, here 103 no. 22. ˘

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What characterizes the waqf-policy of Nur al-Din Mahmud as contrasted with the practice of his predecessors? The reign of Nur al-Din Mahmud and his son and successor al-Salih Isma il (r. 569 – 576/1174 – 1181) is not only distinguished by an ideological emphasis on the Sunni renaissance but as well by visible and effective economic and fiscal reforms in more than one field. The necrologies and eulogies on Nur alDin Mahmud form the basis for the study of his economic and fiscal measures. Yaacov Lev undertook a first appraisal of his economic policy.46 Al-Isfahani47, Ibn Asakir (d. 571/1175 – 6)48, Ibn al-Athir (d. 630/ 1232)49, and Abu Shama (d. 665/1267)50 begin their biographies of Nur al-Din Mahmud with elaborate eulogies on his pious devotion and virtue. This panegyric differs from that of his predecessors inasmuch as the authors deal extensively with his economic policy. According to the characteristics of this genre, though, such policies are described as acts of piety and justice: he has laudably abolished the urban dues which were illicit according to the shari a, e. g. mukus, dara ib, rusum, and huquq al-bay . The later frequently repeated reports of their abrogation point in two seemingly opposed directions: on the one hand, they are witness for the continuous efforts of the Zangid rulers and their successors to conform fiscal regime to the shari a, and on the other hand, they show the continuous need for these levies to fund growing state expenditures.51 ˘

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46 Y. Lev: “The Social and Economic Policies of Nur al-Din (1146 – 1174): The Sultan of Syria”, Der Islam, 81 (2004), 218 – 242. 47 Imad al-Din Katib al-Isfahani in Abu Shama: Rawdatayn, 2 vols (Cairo, 1287 – 1288/1870 – 1871), here v. 1, 10 – 11; (ed) Ahmad and Ziyada, v. 1, part 1, 24 – 27; (ed) Ibrahim al-Zaybaq, 5 vols (Beirut, 1997), here v. 1, 50 – 54, and in Bundari (c. 7th/13th c.): Sana al-barq al-shami, ikhtisar al-Fath ibn Ali al-Bundari min kitab al-barq al-shami lil- Imad al-Din al-Isfahani, (ed) Fathiya al-Nabarawi, (Cairo, 1979), 16. 48 Ibn Asakir (d. 571/1175 – 6): Tarikh Madinat Dimashq. (partial ed) and translation by Nikita Eliss eff. “Un document contemporain de Nur al-Din, sa notice biographique par Ibn Asakir”, BEO, 25 (1972), 125 – 140, here, 129 and 138. 49 Ibn al-Athir: Bahir, 161 – 172; Ibn al-Athir: Al-Kamil fi l-tarikh, (ed) C. J. Tornberg, 13 vols (Leiden, 1851 – 1874), here v. 11, 264 – 267; (ed) Beirut, 13 vols (Beirut, 1399/1979), here v. 11, 402 – 405. 50 Abu Shama: Rawdatayn, (ed) Cairo, v. 1, 5 – 24, esp. 16 – 18; (ed) Ahmad and Ziyada, v. 1, part 1, 9 – 58, esp. 39 – 44; (ed) Zaybaq, v. 1, 31 – 92, esp. 70 – 77. 51 At least in 19th century Morocco, the temporary abrogation of illegitimate taxes (mukus) were almost customary in the reciprocal act of the oath of allegiance (bay a); notwithstanding certain uprisings about their re-introduction; see B. Dennerlein: “Legitimate Bounds and Bound Legitimacy. The Act of Allegiance ˘

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In such a situation of expanded public duties and responsibilities, however, even a partial abolition of illegitimate dues has to be financially compensated in some other way—and that way was with the establishment of endowments. For the first time endowments occupy a broad space within the eulogies of the piety of a ruler in Seljuq tradition. Immediately after the above mentioned abrogation of illegitimate dues, Abu Shama continued with paragraphs about the endowments of Nur al-Din Mahmud. In these eulogies, the public or semi-public responsibilities of the state are summarized by the term masalih al-muslimin. With a general meaning of “welfare of the Muslims”, the term is also used in a more specific sense. Ibn alAthir explains the term at the beginning of a chapter: “And that which he [Nur al-Din Mahmud] did as masalih is very much; it is that which he undertook in the lands of Islam (bilad al-Islam) in regard to their protection and the protection of the Muslims (hifzuha wa-hifz al-muslimin).” Ibn al-Athir proceeds in the next sentence with the—still today—impressive building program of Nur al-Din Mahmud, and enumerates the institutions which fell under the term masalih, welfare, in a concrete way. Ibn al-Athir names at first city walls and fortifications, institutions of education and higher learning, followed by mosques, hospitals, Sufi convents, guesthouses for pilgrims and many more.52 The establishment of endowments became now an immediate concern for the rulers. Endowments were no longer left to the charity of the ruling families and their households. For the period of Nur al-Din Mahmud, Imad al-Din al-Isfahani gives the figure of more than hundred dilapidated mosques which Nur al-Din Mahmud began to reconstruct, and to each of them he assigned a supporting waqf. Under his rule the number of waqfs increased considerably.53 The extensive building program even included construction work in small and medium sized cities, such as al-Raqqa on the Euphrates, which were not immediately affected by the series of devastating earthquakes that took place in Syria in 546/ 1152 and between 551/1156 and 554/1159. According to archaeological evidence, for more than a hundred years, some buildings of central importance had lain in ruins, for example the congregational mosque in ˘

to the Ruler (Bai a) in 19th Century Morocco”, Welt des Islams, 41 (2001), 287 – 310, here 292 – 296. 52 Ibn al-Athir: Bahir, 170. 53 Katib al-Isfahani in Abu Shama: Rawdatayn, (ed) Ahmad and Ziyada, v. 1, part 1, 26.

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al-Raqqa. Nur al-Din Mahmud now ordered their reconstruction.54 In accordance with al-Isfahani, Abu Shama states that Nur al-Din Mahmud endowed a separate waqf for each institution. In the Zangid and Ayyubid period, primarily revenue-generating urban real estate was endowed, for example shops in the markets, tenement buildings, commercial complexes, bakeries, mills, and baths. Where did those assets for Nur al-Din Mahmud’s investments come from? Only private property (milk) can be legitimately endowed. Ibn al-Athir addresses this issue: ˘

According to the shari a, there was only fully legitimate property, in outer [appearance] and inner [substance]. He [Nur al-Din Mahmud] [only] endowed what was turned over to him and [what] he inherited of its sum of its money [?] or what he appropriated in the lands of the Franks and became his share.55

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The aforementioned eulogies emphasize this distinction of Nur al-Din Mahmud between his private purse and the state coffers. Ibn al-Athir points out that the latter directly benefited the ‘welfare of the Muslims’ (al-amwal al-mursada li-masalih al-muslimin). This distinction between private purse and state coffers may have been an innovation in comparison to the supposed practice in the Western Seljuq empire, because there, the function of a military commander of a district, an amir, was essentially synonymous with that of the muqta , the beneficiary of the tax revenue of an iqta . The fiscal revenue was directly appropriated as remuneration without going through the public treasury for redistribution. Even if Nur al-Din Mahmud’s private wealth and the state’s coffers were not systematically separated, like in all pre-modern states, then, nevertheless, the re˘

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54 For the congregational mosque in al-Raqqa see fn. 27. The inscription above the entrance mentions only the restoration and construction, but does not inform about financing and support of the building. 55 Ibn al-Athir: Bahir, 172: “laysa fiha milkun ghayrin sahihin shar iyin zahiran wabatinan. Fa-innahu waqafa ma ntaqala ilayhi wa-wazana thamanahu aw ma ghaliba alayhi min biladi l-franji wa-sara sahmuhu”. The reading of the phrase, marked in the translation with a question mark, is problematic. According to the phrasing of the Bahir, it must be translated “and he weighed its price [probably the coins as price]”. This translation, however, is not conclusive in a sentence which should inform about the origin of the endowed property. A passage, similar in the grapheme, can be found in Abu Shama’s Rawdatayn, (ed) Ahmad and Ziyada, v. 1. part 1, 23 line 7: “wa-waritha thamanahu (and what he inherited of its sum of money)”. The editor of the Bahir, Abd al-Qadir Tulaymat, found the last phrasing more convincing although that reading is again not completely satisfactory. Possibly there is a mistake in the transmission of the text. ˘

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ports of his panegyrists imply that neither legitimate nor illegitimate tax monies were spent on establishing waqfs.56 The ability of Nur al-Din Mahmud to set up more than one hundred endowments raises questions about his personal wealth and its sources as well as about the position of the Seljuq-Zangid ruler within the economic life of his principality, questions which cannot be answered sufficiently by available sources.57 As a provisional conclusion, it can be stated: within the fiscal and economic architecture of the principality of Nur al-Din Mahmud and his Zangid and Ayyubid successors, endowments of urban, commercial, revenue-generating real estate constituted a major source for funding of urban public and semi-public institutions and duties. This funding was independent from the state’s treasury. This is evident by the numerous still existing buildings, the eulogies that report on funding by waqfs, and the concurrent abrogation of dues illegitimate according to the shari a. One main model of funding, that by the treasury, was replaced by another, the waqf. The endowments became in certain respects the urban equivalent of the agricultural iqta . Both, waqf and iqta , were suitable institutional solutions at a given level of fiscal instruments, of economic development, and of monetary economy. They allow their beneficiaries—whether an urban institution or a military detachment—to achieve financial independence from the state coffers by establishing and skimming their own financial resources. In contrast to the iqta , however, the waqf is an institution whose legal form is well-rooted in the shari a as sadaqa, charitable giving. The legal and spiritual importance of the waqf far exceeds the described function as a financial instrument. The military iqta goes back to the legitimate tax yield from agricultural activities (kharaj) whereas the waqf is an institution entirely under private law. In the time of Nur al-Din Mahmud, the office of the “administrator of the supervision of the waqfs”, the mutawalli nazr al-awqaf, seems to have been either newly created or is emphasized for the first time in the reports of this period. Its duty was to supervise and control those institutions that the waqf made financially independent from the ruler, and to align them with the goals of the Zangid policy. In this regard, the of˘

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56 J. Pahlitzsch: “Transformation”, 54 – 58, discusses this question whether Nur alDin Mahmud or Saladin turned land belonging to the bayt al-mal into an endowment. In all cases in which a conclusion can be drawn, a private purchase of land from the state preceded the endowment. 57 Compare the extent of economic activities of later Mongol rulers in Iran W. Hinz: “Ein orientalisches Handelsunternehmen im 15. Jahrhundert”, Welt des Orients, 1 (1947 – 9), 313 – 340.

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fice seems to be parallel to the diwan al-ard, “the office of the land”, that supervised the iqta s. The first named supervisor of the waqfs was the Shafi i jurist Sharaf al-Din Abu Sa id Abd Allah ibn Abi Asrun (488 – 585/ 1095 – 1189)58, who appears to have had an important influence on Nur al-Din Mahmud’s waqf-policy. Kamal al-Din al-Shahrazuri (d. 572/1176 – 7)59 succeeded him in this office.60 ˘

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5. The meeting about the assignment of income from the patrimony of the Umayyad Mosque ˘

Between Sha ban 551/September 1156 and Jumada I 554/May 115961, again a series of devastating earthquakes ravaged Syrian cities.62 In this exceptional emergency situation, the responsible urban elite faced the enor˘

58 Until Nur al-Din Mahmud appointed him in Aleppo, Ibn Abi Asrun taught in Mosul and Sinjar. After the conquest of Damascus, he taught at the Ghazaliyya within the Umayyad Mosque and assumed the office of the supervisor of the waqfs, mutawalli al-awqaf. Ibn Shaddad: A laq, 98 – 99; al-Nu aymi (d. 927/ 1520 – 1): Al-Daris fi tarikh al-madaris, (ed) Ja far al-Hanni, 2 vols, (Cairo, 1988), here v. 1, 383 – 400, esp. 400. N. Eliss eff: Nur ad-Din, un grand prince musulman de Syrie au temps des croisades (511 – 569 H./1118 – 1174), 3 vols., (Damascus, 1967), here v. 3, 929 – 930. 59 He was appointed as qadi l-qudat, chief judge, in Damascus and at the same time ‘inspector of endowments’ nazir al-awqaf; see A. Meier: “Wakf ”, 825, and N. Eliss eff: Nur ad-Din, v. 2, 680 – 681, v. 3, 827. 60 Before that period, in the 4th/10th century, such a central supervision of endowments did exist in Iraq (diwan al-birr wa-diwan al-sadaqat). This was, however, a different historical and economic environment. Miskawayh (d. 421/1030): Kitab Tajarib al-umam, (eds) and translated by Henri F. Amedroz and David Samuel Margoliouth. The Eclipse of the Abbasid Caliphate, v. I and II; tr. IV and V, (Oxford, 1920, 1921), here v. 1, 152; A. Duri: “Diwan. The Abbasid Period”, Enc of Islam 2, v. 2 (Leiden, 1991), 324; E. Tyan: Histoire de l’organisation judicaire en pays d’Islam, (Leiden, 1960), 382 – 383. In Fatimid period a diwan alahbas exists in Egypt; D. Behrens-Abouseif: “Wakf. II. In the Arab Lands. 1. In Egypt”. 61 Ibn al-Qalanisi (d. 555/1160): Dhayl tarikh Dimashq. (ed) Suhayl Zakkar, (Damascus, 1403/1983), 514, 518, 525 – 531, 533, 541; Abu Shama: Rawdatayn, (ed) Zaybaq, v. 1, 332 – 336, 375, 381. 62 E. Guidoboni and F. Bernardini and A. Comastri: “The 1138 – 1139 and 1156 – 1159 Destructive Seismic Crises in Syria, South-Eastern Turkey and Northern Lebanon”, Journal of Seismology, 8 (2004), 105 – 127; N. N. Ambraseys: “The 12th Century Seismic Paroxysm in the Middle East. A Historical Perspective”, Annals of Geophysics, 47 (2004), 733 – 758. ˘

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mous challenge of reconstructing the city and financing the reconstruction. Abu Shama’s chronicle preserved parts of a protocol of a meeting that took place in the citadel of Damascus, on Thursday, 19 Safar 554/12 March 1159.63 The protocol sheds light on the function and the scope of the waqf policy of Nur al-Din Mahmud within the economic and fiscal parameters described above. The meeting was hosted by Nur al-Din Mahmud. The named attendees were the Shafi i qadi of Damascus as chief representative of the legal system; the “administrator for the supervision of the waqfs”, the Shafi i Ibn Abi Asrun; members of Shafi i, Maliki, and Hanbali schools of law, but no one of the Hanafi school; the heads of the urban administration and militia and also professional witnesses. Nur al-Din Mahmud had summoned all the relevant urban dignitaries—this is evident by the circumstances—to find a mutually agreeable, practical, and first of all legally legitimate solution, to redirect funds from the largest and richest patrimony of the city, that of the Umayyad Mosque, to urban construction and re-construction projects and also to the fortification of the city. Over the centuries, the great patrimonies had accumulated enormous capital in the form of commercially used real estate. In the protocol the term masalih was used in two different ways: in the general sense as ‘welfare of the Muslims (masalih al-muslimin)’; and in a specific usage, as productive assets of the patrimony which are not part of an endowment. The use of their proceeds was not regulated by any waqf-deed. In general, the masalih-assets should serve the ‘welfare’ (masalih).64 Abu Shama:

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And Nur al-Din asked them about the [additional] asset of masalih which was added to the waqfs of the congregational mosque in Damascus (almudaf ila awqaf al-masjid al-jami bi-Dimashq min al-masalih), [and] which [i.e. the additional asset] is not an endowment for it [i.e. for the mosque] (allati laysat waqfan alayha). […] Then Nur al-Din ordered [the Shafi i Ibn Abi Asrun], the mutawalli of the ˘

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63 Abu Shama: Rawdatayn, (ed) Cairo, v. 1, 17 – 18; (ed) Ahmad and Ziyada, v. 1, part 1, 41 – 44; (ed) Zaybaq, v. 1, 73 – 77. Compare also the discussion on the protocol in J. Pahlitzsch, “Transformation”, 56 – 57. 64 For the development of the legal term maslaha see F. M. M. Opwis: Maslaha: An Intellectual History of a Core Concept in Islamic Legal Theory, PhD Thesis Yale University, (Ann Arbor, 2002), esp. 42 – 43 (she cites here al-Ghazali), 341 – 343. At the end of the 5th/11th century, the concept of maslaha gained ground in the law finding process. Al-Ghazali (d. 505/1111) envisioned maslaha as a method to expand the law in the cases for which no textual evidence directly applied. Its application should remain restricted to those cases that displayed necessities.

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waqfs of the congregational mosque, the mosques, the hospital, the aqueducts (quniyi l-sabil) and what goes with those, that he read out before him in the presence of the aforementioned [attendees] the proceeds of the endowments (daribati l-awqaf ), place by place (mawdi an mawdi an), in order to separate what—according to their knowledge—belongs to the masalih property and does not belong to the waqf (annahu lil-masalih duna lwaqf ).65

The document continues with an extensive list of the patrimony’s real estate holdings within Damascus, emphasizing the great economic importance of the patrimony for the city. This list itemizes numerous shops in the suq, a commercial complex (qaysariyya), tenements, rooms for rent and a bakery. All property was scattered within the entire area of the intramural city. The protocol implies four legal categories as how the aforementioned real estate belonged to the masalih assets of the patrimony: First, real estate that formed part of the Umayyad family’s legacy within the city (mirath bani umayya); second, all that which was acquired with the assets of the waqfs and masalih (bi-mal al-waqf wal-masalih); third, family waqfs that came to the patrimony when their last beneficiary passed on; those which had no living immediate beneficiary anymore and which had become part of the patrimony; fourth, commercially used real estate built on public streets and grounds (tariq al-muslimin), such as those within the old temenos, the precinct of the Hellenistic temple which had become the Umayyad Mosque. Nur al-Din Mahmud then directed the discussion toward re-assignment of these revenues he wished to achieve.

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And Nur al-Din said: “And in fact the most important of the welfare (masalih) is the protection of the border lands of the Muslims (sadd tughur almuslimin) and the building of a wall enclosing Damascus (bina al-sur almuhit bi-Dimashq), towers (al-qilal)66 and a moat (al-khandaq) for the safety of the Muslims (li-siyanat al-muslimin), their families (harimuhum) and their properties (amwaluhum).” And they approved what he suggested and they thanked him.67

After the attendees had approved the new assignments of the proceeds from the masalih assets, Nur al-Din Mahmud turned to another source of revenue, the surplus from the endowments, fawadil al-awqaf. This 65 See fn. 63. 66 This part of the sentence is missing in Cairo edition and in that of Ahmad and Ziyada, but it is present in the edition of Zaybaq. 67 See fn. 63.

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term refers to the net income of the waqf, the gross income minus the expenditures to fulfil the purposes stipulated in the waqf deed.

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Then he [Nur al-Din Mahmud] asked them about [the disposition of ] the surpluses of the endowments (fawadil al-awqaf ): [He asked] “Is it permissible to spend them on the construction of city walls and works on the moat as welfare (masalih) which is intended to be for the Muslims?” Then Sharaf alDin Abd al-Wahhab al-Maliki68 gave his legal opinion (afta) about the lawfulness (jawaz) of that.69

In the following statements of the attendant legal scholars, some criticism became apparent. They expressed concerns about the revenue of the waqfs being spent on issues other than those stipulated in the waqf deeds. Finally, according to the protocol, all attendees approved the policy of Nur al-Din Mahmud. With this decision, they not only acknowledged the authority of Nur al-Din Mahmud but attended the obvious needs after the earthquakes. In this case, Nur al-Din Mahmud succeeded in finding a legally approved solution to tap the revenues of a major patrimony for funding of public and semi-public duties. In comparison to later treatises and practice, it can be supposed that this was not a singular incident in Damascus, but mirrored a now growing practice of control by the ruler over the spending of revenues of these major patrimonies.70 The largest urban patrimony in Damascus controlled much of the urban economy. In turn, the control of the surplus from the patrimony and the newly established waqfs allowed Nur al-Din Mahmud to control indirectly the use of the surplus of urban economic activity and to redirect it to ‘public’ purposes without reverting to direct taxes, and even abolishing them, at least from time to time.

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68 He was the representative of the Maliki school of law and taught in the Umayyad mosque under the central ‘Dome of the Eagle (qubbat al-nasr)’. He owed his career in Damascus to the Burids. 69 See fn. 63. 70 For the in the Ottoman period compare Tarabulusi (d. 922/1516): Al-Is af fi ahkam al-awqaf, (Beirut, 1981), 62. The ruler is allowed to take a loan from the waqf when vicissitudes occur to Islam. In Mamluk Egypt the loans were never returned: M. Hoexter: “Huquq Allah”, 153 fn. 71; E. Tyan: Histoire, 378, fn. 2.

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6. Conclusion: The dynamic economic effects of the waqf-policy

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The transformation from the late Roman and early Islamic cities to that type of medieval cities found today in the old towns in the Middle East was achieved—among other factors—with the help of a consciously applied instrument of funding: the waqf. The reign of Nur al-Din Mahmud saw a visible change, in quality and in quantity, of the endowment; it found now a widespread systematic political application in Syria and northern Mesopotamia. This new policy went far beyond the financing of single institutions. After two centuries of decline, the state penetrated more and more into society, particularly with regards to monetary economy, the fiscal system, the legal system, public security, education, urban infrastructure, road construction and much more. After the Seljuq conquest of the late 5th/11th century, this expansion of the state was financed by dues and taxes illegitimate according to the shari a, i. e. the mukus, rusum, dara ib, and huquq al-bay . Their levying, however, contradicted the ideological self-perception of the Seljuqs and their successors, the Zangids and Ayyubids who saw themselves as the revivers of the Islamic state and its legal system. Nur al-Din Mahmud found a different solution than taxes. The political assignment of the proceeds of the numerous newly established waqfs and—at least after the earthquakes during the reconstruction period—the revenues of the masalih assets and the surplus of the patrimonies made it possible to skim urban economic activities for public and semipublic duties and construction projects while still abolishing or lowering the criticised dues and taxes. The funds came from the private property of the ruler. This and the creation of the numerous waqfs itself entered the eulogies on the piety and justice of Nur al-Din Mahmud and served as part of his political legitimization. At the existent level of fiscal and economic organization and a relatively shrunken monetary economy, the waqf for the maintenance of public institutions and buildings represented in some regards the urban equivalent to the iqta , the immediate agricultural levy for the sustenance of the military in the rural areas. Both, military and urban institutions, received funding independent from the fiscal redistribution of the ruler. To control the waqfs and to keep them in line with the goals of the Zangid policy, the office of the “administrator of the supervision of the waqfs” was newly created or now especially emphasized. ˘

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What were the economic impacts of this new waqf policy of Nur alDin Mahmud on the development of the cities? Nur al-Din Mahmud’s waqf policy was part of a wide range of measures stimulating dynamic economic growth. The endowed property—the new waqf assets, shops, khans and workshops in the suq, tenements and other buildings—increased urban economic activities and allowed a far larger group of people to find housing and employment in the cities. The expansion of the Seljuq form of iqta improved the cultivation of rural areas and fed a growing urban population. Numerous settlement surveys prove this demographic turn. The waqf fostered a dynamic development, quite the opposite of what Goitein has perceived.

Piety and Charity in Late Medieval Egypt and Syria Yehoshua Frenkel “Comfort the poor with money, if you can, and God’s recompense will be yours by right; Want is a dire affliction, hard to cure, but money can improve a sorry sight”.1

In Egypt and Syria in the thirteenth through sixteenth centuries, the Mamluk religious endowment (awqaf ) strategy met the political goals of the governing elite,2 and the giving of charity was a key aspect of its materialistic world vision. Yet neither the social ideal of comforting the poor and the needy3 nor similar religious urgings to contribute voluntarily sufficiently explain the people’s motives to donate. By exploring a wider range of cultural and social contexts, scholars can better understand the motivating factors behind giving and donating. This article will document and analyze the various motivations behind charitable giving in Mamluk times. The first section will discuss the philanthropic dimensions of governors’ charities, such as food donation and financial contribution, and elaborate on the Islamic religious commandments and traditions that encourage donations and praise giving—principles provided by the donors themselves. The second section will explore the personal motives for giving charity, including the belief that by contributing property, believers can expiate their sins. The third section focuses on the political role of religious endowments. It sheds light on the political weight that the Mamluk elite in Egypt and Syria (1250 – 1517) assigned to pious charity in the public sphere.

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A poem recited by the barber in night 146 of the Arabian nights. Muhsin Mahdi (ed.), The Thousand and One Nights from the earliest known sources (Leiden, 1995), 1: 338. [Hereafter Alf Layla wa-Layla, ed. Mahdi]. Adam Abdelhamid Sabra, Poverty and charity in medieval Islam: Mamluk Egypt, 1250 – 1517 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 173 mentions the total absence of the merchant class from the endowment deeds. Alf layla wa-layla, ed. Mahdi, 347 (kana al-khalifatu yahibbu al-fuqara wal-masakin).

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I. Religious Charity and Piety

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Charitable donations hold a strong relationship to the accumulation of capital. Despite Muslims’ deep belief in predestination and the ongoing exhortations to rely on God (tawakkul), it is not rare to come across streams of thought in Islamic religious tradition that persuade the believers to work hard and to accumulate capital.4 Indeed, several verses in the Qur an that discuss men’s pursuit in the world employ commercial terms. One key term comes from the Arabic radical k.s.b., 5 a root related to the verb kasaba, which means earning and gain.6 Moreover, several Prophetic traditions refer to economic performance and emphasize Muslims’ duty to increase their earnings, signifying the importance of work, trade, and profit.7 As an hadith says: “[W]orship is constituted of ten parts, nine are in matters of gains and earning and the tenth part is praying and fasting”.8 Some jurists considered profiting to be a religious precept, arguing that gaining is a required endeavor. The believer must pursue his income; ˘

Abu Bakr Ah- mad b. Muh- ammad al-Khallal (d. 923), al-Haththu ala al-tijara wal-sina a wal- amal wal-inkar ala man yuddi ui al-tawakkul fi tark al- amal wal-hijja alayhim fi dhalika (Riyad, 1986), 25. The chain of transmitters of this booklet clearly shows that the H - anbalis in Mamluk Damascus studied it; al-Tirmidhi (fl. 898), Abu Abd Allah Muh- ammad b. Ali b. al-H - asan alH - akim al-Tirmidhi (fl. 898), Bayan al-kasb, ed. A. A. Barakah (Cairo, 1986), 54 – 57. Charles Cutler Torrey, The commercial theological terms in the Koran. (Leiden, 1892), 29. Qur an, 6: 164; cf. Qur an, 33: 58; 2: 286: “God charge no soul (nafs) save to its capacity, what it earned (laha ma kasabat) is standing to its account and against its that which it merited (wa alayha ma iktasabat)”; Qur an, 52: 21; cf. Qur an, 74: 38: “Every soul (kull nafsin) shall be pledged (rahina) for that which he had earned (kasabat)”; Qur an, al-Baqara, 2: 79; Qur an, al-Nisa , 4: 111 – 112. al-Khallal, al-Haththu ala al-tijara, 70, 72; al-Tirmidhi, Bayan al-kasb, 48: Lea Kinberg claims that these traditions reflect the rising economic power of an Islamic bourgeoisie. “Compromise of Commerce”, Der Islam 66 (1989): 195, 201 – 02. Several scholars interpret the Qur anic verse (2, Baqara: 198/199): “It is no sin (junah) to seek the bounty of your Lord (rabb)” as referring to commerce/by trading. See for example the translation by Pickthall, The Glorious Qur an. al-Tirmidhi, Bayan al-kasb, 60; S. D. Goitein, “The Rise of the Near-Eastern Bourgeoisie in Early Islamic Times”, in his Studies in Islamic History and Institutions (Leiden, Brill: 1961), 217 – 29 quotes this and similar traditions to prop his thesis of merchant mentality that pervaded in early Islamic society. ˘

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without profiting he will neither be able to fulfill his religious duties9 nor support his wife.10 Indeed, God’s messengers are used as models of those who work and earn money. Given this emphasis, it is no wonder that a Damascene author even composed a book on the importance of wealth.11 The spread of such sayings among mainstream Muslims clearly indicates an entrepreneur ethic.12 Furthermore, medieval Islamic culture also accepted the idea that capital and property can be exchanged for redemption. The belief that money can acquire mercy developed from several verses in the Qur an that indicate that man’s ritual deeds and spiritual destiny are exchangeable assets.13 Among other meanings, the verbal root sh.r.y conveys the idea of “to obtain by commercial transaction.”14 In the Qur an, the verb ishtara stands for the exchanging of righteous values for immoral ones:15 “those who purchase disbelief at the price of faith,”16 or “those who exchange God’s guidance at the price of wrongdoing”.17 Founders of pious foundations used these and similar Qur anic verses to elucidate their intentions.18 Islamic religious thinking often uses commercial language and metaphors, according to which everything has its own quantitative appraisals and all of man’s deeds are hierarchically classified. In the same way, the

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9 Pseudo-Shaybai, Kitab al-kasb in Al-Sarakhsi (d. 483/1090), al-Mabsut (Beirut, 2001), 30: 272; on this book see Bonner, “Kitab al-kasb”, JAOS 121 (2001): 412 – 13. 10 al-Tirmdhi, Bayan al-kasb, 38, 45. vol. 30. 11 Al-Dimashqi, al-Ishara ila mahasin al-tijara wa-ghushush al-mudallisin fiha ed. M. Arnaut (Beirut, 1999), 15, 18, 73 – 72. Cf. The argument put forward by ¯ “Capital Formation in the Ottoman Empire”, The Journal of EcoHalil Inalcik, nomic History 29 (1969): 102. 12 For ascetics’ sayings that there is no harm in property as long as the prevailing feeling is contentment and dependency on God see Leah Kinberg, “What is meant by Zuhd”, SI 61 (1985): 38. 13 The Holy Book reflects a belief system that did not rule out the exchange between capital and religious deeds. Qur an, Saba , 34: 39: “and whatever spending you shall expend [on alms] (anfaqtum) He will replace (yukhalifu) it. He is the best of providers”. 14 Qur an, Baqara 2: 79. The first conjunction means to sell (shara ). The eighth conjunction (ifta ala) means to buy, to purchase. 15 Torrey, The commercial theological terms in the Koran, 35 – 42. 16 Qur an, Aal Imran, 3: 177; cf. “those who prefer to exchange the Hereafter at the price of worldly materialistic life. Qur an, Baqara, 2: 86. 17 Qur an, Baqara 2: 16. 18 RCEA 13: 13 – 14 (Damascus, 682/1283 no. 4820) quoting Qur an 2: 264 and 73: 20. ˘

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believer’s ritual behavior is also assessed and arranged on a scale of merits that produces reward or punishment. Numerous examples illustrate this world vision. As learned from several Qura nic verses,19 Muslims considered it valid to use donations as an instrument for replacing wrongdoing and ensuring reward.20 In one tradition, we learn that God will make easier the livelihood of the believer who obeys the Lord, while the person that acts unjustly and turns to forbidden deeds will be punished and lose his revenues.21 Another tradition deals with giving of alms as a fulfillment of vows and oaths.22 Since material remission of sin was a familiar concept to Muslims, we can accept statements that point on desire for salvation as an incentive to donate. To a certain degree, the doctrine that charity is a righteous behavior was shaped by Qur anic verses that encourage the believers to donate.23 A well-known Qur anic verse says: “The freewill offerings (sadaqat) are for the poor (faqir) and the needy (maskin), and those who collect them, and those whose hearts are to be reconciled, and to ransom of slaves (or captives) and the debtors, and for the cause of Allah (or Holy War); it is a duty imposed by God.”24 Founders of pious foundations often refer to this verse and its popularity is shown by its repeated quotations in dedicatory inscriptions. From early Islamic centuries, the commandment to give charity became synon-

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19 Qur an, 24, al-Nur, 22; cf. Qur an 64: 14; 24: 22; Baqara 2: 272/274 “Whatever good you spend it is for yourselves not is search of Allah’s face; and whatever good you spend it will be repaid to you in full without you being wronged” in an Ayyubid inscription from Dabburiyah Israel. Sharon, CIAP, 3: 3. 20 A verse that debates the failure to fulfill an oath (ayman) says: “His expiation (kaffaratuhu) is the feeding of ten needy (masakin) with the average means you employ to feed your own folk, to dress them or to free slaves. The one who has no means to do so should fast three days”. Qur an, 5: 89; Cf. Qur an 2: 280 (wa-an tasaddaqu khayrun lakum); Ibn Kathir, Tafsir al-qur an al- azim, 7: 276. 21 al-Tirmidhi, Bayan al-kasb, 39, 40, 49 – 51. 22 Malik, Muwatta, book 22, Number 22.4.6: 23 Qur an, al-Baqara, 2: 211. 24 Qur an, al-Tawba, 9: 60; and cf. 58: 12; 4: 114; 2: 263; 9:103. Muslim jurists disputed the proportions of freewill donation. They did not agree if a man can provide all his capital or there is a limit and he can not contribute more than a one third of it (ikhraj al-thulth). Ibn al- Arabi (d. 543/1148), Ahkam al-quran ed. Bajawi (Cairo, 1378/1958), 2: 1010 – 11. ˘

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ymous with the concept of monetary donations,25 including contributions to pay for construction of religious buildings.26 In addition to the Qur anic commandment to donate, other motives drove Muslims to endow money and property. These motives are evident from a wide range of literary genres: legal compendia, inscriptions, chronicles, hagiographical and biographical collections, as well as popular stories. This wide range of sources provides accounts and episodes that reflect the religious ethics and the world vision of the variety of medieval Muslims. In these writings generosity and offering were often presented as evidence of noble manners.27 Several episodes recounted in these collections encourage relief ideology and establish an ideal to be followed by the community. The Persian poet and hagiographer Farid al-Din Attar (c. 1142 – 1229) narrates the ¯¯ life story of H - abib a Persian mystic, telling the following: ˘

Once a famine was ranging in Bas-ra. H - abib purchased many provisions on credit and gave them away as alms. He fastened his purse and placed it under his pillow. When [the tradesmen] came to demand the payment, H - abib would take out his purse and it was full of silver coins which he gave away as loans.28

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A second example of this sort is found in al-Din Attar’s biography of the famous mystic Ibrahim b. Adham, who was living¯¯in a cave on the outskirts of Nishapur: Every Thursday he used to get out of the cavern, climbing up the hill and collecting a bundle of firewood. Next morning he used to set out for Nishapur and sell there the brushwood. Having preformed the Friday prayers, he

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25 That this meaning of sadaqa was widely accepted we can deduce from a Christian charity. Tusana b. Basint donated (tasaddaqat) a piece of land. It was bestowed upon two monasteries. From the text it is clear that she had given the property as a charitable foundation. The stated motive of her deed was “for the love of God” (literally for Allah’s face= li-wajhi Allahi). R.G. Khoury, Chrestomathie de papyrologie Arabe (Leiden, 1993), 131 – 3 (ll. 3, 12); “Generous people distributed food to Bedouin prisoners”. Al-S- ayrafi (1416 – 1495), Inba al-hasr bi- anba al- asr ed. H - asan H - abashi (Cairo: Dar al-Kutub, 1970), 45. 26 J. Sourdel-Thomine, D. Sourdel, J-M. Mouton, “Un acte notarie d’ poque bouride: pouvoir politique et propri taire immobili re dans un quartier de Damas au XIIe si cle”, AI 29 (1995): 61 (l. 13 [no bequeath]); RCEA 15: 27, 5642 (Sartshan, Iran 733/1333). 27 Alf layla wa-layla, ed. Mahdi, 368. 28 Farid al-Din al- Attar (c. 1142 – 1229), Tadhkirat al-awliya [Memorial of the ¯¯ Saints] ed. R. Nicholson (London, 1907), 1: 53 (ll. 15 – 17); [A. J. Arberry (trans.), Muslim Saints and Mystics (University of Chicago Press, 1966), 36]. ˘

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would buy bread with the money he had gained, give half to a beggar (dervish) and use half himself to break his fast. So he did every week.29

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Another example of this ethos can be seen in the story of Qut al-Qulub, the beautiful heroine of several nights in the Thousand and One Nights. The story tells of a slave-girl that was dispatched by the caliph to search for the trustworthy merchant Ghanim b. Ayub. The caliph promised her a substantial and permanent gift, were she to succeed in her assignment. She was given a reward of one thousand golden. Serving as a model of generosity she distributed a portion of the sum as alms to aged mystics.30 A paragraph in the story of Julnar the Mermaid and her son King Badr of Persia is another illustration of this value.31 Although Shariman the mighty king had one hundred concubines of all races, he had never been blessed with a son. So “he used to offer sacrifices, gave alms and did a verity of favors and beneficial deeds.32 He prayed to God, asking to bless him with a son”.33 When the beloved slave girl informed the king that his expectations were fulfilled and that she was pregnant, he ordered the vizier to distribute a hundred thousand golden coins in alms to the poor and needy, to widows, the orphans, and the homeless. Following the naming of the baby, the king promised to open the jails, to cloth the widows and orphans. He gave alms and freed the slaves.34 Accompanying the sense that donating is an obligation was the hope that such beneficence would be rewarded by God. It was already pointed above that Muslims who read the Holy Qur an would come across verses that speak about money, contribution and repentance. Some of these

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29 Attar, Tadhkirat al-awliya, 1: 88; [Arberry, Muslim Saints, 66]. 30 Alf¯¯ layla walayla, ed. Bulaq (Cairo, AH 1252), 1: 137. 31 It goes without saying that these stories do not reflect the social reality of the Mamluk age, yet they seem to project the social ideals of the well-off echelons among the urban population. 32 Cf. the necrology of Zumurrud Khatun by Abu Shama (599 – 665/1202 – 1268), al-Rawdatayn fi akhbar al-dawlatayn al-nuriyya wal-salahiyya in Z. Zakkar (ed.), al-Mawsu a al-shamiyya fi ta rikh al-hurub al-salibiyya (Beirut: Dar al-Fikr, 1995), 20: 9038. 33 In the Kitab al-Hikayat al- ajiba wal-akhbar al-ghariba ed. H. Wehr (reprinted Cologne, 1997), 85 this component is missing from the introductory sentences of the story. However, in an akin, story a king invites the poor and needy to banquet. They should pray and ask to bless him with a son. M. Habicht (ed.), Tausend und Eine Nacht (Breslau, 1825), 3: 167 (night 218); Anotoine Galland (trans.), Les mille et une nuits (Paris, 1996), 2: 228 (night 211). 34 Alf layla wa-layla, ed. Mahdi, 481, 487, 494 (nights 230, 235, 241); Haddawy (trans.), 384, 389, 394. ˘

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verses promote alms giving and promise God’s reward,35 supporting the belief that donors would be compensated in the world to come.36 Additional texts support the hypothesis that Muslim public opinion regarded the giving of charity as an act of piety to be rewarded later.37 In a Prophetic tradition, God promised those who spent capital for His cause that He would lead them to paradise.38 This hope of donors to acquire personal salvation through giving charity is also reflected by engravings on numerous tombs.39 Invocations calling on God to compensate the buried can be seen in medieval epitaphs,40 and deathbed declarations often reflect this conviction that the fulfillment of this sort of religious duties would secure a spiritual pardon.41 One example of charity being seen as purchasing favor in the world to come can be seen in the following item from a pious endowment (waqf ) deed: “the fourth share of this bequest shall be spent each year to buy slaves. They will be manumitted on behalf of the donor for the sake of God, Who will free a bone of the donor’s corpse against each manumitted slave”.42 In the concluding section of a similar endowment text, the ˘

35 Qur an, 2: 277; 4: 162; 41: 7. 36 An emotional episode that illuminates the ethos of remorse tells about a dying slave soldier who called notaries and owners of stolen property to his bed sides. He asked the owners if they recognize their possessions, and following their confirmation he handed the goods to them in the presence of the notaries, who were suppose to itemize the deceased’s property and instead turned to the owners and recorded their collection. Then the soldier turned to the proprietors and begged them to pardon him (muhalala). They have exonerated him and he died. Ibn Iyas (852 – 930/1448 – 1524), Bada i al-zuhur fi waqa i al-duhur [Die Chronik des Ibn Ijas] ed. M. Mustafa (Wiesbaden, 1975), 3: 390 (ll. 16 – 22; ¯ 903/1498). 37 Ibn Maja al-Qazwini (d. 887/1482), Sunan, ed. S. J. al- Attar (Beirut: Dar al¯¯ a mosque, where Fikr, 1421/2001), 186 (735 – 737) “the person who builds the name of God will be called, God will provide him with a house in haven”; and ibid, 191 (757). 38 Al-Qabuni (1382 – 1465), Bisharat al-mahbub bitakfir al-dhunub ed. A. A. AlBahiri (Cairo, 1422/2002, 145. 39 Werner Diem. The living and the dead in Islam: studies in Arabic epitaphs (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2004), 1: 301; Sabra, Poverty and Charity, 99 – 100. 40 RCEA 15: 45, (5665; Cairo 735/1334); Diem, Living & Dead, 1: 293, 580 (7). 41 The expiring sultan Barquq donated considerable sums (fa-akthara min al-sadaqat). Ibn Taghri Birdi (813 – 874/1411 – 1470), al-Nujum al-Zahirah fi Muluk Misr wa-al-Qahirah ed. W. Popper (University of California Press 1936), 5: 595 (l. 16). 42 Al-Samarqandi, Kitab al-shurut wal-watha iq (Baghdad, 1988), 179. ˘

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founder declared that he had donated it:43 “because he is motivated by desiring God’s Face44 and obtaining His large recompense. God will not let the reward45 of the good-doers to be wasted”.46 Several other inscriptions bear witness to donors’ desires to have their donations buy their favor with God. The opening paragraph of a tenth century waqf inscription discovered in Ramla (Israel) contains the line: “He made it a waqf, put it into mortmain and gave it as charitable alms, desiring to attain the reward of God, hoping for God’s pardon and seeking to draw close47 to Him”.48 An Abbasid period inscription from Mecca mentions a daughter of the caliph who constructed the water supply system in Mecca; she invested in this project hoping for God’s recompense.49 A Zirid period (1062 – 1108) inscription in the great mosque of Qayrawan in Tunisia includes the following statement: ˘

This work was executed on the orders of Abu Tamim al-Mu izz ibn Badis ibn al-Mans-ur may God protect him, bless him and approve his deeds. He ordered it in request to gain recompenses from the generous God and His enormous grace, for the Lord does not waste the rewards of the well doers.50

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One presumes that these benefactors who pleaded with God51 indeed believed that His acceptance of their freewill donation would draw them nearer.52 This hope encouraged them to contribute.53 Along these lines, a document from early Abbasid Egypt narrates the story of a couple who granted a slave girl to their two sons.54 When the father gave half

49 50 51 52 53 54

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RCEA 16: 17 (6020; Fez 747/1346). Qur an, 30: 38. Torrey, The commercial theological terms in the Koran, 23 – 27. Qur an, al-Tawba, 9: 120; cf. Qur an, 3: 171; 7: 170; 11: 115; 12: 90. The term zulfa occurs several times in the Qur an in the sense of closeness. Sura 34: 37 says: “It is neither your property nor your male offspring that will bring you near Us, but only who believes and makes the good deeds”; cf. 38: 25, 39 (zumar): 3 (“We only serve them in order that they may bring us nearer to Allah.”); and the note by Max van Berchem, CIA , Jerusalem (Haram), (Cairo, 1922), 394 (item 277 and 5). M. Sharon, “A waqf Inscription from Ramlah”, Arabica 13 (1966): 77 (l. 4), 79; [republished as “Notes and Communications: Waqf inscription from Ramla c. 300/912 – 13”, BSOAS 60 (1997): 107]. RCEA, 1: 69 (88). Houdas et Basset, Epigraphie Tunisienne, 20. Qur an, Baqara, 2: 265; cf. Qur an 92: 20, 13: 22. Qur an, 9: 99. H. Gaube, Arabische Inscriften aus Syrien (Beirut, 1978), 110 (197). Y. Ragib, Actes de vente (Cairo: IFAO, 2002), 89 – 96. ˘ ˘

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of the slave girl to his eldest son, although he was still a minor ,55 he signed a document that stated that he had done it voluntarily out of love to his son to gain proximity to God.56 This idea that alms could serve as a sort of penitence (kaffara) was disseminated broadly among Muslims. Al-Tabari, the renowned Baghda¯ di Qur an commentator and historian (224 – 310/838 – 923), narrates the following tradition: “God said to his Prophet, O Muh- ammad take a share from the capital of those who have confessed about their wrongdoing. It will be a sadaqa that cleanses the repentant from the stain of his misconducts. By collecting the contribution you will purify them.”57 This interpretation was emphasized by al-Razi (d. 606/1209) who says: “this verse is not concerning the obligatory charity (sadaqa wajiba) but rather speaks about voluntary ransom payment,58 which serves as a tool to wipe wrong doings.”59 The examples imparted throughout this chapter clearly illuminate the place of sadaqa in the world vision of medieval Muslims and the versatility of voluntary donation and endowment in Mamluk society (1250 – 1517). These accounts of impressive awqaf inaugurations and ceremonial sadaqa donations point that although endowment and giving of charitable gifts were labeled as part of private enterprise, nevertheless they were staged frequently at public events.60 Food and money were distributed in city streets to mark victories. The royal family would give contributions to celebrate the birth and circumcisions of their sons and other publicly celebrated rites of passage. Sultans and governors also publicly provided monthly payments and funds to feeble soldiers, widows and orphans of soldiers and families of religious functionaries.61 Yet, despite the ubiquity

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55 The Mother gave the second half of the slave-girl (wasifa) of the couple another son. 56 This line echoes the Qur anic verse: “only seeking the Face of his Lord the Most High (ibtigha wajhi rabihim)”. Qur an, 2: 207, 4: 114; Cf. RCEA 15: 123 5792 (Cairo 740/1339). 57 Muh- ammad b. Jarir (224 – 310/838 – 923), Jami al-Bayan (Beirut, 1988), 7: 16 (surat al-tawba, 9: 103). 58 Compare Diem, Living & Dead, 1: 332 (Ransom avoids death). 59 Fakhr al-Din al-Razi (543 – 606/1149 – 1209), al-Tafsir al-kabir (Beirut, 1990), 16: 141 (surat al-tawba, 9: 103). 60 See the obituary of the sultan of Damascus al-Malik al-Ashraf Musa (1229 – 635/ 1237) by Ibn Was-il in Claude Cahen, “Sur le Ta rikh Salihi d’Ibn Wasil: Notes et extraits”, in M. Sharon (ed.), Studies in Islamic History and Civilization in Honour of David Ayalon (Jerusalum, 1986), 509. 61 Ibn Iyas, Bada i al-zuhurr, 3: 24 (l. 18). ˘

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of Qur anic verses in awqaf documents and inscription the “religious precept” paradigm can not be taken as the sole motivation to Mamluk charitable donations. Why did the Mamkuk elite feel the need to bequeath and donate their holdings to the poor? Finding the answer to this question is not an easy task, particularly in the absence of definitive information concerning the private motivations and the moods of the endowers, who restricted their reasoning to a general statement and citations from the 63 Qur an62 and H - adith. Founders of religious foundations chose to invest considerable sums in constructions. Such building activity was financed largely by the awqaf, which also paid the maintenance costs for the institution. Used as the funds for public enterprises, we might claim that religious commandments were not the main reason for donations of capital and assets.64 Neither the religious commandments presented above nor the political thesis can be seen as sufficient explanations for the vast scope of the waqf phenomenon.65 Additional reasoning such as the pietistic drive should be supplemented.66 The desire to appear pious and receive divine grace set in motion personal and social mechanisms that motivated the giving of charity.67 This mode of religious patronage was considered Mamluk contemporaries as an expression of piety. Those who contribute believed that by fulfilling the religious obligation of donating they will gain rewards and clemency.68

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62 Frequently quoting verses from Qur an, surat al-Tawba, 9: 18: “Only he who believes in God, the Last Day, performs the prayer and donates the alms, and fears none but God shall build mosques; indeed he will be among the guided along the right way”; and Qur an, 2: 177, 9: 60. These verses convey the massage that paying the alms taxes (zakat) would safeguard the payer. 63 Commonly alluding to the tradition: “Only three things remain after death: a lasting charity, religious knowledge that teaches the next generations and a righteous son who will pray for the deceased”. Ibn Maja, Sunan, 78 (241 – 42). 64 For an opposite evaluation M. Gil, Documents of the Jewish Pious Foundations from the Cairo Geniza (Brill, 1976), 11. 65 Cf. Roisin Cossar, “The quality of mercy: confraternities and public power in medieval Bergamo”, Journal of Medieval History 27 (2001): 142. 66 al-Khallal, al-Haththu ala al-tijara, 26. 67 This mentalit can be detected in pre-Mamluk years. Abu Shama, Rawdatayn, 19: 8891; Yasser Tabbaa, Constructions of power and piety in medieval Aleppo (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1997), 139. 68 Ibn H - ajar (773 – 852/1372 – 1449), Ma rifat al-khisal al-mukaffira lil-dhunub [the good qualities that help achieving God’s forgiveness] (Beirut, 1410/1990), 39, 41, 56; Qabuni, Bisharat al-mabub, 46, 52, 69, 103, 123. ˘

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The belief that property and donation can bring donors closer to God can be seen explicitly in several inscriptions, engraved on tombs, mosques, schools and other buildings that catered to social welfare.69 For example, Sanjar al-Dawadari (Jerusalem 695/1295)70 stated that he ordered the construction of a Sufi khanqah (a lodge for the mystics) and financed its activity because he was “seeking the God’s face, the Most High”.71 A similar declaration was engraved on the walls of a mosque that H - usam al-Din Lajin (d. 1299) constructed in Cairo.72 His hope for obtaining God’s mercy is reflected in inscriptions that state: “It was endowed by the poor slave who needs God’s mercy73 and who yearn for His forgiveness”.74 In some inscriptions, this standard formula is replaced by the line: “the feeble slave who needs God’s compassion”.75 Often these

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69 RCEA 15: 232 (5964, 743/1343, Jabala: the Mausoleum of Ibrahim b. Adham); van Berchem, CIA, Cairo, 3: 344 (“he seeks the Face of God and hopes that this will give him a place in the Other World”); Cf. Mayer, Saracenic Heraldry, 61. 70 van Berchem, CIA , J rusalem (Ville), 214 (70) [reprinted in RCEA 13: 146 – 47 (5009]); A similar line opens an waqf inscription from Hebron RCEA 13: 96 (4943 l. 1); and in Baisan RCEA 14: 23 (5235 ll. 2 – 3); 286 (5211a); cf. RCEA 15: 74 (5703 Qalansuwa 737/1336); Matthews, “Mamluk Inscriptions”, (1940): 376 – 77 (a fountain donated by Sunqur al-Ashqar in 707/1307); Mayer, Saracenic Heraldry, 188, 250 (public fountain, Aleppo 746/1345). 71 The line is takwn from Qur an, al-Baqara, 2: 272 (“ibtigha wajh allah”); Cf. Qur an, 92: 20 (ibtigha wajhi rabihi) and additional verses that were mentioned above. The hadith “those who build a mosque in search of God’s face, God will build in paradise a home for them”. Sahih Muslim, 1: 378 (kitab al-masajid 24 – 25); al-Qabuni, Bisharat al-mahbub, 121. 72 RCEA 15: 33 (5647 734/1333 “seeking the face of God”), the founder bears the royal title of “the inspector of the stables (amir akhur)”. He should not to be confused with the sultan al-malik al-mans-ur Lajin (lachin= Turkish falcon) (1296 – 99). Peter Malcolm Holt, “The Sultanate of al-Mansur Lachin (696 – 8/ 1296 – 9)”, BSOAS 36 (1973): 521. 73 For additional examples to this humble appeal see Sharon, CIAP Addendum, 6 (Qayit Bay 881/1476), 32 (777/1375 – 76); RCEA 15: 7 (5610 Ankara 731/ 1331); 23 (5635 Taphis/Tafa in Upper Egypt 733/1333); 24 (5637 Aleppo, 733/1333); 33 (5647 Cairo, 734/1334); An inscription on a tomb stele contains the following lines: “this is the grave of Fatima, the needy woman (al-faqirah ila ¯ forgive those who read this inscripAllah)”. The message concludes: “may God tion and pray that God will pardon her”. RCEA 15: 80 (5719 Cairo 738/1337). 74 “al-r j afw rabbihi al-kar m”. RCEA 15: 1 (5601 Egypt 731/1331); 36 (5652 Damascus, 734/1334); 54 (5680 Cairo, 736/1335); 123 (5792 Cairo 740/ 1339). 75 “al- abd al-da if al-muhtaj ila rahmat rabbih i”. RCEA 15: 49 – 50 (5672 Pazar 735/1335); 64 (5693 Nigde, Anatolia 736/1336); 65 (5695 Akhlat, 738/ 1337); 206 (5934 Akshehir, 741/1340). ˘

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words are followed by the expression of hope: “would God agree to accept from him his good deeds and double his good reward”.76 An inscription on another mosque states that its founder “had constructed this blessed mosque out of pure and sincere love of God”.77 These declarations often are accompanied by verses that reflect the builders’ belief that voluntary charity would be compensated by God in the afterlife.78 In a dedicatory inscription that the Sultan Baybars I (1260 – 1277) ordered to place at the shrine of Abu Ubayda (on the east bank of the Jordan River),79 he explains that he founded it to gain the favor of God and his Messenger.80 To this statement, he appended additional Qur anic verses that say: “owing to His kindness (jawd) and His generosity (karm) God would recompense the founder (waqif ) on the day of recompression”;81 and “surely God leaves not to waste the wage of the good-doers.”82 A similar dedicatory inscription that Abu Muh- ammad al-H - asan engraved informs the reader that he constructed it “in search for God’s proximity holding fast to his aspiration to obtain God’s satisfaction”.83 An inscription on the walls of a hospital (bimaristan 755/1354) in Aleppo expresses the same belief when it quotes the verse: “He who brings a good work (hasana) shall receive tenfold like his deed”.84 The same intention can be seen on an inscription from Fuwwa (a city in the Nile Delta, Egypt) that incorporates the hadith: “The Prophet had said: whoever builds a mosque for God, even if it is in the size of a Spotted Sand-grouse nest, God will build him an abode in Paradise”.85 Another construction

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76 RCEA 15: 25 (5638 Konya 733/1333). 77 “khalisan mukhlisan li-wajh Allah”: RCEA 15: 41 (5659 H - aji Uzbak in Iznik 734/1334). 78 “inna Allah yajzi al-mutasaddiqin” Qur an, surat Yusuf, 12: 90 (“He leaves not waste the wage of the good-doers (ajra al-muhsainin/muslihin)”). 79 RCEA 12: 208 – 09 (4714; 675/1277). 80 Cf. RCEA 13: 71 (4902 687/1288); 14: 208 (Cairo, 725/1325 ibtigha ridwan Allah); 16: 160 – 61 (6239, Cairo 756/1355,). 81 “yajzi al-mutasaddiqin”: Qur an, Yusuf, 12: 88. 82 Qur an, Yusuf, 12: 90; cf. Qur an,7: 170 (inna la nudi u ajra al-muslihin); Qur an,18: 30. 83 RCEA 15: 14, (5222; Veramin, Iran, 707/1307). 84 Quran 6: 161; Mayer, Saracenic Heraldry, 75. 85 The hadith in Ibn Maja, Sunan, 187 (kitab al-masajid 738). RCEA, 15: 121 (5790 Fuwwa 740/1339), 15: 62 (765019, Aleppo, 765/1364), 15: 87 (5732 Bursa 738/1337 – 38); cf. an similar statement in RCEA, 15: 224 5953 (Sinop: Ulu Jami 742/1341); An inscription on the walls of a mosque build ˘

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text says: “The building of this blessed public fountain had been ordered for the sake of God the Exalted (…) may God regard this as a beneficial act and reward him”.86 From a tomb inscription, we learn that the tomb was built in hope to win access to God from all directions.87 In Jerusalem, a Mamluk amir constructed a law college (madrasa) and declared that it was accomplished “in hope to approach God”. He adds a plea that God will forgive him either while still alive or after being buried.88 The donors deemed that repentance (tawba)89 supplemented by charity would save them from severe punishment in the world to come. Hoping for Allah’s mercy,90 their contributions were donated in hope to win God’s future rewards.91 Numerous inscriptions express the expectation for God’s forgiveness.92 Quite often they quote the Qur anic verse:93 “and God will recompense them94 according to the utmost merit of their deeds,”95 or engrave on the walls that the monument “was prepared in hope that God with his mercy will shelter the donor”.96 Even blunter is an inscription in a Lebanese village that states: “Balaban al-Rumi

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by an Ottoman sultan ends with the saying: “for those who build mosques for God, God will build for them a house in Paradise”. RCEA 17: 2 (762068, 762/1661, Gaza). Sharon, CIAP, 1: 108 (Aqir, 696/1296). RCEA 15: 16, (5224 Natanz, Iran: 707/1307) the publisher of the text reads sacrifices. RCEA 15: 199, (5923 Jerusalem: 741/1340 “Allah have mercy upon those who will invoke Allah at his tomb and to forgive him”); cf. Tabbaa, Constructions of power and piety, 138 (rahima man tarahhama: “may God have mercy on both of them, and have mercy on all those who asked God who have mercy on them”), 139 “May God have mercy on whoever prays for its dweller and plead for God’s mercy, and seeks forgiveness for its founder”. Qur an 5: 34; 39 (“in search for the abundant compensation (jazil thawabihi) of God”). RCEA 14: 242 (5558); Sharon, CIAP-Addendum, 106 “may God reward him with paradise”. (Hebron, by Tankiz 732/1331 – 32). RCEA 13: 85 (4925 Damascus 689/1290); 15: 66, 5697 (Tomb of Ezekiel 736/ 1335)., Tabbaa, Constructions of power and piety, 139 “may God accept his good deeds (taqabbal qurubatahu) and recompense him abundantly for what he has offered (ma taqarraba bihi)”, 370 (amhu zalalihi); Sharon, CIAP-Addendum, 41 “al-raji minu al-maghfira wal-ridwan”. (Balatuns, 708/1308). Qur an, 16: 99; Ajar in Sharon, CIAP, 1: 185. A. L. Mayer, Saracenic Heraldry: A Survey (Oxford, 1933), 188 (a foundation text from Qalansuweh, Israel 737/1336). RCEA 15: 2 – 3, 5602 – 04 (Egypt 731/1331); 85 (5728 Konia 738/1338).

