Everything is on the Move: The Mamluk Empire as a Node in (Trans-)Regional Networks 9783737002745, 9783847102748, 9783847002741

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Mamluk Studies

Volume 7

Edited by Stephan Conermann

Editorial Board: Thomas Bauer (Münster, Germany), Albrecht Fuess (Marburg, Germany), Thomas Herzog (Bern, Switzerland), Konrad Hirschler (London, Great Britain), Anna Paulina Lewicka (Warsaw, Poland), Linda Northrup (Toronto, Canada), Jo van Steenbergen (Gent, Belgium)

Stephan Conermann (ed.)

Everything is on the Move The Mamluk Empire as a Node in (Trans-)Regional Networks

With 19 figures

V& R unipress Bonn University Press

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. ISBN 978-3-8471-0274-8 ISBN 978-3-8470-0274-1 (E-Book) Publications of Bonn University Press are published by V& R unipress GmbH. Sponsored by the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (DFG). Ó Copyright 2014 by V& R unipress GmbH, D-37079 Goettingen All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreign languages. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Printed in Germany. Cover image: Dirkauskiel / photocase.de Printing and binding: CPI Buch Bücher.de GmbH, Birkach

Contents

Introduction Stephan Conermann (Bonn) Networks and Nodes in Mamluk Times: some introductory remarks . . .

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Global Context Georg Christ (Manchester) Beyond the Network – Connectors of Networks: Venetian Agents in Cairo and Venetian News Management . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Yehoshua Frenkel (Haifa) The Mamluks among the Nations: A Medieval Sultanate in its Global Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Networks Henning Sievert (Bonn/Zürich) Family, friend or foe? Factions, households and interpersonal relations in Mamluk Egypt and Syria . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Johannes Pahlitzsch (Mainz) Networks of Greek Orthodox Monks and Clerics between Byzantium and Mamluk Syria and Egypt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 Michael Winter (Tel Aviv) Sufism in the Mamluk Empire (and in early Ottoman Egypt and Syria) as a focus for religious, intellectual and social networks . . . . . . . . . . . 145 Carl F. Petry (Northwestern University, Evanston, IL) “Travel Patterns of Medieval Notables in the Near East” Reconsidered: contrasting trajectories, interconnected networks . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165

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Contents

Miriam Kühn (Berlin) “Stars, they come and go, […] and all you see is glory” – minbars as Emblems of Political Power in Intra-Mamlu¯k Strife . . . . . . . . . . . . 181

Ego-Networks Thomas Bauer (Münster) ¯ ta¯rı¯ and his Muqarrizu¯n . . . . 205 How to Create a Network: Zaynaddı¯n al-A ¯ ˙

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Mohammad Gharaibeh (Bonn) Brokerage and Interpersonal Relationships in Scholarly Networks. Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯ and His Early Academic Career . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223 ˙

Mental Networks: Travelling Concepts – Actor-Network-Theory Albrecht Fuess (Marburg) ˇ iha¯d. Two Arms on the Same Body? . . . . 269 Ottoman G˙azwah – Mamluk G Torsten Wollina (Beirut) News and Rumor – local sources of knowledge about the world

. . . . . 283

Richard McGregor (Vanderbilt University, Nashville, Tennessee) Networks, Processions, and the Disruptive Display of Religion . . . . . . 311 Bethany J. Walker (Bonn) Mobility and Migration in Mamluk Syria: The Dynamism of Villagers ‘on the Move’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 325 Authors

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 349

Introduction

Stephan Conermann (Bonn)

Networks and Nodes in Mamluk Times: some introductory remarks

In this volume, we try to understand the “Mamluk Empire”, not as a confined space but as a region where several nodes of different networks existed side-byside and at the same time. In our opinion, these networks constitute to a great extent the core of the so-called Mamluk society ; they form the basis of the social order. Following, in part, concepts refined in the New Area Studies, recent reflections about the phenomenon of the “Empire – State”, trajectories in today’s Global History, and the spatial turn in modern historiography, we intend to identify a number of physical and cognitive networks with one or more nodes in Mamluk-controlled territories. In addition to this, one of the most important analytical questions would be to define the role of these networks in Mamluk society.

Starting out with global history Away from the rhetoric of the “Clash of Civilizations“ we are locating global history at the intersection of interactions, or in other words, of the conflicts between global trends and local or regional answers. Certainly, typical areas of interaction are the Indian and the Atlantic Ocean, the Mediterranean or the Baltic Sea, but as we see it, a heartland like the “Mamluk Empire” is one of these areas as well. In any global history, priority is typically given to the assessment and description of the dialectics between spacious, external relations and spatially integrative processes (that always result in demarcations and fragmentations), between consolidation and differentiation. The focus on non-European history is supposed to break with the confinement of culture-specific historiography and to put the claim to universality of European history into perspective. Preoccupation with the longue dur¦e of global historical processes will almost inevitably lead to questioning the established classification scheme into epochs including the underlying parameters of modernization of European development. It is high time that extra-European regions of the world are re-

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accredited their very own historical existence instead of relocating them to the peripheral areas of a European or cultural center. During the period of interest here, the late Middle Ages according to European linguistic usage, a very intense exchange of goods, people and ideas can be identified on a global level – A phenomenon that has very aptly has been called the “human web” of the Old World by William and John McNeill. Christopher Bayly on the other hand talks about an ‘archaic’ globalization as opposed to an ‘early-modern’ (as from 1500 on) or a ‘modern’ (starting around 1800) globalization. The Islamic World, which encompassed vast regions of Africa and Asia, was not only a religious entity but also contributed significantly to the economic and cultural cohesion of the area from Seville to Samarkand. The uniting elements were the Mamluk and the Mongol “Empire” of the 13th century ; the latter once covering an area from China to Europe. For the 13th century, Janet Abu Lughod identifies an early world economy, whose centers were in Asia, the Indian Ocean and the Arab World. Northern and Sub-Saharan Africa were peripheral parts of this system just as Europe was on the northwestern periphery. A typical feature of the world between 1250 and 1500 was its high scale of integration. According to John Darwin, this “connectedness” of Eurasia persisted until around 1750. Birgit Schäbler suggests that a global history ultimately creates interpretations of polycentric arguments on regional differences, or asynchronisms, and gives them special emphasis. Substantial networking and interactions did not increase continuously or consistently in history ; rather, waves of progresses or setbacks developed. Such a period of accelerated densification can be reported for the Mongol- (or Mamluk-) era. In the 13th and 14th century, a global space for contact and communication arose that launched profound processes of political and military reactions right up to economic changes or cultural and technological transfers. Apart from Genoa and Venice, the Mamluks controlled the neighboring regions of the Mediterranean and the Black Sea. One of the most radical incidents with global impact of this time was the plague, which spread in mid-14th century from Central Asia and across the two seas to Europe and claimed the life of 25 million people. The end of Mongol dominion aggravated the access to East Asian as well as Persian and Turkestan markets for Europe. The quest for alternating routes to the riches of the Orient led to the exploration of the maritime routes around Africa and the Americas. The retreat of the Chinese from maritime trade helped the Portuguese to establish their power in the Indian Ocean. Over the course of this period, the Mamluk Empire acted as link between Eurasia, Northern – and sub-Saharan Africa. The emphasis of historical alternatives, which is predominantly the focus of this book, illustrates the diversity of historical development models, which places the „diversity of the Modern Era“ (S. N. Eisenstadt) side by side with a

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“diversity of the pre-Modern Era”. From 1250 to 1500, large parts of Eurasia and Africa experienced a high degree of economic, political, religious and culturaltechnological integration. Networks that developed out of those integrative processes were complementary and interacted with one another. The effects of historical events, such as political transitions, the insufficiency of trade routes, the introduction of new technologies and the outbreak of epidemics were transferred over the various systems of interaction and therefore had substantial influence on distant regions of the world. The Mamluk Empire needs to be “localized” in this context. Key texts – Janet Abu-Lughod: Before European Hegemony. The World System A.D. 1250 – 1350. New York 1989. – Christopher Bayly : The Birth of the Modern World, 1780 – 1914. Global Connections and Comparisons. Oxford 2004. – John Darwin: After Tamerlane. The Global History of Empire. London 2007. – S. N. Eisenstadt: Multiple Modernities, in: Daedalus 129 (2000) 1 – 29. – William and John McNeill: The Human Web: A Bird’s-Eye View of World History. New York 2003. – Margit Pernau: Transnationale Geschichte. Göttingen 2011. – Birgit Schäbler (ed.): Area Studies und die Welt: Weltregionen und neue Globalgeschichte. Wien 2007. Christ analyzes how networks overlapped when 15th century merchants engaged in global trade, which involved middle-layer regional networks and macro-structured global networks alike. His focus is on news networks and the crucial role intermediaries played in connecting them. The case study presented is the story of Venetian merchant Angelo Michiel, who was sent to Cairo in 1419 to work on behalf of the Venetian community in Alexandria in order to gather business intelligence on the trade with pepper. By crossing the Venetian trade sphere and entering the next section of the spice route, Michiel created links between various networks on different levels and was forced to combine official and personal business. Christ not only assesses source material in the form of letters Michiel wrote to inform his principals, but also gives an overview on earlier studies on the mechanisms and networks of trade in the Mediterranean at the time of the Mamluk Empire. He argues that Venetian merchants played an important role for the Mamluk trade system by connecting the networks involved. In his analysis, Frenkel seeks to prove the working hypothesis that

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authorities and authors in the Mamluk Empire tried to legitimate the power of the dynasty by establishing links with a glorious past and by integrating the Sultanate into a contemporary global context. Cited sources provide information on how these connections were created through the recourse on literary heroes and common origins. Writings were used to link the non-Arab Mamluks with the history of the lands they ruled and with the indigenous population in a society that was very concerned about kinship. It was also the purpose of these stories to present cooperation with other societies as a valid option and to connect religions, locations and periods. Frenkel underlines that the kind of research presented could advance the paradigm of connective histories.

Networks The focus of this volume is on (trans-)regional networks of the Mamluks. In this particular field we are going back to the work of a very successful German research group at the University of Bochum under the direction of Prof. Dr. Stefan Reichmuth, that operated from 1998 to 2004 under the title “Islamic Educational Networks in Local and Translocal Contexts, 18th-20th Centuries“. It is possible to look at networks - as a whole - from the outside or from the individual perspective (ego-centered-networks). The most important quantitative criteria are the density and the range of a network. The individual is involved in concentric circles of different relations, whose frequency and efficiency declines towards its edges. Within the net, the partners are directly or indirectly connected via intermediate links. The relationships between direct and indirect contacts determine if a person is a “star”, which means the person is in the center of a network, or if the person is solely a marginal figure. All the relationships that would need to be activated in order to reach a certain goal constitute an “action net”. A faction mobilizes and stabilizes its supporters out of communal or complementary interests. The proximity of the members towards each other therefore defines the density of the network and has wide influence on communication and social control within the network. The objectives and the purposes of a faction first of all entail resolving conflicts; either to benefit from it or to protect the own group from threats. As to the sociostructural characteristics, content and intensity come to the fore. Contents can be defined through kinship, friendship, neighborhood, work or economic relations as well as through ideology or religion. Additionally, the respective direction - either unilateral or mutual - is an important issue for the creation or dissolution of hierarchies. Different qualities can sum up, entwine and/or

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overlap. These versatile relationships are essential for networks. The intensity of a relationship shows if the assumption of responsibilities and obligations is intended. Solidarity is not automatically granted but needs to be claimed. Due to their vast dimension and the multiple contents, networks embrace much more than the close affiliations of kinship, circumstances of life and social classes. They indeed frequently encompass members of different regions and different strata of society. Religious and cultural as well as social, economic and political factors affect their cohesion and composition. Although mental parameters of traditional relationships usually restrict the interests of the individual - through standards and values - and prevent deviations of personal preferences and aversions, the pressure of one special interest can be so strong in some cases that conventional institutions either dissolve - at least partially - or are modified to a substantial degree. As we understand it, an “institution” consists of a system of formal and informal rules along with the means to enforce them. This system serves the control of individual behavior and actions as well as the purpose to regulate social interactions. Network analyses are used to describe the behavior of social actors based on the configuration of the social network they are involved in. This configuration of the network is the result of the behavior of the actors and in turn allows or complicates their actions. The relations between the actors are based on material or immaterial goods (like money, land, official positions, status, protection, social recognition or information). The qualitative features of those relations can be explained according to their content (e. g. acquired/attributed, family relation, patronage, trust), their intensity (frequent/scarce, strong/weak) and their direction (e. g. undirected and symmetrical between friends or directed and asymmetrical between patron and client). According to Bourdieu, both participants in an exchange make use of the economic, social and cultural capital at their hands, while expecting something in return. The purpose of this exchange is the costly accumulation of symbolic capital, which can be ambiguously defined as honor or prestige. Social capital for example can consist of being “well interconnected” or part of a status group, whereas cultural capital corresponds to education. The focus is on the ties among the actors themselves. The scope of one individual is not so much contingent upon belonging to a certain group, a gender, a class or a cultural milieu but rather upon the position in and the connections to the social environment. A profound analysis of a network of relationships does not only take into account direct ties and differences between various kinds and intensities of relationships, but also considers the indirect ones. Furthermore, additionally to the examination of connectedness and central or marginal positions, holes in the net - like a lack of ties - are being studied. Far from ignoring social barriers between classes, levels or groups, the network approach makes it easier to detect ties that manage to clear those hurdles.

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Key texts – Cilija Harders: Dimensionen des Netzwerkansatzes: Einführende theoretische Überlegungen, in: Loimeier, R. (ed.): Die islamische Welt als Netzwerk: Möglichkeiten und Grenzen des Netzwerkansatzes im islamischen Kontext, Würzburg 2000, 17 – 52. – Jan-Peter Hartung: Viele Wege und ein Ziel. Leben und Wirken von Sayyid Abu l-Hasan Ali al-Hasani Nadwi (1914 – 1999). Würzburg 2004, 11 – 35. – Henning Sievert: Zwischen arabischer Provinz und Hoher Pforte. Beziehungen, Bildung und Politik des osmanischen Bürokraten Ragib Mehmed Pasa (st. 1763). Würzburg 2008, 7 – 44. That the Mamluk Sultanate and its sociopolitical formation are a case of great historical and political scholarly interest can especially be accounted for by the unusual fact that its elite consisted of military slaves. Henning Sievert calls for a focus on the underlying multidimensional and multiplex networks in the Sultanate in order to improve the understanding of the dynamics of Mamluk politics and society. Combining a qualitative network approach with other sociological and political anthropological concepts, Sievert works out the differences between types of interpersonal relations in the special case of Mamluk society and thus enables the application of reasonable categories in a comprehensive network analysis. Succession struggles were a time of political crisis in the Sultanate in which networks gained special importance. Pahlitzsch describes how the patriarchates of the Christian Orthodox Church were able to link their communities through ecclesiastical networks and thereby to transcend political boundaries between Byzantium and the Mamluk Empire. Bringing in several historical examples, he gives insight into these multilayered connections and examines the way and the means through which the contacts, which led to such stable networks, were established on official as well as on unofficial side. He also highlights the crucial role the patriarchs played concerning diplomatic contacts between Constantinople and Cairo and emphasizes the importance of the three oriental patriarchates for the religious ideology of the Byzantine Empire. Pahlitzsch’ focus on the occasions in which the networks were activated makes it obvious that the oriental patriarchates were concerned with problems that by far exceeded the internal affairs of local communities. Michael Winter addresses the topic of Sufi networks in the Mamluk period which he believes to provide valuable data for the research of transregional networks. He argues that networks and orders (tarı¯qas) in Sufism ˙ have to be treated as two different aspects of organization. To prove his

Networks and Nodes in Mamluk Times: some introductory remarks

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case, he lays out the development of the Sufi networks of Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n and Ibra¯hı¯m al-Matbu¯lı¯ (and asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯) in late Mamluk Syria and late Mamluk and early Ottoman Egypt respectively, focusing on their similarities and differences, the characters involved in those networks, their structure and their social influence. Winter also provides background information on Sufi ˇsayhs and orders particularly in the 13th century and ˘ on the social history of several tarı¯qas in Egypt in the Ayyu¯bid and early ˙ Mamluk period. Petry’s contribution is based on an earlier article called “Travel Patterns of Medieval Notables in the Near East” that was published in 1985. Focusing on the perspective of networking, he revises two Mamluk sources, one dealing with the trips of the far-travelled mystic al-Misrı¯ and ˙ another telling the story of the merchant at-Tabrı¯zı¯ who was the defendant in a famous and very well documented trial of the Mamluk period. Using those two case studies, Petry shows how networks can be deduced from biographical and narrative sources that do not explicitly name any connections but rather tell individual stories. As many sources do not use specific terminology, reading them closely and finding hints on networks and interactions with different groups is the main challenge. From his case studies, Petry is able to identify al-Misrı¯s travelling activities as a spiritual ˙ journey that gets supported by a trans-territorial trans-lingual communal network. According to Petry, at-Tabrı¯zı¯s fate on the other hand has to be read as a story of balancing between different networks. Miriam Kühn’s objective is to assess how network analysis can be an appropriate tool for Mamluk art history, which has so far been dominated by object-centered approaches. Presenting a case study on the four earliest minbars under Mamluk rule, she examines the role they played within distinct social networks. The patrons, whose names are inscribed in these special minbars, were all part of the highest levels of the military hierarchy within Mamluk society. Kühn argues that they used the highly symbolic minbars - which were basically a privilege of the sultan and the most important amirs between 1260 and 1310 in the Mamluk empire - to represent their power and to stand out against the rest of their social group with the help of this status symbol. She therefore suggests taking minbars into account when examining the social status of the respective patrons.