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had done it out of desire to satisfy God and longing for His nearness in order to gain recompression and reward”.97 In a construction text engraved on a water fountain (sabil) built by Yal-Bugha the cupbearer (saqi) in Aleppo, the founder claims that he financed the construction from his private budget.98 According to his statement, he was motivated by the “desire to see God’s face, who will offer him drink at the moment of the greatest thirst [i.e. during his own entombment]; the day when neither wealth nor sons shall profit except for him who comes to God with a pure heart”.99 Another example of this distribution of money as an act of atonement is the report on the death of two young children of the Mamluk sultan al-Ashraf Qaytbay. The funeral cortege of his six year old daughter was led by a group of men who distributed alms in hopes of atonement.100 Despite these examples of beneficence, such a pious vision of charity is likely too idealistic. Practically speaking, most of the beneficiaries of the pious foundations were members of the Mamluk elite, who used the endowments’ deeds as a legal tool to arrange financial relationships among family members.101 The meticulous and extremely detailed clauses of these deeds indicate that the pious foundations were not unbounded charities but rather well-calculated initiatives, delineated in a carefully formulated legal document.102 These documents illuminate the role of the pious endowments in providing income and economic support to kin and others that the founder considered suitable beneficiaries of cash gifts,103 salary,104 food,105 housing, or other reimbursements. The

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RCEA 12: 323 (4748; Baal Bek 676/1278). RCEA 16: 12 (6015 Aleppo, 746/1345). Qur an, al-Shu ara , 26: 88 – 90. Ibn Iyas, Bada i al-zuhur fi waqa i al-duhur, 3: 30 (l. 15; in 872/1468). Al-Jazari (739/1259 – 1338), Ta rikh Ibn al-Jazari ed. U. A. al-Tadmuri (Beirut: al-maktaba al-asriyya, 1419/1998), 2: 157, 200 – 01 (the story of Ibn al-Dajajiyah), 282; Al-Subki (1284 – 1355/683 – 756), Fatawa al-Subki (Beirut: Dar al-Ma rafa s.d.), 1: 508. It is not the place to launch a general inquiry into the link between endowment and family bonds. It is sufficient to indicate that this line of explanation reflects early sources data on habs. Ibn Abd al-H - akam, Futuh Misr ed. Ch. Torrey (Yale, 1921), 135 – 36. 102 This practice was not a Mamluk innovation. See for example Janine SourdelThomine et Dominique Sourdel, “ Biens Fonciers Constitues waqf en Syrie Fatimide pour une Famille de ashraf Damascains ”, JESHO 15 (1972): 286 (ll. 45 – 52), 293 (trans.). 103 Ibn Tawq (834 – 915/1430 – 1509), al-Ta liq, yawmiyyat Shihab al-Din Ahmad b. Tawq¯ mudhdhakirat kutibat bi-dimashq fi awakhir al- ahd al-mamluki 885 – 908/ ˘ ˘

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great majority of Muslims’ pious endowments in the Mamluk sultanate were private institutions founded to provide family,106 associates, and the religious establishment with funds, assets, housing and positions.107 Awqaf s administrators were the key beneficiaries from the pious foundations incomes and properties.108 Islam enjoins the believers to care for the poor;109 providing him with alms is a religious obligation.110 Sadaqa was not seen merely as limited relief only to the poor. In theory, such charitable donations were offered to all Muslim claimants, and the pious endowments’ doors were opened to accommodate a broader spectrum of recipients.111 Declarations and statements of this sort inspire an image of the charities and waqfs as pious foundations that provide the “public goods” to the entire Islamic community, without discrimination.112 The following story reflects this

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1480 – 1502 ed. Ja far al-Muhajer (Damascus, IFEAD 2000), 1: 245 (AH 888); RCEA 13: 71 (4902). A. Darrag, L’Acte de waqf de Barsbay [Hujjat waqf al-Ashraf Barsbay] (Cairo, 1963). clause 22. Ibn Tulun (1485 – 1536/880 – 953), al-Qala id al-jawhariyah fi ta rikh al-Salihiyah¯ ed. M. A. Dahman (Damascus, 1401/1980), 1: 266 – 68. van Berchem, CIA, Cairo, 3: 354; This certainly was not a Mamluk invention. Describing the merits of the Barmakids of Khorasan Ibn Faqih al-Hamdhani says: “Khalid b. Barmak built houses to his beneficiaries or clients according to their needs. To support eternally their progeny he then bequeathed (waqafa ala)”. Ibn Faqih al-Hamdhani (fl. 902), Kitab al-buldan, 608 (ll. 1 – 3); the text in the Mukhtasr kitab al-buldan, ed. de Goeje (Leiden, 1885), 317 differs slightly; Masse, Abr g du livre des pays (Damascus, 1973), 376; On sani a as patronage and foster paternal relationship Roy Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society (Princeton Uni. 1980). L. A. Mayer, (ed.), The Buildings of Qaytbay as described in his endowment deed (London, 1938), 84; RCEA 16: 83 (6116); Ibn Tulun (1485 – 1536/880 – 953), Mufakahat al-khullan fi hawadith al-zaman ¯ed. M. Mustafa (Cairo, 1962), 1: 236, 244; for similar conditions in Qajar Iran see Nobuaki Kondo, “The vaqf and the Religious Patronage of Manuchihr Khan Mu tamad alDawla”, in R. Gleave (ed.), Religion and Society in Qajar Iran, (London, Routledge Curzon, 2005), (2005), 234, 235. Al-Manawi al-Shafi i (952 – 1031), Kitab Taysir al-wuquf ala ghawamid ahkam al-wuquf (Riyad, 1418/1998), 1: 213; al-Subki, Fatawa, 1: 468; 2: 526 ; Ibn al-Jazari, Hawadith al-zaman, 2: 405. Gerrit Bos, “Ibn al-Jazzar on Medicine for the Poor and Destitute”, JAOS 118 (1998): 368 – 370. Ibn Tawq, al-Ta liq, 4: 1656 (904/1498). al-Manawi, Kitab Taysir al-wuquf, 2: 411. See the titles of the Mamluk sultan Barquq: “the keeper of the charities and the right deeds (sahib al-sadaqat wal-ma ruf ) who secure the ill-treated and troubled”

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image. Ah- mad ibn Tulun (868 – 884), the ruler of Egypt, is described as a brave and generous¯ruler who spent considerable sums of money to aid the needy. One day his steward asked him about an elegant woman “wearing a petticoat and a golden ring, who approached him for donation”. Ibn Tulun ordered him: “give [sadaqa] to who ever and opens his hand”.113¯ In line with this argument, it should be emphasized that although the Qur an mandated that the poor were to receive care,114 the literary sources differentiate between the sort of poverty depicted as an idealistic virtue and the class of dishonest vagabonds who only pretend to live in destitution and misery.115 This negative attitude towards the marginalized groups, including fraudulent beggars, is plainly visible in the tradition, belle-letters and anti-Sufi epistles.116 Such a division of beggars into

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Berchem, CIA, Cairo, 3: 304 (196); During a journey from Egypt to Istanbul (in 1641), a Karaite-Jew and his companions spent most nights at a waqf endowed inns that were open to travelers of every faith. Timur Kuran, “The Provision of Public Goods under Islamic Law: Origins, Impact, and Limitations of the Waqf System”, Law & Society Review 35 (2001): 852 [his argument is based on an article by B. Lewis (1956)]. The historian continues and narrates on the considerable property that Ibn Tulun has bequeathed: “he had spent 120 thousand golden dinars on constructing his cathedral mosque (jami ); 60 thousand dinars on building his hospital and financing its operations, 80 thousand dinars on the island bastion, on the hippodrome and its fortress150 thousand dinars, Muh- ammad b. Suleiman the clerk latter destroyed it, on shooting instruments (mirma) used by the frontier garrison 200 thousand dinars. The daily expenditures of his kitchen and provisions for the animals were one thousand dinars. Every month he contributed one thousand dinars as charity (sadaqa), additional two thousand dinars were send to the frontiers to be distributed there as charity”. Ibn Zafir (d. 613/1216), Akhbar alDuwal al-Munqati a ed. Haza ima et al. (Irbid, 1999), 1: 124 – 25. RCEA 15: 149 (5833 741/1340), 218 (5945 742/); Mamluk sultans used the royal titles: “the chief who provide shelter to the poor and needy” (kahf alk-fuqara wal-masakin) and “the father (abu) of the poor and needy”. van Berchem, CIA, Cairo, 3: 317, 324, 402, 435. Abdallah Cheikh-Moussa, “L’Historien et la litt rature Arabe m di vale”, Arabica 63 (1996): (1996): 156 – 57. The Prophet promised that they will be punished in hell. Al-Mas udi (d. c. 345/ 956), Muruj al-dhahab wa-ma adin al-jawahir ed. Ch. Pellat (New edition Beirut, 1974), 4: 278 – 79 (item. 2656 – 57) [Ch. Pellat (trans.), Les Pariries d’or (Paris 1997). 4: 1083; Al-Tabari (224 – 310/838 – 923), Ta rikh al-rusul wal¯ muluk ed. M. A. Ibrahim (Cairo, 1386/1967), 3: 872, 896; Al-Jah- iz (160 – 255/776 – 868), Nawadir al-bukhala wa-ihtijaj al-ashihha ed. U. Al-Tabba (Beirut, 1419/1998), 107; Clifford Edmund Bosworth, The mediaeval Islamic underworld: the Banu Sasan in Arabic society and literature (Leiden: Brill, 1976); Abd

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those worthy and unworthy of charity further bolsters the claim that charitable donations were not necessarily open to all, nor were they given in the most altruistic of spirits.

II. Charitable Contributions and Alms Donations

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Reporting on the Qaytbay’s pilgrimage to Arabia, the historian Ibn Iyas relates that the sultan had dispatched a courier who informed the army commanders in Cairo that the Qaytbay bestowed favor (an ama) upon the fuqara (mystics—not the poor)117 of al-Medina and distributed five thousand golden coins to them.118 A report narrates that the sultan Mu’ayyad Shaykh (1412 – 1421) distributed money and food among sufis and ascetics who lived in mosques and tombs.119 Further accounts tell of donors that contributed money to be distributed to orphans on the day of their public circumcision.120 The giving was not limited to the low echelons; to commemorate festive event mutual exchange of gifts took place in Cairo between the sultan and his senior amirs and officials exchanged gifts.121 In addition to readily edible foodstuffs, donated goods occasionally included live animals to be sacrificed.122 The following tale demonstrated this point: one early morning, the grand amir Yashbak (881/1477) was riding. On his way, he meets an old man and asks him: “What are you carrying in this basket?” The sheikh responds: “Eggs. I have three daughters and hope to sell the eggs and buy food for them.” Hearing this, the amir orders that the sheikh be paid one golden coin for each egg, an ex˘

al-Rah- man al-Jawbari (1216 – 1222), al-Mukhtar fi kashf al-asrar wa-hatk al- istar (Beirut, 1992), 57 Alf Layla wa-Layla, ed., Mahdi, 360 (night 160). Cf. the list of names that made up a circle of the fuqara who were entitled to collect charity alms (Damascus, 7/13 century). Sourdel does not elaborate who are these faqirs (“pauvre”) that were worthy to receive the payment. However he describes them as people who live without luxury, i. e. ascetics. Dominique Sourdel, “Deux documents relatifs la communaut hanbalite de Damas”, Bulletin d’Etudes Orientales 25 (1972): 142. Yet, Daniella Talmon-Heller, Islamic Piety in Medieval Syria: Mosques, Cemeteries and Sermons under the Zangids and Ayyubids (1146 – 1250) (Brill, 2007), p. 68, translates faqir as poor. Ibn Iyas, Bada i al-zuhur fi waqa i al-duhur, 3: 161 (ll. 16 – 17; 885/1480). Ibn Iyas, Bada i al-zuhur, 2: 25 (Muh- arram 819/March 1416), 28 (Ramadan 819/October 1416). Ibn Tawq, al-Ta liq, 1: 470. ¯ Ibn Iyas, Bada i al-zuhur fi waqa i al-duhur, 3: 164 (885/1480). Jawhari-Sayrafi, Inba, 173; Ibn Tawq, al-Ta liq, 1: 216 (donation of sheep). ¯ ˘

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traordinary sum. The chronicler adds: “It is well known that the character of the grand amir Yashbak was a mixture of excellent qualities and vileness.”123 While serving as a public notary, the Damascene jurist Ibn Tawq reg¯ istered the pious endowment of Kamal al-Din (903/1497). The founder endowed urban property and farming land as designated to finance several aims: a yearly meal to be served on the first Friday of the new Islamic year, as well as monthly sums to be paid to the muezzins of the Grand Mosque who recite at evening verses from the Qur’an, to the water carriers of the Zamzam well in Mecca, to a person who will make the pilgrimage to Mecca on the donor’s behalf, and to a man in Medina who will recite verses from the Qur’an.124 From this endowment charter, it is evident that the founder intended that the capital will pay for pious public goods: namely the property should fund religious invocations. This reflects the common belief that capital is exchangeable with invocations. An account of an event in the citadel of Cairo provides additional information about charitable contributions. In the year 885/1480, the sultan Qaytbay commemorated the anniversary festival of the Prophet (mawlid al-nabi). Towards the end of the celebration, just before the participants departed the court, six eunuchs entered the hall carrying on their heads six large plates. They displayed their contents to the sultan, the chief judges and the ruling elite: sixty thousand gold coins. The chancellor explained to the gathering that when the sultan had visited Medina, he had learned that its inhabitants were suffering from a food shortage. The chronicler adds: Then our sultan made a vow to found a charitable institution that after his death will sustain and help the people of al-Medina. The coins that presented are his private fortune125 and not money of the Treasury. This capital is destined to buy property: farming land, assets, building and additional resources, and endow it as a pious foundation. The waqf ’s income would pay for daily food supply of crushed millet porridge (dashisha),126 bread, olive oil and other foodstuffs. He aimed that in line with the traditional food supply in Hebron a similar tradition will be practiced in al-Madina. ˘

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Ibn Iyas, Bada i al-zuhur fi waqa i al-duhur, 3: 126 (ll. 1 – 15). Ibn Tawq, al-Ta liq, 4: 1034 (ll. 14 – 22), 1035 (ll. 1 – 3). Cf. Sharon, CIAP Addendum, 45, 142 (min khalis maliha). Garcin, “Toponymie et Topographie”, (1984): 151 D. Behrens-Abouseif, “Sultan Qaytbay’s Foundation in Medina, the Madrasah, the Ribat, and the Dashisha, MSR 2(1998), 61 – 73.. ˘ ˘

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In Cairo, at Bab al-Nas-r, several buildings were constructed. They housed manufacturers of crossbows, wood dealers, chickens’ merchants and other shops and, until the end of the Mamluk sultanate, the incomes derived from these properties indeed financed the designated purposes.127 Most of the donors who publicly staged their contributions made it clear that they did so in order to follow the Qur anic verses that command freewill sadaqa for the poor and the needy.128 Despite their stated intentions to help the needy, the term faqir (pl.– fuqara) had by this time moved away from its initial definition of who is poor.129 Often, the term referred to the dervishes (fakir) who depended on the ruling elite’s donations and endowments. These fuqara were distinct from the deprived and miserable beggars (suaal) who directly ask people for donations.130 Along the same lines of this change of meaning, the term sadaqa also acquired a somewhat different meaning than its earlier general notion of grace and freewill donation.131 Mamluk sources use sadaqa to refer to payment for religious services or other favors; this new significance illuminates the salient role that donation has occupied in the social arena.132 Several H - aram documents from fourteenth-century Mamluk Jerusalem support this understanding. In one document, a woman appeals to the governor to issue an authorizing decree to allow a judge to sell the property of her absentee husband. This act of good-will she argues, would aid her and her children. In a second petition, Burhan al-Din Ibra˘

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127 al-Jawhari al-Sayrafi, Inba al-hasr; 478 – 81 (12 Rabi I 885/23 May 1480; the author witnessed the event); Ibn Iyas appends that the money was indeed used to purchase real property: Bada i al-zuhur, 3: 164 (l. 21)-65 (12). 128 See ibid the references to Qur an, al-Tawba, 9: 60. 129 For an exhaustive investigation see Sabra, Poverty and Charity, 8 – 31. 130 Jawhari-Sayrafi, Inba, 169; Maqrizi, Ighathat al-umma, 72 (l. 15)-73 (3), 75 (4 – 10, 15 – 16). Maqrizi makes his point by using to Qur anic verses: “Whatever affliction may strike you is for what your own hands have earned (kasaba) / He will not be questioned as to what He does, but they shall be asked.” Qur an 42: 30 and 21: 23. 131 The Qur anic verses concerning the sadaqa promoted among Muslim jurists questions regarding the sums or the value of the donation. They differentiate between zakat and sadaqa. While the first is a compulsory payment (mafrud) the second is a voluntary payment that by providing it a person demonstrated his sincere (sadq) belief. For this reason zakat can be collected only from those who have minimal value of property (nisab), while sadaqa is unconditioned. Qurtubi, Jami ahkam al-Qur an, (Beirut, 1995), 4: 166, 167 – 70. 132 ¯Ibn Tawq, al-Ta liq, 1: 124 (ll. 10 – 17; 887/1482) uses saddaqa in the sense of to give ¯up voluntarily incomes in favor of other recipient. ˘

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him al-Nas-iri appeals to the governor of Jerusalem, requesting the governor’s bounties (sadaqat) to allow him to continue in his appointment at the al-Aqs-a Mosque as reciter of the Qur an and the hadith. A third appeal contains another similar request by Burhan al-Din, who assures that in consideration of the governor’s benevolence, he and his family would call upon God to bless the generous governor.133

III. Pious Endowments and Public Space The traditions and stories presented above reflect a world vision that required and incorporated the value of voluntary giving. Sadaqa was seen as a way to cleanse the living sinners, to repent, to atone, and to draw closer to God. While these convictions applied to commoners and rulers alike, the latter learned to manipulate the donations process and use their capital for political gains.134 This following section will concentrate on the ruling class’s activity in the public spheres and how their donation practices interfaced with that. The data presented in this section asserts the significant role of religious endowments in constructing the public space of the Mamluks’ realm and in the maintenance of a great variety of public institutions.135 From an early phase in their history, Muslims supported a wide range of institutions financially, donating property and capital to support needy people and fund construction. Mamluk officials continued this strategy. Literary sources and archeological findings demonstrate the philanthropic attitude of the Mamluk governing elite, detailing their endowments, gifts and bequests.136 These sources show that resources were allotted to build

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133 H - aram doc. 215, 305, 9, 310; Donald P. Little, “Five Petitions and Consequential Decrees from the Late Fourteenth Century Jerusalem”, Arab Journal for the Humanities 14, no. 54 (Winter 1996), 349 – 94. 134 Yaacov Lev, Charity, Endowments, and Charitable Institutions in Medieval Islam (Gainesville, 2005), 21 – 46, 54, 144 – 45 tends to play down the political dimension of Islamic charity and pious endowment, although he provides considerable examples to charities that went to people and groups whose supported was sought by rulers. 135 RCEA 18 6 (784008 masjid H - aydar al- Askari Damascus); 91 (788054 coverd market 788/1386 Jerusalem); Mayer Journal of the Palestine Oriental Society 11 (1931): 148 (masjid Ali al-Maghribi Gaza 786/1385). 136 Ibn al-Jazari, Hawadith al-zaman, 1: 423. ˘

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a great variety of construction: mosques,137 tombs,138 schools,139 Sufi lodges,140 hospitals,141 caravanserais,142 gates,143 water canals,144 public fountains,145 bridges,146 and walls.147 Moreover, the Mamluk builders did not limit their investments to new edifices. Rulers and governors devoted considerable efforts to repair citadels148 and sacred shrines.149 Many of the constructions were financed by awqaf.

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137 RCEA 12: 176 (4662 Homs 671/1272 – 73); 13: 205 (5100), 263 (5190); 14: 266 (5587 Gaza 730/1329); 15: 24 – 25 (5637 Aleppo); Gaube, Arabische Inscriften, 26 (35), 45 (76). 138 RCEA 12: 75 (4504), 176 (4663), 182 (4673); 13: 75 (4909), 186 (5065 Tripoli 698/1298); 14: 24 (5636), 33 (5251), 113 (5777), 165 (5449 Damascus (721/ 1321), 181 (5473 Damascus, 722/1322), 193 (5486 Damascus 723/1323), 194 (5487 Hama 723/1323); 15: 201 (5926 Safad 741/1341), 199 (6290 Jerusalem, 759/1359); 16: 85 (6119), 121 (6181), 215 – 16 (6324 Tripoli 760/1359); 18: 129 (792007), 127 (792005), 170 (795007), 200 (797009), 202 (797012); Ibn Kathir, al-Bidaya wal-nihaya, 13: 280 (Damascus 677/1278 – 79); Ibn Sas-ra, alDurra al-mudi a fi al-dawla al-zahiriya (A Chronicle of Damascus 786 – 799/ 1389 – 1397) ed. and trans. W. M. Brinner (University of California Press, 1963), 172 (Damascus, 798/1395); Ibn al-Dawadari, (713/1313), Kanz alDurar wa-jami al-ghurar U. Haarmann (Freiburg, 1971), 8: 211; Al-Kutubi (d. 764/1363), Uyun al-Tawarikh al-sanawat 688 – 699ah ed. N. A. Dawud (Baghdad: Matba at As ad, 1991), 129; Anne-Marie Edd , La principaut ayyou¯ bide d’Alep (579/1183 – 658/1260) (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1999), 448 – 49. 139 RCEA 15: 199 (5923 Jerusalem 741/1340). Gaube, Arabische Inschriften, 70 (129), 82 (156); George Makdisi, “Autograph Diary of an Eleventh Century Historian of Baghdad”, part 4 BSOAS 19 (1957): 288. 140 RCEA 13: 163 – 64 (5033); 15, 200 (5924 the Salah- iyya in Jerusalem 741/1341). 141 RCEA 16: 147 (6220 Aleppo 755/1345). Ibn Duqmaq (745 – 809/1344 – 1407), al-Nafha al-muskiyya fi al-dawla al-turkiya: min kitab al-thamin fi siyar al-khulafa wal-salatin ed. U. A. Tadmuri (Beirut: al-Maktaba al- As-riyya, 1420/ 1999), 79. 142 RCEA 13: 98 – 99 (4946); 14 22 – 23, 118, (5235, 5385, 5418 Aleppo 719/ 1319), 141 (5590); 15: 236, (5971); Ibn Sas-ra, al-Durra al-mudi a fi al-dawla al-zahiriya, 169. 143 RCEA 15: 35 (5706) (5650).; Ibn Duqmaq, al-Nafha al-muskiyya, 196. 144 RCEA 18: 179 (796001); Gaube, Arabische Inschriften, 113 (204); Ibn al-Jazari, Hawadith, 2: 256. 145 RCEA 12: 140 (4611); 13 250 (5171); 14, 148 (5427 Jerusalem); 15: 74 (5708); 16: 12 (6015 Aleppo 746/1345), 123 (6185); Gaube, Arabische Inschriften, 17 (11: a sabil build in 915/1508 by Kha ir Bek the governor of Aleppo); Ibn Sas-ra, Durra, 188. 146 RCEA 12: 174 – 175 (4660, 4661); 15: 48 (5670). 147 RCEA 13: 204 (5099 Majdal Askalan 700/1300). 148 RCEA 12: 68 (4530 Gaza); 18: 30 (786006 Aleppo 786/1385); 18: 197 (797004 Gaza). ˘

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The funding from endowed property was not exclusively used to finance nearby institutions. Payments were transferred over long distances. Awqaf supply lines stretched thousands of miles, covering the fertile and inhabited regions of the sultanate with virtual networks. Mamluk sultans took possession of village as well as urban property in Bilad al-Sham (Syria and Palestine) and in Egypt to support the holy cities of Arabia.150 In the same way, the awqaf supported the sacred towns of Jerusalem and Hebron.151 Urban properties and farming lands in Syrian cities and villages were endowed to support pious foundations in Cairo.152 Through the breadth of projects that donations financed, the socioreligious institution of charitable giving contributed to the emergence of a waqf community:153 the networks of pious giving that united rulers, religious functionaries, ascetics, urban institutions and rural communities

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149 RCEA 18: 3 (784004 a mosque in Damascus). 150 Ips¸irli and Tamimi (eds.), Awqaf wa-amlak al muslimin fi filastin [Muslim Pious Foundations and Real Estates in Palestine] (Istanbul, 1982), 20 – 21; Muh- ammad Isa Salih- iyya (ed.), Sijill aradi alwiya safad, Nablus, ghaza wa-qada ramla hasab daftar raqm 312 (924/1556) (Amman, 1419/1999), 115 (waqf ala zayt al-madinah). 151 RCEA 14: 4, (5205 Irtas 706/1307); Kamil Jamil al- Asali, Watha iq maqdisiyya ¯ ta rikhiyya (Amman, 1983), 2: 177 – 91; Salih- iyah, Sijill, 163; and the plentiful references in the H aram documents studied by Donald P. Little, A Catalogue of the Islamic Documents from al-Haram as-Sarif in Jerusalem (Beirut and Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1984). . 152 L. A. Mayer, (ed.), The Buildings of Qaytbay as described in his endowment deed (London, 1938), 51 (khan al- anbari in Damascus); Ips¸irli and Tamimi, Awqaf filastin, 16 (item 54 waqf Qans-uh), 41 (53 Inal), 52 (90 Barquq), 90 (10 alMalik al-Mu ayad Shaykh), 94 (1 Barquq); Hujat waqf al-Ashraf Barsbay, 7 – 8; Al- Maqrizi (766/1364 – 845/1441), al-Suluk li-ma rifat duwal al-muluk eds. M. M. Ziyada and Ashur (Cairo, 1934 – 73), 1: 796; R. S. R. Qahtani (ed.), Awqaf al-sultan al-ashraf Sha ban ala al-harmayn (Riyad, 1414/1994) mentions the village of Adar in the district of al-Shawbak [Crac de Montr al] (ll. 52 – 53) and an orchard near Karak (ll. 793 – 94); the village of Saskun in the district of al-Hama (l. 170); the village of Ayn Jara in Jabal Sam an (ll. 263 – 64); the villages of Armana (ll. 341 – 43) and Ma ar H - it¯at¯ near Damascus (ll. 622 – 23); the villages of Shaykh H - adid (l. 562), Kurin (ll. 701 – 02) and H - ilan near Aleppo (ll. 763 – 64); the village of Far ata near Nablus (ll. 357 – 59) and a hamam near Karak (l. 705); Y. H. D. Ghawanima, Dirasat fi ta rikh al-urdun wa-filstin fi alasr al-islami ( Amman, 1983), 87, 94 – 100. 153 This idea developed from Marshall G. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilization (The University of Chicago Press, 1974), 1: 386 – 87; Christopher Melchert, “The Piety of the Hadith Folk”, International Journal of Middle East Studies 34 (2002): 425 – 439. ˘

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all over the Mamluk sultanate.154 The donations were instrumental in creating a spirit of unity and closeness that connected benefactors and beneficiaries. A shared commitment to piety connected farming communities with urban facilities, donors and recipients. In this manner did the pious foundations instill a sense of an Islamic united community. The expansion of awqaf within the boundaries of the Mamluk sultanate, which effectively transferred considerable portions of the agricultural lands and urban assets from the sultanate treasury into private (or pseudo-private) religious awqaf,155 as well as the extensive use of oppressive measures to extract money and harvests from the civil population, all this leads to a crucial question: why did the military class so eagerly pursue this waqf policy?156 A partial response to this question can be found in the political field,157 as seen by the inscriptions on many Mamluk buildings158 that functioned as bulletin boards.159 These memorial inscriptions detail that the institutions were founded and financed by endowed prop-

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154 Izz al-Din ibn Shaddad (613 – 684/1217 – 1285), al-A laq al-khatirah fi dhikr umara al-sham wal-jazira ed. Dahhan (Damascus, 1961), 1: 104; Al-Nuaymi (845 – 927/1441 – 1521), al-Daris fi ta rikh al-madaris ed. J. al-Hasani (Damascus, 1367/1948), 1: 398 – 99, 427; al- Asali, Watha iq, 1: 176 – 80; Cf. The report of the sidi Muh- ammad, the sultan of Morocco who endowed the library of his grandfather and distributed its 12,000 books all over Morocco. Ahmad al-Kansusi (1796 – 1294/1877), al-Jaysh al- aramram fi dawlat awlad mawlana ali al-sijilmasi ed. Ahmad b. Yusuf al-Kansusi (Rabat, 1994), 1: 224 (1175/1761). 155 M. M. Amin, al-Awqaf wal-hayat al- ijtima iyya fi misr 648 – 923/1250 – 1517 (Cairo: 1980), 71, 95; Sabra calls them “royal awqaf”. A. Sabra “Public Policy or Private Charity- The Ambivalent Character of Islamic Charitable Endowments”, in M. Borgolte (ed.), Stiftungen in Christentum, Judentum und Islam vor der Moderne: auf der Suche nach ihren Gemeinsamkeiten und Unterschieden in religiosen Grundlagen, praktischen Zwecken und historischen Transformationen (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2005), 96. 156 This development seriously harmed the sultanate’s resources I. B. Abu Ghazi, Fi ta rikh misr al-ijtima i tatawwur al-hiyazah al-zira iyah zamana al-mamalik al-jarakisah (Cairo, 2000), 105; A. Sabra, “The Rise of a New Class? Land Tenure in Fifteenth-Century Egypt: A Review Articles”, MSR 8 (2004): 205, 207; The Ottoman policy of reincorporating decayed awqaf in the kharaj lands is another illustration to this development. Ibn Tulun, Hawadith dimashq al-yawmiyah, 169. ¯ symbolic capital. Compare Peter Shapely, 157 Charity is a powerful tool in acquiring “Charity, Status and Leadership: Charitable Image and the Manchester Man”, Journal of Social History 32 (1998): 157 – 59. 158 RCEA 14: 45 (5269 Damascus 710/1310). 159 RCEA 15: 9 (5614 Diyarbakir [Amid]: Ulu jami 731/1331). The inscription announces that “by his generous actions al-al-Malik al-Salih- has abolished taxes that were collected from the local merchants. ˘

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erties. In addition to insignia and regalia,160 the writings name the founder and announce his self-asserted achievements.161 The Mamluk horse-riders’ aristocracy used religious endowments to achieve two main goals. First, they wanted to make their presence noticeable162 and fashion an environment that would reflect their desired images.163 They also aimed to construct a space that would embody the regime’s ideology and would radiate the sultanate’s image as an everlasting, generous and just power.164 The awqaf ’s founders, those manumitted Mamluk slaves, used the pious foundations to preserve their fame and immortality.165 The awqaf served the Mamluks’ reigning echelon not merely as a tool to uphold its prestige but also as a device to preserve their hegemony.166

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160 RCEA 18: 4 (784005, 784006 Damascus 784/1382); 155 (794003 Damascus 794/1392 the sultan Barquq). 161 Epigraphic data are historical evidences, mostly from the period the structures were constructed. RCEA 12: 124 (4588 Baybars in Ramla 666/1268), 125 (4589 Safad), 210 (4715 Damascus); 13 41 – 42 (4859, 4860 Aleppo 684/ 1284); vol 14: 58 (5291 Damascus 711/1311), 59 – 60 (5292 – 94 Aleppo 711/1311); 77 (5323 Jerusalem 713/1314), 88 (5339 Gaza 714/1315), 89 – 90 (5340 – 42 Ramleh 714/1314), 101 (5358 Tripoli 715/1315), 105 – 06 (4956 Khalil in Homs 691/1292), 118 – 19 (5386 Baalbek 717/1317), 127 (5400 Gaza 718/1318), 128 (no., 5401 Ramleh 718/1318), p. 129 (5403 Aleppo, 718/1318); 15: 4 – 5 (5606 – 07 Jerusalem, al-Aqsa mosque); 16: 7 – 8 (6009 – 10 Jerusalem, al-Aqsa mosque 746/1345), 9 – 10 (6013 Tripoli 746/ 1345); R. Gottheil, “A Door from the Madrasa of Barquq”, JAOS 30 (1909): 58; Al-Yunini (1242 – 726/1326), Dhayl mir at al zaman (Haydar-Abbad 1380/1961), 1: 198. 162 Builders even did not hesitate to demolish standing constructions. In one occasion the viceroy of Damascus issued orders (in 690/1291) to destroy houses, shops and workshops. Ibn al-Jazari, Hawadith, 1: 60. 163 This plan of reshaping the environment was motivated, among other reasons, by the hope to obliterate the memory of adversaries. Regaining control of Damascus, Barquq instructed to demolish structures that the rebel Mintash had build (1389). Ibn Sas-ra, al-Durra al-mudi a fi al-dawla al-zahiriya, 74/104. 164 Ibn al-H - imsi, Hawadith, 1: 80 (kathir al-mahabbah li-ahl al- ilm wal-qur an walsulaha wal-fuqara ); and see the description of a sultanic procession in Damascus by Ibn Tulun, Mufakahat, 2: 15; Ibn Tulun, Qala id, 1: 96; Ibn Iyas, Bada i al¯ zuhur fi¯waqa i al-duhur, 1: 353 – 54 (quoting Ibn Abd al-Zahir an al-Maqrizi). 165 al-Manawi, Kitab Taysir al-wuquf, 1: 222; Ibn al-Jazari, Hawadith, 1: 77. 166 Ibn Duqmaq, al-Nafha, 67; Qara-Tay al-Khaznadari al- Izzi (d. 708/1308 – 09), Ta rikh Majmu a al-nawadir mima jara lil-awa il wal-awakhir (616 – 694/1219 – 1295) ed. Tadmuri (Beirut, 1426/2005), 258; Abd al-Samad b. Yah- ya al-Salih- i, Hadiyat al- Abd (fl. 1497), in B. Martel-Thoumian, “Du bon gouvernement d’apr s la Hadiyat al- Abd al-qas-ir ila al-Malik al-Nas-ir de Abd al-Samad al-Sal˘

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The endeavor to transform Crusader settlements into Islamic towns and villages is another aspect of the thirteenth-century Mamluk awqaf ’s policy.167 They endowed property to cover Bilad al-Sham with Islamic shrines,168 such as the illustrious cases of Waqf Abu Hurayra in Yubna169 and Waqf Nabi Musa in Palestine170. A third example is the mausoleum (mashhad) of (Sayf Allah) Khalid b. al-Walid in the Syrian city of Homs.171 Due to this policy, a considerable number of mosques adorned towns and cities in Bilad al-Sham in the closing days of the Mamluk sultanate, emphasizing its Islamic character.172 From reading the deeds of religious endowments, we understand the significance of the role that the awqaf played in shaping the rhythm of Mamluk towns.173 Such, for example, is the long account of an event in Damascus (897/1492). It tells the story of the amir Ibn Manjak

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ih- i”, AI 34 (2000): 312 (2), 300 – 301 (13 – 14); Al-Dimyati (d. 1178/1764), Lataif uns al-jalil fi tahaif al-quds wal-khalil (Acre, 2001), 179¯ (about tenth century waqf money). An example to this is a yet unpublished document (306) in the Jerusalem H - aram collection. It is a copy of an endowment document bequeathed by al-Ma ali Muhammad b. Qalawun. The property of this endowment included the al-Burj (castle) district of Beirut. H. N. al-H - arithy (ed.), Kitab Waqf al-Sultan al-Nasir Hasan b. Muhammad b. Qalawun (Beirut, 2001) 3; Al- Ayni (726 – 855/ 1360 – 1451), Iqd al-juman fi ta rikh ahl al-zamman, ed. M. M. Amin (Cairo: Al-Haya al-misriyya al-amma 1987 – 1992), 2: 340 – 341. Cf. in addition to it the inscriptions republished in RCEA 14: 136 (5412 719/1319), 137 (5413 719/1319), 139 (5414 719/1319), 141 (5417). Y. Frenkel, “The impact of the Crusades on the rural society and religious endowments: The case of Medieval Syria”, in Y. Lev (ed.), War and Society in the Eastern Mediterranean, 7th-15th centuries (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 237 – 48. H. Taragan, “The Tomb of Sayyidna Ali in Arsuf: the Story of a Holy Place”, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 14 (2004): 83 – 102. Ips¸irli and Tamimi Awqaf filastin, 12 (item 35); L. A. Mayer et al. Some Principal Muslim Religious Buildings in Israel (Jerusalem, 1950), 20 – 24; H. Taragan, “Politics and Aesthetics: Sultan Baybars and the Abu Hurayra/Rabbi Gamliel Building in Yavne”, in Asher Ovadiah (ed.), Milestones in the Art and Culture of Egypt (Tel Aviv, 2000), 117 – 45; A. Petersen, A Gazetteer of Buildings in Muslim Palestine (Oxford, 2001), 313 – 16. al- Asali, Watha iq, 3: 119 – 21. idem, Mawsim al-nabi musa fi filastin (Amman 1410/1990); Ips¸irli and Tamimi, Awqaf filastin, 32 (item 29). RCEA 12: 128 – 29 (4593). Gaube, Arabische Inschriften, 38 (60 Qara-Sunqur’s mosque built in 757/1356), 55 (99 Nasir al-Din Muh- ammad’s mosque in 806/1404); RCEA 13: 68 (4898). For various sacred traditions see Ghalib Anabisa, Ab ad fi adab fada il al-ard almuqaddasa (Bet Berl College, 2006). al-Subki, Fatawa, 2: 61 – 66. ˘

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who inspected the tomb of his grandfather. Its waqf deed specified the payments to the imam and to the Qur an reciters, even stipulating the chapter from the Qur an they should recite. In addition, the endowment paid for a teacher to teach ten orphan pupils each day, for a reciter to read traditions from sahih al-Bukhari and sahih al-Muslim during the three sacred Islamic months, and for a steward to distribute sweets.174 Looking at the religious endowments from the perspective of urban history, it also seems relevant to emphasize that the pious foundations regularly provided food and lodging to Sufis and jurisprudence students. Communal consumption of food is a standard way to inculcate propaganda and to generate a sense of personal loyalty, amity and communitas. Thus for example, a thirteenth-century endowment deed of the waqf alMaghariba in Jerusalem says: “This charity was donated in support of the Maghribis [North Africans] who dwell in Jerusalem and those that would arrive,” specifying that during the three sacred Islamic months (Rajab, Sha ban and Ramadan), “the waqf ’s supervisor will prepare bread and dis¯ tribute it among the inhabitants of the Maghribi lodge and among all North African living in Jerusalem.”175 Another example is the waqf deed of a religious school founded by the sultan al-Ashraf Qaytbay (1468 – 1496) in Jerusalem. It spells out the payments to the administrator and staff at the college. The thirty mystics who were to reside in this institute would receive cash payments and food.176 ˘

IV. Concluding Remarks In his classical textbook Les institutions musulmanes (1921) the wellknown French orientalist Gaudefroy-Demombynes states: For the Arabs, as for the Jews, worldly possessions may be a gift of the spirit of evil and foreshadow that lasting suffering of the other life. But there is a way of avoiding this danger. If a man voluntarily gives back to Allah a part of the possessions that He [i.e. God] has Himself given. By this act he [i.e. the man] purifies what he retains. That is the meaning of the wards zakat and

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174 Ibn Tulun, Mufakahat, 1: 148 – 50. 175 Muh-¯ammad As ad al-Imam al-H - usayni, al-Manhal al-safi fi al-waqf wa-ahkamihi wal-watha iq al-ta rikhiyah lil-aradi wal-huquq al-waqfiyah al-islamiyah fi filastin (Jerusalem, 1982), 73, 74. Ips¸irli and Tamimi, Awqaf filastin, 28 (item 20). 176 H - usayni, al-Manhal, 76 – 77. Ips¸irli and Tamimi, Awqaf filastin, 39 – 41 (item 52); cf. Ibn Tulun, Mufakahat, 2: 6 (22)-7 (1). ¯

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sadaka which denote in Arabic the alms, and especially the statutory alms, enjoined by the Qur an and organized by the Prophet and his successors.177

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From the information presented in this study, we can infer that charity and pious endowments were indeed an indispensable component of religious life and were carried out in line with the Islamic sacred law. However, since charity is a complex cultural and social phenomenon, it does seem that no single explanation can suffice to explain it. As we have seen in the previous sections, while the donors may have formulated their action in religious terms,178 it is possible to identify a blend of motives that drove them to invest capital and property in what seems to be non-economic ventures. The most salient among these motives are the personal pietistic ones;179 the less conspicuous are the social-political incentives.180 Yet at the basic level of both motives, we can see the shared fundamental reasoning of symbolic exchange. The history of expressions such as fuqara and sadaqa clearly illuminate it.181 By founding a pious endowment, the donor weaved a social and symbolic network that tied the benefactor with the recipients.182 In this way, charity was instrumental in creating a social network that was tied by symbolic gestures,183 influencing the attitude, behavior, and activity of the participants. Parallel to their actual economic policy of taxation, trade, investment and minting, the Mamluk sultans maintained this economy of symbolic exchange. The Mamluk governing elite treated donations, including religious endowments, as a deal between donor and recipient.184 In exchange for the re-

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177 Maurice Gaudefroy-Demombynes, Muslim Institutions (London, 1950), 105. 178 Max Weber, Economy and society: an outline of interpretive sociology [eds. G. Roth and C. Wittich] (New York: Bedminster Press, 1968), 2: 581. 179 The Islamic shari a requires that from the benefactor to definite the recipient and to declare visibly what is he giving. The awqaf served the not only to design urban neighborhoods and rural regions, but also to weave the social fabric in these areas. Gifts often were manipulated as an instrument to facilitate communication between parties and individuals. Sarkhasi, Mabsut, 12: 92 “I give the incomes of renting my residence (ghallat dari) as a donation (sadaqa) to the needy”. 180 The readiness of the Mamluk administrators to risk public backlash to oppressive levies illuminates the importance they assigned to the construction projects. Ibn al-Jazari, Hawadith, 2: 331. 181 Lev, Charity, Endowments, and Charitable Institutions in Medieval Islam, 9. 182 Mustafa Emirbayer, and Jeff Goodwin,. “Network Analysis, Culture, and the Problem of Agency”, The American Journal of Sociology 99 (May, 1994): 1417. 183 Weber, Economy and society, 3:1031. 184 K. J. Arrow, “Gifts and Exchanges”, Philosophy and Public Affairs 1 (1972): 343 – 362.

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ception of fees or gifts by the foundation or waqf, the donor expected the recipients to praise him and to pray for God to have mercy on him. Fueled by a common religious mentality, both donors and recipients understood that charity would be instrumental in obtaining the Almighty’s pardon and His closeness, if not on earth then in the world to come. As seen in the many examples, the donors who contributed generous gifts expected that in return, God would redeem their souls and accept their calls,185 even as they built the networks of connections to further their political aims. Charitable deeds presented as gratuitous gifts were actually exchangeable symbolic commodities. The policy of charity should therefore be judged as a rational venture that suits religious commandments, political ends, and the aspirations for spiritual rewards.

185 Pierre Bourdieu, Practical Reasons: On the Theory of Action (Cambridge, 1998), chapter 5: “The Economy of Symbolic Goods”.

Forms and Functions of Charity in Al-Andalus Ana Mar a Carballeira Debasa 1. Introduction The Islamic religion’s call to practice personal piety has encouraged many Muslims to dispose of part of their fortune through different forms of donation so as to make the prophetic vision a social reality. The constitution of a donation, motivated by benevolent intentions, represented an attempt by devout Muslims to place themselves in a proper relationship with God by means of the application of ethical norms revealed by Him in their day to day lives.1 In this presentation I plan to focus my attention on two types of donation: alms-giving (sadaqa)2 and pious endowments (hubs khayri; pl.

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This paper has been carried out within the research project “Cruelty and Compassion in Arabo-Islamic Literature: A Contribution to the History of Emotions”, funded by the Spanish Ministry of Education (HUM2006 – 04475/FILO). 1 On the different types of donation in Islam, see Linant de Bellefonds, Y., Des donations en droit musulman, Cairo, 1935; Pesle, O., La donation dans le droit musulman (rite Mal kite), Rabat, 1933; Santillana, D., Istituzioni di diritto musulmano malichita con riguardo anche al sistema sciafiita, vol. 2, Rome, 1938, 397 – 412. 2 The term sadaqa denotes voluntary as opposed to compulsory alms, also frequently called sadaqa, but more commonly known by the name zakat. See Rosenthal, F., “Sedaka, Charity”, Hebrew Union College Annual, 23 (1950 – 1951), 411 – 431; Weir, T.H.-[Zysow, A.], “Sadaka”, in EI2, VIII, 729 – 736. See also Arn ldez, R., “Interpretaci n econ mica y social de las teor as de la “Zakat” en el derecho isl mico”, in A. Mart nez Lorca (coord.), Ensayos sobre la filosof a en al-Andalus, Barcelona, 1990, 266 – 285; Bashear, S., “On the Origins and Development of the Meaning of Zakat in Early Islam”, Arabica, 40 (1993), 84 – 113; Dutton, Y., “The Qur an as a source of law: the case of zakat (almsgiving)”, in R.G. Hoyland and P.F. Kennedy (eds.), Islamic Reflections, Arabic Musings: Studies in Honour of Professor Alan Jones, Oxford, 2004, 201 – 216; Hoexter, M., “The Idea of Charity -A Case Study in Continuity and Flexibility of an Islamic Institution”, Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin, Jahrbuch 1985/86, 179 – 189.

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ahbas khayriyya).3 The sadaqa is the free transfer of material property; the intention inspiring the act must consist of pleasing God in the hope of compensation in the future life and not with a worldly purpose, as in the case of an ordinary donation (hiba). In both sadaqa and hubs the donor’s intention is to do something pleasing in the eyes of God through donations made with a charitable or religious purpose; the difference between the two concepts lies in the fact that in the sadaqa the donor transfers ownership of the object donated, whilst in the hubs only its use or usufruct is relinquished.4 Consequently, both sadaqa and hubs khayri perfectly embodied the Islamic ideal of personal piety and voluntary donation, since they entailed benevolent and altruistic actions. It is necessary to understand both concepts within the context of Islamic notions of equality and social justice. Like the rest of their co-religionists, Andalusis made these kinds of donations within the framework of the prescriptions contained in the Koran, which encouraged them to engage in supportive charitable practices to help those who found themselves in situations of obvious social disadvantage. Owing to the archival impoverishment concerning the Islamic West in the Middle Ages, one must turn to narrative-type Arab sources for an analysis of the social and economic life in al-Andalus. The sources consulted in the preparation of this work vary in their nature. Arabic legal texts certainly prove to be the most explicit in terms of all that con3

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From this point onwards I shall use the term hubs and its plural ahbas to refer to the pious foundations in al-Andalus, since it is the term that is most frequently employed in the documental base I have used. In fact, use of this form is supported in the Islamic West, as against common employment of the term waqf and its plural awqaf in the East. The following works cited are the only monographs that exist on the subject under study in al-Andalus: Carballeira, A.M., Legados p os y fundaciones familiares en al-Andalus (siglos IV/X-VI/XII), Madrid, 2002; Garc a Sanju n, A., Hasta que Dios herede la tierra. Los bienes habices en Al-Andalus (siglos X-XV), Huelva, 2002; idem, Till God Inherits the Earth. Islamic Pious Endowments in al-Andalus (9 – 15th Centuries), Leiden-Boston, 2007. Some aspects of hubs have stirred up controversy among Muslim jurists. What has caused the most polemic concerns the ownership of hubs. The crux of the matter resides in how to determine who owns the property rights over this type of goods. According to Maliki law, someone who establishes a hubs retains bare ownership of the objects donated, ceding only their use or usufruct. However, this solution is not accepted outside of this juridical doctrine. See Carballeira, Legados p os y fundaciones familiares en al-Andalus, 17 – 18. One must highlight the fact that, of the four juridical doctrines of orthodox Islam, the Andalusis followed overwhelmingly the legal principles of the Maliki school.

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cerns the institution of hubs. They comprise collections of juridical opinions (fatawa)5, issued to clarify obscure points in law or to provide guidance for new cases; of collections of legal dicta (ahkam)6 adopted by cadis in the development of judicial processes, as well as of model documents (watha iq; shurut)7 that spell out criteria to guide notaries in the writing of documents. The deficiencies displayed in these kinds of documents must not be ignored, as they tend to reflect a very concrete situation, removing it from its broader context and omitting information that is not of relevance to the legal matter that is under consideration. Works of a historical8, biographical9 and literary10 nature, meanwhile, not only pro˘

5 See Ibn Iyad, Madhahib al-hukkam fi nawazil al-ahkam, ed. M. b. Sharifa, Beirut, 1990 and trans. D. Serrano, La actuaci n de los jueces en los procesos judiciales, Madrid, 1998; Ibn Rush (al-Jadd), Fataw Ibn Rushd, ed. al-M. b. al-T. al-Talili, 3 vols., Beirut, 1987; al-Sha bi, Al-Ahkam, ed. S. Haloui, Beirut, 1992; al-Wansharisi, Kitab al-Mi yar al-mu rib wa-l-jami al-mughrib an fatawi ahl Ifriqiya wal-Andalus wa-l-Maghrib, ed. M. Hajji et alii, 13 vols., Rabat, 1981 – 1983. 6 See Ibn Sahl, Al-Ahkam al-kubr , ed. R. al-Na imi, Diwan al-Ahkam al-kubr : alnawazil wa-l-a lam li-bn Sahl, 2 vols., Riyadh, 1997. 7 See Ibn al- Attar, Kitab al-Watha iq wa-l-sijillat, ed. P. Chalmeta and F. Corriente, Madrid, 1983 and trans. P. Chalmeta and M. Marug n, Formulario notarial y judicial del alfaqu y notario cordob s Ibn al- Attar, m. 399/1009, Madrid, 2000; Ibn Mughith, Al-Muqni fi ilm al-shurut (Formulario notarial), ed. F.J. Aguirre S daba, Madrid, 1994 and partial trans. S. Vila, “Abenmoguit. Formulario notarial”, Anuario de Historia del Derecho EspaÇol, 8 (1931), 5 – 200; al-Jaziri, AlMaqsad al-mahmud fi talkhis al- uqud (Proyecto plausible de compendio de f rmulas notariales), ed. A. Ferreras, Madrid, 1998. 8 See Ibn Hayyan, Muqtabis II. Anales de los Emires de C rdoba Alhaqu m I (180 – 206 H./796 – 822 J.C.) y Abderram n II (206 – 232/822 – 847), ed. M. A. Makki, Al-Sifr al-tani min Kitab al-Muqtabas, Riyadh, 2003 and trans. M. A. Makki and F. Corriente, Cr nica de los emires Alhakam I y Abdarrahman II entre los aÇos 796 y 847 [Almuqtabis II-I], Zaragoza, 2001 (Muqtabis II/1); Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis min anba ahl al-Andalus, ed. M. A. Makki, Beirut, 1973 (Muqtabis II/2); idem, Al-Muqtabis fi ta rikh rijal al-Andalus, ed. M. Mart nez AntuÇa, Paris, 1937 (Muqtabis III); idem, Al-Muqtabas V, ed. P. Chalmeta, F. Corriente and M. Sobh, Madrid, 1979 and trans. M.J. Viguera and F. Corriente, Cr nica del califa Abdarrahman III an-Nasir entre los aÇos 912 y 942, Zaragoza, 1981 (Muqtabis V); idem, Al-Muqtabis fi akhbar balad al-Andalus, ed. A. A. al-Hajji, Beirut, 1965 and trans. E. Garc a G mez, El Califato de C rdoba en el “Muqtabis” de Ibn Hayyan. Anales palatinos del califa de C rdoba al-Hakam II, por Is Ibn Ahmad alRazi (360 – 364 H. = 971 – 975 J.C.), Madrid, 1967 (Muqtabis VII); Ibn Idhari al-Marrakushi, Al-Bayan al-mughrib fi akhbar al-Andalus wa-l-Maghrib, ed. G.S. Colin and . L vi-ProvenÅal, vol. 2, Leiden, 1951 and trans. . Fagnan, Histoire de l’Afrique et de l’Espagne intitul e Al-Bayano l-Mogrib, vol. 2, Algiers, 1904 (Bayan II); idem, Al-Bayan al-mughrib fi akhbar muluk al-Andalus wa-l-Maghrib, ˘

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vide additional information regarding the institution of hubs, but are also informative in relation to alms-giving. Nevertheless, in this case there are some limitations too; in general, information about charity in such sources is somewhat scattered, the references being very concise without providing detailed information on the matter. This circumstance is connected with the reticence of the sources regarding the most destitute groups of the population, especially where the rural sphere is concerned. All these factors do not, however, diminish the importance of the documental base of this work. By turning to different kinds of narrative sources one can, to a certain degree, obtain a more specific panoramic view of diverse aspects associated with charity in al-Andalus, with particular reference to most of the Umayyad period (IX-XI centuries). My aim in this presentation is to deal with the forms characteristic of charitable practices in al-Andalus, as well as the different functions that were associated with charity. It is widely known that the most disadvantaged members of society did not always have to cope with their problems alone in the face of difficulties.11 Charity was a means of attempting to improve

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ed. . L vi-ProvenÅal, Paris, 1930 and trans. F. Ma llo, La ca da del Califato de C rdoba y los Reyes de Taifas, Salamanca, 1993 (Bayan III); idem, Al-Bayan almughrib fi akhbar al-Andalus wa-l-Maghrib. Vol. IV: Qit a min ta rikh al-murabitin, ed. I. Abbas, Beirut, 1967 (Bayan IV). 9 See Ibn Bashkuwal, Kitab al-Sila, ed. I. al- A. al-Husayni, Cairo, 1955; Ibn alFaradi, Ta rikh ulama al-Andalus, ed. F. Codera, Madrid, 1891 – 1892; Ibn Harith al-Jushani, Akhbar al-fuqaha wa-l-muhaddithin (Historia de los alfaqu es y tradicionistas de al-Andalus), ed. M.L. vila and L. Molina, Madrid, 1992; idem, Qudat Qurtuba, ed. and trans. J. Ribera, Madrid, 1914; Iyad b. Musa, Tartib al-madarik wa-taqrib al-masalik li-ma rifat a lam madhhab Malik, ed. M. b. Sharifa et alii, 8 vols., Rabat, 1983. 10 See the following collections of proverbs: Ibn Asim, El refranero andalus de Ibn Asim al-Garnati, trans. M. Marug n, Madrid, 1994; Corriente, F. and Bouzineb, H., Recopilaci n de refranes andalus es de Alonso del Castillo, Zaragoza, 1994; Ould Mohamed Baba, A.S., Estudio dialectol gico y lexicol gico del refranero andalus de Abu Yahy al-Zajjali, Zaragoza, 1999. 11 Those affected resorted to a variety of behaviours in order to react to their state of poverty, amongst which was the controversial practice of begging. With regard to this and to other measures adopted by the destitute, see Carballeira, A.M., “Caracterizaci n de los pobres en la literatura paremiol gica andalus ”, Al-Qantara, 37 (2006), 125 – 127 and 133; idem, “Indigencia y marginalidad en al-Andalus”, in A. Garc a Sanju n (ed.), Saber y sociedad en al-Andalus. Actas de las IV-V Jornadas de Cultura Isl mica de Almonaster la Real, Huelva, 2006, 68 – 69; idem, “Pobres y caridad en al-Andalus”, in C. de la Puente (ed.), Estudios Onom stico-Biogr ficos de al-Andalus (“Identidades marginales”), vol. XIII, Madrid, 2003, 66 – 70. ˘

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the situation of the most destitute. As we shall see below, charity could take on a markedly institutional flavour, when the political authorities took responsibility for it. Nevertheless, the rest of the population did not remain impassive to the sufferings of their co-religionists. One must, therefore, trace the way in which charity affected the dynamics of the Andalusi population.

2. Charity dispensed by the political authorities In a normal context one may observe the distribution of ordinary alms, as well as of the incomes generated from pious foundations (ahbas)12 for those in need. These charitable acts constitute a relatively common practice, especially in the Umayyad period. Although the inhabitants of the capital, Cordoba, were the main beneficiaries of these donations, some governors in the provinces also adopted the practice of distributing alms.13 Similarly, there is evidence that in extraordinary circumstances official alms were available through the distribution of food and money, as a way of alleviating situations of need brought on by natural disasters. The chronicles contain relevant information giving evidence of the existence of vicissitudes that ravaged al-Andalus throughout its history. The natural catastrophes that affected the Andalusi population occupy a prominent position. Unquestionably, the most fearsome effects were produced by continual droughts which, like the havoc wreaked by plagues of locusts, led to scarcity. Such phenomena were conducive to famine, which would hit the least protected groups in society, causing a sharp rise in the mortality rate and plunging many into an urgent state of need. Likewise, in periods of shortage, poor diet, and lack of hygiene brought on plagues and epidemics that decimated the population.14 Once again the Cordo-

12 For this type of endowments, see infra paragraph 3. 13 Concerning official alms of an ordinary nature, see Carballeira, “Indigencia y marginalidad en al-Andalus”, 69; idem, “Pobres y caridad en al-Andalus”, 70 – 71. 14 Andalusi sources are also instructive concerning the pernicious consequences arising from circumstances such as military conflicts, tax burden, the expropriation of patrimonial property or the exercise of certain trades. For more detailed information about situations liable to reduce people to a state of destitution, see Carballeira, “Caracterizaci n de los pobres”, 119 – 123 and 133; idem, “Indigencia y

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bans stand out as the greatest beneficiaries of official charity during these crises. By way of guidance, there exist figures that reveal the dimensions such crises could take on within the territory of al-Andalus. Nonetheless, it must be pointed out that information regarding the pious attitude of the authorities is hardly overwhelming. Only al-Hakam I (r. 796 – 822), Abd al-Rahman III (r. 912 – 961), al-Hakam II (r. 961 – 976) and Almanzor (r. 981 – 1002)15 managed to rise to the occasion, a fact particularly remarkable in the case of caliph al-Hakam II. At the time of the famine that struck in 968, this monarch gave the order that 12.000 loaves of bread should be distributed each day to the needy of Cordoba.16 There also exist figures for the dreadful famine of 989, as a result of which Almanzor ordered that 22.000 loaves of bread a day be made available for distribution among those in need.17 The profusion of data concerning the Umayyad period contrasts with the silence of the sources about the distribution of alms during other stages of Andalusi history, as in the case of the Almoravid period. Perhaps this circumstance is merely due to the fact that the Umayyad age is the best documented one. Nevertheless, this generosity has its counterpoint in the posture adopted by other monarchs of this dynasty, who were not notably lavish when it came to acts of beneficence. The intransigent attitude of emir Muhammad I (r. 852 – 886) during the bad harvests of 874 proves particularly eloquent in his refusal to exempt those affected from payment of the tithe, thus setting off social unease and catapulting many of his subjects into a state of ruin.18 However, one can not get away from the fact that sometimes, behind acts of charity, the donor harboured a second intention. Official alms-giving could, for example, be a means of political manipulation. The distribution of donations often represented an attempt to legitimize a new sovereign or consolidate the power of the existing political authorities, there-

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marginalidad en al-Andalus”, 65 – 66; idem, “Pobres y caridad en al-Andalus”, 56 – 62. Almanzor ( Abd al-Malik b. Abi Amir al-Mansur) was the all-powerful hajib of the Umayyad caliph Hisham II (r. 976 – 1009 and 1010 – 1013). See Ballest n, X., Almansor: l’exercici del poder a l’Occident musulm medieval, Barcelona, 2004; Bariani, L., Almanzor, San Sebastian, 2003; Mart nez, V. and Torremocha, A., Almanzor y su poca, Malaga, 2001. See Dhikr bilad al-Andalus, ed. 173 and trans. 183. See Dhikr bilad al-Andalus, ed. 181 – 182 and trans. 193. See Ibn Hayyan, Muqtabis II/2, ed. 172 – 173. On official alms of an extraordinary nature, see Carballeira, “Indigencia y marginalidad en al-Andalus”, 70; idem, “Pobres y caridad en al-Andalus”, 71 – 74.

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by winning the favour of the population and thus reinforcing the bonds of loyalty between the monarch and his subjects. This was the practice of various Umayyad sovereigns, such as Abd al-Rahman I (r. 756 – 788), Abd al-Rahman II (r. 822 – 852), al-Mundhir (r. 886 – 888) and alHakam II. Aspirants to power also offered alms to gain supporters for their political venture.19 In other cases, donations by the authorities were simply religious practices on the occasion of certain Islamic religious feast days, especially in Ramadan. Accordingly, alms-giving could constitute testimony of gratitude to God for favours granted, as when, in 974, al-Hakam II donated alms as thanksgiving to God because his heir Hisham had been cured of smallpox, this fulfilling the vow he had taken.20 Likewise, evidence exists of gifts personally bestowed by Andalusi sovereigns to alleviate the hardships of their people, but such charitable acts cannot be classified as part of their official policy.21

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3. Charity dispensed by private individuals Sometimes institutional power exhorted people to give alms to the poor, laying emphasis on their mandatory nature. The fact that the Andalusi authorities urged the people to perform charitable acts indicates that the concept of alms-giving was understood to be, above all, an individual responsibility. From this viewpoint, charity was conceived to be an expression of personal piety. Similarly, since alms-giving is one of the five pillars of Islam, it contributed towards stimulating virtuous works

19 See Carballeira, “Indigencia y marginalidad en al-Andalus”, 70; idem, “Pobres y caridad en al-Andalus”, 74 – 75. 20 See Ibn Hayyan, Muqtabis VII, ed. 152 and trans. 192 – 193. See also Carballeira, “Indigencia y marginalidad en al-Andalus”, 70; idem, “Pobres y caridad en al-Andalus”, 75 – 77. 21 See Carballeira, “Indigencia y marginalidad en al-Andalus”, 70; idem, “Pobres y caridad en al-Andalus”, 75 – 77. Islamic endowments stood on the fault line between states and private individuals; see Sabra, A., “Public Policy or Private Charity? The Ambivalent Character of Islamic Charitable Endowments”, in M. Borgolte (ed.), Stiftungen in Christentum, Judentum und Islam vor der Moderne. Auf der Suche nach ihren Gemeinsamkeiten und Unterschieden in religiçsen Grundlagen, praktischen Zwecken und historischen Transformationen, Berlin, 2005, 95 – 108.

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among the Andalusi population, who were indeed not completely insensitive to the sufferings of their co-religionists.22 Since Andalusi biographical dictionaries detail the virtues with which the people referred to were blessed, there is naturally a great deal of information pertinent to the generosity of many of these individuals. In some cases, these were people belonging to an important socio-economic groups (jurists and rich traders, for instance) who attended to the most helpless in their hardship, performing all sorts of acts of mercy. In other cases, they were people of humble condition who gave up the scarce material goods that were in their possession, placing them at the disposal of the neighbour in need. The desire of the donors could reach the extreme of neglecting their family obligations, which meant that the excessive generosity of an individual might stir up complaint among the people closest to him.23 Nevertheless, as was the case with beneficence dispensed by the authorities, such generosity sometimes sprang from no altruistic intention on the part of the donor performing these acts, which divested the reputedly charitable gesture of its substance.24 The giving of alms might, for example, be a way of expiating a misdemeanour or a broken oath; such is the case of the cadi Antara b. Fallah (d. 755), who, after receiving a reprimand from a common man in Cordoba, made a promise to himself that he would give all his savings in alms to the poor.25 In other cases, charity was a recourse employed to settle a score; this is demonstrated by the fact that the cadi al-Nadr b. Salama (d. 914) gave some goods as charity in order to please a man who had accused the cadi of being unfair to him.26 Similarly, a longing to part with particular objects could lead owners to perform charitable acts with this aim in mind; an illustrative anecdote in this regard concerns the ulema Ahmad b. Mutarrif (d. 963 or

22 See Carballeira, “Indigencia y marginalidad en al-Andalus”, 71; idem, “Pobres y caridad en al-Andalus”, 77 – 78. Besides the chronicles, the Andalusi collections of proverbs also contain constant exhortations to practice charity towards one’s peers; see Carballeira, “Caracterizaci n de los pobres”, 130 – 131. 23 See Carballeira, “Caracterizaci n de los pobres”, 130; idem, “Indigencia y marginalidad en al-Andalus”, 71; idem, “Pobres y caridad en al-Andalus”, 78 – 81. 24 See Carballeira, “Caracterizaci n de los pobres”, 130; idem, “Indigencia y marginalidad en al-Andalus”, 71; idem, “Pobres y caridad en al-Andalus”, 78 – 81. 25 See Ibn Harith al-Khushani, Qudat Qurtuba, ed. 26 and trans. 36. 26 See Ibn Harith al-Khushani, Qudat Qurtuba, ed. 159 and trans. 197.

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967), who got rid of some of his clothes that a woman had dirtied and gave the price he got for them in the form of alms.27 Together with alms-giving, many Andalusis assigned some of the resources from pious legacies to the weak and needy. In al-Andalus the hubs khayri was an institution endowed with significant sums of money taken from foundations established not only by rulers and powerful high-ranking dignitaries, but also by wealthy individuals, which buildings and public institutions benefited from (mosques, cemeteries, walls, fortresses and jihad), as well as groups such as the poor, lepers, pious women, ascetics, captives and slaves.28 The authentic and most significant dimension of the institution of the hubs khayri, however, is that it is designated for some pious endeavour and that is what I shall now refer to. With regard to collectives of pious women and ascetics, the documental material that is the basis of our study shows the existence of places of retreat set aside for devout persons29, although such references are quite sparse and contrast notably with the abundant information available concerning the poor and the sick. Nor can one ignore the absence of information on the institution of pious legacies for the benefit of widows and orphans who lacked sufficient economic resources to subsist on. The Andalusi proverb collections do, however, provide evidence that both groups were recipients of alms in al-Andalus in the period under study.30 In the same way, in al-Andalus students and travellers were allocated alms and, in the Nasrid period (especially in the 14th and 15th centuries), were the beneficiaries of pious endowments.31

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27 See Iyad b. Musa, Tartib al-madarik, VI, ed. 136. 28 Regarding the beneficiaries of pious endowments in al-Andalus, see Carballeira, Legados p os y fundaciones familiares en al-Andalus, 67 – 202; idem, “Pauvret et fondations pieuses dans la Grenade nasride: aspects sociaux et juridiques”, Arabica, 52 (2005), 391 – 416; idem, “The Role of Endowments in the Framework of Andalusian society”, in M. Borgolte (ed.), Stiftungen in Christentum, Judentum und Islam vor der Moderne. Auf der Suche nach ihren Gemeinsamkeiten und Unterschieden in religiçsen Grundlagen, praktischen Zwecken und historischen Transformationen, Berlin, 2005, 109 – 121; Garc a Sanju n, Hasta que Dios herede la tierra, 169 – 254; idem, Till God Inherits the Earth, 184 – 292. 29 See Carballeira, Legados p os y fundaciones familiares en al-Andalus, 189 – 190. 30 See Carballeira, “Caracterizaci n de los pobres”, 129 and 134. 31 See Carballeira, “Caracterizaci n de los pobres”, 123; idem, “Pauvret et fondations pieuses dans la Grenade nasride”, 396 – 398 and 410 – 414; idem, “Pobres y caridad en al-Andalus”, 133.

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Through the establishment of pious foundations, the consequences of poverty32 and disease (leprosy, blindness…)33 in al-Andalus were, in part, relieved and mitigated. Sources reveal that the poor and sick in urban areas, specifically in the Umayyad capital, particularly benefited from these types of foundations. There is evidence that the existence of pious endowments for Cordoba’s sick led to an influx of sufferers from other areas of al-Andalus hoping to receive income from these sources. Yet it was not only a matter of assuring the subsistence of the most vulnerable; pious legacies also had other purposes. The sources inform us of material means established with such aims in mind, including not just real estate properties, but also specifying certain objects, such as jewellery, clothes and books. Regarding real estate properties, the income obtained from their leasing went to pious objectives. Jewellery, luxury clothing and books, though, were objects that individuals with scant resources could 32 On the establishment of pious legacies for the involuntary poor in al-Andalus, see Carballeira, “Indigencia y marginalidad en al-Andalus”, 72 – 73; idem, Legados p os y fundaciones familiares en al-Andalus, 169 – 177; idem, “Pauvret et fondations pieuses dans la Grenade nasride”, 391 – 416; idem, “Pobres y caridad en al-Andalus”, 78; idem, “The Role of Endowments”, 115 – 116; Garc a Sanju n, Hasta que Dios herede la tierra, 180 – 183; idem, Till God Inherits the Earth, 199 – 205. Similarly, the saintliness attributed to the voluntary poor had a great influence on their being perceived as worthwhile recipients of charity. It was believed that giving them alms would make it possible to participate in the baraka that they supposedly possessed. On charity dispensed to ascetics in al-Andalus, see Carballeira, “Caracterizaci n de los pobres”, 113 – 114; idem, “Indigencia y marginalidad en al-Andalus”, 74 – 77; idem, “Pauvret et fondations pieuses dans la Grenade nasride”, 394 – 395; idem, “Pobres y caridad en al-Andalus”, 62 – 66 and 86 – 87; Garc a Sanju n, Hasta que Dios herede la tierra, 202 – 211; idem, Till God Inherits the Earth, 228 – 238. 33 Regarding the establishment of pious endowments for the sick in al-Andalus, see Carballeira, Legados p os y fundaciones familiares en al-Andalus, 183 – 189; idem, “The Role of Endowments”, 115 – 116; Garc a Sanju n, Hasta que Dios herede la tierra, 184 – 187; idem, Till God Inherits the Earth, 205 – 210. We only have a single record of the existence of one leper colony in Cordoba during the reign of alHakam I (r. 796 – 822) and of one hospital in Nasrid Granada; on this see Franco S nchez, F., “La asistencia al enfermo en al-Andalus. Los hospitales hispanomusulmanes”, in C. lvarez de Morales and E. Molina L pez (coords.), La medicina en al-Andalus, Granada, 1999, 135 – 171; Garc a Granados, J.A., Gir n, F. and Salvatierra, V., El maristan de Granada: un hospital isl mico, Granada, 1989; Gir n, F., “Los hospitales en la EspaÇa isl mica”, Jano, XXX, 711, 3 (1986), 69 – 78; Mazzoli-Guintard, C., “Notes sur une minorit urbaine d’al-Andalus: les l preux”, in Homenaje al profesor Carlos Posac Mon, vol. I, Ceuta, 1998, 319 – 325.

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not afford. The aim of such foundations was to make highly expensive items available to the lower social strata, so that their use would not be limited to the most powerful social groups. So jewels and dresses made with valuable fabrics were lent or hired out to those in need, so that they could wear them at wedding ceremonies, given the social significance attached to the institution of marriage in Islamic society. Pious donations of books, meanwhile, played a role in promoting science, culture and knowledge among the ulama of humble background. These items were made available via a loan, at the end of which they had to be returned, so that others could likewise benefit from them. One can infer from this custom that there was not only some interest in al-Andalus in encouraging the social integration of the poor, but also concern about cultural integration. This solicitude seems strongly confirmed by a pious endowment founded by caliph al-Hakam II in aid of the teachers he had designated to instruct the children of the destitute of Cordoba.34 Here we have a good example of pious legacies established by the political authorities. While the poor were the beneficiaries par excellence of the pious foundations, it is also documented that both prisoners and slaves could profit from the establishment of pious legacies in al-Andalus. The ransom of captives was the political responsibility of the government, as well as a praiseworthy deed for Muslims. Juridical documents show that it was customary for some individuals to demonstrate their solidarity with their less fortunate brothers by establishing pious foundations whose main aim was the release from captivity of their co-religionists who had fallen into Christian hands. Concern expressed for prisoners of war through the founding of pious endowments, either for their ransom or the relief of their physical condition, existed very early in al-Andalus, due to the intense military activity between Christians and Muslims in the Iberian Peninsula.35 34 See Ibn Hayyan, Muqtabis V, ed. 207 and trans. 247; Ibn Idari, Bayan II, ed. 249, 288 and trans. 397, 411. 35 See Carballeira, Legados p os y fundaciones familiares en al-Andalus, 161 – 164; idem, “The Role of Endowments”, 116; Garc a Sanju n, A., “Frontera, Yihad y legados piadosos en Al-Andalus (siglos X-XV)”, in F. Toro Ceballos and J. Rodr guez Molina (coords.), III Estudios de Frontera. Convivencia, defensa y comunicaci n en la frontera (Alcal la Real, 18 – 20 de noviembre de 1999), Ja n, 2000, 323 – 324; idem, Hasta que Dios herede la tierra, 188 – 189; idem, Till God Inherits the Earth, 210 – 213. Regarding a more general context, see Puente, C. de la, “Mujeres cautivas en “la tierra del Islam””, Al-Andalus-Magreb, 14 (2007),

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According to legal texts, the same solicitude was applied in al-Andalus in relation to the manumissio of slaves. In Islam the liberation of slaves is also a praiseworthy act, since it is deemed to be one of the most pious deeds in the eyes of God. A slave could be manumitted while his/her owner was alive or could obtain freedom after the latter’s death by means of a series of methods that existed for that purpose, including the establishing of pious legacies.36

4. Conclusions As we have seen, the sources consulted do not sidestep Andalusi social reality where charitable measures undertaken to help the weak and needy are concerned, for they provide a considerable amount of information about initiatives adopted by the political authorities, as well as by private individuals, with particular reference to the urban milieu and, more specifically, the Umayyad capital of Cordoba. Although the data available do not enable us to accurately determine the efficacy of these measures, the sources reveal that alms-giving constituted an important practice in al-Andalus. We have already seen that charity could turn into an instrument at the service of the political, social and religious convenience of the donor; but these less lofty motives do not preclude the fact that there was not sometimes a genuine will to alleviate the hardships of others. Nonetheless, it would seem that the measures adopted for this purpose proved insufficient, as they offered no real alternative to counteract situations of debility and neglect. With specific

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19 – 37; Vidal Castro, F., “El cautivo en el mundo isl mico: Visi n y vivencia desde el otro lado de la frontera andalus ”, in F. Toro Ceballos and J. Rodr guez Molina (eds.), II Estudios de la frontera. Actividad y vida en la Frontera, Jaen, 1998, 771 – 823; idem, “Poder religioso y cautivos creyentes en la Edad Media: la experiencia isl mica”, in I. Hern ndez Delgado (ed.), Fe, cautiverio y liberaci n. Actas del I Congreso Trinitario (Granada, octubre 1995), Cordoba, 1996, 73 – 96. 36 In theory, Maliki doctrine does not allow the institution of pious endowments for the purpose of manumissio, since if the slave lacked the means of subsistence after obtaining his/her freedom, s/he would be condemned to misery. See Carballeira, Legados p os y fundaciones familiares en al-Andalus, 164 – 168; idem, “The Role of Endowments”, 116 – 117; Puente, C. de la, “Entre la esclavitud y la libertad: consecuencias legales de la manumisi n segffln el derecho malik ”, Al-Qantara, 21 (2000), 358; idem, “Slaves in al-Andalus through Maliki watha iq works (4th6th centuries H./10th-12th centuries CE): marriage and slavery as factors of social categorisation”, Annales Islammologiques (in press).

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regard to the poor, it must be borne in mind that they constituted an inherent part of the hierarchical social order and, from a religious perspective, their presence was essential so that the Koranic precept of dispensing alms-giving could be put into practice. From this angle, the aim was not so much to eradicate poverty as to attenuate its pernicious consequences. In general, little is known of charity as practiced by the Andalusi population. Only generosity manifested by people well-known for their extraordinary devotion was recorded in written form, as an exceptional form of behaviour, in order to show the goodness of the donors. On the one hand, such pious deeds might be concentrated during religious celebrations and other public commemorations. On the other hand, the economic difficulties that existed in periods of dearth were likely to cause a decrease in acts of individual charity. In reality, only institutional power could be counted on for having the resources necessary to improve the quality of life of the population, since donations by authorities had greater repercussions than those made by people of modest means. On some occasions, Andalusi monarchs exercised charity out of a sense of responsibility, whilst through their exemplary conduct they became models to be emulated by their subjects. Nevertheless, there are various indicators that reveal the absence of a systematic official policy to offset the effects of poverty in al-Andalus: on the one hand, the numerous individual initiatives adopted by the destitute and by their peers; on the other, the fact that there were no serious efforts made to institutionalise the distribution of donations in a permanent fashion during the economic crises that ravaged the territory of al-Andalus; and, finally, the authorities’ exhortations to individuals to give alms. From this perspective, we have already observed that the concept of charity would have to be understood as the duty of individuals and not of institutional power as such. This personal dimension reinforces the notion of community, that is to say, the internal cohesion of the Muslim community willing to make available resources to cover the basic necessities of all its members. One must, however, bear in mind that, while certain activities (poor relief ) could scarcely rely on institutional support and mainly depended upon individual contributions, in the financing of other services (ransom of prisoners, manumissio of slaves…) such personal donations performed a secondary, more marginal role, as other alternatives existed to facilitate these tasks. The adoption of measures concerning beneficence is a factor that must be taken into account when assessing the degree of integration of the poor within Andalusi society. In this sense, there was undeniably a

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certain desire to counteract the marginalisation suffered by the poor. Such a goal may be inferred from the fact that a substantial amount of charity depended on personal initiatives. Regarding the role played by charity in integrating the poor within Islamic society, one must remember that alms-giving, on occasion, was not only conceived to be a religious imperative, but also a social responsibility. The belief was that the hierarchy in society corresponded to an established order and that the rich were obliged to help the less fortunate. In this structure of social solidarity the poor were not the only beneficiaries of the charity they received, since the wealthy also profited in the sense that, as benefactors of the most disadvantaged, their place in society was given justification. Furthermore, charitable acts contributed to reducing social tension.37 From this aspect, charity in al-Andalus constituted a stabilising element, exercised not so much with the aim of eliminating social differences as of maintaining an equilibrium between the different groups, to prevent the resentment at social inferiority from escalating into a threat to the established order.

37 For a wider context, see Bonner, M., “Definitions of Poverty and the Rise of the Muslim Poor”, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, Series 3, 6, 3 (1996), 343; D cobert, C., Le mendiant et le combattant. L’institution de l’Islam, Paris, 1991, 218; Sabra, A., Poverty and Charity in Medieval Islam. Mamluk Egypt, 1250 – 1517, Cambridge, 2000, 32; Stillman, N., “Charity and Social Service in Medieval Islam”, Societas, 5 (1975), 115.

“When Death Will Fall Upon Him”: Charitable Legacies in 15th Century Granada. Amalia ZomeÇo ˘

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I. The charitable legacies of A isha al-Jinja¯lı¯ ˘

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On 29 Sha ba¯n 841/25 February 1438, A isha felt sick. Prostrate in her bed, she apparently demanded a notary for writing down her last will. When the notary came with another notary who would help him as a second witness, they wrote down three documents. The first one reads as follows: ˘

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The blessed A isha bint […] Abu¯ Abd Alla¯h Muhammad al-Jinja¯lı¯ […] makes a testament and expresses her will that when˙ she dies, there should be extracted from the one-third of her estate (thulth), whether real estate properties or other kind, and in addition to what she already bequeathed in the same day in another document, twenty gold dı¯na¯rs of the common rate to be distributed for the trousseau of four virgin daughters of the orphans among the poor Muslims and giving to each of them an equal amount. This legacy was written down in accordance with the legal principles that regulate the legacies, and it was done with the intention to please God, exalted, who is most generous in his rewards. She assigned the supervision of the execution of this legacy and the distribution of what she specified for each of the girls, to the legal scholar and preacher of Akhsha¯rish1, whoever may be fulfilling this post [at the moment of her death.]2 A first draft of this paper was presented in a seminar of the research group “Charity and Piety in the Middle East in Late Antiquity and Middle Ages: Continuity and Transformation” at the Institute for Advanced Studies of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem (2006 – 2007). I would like to thank the participants of this seminar for their valuable comments. My research on the Arabic documents of Granada is made possible by a Spanish project financed by DGICYT [HUM2005 – 04468]. 1 Akhsha¯rish is one of the quarters of the Albaic n in Granada. 2 The document is preserved in the Fondo Antiguo of Biblioteca del Hospital Real [BHR] of the University of Granada (BHR/Caja C-027 (27)). For an edition and translation of the document see A. ZomeÇo, “Notaries and Their Formulas: The Legacies from the University Library of Granada” in P. M. Sijpesteijn, L. Sundelin, S. Torallas Tovar and A. ZomeÇo (eds.), From al-Andalus to Khurasan. Documents from the Medieval Islamic World (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2007)”, 64.

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In the second document, she demands that “from the thulth of her estate […], five gold dı¯na¯rs at the common rate should be paid to Umm alFath, the daughter of Muhammad Faraj,”3 and in the third document, the ˙notary writes that she˙ demands that another five gold dı¯na¯rs “be paid to A isha, the daughter of Abd Alla¯h b. Zayd.”4 In addition to what A isha might have explicitly dictated to the notary as her last will and to ensure the legal validity of the documents, he completed the several lines of the testament with the usual formulaic sentences. In fact, he wrote that even if she was ill and prostrate in bed, she was “sane and stable in her intellect and discernment”, but also that her main intention when dictating these last wills was to please God (almura¯d bi-ha¯ wajh Alla¯h) and gain his reward (thawa¯b). There is no doubt that A isha had clearly charitable motivations when dictating her bequest. She showed a special interest in taking care of orphan girls, especially those who might not find a husband if they were not provided with a proper dowry for their marriages, so she gave them five gold dı¯na¯rs each in order to make a good match, as was customary in Granada. Together with the obligatory payment of the groom, the bride had to pay at least an equal amount as dowry or trousseau.5 We can clearly understand that her motivations were charitable when she decided to give the same amount, five gold dı¯na¯rs, to the other two women mentioned in the second and third documents, where she referred to their names explicitly as well as making a separate and complementary document. The example of A isha bint Abı¯ Abd Alla¯h Muhammad al-Jinja¯lı¯ ˙ functions as an introduction to a study of charitable legacies in 15th century Granada. Like A isha, other Muslims of Granada chose the same form of legal instrument for charity giving, including the possibility of establishing a pious endowment (hubs) [as in three other documents] ˙ chooses as beneficiary the collecin the legacy.6 In the first place, A isha ˘

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BHR/Caja C-027 (26). BHR/Caja C-027 (44). The edition of both documents in A. ZomeÇo, “Notaries and their formulas”, 62 – 3 , 64 – 5. See A. ZomeÇo, Dote y matrimonio en al-Andalus y el norte de frica. Estudio de la jurisprudencia isl mica medieval (Madrid: CSIC, 2000), 131 – 150, 175 – 203. See A. M. Carballeira Debasa, Legados p os y fundaciones familiares en al-Andalus (siglos IV/X-VI/XII) (Madrid: CSIC, 2002); “Pauvret et fondations pieuses dans la Grenada Nasride: aspects sociaux et juridiques”, Arabica 52 (2005)” 391 – 416; A. Garc a Sanju n, Hasta que Dios herede la tierra. Los bienes habices en al-Anda-

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tivity of orphan girls within Grenadian society, and for a correct distribution, she nominates as agent the preacher of the quarter where she was living. She also wants to benefit certain women whom she knows may need of her charity, but in this case she seems to need no agent. According to the notary, A isha was sick “prostrate in bed” (multazima fira¯shi-ha¯). One immediately gets the idea of a dying person who wants to prepare for the hereafter, both in the religious and the material sense, but the image may not be real. It is a requisite in Islamic law not to make a legacy while on one’s “death-bed” (marad al-mawt),7 so that the ˙ notaries should diligently record that the testators are in good health with only a light illness which does not influence their discernment when making a non profitable transaction as it is a legacy. On the other hand, most of the testators in the collection of Arabic documents are in good health, independently of the epithets describing them as young woman (subiyya), or elderly woman ( aju¯z). ˙ ˘

II. The aim and methodology The main purpose of this chapter is to analyze the sixteen legacies preserved in the collections of Arabic legal documents of Granada.8 The archives of the city and province of Granada contain various collections of Arabic documents, most of which are datable to the last quarter of the fifteenth century. Although it is still not clear why in Granada, and not in other parts of al-Andalus, so many documents (around 300) were preserved, the main hypothesis is that after the conquest of the city by the Catholic monarchs in 1492, Christian institutions and the

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lus. Siglos X al XV (Huelva-Sevilla: Universidad de Huelva Publicaciones-Mergablum Edici n y Comunicaci n, 2002). According to the classical theory, a legacy should not be written during the testators’ death-sickness. See H. Yanagihashi, “The Doctrinal Development of marad al-mawt” in the Formative Period of Islamic Law”, Islamic Law and Society 5 ˙(1998), 326 – 358. The main collection is preserved in Biblioteca del Hospital Real [BHR] of the Universidad de Granada: see A. ZomeÇo, “Repertorio documental ar bigo-granadino: Los documentos rabes de la Biblioteca Universitaria de Granada”, Qurtuba. Estudios Andalus es 6 (2001), 275 – 96”. For other collections in Granada, see A. ZomeÇo, “Del escritorio al tribunal. Estudio de los documentos notariales en la Granada nazar ” in J. P. Monferrer Sala and M. Marcos Ald n (eds.), Graphe on. C dices, manuscritos e im genes. Estudios filol gicos e hist ricos (C rdoba: Universidad de C rdoba, 2003), 75 – 98.

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Muslim population who opted for remaining in the city, were interested in keeping them as proof of their ownership of the lands and properties and for retaining their privileges.9 Due to the nature of these primary sources, I will have only the facts that passed through the hands of the notaries: only “notarized”, meaning recorded, charity will be studied here.10 On the other hand, these legacies provide rich information about several individuals who decided to divert part of their properties from the bulk of their inheritance and give it to charity. Therefore, charity will be studied from a micro-history and domestic economy perspectives, since the analysis of the documents helps not only in identifying the testators’ family circumstances and necessities, but also assesses their possible personal motivations when giving charity. According to Islamic law, a valid legacy must not exceed one-third (thulth) of the total value of the estate. In the context of family transmission of property, the diversion of one third of the estate from family hands to charitable institutions, or to poor and needy collectivities outside the family, might dramatically change the expectations of heirs and close relatives. In my analysis, apart from “property” and “family”, I shall also try to establish a relationship between charity and death, the main combination for analysis in this study. As we shall see, the end of the 15th century in Granada was certainly a period of crisis because of the continuous wars on the northern frontiers and the closeness of the fall of the emirate into Christian hands—long before being perceived by the population –, together with the violent outbreaks of the Black Death. Perhaps the documents do not always help in understanding the general context in which the charitable legacies were made in Granada; but we do see how the testators’ motives changed during different moments of this short period of Granada’s history.

9 A. ZomeÇo, “Notaries and their formulas”, 59. 10 There is only a limited number of studies related to charity in al-Andalus; see A. M. Carballeira Debasa, “Pauvret et fondations pieuses”. On charity in legacies through responsa literature, see J. D. Galinsky, “Jewish Charitable Bequests and the Hekdesh Trust in Thirteenth-Century Spain”, Journal of Interdisciplinary History 35: 3 (2005), 423 – 440.

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III. The legacies and charitable clauses

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Some Maliki jurists say that dictating a legacy is a commendable deed (alwasiyya mustahiba), although others say that it is obligatory (wa¯jiba) for the˙ wealthy or˙ for those who leave properties.11 The Qur a¯n also gives some other recommendations for making legacies, like writing them down in front of two honourable witnesses (5: 105).12 As we see in the documents, a legacy (wasiyya) therefore is a voluntary declaration of an individual in the presence ˙of two professional witnesses concerning her or his wishes on the destiny of no more than the one-third of their properties upon death. As such, it might be studied from two different perspectives: first as a legal and economic transfer of properties, similar to a donation (hiba) since it means a non-profitable gift, but with a very important difference because it is only effective after the death of the testator,13 or, at least, when he will no longer be able to administer the transmission of his or her estate. Secondly, and precisely because of the time when it would become effective, a legacy is a declaration made when a Muslim is contemplating death. The texts of the documents are very explicit on this matter when the notaries use the formulae recommended by their manuals:14 “When death will fall upon her and against it there is no remedy, nor any secure refuge for any living creature (mata¯ hadatha bi-ha¯ al-mawt, alla¯dhi la¯ budda min-hu wa-la¯ mah¯ıs li-makhlu¯q˙ hayy an-hu)”.15 ˙˙ ˙ ˘

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11 See The Koran (trans.) A. J. Arberry (Oxford: University Press, 1982), 2:176/ 180 – 178/182, pp. 23 – 4. See also Ibn Salmu¯n al-Kina¯nı¯, Kita¯b al- iqd al-munaz˙ zam li-l-hukka¯m fı¯-ma¯ yajrı¯ bayna aydı¯-him min al- uqud wa-l-ahka¯m (ed. in the ˙ 159. ˙margins ˙of Tabsirat al-hukkam by Ibn Farhu¯n, Cairo, 1885), II, ˙ ˙ 5:105/106, 12 The Koran (trans.), p. 116. ˙ 13 On hiba in Islamic law, see J. Schacht, An Introduction to Islamic Law, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1964), 157 – 8. Understood as a liberality and an act of generosity, see Y. Linant de Bellefonds, Trait de droit musulman compar , (3 vols., Paris-The Hague, 1973), III, 316 – 26. L. Milliot includes donations and testaments in the same chapter as contrats de bienfaisance in his Introduction a l’ tude du droit musulman, (Paris, 1971), 669 – 82. 14 See also Ibn Salmu¯n al-Kina¯nı¯, Kita¯b al- iqd al-munazzam, II, 159; Alı¯ b. Yahya¯ ˙ ˇ azı¯rı¯, al-Maqsad al-Mahmu¯d fı¯ talkhı¯s al- uqu¯d. Proyecto plausible de compenal-G ˙ ˙ ˙ dio de f rmulas notariales (study and ed.) A. Ferreras, (Madrid: CSIC, 1998), 346. 15 See BHR/Caja C-027 (26). For variations of this formula, see A. ZomeÇo, “Notaries and their formulas”, 66 – 7. ˘

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In this same vein, the Grenadian legacies also contain other formulae that might be considered stereotypical, because their presence in the documents may not reflect the intentions of the testators, but rather the style and the language used by notaries. This applies precisely to the statement that indicates religious motivations that a Muslim might have when deciding to make a legacy: “With the intention of getting close to God, the magnificent, and obtaining His reward (qasada al˙ a¯hid bi-dha¯lika wajh Alla¯h wa-thawwa¯ba-hu al-rah¯ım).”16 The formula ˙ might also be a necessary one, since a legacy is a gift expecting no compensation, at least not economic or material, as the only compensation or reciprocity would be expected from God in the hereafter. All the legacies of Granada include these two formulae with little variation.17 The expectation of a divine reward puts this kind of charity outside the general conception of a “pure gift”,18 although it is not like those explicitly mentioned in other legacies, where the distribution of food for the poor is given specifically in exchange for the expiation of sins.

IV. Expiation (kaffa¯ra) ˘

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In 1441, when Abu¯ l-Hasan Alı¯ b. Alı¯ al-Ruffa felt sick, he decided to ˙ assign seventy five silver dı¯na¯rs from his wealth for the expiation of his false oaths in the name of God ( an takfı¯r al-ayma¯n), while he wished that the rest of the thulth to be divided equally among his four granddaughters and an orphan girl who was under his protection (kaffa¯latihi),19 in itself an act of charity. In 1491, the old ( ayu¯z) Fa¯tima bt. Ahmad A¯tiyya dedicated ten silver ˙ ˙ ˙ dı¯na¯rs from the thulth of her estate for buying food, that should be dis˘

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16 BHR/Caja C-027 (62). 17 Only one of them does not include this formula for religious compensation (BHR/Caja C-027 (14)). A possible reason for not including it might be the fact that the document is dated after the conquest of Granada in 1492, when Arabic legal documents were still in use. See A. ZomeÇo, “Notaries and their formulas”, 70. 18 M. Mauss, The Gift: the Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies (London: Routgledge, 1990), but specially J. Parry, “The Gift, the Indian Gift” , Man 21(1986), 453 – 73; I. F. Silver, “Beyond Purity and Danger: Gift-Giving in the Monotheistic Religions” in Toon Vandevelde (ed.), Gifts and Interests (Louvain: Peeters, 2000), 115 – 132. 19 BHR/Caja C-027 (62).

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tributed among the needy and the poor ( ala¯ al-du afa¯ wa-l-masa¯kı¯n), ˙ again as expiation ( ala¯ sunna kaffa¯rat al-ayma¯n bi-lla¯h ta a¯la¯). According to Fa¯tima, the rest of the thulth should be distributed equally among her ˙ two granddaughters, her daughter’s children.20 Finally, following the same model, after the Christian conquest of Granada, an old woman called A isha bint Abı¯ l-Hasan Alı¯ al-Martu¯shı¯ ˙ declares that she wants to leave ten silver dı¯na¯rs for buying food that should be distributed among the needy and the poor, again, as expiation of her false oaths made in the name of God. The rest of the thulth should be given to a certain Alı¯ b. Musallim, known as al-Harra¯bı¯, who is prob˙ ably her daughter’s husband.21 As we shall see later, other documents include this extraction of a part of the thulth for expiation of false oaths, including the buying of food for the poor.22 In fact, from among the sixteen legacies, eight include different amounts of money extracted from the thulth. Usually, there is no fixed amount, but the extraction of different amounts for each person, possibly trying to set a standard and following the Qur a¯nic “feed ten poor persons with the average [quantity] of the food you serve to your families”.23 The rest of the thulth is not usually mentioned as a specific amount, so it is impossible to calculate what percentage of the total bequest, or even of the total thulth, is dedicated to kaffa¯ra. Therefore, in the legacies where the kaffa¯ra is included, charity is given with a specific religious motivation and very explicitly indicated in the document. Obviously, the distribution of alms to take place after death and donations for expiation of sins through charitable bequests were not only present in Granada or in al-Andalus: these are medieval Islamic concepts.24 However, it is very surprising that expiation is always made for the same sin—false oaths—and in the same manner— the distribution of food, sometimes also medicines, among the needy. Es˘

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20 BHR/Caja C-027 (19). 21 Lit. sihr al- a¯hida. BHR/Caja C-027 (14). 22 As in˙ ˙this formula, the only words used are du afa¯ (lit. the weak) poor and masa¯kı¯n. The notaries never use fuqara¯ , applied˙at the time to su¯fı¯s, voluntary poor ˙ who might not deserve charity as much as the involuntary poor. See A. M. Carballeira Debasa, “Pauvret et fondations pieuses”, 394 – 5. 23 The Koran (trad.), 5:91/89, p. 114. 24 See A. Sabra, Poverty and Charity in Medieval Islam. Mamluk Egypt, 1250 – 1517, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2000), 95 – 100; Y. Lev, “Charity and Social Practice in Egypt and Syria from the Ninth to the Twelfth Century”, JSAI 24(2000), 483.

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pecially when we keep in mind that for expiation of deliberate oaths, the Qur a¯n (5: 91/89) gives other possibilities: “[…] or to set free a slave; or if one has not the means, let him fast for three days […] but keep your oaths.”25 We may therefore assume that the testator might have chosen to include or not include the kaffa¯ra clause within the legacy, perhaps following the recommendations of the notaries, who may have questioned him concerning how much the amount given for this purpose should be. Once they decided to include the clause, the wording was always the same. No doubt the notaries explained to the testators the general principles governing legacies. Ibn Juzayy (d. 741/1340) was very clear on the procedures: “When somebody dies, you start by extracting from the bulk of his properties the necessary sum for the expiation of his sins and for his funeral. Only afterwards do you extract the amount of his debts according to an established order of priorities and, only then do you take the thulth of the rest for the legacy. All the remaining properties should be distributed among the heirs.”26 According to him, an amount for kaffa¯ra will be extracted independently of the existence of a legacy, but only when it was explicitly mentioned in the document will the testator be able to choose the amount according to his standards.

V. Charity and transmission of property in the family ˘

It has been proved27 that Muslims tried to circumvent the division of inheritance recommended in the Qur a¯n by developing different legally valid strategies for property devolution during their lives. In fact, large parts of parental assets were transmitted to sons and daughters when they were married off, or when their marriage was considered a stable social and economic link.28 David S. Powers points out that “Operating within the context of the larger Islamic inheritance system, a Muslim proprietor may attempt to circumvent the constraints of Islamic inheritance ˘

25 The Koran (trad.), p. 114. 26 Ibn Juzayy, al-Qawa¯nı¯n al-fiqhiyya, (Libia: al-Da¯r al- Arabiyya li-l-Kita¯b, 1982) , 388 – 9. 27 D. S. Powers, “The Islamic Inheritance System: A Socio-Historical Approach” in Ch. Mallat and J. Connors (eds.), Islamic Family Law (London-Dordrecht-Boston, 1990), 11 – 29. 28 A. ZomeÇo, Dote y matrimonio.

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law by designing an inter vivos transaction—upon which there are no limitations whatsoever—that has the effect of shifting assets to his/her desired heir/s.”29 Here, Powers obviously refers to the constraints imposed by the tradition—not by the Qur a¯n—on legacies, since these should be limited to one-third of the testator’s estate; the amount could be less than a third, but no more, and could not be made in favor of one of the existing heirs.30 Therefore, we may think that a legacy has only limited use in family strategies for property devolution since most of the members of the family will not be able to receive the third. For the same reason, one could also think that such a legacy is an especially good instrument for giving charity upon death. Who are the preferred beneficiaries in 15th century Granadan legacies? Even if the name of the beneficiary is usually mentioned in the document, the relationship between him and the testator it is not always clear, as happened in the previous cases of A isha al-Jinja¯lı¯. In most cases, however, this relationship is clearly indicated. Three legacies show the granddaughters (daughters of the testator’s daughter), as the main beneficiaries,31 as they are not among the Qur a¯nic heirs. This might be an indirect way of benefiting the daughter, the granddaughter’s mother.32 In three additional documents, on the other hand, the beneficiaries are minors, more or less related to the family, and had been under the economic protection of the testator, thus showing a kind of charitable effort in the family’s duties as guardians.33 Finally, three other legacies nominate several in-laws (sihr) as beneficiaries, such the daughter’s husband, again indirectly ˙benefiting the daughter.34 None of these nominated heirs have rights in the Qur a¯nic succession but belong to the family in an extended version, and may help in diverting funds to members of the family. Therefore, it is true that legacies have limited use in families’ strategies for transmission of property, but it is also ˘

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29 D. S. Powers, “The Islamic Inheritance System”, Islamic Law and Society 5(1998), 288. 30 R. Peeters, “Wasiyya”, E.I.2, 171 – 2. ˙ (64); BHR/Caja C-027 (62); BHR/Caja C-027 (19). 31 BHR/Caja C-027 32 See D. S. Powers, “The Islamic Inheritance System: A Socio-Historical Approach”, 26. 33 BHR/Caja C-027 (91). 33040-V; BHR/Caja C-069 (5 – 45); BHR/Caja C-027 (2). 34 BHR/Caja C-027 (14); BHR/Caja C-027 (6).

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true that they were used to circumvent the Islamic inheritance laws by benefiting more distant relatives with whom closer relations might have been established during their lives. The decision will depend on the specific circumstances that individual cases indicate. Usually the testators do not nominate only one beneficiary to whom they give the whole thulth. On the contrary, most of the time, there are different withdrawals “from the thulth” which is divided according to testators’ wishes. This helps them in giving different portions to charity and other parts for other purposes. It is therefore important to study single cases and to see how charity was given in special circumstances.

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VI. Two legacies of Kha¯lid b. Ja¯ al-Khayr ˘

The legacies of Abu¯ Jazı¯d Kha¯lid b. Ja¯ al-Khayr are very exceptional, for it was he who devoted more properties to charity. According to the notaries, Kha¯lid received the epithets of “knight (fa¯ris), most brave, respectful and most renowned”. He was a wealthy man, the son of a liberated slave (mu attaq) of the emir, perhaps from a family connected to the court, and who married the daughter of another mawla¯ ; possibly both families were related to the Nasrid army. He was the owner of a large house in the Albaic n (al-baya¯zı¯n) quarter of Granada, a house situated close to the hospital (marista¯n),35 but he also owned huge tracts of land situated on the outskirts of the city. In 1430, Abu¯ Jazı¯d Kha¯lid asked a notary and a professional witness to record his first legacy. First, Kha¯lid wanted twenty gold dı¯na¯rs to be extracted from the thulth of his properties and distributed among the needy and poor, as expiation for his false oaths in the name of God. Secondly, he dictated that the rest of the third of his properties should be divided into two parts: the first should be distributed among the “poor Muslim captives” ( ala¯ al-du afa¯ min usra¯ al-muslimı¯n).36 The second ˙ half should be distributed among the poor orphan virgin girls ( ala¯ albana¯t al-abka¯r al-du afa¯ al-yata¯ma¯). He specifies that each of them, ˙ both captives and orphans, should receive ten gold dı¯na¯rs. Afterwards, ˘

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35 All the documents related to Kha¯lid have been published by L. Seco de Lucena in his Documentos ar bigo-granadinos, (Madrid: Instituto Egipcio de Estudios Isl micos, 1961), n8 7. On the restoration of the house, see A. Almagro and A. Orihuela, La Casa Nazar de Zafra (Granada: Universidad, 1997). 36 L. Seco de Lucena, Documentos ar bigo-granadinos, n8 7c (pp. Arabic text 14 – 5).

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even after the witnesses had already signed the document, he thinks again and adds that a plot of land taken from his properties in the qarya of Balisana (nowadays Belicena), should be establish as a pious foundation in order to maintain a su¯fı¯ lodge (ra¯bita) in the same village. ˙ between this ˙ case and the earlier ones is that even The main difference if Kha¯lid divides the thulth into several parts, all of it is to be devoted to charity. In addition to the part dedicated to expiation, again serving to feed the poor, he chooses to give to the ones who, at the time in Granada, were in greatest need: Muslim captives and orphan girls. The great numbers of Muslim captives in Christian hands, and the urgent need for their liberation, was one of the main preoccupations of the Granadian population, in the social, economic and political arenas. Most of them were not able to pay the ransom themselves, but there was a kind of community fund to which the population gave alms, since the ransoming of captives was considered a pious act.37 There were also pious foundations with this aim, although in some cases the administrators considered a paid ransom as a debt that should be paid back by the captive upon his liberation.38 Some ransom funds were established for noble or important personalities of sums ranging from 200 to 1300 dı¯na¯rs, but obviously far less for commoners. Kha¯lid dedicates ten dı¯na¯rs for each of the captives, perhaps in an attempt not to give it to the community fund, but to be used for directly ransoming them; this was apparently a standard amount for the ransoming of a commoner of no means. But Kha¯lid, like A isha al-Jinja¯lı¯, also gave charity to orphan poor girls, as orphans were likewise the victims of a war situation. Here, gender seems to play a role, since unmarried (abka¯r) young women would depend more on these charitable donations. According to A. M. Carballeira, orphans were not the beneficiaries of charitable pious endowments (ahba¯s khayrı¯) in Granada, since they were already the recipients of alms and˙ institutionalized charity of the kind given by Kha¯lid in his legacy.39 Finally, the legacy of Kha¯lid benefits the ra¯bita (a lodge for the mys˙ had most of his proptics) situated at the outskirts of Granada, where he 37 On captives, see F. Vidal Castro, “Le rachat de captifs musulmans en al-Andalus (VIIIe-XVe si cle): th orie et pratique du droit et des institutions islamiques”, Hypoth ses: travaux de l’ðcole Doctorale d’Histoire 10 (2006), 313 – 23; M. Mar n and R. El-Hour, “Captives, Children and Conversion: A Case from Late Nasride Granada”, JESHO 41(1998), 456. 38 M. Mar n and R. El-Hour, “Captives, Children and Conversion”, 456. 39 A. M. Carballeira, “Pauvret et fondations pieuses”, 397 – 8.

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erties. Maybe this was the result of the very active politics of the sufi orders in asking for alms and gifts for funding their institutions in the city;40 in fact, Kha¯lid gives most of the thulth to them. It is well known that the increasing properties amassed by them provoked the jealous reaction of the jurists, who considered their practices as negative innovations. This was not the only legacy recorded for Kha¯lid.41 In fact, he asked that another one be written down twenty-two years later, in 1452. This time he allocated seven plots of irrigated land in the same qarya of Belicena. Through the legacy these lands would be constituted as a pious foundation in favor of the fortress (hisn) of Archidona, and for the people ˙ ˙should be given to the sons of his living there. Another parcel of land business partner and, finally, and if the thulth of his properties was not yet exhausted, he wanted to devote another plot of land to a pious foundation that should be given to the people living in this same fortress of Archidona. Then, in his second testament, Abu¯ Jazı¯d Kha¯lid also made sure that he devoted all of the thulth to charity and to welfare. In 1452, however, he did not bequeath charity to any collectivity—voluntary or not voluntary—of Granada, but directed almost the whole of the thulth to the defence of the Kingdom of Granada against the Christians advancing from the northern frontier.42 For the interpretation of Kha¯lid’s motivations when making these legacies, and the shift in his intentions, we need the information provided by other documents. In the first place, the document which specifies the distribution of his inheritance43 informs us that he died four months after he dictated his second legacy. We also learn that his wife was his only heir, who after paying for the part of the bayt al-ma¯l and discounting the thulth of the legacy, inherited the rest of her husband’s properties. They did not have any children. 40 On the different ways of asking for alms by the su¯fı¯s, see F. Rodr guez MaÇas, “Encore sur la controverse entre soufis et juristes˙ au Moyen ffge: critiques des m canismes de financement des confr ries soufies”, Arabica 43 (1996), 406 – 421. 41 L. Seco de Lucena, Documentos ar bigo-granadinos, n8 7b (pp. Arabic text 12 – 14). 42 Archidona is situated in the North-West of the capital city and was finally conquered by the Christians in 1462. 43 L. Seco de Lucena, Documentos ar bigo-granadinos, n8 7e (pp. Arabic text 16 – 18).

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VII. The legacies of Umm al-Fath al-Shalya¯nı¯ and Muhammad Bahta¯˙n ˙ ˙˙

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The life of Umm al-Fath bint Muhammad al-Shalya¯nı¯ and her husband, ˙ be traced˙ through several documents preserved Muhammad Bahta¯n could ˙ 44 ˙ ˙ in Granada. They were merchants and lived close to one of the gates of the city, where there was a small market (suwayqa). In 1483, Umm al-Fath dictated a first legacy,45 where she expressed her will that two gold dı¯˙na¯rs should be extracted from the thulth in order to buy and distribute food and medicines among the poor Muslims of Granada. She donated these charitable gifts as expiation for her oaths, as in the previous cases. From the rest of the thulth, two other parts should be designated. The first one must be given to her father-in-law, al-Hasan b. Alı¯ al-Husaynı¯, and the second should be devoted to chari˙ ˙ purposes (fı sabı table ¯ ¯l al-khayra¯t) and by doing this “she wants to please God, the powerful, and gain her entrance to the hereafter (al-da¯r alakhı¯ra).”46 Umm al-Fath, therefore, left almost all the thulth of her succession to charity, including˙ part for the kaffa¯ra. The only part with a specific beneficiary is the one given to her father-in-law, the second husband of her mother. We may understand this part also as a kind of indirect charity if we take into account a previous document, dated two years earlier in which her father-in-law undertook to pay for the nafaqa or economic maintenance of Umm al-Fath’s sister, a minor, while she herself will ˙ (hada¯nati-ha¯ wa-kafa¯lati-ha¯).47 If this have her custody and protection is not charity in the usual sense ˙yet this donation might have been meant to help in the caring of her sister and to make sure that when she dies, he sister would be economically protected. Two years later, in 1485, Muhammad Bahta¯n, Umm al-Fath’s hus˙ thulth, he˙ ˙demands that fifteen ˙ silband, dictated a testament. From the ver dı¯na¯rs should be dedicated to buy food for the poor as expiation. The

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44 On their lives through the documents, see A. ZomeÇo, “Documentos rabes y biograf as mud jares: Umm al-Fath al-Salyani y Muhammad Bahtan (1448 – 1496)”, in A. Echevarria (ed.), Biograf as mud jares (Madrid: CSIC, 2008), 291 – 325. 45 BHR/Caja C-027 (6). 46 Lit. qasadat bi-hi wajh Alla¯h, azza wa-jalla wa-l-da¯r al-akhı¯ra, BHR/Caja C-027 ˙ 9. (6), line 47 BHR/Caja C-069 (5 – 35), edited by L. Seco de Lucena, Documentos ar bigogranadinos, n8 41.

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rest of the thulth should be dedicated to buy a plot of land (asl) and the ˙ incomes should be dedicated to charitable purposes in the name of God (fı¯ sabı¯l al-khayra¯t wa-wuju¯h min Alla¯h).48 Only two years passed between the two legacies made by the couple. Each of them nominated the other for taking care (nazar) of the correct distribution of their succession, possibly in an attempt˙ to avoid the authorities’ interfering with their properties. In this sense, it is surprising that both had the same sentence written in their legacies; in both, the notary writes of the charity in very general terms: fı¯ sabı¯l al-khayra¯t. This may mean that they each wanted to leave the charity in the hands of the other. After the writing of their legacies many things happened in Granada: in 1492 the Catholic monarchs entered the city, after signing an agreement with the last emir Abu¯ Abd Alla¯h. Although thanks to this agreement, the Capitulaciones, the Muslim population was allowed to remain in the city together with their properties,49 the situation of the now Mud jar population—i. e. Muslims living under Christian rule—was growing increasingly worse.50 It was still a period of a certain degree of chaos, and the situation of many inhabitants of Granada deteriorated. The documents do not provide information as regards to whether Umm al-Fath and Muhammad Bahta¯n sold their properties. On the con˙ ˙ ˙˙ trary, it seems that they opted to stay in the city among the many that remained under Christian rule. In fact, just a year after the conquest, in 1493, Muhammad Bahta¯n ˙ ˙˙ makes a second testament, now with very different purposes.51 In this second document he re-stated that thirty silver dirhams should be given to the poor of Granada, in expiation of his false oaths made in the name of God. However, in 1493, instead of endowing a pious foundation for the poor, he nominates as beneficiaries the two orphans under his supervision. Specifically he explains that with twenty dirhams taken from the thulth of his estate, they must buy a piece of cloth for his foster daughter (rabı¯bati-hi), the young A isha the daughter of Muhammad ˙ ˘

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48 BHR/Caja C-027 (66). 49 M. Garrido Atienza, Las capitulaciones para la entrega de Granada (Granada: Universidad, 1992). 50 J. E. L pez de Coca CastaÇer, “Las capitulaciones y la Granada mud jar” in M. A. Ladero Quesada (ed.), La incorporaci n de Granada a la Corona de Castilla (Granada: Diputaci n, 1993), 263 – 305. 51 BHR/Caja C-069 (5 – 45).

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Mahdı¯, while the rest should be given to A isha’s brother, ¯Isa¯ b. Muham˙ mad Mahdı¯. In September 1494, Umm al-Fath and Muhammad Bahta¯n adopted ˙˙ ¯Isa¯ b. Muhammad Mahdı¯, while he˙ was still ˙a minor. More than an ˙ 52 adoption, which is not allowed as such in Islamic law, the document shows their commitment to maintain him economically, thus paying for his food (nafaqa), standard clothing for days and nights (kiswa¯ layliyya wa-naha¯riyya wa¯sitan), education (hada¯na) and other expenses.53 Islamic ˙ ˙ an orphan arrives ˙ at the age of full legal capacity, and law says that when gains full access to his properties, he has to return the money spent for his maintenance to those in charge of him.54 According to the document, both spouses promise not to claim these expenses from the minor ¯Isa¯, while the orphan’s mother, a widow (orphan, or yatı¯m in Arabic, denotes a child below the age of puberty, who has lost only his father) includes the condition that she will be allowed to visit her son.55 Obviously this is also a kind of charitable donation made by the couple in favour of the needy. In this case, the document probably established a “notarized” relationship between Umm al-Fath and Muhammad and ¯Isa¯. That is to say that their ˙ ˙ the moment the document was written family link is legally binding from down. Therefore, after the conquest, there were no more charitable donations, except for the part dedicated to the expiation of sins. The shift in Bahta¯n’s motivations will be explained by other documents. On 11 Oc˙˙ tober 1496, four years after the conquest of Granada and two years after the adoption of ¯Isa¯ b. Muhammad Mahdı¯, Umm al-Fath was feeling ill, ˙ although she “understands ˙and is of sound mind”. She decides to dictate another legacy and annul the first one. She now demands that instead of charity purposes in general terms, as she stated in the first legacy, she wishes that the thulth be divided into several parts. From the thulth the executors should take ten matha¯qı¯l that should be distributed among the needy and the poor, as expiation; another forty five matha¯qı¯l for buy-

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52 On adoption in Islam, see E. Landau-Tasseron, “Adoption, Acknowledgement of Paternity and False Genealogical Claims in Arabian and Islamic Societies”, BSOAS 66 (2003), 169 – 92. 53 BHR/Caja C-069 (5 – 46) edited by L. Seco de Lucena, Documentos ar bigo-granadinos, n8 90. 54 On nafaqa in Maliki law, see Ibn Juzayy, al-Qawa¯nı¯n al-fiqhiyya, 226 – 9; J. Lapanne-Joinville, “L’Obligation d’entretien (nafaqa) en droit malekite”, Revue Marocaine de Droit (1949), 166 – 82. 55 See E. Chaumont, “Yatı¯m”, 298.

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ing a piece of cloth for her step-daughter (ibna khatni-ha¯) A isha bt. Muhammad Mahdı¯ and, finally, an equal amount that should be given to Fa¯t˙ima bt. Muhammad al-Shalya¯nı¯, her niece.56 She also asks that the rest of ˙ ˙the thulth should be given, explicitly to ¯Isa¯ b. Muhammad Mahdı¯, ˙ beneficiary in A isha’s brother, the “adopted” child and again the main the couple’s new legacies. For the couple, after the conquest, charity turns into something different. In fact, the idea of giving charity, apart from the extraction of the kaffa¯ra, in general terms is far from their minds and they prefer to make sure that after their death several individuals related to their family have access to a part of their properties; thus strictly speaking, there is no more charity. Here, in my view, charity might have been redirected from general to more specific purposes, directed to needy persons such as collateral relatives or in-laws. It should be noted that the documents do not provide information on children of the couple. ˘

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VIII. Conclusions We cannot conclude that a testamentary charitable donation was the chief way to give charity in 15th century Granada, although it was one of the possibilities. The restrictions imposed on legacies by Islamic law, specially the dictum la¯ wasiya li-wa¯rith, meant diverting of a part of the family es˙ descendants. However, the documents show how the tate from the direct cases where individuals give charity by this legal instrument were especially those where the testators did not have direct heirs. Fifteenth century Granada was surely a time of crisis. The final conquest was only the last result of the weak political situation from which the Nasrid Kingdom of Granada had been suffering for a long time. In ˙ terms, this crisis made the population fall into a state of deterreligious minism or pessimism, while expecting the final fall of Granada into Christian hands and the end of al-Andalus. If charity is inherent in a certain culture, do times of crisis make the individuals more inclined to charity? It is said that when times are difficult—during war, hunger, and disease -, individuals stop giving charity and dedicate their efforts to survival. But perhaps reality is not as simple as that. In fact, instead of choosing not to give charity at all, the option became merely to change the priorities, from collectivities and institu56 BHR/Caja C-027 (2).

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tional charity, to a smaller circle of beneficiaries, both inside and outside the family.

Charity and Gift Giving in Medieval Islam Yaacov Lev I. The Koranic Teachings This chapter discusses the nature of Islamic medieval charity within the broader context of gift giving and gift exchange. The question posed is whether charity and gift giving were mutually exclusive or complementary phenomena in medieval Islam. Both notions are rooted in the Koranic teachings and became a widely attested to social practice. However, there was never full congruence between Koranic teaching and social practice. Therefore, the issue of the dynamic interpretation of Koranic teachings and how they were turned into social practice must also be dealt with. Although medieval Islam is the primary framework of inquiry, the discussion will be set within the wider comparative context of monotheistic religions. In the Koran the notion of charity/alms giving is denoted by two frequently used and interchangeable terms: zaka¯t and sadaqa. The basic meaning of the root z.k.y. is “to be pure”, and Suliman Bashear has concluded that payment of zaka¯t/sadaqa to the poor was perceived as purification for sins. Jçrgen Baek Simonsen argues that zaka¯t and sadaqa developed during Muhammad’s lifetime into two separate financial institutions. The term zaka¯t signified the alms tax paid by the faithful, while sadaqa referred to the tribute paid by the Bedouins who allied themselves with the rising power of Muhammad and the Muslim community (umma).1 Whatever the precise financial meanings of both terms were, charity in the Koran is associated with faith and prayer, and is perceived as a

I am most obliged to Susan R. Holman for her valuable comments and suggestions. 1 S. Bashear, “On the Origins and Development of the Meaning of Zaka¯t in Early Islam”, Arabica, 40(1993), 97, 112; J. B. Simonsen, Studies in the Genesis and Early Development of the Caliphal Taxation System, (Copenhagen, 1988), 37.

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moral duty. Koran 2:177, in Arthur J. Arberry’s translation, demonstrates this by saying: Piety (birr, synonymous with charity in later usage) is not that you turn your face to the East and to the West. True piety is this: To believe in God, and the Last Day, the angels, the Book, and the Prophets, to give of one’s substance, however cherished, to kinsmen, and orphans, the needy, the traveller, beggars, and to ransom the slave, to perform the prayer, to pay the alms (zaka¯t). And they who fulfill their covenant, and endure with fortitude misfortune, hardship and peril, these are they who are true in their faith, these are the truly Godfearing.2

Other Koranic verses elaborate upon the theme of “belief, piety and charitable deeds”. Koran 69:30 – 35, for example, refers to those doomed on the Day of Judgment because of lack of belief and piety which, in this case, is exemplified by the injunction to feed the hungry. The Koran says: Take him, and fetter him, and then roast him in Hell, Then in a chain of seventy cubits’ length insert him! Behold, he never believed in God the All-mighty, and he never urged the feeding of the needy (masa¯kı¯n); therefore he today has not here one loyal friend, neither any food saving foul pus, that none excepting the sinners eat.3

Of special interest is verse 9:71 which links belief, obedience to God, piety, and charity. And the believers, the men and the women, are friends one of the other, command right and forbid wrong; they perform the prayer, and pay the alms (zaka¯t), and they obey God and His Messenger.4

The notion of piety is elusive and difficult to define. In earlier scholarship the Koranic term taqwa was understood as meaning fear of God. Recent scholarship, however, offers a more nuanced interpretation of the term. David Wainess, for example, has pointed out that taqwa means piety that goes with faith and obedience to God, while Erik S. Ohlander has drawn attention to the inextricable bond between piety, righteousness 2 3 4

A. J. Arberry, The Koran Interpreted, (London, 1955), I, 50 – 1. Arberry, The Koran, II, 298. Arberry, The Koran, I, 125.

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and charitable deeds.5 The Muslim community of the time of the Prophet has been characterized by Fred M. Donner as: “A movement of militant personal piety, expressing itself in pious maxims and in the Koran itself as the essential guide (al-huda) required by the community to attain salvation”. The nature of early Islamic piety is described by Donner as involving submission (isla¯m) to God, belief in God, the Last Judgment, and the performance of religious rituals referred to in the Koran, such as prayer, fasting, pilgrimage, and almsgiving. According to Donner, the militant aspect of early Muslim piety is embodied in two Koranic maxims: al-amr bi-l ma ru¯f wa-l-nahy an munkar (“commanding right and forbidding wrong”, see above Koran 9:71) and jiha¯d fı¯ sabı¯l Alla¯h (striving [or fighting] for the cause of God).6 The Koranic notion of piety as embodying prayer and charity had a deep influence on the construction of the human ideal in medieval Islam. For example, the Mamluk sultan Baybars (1260 – 1277) is depicted by his admiring biographer as a person who gave charity and strictly observed the five daily prayers. He perceived prayer as a link (lit. gift) to God, being aware of the redemptive powers of prayer. In the thinking of the sultan, prayer purified (lit. erased) sins.7 Paul L. Heck has recently pointed out that the Koranic concept of charity has an eschatological orientation.8 The redemptive-purifying nature of giving of one’s wealth (ma¯l) and piety is alluded to in Sura 90:5 – 7 and 14 – 22. Charity must be accompanied by faith and good moral intentions. Although the Koran does not object to public giving of wealth (ma¯l) and charity (sadaqa), secret giving to the poor (fuqara¯ ) is perceived as a higher moral deed (Koran 2: 262, 263, 271, 274). Koran 2:271 reminds the believer that God is aware of his deeds and that sadaqa has the power to expiate his sins. No less fascinating are verses 20 – 31 of Sura 70 which construct a link between belief, charity and sexual mores. The text reads as follows:

D. Waines, “Muslim Piety and Food of Gods”, Al-Qantara, 20(2000), 417; E. S. Ohlander, “Fear of God (Taqwa) in the Qur an: Some Notes on Semantic Shift and Thematic Context”, JSS, (2005), 149. F. M. Donner, Narratives of Islamic Origins. The Beginnings of Islamic Historical Writing, (Princeton, 1998), 67, 74 – 5, 89. Izz al-Dı¯n Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta rı¯kh al-Malik al-Za¯hir, (ed) Ahmad Hutait (Wiesbaden, 1983), 299. P. H. Heck, “Taxation”, EQ, V, 196 – 7.

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Surely man was created fretful, when evil visits him, impatient, when good visits him, grudging, save those that pray and continue at their prayers, those in whose wealth is a right known for the beggar and the outcast who confirm the Day of Doom and go in fear of the chastisement of their Lord and guard their private parts save from their wives and what their right hands own, then not being blameworthy.9

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Li Guo has pointed out the Koran’s distinction between God-given gifts to humans, and gift giving and exchange between people.10 God-given gifts, or benefits (ni ma), as has been pointed out by Roy P. Mottahedeh, were countless and humans should be grateful for them. Koranic concepts of ni ma have influenced social relations. The term came to signify ties between individuals based on loyalty and benefit.11 Going back to the Koranic notion of charity as expressed by the terms zaka¯t/sadaqa, it is evident that charity was perceived as a religious-moral duty. It is difficult to ascertain, however, to what extent and how early Koranic teachings were turned into social practice. There is no evidence concerning the practice of zaka¯t/sadaqa during the seventh century. However, Petra M. Sijpesteijn, relying on Egyptian papyri, has shown that zaka¯t/sadaqa was collected from Muslims living in the Fayyum, a rich agricultural area south of the capital Fustat. Another eighth century document published by Geoffrey Khan refers to distribution of money to the poor and needy in the villages of the Bahnasa region in Upper Egypt. Although the term zaka¯t/sadaqa is not mentioned, the poor and needy are referred to by the Koranic expression al-fuqara¯ wa-l-masa¯kı¯n, indicating that distribution involved zaka¯t/sadaqa. 12 References to the collection and distribution of zaka¯t/sadaqa in later periods are almost non-existent and it would be misleading to suggest that the scattered eighth century evidence ˘

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9 Arberry, The Koran, II, 300 – 1. 10 L. Guo,”Gift-Giving”, EQ, II, 313 – 4. 11 R. P. Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society, (Princeton, 1980), 72 – 8. 12 P. M. Sijpesteijn, “Creating a Muslim State. The Collection and Meaning of Sadaqa”, in Akten des 23. Internationalen Papyrologen-Kongresses, Wien, 22 – 28 Juli 2001, (ed) Bernhard Palme (Vienna, 2007), 665 – 7; G. Khan, Selected Arabic Papyri, (edited, translated into English, and annotated), (London, 1992), doc. 1.

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suggests the institutionalization of the zaka¯t/sadaqa system in the Muslim world. In contrast to the elusive evidence concerning zaka¯t/sadaqa, the notion of secret giving became ingrained in Islamic ethics of charity. For example, during the Third Crusade, when there was danger from Crusading armies advancing toward Jerusalem, Saladin was advised to distribute charity in secret. The advice was given by Ibn Shadda¯d Baha¯ al-Dı¯n, a jurist and a member of Saladin’s inner circle, implying that this is the proper way to avert the danger. Baybars’s biographer mentions that during the pilgrimage he distributed charity in secret. It was a deed signifying piety and humility.13

II. Obligatory and Voluntary Charity Although the Koran does not specify the amount of zaka¯t or sadaqa that one should give, it does set forth who is entitled to these payments. The most important and explicit verse is 9:60 which says: ˘

Sadaqa¯t are for the poor and needy (fuqara¯ and masa¯kı¯n), for those responsible for it (meaning the collection of the sadaqa¯t), for those whose hearts need conciliation, to ransom the slave, for debtors, for the purpose of God (fı¯ sabı¯l Alla¯h), and wayfarers. This is an obligation [laid down] by God, and God is wise.

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Other Koranic verses (30:38) repeat the injunction that kinsmen, the needy, and travelers are also entitled to charity. In medieval Islam zaka¯t came to signify an obligatory alms-tax. Jurists debated the rates of zaka¯t, which types of economic activity are subject to it, how it should be collected, and who is entitled to receive zaka¯t payments. The most important writings for the study of the development of zaka¯t are those of Abu¯ Yusu¯f (731 – 798), Yahya¯ ibn Adam (757 – 818), Abu¯ Ubayd (d.839), and Quda¯ma ibn Ja far (d.932), who frequently make interchangeable use of the terms zaka¯t and sadaqa. This unsystematic use of both terms should not obscure the fact that eventually a clear distinction between obligatory and voluntary alms-giving appeared. ˘

13 Baha¯ al-Dı¯n Ibn Shadda¯d, al-Nawa¯dir al-Sulta¯niyya wa-l-Maha¯sin al-Yusu¯fiyya, (ed) J. al-Dı¯n al-Shayya¯l (n.p. 1964), 39 – 40; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, al-Rawd alZa¯hir fı¯ Sı¯rat al-Malik al-Za¯hir, (ed) Abd al- Azı¯z Khuwaytir (Riyadh, 1976), 355. ˘

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In the writings of Abu¯ Ubayd, for example, sadaqa acquires the clear meaning of voluntary charity whose merits and rewards are many.14 Information on the collection and especially the distribution of zaka¯t for the whole span of the Middle Ages is scant. Judging from the writings of the great sage Ghazza¯lı¯ (d.1111), a custom had evolved of giving charitable payments on Breaking of the Fast of Ramada¯n which came to be known as zaka¯t/sadaqa¯t al-fitr. Ghazza¯lı¯ is favorably inclined toward this practice which, although not Koranic, relies on sayings attributed to the Prophet and certainly tallied with the Koranic ethic of charity. How widespread the giving of zaka¯t/sadaqa¯t al-fitr really was remains unattested.15 Perhaps the best explanation for the difference between the concept of zaka¯t and its practice is offered by Holger Weiss who writes: “One could in principle regard zaka¯t as a transfer of wealth from the rich to the poor. However, the intention is not eradication of poverty but the purification of wealth”.16 If zaka¯t/sadaqa¯t al-fitr reflected a dynamic interpretation of Koranic teachings, the collection of zaka¯t during the Mamluk period (1250 – 1517) can be described as being a perversion of the Koranic teachings. Many taxes were given the name of zaka¯t in order to provide them with a veneer of legality. Although Hassanein Rabie argues that zaka¯t in the sense of the legal obligatory alms tax was collected during the Mamluk period, there is no evidence that it was distributed to those entitled to it.17 In this context it is interesting to note that one of the more common sultanic charities was setting debtors free after they had paid their debts. Many Mamluk sultans did so, and their deeds must have been inspired by Koranic teachings (9:60). One would expect, however, a systematic use of the zaka¯t money collected by the state for this purpose. Although this Koranic injunction had not been institutionalized, it became part of Muslim ethics of charity. To put it differently, it was practiced on a personal level, not the state level. The discussion of the ˘

14 Abu¯ Ubayd, Kita¯b al-Amwa¯l, (ed) M. Kh. Hiras (Cairo, 1928), 486 – 92. The administrative treatises of Yahya¯ ibn Adam, Quda¯ma ibn Ja far, and Abu¯ Yusuf have been translated into English by Ben Shemesh, Taxation in Islam, (Leiden, 1965 – 1969), 3 vols. 15 Ghazza¯lı¯, Ihya Ulu¯m al-Dı¯n, (Cairo, n.d.), I, 209, 211. 16 H. Weiss, Obligatory Almsgiving. An Inquiry into Zaka¯t in the Pre-Colonial Bilad al-Sudan, (Helsinki, 2003), 39. 17 H. Rabie, Financial System of Egypt A.H.567 – 741/A.D.1169 – 1341, (London, 1972), 95 – 101, esp., 96. ˘

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zaka¯t can be concluded by noting that it never evolved into any kind of social leveler, and its handling by the state was a dismal failure.18 In contrast to our limited knowledge about the practice of zaka¯t during the Middle Ages, the notion of voluntary charity became ingrained in the social practice of medieval Muslims. It can be argued that only during the first half of the ninth century, as reflected in the writings of Abu¯ Ubayd, the term sadaqa did acquire the meaning of voluntary charity. On an individual level, the dispensation of charity served as a means of communicating with God, as a channel to implore God for deliverance and to expiate one’s sins. Sick people distributed charity as an appeal to God for recovery, and the expression “he cured himself through charity” epitomizes this widespread social practice. In other cases, charity was distributed to express gratitude to God for surviving life-threatening incidents. The distribution of charity that followed the death of a person signified the acceptance of a divine decree and a request for deliverance. This type of charitable practice cut across the social divide, engulfing the high and low-born, the mighty rulers and the commoners. It reflected the prevailing mood throughout the Middle East. A few examples taken from Baghdad and Cairo illustrate this point. In 847, when the Abbasid caliph al-Wathı¯q was sick with his final illness he was visited by Ibn Abı¯ Da ud to whom he complained about his distress. Ibn Abı¯ Da ud brought to the caliph’s attention that many people (meaning scribes and financial administrators) were imprisoned and their families in extreme straits. He suggested to the caliph that he set them free in order to be relieved of his plight. The caliph ordered this and the next day told Ibn Abı¯ Da ud that he felt some improvement in his condition. Ibn Abı¯ Da ud replied by saying that God brought him relief because of the thousand du a¯ (intercessory) prayers that were delivered for him while earlier these had been delivered against him. Ibn Abı¯ Da ud suggested to the caliph to go one step further: to return to the people he had freed their properties and thereby to secure more of their intercessory prayers and to be granted even greater rewards. Al-Wathı¯q gave orders to that effect and the historian al-Ru¯dhra¯warı¯ comments that he was rewarded for his deed while Ibn Abu¯ Da ud won a name for himself.19 This account belongs to the literary ˘

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18 For a wider treatment of this subject, see Y. Lev, Charity, Endowments, and Charitable Institutions in Medieval Islam, (Gainsville, 2005), 6 – 7, 70, 156 – 7. 19 Abu¯ Shuja al-Ru¯dhra¯warı¯, Dhayl Kita¯b Taja¯rib al-Umam, (ed) H. F. Amedroz (London, 1921), III, 92 – 93; English translation by D. S. Margoliouth, Continuation of the Experience of the Nations, (London, 1921), III, 94 – 5.