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Egocentric Networks It is the basic assumption of network analysis that possible courses of events and especially the courses of human actions are partially determined by social relationships of the acting individual. As a consequence, an additional level of analysis is being added in between the individual perspective on one hand and wider categories of analysis like class or race on the other hand. Nonetheless, individuals are by far not considered being entirely determined by social categories. Individuals look upon interpersonal networks, for example, as essential tool to overcome or manipulate social obstacles. In this regard, the concept of the quality of relationships is an important as well as an especially elusive concept, which is difficult to evaluate. Within the context of Islamic cultural and educational networks, the relationship between a teacher and his student, or in mystical Islam (Sufism) the relationship between a shaykh and his disciples, is of special relevance - taking aside kinship relationships. The intensity of such relationships is generally hard to define by the means of self-descriptions as available in the sources. Hence, not only multiple network-relations (e. g. the case of a shaykh-disciple relation being complemented by a relationship of marriage) have to be examined but also diachronic aspects like the frequency of visits, the duration of the relation and/or its stability in times of crisis. It is these considerations that allow us to evaluate the qualitative aspects of the networks. The most important quantitative elements are the density and the extent of networks. In this context, “density” refers to the frequency of direct relationships in the network in question. The extent of the network is a useful analytical category, especially concerning “egocentric networks” like for example relationship networks around one specific person, who oftentimes can also be attributed the role of the founder of a community. In these cases it is not difficult to analyze if a person is somehow connected directly or indirectly (via a single or several intermediary members) to the central person of the egocentric network. Networks in general are barely formalized and therefore have diffused edges, which cannot definitely be defined. Therefore, the networks of a person or of a quality oftentimes overlap with other networks. Concerning network analysis, the theoretical frame for these structural characteristics is - among others based on Mark Granovetter’s weak tie concept. Granovetter emphasized that people who occupy a marginal position within a network might have an advantage over those in a central position because they can be integrated in more than one network more easily. In other networks, too, these people will admittedly rather occupy marginal positions, but from a network analytical point of view they have access to several times as many possible courses of action. Compared to those people who have numerous and intense connections only within a single network or who are identified with only one network, it would be

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easier for them to get in with other networks in times of crisis. A different and separate kind of network analysis is the one concerned with the absence of network contacts. In informal contexts in particular, a lack of network contacts emphasizes the membership in or the dissociation of a group. This aspect can be applied - for example in association with discourse analysis - to gain a more thorough understanding of historical phenomena.” (Quoted/paraphrased from Thomas Eich, Islamic Networks) Steve Borgatti, professor at the Gatton College of Business and Economics at the University of Kentucky illustrates that egocentric networks consist of a focal node (“Ego”) and the nodes with which this ego is directly connected (called “Alters”) as well as the connections between the Alters, if those connections exist. Needless to say that every Alter in an egocentric network has his/her own egocentric network and that all egocentric networks combined amount to one social network. Egocentric networks serve several social purposes: social support and control, emotional and material help, companionship, information and/or the construction of knowledge. For individuals or groups, they provide answers to the fundamental question how the world can be interpreted. They ensure that Egos abide by norms and they regulate the access to resources. Egocentric networks create patterns of behavior. People tend to talk the way others talk to them and they learn about different options by watching the people of his/her egocentric network - from the style of clothing or the choice of language through to behavioral aspects. A long established hypothesis on egocentric networks suggests that steady ties are homophile - meaning that people maintain the strongest ties with people who are similar to them in many aspects, e. g. social class, age, gender, race, political views etc. Another hypothesis or guiding principle implies that people with heterogenic networks are “better off”. The more diverse a network, the higher is the chance that somebody within this network is able to help Ego in certain situations. Granovetter wrote that the tighter the tie between Ego and two of his Alters, the more likely is the chance that the Alters maintain at least one close tie between themselves. Granovetter also believes that weak ties enable people to access new information whereas people bound to each other in strong ties probably have the same information at their disposal. Hence it pertains that the closer the ties in an egocentric network, the tighter the ties are, the more isolated is the egocentric network and the more homogenous. Typical benchmarks include: homophily, size, average strength of the ties, heterogeneity, density, assortment (e. g. % women, % Egyptians etc.), range: i. substantially defined as the possible access to social resources; ii. oftentimes defined as the diversity of the others; iii. based on the argument of “weak ties”, density is understood as a reciprocal benchmark of range; iv. size and heterogeneity are also understood as benchmarks of range. (Quoted/paraphrased from Borgatti)

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Key texts – Thomas Eich: Islamic Networks, in: European History Online (= http://www. ieg-ego.eu/en/threads/european-networks/islamic-networks). – Loimeier, Roman (ed.): Die islamische Welt als Netzwerk: Möglichkeiten und Grenzen des Netzwerkansatzes im islamischen Kontext, Würzburg 2000. – Roman Loimeier/Stefan Reichmuth: Zur Dynamik religiös-politischer Netzwerke in muslimischen Gesellschaften, in: Die Welt des Islams 36 (1996), pp. 145 – 185. – Mark S. Granovetter : The Strength of Weak Ties, in: American Journal of Sociology 78,6 (1973), 1360 – 1380. – Steve Borgatti = www.analytictech.com/networks/egonet.htm

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In his article, Bauer examines a case study of taqa¯rı¯z during the Mamluk ˙ Empire. These special texts can be characterized as commendations, which were issued by distinguished Islamic scholars to show recognition for another authors work. Bauer shows that taqa¯rı¯z can function as indicators ˙ for scholarly networks. Looking at the example of a less known a¯lim of the ¯ ta¯rı¯, Bauer demonstrates how a scholarly Mamluk period, Zaynaddı¯n al-A ¯ network could be established and how analyzing taqa¯rı¯z can provide de˙ tailed information on the process. Bauer proves the interconnectedness of scholarly networks and gives a detailed overview on the function and structure of taqa¯rı¯z as well as on the underlying organizing principles. He ˙ concludes that the main purpose of taqa¯rı¯z must have been the estab˙ lishment of a network after all. Gharaibeh examines in which ways educational networks were able to influence the status of Islamic scholars in the hierarchy of the ulama¯’ in 15th century Cairo. Applying network analysis, he focuses on the interrelation of childhood brokerage and the teacher-student relationship in the life of the scholar Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯ and demonstrates how they af˙ fected his later career. Gharaibeh compares this case study with the life of two other Islamic scholars, Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯ and Ahmad al˙ ˙ Ira¯qı¯, who were of similar social status at the time. In his article, Gharaibeh is able to demonstrate how the academic and social networks of the scholars were based on different kinds of ties, while especially including ties of kinship, friendship, patronage and education. The results of the examination are depicted in several illustrative figures. ˘

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Mental Networks: Travelling Concepts and Actor-Network-Theory As Dipesh Chakrabarti has shown, every case of transformation of cultural, economical or political models or theories from one context to another always contains some kind of “problem of translation” (17) – a translation of worlds that already exist, their “conceptual horizons” and their categories of thinking into the context, the concepts and the horizons of the Lebenswelten/respective life-settings of another person (71). He draws attention to the fact that every seemingly „abstract and universal idea [can] look utterly different in different historical contexts“ (XII). Such processes of transfer “encounter pre-existing concepts, categories, institutions, and practices through which they get translated and configured differently”. Travelling Concepts allude to concepts like “memory”, “gender”, “imagery”, “materiality”, “performativity” or “space”, which make up the essence of the study of culture. The perpetual process of movement, exchange and transfer charges concepts with new meanings and gives them a new persistence. In some cases however, they can become obsolete if alternating concepts upstage them. The movements of theories are distinguished by selective acquisition, productive misunderstandings and discontinuous translations concerning historical or local framework conditions. Edward Said emphasizes that the transfer of ideas in the humanities is characterized by “conditions for acceptance” as well as “resistance” (226-227). Concepts do not move by themselves; processes of movement are rather multidimensional social processes that comprise different interactions like for example institutions, organizations, agents, their epistemological norms etc. The agents of exchange - cultural mediators, gatekeepers, bridges - promote exchange using various means; 1) movement between academic disciplines; in other words, the crossing of disciplinary boundaries; 2) movement between academic and national cultures as well as cultures of science or cultures that bridge national borders; 3) diachronic movements through time; thus the crossing of the borders of historical periods; 4) synchronic movement between functionally defined sub-systems or movement between scholarship and society, its cultural practice, norms and relations of power. (Quoted/Paraphrased from Neumann, Travelling Concepts) In his analysis of Wallersteins world system theory, John Voll assumes a discursive network model concerning the development of the Islamic communities since the demise of the early Islamic realms after 1000 AD. He depicts this “World of Islam” as dynamic and expansive and by no means as static or disintegrating. During this period it was growing significantly and covered an area from Bosnia and sub-Saharan Africa as far as Central Asia and China. “This Islamic entity was a vast network of interacting peoples and groups, with considerable diversity and yet some sufficiently common elements so that it is

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possible to speak of these diverse communities as being part of the ‘Islamic World’”. The Islamic World can therefore be understood as a considerable “community of discourse”, which can only be conceived in active communities and whose discursive interchange consists of written or oral, formal or informal or ritual as well as conceptual features. It is its communication, which makes the dar al-islam a social system or a large group of people with boundaries, structures, cohesion and rules of legitimizing. Islamic discourse crossed the borders of urban, rural and nomadic societies and bridged the divides between the world’s great civilizations. Networks of personal or organizational interaction created the basis of the common and collective identity within an extensive world system developing between 1000 and 1800. What is meant by “Islamic discourse” in this case? In the field of cultural semiotics, different semiotic systems are considered as “symbolic forms” or “codes” with regard to Ernst Cassirer’s philosophy of symbolic form. The codes or symbolic forms of a society are understood as its culture, which is why one can equally speak of semiotic systems of cultures as well as of cultures as semiotic systems. If these codes, learned by an individual through interaction with the world, are passed on from one generation to the other, they are called “traditions”. If one group of individuals mainly refers to the same traditions, they are all part of the same culture. In this case, representatives of cultural semiotics will define a society as a group of individuals who are regularly connected to each other through semiotic processes and who produce “artifacts” as well as “mentifacts”. In this context, “artifacts” are material forms of the information being encoded by a culture, whereas “mentifacts” are its values, ideas and conventions. The premise of cultural semiotics can eventually be framed as follows: “By processes of text formulation, ritualization, creation of genres, grammaticalization and monumentalization every culture stores certain patterns of action that have proved important over the course of its evolution. It is these patterns which preserve a culture’s identity and contain the structural information that determines its further development.” A culture, being interpreted as a semiotic system therefore consists of “individual and objective sign users producing and interpreting texts, which, by means of conventional codes, serve to deliver messages that enable the sign users to manage their problems.” Along these lines, we do not merely want to look at the term “(Islamic) world system” from an economic or political perspective, but above all we want to treat it as a community of discourse with special patterns of relation and institutions. The entire “Islamic world system” is being defined as a “vast network of interacting peoples and groups”. Within this system, the “networks of personal and organizational interaction” are the basis for a common and collective identity. The expansion of Islam eventually resulted from networks of Sufis, traders and scholars. The culturally discursive “Islamic world system”, as

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Voll demonstrates, is no longer concentrated on Islamic states and their political and economic structures, but rather on social networks. Another analytical tool could be the actor-network theory (also called ANT) which concentrates on the dynamics of dealing with objects. Objects have to be regarded as dynamic processes and not as static mass that is once shaped by human efforts. Objects are the final result of long term interactions in several steps and complex processes in which they were involved as intermediary. Thus, there are not only subject and object but heterogeneous intermediaries and hybrid beings Bruno Latour calls “quasi-objects”. The potential of ActorNetwork Theory (ANT) is to trace the many, overlapping social networks that give objects meaning, and through which they are transformed. ANT is not so much a map (a “how-to” guide) for interpreting networks, as a way of visualizing their complexity and vitality. Relevant to the scholar of material culture is the notion that an object/artifact, as an “actor”, can function in different networks at the same time (or put differently, could serve multiple social functions), and that each experience along the way can change the object’s function, meaning, and ability to impact other objects. The material becomes alive in this way and takes a life of its own. Most importantly, ANTchallenges us to investigate a multiplicity of relations and networks, with the understanding that even the most unlikely factors may impact one another (even if not directly). This, I believe, is also the key to successful interdisciplinary research. Related to this is the anthropological concept, espoused by Clifford Geertz, of “thick description”. (Here we prefer the anthropological understanding of the term, rather than that of literary criticism, since we are dealing with objects. The archaeologist, besides, gravitates naturally towards the anthropological.) Culture is complex and manysided. One cannot understand a culture other than one’s own, without attempting to describe every one of its components, in as rich as detail as possible. Human behavior, and its material products, becomes meaningful only in its larger cultural context. No aspect of culture is irrelevant; everything is interconnected. Both rituals (Geertz’s preoccupation) and objects are cultural products and represent that culture on some level. In short, a single object can be related to all aspects of culture, in one way or another, and the full meaning of the object can be appreciated only when those interconnections are investigated. Key texts – Birgit Neumann: Travelling Concepts: Travelling Concepts as a Model for the Study of Culture, in: Birgit Neumann/Ansgar Nünning (ed.): Travelling Concepts for the Study of Culture. Berlin/New York: de Gruyter 2013, 1 – 22. – John Voll: Islam as Special World System, in: Journal of World History 5/2 (1994), 213 – 226. – Stefan Reichmuth: “Netzwerk” und “Weltsystem” – Konzepte zur neuzei-

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tlichen „Islamischen Welt“ und ihrer Transformation, in: Loimeier, R. (ed.): Die islamische Welt als Netzwerk: Möglichkeiten und Grenzen des Netzwerkansatzes im islamischen Kontext, Würzburg 2000, 53 – 87. – Stephan Conermann: Vertraute Zeichen – Fremde Zeichen. Zur Frage der möglichen Exilerfahrung in der mittelalterlichen islamischen Welt, in: Werner Schmucker/Stephan Conermann, Vermischte Schriften: Koran, Sˇahname, Exil und Viktor Klemperer. Schenefeld 2007 [= Bonner islamwissenschaftliche Hefte 4], S. 37 – 46. – Clifford Geertz: The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays. New York 1973. – Bruno Latour : Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-NetworkTheory. Oxford 2005. Fuess discusses the concepts of Holy War that were developed in the Mamluk and the Ottoman empires. Both, the Mamluk concept of gˇiha¯d and the Ottoman g˙azwa share some characteristics, especially in regard to the common enemies of Islam. They differ greatly concerning the underlying ideology and the military approach however. Fuess analyzes both concepts as nodes within a larger context of ideas and mentality of holy war. After setting forth the historical development of both concepts, he concludes that Mamluk gˇ iha¯d can be understood as a more defensive idea that combines politics with ideological support while Ottoman g˙azwa is aimed at expansion. Nonetheless, Fuess states that both concepts are part of one superior mental network. Torsten Wollina examines the phenomenon of rumors as a genre of oral communication in the Mamluk Empire. He works with case studies taken from the journal of the Damascene court clerk Ibn Tawq (1434 – ˙ 1509) that he compares to the accounts of two later historiographers. These case studies illustrate the power of rumor and the role it plays in the perception of historical events and the reaction to them back in their time. Wollina suggests that historical rumors should be used as a supplemental source of knowledge on the Mamluk Empire along with official communication. He argues that – as rumors have often been eradicated from historiographic accounts – they could prove provide very valuable information on the cultural and social history of the Mamluks as well as on the histories of mentalities, emotions and ideas, especially of the common people. In his article on the connection between networks, processions and structures of religion, McGregor concentrates on the anatomy of parades. He defines them as carefully prepared, unique constructions that have a

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direct impact on societies. McGregor therefore suggests understanding each parade or procession as a historical disruption. Referring to Actornetwork theory (ANT), he claims that the material study of religion can contribute to solving recently identified problems in this field. He understands that parades could be a key to a wider picture of networks, society and religion. Focusing on the uniqueness of parades, McGregor develops a flexible model he calls “electric grid” in order to explain the network of religion and its influence on society. The model considers the particularity of religious phenomena and accounts for the defining patterns and structures of religion. In the example of parades and in material religious displays, many different styles and occasions exist so that overarching patterns cannot easily be identified. McGregor states that his model is a good solution to find a balance between the aim of recognizing structures and the particularity of parades. In her article, Bethany Walker analyzes migration patterns of rural communities in Mamluk Syria and calls for a network analysis of migration to obtain information on Mamluk governance on a local level. She argues in favor of the application of the Actor-Network Theory to the examination of archeological and textual data, which would allow drawing conclusions on patterns of mobility, local governance and social order. Using village communities as unit of analysis, she defines communities as actor networks, bound together by activity, movement and interaction of their members. Referring to case studies derived from her long-term field studies in Jordan, Walker analyzes models of rural mobility and finally draws up three patterns of migration in Mamluk Jordan that on a more abstract level can be linked to social networks in the Mamluk period.

Outlook: Connectivity in Motion The comparative trans-regional and interdisciplinary studies on the Mamluk Empire are controlled by a number of superior focuses and perspectives. As a consequence, the volume wants not only to add mere facts to the knowledge that we have gained up to now of this macro-region, but to be creative concerning its theoretical and methodological goals and perspectives. The intellectual guiding principle can be grasped by using the concept of “connectivity in motion”. For a considerable time now, historians, human geographers and (probably the at the most radical) social anthropologists as well as cultural scientists have challenged the conventional perspective on society and culture. They argue that societies and cultures cannot be dissociated from

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their sort by solid, impermeable boundaries. On the contrary, there are thus many overarching connections between - and movements of - socio-cultural actors and subunits that every implicit or explicit try to comprehend or interpret culture or society as being stable and fixed must fail. Over the past years, historians, sociologists, cultural scientist and social geographers have increasingly conducted research in this direction. Diaspora – and migration research; studies of pre-modern processes of globalization; trans-nationalism and “cultures in motion”; questions concerning cultural “flows” or the “translation” of technologies, values and meanings as well as research on the complexities and dynamics of “networking”; all these are topics that have taken a leading role within the humanities. Future projects should take on the challenge of investigating the mechanisms, connections and movements of a globalized region and of understanding them. They should research the production and transformation of socio-cultural, economic, political and religious connections and networks by focusing on the movements, the transport and the transfer of humans, material objects, ideas, religions, technologies, diseases, pictures and cargoes that alone can make their connections come alive. The Mamluk Empire, extending over a period of two and a half centuries, cannot possibly be examined otherwise. Furthermore and the way we see it, studying the Mamluk Empire is fit for studying trans-local and trans-regional movements of people, things and ideas. Holistic perceptions of distinctly marked and static socio-cultural groups have lately been contested in the light of mobility and change (as well as the theoretical developments in the academic field itself). Be that as it may, there is still a major need for the corroboration and development of the theoretical and methodological descriptions in this context with analytically and regionally clearly defined research areas that essentially lead to comparative trans-regional and trans-disciplinary cooperation and exchanges. In this respect, Mamlukology is especially fit for striking new paths and for establishing an aspiring and innovative field of research.