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genre of faraj ba d al-shidda (Relief after Distress) and both terms “distress” and “relief ”, are employed. Neither charity nor sin nor repentance are referred to, but the link between a good deed and the expectation of God’s reward is clearly suggested. Other accounts show a direct link between charity and hopes for deliverance. Ibn Radwa¯n was a wealthy Baghdadi of high social status who during his illness in 1069 distributed the fabulous sum of 10,000 gold coins (dı¯na¯rs) as charity. In 1092, during his illness, the great Seljukid vizier Niza¯m al-Mulk distributed vast charities and a contemporary historian writes that indeed these were instrumental for his recovery. In 996, in a short period of time, al- Azı¯z, the Fatimid ruler of Egypt, suffered the death of both his wife and mother. He distributed charity and lavishly rewarded the Koran reciters who took part in the funeral rites. His wife was buried in the family mausoleum at the palace complex in shrouds that cost 10,000 dı¯na¯rs and the grave was covered with a sumptuous fabric. For a month food was offered at her grave and the beneficiaries were certainly not the poor.20 Providing meals on Friday and Muslim festivals was a typical charity offered at funerary complexes built by rulers and other members of the ruling elite. These complexes included educational institutions, offered lodging for travelers and commemorative services at the tomb of the founder. The administrator in charge also dispensed charity and food to people unaffiliated with the complex. The deeds of the rulers were emulated by ordinary people. In medieval Cairo food was offered during funerals and at cemeteries.21 The distribution of charity as a sign of repentance is mentioned in respect to mighty rulers and simple folk alike. In 356/967, when Mu izz al-Dawla, the Buyid sultan of Baghdad, felt that his end was near, he became interested in how a true repentance (tawba) should be performed. He was instructed in the rules of repentance by leading jurists and theologians, and on their advice he distributed money as charity, manumitted slaves, and returned unlawfully gained riches to their rightful owners. Some of his deeds tally with Koranic teachings (5:89 and ˘

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20 G. Makdisi, “Autograph Diary of an Eleventh-Century Historian of Baghdad [Ibn Banna¯ ]”, BSOAS, 19(1957), 18 (text), 35 (tran.); Ibn Jawzı¯, Al-Muntazam fı¯ Ta rı¯kh al-Umam wa-l-Mulu¯k, (ed) S. Zakka¯r (Beirut, 1995), IX, 641; Maqrı¯zı¯, Itti a¯z al-Hunafa¯ bi-Akhba¯r al-A imma al-Fa¯tmiyyin al-Khulafa¯ , (eds) J. al-Dı¯n alShayya¯l, (Cairo, 1967 – 1973), I, 288 – 9; Musabbihı¯, (ed) A. F. Sayyid, “Nusu¯s Da i ah min Akhba¯r Misr li-Musabbihı¯”, AI, 17(1981), 15. 21 For medieval Cairo, see A. Sabra, Poverty and Charity in Medieval Egypt, (Cambridge, 2000), 96.

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58:3 – 4) about expiation. Expiation can be achieved through feeding and clothing the poor (masa¯kı¯n), setting captives free and fasting. The next report is distant in both time and place but the same world view is reflected. In 903/1497 – 1498, a young Mamluk soldier was dying of the plague in Cairo. As his sickness intensified, in the presence of court witnesses, he returned looted textiles worth 3,000 dı¯na¯rs to their legal owner. He asked for absolution for the crimes he had committed and his request was granted. He died shortly afterwards.22 In Judaism, as has been pointed out by Mark R. Cohen, the Biblical ethos of giving in secret exerted great influence on the discourse and practice of charity among the Jews of the Muslim medieval Middle East. For example, a fourteenth-century donor’s list from the Cairo Geniza that contains names of people and their contribution also includes nameless entries, designated by the Hebrew word gift (mattan), with the amount of the donation.23 Inspired by the Koranic teachings, secret charitable giving was also much admired in Islam. A truly secret donation should have left no traces in our sources. However, Arabic sources identify certain people as being known for their secret giving. For example, in 888/ 1483 – 1484, in Damascus, the merchant Shams al-Dı¯n who was known for his secret charities died. Different was the case of the multimillionaire merchant Na¯sir al-Dı¯n who died in 776/1374 – 1375, in Cairo. He was known for his avarice but, it was claimed, he gave charity in secret. In his bequest he left 16,000 dı¯na¯rs for building a law college.24 The second account is difficult to interpret: is the remark about Na¯sir alDı¯n’s charity cynical or apologetic? The first account is more straightforward; it reflects the tension between a high ethical principal and actual social practice. Few could have been indifferent to the social advantages derived from having a reputation for being charitable and pious. Giving ˘

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22 Miskawaihi, Taja¯rib, II, 231; English translation by Margoliouth, The Experience, II, 245; Ibn Iya¯s, Bada¯ i al-Zuhu¯r fi Waqa¯ i al-Duhu¯r, (ed) M. Mustafa (Cairo, 1969 – 1975), III, 390. 23 Mark R. Cohen, Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt, (Princeton, 2005), 248 – 9. For a discussion and English translation of the above referred to Geniza document, see Mark R. Cohen, The Voice of the Poor in the Middle Ages, (Princeton, 2005), 176 – 80. This document is summarized by S. D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society, (Berkeley, 1967 – 1993), II, 495, 505 (for another document of this type). 24 Ibn Tu¯lu¯n, Mufa¯kahat al-Khulla¯n fı¯ Hawa¯dith al-Zama¯n, (ed) M. Mostafa (Cairo, 1962 – 1964), I, 61; Ibn Hajar, Inba¯ al-Ghumr bi-Anba¯ al- Umr,(ed) H. Hubashı¯ (Cairo, 1969), I, 99 – 100.

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certainly built and enhanced social status. Thus, secret giving could not be that secret. The possible meaning of the so called secret giving was that the recipients were not aware of the identity of the giver but the fact that he gave charity was known in his social circle and beyond. Here we can observe a dynamic interpretation of an ethical principle. Although somewhat diluted, it became socially meaningful to the giver and useful for the recipient. Because of its very elusive nature, altruistic giving leaves scant traces in the source material. We become aware of it only when it was publicized. In 962/1554 – 1155, in Damascus, renovation work on a lodge for the mystics took place. The commemorative inscription reminds the reader that the distribution of food to the poor, orphans, and prisoners is God’s command, and the food offered by the renovator is charity given in the quest of God, asking for neither reward for the donor nor gratitude from the recipients.25 This inscription epitomizes the hope for heavenly rewards so typical of medieval monotheistic charity. What is unusual is the donor’s renunciation of any social benefits emanating from his charity. It is one of the rarest examples reflecting both the meaning and function of medieval charity. Secret giving may have had the goal of preserving the dignity of the recipient but the same could have been achieved by open giving. The Egyptian mystic Abu¯ Alı¯ al-Ru¯dhabarı¯ (d.935) is quoted as saying that he had given thousands for charity but never put alms into the hand of a poor person. He always handed out the money in a manner ensuring the poor recipient took the money from his hand while the hand of the poor person was above his hand. It was a deliberate attempt to contravene the Prophetic tradition that the upper hand is better than the lower hand. Jewish attitudes, as expressed in the midrash, were quite similar; one must be grateful for being the giver, not the recipient.26 Personal involvement in the dispensation of charity was also much admired. It reflected empathy for the poor and, in contrast with aloof giving, confronted the giver with the harsh realities of social misery. Muzaffar al-Dı¯n Kçkb rı¯ (d.1233), the ruler of Irbil, was known for his many charities, and the charitable institutions he established in Irbil. The Chris-

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25 Abd al-Qadir al-Rihawi and . E. Ou chek, “Les deux Takkiya de Damas”, BEO, 28(1975), 223, 225. 26 Al-Khatı¯b al-Baghda¯dı¯, Ta rı¯kh Baghda¯d, (ed) M. Abd al-Qa¯dir Ata¯ (Beirut, 1997),, I, 349. For the discussion of this Prophetic tradition, see Weiss, 11. For Jewish sources, see Cohen, Poverty and Charity, 181, n.31.

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tian chronicler al-Makı¯n (1205 – 1273) provides only a short account of his charitable works but duly notes that he personally checked on the sick at the hospital he had built. Even more telling is the obituary note about the chief Hanafi cadi Ibn Mansu¯r who died in 782/1380 – 1381 in Damascus. He is described as being personally involved in the distribution of bread and money to the poor and, as a judge, he is characterized as one who dispensed justice to the oppressed.27 Above the personal level, on the higher social level, charity came to signify justice and prosperity. In certain traditions charity and gift giving are perceived as instrumental for prosperity and wealth even if the people are morally corrupt. Another tradition states that charity and gift giving mitigate bad deeds on the Day of Judgment.28 One of the most fascinating aspects of medieval Muslim charity was the possibility of institutionalizing charity through the pious endowment system waqf (pl. awqa¯f ). Pious endowments were created for the benefit of family members (waqf ahlı¯) and in support of a wide range of charitable functions and institutions, including educational institutions. Some pious endowments combined familial and charitable ends. Although the pious endowment institution had no Koranic roots, Islamic tradition traces its origin to the Prophet and his companion. Any waqf foundation was the embodiment of sadaqa, and the founders expressed their hope for a reward from God, seeking nearness to and forgiveness from God. The pious endowment institution was hugely successful and came to dominate many aspects of Islamic urban life during the Middle Ages and the Ottoman period.29

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27 Al-Makı¯n, “La chronique des Ayyoubides”, (ed) Cl. Cahen, BEO, 15(1955 – 1957),”, 140; Qa¯dı¯ ibn Shuhba, Ta rı¯kh, (ed) A. Darwich (Damascus, 1994), I, 41. 28 Al-Khatı¯b al-Baghda¯dı¯, Ta rı¯kh, I, 403. 29 For legal and social aspects of waqf, see Peter C. Hennigan, The Birth of a Legal Institution. The Formation of the Waqf in Third-Century A.H. Hanafi Legal Discourse, (Leidedn, 2004), esp. ch.3; Norman A. Stillman, “Waqf and the Ideology of Charity in Medieval Islam”, in Studies in Honour of Clifford Edmund Bosworth, vol.1, The Hunter of the East, (ed) I. R. Netton (Leiden, 2000)”, 357 – 75.

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III. Charity, Gift Giving, and the Individual

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The study of gift giving in Islam is still a new area of scholarship, and readers familiar with Natalie Zemon Davis’ book on gifts and gift giving in sixteenth century France may feel disappointed by the limited evidence for Islamic practices. However, within the limitations of the present writer and the available source material, the evidence discussed so far indicates a distinction between the notion of charity in its three manifestations—sadaqa, zaka¯t, and waqf—and gift giving. In many cases, however, when a short biographical profile of a charitable and pious person is given, the vocabulary of charity, gift giving, and waqf is combined and mixed with, or enriched by, terms referring to piety and righteousness. The following epitomizes this point. In 599/1202 – 1203, in Baghdad, Zumurrud Kha¯tu¯n, the mother of the caliph al-Na¯sir died. She is described as one who excelled in performing good deeds (saliha¯t) and handing out charities (sadaqa¯t) and gifts (ma ru¯f). Her gifts (sila¯t) and birr (meaning either charity, or piety; probably both) were perennial. The account continues by enumerating her pious deeds. She spent 300,000 dı¯na¯rs on a pilgrimage to the Holy Cities of Arabia and the distribution of charity there, including maintenance of water installations. She also built and endowed a funerary complex that included a law college.30 Such an account leaves the modern reader wondering whether medieval people really made a clear distinction between charity and gift giving. Her case, as in other cases of royal patrons, was unique because of the sheer scale of her giving which helped to blur the distinction between the two. Equally extensive was the largess of the Ayyubid princess Sitt alSha¯m, the daughter of the founder of the dynasty and sister of Saladin, who died in 616/1219 – 1220, in Damascus. She gave many charitable donations (birr, sadaqa¯t) and gifts (sila¯t) and performed good deeds (ihsa¯n). Her fame spread due to her massive distribution of potions and medicines and it was said that “her doorstep was a shelter for the traveler and a place of relief for the distressed”. Sitt al-Sha¯m’s other charities were more standard and focused on building and endowing a law college and her own mausoleum.31 Less extensive, but still impressive, was the largess of Abu¯ al-Hasan Alı¯, the young son of the caliph alNa¯sir who died in 612/1216. He is described as a generous person ˘

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30 Abu¯ Sha¯ma, Ta¯rjim Rija¯l al-Qarnayn al-Sa¯dis wa-l-Sa¯bi, (Beirut, n.d.), 33; Sibt ibn Jawzı¯, Mi ra¯t al-Zama¯n, (Haydarbad, 1951), VIII, pt.2, 513. 31 Sibt ibn Jawzı¯, Mi ra¯t al-Zama¯n, VIII, pt.2, 606 – 7.

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who excelled in dispensation of charity and gifts. Rather surprisingly, no mention of piety appears in the account.32 In the eyes of medieval people, charity and gift giving were two manifestations of generosity and, I would argue, were basically regarded as different and separate things.33 Perhaps the key for understanding the Muslim medieval perception of charity and gift giving is offered by the obituary note about Najm al-Dawla Najah (d.610/1213 – 1214), the slave of the caliph al-Na¯sir who served as his cupbearer. He is described as a generous, wise, and religious person who dispensed many charitable donations. He was a sociable individual, favorably inclined toward the poor and respectful toward the people of the religious class. His authority was derived from constant attendance on the caliph and he was able to protect the weak from the hands of the powerful.34 No gift giving is mentioned and the reason seems obvious. Gifts were exchanged among peers or given to the socially superior within a common social and occupational background. Charity, on the other hand, was given to the socially inferior. Najm al-Dawla Najah’s social position was precarious: he was a first generation Muslim of an unknown father, probably a pagan, and at most a freedman of the caliph, if not his slave. Typically of people of this sort of background, he attained wealth and moved freely in the corridors of power as long as he enjoyed the backing of his master/patron. In terms of social background he was too inferior to give gifts, though he could give charity to the poor. He lived in a state of limbo, torn by the excruciating disparity between his low social status and the power derived from proximity to the caliph. Even more illustrative are the cases concerning eunuchs. Many of them earned a name as charitable people but were in no position to be involved in gift exchange with others at the court. In 623/1226, Shibl al-Dawla Ka¯fu¯r, the black eunuch of the princess Sitt al-Sha¯m, died. He overcame the triple disadvantage of slavery, castration, and black skin and reached an exalted position with his mistress and the Ayyubid sultans. Sitt al-Sha¯m entrusted him with the building of her funerary complex that also included a law college while the one he built for himself included a lodge for the mystics. He became known for investing in road

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32 Abu¯ Sha¯ma, Tara¯jim, 91. 33 For a clear distinction between terms referring to charity, gift giving, and piety, see Izz al-Dı¯n ibn Shadda¯d, Ta rı¯kh, 84. 34 Abu¯ Sha¯ma, Tara¯jim, 113 – 4.

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construction and water installations, charities, and good deeds (ihsa¯n).35 Gift giving was, however, beyond his capacity. His inferior status did not hinder him from acquiring wealth and power but excluded him from taking part in the social networks of free-born Muslims and gift exchange. When we move outside the sphere of eunuchs and freedmen to Muslim civil society, charity and gift exchange frequently go hand in hand. One can not envisage a greater social divide than that between Najm al-Dawla Najah and the Egyptian administrator Abu¯ Bakr Muhammad ibn Alı¯ of the al-Ma¯dhara¯ ¯ı family who died in 345/956 – 957. The historian Musabbihı¯ (d.1029) describes him as a person who gave many gifts (ma ru¯f ) but the word charity never appears in his report. He is portrayed as a pious man who scrupulously observed prayers and fasts, but this characterization is succinct and dry, lacking the usual plethora of terms associated with piety. The recipients of his generosity were the Shiites, the population of Mecca and Medina, and people in Fustat. He became renowned for his twenty one pilgrimages to the Holy Cities of Arabia and the extensive food distribution there. These were conducted according to a name list and the same was done in Fustat. He also cultivated relations with the social elite in Fustat, and Musabbihı¯’s choice of terms seems deliberate and precise. Abu¯ Bakr’s generosity was widely spread and built his reputation but was not focused on the poor. He was immensely rich and owned vast rural properties in Egypt, and one can only wonder to what extent his generosity and concern for the Holy Cities were instrumental in preserving his own wealth and position.36 The memory of Abu¯ Bakr’s deeds lingered on into the fifteenth century. Maqrı¯zı¯ (1364 – 1442) provides a full biography of him, including his political intrigues. By Maqrı¯zı¯’s time, Abu¯ Bakr’s wealth and generosity had evolved into a highly exaggerated myth. Maqrı¯zı¯ writes that his distribution list included 60,000 names among the inhabitants of Mecca and his distributions in Fustat were equally vast. In Fustat the recipients of his generosity were his dependents (Abu¯ Bakr’s household must have been very large), the pious, the powerful people of Fustat, and the strangers. Abu¯ Bakr was also involved in ransoming Muslim captives. In Maqrı¯zı¯’s long account, neither the poor nor the term sadaqa is ever mentioned. Charity is referred to by the more ambiguous term birr. This reference appears when Abu¯ Bakr’s donations during the pilgrimage, termed as birr and ma ru¯f, ˘

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35 Abu¯ Sha¯ma, Tara¯jim, 150. 36 Musabbihı¯, (ed) Sayyid, “Nusu¯s”, 9 – 11.

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are mentioned.37 In spite of the exaggerations, Maqrı¯zı¯ retained the essence of Musabbihı¯’s account. Despite the admiration for his generosity, Abu¯ Bakr did not impress medieval people as truly charitable and pious, but rather as a manipulator of charity and piety for personal gain. In terms of wealth and prestige, Zayn al-Dı¯n, the preacher of Hama who died in 659/1260, was vastly inferior to Abu¯ Bakr. He is, however, characterized as a pious person who dispensed charity, gave gifts, and set up pious endowments.38 This report can be read in the following way: Zayn al-Dı¯n belonged to the middle class or even the upper middle class, if such terms can be applied to medieval society. He was not a social climber but he was truly pious and gave charity to the poor. He exchanged gifts with his peers, and set up pious endowments to preserve family position and support charitable causes. Reports of this kind are quite frequent. Another example, referring to a different setting in time and place reflects a similar context. Badr al-Dı¯n, who died in 797/ 1395, in Cairo, is described as a pious scholar who performed good deeds, gave charity (birr) to the poor and gifts to relatives.39

IV. The Political Dimension of Charity and Gift Giving

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The political aspects of gift giving and charity are abundantly documented in medieval Arabic sources. Undoubtedly, the most famous source is the eleventh-century Book of Treasures and Gifts which provides short reports about gift exchange both between Muslim rulers, and between them and foreign monarchs. These accounts are valuable for the study of the material culture of the epoch, but devoid of historical context. I prefer to adopt a different approach, to study charity and gift giving within the context of the Fatimid state in Egypt (969 – 1171). The Fatimids, who belonged to the Shiite-Isma¯ ¯ılı¯ branch of Islam, came to power in 909 in Tunisia. They ruled Tunisia and other parts of North Africa until 973. In that year, the Fatimid ruler al-Mu izz transferred the state to Egypt which had been conquered in 969 by his general Jawhar. In Tunisia the Fatimids installed the Zirid rulers as their proxies. From Egypt the Fatimids expanded their rule to Palestine and Syria (Damascus), but ˘

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37 Maqrı¯zı¯, Kita¯b al-Muqaffa¯ al-Ka¯bir, (ed) M. Yalaoui, (Beirut, 1991), VI, 243, 246 – 7. 38 Abu¯ Sha¯ma, Tara¯jim, 177, 212. 39 Ibn Hajar, Inba¯ , III, 270 – 1.

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lost these territories to the Seljuks and Crusaders during the second half of the eleventh century and the first half of the twelfth century. In Egypt they ruled until 1171. Gift giving was entrenched in the political life of the Fatimid state and took place on external and internal levels. That is, gifts were exchanged between the Fatimids and Muslim and Christian rulers and gifts were circulated within the state. Although the exchange of gifts (hadiya) between the Zirid rulers of Tunisia and the Fatimids falls within a familiar pattern, this is a somewhat unusual case since the Zirids were Fatimid vassals. One would expect the Zirids to send gifts to the Fatimids, but they were also recipients of Fatimid gifts. The first recorded gift exchange between the two regimes took place in 383 – 384/993 – 994. The Zirid gift of 383/993 included money, riding animals and their gear, hunting dogs, and ten white-skinned (Saqa¯liba) eunuchs. A year later, the Fatimid gift included riding animals and their gear, textiles manufactured in the famous textile producing towns of Tinnis and Damietta, crystals, porcelain, and ten sets of golden honorary robes.40 Undoubtedly, the exchanged goods were of top quality and expensive but, otherwise typical of the goods traded in the Mediterranean. Egypt occupied a very special place within the Mediterranean trading system: it served as a land bridge for trade with India. Egypt was the place for procuring Indian goods that circulated in the Mediterranean and beyond. These trade realities are reflected by the gift exchange of 420/1029. The Zirid gift was remarkable for the inclusion of twenty slave-girls of outstanding beauty and white and black eunuchs, while the Fatimid gift involved goods from India and Yemen as well as giraffes.41 In 420/1029, in contrast to 383/993, the Zirid gift included no money. This might indicate that the Zirid position vis- -vis the Fatimids had evolved from a vassal state to a fully independent one, whereas the money included in the 383/993 gift signified tribute. In any case, the volume of trade between Tunisia and Egypt was large and significant, and both states had every reason to maintain friendly relations. The rupture between the Fatimids and Zirids took place between 1048 – 1058 following the Zirid recognition of the Abbasids as their overlords. Fatimid relations with Byzantium were marked by periodical hostilities and truces, and focused on political issues. As David Jacoby has recently shown, the trade between the two states was extensive and signifi˘ ˘

40 Maqrı¯zı¯, Itti a¯z, I, 278 – 9, 282 – 3. 41 Maqrı¯zı¯, Itti a¯z, II, 177 – 8.

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cant to both. For Byzantium, Egypt served as the main outlet for the purchase of oriental goods while Egypt imported strategic materials from Byzantium.42 Diplomatic contacts between the two powers were frequent, and gifts must have been exchanged regularly. Some of these gifts are described in the Book of Treasures and Gifts. The Byzantines were very knowledgeable about the affairs of the Fatimid state, its religious ideology and court protocol. This familiarity with the Fatimids is highlighted by the following examples. In 391/1001, the Byzantine emissary who arrived in Cairo kissed the ground of the palace on his way to meet the caliph alHa¯kim. The kissing of the palace ground was prescribed by protocol since the palace precinct had acquired sanctity by being the residence of the Fatimid ruler. In 405/1014 – 1015, the visit of a Byzantine diplomat to Cairo plunged three of al-Ha¯kim’s bodyguards into disaster. They were executed for taking gifts (hiba) from the Byzantine delegation. The emperor Michael VII (1071 – 1078) was fully aware that the mother of the caliph al-Mustansir (1036 – 1094), a black slave girl, held the reins of power in her hands and sent her a gift (she was ousted from power in 1072). In 444/1052 – 1053, the Byzantine emissary who came to Cairo on an important diplomatic mission had fittingly brought an especially rich gift which included, among other things, Turkish male and female slaves and hunting dogs. After concluding his business in Cairo, he proceeded to Jerusalem, bringing most valuable gifts to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The patronage over the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was a Byzantine state interest of paramount importance and it was central in Byzantium’s dealings with the Fatimids. The gift presented in 444/ 1052 – 1053 was intended to promote Byzantine interests and to buy Fatimid good will.43

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42 This topic is dealt with in a number of David Jacoby’s publications. See, for example, “Byzantine Trade with Egypt from the Mid-Tenth Century to the Fourth Crusade”, Thesaurismata, 30(2000),”, 36 – 7, 44; “Diplomacy, Trade, Shipping and Espionage between Byzantium and Egypt in the Twelfth Century”, Byzantinisches Archiv, 19(2000), 86; 43 Maqrı¯zı¯, Itti a¯z, II, 39 – 40, 107 – 8; Ibn Zubayr, Kita¯b al-Dhakha¯ ir wa-l-Tuhaf, (ed) M. Hamı¯d Alla¯h revised by S. al-Dı¯n al-Munajjid (Kuwait, 1959),, 77 – 8, 81. Ibn Zubayr’s reports about Byzantine gifts to the Fatimids have been translated and discussed by O. Grabar, “The Shared Culture of Objects”, in Byzantine Court Culture from 829 to 1204, (ed) H. Maguire (Washington D.C., 1997), 121 – 3.

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The most intriguing report concerns the gift of aromatic wood received in 385/995 in Cairo from India.44 One wonders whether it was a political gift sent by some Indian ruler or a gift sent by a merchant involved in trade with India. If we accept the second possibility, this gift could signify gratitude or the attempt to establish good working relations with the Fatimid ruler in order to promote commercial interests. The Fatimid rulers and other people of the ruling circles were engaged in commerce, and merchants had every reason to maintain good relations with them. Within the Fatimid state, gifts circulated in two directions: from provincial governors to the ruler and from the ruler to the state’s employees. Gifts sent by provincial governors to the ruler are frequently mentioned in the contemporary sources. In 363/974, a gift that included riding animals and money was sent from Syria and, in 369/979 – 980, a similar gift was received from the town of Barqa, on the Mediterranean coast of Libya. Other gifts of the same type were sent in 383/992 – 993, 385/ 995, and 386/996 from Barqa. In 414/1023 – 1024 and 415/1024 – 1025 gifts were sent from Aswan in Upper Egypt and Nubia. These included male and female slaves, African rarities (elephant tusks) and animals such as cheetahs and giraffes. A gift sent in 415/1024 – 1025 from Fayyum, a rich agricultural region south of Cairo, included only riding animals.45 The meaning of this peculiar Fatimid practice is difficult to interpret. At least in same cases, gifts sent by governors were paraded through the capital before being presented to the ruler. Gifts were also brought by Fatimid propagandists who came to Cairo to pay homage to their spiritual and political master.46 One can safely assume that gifts sent by governors were in addition to taxes transferred from the provinces to Cairo. This type of gift signified gratitude of the nominees for being appointed to lucrative posts. One can not escape the impression that such gifts were expected by the Fatimid rulers and perceived as private income. The Fatimid rulers and members of the royal family, including women, tapped the revenues of the state, owned properties, and were involved in commerce. The economic activities of the Fatimid rulers and other members of the family were handled by special administrative offices and staff. ˘ ˘

44 Maqrı¯zı¯, Itti a¯z, I, 290. 45 Maqrı¯zı¯, Itti a¯z, I, 223, 249, 252, 278, 285, 290; Musabbihı¯, Akhba¯r, 12, 31, 34. 46 Musabbihı¯, Akhba¯r, 12, 29, 31, 34.

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Thus, gifts constituted a parallel tribute system that served the rulers directly and not the Treasury. The most compelling piece of evidence is the report about the arrival in 402/1012 of the customary yearly gift from Tinnis which included textiles and money. Upon the arrival of the gift, the Fatimid princess Sitt alMulk, the sister of al-Ha¯kim, the reigning caliph, summoned the financial administrator of Tinnis and demanded the transfer of tax money. Her action was sanctioned by al-Hakim and it turned out that one million dı¯na¯rs and two million silver coins (dirhams) were due. This money represented three years of tax collection from Tinnis and was given to Sitt al-Mulk. Although highly exaggerated, these figures are indicative of the economic significance of Tinnis.47 Tinnis, on the Mediterranean coast of Egypt, was an industrial town and a center famous for the production of textiles. Textiles in Tinnis were produced in workshops that served only the government, while other workshops also sold their products on the market. The control of the production of textiles in towns such as Tinnis, Damietta, and Bahnasa in Upper Egypt was a vital Fatimid interest. From 976, the jurisdiction in Tinnis was in the hands of cadis of the Nu ma¯n family who enjoyed a privileged position in the Fatimid state. Members of the family also supervised the dispatch of textiles from Tinnis to Cairo. In 384/994, Yahay ibn al-Nu ma¯n delivered a shipment from Tinnis, Damietta, and Farama (on the Mediterranean coast) which included money, riding animals, the ceremonial parasols used by the Fatimid ruler during public appearances, and two coverage fabrics (kiswas) for the Kaaba sanctuary. The Nu ma¯n family, however, lost its position during the early 1010 s and later a special office was created to supervise the textile industry of Tinnis.48 The origin of this gift/tribute system goes back to the early years of Fatimid rule in Egypt. In 361/972, the general Jawhar who conquered Egypt sent a gift to the Fatimid ruler al-Mu izz who was still in Tunisia.49 This shipment resembles more a tribute or spoils of war sent by a victorious general to his overlord. The use of the term “gift” put it in a differ˘

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47 Musabbihı¯, (ed) Sayyid, “Nusu¯s”, 30; Maqrı¯zı¯, Itti a¯z, II, 91. 48 Maqrı¯zı¯, Itti a¯z, I, 283; Jochen A.Sokoly, “Towards a Model of Early Islamic Textile Institutions in Egypt”, in Islamische Textilkunst des Mittelaltes: Aktuelle Probleme, (Riggisberg, 1997),”, 115 – 22; Y. Lev, “Tinnis: An Industrial Medieval Town”, in L gypte Fatimide son art et son histoire, (ed) M. Barrucand (Paris, 1999),”, 86. 49 Maqrı¯zı¯, Itti a¯z, I, 136 – 7. ˘

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ent context: that of personal relations between al-Mu izz, the patron, and Jawhar, his freedman and client.50 Every year, the Fatimid state dispensed vast quantities of textiles among its employees as well as money and food to the wider public. The terms denoting these dispensations are “distribution”, “gift”, and “charity”. The most fascinating and enigmatic distribution involves the kiswa fabrics provided for/donated to the Azhar mosque in Cairo. The history of Azhar goes back to the foundation of Cairo by the Fatimids (969) and the mosque became associated with the regime and its Isma¯ ¯ılı¯ brand of Islam. A special kiswa was provided for the first night of Ramada¯n and other kiswas for the Friday prayers. We are dealing here with a highly symbolic deed whose meanings remain elusive. A kiswa was sent every year to cover and adorn the Kaaba sanctuary in Mecca. It was produced at huge cost in Tinnis and its dispatch with the pilgrim caravan turned into a state-sponsored celebration. Certainly, the Fatimids did not mean to elevate Azhar to the position of the Kaaba but the allusion is obvious and aimed at enhancing the sacredness of Azhar. The term kiswa also acquired a more general meaning and signified other textiles, or clothing, distributed by the state on the occasion of religious and non-religious festivals. On the occasion of Ramada¯n, special kiswas were produced for the Fatimid ruler as well as his brother and his wives and the vizier. They also received kiswas at the festival of the Opening of the Canal which took place at the peak of the Nile’s inundation.51 The Muslim calendar is replete with religious festivals, but the Fatimids also celebrated non-religious and non-Islamic festivals. The Fatimids also introduced new Shiite festivals, some of which became highly popular. Although outside the scope of this chapter, the adoption of nonMuslim festivals by the Fatimids reflected a type of state-sponsored religious syncretism, a topic still neglected in the scholarship. The Fatimid rulers actively participated in the celebrations of Epiphany ( ¯ıd al-ghita¯sh). The state adopted Christmas and distributed food among the military personnel and the administrative staff. The Persian festivals of Nawru¯z, the Persian New Year, and Mihrajan, marking the autumn equinox, ˘

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50 For a different view, see A. Cutler, “Gifts and Gift Exchange as Aspects of the Byzantine, Arab, and Related Economies”, Dumbarton Oak Papers, 55(2002),”, 259 – 60. 51 Ibn al-Ma mu¯n, Akhba¯r Misr, (ed) A. F. Sayyid (Cairo, 1983), 54 – 5. Irene A. Bierman has noted that it is impossible to deduce from the texts “what precisely these outfits (meaning kiswas) look like in this period”, see Writing Sings. The Fatimid Public Text,(Berkeley, 1998), 187, n.86.

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were publicly celebrated. In 381/991 – 992, on Mahraja¯n, members of the ruling elite gave gifts to the Fatimid ruler. It must be pointed out that Persian festivals were incorporated into the calendar of Muslim Egypt before Fatimid rule. Both festivals were adopted by the Abbasids, including the gift exchange between the ruler and members of the court typical of Mahraja¯n.52 The symbolic use of textiles permeated Fatimid political culture. The bestowal of textiles on public occasions served to establish hierarchy and dependence and to foster loyalty. Fatimid use of textiles was part of the medieval preoccupation, not to say obsession, with textiles and clothing. Clothes served as symbols of status and as a social marker. Precious fabrics, especially silk, were used as a form of investment.53 Manipulative use of textiles for political and social purposes was common in the medieval world, including the Byzantines and the Mongols. In Byzantium certain types of costumes and colors were used exclusively by the emperor. Among the Mongols the wearing of a hat and belt symbolized personal freedom and social standing and the loss of these items meant social degradation.54 This mood of the time is reflected by our sources. Musabbihı¯, for example, frequently refers to the attire of the Fatimid ruler during public appearances and one is left with the strong impression that it was a significant issue worth mentioning. Musabbihı¯’s account can not be read as a “fashion report” since it is doubtful if the Fatimid ruler set the prevailing fashion. Some items, such as the ceremonial parasol, were regarded as a state insignia and were forbidden for others to use. On the other hand, clothes from the ruler’s personal wardrobe were occasionally bestowed on others. It must have been a symbolic act, conveying special favor. Musabbihı¯’s report moves between the detailed and the general, and one of his favorite expressions is that the ruler was dressed “in the most beautiful attire” and appeared with the “most perfect equipment”. This multi-functional use of textiles had many manifestations. For instance, on the occasion of court receptions, a dazzling variety of fabrics was displayed. Thus, in 391/1001, when Byzantine emissaries arrived in Cairo, at the palace’s main reception hall exquisite fabrics were ˘

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52 Maqrı¯zı¯, Itti a¯z, I, 272; Musabbihı¯, Akhba¯r, 19 – 20, 70; Ibn al-Ma mu¯n, Akhba¯r, 63, 65, 104. 53 X. Liu, Silk and Religion,(Delhi, 1998), 90 – 1. 54 E. Piltz, E. “Middle Byzantine Court Costume” in Byzantine Court Culture, 39 – 51; Thomas T. Allsen Commodity and Exchange in the Mongol Empire, (Cambridge, 1997), 48 – 9.

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hung. On the advice of a Fatimid princess, the palace stores were searched for fabrics brought in 973 from Tunisia. Eventually, silk fabrics decorated with gold that carried the inscription “331(942 – 943), the work of the slaves” were found and put on display.55 The Fatimids, like many other regimes in different places and times, bestowed robes of honor on officials during ceremonies of investiture. Robes of honor were also bestowed on people who fulfilled service for the state, even if only temporarily. In 415/1024 – 1025, an emissary with gifts was sent to Sicily and the captain of the ship was given an honorary robe. Robes bestowed on officials symbolized delegation of authority and expectations for loyalty and exemplary service.56 For example, garments were distributed at the onset of winter and the figures are staggering: in 516/1122 – 1123, 14,305 pieces were distributed.57 Impressive as these figures are, most of the state resources were invested in the celebration of the major religious festivals. The Festival of Sacrifice, celebrated on 10 Dhu¯ l-Hijja, is one of the two Great Muslim festivals. The state-sponsored celebrations were characterized by the distribution of textiles and by sacrifices performed by the Fatimid ruler him-

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55 Maqrı¯zı¯, Itti a¯z, II, 40. 56 Musabbihı¯, Akhba¯r, 22. For clothing and ceremonial robes in the Abbasid caliphate, see Muhammad M. Ahsan, Social Life under the Abbasids, (London, 1979), ch.2. 57 Ibn al-Ma mu¯n, Akhba¯r, 48; P. Sanders, “Robes of Honor in Fatimid Egypt”, in Robes and Honor. The Medieval World of Investitures, (ed) S. Gordon (N.Y., 2001), 231 – 2. Distribution of summer and winter clothing is also known in the context of charitable institutions. For example endowed Koranic schools for orphan boys, in addition to a daily bread rations, also distributed two sets of clothing per year. See U. Haarmann, “Mamluk Endowment Deeds as a Source for the History of Education in Late Medieval Egypt”, Al-Abhath, 28(1980), 46, line 593. The distribution referred to by Ibn al-Ma mu¯n was so vast that this event became to be known as the Festival of Clothing ( ¯ıd al-hulal) or, in Sanders’ rendering, Festival of Gala Costumes. Sanders follows Goitein’s translation of hulla (pl. hulal) as gala costume (See A Mediterranean Society, IV, 154). Judith Olszowy-Schlanger, in her study of Karaite marriage documents from the Cairo Geniza, writes as follow: “Expensive festive hulla dress, probably containing several different pieces (an ensemble), is a common item in the trousseau lists of wealthy Karaite brides”. She emphasizes that hulas were made of various fabrics, came in variety of colors, and were very expensive (see Karaite Marriage Documents from the Cairo Geniza, [Leiden, 1998], 227 – 8). Olszowy-Schlanger’s understanding of hulla is closer to Edward W. Lane’s definition of hulla as a dress consisting two or three garments (see An Arabic-English Lexicon, [Beirut, 1980, reprint], II, 621, column b.). ˘

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self. The distribution of textiles is referred to as rusu¯m. This term has the meaning of protocol and is used when referring to both Abbasid and Fatimid court ceremonies. In the Fatimid context, Paula Sanders has rendered rusu¯m as pensions and I adopt her understanding of the term which, in this account, means customary distributions. Textiles were also distributed among people in the service of the state by the Mongol rulers. They, in contrast with the Fatimids, paid them no salaries. In Byzantium officials received salaries paid in one installment that was accompanied by the distribution of precious textiles. It seems, however, that the Fatimids exceeded the Byzantines in the amount and frequency of the distribution of textiles among court and state officials.58 Other distributions involved sacrificial meat. In 515/1121 – 1122, 2,561 animals were sacrificed and, in 516/1122 – 1123, 1,946 animals were slaughtered and the sacrificial meat was given to the vizier and his extended family, the emirs, the visiting guests of the state, the army, and distinguished persons. Every day, during the three days of the festival, the sacrificial meat of one she-camel was offered to the poor. They were also offered the remains of she-camels and cattle sacrificed at the Sabat Gate. These are very revealing statements about state sponsored charity to the poor. In terms of quantity and value, it represented a tiny fraction of the total sacrifice offered on these occasions. It terms of terminology, it indicates the difference between giving to inferiors—termed as charity— and giving to the higher echelons which, in this case, is described without employing a special term.59 The festival of Ghadı¯r was a Shiite festival that marked the bestowal of political and religious authority on Alı¯ by the Prophet. The Fatimids adopted it as a state festival. It was celebrated on 18 Dhu¯ l-Hijja and, in 516/1123, according to the prevailing custom, poor villagers and other low and weak elements of society congregated on the doorsteps of the vi-

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58 P. Sanders, Ritual, Politics and the City in Fatimid Cairo, (N. Y., 1994), 14, 84; Allsen, Commodity, 56 – 7; “Robing in the Mongolian Empire”, in Robes of Honor, 305 – 6, 308; N. Oikonomides, “Title and Income at the Byzantine Court”, in Byzantine Court Culture, 200 – 3. 59 Ibn al-Ma mu¯n, Akhba¯r, 40 – 2; Sanders, Ritual, 79 – 80. One must bear in mind that the terminology of charity and giving can be quite flexible. For example, in the account describing the distribution of food during the festival marking the birthday of the Fatimid reining ruler, the giving of food is referred to as distribution. This linguistic flexibility does not undermine my argument. In other accounts the giving to the poor is systematically referred to as charity. Ibn alMa mu¯n, Akhba¯r, 60, 64, 77.

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zier’s palace and asked for clothes and help to marry off widows. They got some aid but the account lacks specifics. The vizier also distributed textiles and money among the military personnel, members of the ruling elite, high-ranking eunuchs of the court, and state guests. The distributions seemed to be modest and of symbolic value only. The Fatimid ruler offered sacrifices which were distributed only among the elite. The Birthday of the Prophet was a festival invented by the Fatimids. In 517/1123 – 1124, it was marked by the distribution of food and 6,000 dirhams as charity, but how many people received it is not mentioned. It seems that during religious festivals the poor were always recipients of state giving referred to either as charity or as gift giving (ma ru¯f ). The value of charity given to the poor was very low and, on one occasion, they looted the food designated for others.60 The huge disparity between state giving to the poor and to its employees is illustrated by two further examples. In 517/1123 – 1124, the poor got nothing on the occasion of Nawru¯z. Textiles and very substantial sums of money (4,000 dı¯na¯rs and 15,000 dirhams) were distributed among the ruling circles, to the exclusion of the emirs. Food, however, was distributed to all segments of the elite. This account also highlights another point: the captains and the crew of Nile boats were the lowest ranking state employees entitled to state distributions of gifts.61

V. Charity and Gift Giving: The Wider Context Monotheistic charity is rooted in a religiously-inspired system of beliefs and manifested a quest for redemption. It acquired the status of a sacred duty and was equated with a life of piety and belief. It was a form of devotion and as such it transcended time and place and showed remarkable uniformity in the face of changing historical circumstances. The perception of charity as redemptive is a notion shared by Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. As has been shown by Judah D. Galinsky, in a different context, “The redemptive value of charity is a prevalent theme in Talmudic literature” and “The Talmud makes numerous references to charity’s abil-

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60 Ibn al-Ma mu¯n, Akhba¯r, 42 – 3, 62. 61 The state maintained a large fleet of Nile boats to serve its transportation needs. Ibn al-Ma mu¯n, Akhba¯r, 65.

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ity to protect donors from the horrors of hell”.62 Christians, in the words of Peter Brown, “had inherited from Judaism the practice of giving alms for the remission of sins. This was a crucial inheritance”.63 The development of Christian charity in Late Antiquity and its focus on the poor is perceived by Averil Cameron as “one of the major features of the period”.64 A similar view is expressed by Birger A. Pearson who discerns a link between the spread of Christianity and the practice of Christian charity.65 Christian charity replaced classical euergetism and was instrumental for the establishment of charitable institutions. The work of Brown, Susan R. Holman, and Claudia Rapp shows that the bishops of Late Antiquity became involved in charitable activities and alms-giving to the poor.66 When approached from a wider perspective, monotheistic thinking about the afterlife and Zoroastrian attitudes were not that different. The Zoroastrians believed in the afterlife and set up pious foundations for the benefit of the soul of the deceased. These foundations financed religious commemorative rites for the soul as well as public utilities and the distribution of alms.67 Until the rise of Protestantism, sacred monotheistic charity maintained these religious meanings. The divorce of charity from its salvific and purifying associations was a development unique to Protestantism with no parallels in Judaism and Islam. Recently, Ilana F. Silber has posed the question of whether religious giving is just another variant of gift exchange and reciprocity.68 I would like to argue that religiously inspired charity is different from other forms of reciprocal gift giving as embodied by the obligation to give, to receive, and to return that dominates Marcel Mauss’ approach to 62 See “Jewish Charitable Bequests and the Hekdesh Trust in Thirteenth-Century Spain”, Journal of Interdisciplinary History, XXXV(2005), 433. 63 See The Rise of Western Christendom, 2nd. ed. (Oxford, 2003), 69. 64 See The Mediterranean World in Late Antiquity, (London, 1993), 146. 65 See The Emergence of Christian Religion,(N. Y. 1997), ch.10. 66 P. Brown, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman Empire, (Hanover, 2002), ch.2; Susan R. Holman, The Hungry Are Dying. Beggars and Bishops in Roman Cappadocia, (Oxford, 2001), 107, 148 – 9; C. Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity, (Berkeley, 2005), 223 – 34. 67 M. Macuch, “Charitable Foundations”, Encyclopedia Iranica, V, 380 – 2; M. Boyce, “The Pious Foundations of the Zoroastrians”, BSOAS, 31(1968), 270 – 89. 68 See “Beyond Purity and Danger: Gift-Giving in the Monotheistic Religions” in Gift and Interests, (ed) I. Vandevelde (Louvain, 2000), 116 – 7; “Echoes of Sacrifice? Repertoires of Giving in the Great Religions”, in Sacrifice in Religious Experience, (ed) Albert I. Baumgerten (Leiden, 2002), 297.

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the gift. In monotheistic charity, since it is redemptive and driven by a quest for divine absolution and salvation, the recipients are mere instruments for advancing the giver’s goal. No human chain of reciprocity is envisaged. From the point of view of the giver, charity was the way to approach God and to communicate with Him. The recipients of charity were aware of their instrumental role and referred to it when beseeching help from donors. This self-awareness of one’s own instrumentality is plainly stated in letters of the Jews of Alexandria studied by Miriam Frenkel.69 However, one also has to note Cohen’s observation that “the giver looked forward to his return in the form of prayer and praise by the recipient of his benevolence”.70 The giver alluded to by Cohen was a Jewish giver of the medieval Muslim world but this observation is valid for any other medieval monotheistic giver. If one elaborates upon Cohen’s statement, it can be argued that any request for, or anticipation of, prayers offered by a recipient constituted a human chain of reciprocity. This is certainly true, but it applies only to cases when charity was given in exchange for prayers. The repertoire of monotheistic charity was, however, richer and wider than that. The perception of medieval monotheistic charity as sacred and transcendental does not mean to deny that it also served social and political functions. The distinction between meaning and function, while important, should not obscure the fact that a fusion between the two was the norm, and this synthesis created an enduring religious-social construct that can be termed “medieval monotheistic sacred charity”. When dealing with this construct and the variety of functions it served, we tend to forget its religiously inspired origin and its basic meaning for the giver who operated within the parameters of this construct. In some recent publications the religious underpinnings of Islamic charity and charitable institutions such as waqf are dismissed out of hand. For instance, Engin F. Isin and Alexander Lefebvre in a paper entitled “The Gift of Law. Greek Euergetism and Ottoman Waqf ” write as follows: It is important to emphasize that we are not attempting a comparative analysis between Hellenistic euergetism and the Ottoman waqf. We argue that it is imperative to avoid interpreting these institutions with analytic categories such as Christian or Islamic philanthropy or modern notions of legal au69 See “The Compassionate and Benevolent”. The Leading Elite in the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Middle Ages, (Jerusalem, 2006), 222, (in Hebrew). 70 See Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community, 199, n.37.

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tonomy and right. These categories would be not only anachronistic and inappropriate, but, in the case of the waqf, outright orientalism.71

Although no Arabic sources are listed in their bibliography, it contains some of the most important works on waqf published in the last two decades. Their bibliography counters their argument and indicates that Islamic charity was rooted in a religiously inspired system of beliefs. Although the motives of the giver were religious, charity always had social ramifications, or functions. When the social uses of Islamic charity are examined one is struck by the disproportionate amount of charity given in the form of waqf and sadaqa to religious and educational institutions and the mystics. I would argue that the giver’s choice of recipients was governed by the cultural values of his/her society. With few exceptions, if any, the two were congruent. In Judaism and Islam, religious learning was perceived as a duty and was highly valued. Therefore, in both civilizations a disproportionate amount of charity went to sustaining religious learning both at the personal and institutional levels. The poor and other forms of social need ranked only second. From the point of view of the giver, the jurists and mystics and the institutions associated with them seemed more conducive to his attempts to communicate with God, while the poor had less to offer. The disproportionate amount of giving to the religious class and religious institutions is also very noticeable on the state level. It can not be said that Islamic medieval regimes were completely indifferent to the needs of the poor. The question is rather the size of the means allocated for that purpose. In the Fatimid budget of 517/1123 – 1124, for example, various charitable payments are mentioned. Payments for charity and customary distributions (rusu¯m) are mentioned under the budgetary item specifying the expenses for the public appearances of the Fatimid ruler. Another item entitled “gifts and charity” was designated for converts to Islam. In Egypt of the first half of the twelfth century there was no massive movement of conversion to Islam. The possible converts might have been high ranking Christians and Jews associated with the court, or nonMuslim court physicians. They needed neither gifts nor charity. This budgetary item might have been inspired by Koran 9:60, saying that charity (sadaqa¯t) is also for “those whose hearts are to conciliate”. Other payments in this budget were for the poor men and women and

71 See European Journal of Social Theory, 8(2005), 6.

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beggars of both sexes.72 The practical meaning of these charities was insignificant but it symbolized the benevolence and grandeur of the state. In other cases rulers identified themselves as personally responsible for the weak elements of society. For example the Abbasid caliph al-Mansu¯r (754 – 775) described himself as “the husband of the widows, the father of orphans, the brother of the old, and the uncle of the weak”.73 The social awareness of the caliph was narrow, limited to the context of relations within the family. The caliph committed himself to those whom the extended family was normally expected to take care of. The social thinking of the caliph was patriarchal and patronizing and ignored the poor. Care for the orphans and poor appears on some Ayyubid and Mamluk sultanic inscriptions. The commitment to take care of orphans might have been inspired by the Koranic teaching which urges fairness and benevolence toward orphans. The inclusion of the poor among those for whom the ruler cares indicates a widening of social awareness on the part of the ruler. However, one must not forget the propagandist intent of sultanic inscriptions and the common gap between declarations and social realities. At this stage in the research, it would be impossible to say whether in medieval Islam awareness of social problems went beyond the parameters of monotheistic sacred charity. The evidence available does not point in this direction. Social programs that were implemented in medieval Islam bore the personal marks of the rulers who sponsored them. Two names stand out: that of Muzaffar al-Din Kçkb rı¯ the ruler of Irbil and sultan Nu¯r al-Dı¯n of Syria (1146 – 1174). Their projects were truly vast and included the establishment of hospitals and other charitable institutions. More common was the establishment of small to medium sized endowed charitable complexes in the urban context. However, such complexes were always established by members of the ruling elite. They were few and random and, more significantly, firmly rooted in the worldview of monotheistic charity. Other accounts are rare and difficult to interpret. For instance, in Cairo of 876/1471 – 1472 a man had quadruplets, two boys and two girls. He was presented to the sultan who gave him ten dı¯na¯rs and a sack of wheat.74 This was typical charity inspired by unusual need and one must ask whether it reflected social awareness or a passing moment ˘

72 Ibn al-Ma mu¯n, Akhba¯r, 70 – 1. 73 Waki , Akhba¯r al-Quda¯t, (ed) M. Maraghi (Cairo, 1947 – 1950), II, 61. 74 Ibn Iya¯s, Bada¯ i , III, 72. ˘

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of mercy. Perhaps, as rare as such accounts are, they should be collected and studied. Within court relations, giving of presents on the birth of children was quite common. In 369/979 – 980, a son was born to the powerful Fatimid vizier Ibn Killis. The ruler al- Azı¯z sent him 10,000 dı¯na¯rs, textiles, riding animals with their equipment, and perfumes. It was a gift worth 100,000 dı¯na¯rs, a sum that signified the special relations between the two as well as court etiquette. In 381/991 – 992, a son was born to the emir al-Afdal ibn Sa¯lih, and al- Azı¯z sent him precious textiles and 500 dı¯na¯rs while al- Azı¯z’s wife sent him 300 dı¯na¯rs and textiles. In the context of court relations, these sums were not significant and the emphasis was more on exquisite items. The gifts given to al-Afdal ibn Sa¯lih were completely different from the favor (in a¯m) worth 100,000 dı¯na¯rs bestowed in 381/991 – 992 by al- Azı¯z on Manju¯takı¯n, a defeated Turkish warrior in whose service he was interested.75 The terms ni ma/in a¯m signified a favor bestowed by a ruler on a person in his service, or by a patron on a prot g . The gift conferred by al- Azı¯z on Manju¯takı¯n meant to establish him in a high position among the elite and to send a social message: he enjoys my patronage. This high-value gift was instrumental and not merely symbolic. The gift did not do much good to Manju¯takı¯n who died soon afterwards. The rumors were that he was poisoned by rivals at the court. The Fatimid gifts discussed above were very different from the charity given to the father of the quadruplets. ˘

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Conclusions Monotheistic sacred charity, whether Jewish, Christian, or Islamic displays many features common to them all. I would argue that these underlying similarities reflect a commonly shared view about God and His relation to mankind and what humans owe to God and expect from Him. Monotheistic charity was a duty and for many a way of life. Although charitable handouts were useful for the receivers, their overall social impact was limited. Monotheistic charity was an ineffective tool for the relief of poverty. However, when the various forms of endowments inspired by the notion of charity are taken into account, monotheistic charity was quite capable of providing certain religious, educational, and charitable services. These were instrumental for the cohesiveness of society and eased social tension and misery. Although the study of gift giving and ˘

75 Maqrı¯zı¯, Itti a¯z, I, 252, 272.

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gift exchange in medieval Islam is still only at a rudimentary stage, I would argue that the evidence suggests that charity and gift giving were perceived as two distinct activities. Moreover, we find that the critical analysis of the various forms of charitable giving in medieval Islamic society not only provides valuable insights into the social, political and cultural structures of that society, but also affirms the strong similarity of outlook underlying the concept of charity in the monotheistic religions.

Charity and Repentance in Medieval Islamic Thought and Practice Daniella Talmon-Heller

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In his discussion of the virtues of voluntary almsgiving, al-Ghazza¯lı¯ presents its expiatory quality with a quotation from the Prophet: “Give alms, even a single date, for it relieves the hungry and does away with sin as water extinguishes the flames.”1 The idea that repentance (tawba) and ˙ in verses charitable giving (sadaqa) are linked appears in the Koran, ˙ 103 – 104 of Su¯rat al-Tawba (9): “Take of their wealth a freewill offering (sadaqa), to purify them and to cleanse them thereby, and pray for ˙ them… Do they not know that God is He who accepts repentance from his servants, and takes the freewill offerings and that God—He turns and is All-Compassionate (al-tawa¯b al-rah¯ım)?” Verse 70 of su¯rat ˙ and does righteous al-Furqa¯n (25), “he who repents and believes, works—those, God will change their evil deeds into good deeds, for God is ever All-forgiving, All-compassionate” implies that almsgiving is a means of atonement, depending on God’s grace and forgiveness, of course.2 Discreet almsgiving is advocated in su¯rat al-Baqara (2:271) as a particularly praiseworthy means of atonement. More specifically, the Koran suggests charitable giving as a means of atonement using the term kaffa¯ra, which denotes the “covering over”, removal, or wiping away of sin.3 In su¯rat al-Ma ida (5:89), the feeding or clothing of ten poor people, or the emancipation of a slave (or, a fast of three days), are prescribed as the means of kaffa¯ra for a broken, or improperly taken oath.4 In some cases of violation of ritual law, especially in the con1 2

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Al-Ghazza¯lı¯, Ihya¯ ‘Ulu¯m al-Dı¯n, 3/4 (asra¯r al-zaka¯h), Cairo 1357/1938 – 9, 20. ˙ Arberry, The Koran Interpreted, 2 vols., London 1955. For an Translation: A.J. exhaustive list of Koranic verses that deal with repentance, see Syed Mu azzam Husain, “Effect of Tauba (Repentance) on Penalty in Islam,” Islamic Studies 8 ˙ (1969):187 – 198. See also Uri Rubin, “Repentance and Penance,” EQ 4: 426 – 30. See P.R. Powers, “Offending Heaven and Earth: Sin and Expiation in Islamic Homicide Law,” Islamic Law and Society 14 (2007): 54. For legalistic specification of the details, see Mongia A. Mensia, “L’act expiatoire en Islam. ‘Al-Kaffa¯ra’,” in Rituals and Ethics. Patterns of repentance: Judaism,

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text of the hajj or the fast of Ramada¯n, kaffa¯ra entails the sacrifice of an ˙ ˙ animal (the meat of which is distributed to the needy), or, on rare occasions, a monetary payment instead.5 Some jurists require that it be given with pure intention (niyya), but usually it is implied that kaffa¯ra is an objective, straightforward, way of expiation.6 Fasting, rather than almsgiving is recommended either when the expiator is too poor to give away anything, or too rich to feel the burden of almsgiving.7 The early Christian principle, according to which a sin should be atoned for by the correlative good work—namely that whoever sins with the body makes amends with the body, and whoever sins out of greed makes amends with alms—does not seem to have guided Islamic reasoning. Both fasting and charitable deeds were regarded as compensatory acts notwithstanding the specific sin, perhaps also as instruments of moral improvement.8 Little has been written on repentance and the expiation of sin either in Islamic legal theory and theology, or in the practice of Muslims,9 still

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Christianity, Islam, ed. Adriana Destro & Mauro Pesce, Paris-Louvains 2004, 134 – 135. Koranic verses 2:184 and 196 address the issue of expiation for sin, mainly for misdeeds during Ramada¯n or the hajj, using the term fidya – ex˙ Heaven,” ˙54). change, ransom (Powers, “Offending Expiation for violating the fast of Ramada¯n with sexual intercourse demands set˙ or feeding 60 poor (Ibn Quda¯ma, alting free a slave, or fasting for two months, Mughnı¯, ed. A. A Turkı¯ and A.M. al-Huluw, Cairo 1986 – 90, 4: 365, 372 – ˙ be a substitute for the fast of the 389). Feeding a poor man each day may very elderly and infirm, pregnant women and nursing mothers (ibid., 4: 393 – 397). Powers, “Offending Heaven,” 72. For three early Ma¯likı¯ fatwa¯s that recommend repentant caliphs to fast rather than give alms or manumit slaves—reasoning either that the latter means of expiation are not strenuous enough in these particular cases, or that the caliph does not have any money or possessions of his own—see Maribel Fierro, “Caliphal Legitimacy and Expiation in al-Andalus,” in Islamic Legal Interpretation. Muftı¯s and their Fatwa¯s, Cambridge Mass. 1996, 55 – 60. For a reminiscent case from Fatimid Egypt, see Yaacov Lev, “Charity and Social Practice: Egypt and Syria in ˙the ninth-twelfth Centuries,” JSAI 24 (2000): 482. See Arnold Angenendt, Thomas Braucks, Rolf Busch and Hubertus Letterbach, “Counting Piety in the Early and High Middle Ages,” in Ordering Medieval Society, ed. B. Jussen, Philadelphia 2001, 35. Significantly, the Encyclopedia of Religion edited by Mircae Eliade, has no section on Islam in the entries “Atonement,” “Confession of Sins,” and “Repentance.” For a general survey, see Mahmoud Ayoub, “Repentance in the Islamic Tradition,” in Repentance. A Comparative Perspective, ed. Amitai Etzioni and David E. Carrey, 96 – 121.

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less on almsgiving as a means of atonement.10 Obviously, Su¯fı¯ literature is ˙ the richest source for discussions on repentance; tawba is regarded as an imperative of intimacy with God, and an absolutely essential component of asceticism and mysticism. In some mystical systems it is presented as the first stage of the Su¯fı¯’s path, in others, as one of the most advanced ˙ stations of his sojourn, or as a permanent state of mind and constant way of life. Su¯fı¯s defined tawba as inner purification, spiritual renewal, ˙ and radical reorientation towards God. Some mystical fraternities, as can be gathered from classical manuals, held formal rites of repentance, such as asking for forgiveness in the presence of a Su¯fı¯ sheikh.11 ˙ Here, however, I wish to present a tentative sketch of the perception of “ordinary” medieval Muslims in a defined geographical area and chronological period, despite the dearth of medieval source material specifically devoted to this issue. I will focus on four aspects of tawba as recorded in narrative, legal, and devotional works, mainly from twelfth and thirteenth century Syria: gestures of remorse, prayer for the expiation of sins, atonement through charitable giving, and penance through self inflicted total poverty.12 Let us begin with a short exposition of the concept of tawba in the writings of Ibn Quda¯ma al-Maqdisı¯, the renowned Damascene Hanbalı¯ ˙ jurist of the early thirteenth century. Ibn Quda¯ma uses a picturesque image to depict God’s pleasure at the repentance of his servant. He likens it to the joy of a desperately thirsty and hungry lone wanderer in the des-

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10 For Christian formal and severe rites of atonement, see for example Claudia Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity, Berkeley 2005, 93 – 99; Sarah Hamilton, “Penance in the Age of the Gregorian Reform,” Retribution, Repentance, and Reconciliation, ed. Kate Cooper and Jeremy Gregory, Church History 40 (2004): 47 – 73; Angenendt et als., “Counting Piety,” 22 – 31. For Jewish perspectives, see Moshe Beer, “On Penance and Penitents in the Literature of Hazal,” Zion 46 ˙ (1981): 159 – 181 [in Hebrew]. For a comparative study, see M.S. Stern, “AlGhazza¯lı¯, Maimonides, and Ibn Paqu¯da on Repentance: A Comparative Model,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 47 (1979): 589 – 607. 11 Ayoub, “Repentance,” 111 – 114; Frederick M. Denny, “Tawba,” EI 2 10: 385; Atif Khalil, “Ibn Arabı¯ on the Three Conditions of Tawba,” Islam and Christian Muslim Relations 17 (2006): 403 – 416; and Gerhard Bçwering, “Early Sufism between Persecution and Heresy,” in Islamic Mysticism Contested, ed. Frederick de Jong and Bernd Radtke, Leiden 1999, 44, 49, 52. 12 Admittedly, a wider survey should entail a systematic search in additional types of literature, such as commentary on the Koran (tafsı¯r), tales of the prophets (Qisas ˙˙ al-Anbiya¯ , a genre which presents famous sinners and penitents such as Adam, Eve, David, and Jonas), and theological treatises.

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ert at the sudden reappearance of his she-camel, laden with supplies. In a more juridical language, in the same short chapter he devotes to repentance in his Mukhtasar Minha¯j al-Qa¯sidı¯n, Ibn Quda¯ma classifies tawba as ˙ a constant and enduring obligation˙ (wa¯jib daiman), in accordance with the consensus of scholars (ijma¯ ).13 His definition of tawba is simple: the turning away from sin—the veil that separates man from God (or, conceals God from the believer). He remarks that man is never free from sin, nor can he ever attain perfection: if he does not sin in his deeds, he is liable to sin in his heart and thoughts, or, at least be guilty of forgetfulness (ghafla) and ignorance. Even the Prophet, he says, quoting a hadı¯th included in Sah¯ıh Muslim, is said to have confessed that he ˙ and returns to God ˙ ˙ a˙ hundred times a day.14 repents In one place, Ibn Quda¯ma enumerates three elements of repentance: the recognition or knowledge ( ilm) that detachment from God is caused by sins, remorse (nadam), and resignation not to sin again ( azm).15 In ˙ guidanother, he lists four components of tawba, and adds some practical ance regarding means of penance. The four are: remorse in the heart, pleading for forgiveness with the tongue, inner decision not to repeat the sin, distancing oneself from bad companions, and, in some cases, especially if the sin is known to the public—the suffering of the relevant hadd punishment.16 ˙ Institutionalized rites of atonement are not characteristic of Sunni Islam. Referring to this point, M.S. Stern explains that the community ˘

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13 Yet he quotes explicit Koranic verses to support his call to tawba: al-Nu¯r 31, alBaqara 222, al-Fath 2 and al-Shu¯ra¯ 25. Mu‘tazilı¯s regard tawba obligatory by rea˙ scripture and ijma¯ (Mokdad A. Mensia, “Th ories du repenson; Ash arı¯s rely on tir chez les th ologiens musulmans classiques,” in Rituals and ethics, 117). 14 Ibn Quda¯ma al-Maqdisı¯, Mukhtasar Minha¯j al-Qa¯sidı¯n, ed. Kh. b. Uthma¯n, Cairo 2002, 250. For al-Ghazza¯lı¯’s ˙explanation of the˙inevitability of sin, together with man’s inherent capacity to return to good through sincere repentance, see M.S. Stern, “Notes on the Theology of al-Ghazza¯lı¯’s Concept of Repentance,” Islamic Quarterly 23 (1979): 85 – 86. 15 Mainstream Su¯fı¯ formulas, as articulated by the eleventh century al-Hujwı¯rı¯ and al-Qushayrı¯, ˙include “remorse for disobedience, immediate abandonment of sin, and determination not to sin again” (Khalil, “Ibn Arabı¯,” 405). See survey of Mu tazilı¯ and Ash arı¯ theological and legalistic stands regarding tawba, in Mensia, “Th ories,” 107 – 124. 16 Here he quotes scholars affiliated with the other schools of law, who claim that the hadd punishment (namely, a punishment explicitly prescribed in the Koran) ˙ means of expiation, or purification (tathı¯r) from sin, notwithstanding is the ˙ whether the sin is known to the public, or concealed from it (Ibn Quda¯ma, al-Mughnı¯, 12: 483 – 485). By ˘

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is not held as the source of salvation, hence the individual Muslim must pursue his reconciliation with God individually, and is not required, or encouraged to engage in public confession.17 Yet, evidence from twelfth century Damascus and Baghdad indicates that overt declarations of guilt and communal expressions of contrition were part of religious life, as well as individualistic endeavors such as the performance of the hajj, or resignation to a sanctuary after having experienced or undertaken ˙ tawba (repentance).18 In an autobiographical passage of his chronicle Mir a¯t al-Zama¯n, the historian and preacher Sibt ibn al-Jawzı¯ tells about a particular sermon ˙ that he had delivered in the summer of 607/1210 (shortly after the expiration of a three-year truce between the Ayyu¯bid ruler al-Malik al- Adil and the Frankish king Amalric). Sibt ibn al-Jawzı¯ reports that men in ˙ the audience clipped their forelock (na¯siya) on the spot.19 He gives no fur˙ ther details about this gesture, but the Maghribı¯ traveler Ibn Jubayr— who had witnessed similar behavior at an assembly of exhortation delivered by Sibt ibn al-Jawzı¯ s grandfather, the renowned Hanbalı¯ scholar, in ˙ ˙ Baghdad in 1184—does. According to Ibn Jubayr s description, in the midst of a demonstration of fervent public penitence “each [one of the penitent men] offered him [the preacher] his forelock which he cut off, and placing his hand on the head of each, he prayed for them. Some fainted and he raised them to himself in his arms… People threw themselves on him, confessing their sins and expressing their remorse. Their hearts and minds were overcome by emotion.”20 The jurist Izz al-Dı¯n ˘

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17 Stern, “Notes,” 82 – 98. 18 Ibn al- Adı¯m, Bughyat al-Talab fı¯ Ta rikh Halab, ed. S. al-Zakka¯r, Damascus ˙ 1988 – 1989, 6: 2911; al-Nawawı ¯, Fata¯wa¯, ˙ed. M. al-Arna¯ u¯t, Damascus 1999, 2: 735; Diya¯ al-Dı¯n al-Maqdisı¯, al-Hika¯ya¯t, 94a; trans. ˙in Talmon-Heller, ˙ Tales of the Wondrous Doings ˙ “‘The Cited of the Shaykhs of the Holy Land’ by Diya¯ al-Dı¯n Abı¯ Abd Alla¯h Muhammad b. Abd al-Wah¯ıd al-Maqdisı¯ ˙ ˙ (569/1173 – 643/1245): text, translation˙ and commentary,” Crusades 1 (2002): 136. 19 Sibt ibn al-Jawzı¯, Mir’a¯t al-Zama¯n fı¯ Ta rı¯kh al-A ya¯n, Hyderabad, Deccan: Dairatu˙ l-Maarifi l-Osmania 1951 – 52, 8: 530; Abu¯ Sha¯ma, Tara¯jim Rija¯l al-Qarnayn al-Sa¯dis wa-l-Sa¯bi , ed. M.Z. al-Kawtharı¯, Cairo 1947, 48 – 49. On the history of this gesture, see Goldziher, Muslim Studies, ed. and trans. S.M. Stern and C.R. Barber, London 1967, 1: 227. 20 Ibn Jubayr, Rihla, ed. W. Wright and M.J. De Goeje, Leiden 1907; trans. R.J.C. ˙ Travels of Ibn Jubayr, London 1952, 220 – 22. For more of Ibn Broadhurst, The Jubayr’s enthusiastic description of daily preaching in Baghdad in 580/1184, see ibid, 200 – 204; trans. in Broadhurst, 228 – 234. ˘

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al-Sulamı¯ (d. 660/1262), the most prominent Sha¯fi ¯ı scholar of his time, refers to the clipping of the forelock in two of his extant fatwa¯s. He determines that “cutting some of the hair of the penitent by a preacher (qass ˙˙ ba du al-sha r li-man ta¯ba ala¯ aydı¯ [al-wu a¯z])” as well as the shaving of all ˙ ˙ hair in the same circumstances, is permissible. He adds that although it may even be affective, it is not to be regarded as a condition (shart) or ˙ pillar (rukn) of repentance.21 From an anthropological perspective, the clipping of the na¯siya may be seen as a sacrifice—if defined, following ˙ Claude Rivi re, as a symbolic separation from a part of oneself, done to express submission, obedience, self-mortification, repentance, or love.22 In some Bedouin societies, in reconciliation ceremonies between a murderer and the avenger of the blood of the murdered person, the latter shaves of the na¯siya of the murderer (or some of his beard).23 ˙ In the course of Sibt ibn al-Jawzı¯’s sermon of 607/1204, the sacrificed ˙ hair was piled so high, that it reminded Sibt ibn al-Jawzı¯ of ‘the story of ˙ Abu¯ Quda¯ma . He related it to the audience, thereby reviving the tale of a ninth century veteran of many raids against the Christians of Byzantium. It is a tale of a bizarre encounter that Ibn Quda¯ma al-Sha¯mı¯ had with a woman, who begged him to cut off her beautiful long plaits of hair and use them as reins for his horse when going out to fight fı¯ sabı¯l Alla¯h (in God’s way). He refused at first, suspecting the machinations of the devil. But the woman insisted, passionately presenting the offering of her hair as a means of expiation for her sins, and finally he complied. The story (which entails not only the sacrifice of hair, but also of the martyrdom on the battlefield of the lady’s husband and two sons) made a great impression on the already excited Damascene audience, and the day’s assembly culminated in a raid on Frankish territory. When the party made a stopover in Nablus, Sibt ibn al-Jawzı¯ offered the hair of the penitent Damas˙ ˘

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21 Izz al-Dı¯n al-Sulamı¯, Fata¯wa¯, ed. M.J. Kurdı¯, Beirut 1996, 325, 327. 22 Ilana Silber, “Echoes of Sacrifice? Repertoires of Giving in the Great Religions,” in Sacrifice in Religious Experience, ed. Albert I. Baumgarten, Leiden 2002 (=Studies in the History of Religions, vol. 93), 288. According to another interpretation, the cutting or the shaving of the hair is, in various cultures, a symbolic expression of the acceptance of some form of social order, or restraint (Christopher R. Hallpike, “Hair,” ER 6: 155). 23 Julian Morgenstern, Rites of Birth, Marriage and Death Among the Semites, Chicago 1966, 85.

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cenes to the Ayyu¯bid prince al-Malik al-Mu azzam24 Whether the raiders ˙˙ regarded their enlistment for the ghazwa (raid) as a further act of atonement for their sins, or felt that the clipping of the na¯siyya and the offering ˙ of the hair as gifts to the preacher and, later, to the Ayyu¯bid prince suf25 ficed, we do not know. The sacrifice of hair as a symbolic gesture of penance is mentioned in other reports of twelfth-thirteenth century preaching in Baghdad and Damascus, including that of a pretender, one of those charlatans who earned their living posing as men of religion or pious destitutes, described in al-Jawbarı¯’s thirteenth-century ‘manual’ to the Syrian underworld.26 Weeping and crying for one’s sins in public seems to have been another recurrent way of “acting out” repentance in popular assemblies of exhortation.27 Sibt ibn al-Jawzı¯ obviously felt gratified when he spied tears ˙ of remorse and repentance in the eyes of his listeners. Biographers admit that he was very good at reducing the crowd to tears, and he himself proudly tells of sturdy men—such as the emir Alı¯ ibn al-Sala¯r (d. 634/ 1236 – 7), leader of twenty hajj caravans—who wept throughout his as˙ semblies of exhortation28 Storytellers indulge in wildly exaggerated accounts of the weeping of repentant Prophets. In al-Kisa¯ ¯ı s Qisas al-Anbiya¯ ˙˙

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24 Sibt ibn al-Jawzı¯, Mir a¯t, 8: 544 – 545; Abu¯ Sha¯ma, Tara¯jim, 69; Ibn Kathı¯r, al˙¯ ya wa-l-Niha¯ya fı¯ al-Ta rı¯kh, Beirut 1993, 13: 69 – 70; Dhahabı¯, Ta rı¯kh alBida Isla¯m, ed. A. A. Tadmu¯rı¯, Beirut 2003, 61: 62. 25 On the Latin side, crusade sermons often concentrated on the penitential and devotional aspect of crusading (as a means of combating the enemy within), and promised the absolution of sins for Christians who fight for the pope (Christof T. Maier, Crusade Propaganda and Ideology, Cambridge 2000, 3; idem, Preaching the Crusades, Cambridge 1994, 116 – 117). See also Neil Christie and Deborah Gerish, “Parallel Preaching: Urban II and al-Sulamı¯,” al-Masa¯q 15 (2003): 143. 26 On another occasion, the same preacher pre-arranged a ‘conversion’ to Islam (alJawbarı¯, al-Mukhta¯r, Cairo 1353 h, 20 – 22; quoted in C.E. Bosworth, Medieval Islamic Underworld. The Banu¯ Sasra¯ in Arabic Society and Literature, Leiden 1976, 112). 27 Outward signs of anxiety, humility, and tears were considered necessary for repentance in medieval Christian writing (Hamilton, “Penance,” 58). William Christian, speaking of ‘religious weeping’ in early modern Spain, explains that “the pain, pious tenderness or sorrow that accompanied weeping were part of an economy of sentiment that could influence God,” and were thought to provoke his mercy (W.A. Christian, “Provoked Religious weeping in Early Modern Spain,” in Religious Organization and Religious Experience, ed. J. Davis, London 1982, 97 – 98, 107). 28 Sibt ibn al-Jawzı¯, Mir a¯t, 8: 579. ˙

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weeping is the most prominent bodily expression of remorse and repentance. Adam, for example, wept until the tears left deep creases on his cheeks after he had realized his sin;29 Noah wept for 300 years; David never consumed a drink without mixing it with his tears, etc.30 Early Islamic ascetics (the famous bakka¯ u¯n), were celebrated for having wept constantly, either over their own sins, or out of compassion for other sinners.31 Tears were thought to have a purgative effect on sins, and were likened to a shield that protects from the fires of hell and from eschatological punishment.32 A third expression of individual and communal penance mentioned in our texts is the pronunciation of a special prayer (du a¯ ) for the remission of sins. It appears in Ibn Quda¯ma’s compilation in connection with repentance for the breach of laws of sexual purity, coupled with the almsgiving of a dina¯r, or half a dina¯r. The term used is istighfa¯r – asking God’s forgiveness.33 The pious Hanbalı¯ scholar Ima¯d al-Dı¯n Ibn Quda¯ma al˙ Maqdisı¯, seems to have engaged in a more elaborate form of prayer: he used to go out to a cemetery every Wednesday, and absorb himself for hours, appealing for the forgiveness of sins, and for guidance and grace.34 He readily implored on the behalf of others as well: in one of the anecdotes that illustrate his commitment to commanding right and forbidding wrong (the Koranic obligation of al-amr bi-l-ma ru¯f wa-lnahyi an al-munkar) he suffered the severe beating of fussa¯q (sinners), whose casks of wine (or perhaps musical instruments) he had smashed. Yet he begged the wa¯lı¯ of Damascus to forgive them and exempt them from punishment, “if they repent and pray consistently (in ta¯bu¯ wa-lazamu al-sala¯t).”35 ˙ ˘

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29 Aviva Schussman, “A Glance at the ‘Tales of the Prophets’: the Story of Adam in the Qisas al-Anbiya¯ of Muhammad b. Abd Alla¯h al-Kisa¯ ¯ı (an annotated trans˙ [in Hebrew]. ˙˙ lation),”Jama‘a 15 (2006): 100 30 Jonathan Berkey, Popular Preaching & Religious Authority in the Late Medieval Period, Seattle and London 2001, 48. 31 Alexander Knysh, Islamic Mysticism. A Short History, Leiden 2000, 17; G. Calasso, “La dimension religieuse individuelle dans les textes musulmans m di vaux, entre hagiographie et literature de voyages: les larmes, les motions, l’exp rience,” SI 91 (2000): 41, 53. 32 Berkey, Popular Preaching, 49. 33 “wa-yastaghfiru Alla¯hu ta a¯la¯…yatasaddaqu bi-dina¯r aw nisf dina¯r” (Ibn Quda¯ma, ˙ ˙ al-Mughnı¯, 1: 318). 34 Dhahabı¯, Siyar A la¯m al-Nubala¯ , ed. B. A. al-Ma ru¯f and M.H. Sirha¯n, Beirut ˙ 1984 – 85, 22: 49 35 Dhahabı¯, Siyar, 22: 47. ˘

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Muwaffaq al-Dı¯n Ibn Quda¯ma devotes a short paragraph of a section on supererogatory prayer in his above-mentioned compilation of Hanbalı¯ ˙ law to a prayer he entitles sala¯t al-tawba. Under that heading he purport˙ edly quotes the Prophet, saying: “Any man who had sinned (yudhnibu dhanban), then purified himself [he doesn’t say how], then prayed two rak as, then pleaded for God’s forgiveness, will be forgiven. ‘And God loves the good-doers; who, when they commit an indecency or wrong themselves, remember God, and pray for forgiveness for their sins— and who shall forgive sins but God?—and do not persevere in the things they did and that wittingly. Those—their recompense is forgiveness from their Lord, and gardens beneath which rivers flow…’ [su¯rat A¯l Imra¯n, verse 135].”36 Further down in the section, Aisha describes the habit of the Prophet, who “whenever he would rise for special prayer at night, would praise and extol and glorify and applaud Him (or: recite the first part of the shaha¯da) ten times each, and beg forgiveness ten times, and say (or: saying): O Lord, forgive me and guide me and bless/endow me, and exempt me (kabbara ashran, wa-hamada ashran, ˙ wa-qa¯la: Alwa-sabbaha ashran, wa-hallala ashran, wa-istaghfara ashran, ˙ ˙ 37 la¯humma, ighfir lı¯, wa-ahdı¯nı¯, wa-arzuqnı¯ wa- a¯fı¯nı¯).” Two extant Friday sermons (khutbas) written by al-Malik al-Na¯sir ˙ ˙ Da¯wu¯d of Karak38 in Ramada¯n 646/1248, end with a prayer for sincere ˙ return to God and the forgiveness of sins. Al-Na¯sir first implores God’s ˙ mercy on his own behalf, then begs Him to accept his appeal for his brethren. The main parts of the sermons were devoted to impressing upon the minds of the listeners the signs of God’s greatness and unity, to opening their eyes to their task in this world and moving their hearts to realize the promise of heaven and fear the threat of hellfire. The assembly that had gathered at the mosque for the Friday sermon is likened by al-Na¯sir Da¯wu¯d to the assembly of mankind on the frightful Day of ˙ Judgment, albeit with a major difference: on that day it would be too late to repent—men will be exposed to God’s wrath, and their fates will be sealed in accordance with their doings.39 ˘

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36 Ibn Quda¯ma, al-Mughnı¯, 2: 553 – 554. 37 Ibn Quda¯ma, al-Mughnı¯, 2: 559. For other texts, see Constance E. Padwick, Muslim Devotions, London 1961, 173 – 198. 38 Joseph Drory, “Al-Na¯sir Da¯wu¯d: A Much Frustrated Ayyu¯bid Prince,” al-Masa¯q ˙ 15 (2003): 162. ¯ 39 Al-Na¯sir Da¯wu¯d b. Isa¯ al-Ayyu¯bı¯, al-Fawa¯ id al-Jalliya fı¯ al-Fara¯ id al-Na¯siriya, ˙ ¯d, Rasa¯ il˙ wa-Shi r al-Malik al-Na¯sir Da¯wu¯d b. ¯Isa¯ al-Ayyu¯bı¯, ed. N. Rashı ˙ Mosul 1992, 32 – 33, 85 – 93.

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Special prayers for the expiation of sins were regularly held during the night of the fifteenth of the month of Sha ba¯n (Nisf Sha ba¯n), which was ˙ considered to be an especially blessed night, identified by some commentators as Laylat al-Qadar (‘the night of the decree’) instead of Ramada¯n ˙ 27th. The prayers took place from sunset till dawn, with the very devout performing a hundred, or even the imaginary number of a thousand rak as during the night.40 Nisf Sha ba¯n was also an occasion for the distri˙ bution of food and clothing for the poor,41 which brings us to the final section of this paper. The notion that the giving of alms places God in one’s debt, and that He is bound to balance good deeds against evil deeds is common to the monotheistic religions.42 Belief in the expiatory power of almsgiving indeed motivated the generosity of men, especially those threatened by death, or ensured the caring for the well-being of their deceased relatives in the hereafter.43 Mamlu¯k chronicles repeatedly tell about sultans who gave food, clothing and large sums of money to the poor when they or their dear ones were ill,44 a practice named by Adam Sabra “treating illness with alms.” Chroniclers, who describe the preparations for death of rulers and other powerful men, report similar practices. The Ayyu¯bid alMalik al-Ashraf, for example, is reported to have manumitted 200 male and female slaves, given large sums of money for charitable causes, and acquired the simplest of su¯fı¯ robes to be buried in (rather than in elegant ˙ shrouds as befitting a ruler), when he felt that his time had come.45 His near contemporary, Shaykh Gha¯nim b. Alı¯ al-Maqdisı¯ of Na¯blus, underwent a process of tawba, following his recovery from an illness that took the lives of many of his friends. A mysterious shaykh had helped him “remove the love of this world from his heart,” as if he had “removed a lump of fresh dough from a saucer,” and he decided to retire to the Dome of Rock. Admittedly, al-Maqdisı¯’s biographer does not bother to tell us what ˘

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40 Daniella Talmon-Heller, Islamic Piety in Medieval Syria: Mosques, Cemeteries and Sermons under the Zangids and Ayyubids (1146 – 1260), Leiden 2007, 256. 41 Ibn al- Adı¯m, Bughyat al-Talab, 6: 2911; Ibn Shadda¯d, al-A la¯q, ed.Y.Z. al- Abba¯ra, Damascus 1991, 1: ˙110. 42 Angenendt, “Counting Piety,” 20. 43 Charity given in the name of the deceased was considered to affect his balance of good deeds and evil deeds (Ayoub, “Repentance,” 106). 44 Adam Sabra, Poverty and Charity in Medieval Islam, Cambridge 2000, 26, 56 – 58, 72. 45 Ibn Kathı¯r, al-Bida¯ya, 13: 171. See also Yaacov Lev, Charity Endowments, and Charitable Institutions in Medieval Islam, Gainesville, Florida 2005, 25.

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had happened to al-Maqdisı¯’s property; he only informs us that his sojourn at the holy mosque lasted six years, and was followed by a full conversion to the ascetic life.46 Hika¯ya¯t (stories), which seem to have been disseminated to wider au˙ diences, supply a valuable source for discourse analysis on the themes of piety, penance and giving. Here, again, Su¯fı¯ literature, inclined to indulge in descriptions of radical conversions, is˙ a “natural” treasury of tales and topoi. The well-known and richly detailed legend of Ibra¯hı¯m b. Adham (d. 161/777 – 8) is a good example for a conversion to Sufism, which begins with the repudiation of the life and assets of this world. Ibn Adham gives up his royal palace and estate, his wife, his silken robe and his favorite pastime of hunting gazelles, upon hearing a mysterious voice calling him to repentance.47 In the remainder of this paper, however, I will return to the Hanbalı¯ jurist Muwaffaq al-Dı¯n ibn Quda¯ma, and build ˙ my argument upon his Kita¯b al-Tawa¯bı¯n (Book of Penitents). It is a collection of 135 stories of penitents of various sorts: angels, prophets, anonymous Muslims, and famous historical figures, such as companions of the Prophet (saha¯ba), caliphs and viziers. Sibt ibn al-Jawzı¯’s al-Jalı¯s al˙ ˙ contains quite a few of those ˙ stories as well, almost Sa¯lih (quoted above) ˙verbatim. ˙ As observed by George Makdisi, the book is written in a simple, almost colloquial style, reminiscent of A Thousand and One Nights, and includes short explanations of terms and names.48 An exemplary penitent from the dawn of Islam whose story appears in Ibn Quda¯ma’s collection is Abu¯ Luba¯ba, a wealthy Medinan, who deeply regretted having failed to join the Prophet on the expedition to Ta¯bu¯k,49 and therefore imposed upon himself a series of punishments. ˘

46 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl Mir a¯t al-Zama¯n, Hyderabad 1960, 3: 60 – 61. The shaykh employed hand-contact and the recitation of the Koranic verse 79: 40. 47 Bçwering, “Early Sufism,” 46. See also the stories of Shaqı¯q al-Balkhı¯ and Ma¯lik b. Dina¯r (ibid, 46 – 47). 48 Ibn Quda¯ma al-Maqdisı¯, Kita¯b at-Tauwa¯bı¯n, ed. George Makdisi, Damascus 1961, XIV. See also Makdisi, “Two more manuscripts of the Book of Penitents,” in Orientalia Hispanica, ed. J.M. Barral, Lugduni Batavorum 1974: 526 – 530. A recent abridged edition—Ibn Quda¯ma al-Maqdisı¯, Dumu¯ al-Nada¯ma, ed. Ahmad S. Ba¯dwı¯la¯n, Riyad 1996—is equally interesting for the medievalist ˙ the modernist, as the editor ends each tale with his digest of the morals and to be drawn from it. In the foreword, he humbly expresses his hope that he did indeed pinpoint the correct messages, or alternatively, that his edition may be the basis of a better and more accurate interpretation of the text, which actually is, if I may say so, quite straightforward, if not simplistic. 49 The first, unsuccessful Muslim raid on Byzantine territory, 631. ˘

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He tied himself to a column, determined to abstain from food and drink until death. The Prophet came to untie him, communicating that God had forgiven him. Yet Abu¯ Luba¯ba was determined to undertake exile from his homeland as well, and also the distribution of alms (“sadaqa ˙ to ila¯ Alla¯h wa-ila¯ rasu¯lihi”).50 Interestingly, Ibn Quda¯ma again refers this story in his legal work, in the book of vows (kita¯b al-nudu¯r), albeit with an addition. He quotes the Prophet restricting Abu¯ Luba¯ba, who makes a vow to dispense of all of his money and give it away as alms as his act of penance (inna min tawbatı¯ an ankhali a min ma¯lı¯ sadaqatan ila¯ Alla¯hi wa-ila¯ rasu¯lihi), and telling him that he should give ˙away only one third of his possessions. This stand seems to be in line with a large number of hadı¯ths that advance moderation in the exercise of asceticism,51 and ˙discourage excessive self-sacrificial giving. It may, perhaps, also be tied with the pre-Islamic notion that charity should be given from the surplus of the benefactor’s possessions.52 It is noteworthy, however, that this self-preserving idea (and perhaps also social behavior) coexisted, in early Arab society, with self-destructive generosity: the extravagant ta aqqur – the competitive wasteful slaughter of camels for feasting, far beyond the capacity to consume by those partaking in the meal.53 Ibn Quda¯ma does not make these allusions, of course; he goes on to quote Ahmad ibn Hanbal, who advanced a stance similar to the Prophet’s, by ˙ telling a man˙ who wished to give away all his inheritance to the poor to satisfy his generosity by feeding ten of them. Al-Sha¯fi ¯ı and some other jurists hold a different opinion, and demand the fulfillment of the vow as taken.54 ˘

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50 Al-Maqdisı¯, Kita¯b al-Tauwa¯bı¯n, 94 – 96. 51 G. Gobillot, “Zuhd,” EI 2 11: 560. 52 See detailed discussion of the terms afw and fadl in early Arabic poetry, in Me r M. Bravmann, “‘The Surplus of Property’: an ˙Early Arab Social Concept,” Der Islam 38 (1962): 28 – 50. ‘The surplus given away’ was often the booty of raids, and therefore associated with prowess in warfare and tribal leadership (ibid, 35; Michael Bonner, “Poverty and Charity in the Rise of Islam,” in Poverty and Charity in Middle Eastern Contexts, ed. M. Bonner, Mine Ener and Amy Singer, New York 2003, 24). 53 Bonner, “Poverty,” 19 – 21. I wonder whether there is any kind of kinship between the religiously motivated giving away of all property, and the destruction of wealth, as entailed in potlatch-like forms of giving. May both be regarded as types of sacrifice? For a discussion of gift and sacrifice, see Silber, “Echoes.” 54 Ibn Quda¯ma, al-Mughnı¯, 13: 629 – 630. The Hanabalı¯ qa¯d¯ı Ya qu¯b al-Barzabı¯nı¯ ˙ al-Dhayl ˙ala¯ Tabaqa¯t al-Hana¯(d. 486/1093) gives a similar ruling (Ibn Rajab, ˙ bila, ed. H. Laoust and S. Dahan, Damascus 1951, 1: 94). Ibn˙ al-Jawzı¯, known ˘

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Most of the stories in Kita¯b al-Tawa¯bı¯n advocate the expiatory total renunciation of wealth and power (in some cases, even of kingship). Surprisingly, in my opinion, the penitent protagonists are hardly portrayed as villains or serious wrongdoers.55 Their sin seems to be merely their status: implicitly, either having been engaged in government service,56 or having indulged in the pleasures of this world, overrating its value. This seems to be an extended, or even more extreme version of al-Ghazza¯lı¯’s view, that the root of sin is the pursuit and love of the materialistic world.57 Typically, Ibn Quda¯ma’s stories are short and devoid of discussions of the psychological or even moral aspect of the transformation undergone by the penitent. Yet, there is a recurrent pattern explaining the initiation of repentance. Death—the witnessing of death, the realization that death is near, or the apparition (in a dream) of a dead relative who relates his newly acquired wisdom regarding death and the afterworld—appears as a prominent trigger of tawba. A typical example is the tale of the repentance of “one of the kings of the Children of Israel,” evoked by the death of a pious poor man, who, so the king is told, has left behind him his only worldly belonging: an old cloak and a water-skin. The king realizes immediately that none of his many worldly belongings can be taken to the other world, so he puts on the shabby cloak of the dead ascetic, leaves his kingdom, and spends the rest of his days serving people water from the old water-skin.58 In another tale, the ascetic Ma¯lik b. Dina¯r tells of his rather cunning admonishment to one of the notables of Basra. Ma¯lik relates how he was laughed at when he declared that he, a poor ascetic, could attain an absolutely flawless slave girl, better than the beautiful slave girl owned by

55

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for his criticism of Su¯fı¯ doctrines, thought the giving away of all possessions while leaving oneself and ˙family in the state of destitution, a grave error which may lead to sin (Sabra, Poverty, 23). The story of a repentant soldier, quoted by Christopher Taylor from an almost contemporaneous compilation of tales about saintly men buried in the cemetery of al-Qara¯fa, is different in this respect. The soldier repents, gives up his career and devotes the rest of his life to pious deeds, because he had killed an innocent man (Christopher S. Taylor, In the Vicinity of the Righteous: Ziya¯ra and the Veneration of Saints in Late Medieval Egypt, Leiden 1998, 116). See fascinating cases of repentance in such circumstances in Maurice A. Pomerantz, “Mu tazilı¯ Theory in Practice: The Repentance (tawba) of Government Officials in the 4th/10th century,” in A Common Rationality: Mu tazilism in Islam and Judaism , ed. Camilla Adang, Sabine Schmidtke and Daniel Sklare, W rburg 2007, 463 – 493. Stern, “Notes,” 86. Al-Maqdisı¯, Kita¯b al-Tauwa¯bı¯n,44. ˘

57 58

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the rich notable. Having realized that Ma¯lik is speaking of the maidens of Paradise, the master stops laughing. Ma¯lik b. Dina¯r then explains that the price of such a maiden is composed of an hour of sincere prayer each night, the control of passions, service to others, remembrance of the poor, and utmost frugality. The master hastens to manumit all his slaves (male and female). He also supplies each one of them with a generous endowment, and gives his house and all his possessions “fı¯ sabı¯l Alla¯h,” namely, for the sake of God (or perhaps: for the benefit of jiha¯d).59 One of the longer stories portrays three brothers: an emir, a merchant and an ascetic. The death of the ascetic, as well as his post-mortem appearance in the dreams of his brothers, prompts them to feel remorse for the lives they have led. Consequently, one brother resigns from the position of governor to become a simple shepherd, and the other gives up his trade.60 A discourse that idealizes poverty and denounces wealth and social status is well known from Su¯fı¯ contexts, of course. Most Su¯fı¯ authors ex˙ wealth, which is held to divert ˙ press explicit hostility towards man from the contemplation and worship of God, and perceive the abandonment of worldly goods as a sign of devotion towards God. Moreover, they attribute to God clear preference for the poor. Abu¯ Najı¯b al-Suhrawardı¯ compared the wealthy man to a sinner, and almsgiving to atonement.61 Al-Ghazza¯lı¯ declares in kita¯b al-tawba of the Ihya¯ , that “when a man ˙ has stripped himself of his wealth and reputation, he will be as one who has purified himself.”62 Poverty, asceticism and voluntary rejection of material goods may also be regarded as religious ideals of medieval Islamic society as a whole.63 In Ibn Quda¯ma’s Kita¯b al-Tawa¯bı¯n the Prophet explains that while wealth brings one nearer to the fire of Hell, poverty leads to Paradise, and charity can bring salvation.64

Al-Maqdisı¯, Kita¯b al-Tauwa¯bı¯n, 142 – 144. Al-Maqdisı¯, Kita¯b al-Tauwa¯bı¯n, 133 – 140. Sabra, Poverty and Charity, 26. Al-Ghazzali on Disciplining the Soul, trans., intr. and notes T.J. Winter, Cambridge 1997, 87. 63 Sabra, Poverty, 17 – 31. See also Shahrazu¯rı¯, Ibn al-Sala¯h, Fata¯wa¯ wa-Masa¯ il, ed. ˙ ˙ A.A. Qal ajı¯, Beirut 1986, 18, 20, 23. 64 Al-Maqdisı¯, Kita¯b al-Tauwa¯bı¯n, 102. ˘

59 60 61 62

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Yet, the conceptualizing of wealth and social status as sins to be atoned for not merely by charitable giving,65 but by stripping oneself of all belongings and social rank, recurrent, as we have seen, in popular tales—is striking. From one perspective, it may perhaps be regarded as a conciliatory message to the poor and oppressed, implicit also in a hadı¯th qudsı¯ quoted by Sibt ibn al-Jawzı¯, assuring the believers that ˙God is willing to forgive sins ˙ against Himself, but not the oppression of one another.66 The embedded idea is that the poor should wait patiently: if the rich fail to repent and atone for their extravagance in this world and become poor also, God and his agents will put things right in the next. “In the meanwhile, the underlying hierarchies went unchallenged,” to quote Jonathan Berkey’s words, written in an analogous context.67 From a different perspective, both the discourse of repentance and charity, and the public gestures employed to express penance and expiatory giving in thirteenth century Syria, may be regarded as yet further evidence of the deep influence of Su¯fı¯ asceticism and Hanbalı¯ frugality on ˙ that the concept medieval Muslim society at large.˙68 Yet it is worth noting of return is directed towards God; the anonymous poor and their benefit from the property that was renounced seems to be of secondary importance. The topos of the penitent Su¯fı¯ who throws his last coin into the ˙ with handing it over to someone river (and does not trouble himself who may need it) seems to reflect the notion that God is expected to give recompense for the act that symbolizes the acknowledgement of sin and true contrition, rather than for the act of charity.

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65 Which may actually be interpreted as a means of “purification of wealth”—see Jonathan Benthal, “Firstfruits in the Qur an,” in Sacrifice in Religious Experience, 262. 66 See also in Ibn Kathı¯r, Sı¯ra, trans. T. Le Gassik, Reading 2000, 4: 253. 67 Berkey, “Storytelling, Preaching and Power in Mamlu¯k Cairo,” MSR 4 (2000): 71 – 72; idem, Popular Preaching, 68, 49. 68 For a detailed exposition of this claim see my Islamic Piety, 222 – 224.

Part Three The Jewish World

Geniza Documents for the Comparative History of Poverty and Charity Mark R. Cohen The documents from the Cairo Geniza relating to poverty and charity constitute an unparalleled source for the comparative history of charity. This article develops this claim, one that is implicit in my monograph, Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt, but not presented there in a focused way. The essay also includes editions of six Geniza manuscripts that have never been published, along with the English translations I published in the companion volume, The Voice of the Poor in the Middle Ages: An Anthology of Documents from the Cairo Geniza. 1 In the monograph I discuss two main kinds of Geniza evidence for the history of poverty and charity. The first consists of letters of appeal, either written by the poor themselves (sometimes written by professional scribes or by friends) or by individuals recommending them for charity. The other is charity lists. The letters form part of a larger category of epistolographical material in the Geniza, better known from the hundreds of published letters of merchants, scholars, and communal leaders, as well as of private individuals dealing with personal and family matters. While hundreds of these letters have been published, very few letters of the poor—the understudied underclass of society—exist in printed editions.2 The lists fall into two major categories. The first comprises alms lists, namely, lists of recipients of bread, wheat, clothing, or cash. At the other end come lists of donors to the communal charity fund. Together they make up our principal source for what we may call “public charity,” understood as charity raised by and distributed by the community—not the Islamic authorities—and also to be distinguished from private charity. Private charity is documented mainly by the letters of appeal, really, petitions from the poor or on their behalf. In the latter, third parties vouch 1 2

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Both books were published by Princeton University Press in 2005. A small collection gathered in Elinoar Bareket’s article “‘Open Your Hand to your poor and needy kinsmen,’: Letters of request for Help from the Cairo Geniza” (Hebrew), Te uda 16 – 17 (2001), 359 – 389, is an exception.

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for the neediness of the poor and recommend them for assistance. Their letters constitute a kind of charity in their own right, embodying the rabbinic idea that inducing others to give charity is itself a form of charity. The targets of these petitions were usually individual, would-be benefactors, although, in some cases, the appeals were addressed to the community-at-large through one of its leaders. For the comparative history of poverty and charity, the lists are unique. We possess nothing like them from Late Antiquity or from medieval Christian Europe, including the Jewish communities. While we know from European Christian literary sources about the matriculae registering the names of alms recipients, no actual lists have survived.3 Such lists are lacking, too, for the Muslim population in the medieval Islamic world. Only a tiny number of letters of appeal from the poor have been found so far in the Arabic papyri or letters in Arabic written on paper. The Jewish letters thus fill in a gaping hole in the history of poverty and charity in general. At first glance the lists seem boring, which probably explains why so few of them have been published. In the context of a focused study of poverty and charity, however, they spring to life and are full of meaning. I collected some 315 specimens for my monograph, mostly from Goitein’s catalogues in the Appendixes to A Mediterranean Society, but many others that I came across independently.4 They form an invaluable source for the administration of charity. Fustat, the home of the Ben Ezra synagogue and its famous Geniza, is necessarily the focal point of these lists, though it is likely that what we learn from them can be applied to other Jewish communities of the Islamic Mediterranean as well.5 3 4

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See Peter Brown, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman Empire (Hanover and London, 2002), 65 and 135 n. 94. The lists published by Moshe Gil in his Documents of the Jewish Pious Foundations from the Cairo Geniza (Leiden, 1976) also have their origins in Goitein’s Appendixes, but they pertain to the operation of the Jewish pious foundations, and a rather small percentage of their income went for direct charity. Goiten catalogues these documents in a separate appendix from the lists of benecifiaries and contributors to charity. A generous selection of poor lists and donor lists edited by the present writer has been entered into the database brower of the Princeton Geniza Project, www.princeton.edu/~geniza. I know of no such lists for Alexandria, Qayrawan, Palestine, or Sicily, the other Mediterranean communities that have been thoroughly studied. In general, neither Moshe Gil’s Eres yisrael ba-tequfa ha-muslemit ha-rishona (Palestine during ˙ the First Muslim Period [634 – 1099]) (3 vols. Tel Aviv, 1983), nor Menahem Ben-Sasson’s Semihat ha-qehilla ha-yehudit be-arsot ha-islam: Qayrawan 800 – ˙ ˙

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Equally important, they act as a point de d part for the study of poverty and charity in the Jewish communities of medieval Europe, which had their own form of public charity but for which we possess relatively little or different types of documentation.6 This makes the Geniza lists (as well as the letters) an important source for the comparative study of poverty and charity in Jewish communities in other places as well.

Geniza letters of appeal and the comparative history of charity The value of the Geniza documents for the comparative history of charity is first illustrated with an example from the letters of the poor. The point of comparison is charity administration in early modern European countries after the Protestant Reformation. In medieval Europe, charity had come from religious institutions and from individuals motivated by the pious wish to earn divine salvation.7 Relief reached the poor primarily through distribution of alms (usually food, clothing, or fuel) by churches

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1057 (The Emergence of the Local Jewish Community in the Muslim World: Qayrawan, 800 – 1057) (Jerusalem, 1996), nor his edition of documents pertaining to Sicily, Yehudei sisilya 825 – 1068: Te udot u-meqorot (The Jews of Sicily 825 – 1068: Documents˙ and Sources), ed. Menahem Ben-Sasson with Miriam Frenkel and Nadia Zeldes, nor Miriam Frenkel’s Ha-ohavim veha-nedivim: ilit manhiga be-qerev yehudei Aleksandriya bi-yemei ha-beinayim (The Compassionate and Benevolent: The Elite Leadership in the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Middle Ages) (Jerusalem, 2006), nor Elinoar Bareket’s Fustat on the Nile: The Jewish Elite of Medieval Egypt (Leiden, Boston, Cologne, 1999) and her companion anthology Yehudei misrayim 1007 – 1055 (The Jews of Egypt 1007 – 1055, ˙ the “Archive” of Efraim ben Shemarya) (Jerusalem, based on Documents from 1995) have much to say about charity, owing to the paucity of sources on the subjects they studied. Only Goitein’s capacious Mediterranean Society contains a description of the charity system of Fustat, which was the starting point for my own work. See Yom-Tov Assis, “Rich and Poor in Jewish Society in Mediterrranean Spain” (Hebrew), Pe amim 47 (1991), 115 – 138 and “Welfare and Mutual Aid in the Spanish Jewish Communities,” in Moreshet Sepharad: The Sephardi Legacy, ed. Haim Beinart (Jerusalem, 1992), 1:318 – 345; Eliezer Gutwirt, “The Jewish Hospitals in Spain” (Hebrew) Pe amim 37 (1989), 140 – 150; Yehuda Galinsky, “‘I am Donating to Heaven for the Benefit of my Soul’: Jewish Charitable Bequests and the Hekdesh Trust in the Rabbinic Responsa of Thirteenth-Century Spain,” The Journal of Interdisciplinary History 35:3 (Winter 2005), 423 – 440. See Michel Mollat, The Poor in the Middle Ages: An Essay in Social History, trans. Arthur Goldhammer (New Haven and London, 1986) and other sources cited in my Poverty and Charity, 5 n. 9. ˘

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and monasteries, private gifts, and hostels for wayfarers, the elderly, the physically and mentally sick, as well as others—institutions that later evolved into proper hospitals. The sixteenth century saw the introduction of more organized, “rational” strategies for public poor relief, centralized in the hands of secular rather than ecclesiastical authorities and applying stricter and more effective rules than in the Middle Ages for determining who among the poor deserved relief.8 The latter stemmed from growing fear of vagabondage and mendicancy at this time—in large part a result of population expansion and economic hard times. The new Protestant work ethic contributed significantly to the change in attitude toward the poor, as did Catholic humanist proposals to improve social welfare. The English Poor Laws, crystallizing around 1600 and introducing the new idea that poor relief should be supported by public taxation, represent one well known manifestation of the secularization and “rationalization” of poor relief in western Europe in the early modern period. In recent years, much has been learned about charity administration in the post-Reformation period thanks to the discovery, publication, and analysis of first-hand documents found in parish archives, mainly petitions of the poor, but also letters on their behalf addressed to poor law administrators in England—“pauper letters” as they have been called.9 Though separated in time and space from the Geniza documents, without any possibility of cultural diffusion between them, these petitions resemble, sometimes parrot, the petitions of the poor from the Geniza. To be sure, there are important differences. The English petitions represent pleas from needy people living outside of their home town, addressed to poor law administrators in their home parish. They request a dole that is theirs by legal right, and provided out of public tax funds. Furthermore, the English letters are relatively free of religious sentiments, for instance, wishing that their benefactors may enjoy God’s gratitude for their magnanimity, precisely because the petitioners lived in a context where charity 8

9

Sharon Farmer has shown in recent research that many of the characteristic changes in poor relief in the 16th century were already anticipated in 13th-15th century Paris. Paper presented at the Cornell Conference on Medieval Poverty (March 28, 2008). The largest collection is edited by Thomas Sokoll, Essex Pauper Letters 1731 – 1837 (Oxford, 2001), an exemplary edition preserving the original spelling and punctuation and using sigla employed in medieval manuscript study to indicate the exact appearance of the page, with completions of lacunae, etc. There are 758 letters in the collection. Most of them emanate from the relatively uneducated underclass.

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was an entitlement from the government, funded by public taxation, and no longer a gift of private individuals seeking divine salvation in return for their beneficence. The Geniza people lived in a more self-conscious religious age, when nearly everything bore a religious stamp. Thus, the Jewish letters are peppered with religious sentiments. This begins with formulaic phrases like “may God grant you long life” following every mention of a person’s name. The letters of appeal for private charity include also prayers to God on behalf of the would-be benefactors. Another important difference: the English pauper letters often include the responses of the charity officers themselves, thus revealing much about their attitudes towards the poor, an aspect that is only implicitly evident in the Geniza documents. The Jewish texts, furthermore, emanate from a society in which revenues for charity came from sources other than taxation. Much of it was generated from voluntary donations collected by the community charity officials. These are documented mainly in the donor lists such as the one published below. Some of these gifts were pledged on regular occasions in the synagogue. But these, too, were not a tax. There is no evidence that the Jewish community of the Geniza taxed its members for this or any other purpose. Gifts, whether private or delivered through the community, were voluntary, though, to be sure, communal pressure and the desire to fulfill the divine commandment to give charity made them virtually obligatory. This conforms with Mauss’ famous observation, based on anthropological study of a very different society, that gifts were made voluntarily, but, in actuality, out of obligation.10 The structural parallels between English pauper letters and letters of the poor from the Geniza lie mainly in the rhetoric of the poor and the themes they feature, revealing similar strategies to deal with their plight. To illustrate this, I offer two examples, one, a Geniza letter of appeal, written in Judaeo-Arabic and published here for the first time in the original.11 The pauper letter that follows comes from the excellent scholarly edition of English pauper letters published by Thomas Sokoll.

10 See Poverty and Charity, 199. 11 TS 13 J 20.4, trans. Cohen, The Voice of the Poor in the Middle Ages, no. 6. The words italicized are in Hebrew in the original.

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The Geniza letter

In (your) n(ame, O) me(rciful) “For the work of charity 12 shall be peace, and the effect of ch(arity), calm and confidence forever” (Isaiah 32:17) “Happy is he who is thoughtful of the wretched; in bad times (may the Lord) keep him from harm” (Psalm 41:2) May God, may His mention be exalted, answer (my) pious prayers on behalf of my master the most illustrious elder and lengthen your days with goodness and your years with favor. Your slave turns to God, may He be praised, and to your noble excellency for help against Fate. I am burdened with a family and am out of work,13 unable to get a hold of anything for expenses, even for bread to satisfy them. The Creator knows how I desire to find that which would free me from the need to uncover my face.14 May God the exalted never keep your excellency 12 Hebrew: .sedaqa, which means “righteousness” in most places in the Bible but which came to mean “charity” in post-biblical Hebrew, and so it was understood by the Geniza people when they quoted such verses. Throughout I translate the word as “charity” when rendering biblical verses quoted in the documents. 13 Arabic: bat.t.a¯l, cf. Med. Soc., 5:525 n. 125. 14 Arabic: taksı¯f al-wajh, possibly a spelling error for takshı¯f al-wajh, an otherwise unattested variant of kashf al-wajh, “uncovering the face,” expressing the wish of the working poor, out of shame, to “conceal” (mastu¯r) their temporary indigence (see Poverty and Charity, 48 – 51). The word taksı¯f can mean “cut into

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TS 13 J 20.4

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from doing charity and may He make it stand in your favor when you are experiencing adversity. May your peace increase forever and ever. Selah. May salvation come.

The pauper letter This letter was written on January 16, 1828, by one Samuel Spooner in Norwich. It is addressed to a Poor Law administrator named Jeremiah Wing in Braintree, the parish where Samuel had formerly resided and in which he was registered as a pauper eligible for charity.15 Samuel requests an increase in his allocation, to be sent to the local overseer in Norwich, a Mr. Webb. Like many needy indigents during the early industrial revolution, this man had moved to a new place in search of work.16 The letter is written in fairly good English, with proper punctuation, unlike many of the other pauper letters, whose style and punctuation, reflecting minimal education, leave much to be desired. Norwich 16th January 1828 Sir On account of the scarcity to work I am obliged to apply to the parish to which I belong and to state that I have had but very little to do for this three Months, and also that I am now out of employ, and that the Children can earn nothing and that we are in extreme distress; I have therefore to Solicit your kindness in recommending me to the Committee for an increase in my Present allowance, and as I have Six Children entirely to support I have to request that you will also be pleased to state to the Committee that it will pieces” (Kazimirski, Dictionnaire arabe-franÅais, 2:898). Two words follow at the beginning of the next line: ma¯ w-j-d. If we imagine that originally the suppliant wrote taksı¯f ma¯ wujida, “free me from the need to cut (the meager food) I found into pieces,” then inserted al-wajh after taksı¯f to form the standard idiom (the word al-wajh is written above the word taksı¯f at the end of the line), but left taksı¯f unchanged, we would have a neat solution to the anomaly. 15 Essex Pauper Letters, 105 – 106 (no. 18). 16 Another letter of his, dated 17th November 1828 and addressed to the “overseers of Braintree,” states: “I have been in the Country [outside of Norwich] in order to obtain work to support the remaining part of the family and as I have not been able to succeed I am obliged to return to Norwich again when I am promised work…” ibid., 111 (no. 25). Exercising leverage, this amounted to a veiled threat, because return to Norwich with his family would place an even heavier burden on the charity budget. The same threat is made in our letter. On the preference to keep indigents in the host parish, because support in the home parish might be more expensive, see Sokoll, ibid., 14.

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be impossible for me at present to support myself and family without an addition of three shillings per Week to my present allowance which if not granted I shall be obliged to return immediately to the Parish with my family, I shall be obliged by your having the goodness of acquaint Mr Webb as soon as possible with the result of my application. I am

Sir Your most respectfull and very obedient humble servant Samuel Spooner

We see here themes that echo sentiments in the Geniza “pauper letter” edited and translated above. There is the complaint about inability to find work. There is the trope of the burden of a large family (many mouths to feed). Samuel, like many a writer of a Geniza letter of appeal, pleas for help to escape destitution. The English writer, like Jews in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, refers to himself as “servant” of the addressee. To be sure, in both letters the language describing the indigent writer’s suffering is, to a certain extent, formulaic. The emphasis on servitude is present in other Geniza letters (as in contemporaneous Muslim letters) and in other English pauper letters. Most significantly, however, the letters reveal a strategy of the poor in both societies to gain attention and elicit charity. Even if the administrative structure of charity administration differed in these two worlds, these specimens, and many others like them—drawn from everyday life—show that the personal side of the quest for charity in the Geniza world was substantially the same as in other societies. It means, in short, that the Geniza documents contain much valuable comparative information for historians of poverty and charity in other parts of the world and in other societies and eras. There is an additional point to be made. Despite their formulaic shell, the facts reported in the letters may be taken as realistic. The English paupers of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries could not easily lie if they wanted to succeed in their request for assistance. They needed to prove themselves “deserving,” in the language of the age. The facts of their case could easily be checked; indeed, local people often annotated letters to vouch for the neediness of the petitioners. These paupers lived away from their home towns and were seeking non-resident relief, to which they were entitled by the Poor Law. Periodically, Poor Law administrators from the home parish sent representatives to verify that the paupers’ reports were honest. This happened in Spoo-

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ner’s case. Several months earlier, in August 1827, the Braintree overseer Wing visited Norwich to investigate “the State of the poor at Norwich.” In his notes, which are also preserved in the Essex parish archives, he gives the name of Samuel Spooner and verifies that “His Famely earns nothing Call his earnings 10s-0d a week on Average.”17 In the Jewish case, where the issue of the “deserving poor” also had salience, the facts can also be taken at face value. The community was relatively small, even if large compared to the tiny communities in Europe at that time. Everyone belonged to one of the three congregations (two Rabbanite and one Karaite) and there was considerable interplay among them—even between the Karaites and the Rabbanites, such that Karaites or their orphaned children collected charity at the gates of the Rabbanite synagogue (as we see in the alms lists discussed below).18 Goitein estimated about 3,300 souls in the larger, Rabbanite community in the middle of the twelfth century, about one quarter of whom were indigent.19 The congregations, moreover, formed one unified community under one central leadership.20 Even with this degree of local familarity, the community took pains, especially with regards to newcomers, to verify their neediness. A list of names found in the Geniza—the only one of its kind found to date— bears a notation that So-and-So should be “investigated” (yukshaf anhu or anha¯). Individuals in the community were often asked to vouch for an indigent’s need. Their names appear next to that of the paupers on the alms lists edited and translated below in the form “acquaintance of X” (ma rifat X). 21 The proximity between the non-poor and the poor inhibited the indigents from exaggerating their plight in their petitions to individuals or to the community, or in their verbal pleas in the synagogue for charity, just as did the investigatory arm of Poor Law administration in early industrial England by monitoring the status of the poor. Regarding the “foreign poor”—wayfarers passing through or migrants seeking to settle down in the Fustat community—the system of vouching and the ˘

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17 Essex Pauper Letters, 106, in the editor’s commentary on our letter. 18 Though indicated in several sources known for many years, the intimacy between Karaites and Rabbanites in Egypt has recently been forcefully and extensively documented in Marina Rustow’s book, Heresy and the Politics of Community: The Jews of the Fatimid Caliphate (Ithaca, NY, 2008). 19 Med. Soc., 2:140. 20 I discuss the central leadership of the Egyptian Jewish community in my Jewish Self-Government in Medieval Egypt (Princeton, 1980). 21 I discuss this more fully in Poverty and Charity, 97 – 99.

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letters of recommendation written by another party explaining why the person was needy helped keep a check on misrepresentation. This system recalls the notations of parish Poor Law investigators in early modern England. Some Geniza letters of recommendation, especially ones written by petitioners from distant places or letters on behalf of needy persons wandering to far off places in search of charity and a place to settle down, even bear signatures testifying, like signatories on legal documents, to the truthfulness of their stories. In both the English pauper letters and the Geniza appeals for charity these realities discouraged attempts to invent facts. The cry for help by the poor could be taken as sincere, and the rhetoric of their letters—English paupers and Jews of the Islamic world alike—formed part of a well honed strategy to deal with their plight.

The Geniza lists Several interesting Geniza lists are now presented, with the original texts published for the first time. As stated, unlike the pauper letters, the lists cannot be juxtaposed to anything comparable from either the Christian or Islamic Middle Ages, but precisely for that reason they are doubly valuable for comparative purposes. I present first the texts, then their translations, followed by a discussion. I choose these examples because of their typicality and their emblematic nature for assessing charity administration in the Geniza community. The present publication provides the opportunity to delve more deeply into these documents than I had opportunity to do in my monograph or in the companion collection of documents. “Thick description” of the texts reveals data that inform and deepen our understanding of the social history of poverty and charity. The four alms lists were originally identified and described by Goitien in Appendix B of Mediterranean Society. He connected them with two other lists containing similar names, hence coming from around the same time. I choose these lists for publication and translation because they represent an unusual contemporaneous cluster of documents of this type and allow us to see charity in action in rather fine detail.22

22 See also my Poverty and Charity, 228 – 231.

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The lists (see the facsimiles)23 are written on bifolios and originally belonged to a scribe’s notebook. They belong to the Taylor Schechter Geniza Collection in Cambridge, Box K 15.5, 15, 39 and 50. Images of the manuscripts will soon be found in the on-line database of images of the Friedberg Genizah Project. Fortunately, the lists are dated, including the year. The date preserved on fol. 39 is Tuesday, Marheshvan 11 (Oct. 30), 1107. Fol. 15 was written on Friday the 21st ; folio 50, on Tuesday the 25th. On folio 5 the date is torn off, but that list has the title page and also the largest allotment of loaves, a number that was not achieved on any of the other three days. It belongs probably to the week preceding the 11th of Marheshvan (October 30). The pages are in the hand of Abraham b. Aaron, a well known notary of the period. They were separated from their original binding, so that there is no necessary continuity from side to facing side. This explains the frequent occurrence of the same names on opposing pages. Nonetheless, the pages were penned fairly close to one another in time, as the dates that are preserved and the repetition of names show. Taken together, these pages, properly analyzed, reveal much about Jewish charity administration in medieval Fustat.24 It appears that the lists were prepared in advance by the charity administrators. They were based on previous experience and were adjusted to take account of changes in circumstances of the indigent benefactors. This sometimes required a change in the number of loaves needed by the individuals or families. People collected in their own name and on behalf of others family members, who may or may not have come along to the pick-up point. We find, for instance, people listed with parents and inlaws or grandparents, accompanied either by the number of loaves specific to each or a combined total of loaves for the entire family. The distributions took place twice weekly, on Tuesday and Friday (the eve of the Sabbath). Goitein inferred that this was the normal pro23 I wish to thank the Syndics of University Library Cambridge for permission to reproduce the facsimiles in this article. 24 Goitein’s important Appendixes B (“Beneficiaries of the Community Chest”) and C (“Documents of Appeal and Lists of Contributors”) in Med. Soc. form the starting point for any study of the lists. He catalogues and briefly describes 250 discrete lists there. In my research I identified about 60 additional specimens. I transcribed nearly all of them and indexed them in an electronic database in the word processor NotaBene and used this to retrieve information for my analysis.

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cedure in Fustat. It differed markedly from the system prescribed in the Talmud, where there were two different distributions. One was the weekly distribution of food or money or clothing to the resident, local poor (“the poor of the town”) on Friday, the eve of the Sabbath, called the quppa, “basket.” This dole was meant to carry the recipients and their families at least partially through the following week. The other, called tamhui, usually translated “alms tray” or more loosely “soup kitchen,” was ˙comprised of a daily distribution, mainly to foreigners arriving in town, called “the poor of the whole world.” These two Hebrew terms do not appear in the Geniza documents pertinent to Fustat (which means most of them). In my book I argue that the two institutions of communal charity from the Talmudic period were collapsed into one unifed distribution system in Fustat, evidenced by the abundant presence of both foreigners and locals on the lists. The twice-weekly dole to both groups of needy represented a compromise between the daily tamhui and the weekly quppa. 25 This conclusion ex˙ plains an otherwise confounding section in Maimonides’ Code of Jewish 26 Law, the Mishneh Torah.

25 Poverty and Charity (in ch. 8). 26 Ibid., 204 – 211, and M. Cohen, “Maimonides and Charity in the Light of the Geniza Documents,” in The Trias of Maimonides/Die Trias des Maimonides, ed. Georges Tamer (Berlin and New York, 2005).

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TS K15.5r

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27 Cf. Med. Soc., 2:443, App. B 19; trans., Cohen, The Voice of the Poor in the Middle Ages, no. 60. The documents in this paper contain some minor corrections.