Global Context

Georg Christ (Manchester)

Beyond the Network – Connectors of Networks: Venetian * Agents in Cairo and Venetian News Management

The merchant who looks beyond the common horizon can have a decisive competitive advantage over his peers who do not. More importantly, by doing so, he knits via his personal network the networks of the meso-level into a global trade network. This connection of networks will be studied through the case of a Venetian merchant who travelled to Cairo in order to provide critical business intelligence for the Venetian community in Alexandria. However, at the same time, he engaged in his own business in violation of several regulations. Nevertheless, he was a key element linking the Venetian state-sponsored trade network to the adjacent Mamluk and the further removed Red Sea networks of the global spice trade.

Introduction In the 14th century, after the collapse of the Mongol Empire that had served as the hinge between the Latin European and Indian trade systems, the West was faced with a connectivity problem. The crucial challenge was to re-connect the trading spheres in order to supply Europe with Oriental commodities, including spices, most prominently pepper. The disintegration of Genghis Khan’s legacy had altered the Central Asian map significantly. Land routes that had previously and quite efficiently connected China and India with Europe were interrupted (Lybyer 1915:579; Ashtor 1983:103 – 107). The resulting rise in transportation costs stimulated the search for an alternative route. One might ask whether this eventually prompted the Portuguese search for a new maritime route to India. However, the gap between the two phenomena is too large to suggest a direct connection. In fact, in the meantime a new empire, the Mamluks in Egypt and Syria, took control of and promoted an alternative, more Southern spice trade * My thanks go to the University of Manchester world history group and especially N. Zacek for precious comments, feedback and corrections.

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route (Ashtor 1983:106). While there is strong evidence for a significant (proto-) industrial and even agricultural decline of Egypt in the later Middle Ages (Ashtor :1992), the highly profitable spice trade does not seem to have suffered significantly from whatever ‘crisis’ of the 14th century or depression of the Renaissance (Ashtor 1983:71 – 73, cf. Lopez/Miskimin 1962 versus Cipolla 1964). The spice trade thus continued to flourish along the maritime route linking China, Southeast Asia and the Indian Malabar coast via the Indian Ocean, the Red Sea/Egypt/Syria with the Mediterranean. Arguably, the Portuguese motives to open an alternative spice route in the 15th century were more likely linked to the fact that this trade system was a sort of monopoly, shared between Aden, Cairo and Venice, charging a monopolistic rent to the final customers.1 It seems that the Mamluks managed to drive the bulk of the spice trade along their Southern route and created – at least for some time – a quasi-monopoly because they established an efficient macro-network of cooperation with political powers of the meso-level along this Southern route. In fact, the Mamluk Empire could only control the spice trade in cooperation, or at least symbiosis, with other (proto-)state-level players and the associated networks within the trade system including, India and Yemen, on the one side, and Venice, on the other side. By integrating representatives of these regions symbolically into the Mamluk realm of imperial power (which is the macro-level of political power : aspiring at and claiming the rule of the world), they managed to extend a very loose and superficial but functional over-lordship along a substantial part of the route. This facilitated the imbrication of the different regional networks or legs of the route on the meso-level by personal networks, intermediaries, go-betweens, brokers or middlemen on the micro-level. The Venetian interventions on the Eastern Mediterranean leg of the spice route, including the state-supported galley system (cf. Lane 1963, Doumerc 1991, Stöckly 1995), the Venetian credit market (Gonzalez de Lara 2008), as well as the Venetian trade ‘fair’ in the Levantine emporia (e. g. Alexandria) and in Venice (Luzzatto 1954, Ashtor 1983, Heyd 1959 vol. 2, Christ, 2012a), have received considerable attention, as has the Red Sea stretch of the spice route, including Aden (Serjeant 1988; Vallet 2010; Meloy 2010). Interventions in the spice trade in the realm of the Mamluk Empire have been examined; albeit with a strong focus on Mamluk attempts to maximise tax revenue, for instance under sultan Barsbay (Darraj 1961, Lab„b 1965, Ashtor 1983, 1974 – 79). Critics emphasize the continuity of policies from the beginning of the 15th century onwards and question 1 “The end of Mongol dominion aggravated the access to East Asian as well as Persian and Turkestan markets for Europe. The quest for alternating routes to the riches of the Orient led to the exploration of the maritime routes around Africa and the Americas.” Introduction to this volume.

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the topos of Barsbay’s ‘rapacity’ (Apellaniz 2009a:80 – 82, 85 – 88; Meloy 2003, 2010:113 – 115). Thus, as far as the interaction of Venetians and Mamluks in Alexandria is concerned, the historiography tends to convey an image of separation of ‘Muslim’ and ‘Christian’ traders in the wake of military clashes and despite of continuing commercial exchange. This image of Alexandria as some sort of ‘predetermined breaking point’ of trade connections between Latin Europe and Islamic Egypt echoes the regulations contained in normative sources. According to those regulations, the passing of merchandise from Mamluk to Venetian merchants in Alexandria was supposed to be effected in a clearly structured and contained way (Thomas/Predelli 1899:passim). These normative sources thus construct clear categories and ruptures, thereby highlighting conflicts (necessitating regulatory activity aimed at reducing points of friction) rather than the messier everyday connectivity. Consequently, Mamluk extortions featured more prominently than the cross-cultural co-operations enabling continuous commercial exchange between Venice and Egypt. These extortions, had they indeed been the prevailing element in Venetian-Mamluk trade relations, could be read as a strong incentive for the Portuguese to avoid this problematic passage oblig¦ by calling directly on India. Horden and Purcell in their seminal study, Corrupting Seas (2000), explores a different approach. They describe the Mediterranean as fragmentation cum unity. The Mediterranean would thus be a landscape of both rupture and connectivity. These authors provide a captivating picture of Mediterranean conditions of ruptured connectivity and connectedness in the longue dur¦e on the local level. However, the connection between the micro/meso and the macro level, i. e. of local actors and the ‘grand commerce’ remains perhaps somewhat underexplored (Horden/Purcell 2000:367; Algazi 2005:230). How these different systems of macro, meso, and micro level were connected and which moments of rupture jeopardized this connectedness remains to be explored further (on the connection of different levels of Venetian navigation, see Christ 2010). Indeed, micro-analysis corroborates this image of ruptured, constantly threatened basic connectedness. It highlights the complexity and messiness of everyday interaction on the ground, e. g.: in Alexandria, and draws a picture of encounter, of cooperation as well as conflict with the lines of conflict cutting often rather across, than along the cultural-religious divides (Christ 2012a, cf. Apellaniz 2009a). The economic historian Avner Greif described the ‘coalition’ of Jewish Maghribi traders as an efficient ethnic network. According to Greif, compliance was ensured by an internal reputation mechanism that reduced or even obliterated the need for outside institutions in case of non-compliance (Greif 1993). Although this hypothesis was seminal for a series of studies, it remains widely controversial. Some opine that the Maghribi traders actually did refer to state-

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like institutions for enforcement (Edwards/Ogilvie 2008, and the refutation by Greif 2008). Indeed, evidence has been presented that things did go wrong and that governmental institutions were involved in conflict management. (Goldberg 2012:155 seq.; Ghosh 1994:304, 314 cf. 178; those compliance problems were occurring at the fringes of the network). Greif can certainly be credited for introducing a very clear and stimulating concept of trade networks to the discussion. Subsequently, the term ‘network’ was used widely in historical studies, but in somewhat ambiguous and therefore misleading ways. The more implicit than explicit understanding of the term seems to oscillate between two types of networks. Firstly, it can be used as an analytical term in the context of social network analysis: data on connections between a set group of persons at a certain place and time are measured against a set of predefined criteria (cf. Currarini forthcoming). Secondly, ‘network’ can structurally describe a specific group of people interacting regularly with varying degrees of institutionalisation, i. e. a structure that is a priori defined as a network such as a merchants’ guild or the merchants joined by shared investments into a galley (cf. Apellaniz 2009b:583). The difference between the two types is in practice often blurred, as the second can be the result of the former (the Venetians in Alexandria growing into an institutionalized entity with taxes, a government (Council of Twelve, consul) etc. Somewhat linked to this lack of formal clarity is another pair of opposites: qualitative vs. quantitative network analysis.2 Quantitative social network analysis performed by social scientists tends to map links between individuals in a highly formalized and thus reductive way, typically handling substantial amounts of data. Historians, by contrast, might prefer a micro-analytical qualitative investigation of a web of discrete connections forming around an individual or a group, thus highlighting the singularity of each connection, which ultimately forbids categorizing and formalizing these relationships. These two positions are almost irreconcilable; while the former approach can be dismissed on the base of the post-structuralist/postmodern argument against complexity reduction, the latter can be criticized for being aporetic, i. e. preventing to new insights.3 In this paper, I shall take stock of some results produced by studies based on social network analysis. My investigation, being a case study, is of the qualitative type and takes a micro-analytical approach. Nevertheless, this analysis should not be read as hackneyed criticism of quantitative studies, but rather as a contribution toward harmonizing the two positions. Microanalysis cannot replace but serve as corrector/error eliminator of and, perhaps, as inspiration for quantitative analyses. Social network analysis 2 For another approach to historical network analysis, see Fouquet/Gilomen 2010, mainly Gilomen’s conclusion. 3 For a critique of structuralism, cf. Derrida1967: 422 seqq.

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has been applied to merchants in Alexandria in order to elucidate questions of connectedness, and especially to determine who mediated commercial interactions with Mamluk/non-Christian merchants controlling the spice supply from the Red Sea. Francisco Apellaniz highlights the ‘subaltern network’ (of Cretans, Cretan Jews and merchants from Southern France) contribution to Alexandrian trade. He identifies not only different Latin merchant groups but also shows how the different ethnic/national networks in Alexandria merged into one transnational merchant milieu. His research is based on data extracted from the deeds of the Venetian notaries who catered to the needs of the whole mercantile community, not only Latin Europeans but also Latin/Romaniote Jews, Greeks and even Arabs.4 Alexandria would thus appear to be a sort of node of nodes; a place where different and officially rather hostile Latin networks (e. g. Venetian and Genoese) were able to positively interact and cooperate (Apellaniz 2009b:594, 598).

Fig. 1: Networks of Latin merchants in Alexandria 1399 – 1401, mapped according to occurrences of cooperation in Venetian notarial deeds (Apellaniz 2009b: 595; courtesy F. Apellaniz)5

4 Apellaniz suggests that post-1440 the Alexandrian merchant networks were becoming even more open for Arab merchants (2009a: 597). 5 Blue=French, yellow=Catalans, pink=Genoese, green=Ancona, light green=Papal state, white=Tuscan, grey=smaller actors/statelets, red=Cypriots and Rhodiots, black=Venetians, incl. Cretans.

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It is puzzling that Venetians are not very well represented in the notarial deeds while we have strong evidence suggesting that Venetians constituted the most numerous Latin European group in Alexandria. Apellaniz explains this phenomenon as follows: Cela s’explique par leur faible interaction avec les autres communaut¦s, ainsi que par le fait qu’ils sont la nation la mieux plac¦e en Êgypte, et celle qui dispose de plus de moyens. Le marchand v¦nitien ne doit pas rechercher le nolis parce qu’il dispose du service de galÀres, et n’est pas oblig¦ de se rendre chez le notaire pour signer des commissions, puis qu’une bonne partie des marchandises voyagent seules sur les convois publics, et sont canalis¦es par des r¦seaux pr¦sents sur place, pr¦alablement d¦signe¦s.

Barcelona also ran public shipping lines, albeit less regularly (Coulon 2004:152 seq.). The Venetians, more importantly, shipped a great deal, if not the bulk, of their merchandise on ships other than the state galleys (Christ 2010, 2011). The ‘predetermined networks channelling the merchandise’, if alluding to the tightly regulated Venetian normative framework in Alexandria, existed certainly in theory (but arguably in similar ways also for other nations). We will see below to which extent such regulations could be enforced (see also Christ 2012a:passim). Additional reasons have to be sought for what seems to be a Venetian reluctance to use their own notaries. I suggest two more reasons: Firstly, Venetians, compared to other Italians, tended to rely on the family rather than formalized company structures for their business ventures (Morche 2013, cf. Christ 2012a).6 Secondly, the more complex Venetian deals often violated regulations and would perhaps for that reason not be concluded recurring to the Venetian notary (cf. Christ 2012a), while this was arguably less of a problem for the non-Venetians.In any case, the paradox of underrepresentation of Venetians in the deeds of the Venetian notaries modifies the assumption that Latin Europeans used notaries as a transpersonal enforcement mechanism and instrument of ensuring trust, while others, such as Levantine Jewish merchants, relied on communitarian (i. e. interpersonal) enforcement mechanisms (Udovitch 1977).7 It also casts some doubt on how representative notarial data can be, especially for the reconstruction of the Venetian network (cf. Apellaniz 2009b:595). Therefore, I argue that a study of the connections between Venetian and Mamluk trade networks must seek complementary sources, such as Venetian private archives. Social network analysis produces colourful maps and thus constructs its very 6 Morche’s 2013 thesis shows convincingly that also Venetians relied heavily on family ties. 7 Furthermore, the important Venetian court for trade matters, the Gudici di Petizion, was not excluding non-notarial evidence from the procedure, thus also relativizing the importance of the notary in business matters to some extent.

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own spatiality. This gives rise to the question on the analytical level of how the ‘real’ maps of interaction would look like. How do personal networks bridge geographical distances and relate to geographies? How did Venetian merchants perceive trade-related problems with reference to spatial information (what were their maps in mind, Downs/Stea 1977) and how did they relate temporalspatial information on spices in the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea to a possible impact on commodity prices and, thus, their potential gains? This chapter proposes to explore these questions by investigating one Venetian merchant’s activity in Cairo in 1419. This merchant, Angelo Michiel, linked several networks – the Karı¯mı¯8 and Meccan trade systems (around the Red Sea sector of the spice route) and the Mamluk trade (around the Egyptian section) with the Venetian trade system (based on the Mediterranean section) – via his own personal network that transcended the Venetian community and therefore connected different networks. In this way, people like Michiel (and there were many of them, as will become clear below; albeit in the shadow of the official and more accessible sources), knitted together the meso-networks on the micro-level of their personal network. Thus these meso-networks could form a sub-global spice trade network on the macro-level (cf. fig. 4). The present case study is based on seven letters of Michiel to the Venetian consul Dolfin and auxiliary documents from the latter’s bequest.9 The documentation is completed by notarial deeds and normative sources. I argue that Venetian merchants in Cairo were a crucial asset to the operation of a functional node to link sub-systems or meso-networks of an ‘archaic’ global trade network on the macro-level. Paradoxically, they established these crucial links in partial violation of Venetian regulations. Indeed, the lawmakers, somewhat short-sightedly, tried to limit spice trade operations to Alexandria and to curb the influence of intermediaries in order to avoid problems naturally occurring in the course of these interactions. They did not see that in the long run this non-contact trade arrangement, if successful, would jeopardize the efficacy of the very same flow of spices they tried to control. Particular attention will be given to the role of strategic information on spice supply, and how this information was operationalized on the level of personal and transpersonal, i. e. official Venetian business.10 A few words on the terminology : I am speaking of networks as units of analysis on three levels; micro, meso and macro, as depicted in fig. 3 and 4. I use the term “network” thus in a rather traditional sense for networks of transport 8 For more information on this group of merchants, see below. 9 Michiel’s letters have been used summarily for studies on the Levant trade (Apellaniz 2009a:76; Christ 2012a:passim). 10 This paper is part of a series of studies on the connection of different levels of Venetian navigation and on Venetian go-betweens in Cairo (Christ 2010, 2011, 2012b).

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Fig. 2: Venetian trade with Egypt (red: wine trade; green: other agricultural goods: cheese, nuts, almonds, oil, honey ; light blue: ‘grand commerce’, i. e.: spices against finished (proto-)industrialized goods and bullion)

and communication; i. e.: the sum of links and nodes that enable the movement of transport for persons, goods and information. Such networks would serve as a means of communication for a relatively closed group of merchants, sailors and bureaucrats connected by shared institutions (including families) and interests (typically expressed in reciprocal transactions), legal system(s) and a lingua franca. Thus, between the Malabar Coast and Venice we can distinguish six to seven such networks: Venetian, Mamluk, Meccan, Karı¯mı¯/Rasulid, of the Indian Ocean including Hormuz, and of the Malabar Coast. The network is distinguished from a monotone point-to-point connection by its flexibility and redundancy : if a node becomes dysfunctional or a link becomes impractical, alternative connections can bridge the gap. The macro-level of grand commerce is the network of the transcontinental spice trade, mainly of pepper, from the Indian Malabar coast to Europe. This route led through the Indian Ocean to Aden and on to the Red Sea (Haarmann/ Zantana 1998, Margariti 2007, Serjeant 1988, Subrahmanyam 1995, Vallet, 2010) and via varying routes to the Egyptian or Greater Syrian Mediterranean coasts. Pepper was exchanged against a number of commodities; the most important in value probably was bullion. Indeed, the balance of payment was perhaps not as

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negative as it has been proposed (Ashtor 1971; cf. Munro 2007). Besides bullion, the Venetians brought proto-industrial products, such as luxury cloth and soap, to the Levant, but also agricultural products such as wine (in considerable amounts), cheese, honey, olive oil, nuts including almonds, i. e.: regional products of the meso-level of commerce. Levels of analysis / regions Macro: (sub-)global/ transregional Meso: Regional and interregional Micro: Local, individual