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recto Col. IV

1. List of the Poor of Old Cairo, 2. may God in his mercy make them rich 3. and help them in his grace and kindness.

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

Sh[…] b. Abu¯ […] the acquaintance of Abu¯ Zik[rı¯…] Four hundred […] which is one hundred sevent[y…] Remaining, eighty loaves. Twenty-e[ig]ht loaves:

8. dispensed from them on this day 9. eight[tee]n loaves. 10. The Ru¯m 11. Muba¯raka 4 Muba¯raka […] the Kohen from Ru¯m 4 12. his mother and grandmother 4 Elijah al[-…] 3 his mother-in-law 3 13. the wife of the blind man 3 Khalı¯f t[he b]lind man 3 his in-law 2 14. Umm al-Khayya¯t. 2 H . asan the elder […] 15. Shemarya 4 b. al-Kharazı¯ (maker of beads) 2 […] 2 16. […] 2 the orphans of the Karaite 2 David 4 17. Kina¯na 2 a semiparalyzed woman 2 the mother-in-law of the pa[r]nas 2 18. Eliakim 2 Elijah 3 Judah 3 19. an orphan 2 the Kohen 3 the wife of the deceased man […] 20. the wife of the man afflicted with an intestinal ailment 3 Judah 4 21. Isaac 2 the female washer of the dead and her mother 3

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22. Umm Matatya 2 Solomon the scribe 2 23. the woman from Ru¯m and an orphan 4 a man from Ru¯m 2 24. a blind man from Ru¯m and his guide 5 the in-law of Joseph 2 25. a woman from Ru¯m 3 an errand boy from Ru¯m 3 26. 124 verso right side Col. II

verso left side Col. III

1. […]q 2 2. [the house of ] b. Sa a¯da 4 3. the house of b. Y[ih. ye] […] b. alMurahhit. (the son of the writer/singer of liturgical poetry) 6 4. Available six hundred [loaves] 4. the stricken man 2 Ayya¯sh 4 5. weighing six qinta¯rs (600 pounds). 5. the Mumh. e b. Shekhanya 6 b. al˙ H . ila¯l 8 6. Their price three dinars, 6. Umm Khalı¯f 4 the glassmaker 3 7. which I have received from the Chief 7. b. Nafı¯ 6 the sister of b. Nafı¯ 2 of the Dignitaries (sar ha-sarim; i. e., the Nagid Mevorakh)—may he live forever. 8. b. Daniel 8 Joseph b. al-Munajjim 8. the producer/seller of fine things 4 (the son of the astrologer) and his his mother-in-law 2 mother 8 9. Siba¯ 4 the cantor b. al-Ka¯mukhı¯ (the 9. the man from the H . ija¯z 3 the man son of the preparer of vinegar sauce and from Acre 6 other appetizers) 3 10. Samı¯h. 4 Wahı¯b the glassmaker 3 10. al-Makh. u¯l 4 the mother-in-law of the woman from Palestine 3 11. the wife of Ma la¯ 8 and her in-law 4 11. al-Su¯ra¯niyya 5 Joseph the night watchman 4 12. Ha¯ru¯n of Jerusalem 2 the wife of 12. Wahı¯b 4 and Abu¯ Wahı¯b 4 Abraham 4 13. Sitta¯n 3 [[2]] Umm Furayj […] 13. the female teacher 3 the wife of H . ada¯da […] 14. the wife of the furrier 5 the wife of 14. the blind woman 5 the wife of b. alA[mm]a¯nı¯ 4 Abu¯ Sa ¯ıd 4 15. Jacob the blind man 3 Umm 15. Umm Lubuwwa 3 the man from Z. arı¯fa 3 Ma[l]ı¯j 8 16. Sala¯ma 5 the woman from Qalaha¯ 3 16. the wife of the tanner 6 her neighbor (f.) 4 17. Umm Ibra¯hı¯m and her son 3 17. Abu¯ Sa ¯ıd //the silk worker// the blind man 4 the woman from Malı¯j 2 ˘

1. A […] 2. On the day […] 3. of Marhesh[van] (November)

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18. Sabı¯ the blind man 6 Sa a¯da 2 ˘

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18. the cantor Sa ¯ıd 3 Abu Mukhta¯r, his son and daughter 9 19. Umm Hila¯la 2 Sulayma¯[n] the supervisor of milk 4 20. Zuhayr the lame 4 Abu¯ Khalı¯fa 4

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19. Makhlu¯f the blind man 3 [[the inlaw of Joseph 6]] 20. Umm Abraham 2 the in-law of Gha¯lib 5 21. Samı¯h. the gravedigger 4 the son of 21. [S. ]a¯lih. 4 the cantor from Ba albek 6 the deaf man 8 22. Ma la¯ 5 the man from Andalusia 22. the wife of Jacob 4 b. al-Qud. a¯ ¯ı (the […] son of the healer of stomach ailments) 8 23. Abu¯ Kathı¯r the silk worker 4 Hila¯l 2 23. the son of al- Amma¯nı¯ 8 Umm Ubayd 4 24. the female washer of the dead from 24. the coo[k] […] Simon 4 Fust.a¯t. 2 Baraka¯t 4 25. the wife of Awa¯d. 4 [H 25. Abu¯ Shay[kha…] the [ac]quaint. asan the gl]ass maker 4 ance of b. Ish. aq 4 ˘

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Folio 5 bears a title on one of the pages, “List of the poor of Old Cairo, may God in his mercy make them rich,” indicating that this folio is the beginning of the lists. The word translated as “poor” is Arabic d. u afa¯ , literally “weak.” This term occurs regularly in the Geniza connoting the poor. The poor are typically weak in that they lack the material resources to provide for themselves and their families, and are often weak in the physical sense of suffering from illness.28 Saadya Gaon translates ani, “poor,” as d. a ¯ıf, “weak,” in his Arabic translation of the Torah (Deuteronomy 15:11). We recall, too, the classic triad of the poor and weak, “the widow, the fatherless orphan, and the stranger” of the Bible. This triad appears also in Christian sources.29 In the Qur a¯n “widow” never appears in the cluster.30 ˘

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28 See chapter 6 in Poverty and Charity. 29 For instance in the early (1st-2nd century) Ante-Nicene Apostolic Fathers and Constitutions, Volume I, Book IV, section 1.1, entitled “How the Bishop Ought to Provide for the Orphans:” “O bishops, be solicitous about their maintenance, being in nothing wanting to them; exhibiting to the orphans the care of parents; to the widows the care of husbands;…to the strangers, an [sic] house…” And at the end of the section: “for certainly he is a happy man who is able to support himself, and does not take up the place of the orphan, the stranger, and the widow.” Ante-Nicene Fathers, volume 17, ed. Alexander Roberts and James Donaldson (Edinburgh, 1870). 30 See for instance Sura 8:41: “And know that whatever of war-booty that you may gain, verily one-fifth of it is assigned to Allah, and to the Messenger, and to the near relatives [of the Messenger], (and also) the orphans, the poor (al-masa¯kı¯n) and the wayfarer, if you have believed in Allah and in that which We sent down to Our slave (Muhammad) on the Day of criterion (between right and wrong),

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Inside (col. II, line 5 ff.) there is a note: “Available 600 [loaves] weighing 600 pounds. Price 3 dinars, which I have received from the Chief of the Dignitaries (sar-ha-sarim) – may he live forever.” Given the date on the lists this can be none other than the Nagid and Ra ¯ıs al-Yahu¯d (“Head of the Jews”) Mevorakh b. Saadya who, in addition to the Hebrew title Nagid, was called sar-ha-sarim. He reigned from ca. 1078 to 1082 and then again from 1094 to the end of his life in December 1111.31 Mevorakh was also a court physician and, as such, a man of some wealth who could afford to part with three dinars, a hefty sum. Goitein calculated that two dinars could support a middling family with children for a month. Normally, revenues for supporting the bread dole came from irregular, small private contributions or from more regular and systematic collections, through pledges made in the synagogue or elsewhere, which were called pesiqa. By inscribing the Nagid’s name and generous contribution at the beginning of this alms list, the scribe paid homage to this dignitary and encouraged other men of means to imitate his beneficence. One Egyptian pound at that time weighed approximately 450 grams, virtually the same as the present day American pound. Since a loaf of bread weighed one pound, 600 pounds was equivalent to 600 loaves. At the normal exchange rate in those days of ca. 40 dirhems per dinar, one dirhem thus purchased 5 loaves. This was the typical price, except in times of dearth, when the price of a loaf inflated. On fol. 39, dated Tuesday 11 Marheshvan, 490 pounds yielded 539, to which were added ten more pounds of dough (presumably making ten additional loaves), as well as 10 “old loaves,” for a total of about 560. On fol. 15, dated Friday the 21st, 500 pounds made 567 loaves. On Tuesday the 25th the numbers were 500 pounds and 547 loaves. We may surmise that, on those days, the community had less money to spend and could not afford to purchase enough loaves of standard weight to meet the need, so the baker stretched the amount of dough to produce more loaves weighing slightly less than a pound each. The administrators of charity were constantly under pressure to collect sufficient cash each week to buy what the poor needed, and this made monitoring the changing needs of individuals and assessing the deservedness of newcomers all the more essential. the Day when the two forces met (the battle of Badr). And Allah is able to do all things.” 31 See my Jewish Self-Government in Medieval Egypt.

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Column IV line 10 introduces a separate cluster of names headed “the Ru¯m.” This term can designate people either from Latin Europe or from Byzantium. Goitein speculates that these foreigners on the Fustat dole were refugees from the upheavals that accompanied the First Crusade in 1096, especially the massacres of Jewish communities, presumably the ones in the Rhineland and in other regions on the Crusaders’ route through Europe to the Holy Land.32 More likely, these Ru¯m Jews hailed from Byzantine Asia Minor, escaping the march of the Crusaders through Asia Minor in 1098, though they (or some of them) could have been refugees or descendants of refugees from the disruptions following the Seljuk Turks’ victory over the Byzantines at the battle of Manzikert in 1071. Many of the names are Greek or characteristic of Greek Jews, and some are Arabic, the latter probably representing descendants of Jews who had immigrated to Asia Minor from Muslim territory following the Byzantine conquests in Syria in the 960s and 970s.33 Foreign groups like the Ru¯m had their own parnas, or social welfare official—the mother-in-law of the parnas of the Ru¯m appears here in line 17 (elsewhere we encounter the parnas of Crete and the parnas of Damietta, for example). These people knew their countrymen and women and their language and could better assess their need than the Fustat parnasim.34

32 Med. Soc., 2:128. 33 See David Jacoby, “What do We Learn about Byzantine Asia Minor from the Documents of the Cairo Genizah?” in his Byzantium, Latin Romania and the Mediterranean (Aldershot, 2001), 87 – 89 (article originally published in 1998). See also Poverty and Charity, 84 – 85. 34 Both received alms (clothing) in their own right: *TS Box K 15.48r, left-hand page, line 31 and verso, right-hand page, line 6, Med. Soc., 2:444, App. B 25 (1100 – 1140) (the asterisk indicates that the document is translated in The Voice of the Poor in the Middle Ages).

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II. TS Box K 15.3935

35 Cf. Med. Soc., 2:443, App. B 21; trans. Cohen, The Voice of the Poor in the Middle Ages, no. 62.

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recto left side Col. I

1. A The Ru¯m 2. Judah 4 Mordechai the blind man 4 3. the orphans of the Karaite 2 b. Nathan 2 4. the mother-in-law of Elijah 4 Za fara¯n 8 5. the acquaintance of the dyer 4 the wife of the deceased man 2 6. Abraham and his brothers 5 Eliakim 2 7. Khalı¯f the blind man 5 an orphan 2 8. the wife of Elijah 2 the tailor Kohen 4 9. and his grandmother and mother 4 the wife of the deceased man and his son and her daughter 4 10. Umm H . amd al- Aynayn 4 Dı¯nı¯ 2

1. B 2. In (your) name, O Merci(ful) 3. D[i]s[pensed] for the poor, may God make them rich 4. Tuesday, the 11th of

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5. Marheshvan (1)419 (October 30, 1107) 6. four hundred ninety pounds, numbering 7. five hundred thirty-[n]ine 8. from Ma a¯lı¯ the baker, to which were added ten 9. making five hundred pounds, plus ten old loa[ves] (margin: ten [[old loaves]] in old loaves, from […]) 10. b. Daniel 8 Abu¯ Mukhta¯r and his son and his sister 9 11. the wife of the elder 2 Rebecca 4 11. the Kohen of Ukbara 6 Muba¯raka 5 12. Umm Yu¯suf 4 Kina¯na 2 12. Sitta¯n 3 Umm Furayj 2 13. Elijah 4 the female washer of the 13. H . asan the glassmaker 4 the mother dead 2 of the blind man 2 14. an orphan 2 an orphan 2 14. Abu¯ Shaykha 2 the Maghrebi woman 2 15. a se[m]iparalyzed woman 2 Sa¯rah 1 15. the man from Acre 6 the orphans of the furrier 5 16. Shemarya 4 Umm Matatya 2 16. Abraham of Tyre 4 the wife of his son 2 ˘

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17. the mother-in-law of the parnas of 17. Shamı¯ a 6 [U]mm Abraham 4 the Ru¯m 2 Umm al-Khayya¯t. 2 18. an errand boy 1 a man from Ru¯m 1 18. the slave girl of Mukhta¯r 3 the supervisor of the milk 4 19. Michael 2 Moses 2 19. Ya qu¯b the night watchman 5 the cantor al-Qud. a¯ ¯ı (healer of stomach ailments) 6 20. a woman from Ru¯m and an orphan 20. Abu¯ Khalı¯fa 6 Samı¯h. the Kohen 4 4 the in-law of Joseph 8 21. [[Simh. a the gravedigger 4]] [[the 21. Wahı¯b the glassmaker 3 Jacob the son of ]] a man from Ru¯m 1 blind man 2 22. […] 1 a man from Ru¯m and an 22. Siba¯ 4 Hila¯l 2 orphan 5 23. [[149]] 23. the wife of Abu¯ Sa ¯ıd the blind man 4 Umm Hila¯la 2 24. 124 24. Joseph b. al-Munajjim (the son of the astrologer) and his brothers 8 Zuhayr 4 25. Ha¯ru¯n of Jerusalem and his wife 4 Sala¯ma 4 26. the wife of the man from Qalaha¯ 4 27. Umm Z. arı¯fa 3 S. adaqa the beadle 8 28. b. al-Kharazı¯ (son of the bead maker) 2 Ma la¯ 5 29. the man from Malı¯j 6 163 ˘

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1. the wife of the silk worker 4 the son of the man from Andalusia 2 2. Baraka¯t the supervisor and his fatherin-law 7 S. a¯lih. 4 3. the orphans of Joseph 8 Umm Abraham 2 4. supplied by S. adaqa 5. the acquaintance of Azhar 8 the acquaintance of the man from Damietta 8 6. the daughter of al-Thulayth 2 the sister of Ish. aq 2

1. Abu¯ Kathı¯r Umm Abraham S. adaqa

3. Ma a¯lı¯ and his porter 5 the supervisor from Tiberias 6 4. the wife of the man from Sicily 4 5. [[amounting to 282]] [[something on it]] (written on the left side) I put aside the ten old loaves for the Ru¯m so that the total is two hundred seventy-two ˘

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7. the daughter of al-Jady 2 the orphans of b. Yih. ye 4 8. the wife of b. Sa a¯da 4 b. al-Murahhit. (the son of the writer/singer of liturgical poetry) 8 9. the man from the H . ija¯z 3 b. Shekhanya 6

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10. Ma a¯lı¯ 11. the wife of Awa¯d. 5 the lame man 3 12. the haver R. Solomom 8 the acquaintance of Abu l-Muna¯ 8 13. the daughter of H . ası¯ka 4 the wife of the tanner 14. b. al-H . ila¯l 8 Ayya¯sh 4 15. Sabı¯ and an orphan and his mother 6 the mother-in-law of al-Mut.a¯libı¯ 2 16. S. adaqa 17. Abu¯ Sa ¯ıd the blind man 4 18. b. Nafı¯ 6 his sister 2 19. Ish. a¯q and his in-law 6 the glassmaker 3 20. the producer/seller of fine things 4 the acquaintance of b. T. ¯ıba¯n 4 21. the house of the woman from Palestine (al-Sha¯miyya) 3 Ya qu¯b the dyer 4 22. Ma a¯lı¯ 23. the wife of Ma la¯ and her in-law 10 al-Kala¯siyya 3 24. Abu¯ Hila¯l 4 the wife of H . ura¯ra 3 25. the female teacher 3 the blind woman 6 26. the cantor from Ba albek 6 al-Makh. u¯l 4 27. Na ¯ım 4 the wife of the deaf man 8 28. Simon 4 Makhlu¯f the blind man 2 29. Simh. a the gravedigger 4 the son of al- Amma¯nı¯ 4 30. S. adaqa S. adaqa 31. the wife of the seller of fuqqa¯ (honey sherbet) 4 Umm Lubuwwa 4? Ma a¯lı¯ 32. Ma a¯lı¯ 33. Umm Nasa¯ba 2 the female washer of the dead for Fustat 34. S. adaqa S. adaqa ˘

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This page contains the all-important month, day, and year, which Goitein originally read as Tuesday, 18 Marheshvan (November 5), 1107 (Med. Soc., 2:443) but which I read in Cambridge as 11th of Marheshvan, October 30, 1107. Goitein corrected himself in Med. Soc., 1:56. Originally, the baker baked 490 pounds of bread, amounting to less than on the other days. Since this was not enough, ten more pounds were added by the baker, Ma a¯lı¯, presumably making ten additional loaves, plus ten more loaves from “old bread,” loaves left over from the previous

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distribution, bread which would have been stale (the hungry and starving will eat even stale bread).36 In several places the names of the baker, Ma a¯lı¯, and that of another baker, S. adaqa, appear, interrupting the list of names of beneficiaries. I take this to mean that the names that follow in the column were assigned to them, respectively. When people came to the pick-up point in the synagogue compound they collected their rations from one or the other of these bakers. Likely, the list was known to the bakers in advance so they could determine how many loaves they should bake each time, even if, as we see often occurred, they needed to augment the total yielded by the dough. In the separate section listing the Ru¯m, the entry for the wife of the man whom we encountered above includes here her late husband’s son and her own daughter (from another marriage). She received 4 loaves for all of them. Most of the time she got 3 or 4 loaves, so she was probably always collecting for herself and the two children. Once she got only 2, a single adult’s semi-weekly ration, probably not including the children. Once (two weeks later than this list, below, no. IV) the scribe wrote 1 for her, a mistake, which he corrected to 3. The multiple repetition of her entry results from the fact, already mentioned, that the pages in these bifolios are not consecutive, since intervening pages are missing.

36 This interpretation differs slightly from what I wrote in The Voice of the Poor, 130 – 131.

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III. TS Box K 15.1537

37 Cf. Med. Soc., 2:443, App. B 20; trans. Cohen, The Voice of the Poor in the Middle Ages, no. 61.

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recto right side Col. IV

319

Col. I ˘

1. Solomon the scribe [3] Ma a¯lı¯ 3 2. The neighbor (f.) of the tanner 2 transport 3 3. the ac(quaintance) of Abu¯ Kathı¯r 4 Umm Abraham 2 4. Aaron 4 the blind man Abu¯ Sa ¯ıd 2 [[23]] 5. Added to Shamı¯ a 1 and to his daughter 1 6. and to Ma la¯ 1 loaf and to Umm Hila¯la 1 7. and to Sabı¯ the blind man 1 and to b. al-Murahhit. (the son of the writer/ singer of liturgical poetry) 3 8. The Ru¯m 31 9. Umm Yu¯suf 2 the mother-in-law of Elijah 2 10. Mordechai [[2]] 3 three orphans 3 11. Za fara¯n 6 Umm Aynayn 3 ˘

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recto left side

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1. Dispensed for them also 2. on Friday the 21st of that (month) 3. five qint.a¯rs, numbering ˘

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4. five hundred sixty-seven. 5. the cantor al-Qud. a¯ ¯ı (healer of stomach ailments) 6 the man from Ba albek 5 12. the orphans of the furrier 4 She- 6. Abu¯ Mukhta¯r 9 b. al-Kharazı¯ (son of marya 3 the maker of beads) 2 13. the orphans of the Karaite 2 Umm 7. the son of al- Amma¯nı¯ 4 Za fara¯n 8 al-Khayya¯t. (mother of the tailor) 1 14. Muba¯raka 3 Sitta¯n 2 8. Joseph [[and]] b. al-Munajjim (the son of the astrologer) 8 al-Su¯ra¯nı¯ 5 15. the mother-in-law of the parnas 1 9. the son of the deaf man 8 the semihis grandfather 2 paralyzed woman 2 16. Rebecca 2 Umm Matatya 2 10. Abu¯ Khalı¯f 4 an orphan 1 17. Kina¯na 1 the wife of Elijah 2 11. the son of the afflicted man 1 Muba¯raka //4// [[3]] 18. Abu¯ Khalı¯f 4 the wife of the de- 12. Umm Furayj 1 Sitta¯n 2 ceased man 3 19. a semiparalyzed man 2 Elijah 2 13. Abraham of Tyre 5 Sib[a¯]gh 4 ˘

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20. the Kohen the tai[lor] 3 his mother 14. Kina¯na 1 the female was[h]er of the and his grandmother 3 dead 2 15. the wife of the deceased man 4 the 21. Dı¯nı¯38 1 the wife of the elder 1 mother-in-law of Elijah 2 22. Judah 3 Namer39 2 16. the [div]orc e of Abu¯ Sa ¯ıd 3 the wife of the man from Sicily 4 23. Jacob 1 Moses 2 17. […]t and his in-law 6 Umm alKhayya¯t. 2 24. Elijah 3 Eliakim 2 18. [the or]phans of the Karaite 2 the female washer of the dead for the Ru¯m 3 25. an orphan 1 a man from Ru¯m 2 19. […] Joseph 6 [[R. Jacob 3]] [[76]] 20. […]l[…] 2 the Kohen and his mother //7// [[…]] 26. added to the Ru¯m thirte[en] 21. […] [the a]cquaintance of Abu lMuna¯ 27. 89 Thi[s being …] 28. five [qint.a¯rs … numbering five] 29 hundre[d] … [loaves] verso right side Col. II

verso left side Col. III

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1. Umm Abraham 3 Umm Z. arı¯f[a] 3 1. D 2. the wife of the man from Qalaha¯ 3 2. [[D]] the ac[qu]aintance of Azhar 8 Sala¯mu¯n 4 the ac(quaintance) of the man from Damietta 3 3. Aaron of Jerusalem 2 an orphan 1 3. the daughter of al-Thulayth 2 the sister of Isaac 2 4. Nathan 2 Rah. amı¯m 3 4. the daughter of al-Jady 2 b. Sa a¯da 4 5. S. a¯lih. 4 S. adaqa 10 5. Joseph the night watchman 4 b. alMurahhit. (the son of the writer/singer of liturgical poetry) and a stricken man 8 6. the woman from Malı¯j 2 the wife of 6. the house of b. Yih. ye 3 Baraka¯t the the silk worker 4 glassmaker 3 7. the mother-in-law of Mut.a¯libı¯ 2 the 7. Samı¯h. the Kohen 4 the wife of Awa¯d. 4 wife of Elijah 2 8. the wife of Judah 3 the Kohen […] 2 8. Wahı¯b 3 the woman from Qalaha¯ 3 9. Umm Z. arı¯fa 3 the w(ife of ) the seller 9. the acquaintance of Mu[t.]a¯libı¯ 2 of fuqqa¯ (honey sherbet) 3 Umm Aynayn 4 ˘

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38 I am uncertain about the vocalization of this name. 39 Namer (a biblical animal, probably a leopard) seems to be the Hebrew equivalent of the Greek Pardoleon. See Jacoby, “What do We Learn about Byzantine Asia Minor,” 86.

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10. an orphan 1 Umm Yu¯suf 3 ˘

10. Simh. a 3 the son of the afflicted man 1 11. Hila¯l 2 the haver son of R. Joseph 11. Eliakim 2 b. Abu¯ Sa ¯ıd 2 […] 12. Samı¯h. 4 Wahı¯b the glassmaker 3 12. the son of the man from Andalusia 2 the orphans of Joseph 5 13. Umm Khalı¯f 3 Judah and his in-law 13. Salma¯n 8 the daughter of H . ası¯ka 4 3 14. Sulayma¯n [[and his mother-in-law]] 14. the house of al-Ja¯zifı¯nı¯ 8 S. adaqa the beadle 10 3 Sham[ı¯] a 6 15. the wife of the tanner 3 her 15. b. Nafı¯ and his sister 8 the acquaintance of b. T. ¯ıba¯n 4 [mother-in]-law 2 16. Solomon the scribe 3 b. Daniel 8 16. the producer/seller of fine things and his mother-in-law 6 Isaac and his in-law 4 17. Elijah 3 Joseph the night watchman 17. the […] 4 Na ¯ım 4 5 18. the divorc e of the producer/seller 18. Simon 4 Jacob the dyer 3 of fine things 2 the man from Malı¯j 6 19. Makhlu¯f the blind man 2 the or- 19. Abu¯ Khalı¯fa 6 [N]ah. u¯m 2 phans of Joseph 8 20. the acquaintance of [Az]har 8 the 20. b. al- Ana¯nı¯ 4 Umm Kah. la¯ 5 acquaintance of the man from Damietta 6 21. the orphans of b. [Yih. ]ye 3 the 21. b. al-H . ila¯l […] dau[gh]ter of al-Thulayth 2 22. the wi(fe of ) Ma la¯ and his in-law 22. the daughter of al-Jady […] the 10 […]Kala¯s 3 house of b. Sa a¯da […] 23. Abu¯ Khalı¯fa 6 b. al-Murahhit. (the 23. the female teacher 3 the wi(fe of ) son of the writer/singer of liturgical H . u[ra¯]ra 3 poetry) 8 […] 24. the errand boy from Andalusia 2 24. the blind woman 5 the son of the Simh. a […] orphan woman 4 25. b. al-Murahhit. (the son of the 25. […] 3 the in-law of Joseph 840 writer/singer of liturgical poetry) 4 the Mu[mh. ]e […] 26. Furayj 4 [[3]] and R[…] 26. Makhlu¯f 2 the supervisor from Tiberias 5 27. Hila¯l 2 Shemarya […] 27. [U]mm Ubayd 3 the wife of the tanner 3 ˘

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40 The number 8 (letter h. et) is not totally clear (one letter seems to have been overwritten by another), but elsewhere in these lists this same Joseph receives 2 loaves (once), 6 loaves (twice), and 8 loaves (four times).

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28. the acquaintance of b. T. ¯ıba¯[n] 4 […] 29. the wife of F[…]

28. […] 10 Jacob 10 29. […] Abu¯ Hila¯l […] 30. [2]65

On this bifolio the number 23 was originally written (col. IV line 4), representing the subtotal of the allocations from the top of that column. This number was then crossed out when additions were postscripted (“added to…”), amounting to 8 more loaves. Hence the new sub-total of 31 in line 8. The postscript in that column seems to be a revision to allocations registered above in the same list. This revision takes into account the addition of 13 loaves to the allocation for the Ru¯m. The number is 89, which permits us algebraically to provide the number 3 for the effaced first entry in the column. The total that follows (500+, the last two numbers are effaced), represents the grand total of distributions of bread for that day. The smaller sums (100+) at the end of many columns represent subtotals. The entries “3 orphans 3” in col. IV line 10 and “an orphan 1” in col. I line 10 reflect the fact that children needed and received less than adults. Evidently such changes to a list were made whenever the number of eligible indigents exceeded the number anticipated. It is not surprising that this would happen in the case of a group like the Ru¯m; the charity administrators were not certain about the needs of this group of relatively recent newcomers. The new names are not found in the Ru¯m clusters, but the five named persons (the 6th is the daughter of one of them) occur together on other pages of this notebook. The appearance many times in these lists of orphans (fatherless children) collecting for themselves does not mean there was a large body of foundlings or children wandering about without any parent, for lack of an orphanage. (No Jewish orphangage is mentioned in the Geniza, or for Islamic society.) The child might have lived with a relative, such as the “man from Ru¯m and an orphan,”41 or even with his widowed mother, and gained his sustenance from them. However, as orphans they were entitled to assistance from the community, according to an old rabbinic rule that the court, and, by extension, the community, is “the father of orphans.” Their isolation in the vast majority of cases on the bread lists reflects their entitlement to charity in their own right, even if they were living in families or with their widowed mothers.42 We may assume that 41 In list no. II, col. IV line 22. 42 See Poverty and Charity, 236 – 237.

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sometimes women appeared at the alms distribution center with a child precisely to prove she needed more bread than just for herself. These women might have been widows, in which case the children would still be billed as orphans43 ; or a husband might have been away on a trip, or even an absentee husband who had abandoned his family (not an uncommon situation).44 These and many other tiny details, laden with significance, can easily be passed over when skimming through the lists superficially. It is easy to overlook, for instance, that revisions were constantly made, in the light of individual and family needs and in the light of resources (money available in the community budget and amount of bread that could be baked). For example, in this list, col. IV shows an entry of 6 loaves for Za fara¯n and, in the opposite column, from another day’s distribution, 8 loaves. Since lists were prepared in advance, adjustments could be made each time one was compiled or when people arrived at the pick-up point in the synagogue compound. In many places we actually see that individual allocations must have been crossed out on the spot and another number, smaller or larger, substituted (an example in col. IV line 10 here). Ma a¯lı¯ in the first line of col. IV, one of the bakers, received some loaves or perhaps the cash equivalent as part of his compensation. The item “transport” (h. umu¯la) in the following line represents the allocation for the porter who delivered the bread to the pick-up point (the load, 500 pounds, would have been heavy). Two entries seems odd, but they appear to reflect a reality of family life. Separated from each other are (1) the producer/seller of fine things and his mother-in-law, and (2) the divorc e of the producer/seller of fine things. The divorc e collected two loaves, hence for herself only, and he collected six, four for himself and presumably his children and two for his mother-in-law (sometimes the allocation is broken down in separate entries: four for him [and his children] and two for her). We may imagine that the ex-wife was incapable of taking care of any dependents, even her own children. The foreigners from Malı¯j and Qalaha¯ represent many such immigrants from provincial towns in Egypt seeking assistance in the capital, a phenomenon known from other societies where the village poor migrate ˘

43 An example several times in list no. I, significantly one of the Ru¯m, suggesting that the Fustat charity administrator did not know, hence needed to be shown, that this newcomer had an orphan. 44 Med. Soc., 3:189 – 194 on absentee husbands.

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to a larger, urban center in search of work, sometimes ending up on the poor rolls. The man from the Egyptian port city of Damietta was well enough established in Fustat to vouch for other newcomers seeking a place on the local dole. Entries like “the woman from Malı¯j” or “the man from Ba albek” indicate, not surprisingly, that the charity officers did not know their names, because they were newcomers. Finally, we should call attention to the types of people commonly appearing on the bread dole, in these lists as in others. We find the ill or their children, many with afflictions one can still see today on the streets of many Middle Eastern countries: the blind, the deaf, the semiparalyzed, those suffering from intestinal illness, some merely labeled “afflicted,” or “stricken.” There are the people who for family reasons needed charity: orphans and women, the latter probably mainly widows and divorc es. Prominent also are the foreigners (identified by their toponyms), who, arriving from afar, usually came bereft of financial resources and lacked local family to take them in. They naturally took some time finding gainful employment. Elderly parents or in-laws living with grown or married children appear with frequency. So do those employed in menial or otherwise low-paying professions: tanners, tailors, dyers, glassmakers, astrologers, scribes, cantors, synagogue beadles, kashrut supervisors (shomer [col. III line 26 in this list]), night watchmen, ritual washers of the dead (elsewhere we find gravediggers), healers of stomach ailments. These and many more nonpoor, as well as those in the middling professions who frequently could not make ends meet, are described in the taxonomy of the poor in Chapter One of Poverty and Charity.

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TS K15.50v

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IV. TS Box K 15.5045

45 Cf. Med. Soc., 2:443, App. B 22; trans. Cohen, The Voice of the Poor in the Middle Ages, no. 63.

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recto right side Col. II

recto left side Col. III

1. Also dispensed for them 2. Tuesday the 25th of that (month)

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1. the Maghrebi woman 2 Elijah 3 2. Abu¯ Khalı¯f 4 the semiparalyzed woman 2 3. five qint.a¯rs (500 pounds), number- 3. Elijah of Ru¯m 3 Judah of Ru¯m 3 ing five hundred 4. forty-seven (loaves) 4. the son of our master Joseph 8 Furayj the man with tremors 3 5. Sabı¯ and an orphan 5 Mukhta¯r 3 5. Hila¯l 2 Umm Hila¯la 2 6. Umm Rebecca 4 Umm Matatya 2 6. Baraka¯t 3 Sa adya 3 7. Shemarya 4 Joseph the night watch- 7. the errand boy from Andalusia 2 the man 5 wife of Awa¯d. 5 8. Joseph and his brothers 8 the or8. [the] man from Hija¯z 4 Umm Z. arı¯fa ˙ phans of the furrier 5 3 9. Samı¯h. the Kohen 4 Wahı¯b 3 9. Sala¯ma 4 [t]he woman from Qalaha¯ 3 10. Dı¯nı¯ 1 the female washer of the 10. a woman from Ru¯m 1 the orphans dead for the Ru¯m 2 of Joseph 8 11. the wife of the deceased man [[1]] 3 11. b. Shekhanya 6 b. al-Qud. a¯ ¯ı (the son of the healer of stomach ailments) 6 the wife of the elder from Ru¯m 1 12. Abu¯ Mukhta¯r 3 and his sister 3 12. the mother-in-law of Mut.a¯libı¯ 2 transport of one qint.a¯r 5 13. Sulayma¯n the supervisor 3 Shamı¯ a 13. Kina¯na 1 […] 10 6 14. Umm al-Khayya¯t. 3 the orphans of 14. three orphans from Ru¯m 4 Abrathe Karaite 2 ham and his sister 3 15. the man from Sicily 4 Umm Abra- 15. b. al- Ammanı¯ 4 b. al-Kharazı¯ (son of the maker of beads) 2 ham 4 16. Umm Khalaf 3 the acquaintance of 16. the man from Acre 6 the female the dyer 4 proselyte (al-gera)46 […] ˘

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46 The Hebrew gera is not the standard form for female proselyte, which is giyyoret, appearing only in post-biblical Hebrew. Gera in the Bible is the cud of an animal (which chews it) or a coin (the twentieth part of a shekel). In a rare instance in a midrash, Ruth the proselyte is called gera (Bereshit Rabba, Vilna ed. 88:7; the passage is not attested in any but one late manuscript of Bereshit Rabba nor

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17. Eliakim 2 H . asan the glassmaker 4 17. the mother-in-law of Elijah and an orphan 2 the mother-in-law of the woman from Palestine (al-sha¯miyya) 18. Abraham of Tyre 4 the wife of his 18. the in-law of Namer 2 the acson 2 quaintance of Azhar 5 19. the female washer of the dead for 19. Umm Aynayn 4 the man from Damsı¯[s] 3 Fustat 2 the acquaintance of the man from Damietta 6 20. the sister of Isaac 2 the daughter of 20. Umm Yu¯suf 3 the wife of Bu¯ al-Thulayth 2 Sa ¯ıd 5 21. Muba¯raka 4 Rayyisa 2 21. the daughter of al-Jady 2 the house of b. Yih. ye 22. Sitta¯n 2 Umm Furayj 2 22. the house of b. Sa a¯da 4 b. al-Murahhit. (the son of the writer/singer of liturgical poetry) 8 23. Umm Sa¯lim 3 b. Nathan 2 23. Abu¯ Khalı¯fa 6 the wife of the seller of fuqqa¯ (honey sherbet) 3 24. S. a¯lih. 4 b. Daniel 8 24. Siba¯ 4 the Kohen from Ru¯m 4 25. his mother and grandmother 4 25. Solomon the scribe 3 the wife of the Jacob 1 tanner 4 26. Makhlu¯f the blind man 2 Ayya¯sh 4 26. the Kohen 2 Za fara¯n 8 27. Ma la¯ 5 Jacob the blind man 2 28. al-Su¯ra¯nı¯ 6 Abu¯ Shayka 2 29. 165 27. Simh. a the gravedigger 4 Nahu¯m 2 28. b. Nafı¯ and his sister 8 Baraka¯t 3 29. the acquaintance of b. T. iba¯n 4 and the in-law of the supervisor 4 217 [[…]] ˘

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verso right side Col. IV

verso left side Col. I

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1. the producer/seller of fine things and 1. E his mother-in-law 6 al-Makh. u¯l 4 2. the man from the H 2. Na ¯ım 4 Jacob the dyer 3 . ija¯z 3 b. Na[f ]ı¯ and his in-law 8 3. the wife of Simon 4 Aaron of Jeru- 3. Baraka¯t 3 Isaac and his in-law 4 salem 4 4. the in-law of R. Joseph 8 the man 4. the producer/seller of fine things 4 from Malı¯j 6 and his mother-in-law 2

in any of the later midrashic anthologies that draw material from Bereshit Rabba; see the critical edition Bereschit Rabba by J. Theodor and Ch. Albeck, 2nd printing [Jerusalem 1965], 3:1086 in the notes). Possibly there were two different lady converts to Judaism drawing from the poor dole in Fustat at the same time, and the scribes employed the odd form to distinguish one from the other.

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5. Jacob the dyer 3 Makh. u¯l 4 ˘

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6. Na ¯ım 4 Ma la¯ […] ˘

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5. the son of the afflicted man 8 b. alH . ila¯l 8 6. the cantor from Ba albek 6 al-Ja¯zifı¯nı¯ 8 7. Salma¯n 8 the daughter of H . ası¯ka 4 8. the wife of Ma la¯ [and] her in-law 10 ˘

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7. Kala¯siyya 3 Abu¯ Hila¯l 4 8. Abraham the coo[k] 3 the blind woman 5 9. Kala¯siyya 3 Abu¯ Hila¯l 4 9. the female teacher 3 the wife of Hura¯ra 3 10. the female teacher 3 the wife of 10. the wife of al- Ana¯nı¯ 4 the mother of the orphan girl 4 H . ada¯da 3 11. the blind woman 5 the wife of b. al- 11. Lubuwwa 3 the house of Simon 4 Ana¯nı¯ 4 12. the slave girl of Mukhta¯r 2 an or- 12. Sabı¯ and the orphan 6 the motherphan girl 4 in-law of Mukhta¯r 2 13. b. al-H 13. Lubuwwa 4 Ya qu¯b 8 . ila¯l 8 the mother-in-law of the woman from Palestine 3 14. Jacob 8 b. al-Ka¯mukhı¯ (the son of 14. the wife of the silk worker 5 b. the preparer of vinegar sauce and other Abu l-H . ayy 8 appetizers) 4 15. al-Sı¯lqu¯nı¯ 8 the acquaintance of 15. [t]he preparer of litharge 8 b. Abu lH Gha¯lib 3 . ayy 16. Umm Abraham 2 the acquaintance 16. Umm Ubayd 4 Umm Kah. la¯ 5 of Gha¯lib 4 17. the divorc e of the producer/seller 17. Abraham the supervisor 6 Nah. u¯m 2 of fine things 2 b. al-Ka¯mukhı¯ (the son of the preparer of vinegar sauce and other appetizers) /3/ [[2?]] 18. b. al-Murahhit. (the son of the 18. H . asan the glassmaker 4 […] 3 writer/singer of liturgical poetry) 3 [[the cook 2]] 19. the guide of the blind man 8 the 19. transport 1 Ma lı¯47 3 man from [A]cre 6 20. 170 20. the h. aver R. Joseph 8 Salma¯n 8 21. five hundred fifty-two 21. the daughter of H . ası¯ka 4 al-Ja¯zifı¯nı¯ 8 22. Rebecca 4 Umm Matatya 2 23. the wife of the furrier 5 Ayya¯sh 4 24. Umm Kah. la¯ 5 Ma a¯lı¯ 3 25. Abu¯ Shaykha 2 the Maghrebi woman 2 26. Umm Sa¯lim 3 transport 2 27. a man from Ru¯m 1 the wife of the son of the Rav ˘

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47 This is the baker whose name is spelled elsewhere Ma a¯lı¯.

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28. an errand boy from Ru¯m 4 a man from Ru¯m 2 29. 233 five hundred sixty-seven loaves

The date here marks distributions for the following Tuesday, November 12, 1107 (five days after no. III), comprising 500 pounds stretched to make 547 loaves—a dozen or so fewer than the previous allotment. We count about 70 women’s names, several repeated, since more than one distribution is accounted for in these bifolios. The list records, separately, both the orphans and the widow (written: wife) of a furrier. This again accords with the halakhic rule that “the court is the father of orphans.” The many foreigners are identifiable by their toponyms. The roster includes several ill or disabled indigents, several other orphans, several siblings (perhaps also orphans), several entries of people who are vouched for by a local resident (“acquaintance of X”), a female proselyte found on other pages from these lists dating from 1107, and persons working in various low paid occupations. The h. aver R. Joseph, a scholar whose title identifies him as having studied in the yeshiva of Palestine, collects rations. Elsewhere in these contemporary lists we find two other h. averim. Scholars also sometimes found themselves on the bread dole, unless the bread they received was simply a salary supplement. *** The alms lists portray one side of the charitable enterprise, the poor and their need. The other side, donations for the sake of the poor, is illustrated by the next and final document. Donations made through pledges constituted a mainstay of the fundraising effort of Jewish charity administrators, the parnasim. Typically pledges were made in the synagogue. The word pesiqa designates a “pledge-drive” (a call for donations), though the term is also used for ad hoc pledges for a single person, for instance, an indigent who wrote to the community requesting that pledges be taken up on his behalf in the synagogue, or a wayfarer who appeared in the congregation and received pledges on the spot. Once pledges had been taken it fell on the parnasim to call them in. Many lists record pledges paid-up or still owed. Sometimes the parnasim made the rounds of places of business in the market place, soliciting pledges or collecting pledges that were due, so that some people “gave at the office,” so to speak.

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ENA 2591.6r

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ENA 2591.6v

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V. ENA 2591.648 “Collection for the Poll Tax”

48 Cf. Med. Soc., 2:505, App. C 128; trans. Cohen, The Voice of the Poor in the Middle Ages, no. 79. I thank the Jewish Theological Seminary Library for permission to publish this text and its facsimiles.

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1. Collection for the poll tax,49 w(eek of ) 2. the sons of the dealer in odoriferous “This is the story of Is(aac)” (Genesis wood [[1]] nuqra //1 1/2 waraq//50 25:19) (the sixth weekly reading of the Jewish liturgical year, usually in November). 2. Abu l-Fakhr51 Levi the druggist one waraq 3. his son Abu l-Fad. l 1/2 and 1/3 waraq 3. Fakhr al-Dawla Kohen 1

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49 Arabic: jiba¯yat al-jawa¯lı¯. 50 The pure silver nuqra dirhem was worth about three times as much as the waraq dirhem, so it seems that the contribution here was halved and written above the line, in place of 1 nuqra. 51 The name is written as if in the genitive, Abi l-Fakhr, reflecting the conflation of the nominative and genitive cases in the spoken Arabic of the time.

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10. the sons of al-Lebdı¯ 1 11. al-M[…] Samawwal 1/2 12. 13. 14. 15.

Walı¯ al-Dawla 1 Bishr from RSTYH52 1/2 paid one waraq Sulayma¯n the dyer 1/2

16. […] 17. al-T[…] 1

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al-Rashı¯d Abu l-Fad. l 1/2 al-[Sa]dı¯d Abu¯ Nas. r Alı¯ 1/2 [[Bu¯ Mans. u¯r b.]] S. afı¯ 1/2 Shabı¯b 1/2 the sons of Nafı¯ 1 ˘

5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

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4. the h. aver Abu l- Ala¯ 1/2 ˘

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4. the sons of the dealer in odoriferous wood 1/2 and 1/3 5. Abu¯ Imra¯n Levi the druggist 6. Abu¯ Imra¯n Kohen the druggist 1/3 7. [al]-Mevin b. Munajja¯ the banker 1/3 8. [al-Sa]dı¯d Abu¯ Nas. r his neighbor 1 9. al-Makı¯n b. al-Nafı¯s (who) r(ests in) E(den) 1 10. Abu l-H . asan the money assayer 1/2 and 1/3 11. R. Samuel son of the judge (may his) m(emory be) b(lessed) 1/2 and 1/3 12. al-[…] b. Na¯jı¯ 1 13. Abu¯ Mans. u¯r b. Nafı¯ 1/3 14. Abu¯ Alı¯ b. Karam 1 15. Bu¯ Mans. u¯r the distributor of seeds 1/2 and 1/3 16. Bu l- Izz the occulist 1 17. Abu¯ Mans. u¯r son of the captive 1/2 and 1/3 18. the Kohen b. al-Najı¯b the banker 1/4 19. al-Thiqa Hiba, street of the green grocers 1/3 20. Bu l- Ala¯ and his partner 1/3 21. Mufad. d. al the goldsmith and his son 1 22. Ya qu¯b the seller [of food stuff ] 1/4 23. 13 12 24. Friday 25. b. al-Najı¯[b] the herald53 1 26. al-Ras. u¯[y] b. al-Kohen 1 ˘

verso ˘

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Bu l- Izz the dyer Abu¯ al-[ Al]a¯ the [ba]nker 1/3 […].n the banker [A]bu l-Majd Kohen 1/3 [Abu¯] Sa ¯ıd 1/3 […] […] […] 1/3 ˘

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1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

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Mans. u¯r […] 1/3 waraq Azı¯z 1 1/2 Abu l-Mana¯shir Abu l-HDHB54 […] Abu¯ Imra¯n b. al-[…] his brother Ab[u¯] S[uru¯r] 1/2 Ibrahı¯m […] 1/3 Mah. fu¯z. b. al-[…] 1/3 Abu¯ Alı¯ b. Baqa¯ […]

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1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

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52 I am uncertain about the vocalization or identification of this place-name. 53 Hebrew: al-mashmi a. Goitein speculates that this functionary might have been a person who announced pledges publicly in the synagogue. Med. Soc., 2:87. 54 I am uncertain about the vocalization of this name.

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9. Abu l-Fad. l Kohen b. al-[…] 1/3 9. al-M[…] Tamı¯m 1/3 10. al-Thiqa Hiba H . ama¯m the banker 1/ 10. (undecipherable name in Arabic 3 letters) 1/3 11. his neighbor Baqa¯ 1/3 12. Abu l- Izz his neighbor 1/3 13. Abu l- Ala¯ Levi the druggist 1/3 14. Abu l-Fad. l 1/3 15. Mufad. d. al […] 1/3 16. [his] son 14 17. Joseph the dyer 1/3 18. the Kohen Mu ammar 1/3 19. b. al-Qu¯s.¯ı (the son of the man from Qu¯s. ) 1/3 20. Maka¯rim the occulist 1/3 21. al-Sadı¯d Bu¯ Nas. r the money assayer 1/3 22. al-Thiqa al-Rah. bı¯ 1/3 23. Abu l-Fakhr Levi the banker 1/3 24. al-Rashı¯d the money assayer 1/3 25. Nafı¯s the potion maker/seller 1/3 26. Sulayma¯n b. Bu¯ Alı¯ 1/3 27. […] his brother […] ˘

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(left side, written diagonally, beginning opposite line 16): Expenditure in the hand of Hiba //the beadle//—8. Collected at the store of the banker //Bu¯ Sa d// from his loan—2 1/2. b. al-Ta hı¯ Bu l-H . asan the price of sugar—1 […] the [d]ruggist—1

The letters of the poor show unequivocally that the poll tax constituted a heavy burden for the impoverished of society, who were not exempt from the levy in this period.55 In addition to private charity, the community collected money to subsidize their annual poll tax debt.56 There are lists of beneficiaries indicating what the recipients’ share should be, the rest being made up by public charity. This “Collection for the Poll Tax,” however, is a list recording donor pledges, it seems. That it is a donor list is proved both by the rubric and by the economic and social status of the persons listed. Some are connected with the medical profession: druggists, occulists, a potion maker or seller. The bankers and money assayers have obvious financial standing. There are people in the food industry: green grocers, a seller of food stuff. Such people 55 See specifically on this Eli Alshech, “Islamic Law, Practice, and Legal Doctrine: Exempting the Poor from the Jizya under the Ayyubids,” Islamic Law and Society 10 (2003), 1 – 28. 56 See Chapter 4 in Cohen, Poverty and Charity, “Debt and the Poll Tax.”

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could generally expect to be securely employed, since even the poor need to eat and will spend their meager resources in the food market. Green grocers in particular are found on donor lists. Vegetables constituted a staple of the diet even of the poor.57 A couple of the names indicate another kind of social status. I refer to the son of a judge and the h. aver, the latter, a scholar, the former, the son of a man schooled in Jewish law. Similarly, the man called al-Ras. u¯y, shorthand for a title like Ras.u¯y ha-Yeshiva, “Favored by the Yeshiva,” probably had this honorific bestowed upon him by the yeshiva in recognition of donations made to that body. One may speculate that the donor called “son of the captive” was showing his gratitude here for charity done by the community in redeeming his captive father. We should take note, too, of the presence of two dyers on this list. Dyers were normally recipients of charity, as we saw on the alms lists, but even the poor are enjoined by Jewish law to give charity to others if and when they can afford to. The inverse, seen frequently in the Geniza documents, the counterpart of the “working poor” or moderately well off in other societies, are the people who “fall from their wealth” and end up seeking private charity by writing letters of appeal or having others recommend them by writing to a would-be benefactor.58 The sums are very small. One donor gave 1 1/2 waraq dirhem; 13 gave 1 dirhem; 3 gave 3/4 dirhem; 12 gave 1/2 dirhem; 2 gave 1/4 dirhem; and 5 contributions are either unclear or not preserved. The total, Goitein notes, was less then the poll tax for one man, which, for the poor, was normally 1 gold dinar (about 40 silver dirhems) in this period. He therefore suggests these are instalments on larger, or more frequent, pledges. Some of the pledges were collected on Friday (verso line 24), presumably closing accounts for the week, just before the Sabbath. Though lacking symbols for fractions, fractional amounts are nonetheless often expressed in the lists by the Arabic words nis.f for 12, rub for 14, etc. For symbols they used Coptic fractions, as in this list. The fraction rendered 1/3 is represented by a “v” on its side with a dot in the middle and another on top (like an abbreviation mark); a “v” on its side without a dot in the middle I think is 12. This also looks like half an “alef,” that is, one-half of “one.” The common Coptic s-shaped slash for 12 is also used. 57 On the diet of the poor see ibid., 158 – 163. 58 The rabbinic word for “fall from his wealth,” yored mi-nekhasav, crops up regularly to describe such people. See ibid., 37.

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The note in the margin does not seem to be related to the list. It seems to record an expenditure made by the beadle of the synagogue. He could have been purchasing oil to light the lamps at dark. Oil for illumination was a common item in the communal budget. The next item might refer to receipt of a portion of a sum of money pledged as a loan (to the community?) by a banker, or by someone else from funds he had deposited with a banker. The third notation might record money for purchase of sugar pledged by someone and noted as having been collected. If my interpretation is correct, we have here a fragment illustrating the accounting practices of the people in the Geniza period, procedures represented abundantly in many extensive accounts of businessmen found in the Geniza. *** Expanding outward from The Voice of the Poor in the Middle Ages, the documents published here have a dual value. They offer Jewish historians a sampling of the types of materials available for the comparative study of poverty and charity in other Jewish communities, particularly those in medieval and early modern Europe. At the same time they present to historians of medieval and early modern Europe, as well as of medieval Islam, who lack letters and lists of comparable richness, a taste of the kinds of evidence available for the comparative study of poverty and charity in the societies they study. The letters should be of particular interest to those working on the European pauper letters from the early industrial period, and the lists should be of value to those studying the abundant parish registers of poor law administrators from the early modern period in general. What has been offered here is but the proverbial tip of the iceberg.

Charity in Jewish Society of the Medieval Mediterranean World Miriam Frenkel Charity and donation were conspicuous features of the Geniza society.1 The accumulation of various Geniza documents related to charity, including communal and private correspondence, legal documents, public decrees as well as commercial documents point to the very central and significant role that active giving and generosity fulfilled in almost every aspect of this society.2 In this chapter I try to explore how charity was related to other social transactions. I perceive charity not as an isolated category, but rather as a component in an entire system of social exchange. My main argument is that the discourse of charity pervaded almost every aspect of the Geniza society. Its wide diffusion helped to turn contractual relations into symbolic economy. The construction of most social relations according to the pattern of charity paved the way for the many uses made of charity. The article begins with a general description of the discourse of charity. Then it goes on to show how this discourse re-conceptualized existing relationships and transformed monetary contractual economy into symbolic economy. The construction of charity and commerce in one and the same pattern made them almost interchangeable. It was this similarity which made possible the many uses of charity. The article proceeds by specifying several uses which were made of charity: in the field of commerce, as a central means of communication, as a way to legitimize lead1

2

I use the term “Geniza society” to denote the Jewish Society of the Medieval Mediterranean world in the 10th-13th centuries. This term was coined by S. D. Goitein in his monumental work: S. D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society; The Jewish Communities of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza, 5 vols., Berkeley and Los Angeles 1967 – 1993, vol. I, pp. 148 – 368 (hereafter: Med.Soc.) In his recent book on poverty and charity in Medieval Egypt, Mark Cohen made use of 890 documents which directly concern acts of charity. Cohen estimates that they represent around 5 – 6 percent of the total number of documentary fragments of the Cairo Geniza. Mark Cohen, Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt, Princeton 2005, p. 13 and notes 1 – 2.

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ers’ authority and as a means of consolidation of the community and the nation. The article ends with the discussion of a peripheral case- study which sheds light on charity in the Geniza society from the revealing vantage point of view of gender relations.

The discourse of charity It was not only the act of charity that was paramount in Geniza society, but also the discourse on giving and generosity which prevailed everywhere. Letters to prominent persons always started with phrases of praise, emphasizing the addressee’s generosity, benevolence, goodwill, compassion and altruism. The following paragraph constitutes the introductory opening of a letter written by a prominent spiritual and political leader, the head of the academy (yeshivah) of Pumbedita, in Iraq, to another distinguished figure in Qayrawa¯n (nowadays Tunisia). This extract may serve as an illustrative example of the metaphoric uses employed in routine correspondence: To our beloved… who is like the sun in its windowpane and like the stars in their trail and like the moon in its porthole…[Who is]the grace bestowed upon all his friends, the shadow extended to his surroundings, the river which supplies running water to the tired ones and flings his streams to left and right, the tall tree with plenty of roots, beautiful branches and sweet fruits offered to any mouth…3

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Another head of the same academy, Shemu el ben Hofni, addressed the ˙ expressions: communal leader of Fustat (Egypt) using the following To our lord and hero, our light and candle, the wise and graceful R. Shemaria, the lord among all benevolent people and the leader among all generous ones…4

In the same way, formal epistles, which were occasionally exchanged between the communities themselves, begin as a rule with laudatory expressions praising the members of the community as being charitable, benevolent and generous. These, for example, are the words used in an epistle

3 4

TS Loan 203, published by Moshe Gil, In the Kingdom of Ishmael (Hebrew), Tel Aviv and Jerusalem 1997, no. 31. TS Loan 169, published by Gil, In the Kingdom, no.56

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sent in 1030 by the Jewish community of Palermo, Sicily, to the communities of Qayrawa¯n and al-Mahdiyya:

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(To), the kind and benevolent, honest and supporting… helpers of the poor and the tortured, saviors of captives…the merciful and not wrathful… the holy congregation of Qairawa¯n at the head of which stands the honored R. Elhanan, son of R. Hushui el, May he rest in peace, and the honored Nagid˙ R. Ya acov, son of ˙R. Amram and to all the decent elders of al-Mahdiyya, all of whom, without exception, are noble and charitable, known for their charitable deeds. They sow and plant justice and charity…5 ˘

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Geniza society was a trading society par excellence6 and the discourse of charity permeated the commercial world too. Most of the people who left traces in the Geniza documents were engaged in global, very sophisticated commerce. No need to stress that such a complex commercial enterprise had to be based upon exact accounts and strict contracts to keep it profitable. Still, when reading the correspondence between merchants of this time what is most striking is the widespread use of terms expressing love, generosity, benevolence and mutual trust. A prevalent proverb among those merchants was: “If you have lost everything except a piece of bread, throw it to the sea”.7 This proverb contains an allusion to the biblical verse: “Cast your bread upon the waters, for you will find it after many days”, (Ecclesiasties11, 1) and reflects a world vision, which cherishes altruism and renunciation of property. Commercial relations were formulated in the phraseology of mutual help and benevolence. A very common saying in merchants’ letters (as well as in others) was: “May I never miss your kindness and help” or, in a slightly different version: “May you never be taken away from me and May I never miss your favors with me”. Instructions to carry out commercial activities were accompanied by the expression: “As is your usual pleasant 5 6

7

TS24.6, published by Menahem Ben-Sasson (ed.), The Jews of Sicily (825 – 1068); Documents and Sources (Hebrew), Jerusalem 1991, no. 20; Gil, In the Kingdom, no. 236 The commercial attributes of the Geniza society were brilliantly and minutely described by Goitein: Med.Soc, vol. I, pp. 148 – 368. The sheer fact that there was no specific word in the language of the Geniza people to denote a merchant shows how widespread and common commerce was and how much it was comprehended as a natural occupation of any human being. TS16.179, published by Gil, in the Kingdom, no. 617

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way in performing favors and good deeds”8 Commercial letters were usually signed with the words:” From me, the one who thanks your kindness and generosity” (sha¯kir tafadulihi). ˙ The following paragraph is cited from a letter written around 1060 by a merchant from Tripoli, Libya to the prominent merchant and banker, Nahray Ben Nissı¯m: I have already sent my lord several letters, but have not seen an answer to any of them. I hope my lord is busy with good things. I heard that a bale of flax and another one of sugar have arrived for you. I am extremely angry at you because of this, because you do not give me the honor of fulfilling your needs (and buying it for you)… …My lord, it is my confidence in your love that drives me (to write these lines). I very well know your love and righteousness. May you never cease to be generous and benevolent…This is why I have counted on God’s mercy and sent a parcel with Yahya¯ al Mahda¯wi…My Lord, if God wills, will you please sell the silk and felt and add the money to our joint account. If you wish, you may take a hundred for yourself and please honor me and let me take care of this, because this is my pleasure. I am determined to arrive in Alexandria as soon as possible and to renew our alliance. Please let me know about any need you have, so that I will be able to fulfill it with joy and happiness.9

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In this typical letter, as in so many others, the commercial partnership is portrayed as an “alliance” or a “covenant” of love (brit, ahd), not as a contract. The commercial relationship is comprehended as based, not on strict observance of the commercial contract, but on love, generosity and on an ardent passion to serve the partner. In many letters, long apologies are offered whenever a merchant would find it necessary to demand an account. Such a request was generally understood as mistrust and as a way to bring a partnership to an end.10 This attitude is very clearly reflected in the words of the merchant Isma ¯ıl ben Farah written in 1051 and ˙ intended for his commercial partner: ˘

Whatever I still owe you for the price of lacquer, please keep it in your mind. No need to repeat the written account. By Almighty God, I do not check accounts not with you and not with anybody else, and I certainly do not do so with them. All I need to know is how much do I owe you and, please, write me only the cost of the merchandise you have sent me without repeating the whole written account. God knows that this thing does not really trouble my heart.11 8 9 10 11

One of many other examples: Gil, In the Kingdom, no. 517 TS13J25.8, published by Gil, In the Kingdom of Ishmael vol. IV, no. 691. Med. Soc, vol I, pp. 204 – 205 TS12.335, Gil, In the Kingdom, no. 487

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The partners in this transaction, as in most others, invested great effort in denying the truth of calculated exchange. They found it of paramount importance to conceal and repress the economic calculation behind the transaction, but rather to perceive and present it as an act of pure disinterestedness.

Symbolic economy

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Charity and benevolence were deeply embedded in the prevalent discourse and served as a powerful metaphor for several social transactions. Metaphors have a power of their own and they help to re-conceptualize relationships and identities. Through these metaphors the economy of interest and profit was transformed into a “non economic economy” or “symbolic economy”, to use Pierre Bourdieu’s terms.12 The Geniza society was a typical pre-capitalist society and as such it rested on a strong denial of any calculated relations. We may say that this society was actually based on a permanent negation of its economic dimension and that the denial itself, which was couched in the phraseology of charity, was an indispensable and necessary trait of this society which enabled its successful functioning. A typical device intended to mask the contractual nature of commerce and to present it as an act of benevolence and trust was the constructed temporal interval between the first stage of promising the payment and the second stage of the actual payment. In commercial transactions the process of selling fell into two distinct phases; the sale proper, which was called safqa (literally: hand-shake) and was concluded by the religious act of “symbolic purchase” (qinyan agav), and between the actual collection of the payment, called jiba¯ya (literally: collection), which took place between one to four months later.13 Charity donations were implemented, in the same way, in two distinct stages: the first stage included the assignment of a certain sum for a specific charitable purpose and was called pesiqa (literally: allotment) or tasmiya (literally: putting one’s name in the list of donors). It was understood to be a religious vow. The second phase was that of the implementation of the vow, namely the actual payment of the promised donation. It too was called jiba¯ya, just like the commercial procedure.14 12 Pierre Bourdieu, Practical Reason-On the Theory of Action, Cambridge 1998, pp. 92 – 113. 13 Med. Soc. I, pp. 195 – 197. 14 op. cit., vol. II, p. 106

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The religious dimension incorporated in both, commerce and charity, as well as the built in interval of time between agreement and payment, were in both cases part of the mystification of the calculated economic acts. It was designated to transmit a message of complete mutual confidence and to remove any sign of symmetrical automatic contractual relations. Both transactions should be presented as voluntary charitable giving and must disguise any hint of calculated relations based on interest and profit. The suspension of payment created an atmosphere of total confidence. All parties involved could thus present themselves as free actors acting out of pure volition or deep religious commitment.15 The risk taken by the actors, who were willing to wait for payment with no guarantee whatsoever of the completion of the transaction, constituted an additional manifestation of generosity. It was an implicit gesture of altruism, understood by all parties involved, in which the ability to endure the risk of not receiving the promised money was affirmed.16 It was not only in commerce that the Geniza people found it so very necessary to deny any economic aspect. A whole range of calculated activities and institutions was transformed into voluntary donations and presented as acts of charity, based on the logic of love and generosity. The community apparatus itself, as complex and intricate as it actually was, was perceived and presented as based on charity and good-will donations. The religious functionaries of the Jewish communities: judges (dayya¯nim), beadles, cantors, ritual slaughterers (shohet) trustees of the ˙ court, communal schoolteachers, were not conceived as employees of 15 This is an extension of Bourdieu’s theory of gift and counter- gift and the temporal interval between the two. Bourdieu, Practical Reason, pp. 92 – 126. 16 Amotz Zahavi, Zahavi Avishag, The Handicap Principle;a missing piece of Darwin’s puzzle, Oxford 1999. Amotz and Avishag Zahavi have developed the notion of the Handicap Principle on the basis of their studies of peacocks and of babblers, group living song birds in Southern Israel. They found out that the investment that animals make in signals is similar to the “handicaps” imposed on the stronger contestants in a game or a sporting event, such as the extra weight the swifter race horse must carry. A handicap proves beyond doubt that the victor’s win is due to mastery, not chance. The peacock’s heavy tail is a handicap in this special sense that it allows it to demonstrate its quality. The Handicap Principle has proved to be generally applicable, a sound principle that can ensure reliability in communication between competing organisms, human beings included. The postponement of payments in both charity donations and commerce can be understood as another manifestation of the Handicap Principle in the sense that it manifested the ability of the parties concerned who could afford to risk their investment and endure the uncertainty of postponed payment.

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the community who earn a salary for their work, but rather as volunteers who are compensated for loss of time (sekhar batta¯la¯). They were paid in several different ways: the community paid their˙˙ poll tax to the Muslim government and the school fees for their children. It provided them with bread, wheat and clothing. It also awarded them a weekly or a monthly subsidiary in cash. This payment was extracted from the weekly contributions of the community members, a fact which explains why the names of these community functionaries, who were not at all destitute people, appear on the regular payrolls of the community together with the poor and the needy. The community also arranged for them to receive a pesı¯qa¯, a special payment pledged to them by the community twice a year, on the High Holidays in the fall and on Passover, as well as on special occasions.17 Hence, the communal officials were indeed properly compensated for the work and skill they invested in their work. Still it was crucially important for the community people as well as for the officials themselves to present their work as a voluntary religious service for the sake of the community done purely out of religious devotion. This attitude was explicitly articulated in Maimonides’ Code of Law where he stated that any public service should be rendered gratuitously.18 Although Maimonides was apparently reinforcing old religious concepts of public service, as a matter of fact his attitude reflected new contemporary strategies of the pre-capitalist society to which he belonged, a society which constantly faced a desperate need to conceal any sign of a market economy, but one in which work ought to be conceived as voluntary service rather than paid labor. At the same time, it was also necessary to consider the payment awarded to these functionaries as a voluntary gift (tahdiyya, tuhfa)19 and present it as pious charity. ˙ The following document may illustrate this ambivalent attitude concerning payments to public officials. It is a letter of a former official of the Alexandrian community written to a certain Nagid (head of all Jewish communities in Egypt). The writer used to be his representative (na¯ ib) in Alexandria and had also fulfilled many other communal functions for which he was never paid. Now he demands his fees. … [I am] concerned with paying them [= the community leaders of Alexandria] respect and caring for them. I am your slave as well as theirs. I always 17 Med. Soc, vol. II, pp. 121 – 126 18 Moses ben Maimon, Misneh Torah; English translation: The Code of Maimonides, Book Seven. Trans. Isaac Klein. New Haven and London, 1949. 19 Med. Soc. vol. II, p. 122 – 123, n. 5.

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thank them and praise them for the favors they have done me when I was with them. I had not initially intended to approach them at this time, but some needs arose concerning the service for the distinguished Nagid, may his honor last forever, and as a consequence other needs sprang up as well, which I can not specify right now. Your slave and servant was always with you in the old days as well as nowadays, ready to act as your deputy and representative. Perhaps God’s favors will be revealed and will convey whatever is not included in the account. They [=the leaders of Alexandria] used to be generous with me as is their usual charitable way. They arranged a pesı¯qa¯ on the Day of Atonement, which thus is considered a vow […] Even if it had only concerned a simple wayfarer (where they would be obliged to fulfill their vow), all the more are they compelled to fulfill it for the one who has served you and was always grateful for your favors. Whoever promises to pay something on a pesı¯qa¯, should fulfill the promise and not delay the payment. You know very well of course what the Sages said about the delay in keeping vows and what is written in the Bible about it. Please discuss this with our Lord the “Nezer” [=one of the community leaders] in a favorable way according to your wisdom. Please be so good as to send another letter to the “Pride of the Cantors” [ the official title of one of the community leaders who was also a prominent cantor], send him my thanks and tell him that I pray for him and that every one who is related to me prays for him, and please urge him to pay me the pesı¯qa¯ money and the fees that they still owe me from the revenue of the abattoir and all the other fees [….] R. Nethanel the scholar is with him and will help him to collect and send it with one of our colleagues who happens to be there. Peace.20

The writer tried desperately to receive the money that the community owed him for his work, but he refrained from expressing his appeal in a direct way and put a lot of effort in wrapping his plea in the rhetoric of reciprocal services and gifts. The logic at the base of his formulation is as follows: the writer served the Nagid and the community, they compensated him by arranging a pesı¯qa¯ for him, he repaid them by being thankful and by praying for them. The chain of free consent in this reciprocal exchange was broken when the communal leaders did not give him the promised pesı¯qa¯ money, but the writer did not demand it as a calculated debt they owed him for the work he did (although he seems to know exactly how much money they owe him), but as a religious commandment they were compelled to observe. The pesı¯qa¯, being a charitable act acquired religious sanction.