Mamluk Red Sea Empire, Egypt Pepper, bullion, cloth, slaves Eastern Mediterranean

Indian Ocean

Oil, nuts, honey, wine, Kiswa wood, beans, grain Credit, services, retail trade, information

Fig. 3: Trade goods (auxiliary units of analysis) grouped by level of analysis

Case Study: Angelo Michiel qd. Luca Angelo Michiel quondam11 Luca was a Patrician merchant from Venice. We cannot establish exactly when he came to Alexandria, but he appears as an already well-established merchant, when he first appeared in our sources by 1418. He must have stayed at least until about 1424. After that, he was active in Nicosia, Cyprus, until at least 1432. He was one of the financially strongest Venetian merchants in Alexandria, presiding as one of the two aldermen (consiglieri) over the Council of Twelve governing the Venetian community in Alexandria (Christ 2012a: 70). In the summer of 1419, he was officially tasked to go to Cairo to gather operational business intelligence with regard to the spice trade on behalf of the Venetian community. His trip to Cairo was thus in discharge of his public function within the Venetian community in order to report on the pepper supply situation to the Venetian Consul Biagio Dolfin in Alexandria. Furthermore, he had to call on the na¯zir al-ha¯ss and to complain about ˙ ˘ ˙˙ grievances which had arisen in the context of the spice trade in Alexandria (see below, letters 1 – 7). News on the pepper supply was crucial for the delicate timing of the Venetian spice fair in the autumn, when the Venetian spice galleys moored in Alexandria. It was also indispensable for negotiation of realistic prices in the future trade (forward purchases) and regarding the forced sales of the sultan’s pepper to the Venetian community. The Venetian galleys had strict orders not to exceed a set period of sojourn in Alexandria, and the admiral 11 I.e. son of the late xy – from here on abbreviated qd.

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leading the Venetian convoy was threatened by a heavy penalty for disregarding these orders. These strict regulations were motivated by the need to bring the galleys back home to Venice before the winter storms in the Adriatic made a cumbersome and dangerous return. Moreover, the galleys bound for Flanders had to set sail in January in order to profit from the same strong northerlies for their outbound voyage that would make the inbound journey of the Alexandria galleys too difficult. In order to have enough time for the unloading, auctioning and reloading of spices, the Alexandria galleys had to be back in Venice before Christmas.12 Hence, it was essential that the galleys left Alexandria early enough at the beginning of November. However, if the new spices from the Red Sea did not make it to Alexandria in time, or only in limited quantities, the prices of the remaining spices went up. There was thus ample opportunity and incentive to speculate on expected pepper prices during the spice fair, i. e.: the arrival of the Venetian galleys in October. Merchants negotiated advanced deals buttressed by credit and down-payment. It was possible to make handsome gains, but also to lose considerable amounts of money in this future trade, which was dependent on many factors –such as the monsoon and the pilgrimage seasons, the winds in the Red Sea; political and security issues in Aden, Mecca, among the various Bedouin tribes and in Northern Egypt; flood/navigability of the Nile; quantity and quality of spices etc. Hence it was tantamount to pure gambling. The critical element in this speculative business was information about whether the spices would make it on time to Alexandria for the fair and in what quantity, i. e. at which price. Therefore, Venetian merchants had to look beyond their own direct scope of mercantile action, which did not extend further than Alexandria or, exceptionally, Cairo. They had to look into the next area beyond Egypt: the Red Sea. The Venetian consul Biagio Dolfin was probably not personally involved in this future trade. It seems that he genuinely feared the negative collateral effects on the whole of the Venetian community in case of a speculative bubble, and the ensuing trouble for him as consul. A first negative effect of an inflated pepper price would be higher cost of the pepper imposed on the Venetians by the Mamluk authorities. The community of Venetian merchants in Alexandria had to purchase spices from the Sultan at a pre-negotiated price. If the prices were driven up by speculation, it would have jeopardized the consul’s freedom of action to negotiate a favourable price for the Venetians (Christ 2012a: 229 – 235). Therefore, the consul tried to curb this speculation as much as possible. He passed a decision in the Council of Twelve fixing a maximum price for future pepper purchases. However, in order to fix a realistic price he needed as much 12 See, for a more detailed discussion, Christ 2010, 2012a: 187 – 191.

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information on the spice supply as the speculators and decided with the Council of Twelve to send his own man to Cairo: Angelo Michiel.13 His task was in part very similar to that of other agents despatched to Cairo on the private initiative of Venetian merchants engaged in speculative future trade in Cairo: He had to provide information on the situation of the spice supply in Cairo and the Red Sea region in order to assess when and in what quantities spices would arrive in Alexandria (Christ 2012a: 235). A letter of the Venetian consul in Alexandria to his counterpart in Damascus gives some further insights about the former’s motivation for sending Michiel to Cairo: For many days already I see that many of our merchants here will be deprived [lit.] from news [hearing] about the Karı¯mı¯ and of their arriving; that is of their spices, which are supposed to be in Ainona or to be coming via the river [Nile], because [although] up there [in Cairo] two of our [merchants] had continuously been present but it was hardly possible to get any news from them. Therefore, it was decided to send A. Michiel to Cairo at the expense of the cottimo. He must write until mid-September or until 20th September and [he will give us to] hear about the aforesaid Karim and of any other quantity of spices that are bound to arrive at the time of our galleys [the spice fair].14

Hence, there were already Venetian merchants present in Cairo (as we will discuss below) but they were not in the service of the Venetian consulate (and did indeed not serve its purposes at all). Angelo Michiel, however, was despatched at the expense of the cottimo, a communal fund sustained by a tax on the Venetian spice trade (cf. Christ 2012a: 77 – 81). Nevertheless, as an official envoy he was technically bound to observe the rules fixed by Venetian legislation regulating operations in Cairo. These rules reflected a general desire to curb speculative deals and their negative effects on Venetian trade in Alexandria. With regard to Venetians travelling to Cairo, a decision of the Senate stated: that no Venetian or subject of ours or whoever may be treated as Venetian (…) could buy or let buy spices of any type in Cairo be it for cash or by forward purchase (…). And

13 In fact, the situation was far more complex than that. The consul did not only have Angelo Michiel as the official envoy of the consulate in Cairo, but also the merchant Filippo di Malerbi. The latter, officially, was not commissioned by the consul himself but by his nephew. However, the Malerbi’s letters leave no doubt about the consul being the ultimate commissioner (cf. Christ, 2012b). 14 “Zi— molti zorni vezandy my che de qui questi nostri merchadanty ser— molto nudi de aver sentimento del Chereim et del so zonzer eziandio de spezie che fose in Ainone over fose per venir per la fiumera. Perch¦ la suso de sÀ stado continiamente do di nostri et mal da lor se — potudo aver avixo algun. In pero fo deliberado de mandar a spexe del chotimo ser A. Michiel al Chairo el qual die scriver fino mezo setenbro over fino 20 del soradito […] sentir del dito Cherem et de ogni altra quantitade de spezie fose per zonzer de qui al tenpo de /v/ galie nostre.” Letter of Dolfin, Biagio qd. Lorenzo to a Venetian merchant in Damascus, probably 08. 08. 1419, ASVe, Procuratori di San Marco, Commissarie miste, b. 181, fasc. 15, int. e, f. [17].

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said consul might have the liberty to enquire about the truth of aforesaid doings as it might seem fit to him.15

Venetians in Cairo were not allowed to engage in any transactions regarding spices; be it forward or direct cash purchases. It was thus implicitly assumed that one was only allowed to go there for retail trading and to gather business intelligence. It is remarkable to note the explicit mentioning of forward purchases; i. e. future trading. We might wonder how realistic these regulations were. Would a merchant go to Cairo at considerable expense and risk and then abstain from the most lucrative trade venture available? Even if he would be willing to personally comply with these rules, would his network, that is his business partners, accept his self-restraint? Angelo Michiel set off to Cairo. Arriving around the 9th of August 1419, Michiel probably went to old Cairo (Misr al-qadı¯ma, cf. EI2, VII, 147, c. 1) mainly ˙ inhabited by Copts, in the vicinity of the former Roman Babylon and at the fringes of the former and now ruined Arabic al Fustat in the South of Cairo, the new Muslim city centre, which had been founded by the Fatimids.16 He took his lodgings with other Italian merchants and news agents, Andrea da Como and Filippo the Genoese.17 In some travelogues, reference is made to a Venetian ‘inn’ in Cairo, and in a Karaite source a khat’t’ al-bunduqiy„n [quarter of the Venetians] is mentioned (Richards 1972:122) but unfortunately these sources do not reveal anything more precise about how and where exactly the Venetians lived in Cairo and to which degree this community was institutionalized. The mere reference to a house (casa) does not necessarily corroborate the notion of an institutionalized inn (Fabri 1975). Indeed, in other letters it is suggested that at least one other Venetian merchant active in Cairo, Filippo di Malerbi, lived in a house of his own (letter 2). 15 “Quod nulius Venetus, vel subditus nostris, vel qui pro Veneto tractaretur, debeat, nec possit emere, vel emi facere speties alicuius sortis in loco Caieri ad denarios contatos, ad terminum, (…), et habeat libertatem dictus consul, si videbitur sibi, pro habendo veritatem inquirendi super factis praedictis.” BJ, Krakow, Berol., Ms. Ital. Qu. 8 (Nr inw. 17640), Il console dei Veneziani in Alessandria (XVI w.), from a deliberation of the Senate, 24 May 1407, repeating an older provision of 9 June 1291, f. 11r – 12r; cf. “Oltra di ciý, sia ordinato che nisun Venetian over subdito nostro, o che per Venetian fusse trattado, dieba n¦ possi comprar o far comprar specie di alcuna sorte nel loco dil Caiero a denar contadi n¦ a termine.” Biblioteca del Museo Civico Correr (B.M.C.), Ms. Cicogna, Commissioni, nr. 70, “Commissione ducale a Girolamo Tiepolo, console in Alessandria” 29 July 1498, f. 55 (with thanks to Alessio Sopracasa, who kindly provided me with a transcript of this document). 16 For the topography of Cairo in the Mamluk period, see Loiseau 2010. 17 Cf. for instance “Questo messo, siando Andrea Chazilli, Felipo el zenoexe a chaxa soa insieme, andý a cha’ soa e porta lli le vostre lettere non i lle voiando dar e lor mande per mi.” Letter 1 of Angelo Michiel to Biagio Dolfin, 21. 08. 1419, ASVe, Procuratori di San Marco, Commissarie miste, b. 181, fasc. 15, int. d, f. [16], cf. also letter (3) of 02. 09. 1419, ibid., f. [18].