20 TS 8 J 16.3. mentioned in Med. Soc. II, p. 499

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The “enchanted”,21 pre-capitalist world view, which envisioned most social transactions in terms of pious charity, turned market relations and voluntary giving into interchangeable concepts. Both were actually configured in identical cultural patterns. The result of this configuration was that not only was commerce depicted in metaphors of pious giving, but that pious donations were also perceived and described as a profitable economic enterprise. In a letter written after the occupation of Palestine by the Franks, the writer tried to convince the addressee to arrange a fund-raising campaign in his community for the sake of the Jewish captives. He used the following powerful metaphors: You will help us, as is always your generous way and kind habit. This generosity of yours will make you entitled to receive favors in both worlds. It is very extraordinary to find such a good market, whose commercial activity is so convenient and whose merchandise is so profitable22

Hence, charitable activity was apprehended as symbolic capital. This world view enabled the employment of the charitable system for many other social uses. In what follows I shall try to trace some of those uses.

Ransom of captives as an indispensable component of commerce The year 1050 was a formidably difficult one for the Jews of Alexandria. Unusually intensive activity of sea pirates on the southern shore of the Mediterranean brought into the port city of Egypt large numbers of Jewish captives.23 The local community was expected to ransom them, to feed them and look after them and see to it that they return safely to their countries of origin.24 That year the community found it extremely difficult to cope with so many captives and decided to send a large group of them to Fustat, hoping that the somewhat richer community of Fustat would be able to look after these miserable unfortunate people. The land 21 Bourdieu uses the terms “enchantment” and “mystification” to denote the process of concealing the symmetrical calculated economy of interest. Bourdieu, op. cit. 22 TS10j5.6 + TS20.113. Published by Moshe Gil, Palestine during the First Muslim Period (634 – 1099) (Hebrew), Tel Aviv 1983, no. 577, verso, lines 27 – 29. 23 Miriam Frenkel, The Copmassionate and Benevolent; The Leading Elite in the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Middle Ages (Hebrew), Jerusalem 2006, pp. 11 – 13. 24 Med.Soc. vol. I, pp. 327 – 332, vol. II, pp. 137 – 138

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journey from Alexandria to Fustat was long and slow. The weird convoy did not head directly towards the capital city but rather sought to pass by all the Jewish communities on the route between Alexandria and Cairo in order to collect some alms for the captives on the way. The group was accompanied by a special envoy, which was sent by the head of the Alexandrian community, Yeshu¯ a¯ ben Yossef. He was a young man by the name of Abraham al Siqilli, a raw, un-experienced novice merchant at the very beginning of ˙his career in commerce. He also was Yeshu¯ a¯ ben Yossef ’s junior partner and used to work with the communal head of Alexandria as an apprentice in his firm. Young Abraham did not receive any salary for accompanying the group of captives, but his expenditures on the way, for eating, drinking, sleeping, hiring a riding mount etc. were fully covered by a generous donation given especially for this purpose by Yehuda ben Sighma¯r, a well known philanthropist and also a close personal friend of the Alexandrian leader. Although young Abraham did not receive any salary, he was very well equipped with a packet of touching and heartbreaking letters of recommendation for the captives written carefully and provided by the head of the Alexandrian community. He was also equipped with the captives themselves, miserable, gloomy and shabby, as one can be expected to look after so many months of captivity and the arduous journey. Through the eloquent letters and the wretchedlooking captives, Abraham managed to collect quite a considerable sum of money on the way between Alexandria and Fustat, and even further income was expected from this ghostly spectacle. Indeed Yeshu¯ a¯ (the Alexandrian leader) writes Yehuda ibn Sighma¯r (the donor) not to demand these incomes from Abraham, but rather to show benevolence towards him “in his usual way of kindness” and leave the incomes in Abraham’s hand. Why should Yeshu¯ a¯ be interested in providing Abraham with this money? According to the commercial logic of the time, a good merchant never lets his money lie idle, but makes sure that it is always invested in some commercial project or other.25 Since Abraham was about to arrive at the mercantile capital city of Cairo-Fustat with free money in hand, Yeshu¯ a¯ makes sure that these sums of money will not remain idle, but will continue to work for him. As a matter of fact he asks Abraham to enter the spice market at Mura¯bba at al- Atta¯rı¯n and ˙ make some small purchases for: some musk of the best quality, ˙some nutmeg for a few pennies, sanafi perfume and some first-class saffron. These acquisitions are to be paid from the money that Abraham will manage to ˘

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25 Med.Soc.vol. I, pp. 200 – 202

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collect on the way, and will be reimbursed when Abraham is back in Alexandria; but in the meantime, the money circulates and yields more money and more profits. Since Abraham was still a novice trader, this was also a very good opportunity for him to learn the ways of commerce in the big city of Cairo, to get acquainted with the big merchants there, and to introduce himself to the local milieu of merchants. Indeed in the market of Fustat none other than Yehuda ibn Sighma¯r, the famous donor himself will await him and accompany him on his first commercial deal transacted with the charity money received for the purpose of ransoming the captives. All these instructions are explicitly written in a letter sent by Yeshu¯ a¯ to Yehuda ibn Sighma¯r.26 Yeshu¯ a¯ wrote about it in an open and overt way because charity money was perceived as a sort of financial investment and like any other investment of money, this money should also be constantly put into circulation .It was conceived a right and wise policy to employ it even for personal use rather than let it lie idle. The strong bond between charity and commerce is further reflected in the following letter of recommendation for Is. ha¯q al Der ¯ı written by Maimonides.27 The addressee, al-Shaykh al-Thiqa, Maimonides’ father in law, is requested by him to raise funds in his town, Minyat al-Zifta¯, at the west-central part of the Nile Delta, in order to pay the poll tax for his friend and acquaintance Isha¯q al Der ¯ı, a newcomer from Moroc˙ of this letter of recommendation. Alco, who is also the bearer and object Der ¯ı himself will first travel from Minyat al-Zifta¯ to Damietta, the Mediterranean port sea on the north-east corner of the Delta, quite a long way from Minyat al-Zifta¯, in order to carry out some transaction there which, as put by Maimonides, “is important for me”. When he will return to Minyat al-Zifta¯, he will collect the pesı¯qa¯ money and will pay his poll tax there. In this case, in a way very similar to the previous one, a poor newcomer in need of money is sent on a long distance journey in order to collect charity money and is at the same time being used as a commercial agent in the private service of the leader who had provided him with the letter. These incidents clearly show how deeply charity was intertwined with the big machinery of commerce and money. They point to the complex˘

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26 Bodl MS Heb b 3.16, published by Gil, In the Kingdom, no. 671; Frenkel, The Compassionate, no.1 27 An autograph by Maimonides, published by Yitzhaq Shilat (ed.), Maimonidean Epistles (Hebrew), Jerusalem 1987, pp. 183 – 184

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ity and sophistication of the charity institution, which along with its explicit tasks of helping the needy, served in many other social and economic capacities. One of them was that of oiling the wheels of commerce.

Charity as a channel of communication

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Charity involved not only the needy and poor of all Jewish communities, but also the attendants of charity, the impresarios and organizers who were all members of the leading cosmopolitan elite.28 Those learned and rich notables were able to help not only by donating their money, but more importantly by offering their connections, their reputation and organizational skills.. Let us now look how the system operated. When a large group of Jewish captives arrived at the seaport of Alexandria, the head of the community, Yeshu¯ a¯ ben Yossef, turned first of all to Nethanel ha-Kohen ben Elazar, one of the richest people of Alexandria. In response, Nethanel suggested the following strategy: I will pay 33 dinars to ransom one of them. There are still 200 dinars left. Please send (personal) letters to the two religious leaders (haverim). In addition, send public epistles to the members of the Palestinian˙congregation and to the members of the Babylonian congregation and to the Karaites as well. I will also send letters to all the notables and ask them to open their hearts and pockets. They, in their turn, will also write letters to the communities of Tinnı¯s, Damietta and Sahrajt, to Rabbanites and Qaraites alike, asking ˙ for the ransom of these captives and to write them to donate generously to all their colleagues. In this way, we will be able not only to ransom these poor captives, but also to supply them with some food and clothing and send them back home.29

Charity operated as a widespread network, including official communal channels as well as private ones. Through those channels, not only were large sums of money transmitted, but also many letters. It should be noticed that letters were the main mode of communication among the literate members of the elite. Constant and permanent correspondence symbolized affiliation with the social milieu of the elite class. Conversely, the interruption of correspondence was a recognized sign, which indicated the termination of this affiliation or the breaking of the “alli28 For a broader discussion, see Frenkel, The Compassionate. 29 Bodl MS Heb a 3.28, lines 43 – 47. Mentioned by Frenkel, The Compassionate, p. 224

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ance”, as alluded to by the writers themselves. People were very proud and used to boast about continuing long-lasting correspondence with fellow members of the elite and felt threatened, frightened and betrayed when letters ceased to arrive. Every letter was considered a good opportunity to continue the correspondence and to enlarge the circle of correspondents.30 For this reason any letter, be it a commercial letter, a communal epistle, a letter of recommendation or a petition for charity ended with a very long list of regards sent to all the acquaintances, as many as possible. This is also the reason for the indirect, convoluted way in which most transactions were executed, involving as many actors as possible and in which the information transmitted included as many transmitters as possible. The community official mentioned above, who tried to lay his hands on the money owed to him, did not directly approach the two community officials who were supposed to render him his fees, namely the “Nezer” and “The pride of the Cantors”, but preferred to approach the Nagid first and ask him to contact them through letters and direct conversation.31 Letters concerning charity matters served, in the same way, as a good opportunity to strengthen the links between the members of the elite class. These elite members were scattered all over the Muslim world from Spain to Persia and India. As such, they were in constant need of means of communication in order to keep in touch with each other and to maintain the solidarity and consolidation of the group as a particular entity within Jewish society. Indeed the organization of charity operated in many cases through personal letters, which normally included, besides charity matters, other issues such as financial, business, personal and familial concerns. Most of the letters conclude with long sentences dedicated to greetings and regards sent to a long list of acquaintances.32 In many cases, an application to receive financial support was not exhausted with one single letter. It was rather a collective operation in which many persons were involved and in which the needy individual himself constituted only one link in a long chain of correspondence. To the initial letter of application, which was often written by a professional clerk, 30 Frenkel, The Compassionate, pp. 226 – 227 31 Note 15, above. See many other examples in Frenkel, The Compassionate, pp. 227 – 231. 32 For example: TS13J20.20. English translation in: Mark R. Cohen, The Voice of the Poor in the Middle Ages; An Anthologiy of Documents from the Cairo Geniza, Princeton and Oxford 2005, pp. 34 – 35; TS18J4.4. op. cit, pp. 38 – 39; TS8J24.6. op. cit, p. 55 and many others.

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many other letters of recommendation were added. Leaders and other elite members were normally delighted to take part in this mediation because it was perceived as a worthy, meritorious activity, both religiously and socially, and because it was a convenient way to strengthen their social ties with all rich sponsors, patrons, benefactors and the other ordinary communal and public actors in their social milieu. The case of Rahel, the proselyte woman, may illustrate this point.33 ˙ Rachel was a converted woman from Christian Europe. Her husband, Yossef of Barcelona, brought her with him to Alexandria, where she gave birth to their two daughters. After a while; Joseph ran away and left her alone with two small daughters and without a penny. She was advised to write a petition describing her dire condition. Her letter is written in her name, but was actually drafted and recorded by the community leader of Alexandria, Yehuda ibn al- Amma¯ni. It is addressed to Elijah ben Zechariah, the dayya¯n of Cairo. To the initial petition, the writer, Ibn alAmma¯ni, added another personal letter from him to the Cairo dayya¯n and yet another letter from another community leader of Alexandria, Shemu el bar Ya acov, also directed to the same Elijah, dayya¯n of Cairo. While the petition itself is constructed according to all formal epistolary rules,34 the other two appended letters are typical personal letters. It is quite clear that the writers grasped the opportunity of writing the letter in order to add personal letters and thus to strengthen, preserve and cultivate their relations with the prominent dayya¯n of Cairo. One of the letters says, for example: ˘

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Special and warm regards [are extended] to his majesty, the venerated dayya¯n, and to his eminent children and noble off-spring. Unique regards to whoever lives in his home, old and young. I, your humble servant who writes these lines, serve his honor and send him his best wishes and long for him and feel lonesome without his presence and pray to God that there will be many like him amongst the nation of Israel and that the Lord the Creator, will award you with everything that you need in order to bestow favors upon the near ones and the distant ones.….May God the exalted reward us and enable us to see you with a son as good as yourself …and thank you very much for the congratulations you sent me upon my safe return from my pilgrimage to the holy places.35 33 TS12.575. Published in: Mordechai Akiva Friedman, Jewish Polygyny in the Middle Ages; New Documents from the Cairo Geniza (Hebrew), Tel Aviv 1986, pp. 206 – 213 34 Cohen, Poverty, pp. 174 – 188 35 Friedman, Jewish Polygyny, p. 212. verso, lines 1 – 9, 213, margins.

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The poor, the captives and the refugees served not only as a suitable opportunity for the elite members to exchange letters, they also functioned as living carriers. They used to carry with them letters of recommendation (which very often included other messages as well) along incredibly long geographical distances thus, serving as a human means of communication. In most cases they were the bearers of their own letters of recommendation to which other letters were often appended. Furthermore, it was common enough for communities, which could not raise enough money to support their needy people to supply them with letters of recommendation and send them to other communities to seek their fortune there. These rambling poor often spent many years wandering from one community to the other carrying with them these letters of recommendation and a lot of other information that their senders of the elite group found necessary to transmit through them. Yehuda ibn al- Amma¯ni, who was also a local notable of a prominent family and a celebrated poet and cantor wrote to a fellow cantor, Me ir bar Yakhı¯n: You mentioned in your previous letter that the poems you asked for have not reached you… I have sent them with a pauper by the name of Shemuel haBaghda¯di. He is a skinny dark man, the one for whom you sent me a letter of recommendation written by Shaykh Abu al-Hasan the teacher, in which he stated that this man should be helped and that˙ he knows the whole Torah by heart. I very much regret that you have not received the poems which I wrote and copied a long time ago. When this pauper told me that he intends to go to al-Mahalla, to dwell there for a few days and then to continue towards Fustat, I ˙gave him another letter of recommendation and these poems as well and warned him that they should arrive at Fustat safe and sound, and as soon as possible. I am afraid he never arrived at Fustat, but headed directly for Cairo. He will probably wander around Fustat begging there, and in the surrounding small towns, and will stray more and more until he reaches Eretz Israel. Please search for him and take the letter and poems from him before he strays too far…36

We have seen then that letters concerning charity paved comfortable and convenient channels of communication through which money, merchandise, intellectual and artistic assets, as well as information could be transmitted. As such, the efficient apparatus of charity served the needs of the leading elite, which had a vested interest in sustaining and preserving this 36 TS12.299, published by S. D Goitein, Palestinian Jewry in Early Islamic and Crusader Times In the Light of Geniza Documents (Hebrew), Jerusalem 1980, pp. 338 – 343.

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convenient machinery. No wonder then that in many cases the charity attendants refrained from directly raising donations for the poor in their community, and preferred to write letters of recommendation for them and send them away to wander. The more efficiently that charity succeeded in function to serve the elite, the more prevalent and constant the phenomenon of wandering paupers remained.

Charity as legitimizing authority Charity in the Jewish communities in the East, like any other financial activity, was not based on a fixed budget, but rather on either permanent or ad hoc fund raising.37 Organizing the fund-raising was the privilege of the head of the community and it served as a token of his rule. In order to be able to extract money from people, a leader should first gain the support, the acceptance and the approval of the community members. A leader whose community members would not support him would never be able to raise a penny for any purpose or goal. When R. Ephraim, the communal leader of Alexandria in the 13th century, who was a newcomer from Christian Europe, tried to raise funds for the ransom of captives, people were reluctant and refused to donate, asking: Why does a total stranger ask us to donate a dinar…who does he think he is? After all, he himself is supported by our pesı¯qa¯.38

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R. Ephraim did not have either the authority or the legitimacy required for a communal leader and for this reason he failed to organize a successful fund-raising campaign. Announcing a magbı¯t or a pesı¯qa¯ served as a wonderful opportunity for a leader to proclaim his authority publicly. The leader could motivate his community with a worthy and positive target and lead it towards its successful fulfillment. The joint communal effort, together with the relinquishing of personal goals, required of every member of the community regardless of his status, aroused a strong feeling of security and solidarity among the contributors. This atmosphere is clearly reflected in a letter written by Yossef ben Yeshu¯ a¯ in which he described the magbı¯t that he organized in the year 1027 for the sake of ransoming captives: 37 Med. Soc. II, pp. 91 – 92, 100 – 110. 38 TS16.272 published by Frenkel, The Compassionate, no. 30, lines 9 – 10.

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I have declared it a day of fasting and prohibited everyone from working on this day. I announced that on this very special day, we should donate money in order to save these poor captives. Each member of the community donated as much as he could, silver and gold, women included, until we managed to gather 18 dinars; the Maghribis too donated two gold dinars until the whole sum of 20 dinars was attained.39

The declaration of the leader turned the day of donation into a dramatic spectacle. It was declared to be a fasting day when people refrained from going to work. It sensed different than any other days of the week, beyond any daily routine. The leader addressed all segments of society emphasizing the social margins: women, or oppositional elements such as the newcomers from the North Africa (the Maghribis).40 This uniting of differences is highlighted in an epistle written by Maimonides to be read aloud in front of the whole community: Every body [should come and donate]…Let the bridegroom leave his room and the bride her chamber.41

Another epistle by Maimonides, written in rhymed prose is addressed to: Our brethren, the people of our redemption, the patrons, the elders, our beloved, the blessed elderly ones as well as the distinguished youth and all the other people of our godly nation who dwell in the cities of the Egyptian countryside (Rı¯f ). Kohanı¯m ( Jews claiming descent from priestly origin) as well as Levites, and all the common people of Israel, at the head of which stand the honorable leaders, the skilled cantors, the noble and the generous, May God protect them all42

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As depicted by Yossef ben Yeshu¯ a¯ in his above mentioned letter,43 the gradual accumulation of money: dinar by dinar until the completion of the total sum, built up tension towards the climax and the final fulfillment of the task. This ongoing process symbolized the image of the community as a unified entity composed of many small segments which combine to create a total, complete harmony. Sometimes the community members were summoned to hear a public sermon delivered by the leader or to listen to a letter by the leader to 39 TS24.29, published by Jacob Mann, Texts and Studies in Jewish History and Literature, Cincinnati 1931, vol. I, pp. 367 – 370. 40 About the Maghribis being a subversive element in the Alexandrian community, see: Frenkel, The Compassionate, pp. 77 – 79. 41 Shilat, Maimonidean, pp. 67, no.2, lines 9 – 10. After Joel 2, 16. 42 op. cit., pp. 68 – 69, no.3 43 Note 32, above.

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be read in front of them. This was called “akhraza” (literally: announcement). Those letters which were intended for public recitation, some of which were found in the Geniza, were full of detailed and vivid descriptions of the poor or of the captives, aimed at arousing humility and compassion. Some of the captives who were ransomed from the Franks are still in Ascalon. They are hungry and destitute, with no clothes on them. Some of them still in chains and some were killed before the eyes of their brethren after being tortured by all kinds of horrendous terrible tortures.44

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Reading these shocking descriptions publicly and aloud stirred collective excitement among the crowd, which further heightened the shared feelings of togetherness and solidarity and culminated in the willingness to donate. It was the leader’s rhetorical skills and his ability to arouse people’s emotions that was put to the test. Yeshu¯ a¯ ben Yossef asked the head of the Fustat Jewish community, Ephraim ben Shemaria to give such a sermon and suggested that he should: Remind every man that charity (sedaqa) is an important religious command˙ not just on some of the people or some of ment imposed upon every Jew and the families. All the children of Israel, who were present at the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai and accepted it, generation after generation, should fear God in his heart and should remember the generations to come, and know that Almighty God gives everybody his share, and it is He who rewards in this world and in the world to come. …45

The leader, who assumed the role of the infuriated preacher, employed a severe, forthright tune of threat and intimidation: He who will not contribute, God will punish him in this world or in the world to come. Indeed, Maimonides in another epistle affirmed explicitly: Donations are not achieved with soft words. The preacher should proclaim it in front of everybody, old and young, until their hearts surrender, and he has no other choice but to scold and frighten them…46

A true leader was hence expected to possess proficiency in fund-raising which became a professional skill. This talent served both as a criterion of good leadership and, for those who mastered it, it served as an indicator of strong leadership.

44 Above, note 16, recto, lines 21 – 24. 45 Bodl MS Heb a 3.28, lines 53 – 58; Frenkel, The Compassionate, p. 190 46 Shilat, Maimonidean, pp. 87 – 88, no. 2, lines 1 – 3, 6 – 7.

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Charity as a means of communal and national cohesion The rite of collecting charitable donations assumed the aura of a religious rite. The sermon was usually delivered in the synagogue itself or in its compound. Torah scrolls were taken out and special prayers and supplications were performed.47 As described earlier, the sermon itself, acquired a religious aura with the leader speaking in the name of religion and presenting the donation as a religious commandment. It constituted, in many aspects, a liminal rite, situated far away and beyond normal time. The donors departed for a while from the usual hierarchic social system, which characterized their daily life routine and, for a very short instant entered an alternative system in which all men were equal and alike. Everybody could feel like a small compound of parts, one of a huge mass of aggregates, all equal and all similar. The temporary departure from the old stratified system was apprehended in terms of rebirth, soaring upwards and salvation. The participants felt as if they were shedding off their old identities and emerging into a homogeneous collective crowd. In this situation everything could happen. The participants were readily willing to internalize the message sent by the leader presiding over the ceremony, and to accept the urgent, essential demand to donate their money. The event of actual donation became very close to communitas, as has been discussed by Victor Turner.48 Nonetheless, rites of pious donations did not totally eliminate structural divisions within society. The precise sum of each donation, which obviously reflected the differentiated economic status of the various donors, was publicly announced and clearly written down, thus manifesting the existing hierarchy within the community. As in other cases of communitas, structure did not vanish, but was rather reinforced. To put it in Turner’s words:” Communitas lives within structure and structure lives within communitas”.49 What these rites endeavored to achieve and indeed occasionally succeeded in doing, was to strengthen the sense of solidarity within the existing social hierarchy. It offered a live enactment of solidarity between the diverse segments of the community and thus enabled the groups and individuals within it to perceive an image of their community 47 Note 33 above, verso, lines 21 – 22: “It is most recommended for you to read this whole letter in front of your congregation after taking out the Tora scrolls”. 48 Victor Turner, The Ritual Process, Chicago 1969. 49 Victor Turner, “The Center Out There: Pilgrim’s Goal”, History of Religions 12:3 (1973), pp. 191 – 230. see p. 220.

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as a unity of many diversities bound together by common religion and by a common cause. In that way it helped them to overcome the antagonisms rampant within society.

A view from the edge Raising funds for charity thus fulfilled then an important role in the consolidation of the community, not by eliminating its built-in hierarchy, but rather by reinforcing it. All social layers were no doubt involved in one way or another with charity, but it was the leading elite which shaped it, controlled it, navigated it and benefited from it more than any other class. The elite class was mainly composed of well to do scholarly male members of the community. Women played a very minor role at the very margins of the social arena. They were more frequently found on the side of the needy than on the side of the givers and donors.50 To use Goitein’s observation: Women are occasionally referred to as contributors and even as heading drives, especially for the upkeep of synagogues, but one find them less frequently than one would expect in view of their far-reaching economic independence in those days. Their field of charity was mainly private and personal.51

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But, the “far-reaching economic independence” of women was after all very restricted. It was actually limited to the domestic sphere or to the inner world of women. The mainstream economy was out of their reach.52 As outsiders in the commercial and economic field, they could not play any significant role in the realm of charity either. The unique example of al-Wuhsha al-Dalla¯la, the female broker who ˙ conducted remarkable economic transactions, navigating independently in a world of men is certainly an extraordinary and atypical case, not at all representative of gender relations in Geniza society. As in so many other cases, it is precisely this marginal case-study that may shed the brightest light on the uses of charity in this society. The biography of Karı¯ma bint Amma¯r, better known as al-Wuhsha ˙ al- Dalla¯la was masterly sketched by S. D. Goitein.53 She was the daugh50 51 52 53

For women as receivers of charity, see Cohen, Poverty, pp. 139 – 155. Med. Soc., II, p. 107 op. cit., vol.III, p. 331 – 332. Med. Soc., vol. III, pp. 344 – 352.

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ter of a Fustat banker of modest means. At a very tender age, she was married to a penniless stranger from Sicily. The low value of her dowry indicates that it was an emergency or forced marriage and indeed, after a short while the couple separate and divorced. At this point in her life, al-Wuhsha’s commercial career started to flourish. She managed to ˙ conduct world-wide business affairs and was involved in large commercial ventures including a partnership with her brother, who was an India trader. Her main business was money lending for collateral. When she was summoned to court, sued by one of her partners, she ignored the summons. Instead, she entered the court on another day just to tell three men who happened to be there how angry she was to be sued for such a trifling matter. We know from a court deed, which was issued after her death, about a stormy love affair she had with a refugee from Ascalon (occupied in those days by the Franks) by the name of Hassu¯n. As a result ˙ of this illicit relationship she became pregnant. The testimony goes on to tell us that while still pregnant with Hassu¯n’s child, she arrived at the syn˙ of Atonement, but the head of the agogue of the Babylonians on the Day congregation banished her in disgrace. Al-Wuhsha gave birth to a baby ˙ boy and a short time after his birth she wrote her last will, though not necessarily because she was going to die. A close inspection of the will may offers interesting insights concerning the uses made in the name of charity. Here is a concise version of al-Wuhsha’s last dispositions: ˙

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1) To my brother—100 dinars. 2) To my sister—50 dinars. 3) To the daughter of my paternal uncle—10 dinars. 4) To my cousin—the bed on which I lie, without the carpets. 5) To the communal cemetery—25 dinars. 6) To both synagogues of Fustat, for oil so that people may study at night-25 dinars. 7) To the poor of Fustat- 20 dinars. 8) To Yossef ’s wife (=al-Wuhsha’s ˙ in sister in law?) and to her two brothers- 5 dinars each. 9) To an orphan girl Cairo, who is some relative of mine-2 dinars. The main part of the estate, namely the collateral holding is bequeathed to Abu Sa d (=al-Wuhsha’s son). Should he die young, his estate is to be div˙ ided into two equal shares between the family on the one side and the synagogues and the poor on the other side. For my funeral—50 dinars (every piece of the burial attire should be new and is exactly defined with its prospective price fixed). To Hassu¯n of Ascalon, the baby’s father, not one penny should be given except a ˙gift of 10 dinars.54

Besides the sweet personal revenge that al-Wuhsha took on Hassu¯n, her ˙ lover and the father of her son, the most striking feature of˙this will is 54 TS Arabic Box 4.5; Med. Soc., vol. III, pp. 348 – 350

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the extravagant sums dedicated to charity. In spite of her impressive commercial career, al-Wuhsha remained an outsider and could not really pen˙ set up by the male elite. Ostensibly, she was not etrate the massive walls bound by the ethical code of the elite group. The codes of honor and proper conduct did not obligate her and indeed she ignored them in her personal conduct as was manifested in having a child out of wedlock and by her extraordinary behavior at the court of law. Nonetheless, like any other parvenu, she strove to learn and adopt the secret elusive codes of the dominant elite. Generous pious donations as well as the administration of charity were unquestionably an indispensable instrument in the tool box of every elite member. They forged binding reciprocal links between the members and as such, become central in the discourse and the economy of symbolic goods. Al-Wuhsha, with her sharp social instincts struggled to take part in it. ˙ her provocative appearance at the synagogue as well as her This explains extravagant testament. Al-Wuhsha’s revealing will, highlights the distinctive role played by ˙ society and offers deep insights concerning the way charcharity in this itable giving was intertwined into a whole system of reciprocities. Charity, as enlarged and distorted in al-Wuhsha’s mirror, shows itself to be a basic component of the economy of real˙ as well as symbolic goods.

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Benefaction (Ni ma), Gratitude (Shukr), and the Politics of Giving and Receiving in Letters from the Cairo Geniza Marina Rustow

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In his now classic work Loyalty and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society, Roy Mottahedeh emphasizes the “linguistic formalism” of Arabic texts of the tenth and eleventh centuries. When one uses a language that is “built on a scripturalist tradition” and “an immutable text,” he writes, certain words retain scriptural meanings and reverberations even in other contexts.1 The kind of linguistic formalism that Mottahedeh describes was a habit of mind that extended well beyond the sphere of religious experts in whose ears the words of Qur a¯n echoed. Mottahedeh finds it among caliphs, courtiers, generals, chroniclers and other men of the Buyid court; but the habit of mind was so pervasive that it extended beyond the court and to non-Muslims. One might find this last point surprising, since the immutable text at the core of the tradition in question was the Qur a¯n. In fact, it serves as an index of how certain concepts had come to shape the lives of those beyond the Muslim elite. This article considers one cluster of concepts that became central to political and social relationships among medieval Muslims and non-Muslims alike: ni ma, the benefaction bestowed on someone out of the bounty, kindness, and providence of the bestower; and its close relatives alshukr ala¯ al-ni ma, gratitude for benefaction, and shukr al-mun im, gratitude to the one bestowing benefaction. Ni ma is a notion that reveals not only the tenor of giving and receiving but comes to bear so many overtones and echoes that it is scarcely possible to grasp the nature of social relations—and of authority, political legitimacy, and patronage—without knowing what the concept implies. It serves as a microcosm of social duty, and as such, explains how gestures of giving and receiving could add up to a persistent and ubiquitous code of political obligation. It helps to ex˘

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1

Roy P. Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980), 9.

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plain why people gave and received, even in the absence of coercive mechanisms compelling them to do so.

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Ni ma Divine and Human ˘

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Ni ma’s biography begins with the Qur an, where it is an attribute of God alone. God is the bestower of ni ma, and his capacity to bestow it stems from his exclusive power to create ex nihilo (khalq), since God’s creation of man is viewed as the ultimate benefaction.2 The object of God’s ni ma are believers, and in exchange for his ni ma, they are obliged to feel and express gratitude. The converse is also true: failing to thank God renders one ka¯fir al-ni ma, ungrateful for a benefit, and by extension, ka¯fir billa¯h, an unbeliever. In some sources, prayer in distress is even considered a lesser form of prayer, since the true purpose of prayer is not to supplicate God for favors he might grant but to thank him for those he had already granted. But even the earliest preserved commentaries on the Qur a¯n contain hints that ni ma spilled over beyond the bounds of the human–divine relationship and turned into a fundamental characteristic of human agreements. A central text about ni ma appears in the earliest biographical tradition about Muh. ammad, the Sı¯rat rasu¯l Alla¯h of Ibn Ish. a¯q (ca. 704 – 67) in Ibn Hisha¯m’s recension (d. ca. 833). In explaining the quranic passage “Be mindful of the favor [ni ma] of God to you, and His covenant [mı¯tha¯q], which He confirmed [wa¯thaqa] with you when you said ‘We hear and obey’” (Q 5:7: “wa-adhkuru¯ ni mata alla¯hi alaykum wa-mı¯tha¯qahu alla¯dhı¯ wa¯thaqakum bihi idh qultum sami na¯ wa-ata na¯”), the Sı¯ra ˙ explains that God revealed this text when Muh. ammad offered the inhabitants of Medina the set of written agreements later known as the Constitution of Medina, which governed relations among the various groups in the city under his rule.3 The association the Sı¯ra makes between divine ˘

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Ni ma occurs in this meaning roughly two dozen times in the Qur a¯n: 2:211, 231; 3:103; 5:6, 7, 11, 20; 8:53; 14:6, 28, 34; 16:18, 53, 83, 114; 33:9; 37:57; 39:8, 49; 43:13; 54:35; 68:49; 92:19. God as bestower of ni ma appears to be much more important than the idea of God’s mercy or forgiveness (rah. ma), to the point where even rah. ma comes to mean benefaction; see EI 2, s.v. “rah. ma” (R. Gimaret). Ibn Isha¯q in Muh. ammad H amı¯d Alla¯h, ed., Sı¯rat Ibn Isha¯q al-musamma bi-Kita¯b ˙ ¯ wa-al-mab ath. wa-al-magha¯zı¯ (Rabat: Ma .had al-Dirasa¯t wa-al-Abal-mubtada h. a¯th li-al-Ta rı¯b, 1976), 2:147 – 50. ˘

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and human covenants is not accidental: the verse invoking God’s ni ma and his covenant with the believers appeared precisely in the moment when God’s delegate and viceroy on earth established a human covenant in an earthly polity. The suggestion is that atop all polities sat God, the keystone holding the hierarchical structure of leadership and its legitimacy in place. Indeed, the concept of ni ma in its subsequent career would become fundamental not just to human-divine relationships, but to political obligations of all sorts, especially treaties and compacts binding two parties together in a mutually obligatory fashion. When I speak of politics, I mean not only the high politics of governments, but social relations of all types insofar as they concerned the relationship between two parties and the regulation of duties between them for the purposes of some common goal, be it government, trade, or any kind of material exchange, including charity. Ni ma was considered to be a central concept in relationships among human beings. It may also be significant that these passages from the Qur a¯n and the Sı¯ra associate ni ma with explicit covenants accepted by both parties in a verbal and thus legally binding agreement (through the statement “we hear and obey”). God’s ni ma and the gratitude required of human beings result from a formal exchange that is viewed in legal terms as a contract. Among humans, ni ma would continue to be expressed in formal agreements such as oaths, but by no means exclusively so. Even more significant, in my opinion, are its appearances in informal or unspoken agreements, and it is the latter on which I will focus here. I would even push this argument one step further and argue, following Georg Simmel, that ni ma and the loyalty it engendered were especially important precisely when no written or legal agreement governed a relationship. Simmel defines gratitude in contrast to legal obligations of a contractual variety: when some kind of recompense is legally required, gratitude is unnecessary; when no legal requirement mandates reciprocal relations, gratitude provides “the reciprocity of service and return service, even where they are not guaranteed by external coercion.”4 In such contexts, ni ma was the binding principle that gave social and political life its continuity and coherence. It explains, in short, what motivated people to deeds of generosity. ˘

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Georg Simmel, “Faithfulness and Gratitude,” in Kurt H. Wolff, The Sociology of Georg Simmel (Free Press, 1950), 387; orig Soziologie, Exkurs VIII, Die Selbsterhaltung der sozialen Gruppe (1908).

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Previous Research on Ni ma ˘

Two other scholars have noted the importance of the concept of ni ma of the human–human variety. The first to write about it was C. E. Bosworth, who emphasized ni ma as an essential component of leadership, and specifically, as the means by which generals and other military commanders were able to inspire the loyalty of their troops. For Bosworth, when commanders provided their men with booty and other financial inducements, these served the important function of preventing mutinies—that is, of creating allegiance. He explained ni ma as some combination of charisma and material reward, or as whatever produced its corollary, loyalty.5 Mottahedeh corrected Bosworth’s overemphasis on the fiscal and military connotations of ni ma by pointing to its special uses in politics and courtly life. For Mottahedeh, ni ma and shukr served as a code that regulated social relations according to a pervasively understood set of rules—rules that were explicitly stated only when a relationship was in crisis, but that were nonetheless detectable in anecdotes from courtly life. “The formal ties created by giving and accepting benefit [ni ma],” he wrote, “are a persistent, if disregarded, subject in the literature” of tenth and eleventh century Iraq.6 Mottahedeh’s work, in contrast to Bosworth’s, has been described as erring on the side of social relations to the detriment of economic ones and neglecting the problem of material exchange.7 In fact, politics, economic life, and quotidian social relations partook of the logic of ni ma in equal measure. But for all their differences in emphasis, Bosworth and Mottahedeh relied heavily on one common source: a chronicle by the Iraqi court historian al-Miskawayh (ca. 932 – 1030), a philosopher, historian, and ka¯tib (administrator) who served the Abbasid-Buyid court in the late tenth century.8 The final section of a universal history ending in the year 369/980, ˘

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EI 2, s.v. “in am” (C. E. Bosworth), where it is defined misleadingly as “‘favour, beneficence,’ more specifically donatives, largesse, given to troops, etc.” Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, 41; see also ibid., 5 – 6, 72 – 84. See especially Chris Wickham’s bracing review of Mottahedeh’s book, International Journal of Middle East Studies 13 (1981): 380 – 83. On al-Miskawayh, his chronicle, and its relationship to the works of subsequent Abbasid historians, see Claude Cahen, “History and Historians,” in M. J. L. Young, J. D. Latham, and R. B. Serjeant, eds., Religion, Learning, and Science in the Abbasid Period (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, ˘

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Taja¯rib al-umam (The experiences of nations), the chronicle reflects alMiskawayh’s philosophical concerns, though differently from his treatise on ethics, Tahdhı¯b al-akhla¯q (The refinement of character). Unlike the prescriptive presentation of ethics in his philosophical work, the chronicle presents it by way of anecdote. That makes it a particularly rich source of courtly and political etiquette at the Buyid court, a priceless portrait of the political elite and what held it together in a mutually created and perpetuated web of relationships. One such anecdote that has rightly achieved the status of a classic appears as al-Miskawayh narrates the steep decline of the Abbasid caliphate during the utterly disastrous reign of the caliph al-Muqtadir (908 – 32), who was installed as a child by a powerful group of courtiers but deposed the minute he ascended the throne (908); no sooner was he reinstated when he lost the central North African province of Ifrı¯qiya to the Fatimids, who declared a counter-caliphate in 909. Between 923 and 930, Mecca, Basra, and Ku¯fa were pillaged, and al-Muqtadir’s grip on the central Islamic˙ lands of Iraq and Arabia began to loosen as well. Meanwhile the caliph exhausted the treasury with profligate spending that in turn provoked a military rebellion in Baghdad in 929 during which he was deposed for a second time, reinstated briefly, and finally deposed and killed. The man who deposed, reinstated, and deposed him again was a eunuch and general named Abu¯ al-H . asan al-Mu nis, titled al-Muz. affar, who had defended the palace valiantly and effectively during the revolt of 296/ 908. The caliph’s gratitude toward al-Muz. affar was one reason the latter had now achieved such a lofty rank, lofty enough that he threatened the power of the caliph himself. In 312/924, al-Muz. affar deposed and executed the vizier Ibn al-Fura¯t and then virtually controlled the government.9 The caliph attempted in 315/927 to have him killed, but unsuccessfully; the next year, al-Mu nis initiated his rebellion by parking his army outside the walls of Baghdad with the intention of entering and overthrowing the caliph. But first, al-Miskawayh tells us, he had the good manners to write him a letter of complaint.10 Of course the actual sending of such a letter stretches the bounds of verisimilitude. The relations between the two men were so deeply marred

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1990), 203 – 204; on al-Miskawayh as philosopher and ethicist, see EI 2, s.v. (Muh. ammad Arkoun). 9 For a good summary of the sources on al-Mu nis, see EI 2, s.v. “Mu nis al-Muz. affar, Abu ’l-H . asan” (Harold Bowen). 10 al-Miskawayh, Taja¯rib al-umam, in H. F. Amedroz and D. S. Margoliouth, Eclipse of the Abbasid Caliphate, 4 vols. (Oxford: 1920 – 21), 1:192 – 93.

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at this point that it is hard to imagine the commander kindly notifying the caliph of his intentions of overthrowing him, and the caliph bothering to reply at such length. But with the exchange of letters, al-Miskawayh is able to combine several literary purposes. First, in the tradition of the classical Greek and Latin historians, he places lengthy but apocryphal speeches into the mouths of his protagonists so that they may state their motives explicitly and outline the parameters of their relationship. Second, as an ethicist, al-Miskawayh utilizes the prescriptive value of the anecdote to exemplify gentlemanly conduct among those in possession of adab (cultivation, in both the intellectual and ethical senses). Finally, he may also reflect something of the practice of complaint to the ruler via petition (a procedure documented amply among the Fatimids, not the Abbasids, though the criticisms that authors like al-Miskawayh and Abu¯ H . ayya¯n al-Tawh. ¯ıdı¯ were able to lodge against the regime suggest that complaints against the caliph were tolerated). And indeed, according to al-Miskawayh, al-Mu nis informed the caliph in his letter “that the army was complaining bitterly of the amount of money and land wasted upon the eunuchs and women of the court, and of their participation in the administration, and demanded their dismissal and removal from the palace, with seizure of their possessions.”11 This complaint was, of course, something of a red herring: a eunuch informs the caliph that his own army opposed the eunuchs and wished the caliph to cease pampering them with fiefdoms and expel them, when in fact he himself wished to lead the military against the caliph. But the caliph took al-Mu nis at his word and replied at length in a letter that al-Miskawayh claims to quote verbatim. The letter is a veritable handbook of how rulers, in moments of crisis, attempted to mobilize the vocabulary of ni ma and shukr as a means of securing the loyalties of followers whose commitment was waning. First, the caliph calls al-Mu nis “my teacher and my elder [shaykhı¯ wakabı¯rı¯],” terms of address that suggest both a flattery and an attempt at appeasement that would shortly give way to veiled chastisements.12 He addresses the eunuch as “he to whom I continue to bestow favor, to devote myself, whom I continue to treat with sincerity, and to love … whether the bonds between us be broken or be unbroken,” thus introducing ni ma’s logical corollary, the binding tie (or literally as al-Miskawayh ˘

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11 Al-Miskawayh, Taja¯rib al-umam, 1:189 (Arabic), 1:213 (English). 12 Ibid., 1:189 (Arabic).

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has him express it, “the thing that joins us together”).13 Technically, the caliph’s continued support and respect for al-Mu nis despite these severed bonds raised a paradox: in the usual course of the affairs of men, loyalty naturally followed on the heels of respect, but loyalty was precisely what al-Mu nis had threatened to withdraw. The caliph’s reproach rests precisely on the mutual understanding of reciprocity—the notion that respect of its own accord engenders loyalty. The caliph, not to be fooled by red herrings, then promises to comply with the army’s demand and abolish the eunuchs’ fiefs even though, he confesses, he finds the proposal unjust. He also addresses the army directly: “As for you,” he told them, “most of your benefits (ni am) come from me, but I would not reproach you with anything that I have conferred on you, and that I regarded at the time—and still regard—as paltry compared with your merits.”14 He reminds the troops that they owe their livelihood to him, a threat that he veils by making it seem that they owe it only to their own merit; note also his flagrant use of the rhetorical device praeteritio, claiming not to say something one has in fact said: “it would not be my way to reproach you with anything that I have conferred on you,” he claims, when of course that is precisely what he is doing, reproaching his troops for threatening revolt despite what he has conferred on them. The force of the reproach derives from the expectation of a reciprocal exchange of loyalty for benefit. Speaking more directly now, the caliph continues by invoking the explicit pact that binds the army to him—and noting that if the army violates that pact, by extension they express disloyalty toward God, the keystone in the hierarchy. This is, to be sure, a heavy accusation. “I claim from you that oath of allegiance which you have affirmed time after time,” he writes, “and whosoever has sworn allegiance to me has sworn it to God, so that whosever violates that oath violates the covenant with God.” But he also admits his own obligation to them: “I also owe you benefits (ni am) and favors (aya¯d), patronage (sana¯ i 15) and ˙ bindbounties ( awa¯rif ) that I hope you will acknowledge and consider ˘

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13 Man la¯ azu¯l wa-la¯ ah. u¯l an al-mayl ilayhi wa-al-tawaffur alayhi wa-al-tah. aqquq bihi wa-al-ih. ba¯b lahu … wa-intaqad al-amr alla¯dhı¯ yajma na¯ am lam yantaqid. ˙ ˙ Ibid., 1:190 (Arabic). 14 Fa-amma antum, fa-mu z. am ni amikum minnı¯ wa-ma¯ kuntu li-aghu¯r alaykum fı¯ shay samah. tu bihi lakum wa-ra aytuhu fı¯ waqtihi wa-ara¯hu al-a¯n zahı¯dan fı¯ janb istih. qa¯qihim. Ibid., 1:191 (Arabic). 15 Lane, s.v. “sanı¯ ” (end), 1:1734, has “good deeds”; cf. Mottahedeh, cited below. ˘

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ing, and rather than violating them, display gratitude for them.”16 This, too, proclaims the reciprocal nature of the tie: in exchange for the army’s loyalty, the caliph is obliged to grant them protection and favors. In fact, protection and favors were considered to be nearly synonymous, as exemplified in the word istina¯ , a term that literally indicates ˙˙ by extension comes to mean fosconferring or receiving benefit, but that tering someone’s career. “Istina¯ ,” Mottahedeh notes, ˙˙ ˘

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is a surprisingly formal and serious relationship; a man expected from his prot g (mustana or sanı¯ or sanı¯ ah) not an easy gratitude and affection, ˙ ˙of sizable dimensions. To say “he is my ˙˙ commitment but a lifelong sanı¯ ah” meant “he is the person I have reared, educated, and trained ˙well,” and the obligation to such a patron was like the obligation to a parent, except that it was neither inherited nor transferable by legacy. It was, moreover, an obligation that could be made between men more nearly equal in age than father and son. It was an ideal way for political men to make formal ties out of the ni mah that they bestowed on a few chosen subordinates. ˘

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But the converse calculus operated as well: “since one acknowledged ties by accepting ni mah, a man could cast off ties, and in particular could cast off his allegiance, by claiming that no ni mah had been given by the other party.”17 Abu¯ Mu nis was surely aware of what he was doing in denying the caliph’s benefits. Such a denial was tantamount to sedition. This letter, then, shows us the anatomy of reciprocal exchange that constituted political loyalty: the caliph offered benefits in exchange for which his army was expected to render him loyalty rather than overthrowing him. In the end, the rebellion collapsed, though as Mottahedeh points out, there is no reason to believe the letter—rather than al-Mu nis’s political machinations—was responsible for the caliph managing to hold on a bit longer.18 The letter demonstrates not only the reciprocal exchange that constituted political loyalty but also the pervasive consciousness of its obligatory nature—though the terms of the relationship were spelled out this clearly perhaps only in moments when those obligatory bonds risked severance. ˘

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16 Fa-lı¯ fı¯ i na¯qikum bay a qad wakkadtumu¯ha¯ ala¯ anfusikum daf atan ba da daf atin, wa-man ba¯ya anı¯ fa-innama¯ ba¯ya a alla¯h, wa-man nakatha innama¯ nakatha ahd alla¯h. Wa-lı¯ aydan alaykum ni amun wa-aya¯d wa- indakum sana¯ i wa- awa¯rif ˙ ¯ ha¯ wa-taltazimu¯ha¯ wa-la¯ takfiru¯ha¯ tashkuru¯ha ˙¯ . Al-Miskawayh, a¯mal anna ta tarifu Taja¯rib al-umam, 1:191. 17 Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, 77. 18 Ibid., 41. ˘

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Ni ma in the Absence of Coercive Mechanisms

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Al-Miskawayh’s chronicle is rich in such exchanges of loyalty and benefit among the courtier classes of tenth- and eleventh-century Iraq, when the institutions and structures of central government had crumbled and society was turned back on its own devices. Mottahedeh argues that these systems of etiquette and social obligation substituted for the centralized power now lacking at the Abbasid and Buyid courts. Mottahedeh mustered a vast enough number of supporting sources to suggest that the concept of ni ma was not just an effect of al-Miskawayh’s idiosyncratic usage. But he also hewed mainly to literature composed in and around the court, relying on anecdotes to provide the sense of lived patronage, in practice rather than in theory. His premise was that courtly anecdotes serve as a reliable index of the social “duties and obligations that [were] enforced without coercion,”19 and even without exhortation. But literary sources have dangers as well. First, they are subject to the artifice of an author like al-Miskawayh, whose ethical, philosophical, and even literary agenda made him susceptible to inventing letters supposedly sent by the caliph. Al-Miskawayh does, then, still offer a portrait of social relations in prescriptive theory rather than lived practice. But second, even if his chronicle reflects the tenor of social obligation at court, it still portrays a situation in which the threat of violence is ever present. As Mottahedeh himself noted, the government, even though it had ceded much central authority to remote and far-flung networks of loyalists, still served to enforce the social system he describes “by its remote threat and its ties of personal patronage.”20 If what we are after is the substance of social relationships as they unfolded without coercion, then perhaps we must look beyond the court; we must track the iterations and manifestations of ni ma and shukr almun im in situations in which punitive measures and the threat of violence were weak or non-existent. At courts, the threat of sanctions was pervasive: one false move on the chessboard of internal politics and one risked one’s reputation, career, and even one’s life. Coercive mechanisms were ever present by implication. They were precisely what allowed for the description of a code of behavior and etiquette so coherent that Mottahedeh was deftly able to identify and describe it from within the sources. But one might argue that the question at the heart of his work ˘

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19 Ibid., 43. 20 Ibid., 190.

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still stands: did the medieval Near East know of “duties and obligations that [were] enforced without coercion,” and if so, where can we find evidence of them? In the non-courtly literature, there is vast fertile ground for further exploration. In particular, the personal letters and petitions preserved among the documents of the Cairo Geniza attest to the pervasiveness of ni ma among communities even more decentralized and less coherently administered than Iran and Iraq during the Buwayhid period. The structure and administration of the Jewish community were almost entirely lacking in coercive mechanisms. Too often we hear the proposition that Jews obeyed their religious leaders because if they didn’t, they faced the threat of the ban of excommunication. But Geniza documents demonstrate abundantly that excommunication was actually a terribly weak instrument of coercion, or even of ostracism, and frequently insufficient to convince wrongdoers to change their ways: offenders could always flee to another town or into the bosom of Islam; their associates felt free to continue their relations with them beyond the scrutiny of the community’s elders. The rabbinic authorities from Egypt and Syria whose letters survive in the Geniza were well aware of the weakness of excommunication, and knew that in practice, they had to call upon the government to punish offenders for them, a technique that they used sparingly lest the state come to regulate more than the troubled aspects of community life.21 The authority wielded by Jewish communal leaders must, then, be viewed as a product principally of persuasion rather than coercion. The Jewish community was also geographically diffuse and never produced the kind of hothouse atmosphere one finds at the courts. In that sense, too, Geniza documents allow us to understand the bonds that people maintained and perpetuated voluntarily, the norms that they upheld without any real obligation to do so. They further allow us a glimpse of ni ma not just among the upper classes, but among the middle ones, such as long-distance traders and local craftsmen; and even among the poor, who petitioned potential benefactors using the same vocabulary of patronage. That the same idioms operated over such a wide stretch of class and territory is, to be sure, a very large claim, and I admit that like all large

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21 Marina Rustow, Heresy and the Politics of Community: The Jews of the Fatimid Empire, Conjunctions of Religion and Power in the Medieval Past (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008), chap. 3.

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claims, it can never really be demonstrated: one can always counterargue that epistolary sources or even written sources in general are disproportionately concerned with social manners and thus show a bias in favor of the vocabulary of ni ma and shukr. But it is striking that the same rules applied across such a large spectrum of the population, Muslims and Jews, rich and poor alike. One does not have to stretch the evidence to argue that those rules constituted a common code that bound people together. Ni ma and shukr were two central elements in the language of politics and social relations, and that shared language may have mitigated class difference and constituted the very vertical glue that held the social pyramid together in a mutually comprehensible web of social signification.22 There is also good reason why a common code of manners should have extended from Iran in the east to Egypt in the west (and possibly further, but my investigation has not yet taken me into Ifrı¯qiya, Sicily, or al-Andalus). Precisely as a result of the breakdown of centralized power in Iraq, large numbers of easterners moved westward in the tenth and eleventh centuries, especially literate ones seeking functioning state bureaucracies to employ them or more favorable markets in which to trade. Among those Iraqis were many Jews who brought the political manners and mores of the Abbasid sphere with them. In that sense, the Geniza documents serve not merely as a comparative case of how social obligation functioned in the absence of coercion, but as a living extension of the system of etiquette that Mottahedeh describes. ˘

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22 For further support for this argument see Ta¯j al-Dı¯n al-Subkı¯, Kita¯b mu ¯ıd alni am wa-mubı¯d al-niqam (The book that restores benefactions and restrains chastisements, ed. David Myhrman, London: Luzac, 1908), a fourteenth-century catalogue of professions and how the people who practice them should behave in such a way as to regain favor in the eyes of God once they have lost it. Al-Subkı¯ opens the work with a chapter on three kinds of shukr al-ni ma: rendering gratitude with one’s heart, with one’s tongue, and with one’s deeds. The third method, expressing gratitude through deeds, proves to be the most important, and he devotes the remainder of his work to it, illustrating the functioning of shukr alni ma in every social class, from manual laborers to caliphs and sultans. It may be that by the fourteenth century, ni ma had come to be explicitly theorized as socially pervasive, even if this work is concerned with rendering gratitude toward God rather than humans. ˘

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Iraqis in the Fatimid realm

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The waves of Iraqi migration began with the crisis in Baghdad in the late ninth century and continued through the eleventh century. If the “push” factors that led people to leave the east were generally similar—the foundering economy in the Abbasid heartland—the “pull” factors that brought them to points west were diverse: new markets in central North Africa and Egypt offered opportunities to merchants; new courts required literate administrators, particularly those of the Fatimids in al-Mahdiyya (after 909) and Cairo (after 969); by the end of the tenth century, everyone knew that Cairo had replaced Baghdad as the metropole of the known world. Some of the Jews among these migrants were pulled to Jerusalem to take up positions of leadership in the yeshiva of Jerusalem, which doubled as the administrative body serving the rabbinic Jews of the Fatimid realm. The yeshiva of Jerusalem also maintained connections at the Fatimid court via Jewish courtiers (both Rabbanite and Qaraite) who had chosen to use their lofty positions in service of the Jewish community. The yeshivot of Baghdad had closed their doors by 1040, ending a four-hundred year period in which they—like the Abbasids—claimed superiority and hegemony over their followers to the west; by the mideleventh century, it was clear to most that this hegemony now belonged in the west, at Jerusalem (though it would not last long, since after 1073 the yeshiva of Jerusalem would migrate to Tyre, Damascus, and finally Fustat). So it was with an Iraqi named Dani el b. Azarya, who left Iraq for the west and whose career—and whose extensive use of the vocabulary of ni ma and shukr—were preserved in the documents of the Cairo Geniza. He had been born in Baghdad to the family of exilarchs, scions of the Babylonian house that claimed descent from the davidic kings of the biblical past. In the 1030 s, he migrated to Fustat, where he remained for about seven years, trading on a small scale and building political connections. Perhaps frustrated in his ambitions of access to the Fatimid court, he moved west to al-Mahdiyya, an epicenter of the Mediterranean trade and locus of the Zı¯rid court, which served as an indirect point of contact with the Fatimids; but by the late 1040 s, he moved east again to Palestine, ready to mount his struggle for the leadership of the Jerusalem yeshiva, and in 1051, he began fighting the next incumbent for the chair of ga on, Yosef ha-Kohen b. Shelomo. The question was whether a Babylonian newcomer could win enough support to wrest the Palestinian gaonate from its rightful heir. Yosef ha-

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Kohen was from the Palestinian family from whom the ge onim had been chosen repeatedly over the past century; but the previous ga on, Shelomo b. Yehuda (1025 – 51), had been a Maghribı¯ and helped broaden the Jerusalem gaonate beyond the entrenched Palestinian families. Like Shelomo b. Yehuda, Dani el b. Azarya relied on a broad network of connections; he also enlisted the genealogical claims of the Iraqi exilarchal family, a kind of claim that now began to pervade Jewish politics as a new method of claiming riya¯sa, or legitimate leadership.23 Dani el b. Azarya’s election to the gaonate of Jerusalem—or as some would later remember it, his usurpation of the post—left smoldering resentments and a feud between houses. More than forty years later, in 1094, Yosef ha-Kohen’s nephew Evyatar ha- Kohen b. Eliyyahu would attack Dani el b. Azarya’s rise to office by claiming, among other things, that he had secured the gaonate with the help of Qaraites and the Fatimid court.24 There is no direct, unequivocal evidence to substantiate the accusation. The circumstantial evidence does, however, make Evyatar’s complaints eminently plausible (whether he was justified in complaining about what was by now a well accepted tactic is another question): several previous ge onim of Jerusalem had petitioned the Fatimid chancery for “a writ from the government, may God defend it, to strengthen my hand from instigators of quarrels,” as one of them put it; and at least one of them had received a rescript of investiture from the Fatimid caliph alZ. a¯hir through Qaraite mediation at court.25 There was still one Qaraite

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23 Arnold Franklin, “Cultivating Roots: The Promotion of Exilarchal Ties to David in the Middle Ages,” Association for Jewish Studies Review 29 (2005): 91 – 110. 24 Megillat Evyatar, T-S 10 K 7.1 and T-S 12.729, edited in Solomon Schechter, Saadyana: Geniza Fragments of Writings of R. Saadya Gaon and Others (Cambridge, 1903), 83 – 106; Moshe Gil, “The Scroll of Evyatar as a Source for the History of the Struggles of the Yeshiva of Jerusalem during the Second Half of the Eleventh Century—A New Reading of the Scroll,” Hebrew, in Jerusalem in the Middle Ages: Selected Papers, ed. Benjamin Z. Kedar (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben- Zvi, 1979): 81 – 106; Moshe Gil, Palestine During the First Muslim Period (634 – 1099), Hebrew, 3 vols. (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, 1983), doc. 559. 25 Several ge onim: so I understand the Hebrew letter that Shelomo b. Yehosef sent to a group of Jewish notables in Cairo asking them to petition the chancery on his behalf in 1025, where he writes to the caliph: “For three of his ancestors have shown their kindness to us, and we possess their rescripts, the rescript of his grandfather, his great-grandfather and his father. Let him complement those by his own rescript.” T-S 24.43, published in S. D. Goitein, “New Sources on the Palestinian Gaonate,” in Salo Wittmayer Baron Jubilee Volume on the Occasion

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serving the Fatimid court on Dani el b. Azarya’s accession in 1051 (David ha-Levi b. Yish. aq, who was responsible for some finances in one of the ˙ ministries, the dı¯wa¯n al-khara¯j), and there may have most important been other high-ranking Qaraite courtiers as well. Something closer to direct evidence can found in an undated letter written in Dani el b. Azarya’s hand in which he mentions having received a copy of a rescript from the Fatimid chancery.26 He writes to an unnamed addressee, probably the courtier Avraham b. Yish. aq ibn Fura¯t: ˙ “My lord, the exalted shaykh, made me glad when he mentioned acquiring a substitute ( iwad) for the edict (sijill), God help him from heaven.”27 ˙ what this sijill was about, both the term and the Though we are not told procedure are well known: ge onim and other leaders of the Jewish community submitted petitions to the Fatimid court requesting edicts (sijilla¯t) of investiture that they could brandish in case of jurisdictional conflicts or threats by rivals.28 Any sijill the chancery issued would have been ˘

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of his Eightieth Birthday, ed. Saul Lieberman and Arthur Hyman (Jerusalem and New York: American Academy for Jewish Research; distributed by Columbia University Press, 1974), 531 – 32 (doc. 2, with English translation and commentary, 517 – 23, and facsimile, 534 – 35); S. D. Goitein, Palestinian Jewry in Early Islamic and Crusader Times in Light of Geniza Documents, Hebrew, ed. Joseph Hacker (Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute, 1980), 73 – 75; and Gil, Palestine, doc. 51. For details see Rustow, Heresy and the Politics of Community, 91 – 93. “Strengthen my hand”: Shelomo b. Yehuda, ga on of Jerusalem (1025 – 51), to an unknown person (possibly Efrayim b. Shemarya or Avraham b. Sahla¯n), TS 13 J 17.17, in Hebrew, published in Jacob Mann, “A Note on ‘Solomon b. Judah and Some of his Contemporaries’,” Jewish Quarterly Review 9 (1918 – 19): 415, and Gil, Palestine, doc. 64. The date Gil offers of ca. 1026 should be regarded as tentative but accords with what one can reconstruct of the context. Qaraite mediation: T-S 24.43, lines 1 – 10 (see Rustow, Heresy, 171 – 72). 26 T-S 24.56, in Judeo-Arabic, published in S. D. Goitein, “Dani el b. Azarya, nasi ve-ga on: berurim u-mismakhim h. adashim,” Hebrew, Shalem 2 (1975 – 76): 84 – 89; Goitein, Palestinian Jewry ,163 – 68. See also S. D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society: The Jewish Communities of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza, 6 vols. (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1967 – 93), 2:527 n. 35; 5:384 (at n. 60); 5:321 (at n. 46). Also published in Gil, Palestine, doc. 355; see ibid., secs. 779 and 889. Both identify the author based on handwriting and the recipient based on context. 27 T-S 24.56 recto, margin, 14 – 15. 28 Numerous examples have survived; an informal copy: T-S 20.92, published in Geoffrey Khan, Arabic Legal and Administrative Documents in the Cambridge Genizah Collections, Cambridge University Library Genizah Series 10 (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1993), doc. 115; a chancery copy: Qaraite synagogue in Cairo, G 13 + G 15, published in Richard J. H. Gottheil, “A Decree in Favour of the Karaites of Cairo Dated 1024,” in Festschrift

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given, in either the original or a copy, to the petitioner. It is unclear whether the version the ga on now mentioned was a replacement for a lost or damaged copy or a new sijill to counter some rival ( iwad means substitute but might also be used to indicate retribution). As for˙ his addressee who acquired the copy for him, it can be presumed that he was a Jewish courtier.29 Then, as was required of him by his position and by having received this favor from both the courtier and the chancery, Dani el b. Azarya thanks both parties. “I understood,” he writes his correspondent, “what you mentioned on the matter of the edict (ruq a) which our lord (mawla¯na¯—the caliph) delivered to you, may God prolong his days and exalt his fortune and destroy his foes and his enemies and those who wish him evil. And I said many pious (sa¯lih. ) prayers for his Presence (the caliph), ˙ to him, night and day, since he has lavished since I am obligated (mula¯zima) on me his benefactions and favors (h. asabama¯ qad ghamurani min ih. sa¯niha¯ wa-nawa¯ iliha¯).”30 Again we have a statement, in explicit and exact terms, of the informal yet binding relationship between a caliph and his subjects. As for the courtier who served as intermediary, Dani el b. Azarya describes him as, “after God, may he be praised, a source of this ni ma, since by your exalted station (ja¯h) and good intention (h. usn al-nı¯ya), fortune has come to me before this exalted personage.”31 God was the ultimate source of ni ma, then, but after God came the courtier; and it was, first and foremost, the courtier’s ja¯h—literally, “place,” but by extension, social rank—that had produced the ga on’s good fortune.32 Ja¯h appears frequently as something that can be parlayed into benefits for others: around 1070, for instance, a rabbinic leader in Jerusalem wrote to another rabbinic leader in Fustat thanking God for bringing to them a Jewish grandee from the Maghrib, “so that he may be in Fustat a high hill for all who come from other places, from Iraq, Syria, the Maghrib, and Byzan˘

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zu Ehren des Dr. A Harkavy, ed. Baron D. von G nzburg and Israel Markon (St. Petersburg, 1908), 115 – 25 and Stern, Fa¯timid Decrees, 23 – 26, with important ˙ corrections in D. S. Richards, “Arabic Documents from the Karaite Community in Cairo,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 15 (1972), 107, and Gil, Palestine, sec. 783n. The ga on appears to be talking about the latter type. See Gil, Palestine, 2:248, and above, n. 29. T-S 24.56 verso, 3 – 6. T-S 24.56 verso, 7 – 9. See also verso, line 39, where he further notes the obligation to render thanks for the in a¯m of a certain colleague. On ja¯h, see Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, 152, 188; Goitein, Mediterranean Society, 5:254 – 60.

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tium, to take pity on them, to give them money out of his own pocket, and to exchange his high rank on their behalf [wa-yubaddilu lahum ja¯hahu].”33 In another letter, a merchant of the same period describes a number of seemingly pointless trade transactions he made and confesses that his intention was not to turn a profit, but to uphold his ja¯h, his position of influence (wa-laysa gharad¯ı bidha¯lik tija¯ra bal iqa¯mat ja¯h).34 ˙ Second, it was the courtier’s sincere nı¯ya, intention, that had won Dani el b. Azarya his desired benefaction. This word, too, frequently appears in the sources, in phrases such as h. usn al-nı¯ya and ikhla¯s al-nı¯ya, good or sincere intentions. The Abbasid caliph at the time, ˙al-Qa¯ im (1031 – 75), swore a pact of loyalty (mı¯tha¯q, ahd) to his Buyid vizier Jala¯l al-Dawla in which he promised to “continue in sincerity of intention and friendship (ikhla¯s al-nı¯ya wa-al-safa¯)” toward him, that is, in loyalty.35 ˙¯ya was seen as˙ a necessary prerequisite to swearing Good intention or nı any vow or agreeing to any covenant. While there is no evidence that Jews swore oaths of loyalty as frequently as Muslims did, probably due to the halakhic problems attendant on using God’s name potentially vainly, Jews were well aware of the importance of nı¯ya even in the absence of vows. That is why Dani el b. Azarya invokes the nı¯ya of his courtier ally: his sincerity of intention, his loyalty, had of its own accord brought about this ni ma. The economics of benefaction, gratitude, and reciprocal obligation— the “calculus of mutual liability” as Mottahedeh describes it—emerge in these letters and others like them frequently enough to convince one that this calculus was understood and practiced well beyond the confines of the Abbasid court.36 ˘

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33 Halper 397, in Judeo-Arabic, lines 5 – 7; published in Gil, Palestine, doc. 451; see also Goitein, Mediterranean Society, 1:159, and Mark R. Cohen, Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt, Jews, Christians, and Muslims from the Ancient to the Modern World (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2005), 102. 34 ENA 4020.43, margin, line 1, cited in Goitein, Mediterranean Society, 5:256 at n. 11. 35 Ibn al-Jawzı¯, al-Muntaz. am, quoted in Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, 56. Note that the oath explicitly invokes the covenant between God and his believers implying the equivalency between oath and covenant and the basis of the first in the second. On nı¯ya see further ibid., 65 – 67. 36 Ibid., 74.

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Not only was this calculus well known; the converse applied as well. Since accepting ni ma meant acknowledging a set of obligatory ties, ties could be broken by denying that ni ma had ever been granted.37 One of the more extreme expressions of this notion comes from the Abbasid courtier Abu¯ H . ayya¯n al-Tawhı¯dı¯ (d. 1023), not incidentally a correspondent of alMiskawayh, who wrote that when a leader (ra ¯ıs) excludes an aspiring loyalist from achieving a position, “it is like the ingratitude of a follower for a benefit (ni ma).”38 This is a complex statement: just as followers are obligated to reciprocate ni ma with gratitude and loyalty, says al-Tawh. ¯ıdı¯, so, too, are leaders obligated to grant ni ma to their potential followers. This goes some way toward explaining the fact that people interpreted the act of bestowing benefits of any type as entailing more than just a heavenly reward: they benefited from it by achieving the status of patron, and moreover, fulfilled their obligation to give. This points to a thoroughgoing notion of reciprocity, even if it is an assymetrical one: giving and receiving are equally important and obligatory, even if one tends to point downward in the social hierarchy and the other upward.39 This kind of assymetrical reciprocity emerges in a petition that Dani el b. Azarya’s predecessor in the gaonate, Shelomo b. Yehuda al-Fa¯sı¯, submitted to the Fatimid caliph al-Z. a¯hir in Cairo ca. 1030. Although the ga on was the anointed and acknowledged head of all the Rabbanite Jews in Egypt and Syria, the Iraqis Jews of Palestine—who by the eleventh century were numerous—now attempted to remove themselves from his jurisdiction and establish their own chief (ra ¯ıs) in the form of one Yu¯suf al-Sijilma¯sı¯ of Ramla.40 It wasn’t the first time the Iraqis under Fatimid rule had attempted to secede from the authority of Jeru˘

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37 Ibid., 77: “since one acknowledged ties by accepting ni mah, a man could cast off ties, and in particular could cast off his allegiance, by claiming that no ni mah had been given by the other party.” 38 H . ayya¯n al. irma¯n al-mu ammil min al-ra ¯ıs ka-kufra¯n al-ni ma min al-ta¯bi . Abu¯ H Tawhı¯di, Matha¯lib al-wazı¯rayn (Damascus, 1961), 15 (cited in Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, 73 n. 34). 39 For this concept see Henry Orenstein, “Assymetrical Reciprocity,” Current Anthropology 21 (1980): 69 – 91. 40 The latter’s name indicates origins in the Maghrib, and many Geniza scholars— including Goitein, Gil, and Menah. em Ben-Sasson—have discussed the Iraqi affiliation of many Maghribı¯s; Goitein, Gil, and Greif go so far as to claim for these Maghribı¯s concrete origins in Iraq. The matter requires further investigation. See also Goldberg, cited below, n. 47. ˘

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salem: they had also done this under Shelomo b. Yehuda’s predecessor in the early 1020 s. One of the ongoing effects of the Iraqi migration westward was acute tension between the yeshivot of Iraq and Palestine over the loyalties of Jewish communities all over the Mediterranean. While people joined and left the Palestinian- and Iraqi-rite synagogues and communities regardless of their geographic origins (as the example of Dani el b. Azarya, the Iraqi who rose to head the Palestinian yeshiva, demonstrates), the Iraqis may have used the lingering geographic loyalties of westward migrants to their advantage of membership in their congregations. Shelomo b. Yehuda, like his predecessor, attempted to quench the fires of Iraqi rebellion by excommunicating the Iraqis and making other allies at court, especially Qaraites.41 In the conflict with al-Sijilma¯sı¯, he took matters one step further and appealed directly to the Fatimid caliph al-Z. a¯hir to block al-Sijilma¯sı¯’s incursion. This was typical of politics among Jews under the Fatimids, who used the chancery as an arbitrating body in communal conflicts. In fact al-Sijilma¯sı¯ had been the first to take the conflict to Cairo and petition al-Z. a¯hir for investiture as head of the Iraqi community of Palestine. Al-Sijilma¯sı¯’s petition has not survived, probably because he deposited drafts or copies of it among the papers of the Babylonian-Iraqi rite synagogue in Fustat, and these have not survived. Though the petition that Shelomo b. Yehuda submitted when he found out about al-Sijilma¯sı¯’s scheme has not survived either—nor the rescript the caliph probably issued in response to it—someone copied it into Judeo-Arabic after the events, probably a subsequent leader wishing to learn from the ga on’s rhetorical style.42 ˘

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41 Rustow, Heresy and the Politics of Community, chap. 6. 42 ENA 4020.65 (formerly MS Adler 109), published in S. D. Goitein, “Congregation versus Community: An Unknown Chapter in the Communal History of Jewish Palestine,” Jewish Quarterly Review 44 (1954): 291 – 304, with a facsimile between pages 291 and 292; see the revised interpretation in Goitein, “Petitions to the Fatimid Caliphs from the Cairo Geniza,” Jewish Quarterly Review 45 (1954): 30 – 38; see also Geoffrey Khan, “The Historical Development of the Structure of Medieval Arabic Petitions,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 53 (1990), 19. Republished in Gil, Palestine, doc. 312, and see his discussion in ibid., sec. 771, where he identifies the handwriting as that of Avraham ibn Fura¯t. That identification must be regarded as conjectural; in any event it does seem to be the same hand responsible for the first seven drafts of a petition from 1040, T-S Ar. 30.278 and Bodleian Library, MS Heb. b 18.21, recto, in Judeo-Arabic (first published in S. M. Stern, “A Petition to the Fa¯timid Caliph ˙

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The petition is a veritable encyclopedia of ni ma. It is also one of the most important finds the Geniza has yielded regarding the position of minority communities under Islamic rule, even though it has been neglected in the scholarly literature on the subject. The petition offers us not only the skeleton but the flesh and blood of a dhimmı¯ leader’s relationship with the caliph: it shows how the ga on viewed his ties to the caliph and the regime; it offers a precise anatomy of the reciprocity of political obligations, even in hierarchical contexts; and it deals fairly directly with the borderline between privileges and rights. The petition is long, and a detailed discussion of it would exceed the bound of this article. In capsule form, the ga on presents the caliph with three sets of justifications for his authority as a Jewish leader. First, he writes, maintaining order in the Jewish community depends upon his having unquestioned authority (lines 2 – 4). If there are two heads of the Jewish community in Palestine, there might be three and even more, and “this would lead to anarchy [al-fitan] without end, to the robbing of goods and land, to the rape of women and the abrogation of rights (batalat al-h. uqu¯q).”43 ˙ Then (lines 5 – 6), he invokes ni ma and the kinds of relationships it cultivates, describing the bond between himself and the caliph as an individual one that cannot be shared or meted out to other leaders. If the caliph grants al-Sijilma¯sı¯ the same ni ma he has already granted the ga on—that is, the prerogative to lead the Jewish community—“then the ni ma bestowed [upon me] would be no ni ma at all.” With this, he links his authority to the caliph’s via the concept of ni ma. Later (lines 25 – 27), he rephrases this, asking the caliph not to allow the Iraqi leader “to split apart [tasha uth] what has been bestowed upon the slave, for when someone shares this ni ma with him, it becomes vengeance [niqma].”44 The pun on the word ni ma is likely deliberate: since ni ma entails a bond between the persons bestowing and receiving it, this bond will be retroactively damaged when the same ni ma is given to ˘

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al-Mustansir Concerning a Conflict within the Jewish Community,” Revue des ˙ 128 [1969]: 203 – 22). I agree with Gil’s revised date of the petition tudes juives to the early 1030 s. See the detailed discussion in Rustow, Heresy and the Politics of Community, 94 – 99. 43 ENA 4020.65, lines 2 – 4; my translation differs from Goitein’s, “Congregation versus Community,” 302, and Gil’s, Palestine, 2:570 (doc. 312). 44 ENA 4020.65, lines 25 – 27. It may be that the verb tasha uth, “splitting apart,” should be tasha ub, “scattering,” a possibility for which I am indebted to Devin Stewart. Indeed, the Judeo-Arabic copyist was apparently faced with the unpointed chancery hand of the original and may have read one for the other. ˘

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someone else. He also asks the caliph not to make a “partner (sharı¯k) in ni ma,” perhaps deliberately likening the caliph to God: God possesses the exclusive ability to create ex nihilo, and anyone who attributes this power to another being is guilty of shirk, or polytheism; so, too, the caliph possesses the exclusive power to bestow ni ma of this type on his subjects, and for him to bestow it on someone else would undermine his very authority. In support of this reading the ga on makes a third argument (lines 5 – 6): if the caliph divides the ni ma he has granted him, he writes, “it would be impossible to obtain even what the simplest man owes,” meaning that if the caliph diminishes the ga on’s authority, he diminishes the very basis of authority itself.45 Here we see in practice that the bestowal of ni ma had required the ga on’s gratitude and thus created a bond between the two men; taking away part of that ni ma ruptured the bond, in which case the ga on was within his rights to withdraw his loyalty from the caliph. If this seems like an extreme thing for a dhimmı¯ dependent to argue, he did it in order to stress that his relationship with the caliph was binding from both sides. Gaonic authority and caliphal authority were, the ga on implied, bound up with each other: weaken one and you weaken the other. This kind of reciprocity is particularly striking in political contexts because it suggests that patrons depended as much on their clients as clients did on their patrons—a dynamic evident from the very format and function of the chancery petition, which is meant to set the caliph as the highest patron of his subjects. ˘

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Outside the Courts ˘

I do not mean to suggest, as one might gather from the preceding examples, that the vocabulary of ni ma and shukr was used only in, around, and with respect to the courts of caliphs. This same kind of reciprocity was expressed by men more nearly equal to each other in station, especially in the letters of long-distance traders. Requesting goods to sell, one trader writes to another: “if you honored me (…) with a commission or an opportunity for service (khidma), this would be a very great ni ma for me, ˘

45 Ibid., lines 6 – 7.

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and I believe that you would be prolonged by it.”46 The khidma requested is of a peculiarly double nature, in keeping with the presumption of reciprocal benefit in “honors” of this kind: this khidma bears the potential to benefit not just its recipient but also its bestower. Indeed, Mark Cohen has noted that the word khidma functions as a technical term in JudeoArabic requests to potential benefactors: a khidma is both the service requested and the request itself, in the sense that each khidma presents an opportunity to bestow ni ma, and thus functions as a service for both the giver and the receiver. If a khidma arrives in the form of a petition, then, one is obligated to render one’s ni ma in response to it. This trader uses the term to ask for a commission, meaning: let me do something for you that would require you to feel gratitude to me; honor me with a khidma so that I can then honor you by allowing you to grant me a ni ma. It is unclear here who, in the end, is the recipient of ni ma; underlining this point, in the same letter, the trader says, “may God not take away from me what He has granted me through you.” ˘

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Gratitude as Loyalty The pervasiveness of this calculus of loyalty for benefit stands to reason: while God may have wanted thanks in the form of prayer, people did not want thanks; they wanted loyalty. This raises the question of the most appropriate way to render thanks, and here, too, there were conventions. One almost never finds letters of thanks alone. Instead, with thanks come more requests for favors. Gratitude on its own tended to be expressed more frequently in the form of public rather than private proclamations, while private thanks tended to include further requests for favors as a way of indicating one’s eagerness to continue or strengthen the partnership.47 The applicable etiquette in such situations is nicely illustrated in a letter of ca. 1010 from the Ta¯hirtı¯ brothers, a clan of traders originally from ˘

46 T-S 10 J 5.12, published in Gil, Palestine, doc. 510, Isma¯ ¯ıl b. Ish. a¯q al-Andalusı¯, Tyre, to Nahray b. Nissim, Fustat; the scribe is from Badajoz; the letter discusses a shipment of Khura¯sa¯nı¯ silk that was saved after some hold-up along the way from Aleppo to Tyre and then Egypt. Quotations from recto, lines 20 – 21 and 8 – 9 respectively. 47 Jessica L. Goldberg, “The Geographies of Trade and Traders in the Eastern Mediterranean 1000 – 1150: A Geniza Study” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 2005), 95.

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the Maghrib (ca. 1010 – 75). They wrote to three brothers from another major trade firm, the Tustarı¯s, originally from Iran but now based in Fustat, regarding a number of highly priced textiles. Mu¯sa¯ b. Barhu¯n al-Ta¯hirtı¯, in his own name and that of his younger brother, wrote to thank the Tustarı¯s for taking care of their two of their brothers who were stationed in Egypt to buy merchandise. He explained that his brothers wrote to him from Fustat telling him “how kind you have been to them and how much care you have given to their affairs. They thanked God for this, my lord, in the presence of all those who know you and those who do not know you.”48 Publicizing the favor the Tustarı¯s had done for them was partial repayment for the obligation the Ta¯hirtı¯s had incurred. This speaks to the importance of both reputation and ties in trade networks.49 But immediately after informing the Ta¯hirtı¯s of their public expressions of gratitude, they thank them privately in the most meaningful way they could: by asking for another favor. “The robes you sent arrived,” writes the eldest Ta¯hirtı¯ to the eldest Tustarı¯, “and I wish to thank you for your kindness and exertion in this matter. You noted also that the rest of the order had been carried out. All you have sent, my lord, is fine, but I wish to ask you to buy everything all over again, for the three robes striped with curved lines and the white robe that I wanted to keep for myself as a mantle were taken from me by a man who imposed on me,” probably meaning that he had convinced al-Ta¯hirtı¯ to sell them to him rather than keeping them for himself. “Present circumstances make such things necessary,” he added; “I cannot go into detail about this. 48 T-S 12.133, in Judeo-Arabic, published in Moshe Gil, The Tustaris, Family and Sect, Hebrew, (Tel Aviv: Institute for Diaspora Research, 1981), 69 – 75, with facsimile; see his comments ibid., 26, 31 – 34, and 39; Moshe Gil, In the Kingdom of Ishmael, Hebrew, 4 vols. (Tel-Aviv and Jerusalem: Tel-Aviv University, the Ministry of Defense, and the Bialik Institute, 1997), doc. 128; English translation in S. D. Goitein, Letters of Medieval Jewish Traders (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1973), 74 – 79, which I have altered. 49 On reputation among traders see especially Abraham L. Udovitch, “Formalism and Informalism in the Social and Economic Institutions of the Medieval Islamic World,” in Individualism and Conformity in Classical Islam, ed. Amin Banani and Spiros Vryonis (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1977), 74 – 75, 77, 80; Avner Greif, “Reputation and Coalitions in Medieval Trade: Evidence on the Maghribi Traders,” Journal of Economic History 49 (1989): 857 – 82; Jessica Goldberg, “BackBiting and Self-Promotion: The Work of Merchants of the Cairo Geniza,” in History in the Comic Mode: Medieval Communities and the Matter of Person, ed. Rachel Fulton and Bruce W. Holsinger (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007).

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May God save us from what we fear. All I could say was that those garments were for sale.”50 He follows the request with several lines of detail about the exact shade of each color and the quality of the cloth. In private contexts, then, the way to respond to ni ma was not necessarily with explicit gratitude, but by offering the benefactor more occasions to give benefit. That is why the long-distance trader Nahray b. Nissim (fl. 1045–ca. 1096), head of a great mercantile house in the triangular trade between Sicily, Ifrı¯qiya, and Egypt, became infuriated with a poor relative of his, a trader from Qayrawa¯n stationed in Fustat, for receiving support from another patron: by rights he should have continued to petition Nahray instead, and by turning to other patrons, he destroyed the relationship between them.51 “I am from Qayrawa¯n, one of the merchants,” the poor relative writes to an unknown correspondent. ˘

I am writing you this petition (ruq a) out of dire necessity. I came to Fustat and turned to a man called Nahray, who is my relative, my flesh and blood, and whom I respect (wa min fadlina¯ alayhi). I have been with him now for ˙ eight months. Before that, when my master the elder Abu¯ Zikrı¯ (Yehuda b. Mu¯sa¯ ibn Sighma¯r, another trader), may God grant him long life, arrived, I went to him and greeted him. Some people told him about my situation, and he was not stingy with charitable gifts for me, may God requite him with go[o]d on my behalf and watch over his son. Nahray became very annoyed about this and [asked me, “W]hy did you do this?” So I swore to him that I would not take anythin[g] from anyone [else? …] with you. But during the entire eight months the man gave me only [f ]ifteen dirhams. When I told the Maghribı¯s about this they were troubled and were not stingy with me. I am ashamed (istah. aytu an) to speak to the elder Abu¯ Zikrı¯, may God protect him from harm, so I am writing this petition (ruq a) to my master the elder asking from God and you to favor your slave and prot g (an yatafaddala ala¯ abdihi wa-sanı¯ atihi) by doing what you can for me. ˙ ˙˙ ˘

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Now the object of Nahray’s pique, his relative could not approach him further and instead sought help from strangers. He, too, employs the technical vocabulary of patronage. He refers to the letter as a petition, ruq a, the same term that described petitions to the caliphs and their

50 See also Goitein’s interpretation of this line, Letters of Medieval Jewish Traders, 77 n. 23, which must be regarded as speculative. 51 Westminster College, Misc. 34.72 (Gil, In the Kingdom of Ishmael, 4:430 – 31, doc. 744; cited there as Westminster College Misc, f. 34); see also the English translation in Mark R. Cohen, The Voice of the Poor in the Middle Ages: An Anthology of Documents from the Cairo Geniza (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2005), doc. 10 (of which this is a slightly modified version).

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chanceries; and as in those petitions, he refers to himself not as a supplicant but as a slave ( abd). He also calls himself the sanı¯ a, prot g , of his ˙ patron. It may also be that he was embarrassed to approach Nahray for help not just because he had offended him, but because under certain circumstances, it was more honorable to request ni ma for others than for oneself. ˘

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Requesting Ni ma on Behalf of Others

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While it was standard wording in Arabic petitions to the Fatimid and Ayyubid chanceries to ask the caliph for a benefaction and a kindness for oneself (al-in a¯m alayhi wa-l-ih. sa¯n ilayhi)52, one petition departs from this wording and “requests that benefaction and kindness be done to him by being charitable … to those among his family who have stood ransom for him, and his children and his crippled mother.”53 The ga on Shelomo b. Yehuda al-Fa¯sı¯ of Jerusalem even goes so far as to say this explicitly, criticizing younger members of the yeshiva for writing letters that he finds resemble too closely the letters of traders engaged in a calculus of benefit (Heb. hana a) for themselves rather than others. “Indeed,” he writes,

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the letters of a man like me will weigh heavily on bad people and beloved (alike), because they are not like letters of traders; for among traders, each derives benefit from his colleague, but the letters of scholars (beney torah) should request benefit (hana a) (for others) and not to bring benefit to themselves (le-hihanot). Thus they weigh heavily. Therefore my letters to all my followers (ha-ohavim) are few, to be easy on them and not to remind them of myself.54

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52 See, e. g., the following petitions to Fatimid and Ayyubid caliphs: T-S Ar. 30.273 (ed. Khan, Arabic Legal and Administrative Documents, doc. 77), lines 12 – 13; TS Ar. 41.131 (Khan, doc. 81), line 11; T-S Ar. 39.391 (ibid., doc. 82), lines 4 – 5; T-S Ar. 29.186 (ibid., doc. 83), line 6 (in a¯m alayhi only); T-S Ar. 51.107 (ibid., doc. 85), lines 11 – 12 and 15; T-S K 2.96 (ibid., doc. 87), line 20; T-S Ar. 42.94 (ibid., doc. 88), lines 10 and 12; T-S J 15.62 (ibid., doc. 89), lines [9]–10; T-S K 16.61 (ibid., doc. 92), line 8. To lower officials: T-S Ar. 51.106 (ibid., doc. 94, eleventh century): line 8: yan am bi-l-wuqu¯f alayhi; lines 12 – 13: al-in a¯m ala¯ mamlu¯kihi bi-l-wuqu¯f ala¯ kita¯bihi; line 14: ihsa¯n˙ an ilayhi wa-tasadduqan alayhi. There are many more examples in Khan’s corpus. ˙ 53 T-S AS 39.470 (ibid., doc. 75), lines 4 – 6. 54 ENA 2804.17, in Hebrew, lines 6 – 13, Shelomo b. Yehuda to Sahla¯n b. Avraham, early 1043 (Gil’s dating, presumably via reference to the affair of Natan ˘

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The last line appears somewhat disingenuous coming from one of the most prolific correspondents of the Geniza. It is also somewhat disingenuous given that in a subsequent letter, the same ga on admits the necessity of serving the Jewish community in exchange for the hana a he has just refused: local officials, he writes, are entitled to half the income from the slaughterhouses and from contracts drawn up in the courts, since “a man serves only for benefit (hana a).”55 Nonetheless, the sentiment he expresses confirms that the “calculus of benefit” was ever present in the consciousness of those engaged in collective life.

Coercion vs. Persuasion, Law vs. Manners ˘

The pervasiveness of this calculus, and of giving and requesting ni ma, raises a question in the context of this volume: to what degree was giving motivated by injunctions in religious law that required it? Precisely the pervasiveness of giving that I have noted here is explained by a quality of medieval Near Eastern society that many scholars have noted: its persistent informalism, or rather, its resistance to forming abstract, collective groups that were more than an aggregate of individual relationships. Goitein noted that when a caliph, governor, or any other high-ranking state officer distributed alms … or opened his granaries in a time of famine, or founded a hospital or a caravanserai, or even built an aqueduct, he did so not as the representative of the government, but as a pious, powerful, and munificent Muslim. Private persons, men and women, vied with the rulers in such deeds of charity and public welfare and not rarely surpassed them.56

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Similarly, Mottahedeh writes that ni ma “was a means to establish important new ties in society,” but “it remained largely concerned with ties between individuals.” ˘

No abstract gratitude to the state is imaginable. Some forms of ni mah, like public works, … were transactions between a single man and an abstractly defined category of men; but those men were presumed to be grateful indi-

b. Avraham of 1038 – 42). Published in Gil, Palestine, doc. 137; see also his comments ibid., sec. 863. 55 Gil, Palestine, docs. 158 and 319; see ibid., sec. 814. 56 S. D. Goitein, “Minority Selfrule and Government Control in Islam,” Studia Islamica 31 (1970), 102.

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vidually, and “to invoke God’s blessing” on the donor rather than to be grateful in any corporate fashion.57

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How, then, do we account for the role of the laws in monotheistic religions that mandate rectifying social injustice? I am arguing that an important key to understanding the social and affective dimension of charity and piety is patronage and the obligations created by ni ma, but perhaps what really motivated Jews to give was the religious commandment of se˙ daqa that they felt was incumbent upon them? I am not convinced that it is ever enough to explain human activity with resort to legal injunctions, particularly when those injunctions were rarely not be enforced through coercive mechanisms. S. edaqa may indeed motivated Jews to acts of patronage, but we still must understand why. There is an important aspect of ni ma that is not reflected in the halakhic literature on sedaqa, and that is reciprocity. The laws of sedaqa suggest ˙ that when a ˙person gives alms to the poor, he or she receives a reward from God. Nothing is expected from the recipient. The pragmatics of ni ma, however, suggest that when a person grants a favor, he or she distributes a benefaction whose ultimate source is God and in exchange, he or she is owed the loyalty of the recipient of the benefaction (not necessarily his or her thanks). One way to explain why something (loyalty) was expected in return is through concepts of ni ma and patronage, which can shed light on mechanisms of charity and other forms of the redistribution of wealth, but also on the affective and political aspects of patronage, reciprocity, and loyalty even when they expressed themselves in non-economic ways. ˘

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57 Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, 77 – 78.

An Indigent Scholar’s Plea for Charity: A Geniza Letter* Yvonne Friedman Petition letters for charity from the Cairo Geniza usually fall into two broad categories: letters from the ordinary poor, or letters from representatives of worthy causes. In the former case, by noting their dire straits, ordinary people try to move the individual donor or the larger community to compassion and benevolence. Mark Cohen in a recent study considers these letters as the authentic voice of the poor—the discourse of those who remain inarticulate in chronicles or medieval historiography.1 Such letters can reveal to us the identity and characters of individual petitioners otherwise unavailable for historical inquiry. Not only was the voice of the destitute often muted throughout history, but the people from whom charity was sought—the well to do—often preferred more prestigious forms of charity, such as bequests to pious foundations.2 The second category of letters consists of those written by representatives of a particular group of needy people. These letters spell out the worthiness of their group’s cause and explain why they should be given priority over other charitable allocations. For example, both Islam and Judaism considered scholars to be more appropriate recipients of generosity.3 For medieval Christianity, the comparable phenomenon was donation to a monastic community.4 Although the individual members did not * 1 2 3 4

This study was generously supported by the Mira and Saul Koschitzky Fund of the Martin (Szusz) Department of the Land of Israel Studies and Archeology, Bar-Ilan University. Mark R. Cohen, The Voice of the Poor in the Middle Ages: An Anthology of Documents from the Cairo Geniza (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005), 12 – 13. Moshe Gil, Documents of the Pious Foundations from the Cairo Geniza (Leiden: Brill, 1976), 8 – 9. Yaacov Lev, Charity, Endowments and Charitable Institutions in Medieval Islam (Gainsville: University Press of Florida, 2005), 3, 90 – 104; S.D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967 – 93), 2:95. Ilana F. Silber, “Gift-giving in the Great Traditions: Monasteries in the Medieval West”, European Journal of Sociology 36/2 (1995): 209 – 43.

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necessarily have to be without financial means, their group’s cause was nonetheless viewed as a laudable, and prestigious, eleemosynary aim. The question of what was preferable—giving directly to the needy or to an institutional charity, such as a monastery or a waqf—was a dilemma shared by Christianity and Islam as well as medieval Judaism.5 This distinction between the begging letters of the individual poor and letters originating with a group and concerning broader communal needs overlooks an intermediate category: letters of people who used to be well to do, the type Mark Cohen terms “the conjuncturally poor.”6 These were individuals who belonged to the elite and suddenly found themselves in need of charity. Such a letter is the topic of our inquiry, a close-up of one facet of the broader picture of charity: a needy Jewish scholar’s plea for charity. Penned by a learned indigent scholar, the writer strove to maintain his dignity as a member of the intellectual elite while at the same time emphasizing his needs. The letter in question is a request for money sent from Jerusalem by Rabbi Joseph b. Gershon Ashkenazi (hereafter R. Joseph)7 to the leaders of the Jewish community of the Egyptian town of Bilbais and to a R. Perahiah, also of Bilbais. This plea for charity is thus addressed both to communal munificence and to an individual donor. It is found in an unpublished Geniza fragment, probably dating to the second decade of the thirteenth century.8 (See Appendix 1 for the text and translation.) 5 6 7

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Lev, Charity, 5 – 20; Gil, Pious Foundations, 5 – 12. Mark R. Cohen, Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005), 67 – 71. In another letter (T-S 10J 24, fol.8), he signs his name R. Jehoseph b. Gershom . Jacob Mann (The Jews in Egypt and in Palestine under the Fatimid Caliphs [1920 – 22; reprint, New York: Ktav, 1970], 2:372 – 73) deciphered these letters as , that is, the martyr, which seems very strange. How did R. Gershom become a martyr if he was blessed “may he rest in Eden” ( ) in our earlier letter? Did the scribe of the later letter know something new? It appears more likely that was a copyist’s mistake, with the dots on top of the letter signifying erase or delete (note that in the beginning of the letter, the scribe marks citations by placing three dots over the letter). But if that is the case the blessing for the dead R. Gershom is missing, which is peculiar as R. Joseph was clearly proud of his ancestors (see below). Cambridge, T-S 13J9, fol. 17. It measures 16 x 11.3 cm. Y. Braslavi (“Geniza Fragments Concerning Sages from France and Germany in Eretz-Israel and Egypt in the Days of Maimonides and his Son”, Eretz-Israel 4 [1956]: 158 [in Hebrew], mentions this fragment, as does Goitein (Mediterranean Society, 2:97 n. 17), but the text of the entire letter has not been published previously. Elchanan Reiner has described this letter. See his “Pilgrims and Pilgrimage to Eretz Yis-

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I begin with a topical examination of the contents of this document. The latter part of this article attempts to identify, and to trace the history of, the writer, who appears in additional correspondence preserved in the Geniza. As we shall see, our manuscript seems to contain two separate letters, one addressed to a community, and the second to an individual. The opening of the first letter, directed to the community, begins with the verse “Pray for the well-being of Jerusalem.” This conforms with the usage of opening a salutation with a biblical citation. The body of the salutation immediately follows (fol. A, lines 2 – 21). It praises the letter’s recipients—the community of Bilbais—and their charitable conduct and largesse, at great length. The letter’s third part consists of a two-fold plea for money: in its first section (fol. A, lines 21 – 28) the writer introduces himself to the community; in its second part (fol. A, lines 29 – 30, fol. B, 1 – 11) the writer twice presents himself and his plea, this time explicitly stating why he is worthy of charity. He thus introduces himself three times, as if approaching the community hesitantly, coming closer each time. The writer gives the long poetic salutation, with its florid praise for the recipients, the same amount of space as his more down-to-earth petition for help. The letter then ends with another biblical citation and the valediction “Shalom” (fol. B, lines 8 – 10). This structure is reminiscent of contemporary Latin letters written in Europe, which by the thirteenth century already had a set epistolary structure giving the salutation a prominent place and briefly but poignantly spelling out the main message.9

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rael, 1099 – 1517” (Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, 1988), 60 (in Hebrew). Dr. Abraham David of the Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts at the Jewish National and University Library, Jerusalem first brought this letter to my attention, in the context of my study of the ransoming of captives. He generously devoted time and patience to checking and rechecking my readings. I thank him for his help. Giles Constable, Letters and Letter-Collections (Brepols: Turnhout, 1976), 12: “ Is the poetic salut which developed out of the epistolary salutation an epistolary poem or a poetic epistle?” Adalbertus Samaritanus, Praecepta dictaminum (ca. 1115) characterizes the structure of an “exalted” letter written from a lesser person to a greater one as: 1) flattery in the beginning, 2) the cause of flattery in the middle, and 3) a request at the end. Translated by L. Perelman, “The Medieval Art of Letter Writing: Rhetoric as Institutional Expression”, in Textual Dynamics of the Professions: Historical and Contemporary Studies of Writing in Professional Communities, ed. Charles Bazerman and James Paradis (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1991), 106.

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The letter’s opening demonstrates poetic devices not uncommon in this type of appeal, rhyme and meter, and reflects the writer’s literary skill.10 True appreciation of his ability can only be conveyed by the Hebrew original (see Appendix 1, fol. A, lines 1 – 12). The translation cited here of the rhymed, elaborate salutation, which praises the community’s general largesse, omits the comparison to angels (see Appendix 1, fol. A, lines 5 – 7). “Pray for the well-being of Jerusalem; May those who love you be at peace” [Ps. 122:6] To you, the masters of the communities, praiseworthy masters, who enjoy the light of praise, and God is in the highway of their hearts [Ps. 84:6], angels of God going up [Gen. 28:12] to exalted heights, everlasting, standing and rising, not lessening, in sanctity [Babylonian Talmud, Menahot 99b] … spreading portions and gathering deserving virtues, giving donations and providing hearts succor in their homes, with meals in their hands and perfect joy [Ps. 16:11] on their faces and spiritual matters on their tongues to revive longing souls and to fill empty hands. (fol. A, lines 1 – 4, 8 – 12)

As a means for soliciting donations, the letter praises the charitable deeds of the addressees, the community of Bilbais who act in concert to revive languishing souls by feeding the poor and giving donations. It then proceeds to a specific enumeration of charities: The tongueless days will tell your deeds and the mouthless nights will praise your actions: how many lives you saved, how many captives you ransomed, how many naked you clothed. You gave loans without asking for recompense. You had pity on the poor and not on your wealth. (Fol. A, lines 12 – 16)

In heaping praise on the community of Bilbais for its prestigious deeds R. Joseph ranks their charities, placing ransoming of captives directly after saving lives. In this, he conforms to the ideals of the society that he approaches for charity. Both the Talmud and Maimonides rank the ransoming of captives as a superior form of charity. The Talmud terms it “a great precept” (mizvah rabbah), and Maimonides stipulates that it is the high˙ 10 Cf. the rhymed salutations in two Hebrew letters from the Geniza written by European newcomers, namely, T-S 8J 21, fol. 6 and T-S 10 J 10, fol. 4, translated by Cohen, Voice of the Poor, documents 28 and 31 respectively.

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est form of charity even though it lacks explicit Scriptural mention.11 In his monumental Code, Maimonides rules that the ransom of captives takes precedence over feeding and clothing the poor: “Indeed there is no religious duty more meritorious than the ransoming of captives, for not only is the captive included in the generality of the hungry, the thirsty, and the naked, but his very life is in jeopardy.”12 This fundraising for strangers in need of ransoming was always communal, as the sums involved frequently exceeded the ability of individual donors. But communal fundraising for captives also reflects the importance of this type of charity—a prestigious effort in which the entire community wanted to share. Geniza society was indeed renowned for its collection of funds for the ransom of captives. The praise allotted to the community members was not without a purpose. By describing them as angels of God—“rising, not lessening, in sanctity” (ma‘alin be-kodesh ve-lo moridin; line 5)—R. Joseph uses a rhetorical device known to modern fundraisers as well. He hints that maintenance of the givers’ good reputation obliges them to give more generously, and that this largesse in turn augments their sanctity. He then relates this general charitability to his own situation, for, as a person who does not belong to the local community, he does not qualify for the preferential treatment afforded to “the poor of your town” (‘aniyei ‘irkha) by the halakhah.13 And all the wanderers and those who thirst for donations, will rest in your shadow and will find peace in your tents and will be refreshed by your waters and will imbibe your liquids. (Fol. A, lines 16 – 18)

From the Bilbais community’s point of view, R. Joseph was indeed a wanderer. And, before explaining why he is particularly worthy of their munificence, he praises the community as openhanded even to those who do not rank first in the list of the needy. After this praise-filled twenty-six-line opening, R. Joseph turns to the business at hand: his request for money: …To the congregation of the town of Bilbais, may the lofty God bless them and send 11 Maimonides, Code: Book Seven (The Book of Agriculture), translated by I. Klein (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1979), Treatise II: “Gifts to the Poor”, 10:10 (p. 82). 12 Ibid. 13 Cf. Cohen, Voice of the Poor, 47 – 57.

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them deliverance from Zion, may the mountains bear peace to the people [Ps. 72:3], the holy people blessed of God, from your brother Joseph, son of Gershon of blessed memory, Ashkenazi who lives in Zion, who seeks your peace and good, who prays to God for them, who blesses them on the Sabbaths and holidays. I, impoverished Joseph, son of R. Gershon, may he rest in Eden, am poor and destitute like a worm and have no mouth to chirp or hands to feel with; he who gives me from his freewill offering will receive from the lofty Creator both worlds. (Fol. A, lines 26 – 30; fol. B, lines 1 – 4)

R. Joseph b. Gershon clearly finds asking for help to be disconcerting. But, at the same time, he maintains his dignity by suggesting that even as he receives, he also gives in return. This interchange is sheathed in several layers: R. Joseph’s dwelling in Zion, the reciprocity between donor and recipient, and R. Joseph’s own merit. First of all, as a Jerusalem resident, Joseph ben Gershon attests that he is able to pray from Zion for the donor community’s redemption. Indeed, he perceived the fact of his residence in the land of Israel as sufficient reason to expect the community of Bilbais to assist him, as if it were simply his natural due. This amazing concept assumes a palpable obligation on the part of an Egyptian community to contribute to Zion, although this form of charity does not appear in the earlier descending list of prestigious charities.14 Rabbi Joseph here assigns special merit to this activity, even awarding it precedence over the above-mentioned ranking of local poor and other needs with which he cannot compete halakhically. But R. Joseph can reciprocate with something tangible in return—he will bless the donors on every Sabbath and holiday.15 Apparently, blessings from Zion, even when recited by a private person, carried greater innate merit than those uttered in Bilbais. This perhaps explains the statement with which the letter concludes, “Here he is in Jerusalem!” (hinei bi-yerushalayim!), as if to remind the reader of R. Joseph’s special position. Note also that the commemoration of Jerusalem frames the letter. It 14 Ibid., 80. as opposed to the com15 Most likely a private blessing like the traditional munal blessing recited on the Mount of Olives in the Fatimid period, which was a ritual of power. See Elchanan Reiner, “All streams flow into the sea i. e., All Israel gather only in Jerusalem, may it be speedily rebuilt: Medieval Jewish Pilgrimage to Jerusalem”, in Pilgrimage: Jews, Christians, Muslims: Collected Essays, vol. 3, ed. Ora Limor and Elchanan Reiner, forthcoming (in Hebrew).

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opens with “Pray for the well being of Jerusalem,” twice mentions that R. Joseph dwells in Jerusalem (shokhen be-ziyyon; fol. A, lines 22 and 29), and ends with the above-mentioned exclamation—“hinei bi-yerushalayim.” Thus assisting him personally becomes part of the restoration of Jerusalem, “may it be speedily rebuilt.” The private, indigent beggar has become an embodiment of the Holy City. Donations from the Jews of Egypt to the Jewish community in Jerusalem were of course nothing new. Such fundraising has frequent attestation in Geniza letters.16 But R. Joseph does not style himself as a leader or representative of a Jerusalemite community; he writes as an individual and emphasizes the fact that he dwells in Zion. In addition to the merit of the land of Israel that will accrue to the donors from Bilbais, there is also mutual gain in rendering assistance to the indigent scholar. He explains: Therefore God created one against the other, rich and poor: the poor to ask and the rich to receive merit and both will receive mercy as Scripture states: “The man’s name for whom I wrought today is Boaz” [Ruth 2:9]. It does not say who [wrought for me?] and deliverance is not by chance […] as Scripture states: “Observe what is right and do what is just; For soon my salvation shall come” [Isa. 56:1]. (Fol. B, lines 4 – 9)17

R. Joseph underscores the basic Jewish notion of charity as a partnership between the benefactor and beneficiary: both participants amass blessing and receive merit in this world and in the world to come. This mutuality is heightened by an allusion to Ruth Rabbah, where the midrash ascribes merit to the poor person for allowing the donor to acquire benefits. In essence, the two share in the charitable act: “therefore God created one against the other, rich and poor: the poor to ask and the rich to receive merit.” The referenced midrash reads as follows: It was taught in the name of R. Joshua: More than the householder does for the poor man does the poor man do for the householder, for Ruth said to 16 For collection of funds for Jerusalem, see Goitein, Mediterranean Society, 2:95 – 97. 17 This again is a stock verse for charity. See BT B. Bat. 10a: “R. Judah says: Great is charity, in that it brings the redemption nearer, as it says, Thus sayeth the Lord, Keep ye judgement and do righteousness, for my salvation is near to come.” The close link between charity and redemption is thus established.

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Naomi: “The man’s name for whom I wrought today” [Ruth 2:19]. She did not say, “who wrought for me,” but for whom I wrought. I wrought him many benefits in return for the one morsel of food which he gave me. (Midrash Rabbah: Ruth, trans. L. Rabinowitz [London: Soncino, 1939] 5:9)

Such an attitude toward charity allows the recipient to maintain his dignity, his degrading poverty notwithstanding. While R. Joseph assumes that his addressees know this midrash and feels no need to explain it explicitly, he is also hinting at his own erudition. This display of erudition works to flatter the community, for whom it would be more honorable to help a worthy—i. e., a learned—man. As Miriam Frenkel has shown in her recent book, learned individuals—talmidei h. akhamim – had greater opportunities to receive charity than commoners not belonging to the elite.18 R. Joseph, the author of our letter, was clearly a member of a scholarly elite and did not hesitate to exploit this status. In keeping with this style, we find a second midrashic allusion in R. Joseph’s humble depiction of himself as “poor and destitute like a worm” that has “no mouth to chirp” (fol. B, line 2). The worm as the embodiment of humility derives from Psalms 22:7: “I am a worm, less than human.” But our R. Joseph’s allusion is to another, well-known metaphor involving a worm, namely, the patriarch Jacob whose strength lies in prayer. The midrashic commentary on Isaiah 41:14: “Fear not, O worm Jacob, O men of Israel,” reads: “Just as the worm has only its mouth to smite the cedar with, so Israel has only prayer.”19 Similarly, even though the scholar lacks the strength to fight his way out of his poverty, he still retains the ability to use his mouth for prayer. This eloquent allusion to the midrash not only hints at the community’s responsibility for their coreligionist, who like them descends from Jacob/Israel, but it also displays his erudition. To emphasize his worthiness, he both explicitly states his credentials as a scholar and implicitly alludes to his learning.

18 Miriam Frenkel, “The Compassionate and Benevolent”: The Leading Elite in the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Middle Ages (Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute for the Study of Jewish Communities in the East, 2006), 220 (in Hebrew). 19 Mekilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, edited and translated by Jacob Z. Lauterbach (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society), 1:207 (Ish-Shalom ed., Masekhta bet, parashah bet, p. 28).

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In concluding this appeal, R. Joseph styles himself not as his rabbi’s disciple but as the teacher of R. Yehiel the French,20 who also appears in Geniza letters. This correspondence clearly places R. Yehiel as a public figure in Jerusalem.21 When he wrote this letter, R. Joseph was a newcomer to the region and his disciple may have been better known in the East than his teacher. Identifying himself as the rabbi of a known scholar served as a source of pride, demonstrated his accomplishments, and further supported the worthwhile endeavor of assisting him.22 Another letter places R. Joseph and his disciple R. Yehiel as traveling together and perhaps receiving joint hospitality in Bilbais,23 a possible reason why R. Joseph mentions his student here. Our present letter, however, is intensely personal and consistently uses the first person—“I am poor, I am indigent” (ani ‘ani). The letter contains an individual cry for help, not an appeal in the name of several scholars or a community. Thus, I find the suggestion that the letter was written on behalf of both R. Joseph and of R. Yehiel unconvincing.24 As far as I can tell, R. Joseph does not represent a community, neither the famous so-called “Three Hundred French Rabbis” who settled in Jerusalem in the early thirteenth century,25 nor any other organized entity, or needy individuals. In this letter, R. Joseph does not limit his appeal merely to the Bilbais community. After what appears to be a valedictory “Shalom” (fol. B, line 10), in the middle of a line, the letter continues as a personal petition ad-

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20 Probably R. Yehiel b. Isaac the French, mentioned in T-S 8J 33, fol. 4 as living in Jerusalem with his son Solomon and having a mikve in his home. See Mann, Jews in Egypt, 2:304; and Braslavi, “Geniza Fragments”, 157 – 58. 21 The letter (T-S 8J 33, fol. 4) by Yehiel b. Isaac asks how to disburse money donated for the erection of a ritual bath. He writes that it is preferable for the local community to continue to use the ritual bath he has built in his home as this provides him with the opportunity to teach ladies the halakhot at the same time. He also with whom he is mentions “the seven dignitaries of the city” clearly associated. The handwriting is identical with that of another letter (ENA 3788, 1) signed by Yehiel b. Isaac the French . In that letter, he reports his safe arrival in Jerusalem: . 22 It may, of course be a poetic way of styling himself as his pupil, according to . I doubt, however, that R. Joseph would use Balaam Num. 24:3: as an example. 23 T-S 13 J20, fol.24, a letter sent to Menahem ben Isaac asking the community of Bilbais to give the dayyan (Joseph ben Gershom?) 40 dirhems. 24 Reiner, “Pilgrims and Pilgrimage”, 61. 25 Ephraim Kanarfogel, “The Aliyah of ‘Three Hundred Rabbis’ in 1211: Tosafist Attitudes Toward Settling in the Land of Israel,” Jewish Quarterly Review 76 (1986): 191 – 215; Reiner, “Pilgrims and Pilgrimage”, 60 – 65.

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dressed to R. Perahiah.26 According to Goitein, Perahiah ben Joseph was a dayyan in Bilbais.27 This second part, or a second letter, is structured along the same lines as the general request. It extravagantly praises Perahiah and his family, comparing them to the patriarchs Abraham and Isaac—Be blessed like the “bound” son and an honored father (ke-ben ne‘ekad ve-av nikhbad; fol. B, lines 13 – 14)—and ends with a similar exhortation: “assist the heavenly God so that you will have a part, and charity, and remembrance in Jerusalem” (line 18). R. Joseph blesses Perahiah 26 This is not the sole example in which what looks like two distinct letters are written on the same page. Cf., for example, Bodl MS Heb a3, fol. 24, cited in Moshe Gil, ed., In the Kingdom of Ishmael (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, 1997), 2:251 (in Hebrew), where three different descriptions of the Mongol attack are found . In contemporary European coron one sheet of paper, divided by the word respondence it was usual for the author to keep drafts or copies of letters in a personal archive. Rarely did recipients copy letters. See Constable, Letters and Letter-Collections, 55 – 62. (Cf. idem, “Dictators and Diplomats in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries: Medieval Epistolography and the Birth of Medieval Bureaucracy”, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 46 [1992]: 37 – 46.) This fits a situation in which the letters are found in the sender’s collection. In the case of our Geniza letters, they were probably kept or copied by the recipient, as R. Joseph wrote from Jerusalem and the letters ended up in the Geniza. It may also be that R. Joseph brought these papers with him some years later when he was called to officiate as a dayyan in Alexandria, or that both letters were written to the same address with an oral directive to the messenger to separate them upon his arrival and that one recipient forwarded it to the other. The handwriting is Ashkenazi and may well be the autograph (personal communication by Edna Engel). In a later letter by the same writer (T-S 10 J 24, fol.8, which measures 21.5 x 21.5 cm, see Appendix 2) the writer repeats the same pattern: he signs the letter in his name and the name of his son David “and Shalom” and then adds another six lines as a postscript, again ending with “and Shalom.” In this letter the handwriting is probably local and if it was written in Alexandria before the end of R. Joseph’s tenure as dayyan it was probably the work of a scribe, perhaps the secretary of the Beth Din. In any event, it is clear that the two letters TS 13J 9, 17 (our letter) and 10J 24,8 (the letter to R. Tohar, discussed below, see Appendix 2) were not written by the same hand (thanks to Edna Engel who verified this). Not only is the handwriting quite different (Edna Engel thinks that only our letter was written by an Ashkenazi), the signature is different: R. Joseph b. R. Gershon in our letter as opposed to R. Jehoseph ben Rabbenu ha-Rav R. Gershom in the other. Thus, if they were not two different persons altogether, at least one of the letters was copied or written by a scribe. 27 S.D. Goitein, Palestinian Jewry in Early Islamic and Crusader Times in the Light of the Geniza Documents (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1980), 298 n. 59 (in Hebrew). See also s.v. “Perahiah ben Joseph”, S.D. Goitein Laboratory for Geniza Research, Jewish National and University Library, Jerusalem, file cards 75, 76.

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with the prophecy: “you will offer the sacrifice and do as your fathers did.” Giving charity was often compared to a sacrificial offering,28 and, because the blessing originated with someone living in Jerusalem, it acquired enhanced meaning. To summarize the contents of the letter: because the Bilbais community in general, and R. Perahiah specifically, had reputations for outstanding charitable acts, they were expected to enhance their good name by donating to one as worthy as R. Joseph. Although he includes a short description of his destitute circumstances, in contrast to the Geniza letters of the poor published by Mark Cohen, which spell out their need for food, clothing, and so on, R. Joseph does not specify his needs. In an attempt to retain his dignity, he refers to his harsh conditions in general terms only. Twice he exclaims, “I am poor”(ani ‘ani), followed by his full name and title, as if the shocking reality of becoming destitute had become part of his identity. The second letter addressed to R. Perahiah begins with the same motif: “A prayer of the poor man when he is faint” (tefillah le-‘ani khi ya‘atof; fol. B, line 10).29 R. Joseph seeks to prove that he is truly needy and worthy of charity, while at the same time also seeking to emphasize who he is. Mark Cohen has shown how petitioners asking for donations were often embarrassed, both because the writer was ashamed of his impoverishment and because he wanted to demonstrate that begging was not his normal occupation. Additionally, in the surrounding Muslim society the shamefaced poor who did not “uncover his face” was deemed worthier than others.30 Thus R. Joseph’s embarrassment in a sense contributes to his stature. But without attempting to identify the writer, our consideration of this signed Geniza letter would be incomplete. R. Joseph ben Gershon, the Ashekenazi, the teacher of R. Yehiel the French, was obviously of European origin and probably stopped in Bilbais while en route to Jerusalem.31 His brief acquaintance with Bilbais would explain why he expected the addressees of the charity letter to recognize his name and identity. As he did not belong to the so-called “Three Hundred French Rabbis”, I sur28 See, for example, T-S 6 J 3, fol. 1 published by Moshe Gil, Palestine during the First Muslim Period (634 – 1099) (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, 1983), 2:621 (in Hebrew): “and our Rock will place what you did for us as an offering and a basket of first fruits.” See Cohen, Voice of the Poor, document 11 (pp. 33 – 34). 29 Ps. 102:1 is also mentioned in the above-noted midrash from Mekilta (note 19). 30 Lev, Charity, 10 – 11; Cohen, Poverty and Charity, 45 – 51. 31 Goitein always characterizes Bilbais as “a town situated on the caravan route from Cairo to Palestine.” See, for example, Mediterranean Society, 2:51.

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mise that he arrived in Jerusalem before this group did, perhaps in 1210.32 After the Ayyubid sultan al-Malik al-Mu‘azzam ‘Isa demolished the walls of Jerusalem in 1219 and ended the Jewish settlement there, most of the French members of the Jerusalem community moved to Acre. We can therefore tentatively place R. Joseph’s sojourn in Jerusalem, and the penning of his letter, between 1210 and 1219. We next pick up the thread in Alexandria, where R. Joseph was invited to serve as a dayyan by the nagid Abraham Maimuni (Maimonides’ son).33 But, as reflected in two bitter letters preserved in the Geniza, one to someone named Rabbi Tohar,34 and the other to the nagid,35 his tenure there was not without difficulties. In an attempt to strengthen the position of his weak nominee, Isaac ben Halfon, the nagid created a triumvirate of dayyanim by appointing two additional individuals–the popular local figure Eliya ben Zecharia, and our Joseph ben Gershon. This was probably part of a power play between the traditional leadership of the highborn families (e. g., the nasi) and the intellectual leadership, made up of newcomers like Maimuni.36 As part of this triumvirate, R. Joseph was out-maneuvered by the local dayyan, Isaac ben Halfon, who found it easier to act against the “foreigner.”37 His enactments had to be ratified by his colleagues and ultimately by the nagid himself. This seriously undermined R. Joseph’s authority. As the two above-mentioned letters have been beautifully analyzed by Miriam Frenkel in her new book,38 I only touch upon them here. 32 Had he belonged to an organized movement of aliyah he would probably have mentioned this, as donating to a community in the Holy Land was considered a prestigious charity. 33 Frenkel (“The Compassionate and Benevolent”, 141) dates this invitation to 1234. But as R. Joseph signed a takkanah in Acre in February 1234 (see note 43) the period he spent in Alexandria was probably at least a year earlier. 34 T-S 10 J 24.8, see Appendix 2. See Mann, Jews in Egypt 2:372 – 73. A contemmentions Abu Taher together with R. Isaac b. Halfon and porary charter Yehiel b. Eliakim , a well-known individual from Aleppo. 35 D. Simonsen, “Maimoniana”, in Festschrift zum siebzigsten Geburtstage Jakob Guttmans (Leipzig: G. Fock, 1915), 218 – 21; Teshuvot Rabbenu Avraham ben ha-Rambam, ed. A.H. Freimann and S.D. Goitein (Jerusalem: Mekize Nirdamim, 1938), 175 – 90. 36 See Reiner, “Pilgrims and Pilgrimage”, 75 – 78. The inclusion of newcomers (e. g., French) in positions of power evidently ignited a reaction from the old, established elite. 37 Frenkel, “The Compassionate and Benevolent”, 140 – 41. 38 Ibid., 140 – 41, 173 – 74.

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The context of his dispute with Hodaya the Nasi reveals R. Joseph’s pride not only in his learning but also in his ancestry. This dispute, which revolved about the right to abolish a herem, 39 brought the tension between the traditional and the new leadership to a head. Hodaya requested a fee of ten dinars to cancel a herem, whereas R. Joseph claimed that it was illegal to pay for a religious right. Although Maimuni backed him halakhically, R. Joseph may have felt he was a pawn caught in the power play between the nasi and the nagid. He makes the following accusation: “He [Hodaya] is not more learned than I. If he claims to be the son and grandson of a Nasi, I am the son and grandson of scholars, some generations back….”40 Another side of R. Joseph’s personality (and his frustration) emerges from an emotional appeal to Abraham Maimuni for assistance in his dispute with the Alexandrian Jewish communal leadership: “I the undersigned cry out against the malpractice of justice by the leaders of Israel.”41 His poetic skills, so apparent in our letter, are also evident in his complaint to one Rabbi Tohar about his treatment at the hands of the Alexandrian community: “Was it to kill me that you brought me to your community? For death and plague are preferable to being a member of a corrupt circle.”42 Despite the bitterness these letters reflect, R. Joseph’s fortunes had certainly improved from the time he penned the first letter requesting charity, in which he called himself a “worm.” Disappointed by his failure to achieve acceptance in, and to adjust to, Alexandria, R. Joseph returned to the land of Israel, where he appears as one of eleven signatories on a takkanah (rabbinic enactment) from Acre cited in the responsa of Abraham Maimuni.43 This takkanah, dated 13 Adar 1234, validates only those excommunications approved by three 39 Herem can refer either to excommunication or to an enactment requiring abstention from a particular act. 40 (Teshuvot Rabbenu Avraham ben ha-Rambam, 15). 41 (ibid., 13). 42

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(Mann, Jews in Egypt, 2:372). The bitter tone may indicate R. Joseph’s realization that he was being used by Abraham Maimuni. (Teshuvot Rabbenu Avraham ben ha-Rambam, 25 – 26).

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rabbis, a decision possibly related to R. Joseph’s negative experiences as a dayyan in Alexandria, where his decisions were overturned. This takkanah in fact confirms Maimuni’s position on this issue. At this point in time, Crusader rule (1229 – 44) precluded R. Joseph’s return to Jerusalem,44 so he joined the flourishing Acre Jewish community.45 Our last reported information on R. Joseph is that he died en route to Baghdad in 1235. We do not know what prompted him to leave Acre at that time, but a eulogy that has survived clearly describes him as a scholar of great repute.46 One puzzling aspect of R. Joseph’s personal history is that while he sometimes styles himself Joseph the Ashkenazi, as in our early letter, in the later letters he sometimes attributes his persecution to being identified as French. Unlike other scholars, I do not think that we need to search for his origins in a place that could be both France and Ashkenaz.47 In our letter, R. Joseph clearly differentiates between himself—Joseph Ashkenazi—and his pupil—R. Yehiel Zarfati (the French). Accordingly, I think that R. Joseph was an Ashkenazi. What then does he mean when he quotes Hodaya the Nasi as cursing his ancestors (arur ben arur) and claiming that all the French are heretics bent on anthropomorphism?48 And why does Abraham Maimuni state in his reply to R. Joseph’s complaint about Hodaya that “he persecuted you because you are French”?49 This confusion can be seen to stem from differences in local nomenclature. The aforementioned dispute was between the local Alexandrians and the French newcomers. Just as Muslim society designated all crusad44 As part of the treaty between Frederick II and al-Malik al-Ka¯mil, 1129 – 1139, and subsequently renewed until 1244. 45 Joshua Prawer, History of the Jews in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (Oxford: Clarendon, 1988), 85 – 91, 270 – 72. 46 Mann, Jews in Egypt, 2:370 – 71, refers to a eulogy for R. Joseph by Eleazar ben Jacob the Babylonian. See Samuel Poznanski, Babylonische Geonim im nachgaon ischen Zeitalter (Berlin: Mayer and M ller, 1914), 64: 47 Braslavi, “Geniza Fragments”, proposes Mainz or Worms or any location in Lotharingia. Samuel Krauss (“L’ migration de 300 Rabbins en Palestine en l’an 1211”, Revue des Etudes Juives 82 [1926]: 350) thought that Ashkenaz could be northern Italy. 48 49

. (Teshuvot Rabbenu Avraham ben ha-Rambam, 15) (ibid., 18).

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ers Ifrangi or Franks, I postulate that Alexandrian Jewish society used Zarfati (French) as a general appellation for Western scholars.50 The same was true of contemporary Cypriot society where all the Latin Catholics were called Franks regardless of their origin.51 We thus see that R. Joseph could well have been an Ashkenazi rabbi educated in Ashkenazi yeshivot and still be referred to as “French” in the Alexandrian locale. Wandering scholars were a well-known phenomenon in twelfth- and thirteenth-century Western Europe, in both Christian and Jewish society. Despite his original intention to dwell in Jerusalem,52 R. Joseph’s life certainly exemplifies that of a wandering scholar. While we have no way of proving when he met up with his pupil, R. Yehiel Zarfati, this probably took place in Europe, before they both came to the East. The Geniza letters examined here open a window on the shifting fortunes of R. Joseph, revealed as a scholarly individual, worthy of the post of dayyan in Alexandria. Despite the bitterness of his stay in Alexandria, R. Joseph’s fortunes had certainly improved from the time he penned his first letter requesting charity, in which he called himself “a worm.” Although he used this stock term to emphasize both his humility and his erudition, he used it mainly to show how desperately he was in need at that time. Ultimately, our humble petitioner for charity is revealed as a learned scholar, proud of his background and knowledge, and worthy of the famous munificence of the Egyptian communities.

50 For a similar case, see the letter about R. Samuel b. Jacob, T-S 18 J 3, fol 15b, . See Frenkel, lines 22 – 23 “The Compassionate and Benevolent”, 135. 51 Peter W. Edbury, “Franks”, in Cyprus: Society and Culture 1191 – 1374, ed. Angel Nicolaou-Konnari and Chris Schabel (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 63: “A Frank was a Latin-rite Christian who accepted the spiritual jurisdiction of the Pope.” 52 If that is the case we have an Ashkenazi scholar as part of the thirteenth-century aliyah movement; cf. Israel J. Yuval, “Jewish Messianic Expectations toward 1240 and Christian Reactions”, in Toward the Millennium: Messianic Expectations from the Bible to Waco, ed. Peter Sch fer and Mark Cohen (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 111: “not one single German Jew came to the Holy Land with the ‘Three Hundred Rabbis.’”

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Appendix 1 T-S 13 J9, fol. 17 The readings were checked against the Cambridge University Library manuscript.

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Appendix 2 T-S 10 J 24, fol. 8

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