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Fig. 4: The Nile Delta and Angelo Michiel’s likely route to Cairo

Letters and Red Sea Intelligence According to his commission, Michiel called immediately on the head of the Sultan’s domain/fiscal administration, the na¯zir al-ha¯ss. In his first preserved ˙ ˘ ˙˙ letter, he reported back to the consul that he had discussed a matter of confiscated vairs (furs of the grey squirrel) with the Mamluk official (letter 1).18 He alluded to problems of intercultural communication, referring to the language differential between the na¯zir and himself. While Michiel had no Arabic (mor˙ esco) language skills, the na¯zir did not understand Latin, and the conversation ˙ had thus to be mediated through the above mentioned Andrea da Como. This language difference, according to Michiel, was always a problem, as illustrated by this case. He then turned to the other main issue, spices, only to announce that he would do his best to find out the ‘truth’ about it, i. e. the spice supply from the Red Sea (letter 1). In total seven letters are preserved, of which nr. 6 is an amended copy of nr. 5. Sixteen more letters did not survive but can be reconstructed from the extent letters and messenger receipts.19 In all but the first letters, Michiel reported on the situation of spice supplies. These sparse notes 18 I dealt with the confiscation of squirrel furs and the informal political economy around it elsewhere, Christ, 2012a: 221 seq., for fur trade in general see Delort 1978. 19 Cf. Christ 2012a:300 – 303.

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˘

give rise to the picture of a highly complex, redundant system of spice supply in the Red Sea region and Egypt, consisting of different routes and switches enabling the passage from one route to another. The information in the letters related to four segments of the spice routes affecting the spice supply in Alexandria: 1) Yemen and the Southern Red Sea, 2) the Jeddah/Mecca area, 3) the ports in the Northern Red Sea, mainly Ainona, situated in the vicinity of the straits of Tira¯n, and 4) the Qusair-Nile valley, with a special focus on Qu¯s in ˙ Upper-Egypt. 1) On Rasulid Yemen, which is the only information reaching back to the Indian Ocean, we find only a brief remark in one letter. It simply states that the Karı¯mı¯ had left Aden four months prior. There is no information on the political or economic situation in Aden, which thus seems to be the very outer limit of the Venetian sphere of interest (letter 4).20 2) We find much more information on Jeddah and Mecca. In letter 3 Michiel reported on winds holding back spice transports in Mecca (i. e. Jeddah). In letters 5 and 6 he pointed at some difficulties with the ruler of Mecca, Sharif Hasan. The Karı¯mı¯ were at the large of Jeddah but did not dare to enter the ˙ port because they had no news of the ruler.21 In subsequent letters he reported how the spices were transported by camel back and on smaller ships to their final destination (it remains unclear whether this would be in Syria or Egypt, letters 3 and 7). 3) The two final ports for the spices that continued their voyage by ship on the Red Sea were Ainona ( Aynu¯na, letter 3, 5 – 7) and Tor (letter 7). This shows that, despite the difficulties of navigation in the Upper Red Sea due to adverse winds, shallows, and the ever-present coral reefs (Wiet 1955:83; Braudel 1990: vol. II, 239; cf. map Gulf of Aqaba 1971), seaborne transport in the Northern Red Sea area seems to have prevailed beside caravan-borne transport. This is in line with research proposing that Tor became a destination for spice ships, replacing the ports of the western shore of the Red Sea (Garcin 1974:114; 1978: 311; for a later period: Braudel 1990: vol. II, 239). Ainona seems to be attested as a port of call only by these letters and might have been only a temporary alternative to Tor. It could reflect Mamluk attempts to challenge and contain Sharif Hasan’s hegemony over the Higˇa¯z and ˙ ˙ to extend direct control over the Northern Red Sea region from the Sinai and Aqaba toward the Upper Higˇa¯z. To my knowledge, no archaeological surveys ˙ have been undertaken in Ainona that could provide further information on ˘

˘

20 On this crucial emporium of the spice trade, see Haarmann/Zantana 1998, Margariti 2007, Serjeant 1988, Subrahmanyam 1995:758 seq., Vallet, 2010. 21 Letter 6: “Ttrovano avnchuo xÀ presso el Zidde e li non vuol intrar per non have novit— da quello sig[ni]or.” For the sharif and his policies, cf. Meloy 2010:108 – 110.

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this transit port’s importance over time. These passages emphasize the pivotal role of Jeddah as a hinge linking the Southern and Northern Red Sea. Once the Karı¯mı¯ brought the spices to Jeddah, they were able to continue their voyage in different ways: Letter 7 noted that the spices were reloaded from bigger to smaller ships in Jeddah. On these smaller boats of mori (i. e. ‘Arabs’, not Karı¯mı¯!), it was brought to Ainona or Tor, or by caravan (including the pilgrims’ caravans) to Cairo, Damascus or, illegally by-passing Cairo, directly to Alexandria. In letter 5 and 6, Michiel further specified this, by indicating that the Sultan’s merchant Siech Ali (Sˇayh Alı¯ al-Kila¯nı¯, ac˘ cording to Apellaniz 2009a:71, 76) brought a substantive quantity of pepper to Ainona. It seems that Michiel did not think it possible that the big ships of the cherem (Karı¯mı¯) could continue northwards, i. e. to go farther north than Yanbuc. The letters thus confirm the findings of Vallet’s work on the spice trade in the Red Sea (Vallet 2010; cf. Apellaniz 2009a:77 seq.) in line with Fischel’s (1958:163) hypothesis (cf. Goitein 1958) but somewhat contrasting with older opinions (Wiet 1955; Ashtor 1956): The term cherem/Karı¯mı¯22 seems indeed specifically connected to the seaborne transport of spices in the Southern Red Sea, rather than to Egyptian or other merchants operating in Egypt or the Northern Red Sea.23 4) Then, Michiel reported on the spezie della fiumera, i. e. the spices which had been transported up the Red Sea to the Egyptian ports of al-Qusayr (probably ˙ not of Ayda¯b anymore24), which subsequently would be transported over¯ land to Qu¯s, and from there on the Nile to Cairo. Michiel reported on how ˙ spices had arrived at Qu¯s already, and that the na¯zir al-ha¯ss had sent his ˙ ˙ ˘ ˙˙ customs officer upstream (letter 3)25. This contrasts somewhat with the hypothesis of a decline of Mamluk rule in Upper Egypt, and hence a m¦diterran¦isation of the empire, basing the transit trade in spices on the upper ˘

˘

22 Wansbrough 2000 and Apellaniz 2009a:51 – 57 both propose an ancient Near Eastern/Mesopotamian origin of the term. 23 Therefore, the “deux courants diff¦rents” of spice transports in the Red Sea area mentioned by Apellaniz (2009a:77) would not reflect parallel seaborne (operated by Karı¯mı¯) and landborne (operated by Mamluk merchants) routes, but rather the division of labour between two segments of the Red Sea trade route, with the Karı¯mı¯ taking care of the Southern part until Jeddah and the Mamluk merchants (‘mori’) of the Northern segment. 24 Ayda¯b already lost influence from the second half of the 14th century onward (Garcin ¯ 1974:114 and passim; Peacock/Peacock 2008:46; cf. Garcin 1978:309 – 311), and was, according to one source, even destroyed by sultan Barsbay in 1426 (Peacock/Peacock 2008:45). Another port on the African coast of the Red Sea was Suwakin, situated further south of Ayda¯b (ibid.: 33). Apellaniz (2009a:70 seq., note 78 cites a letter, dated 5 March 1419 (ASVe, ¯ Procuratori di San Marco, Commissarie miste, b. 128a, Commissaria Zane) signalling ships in Ayda¯b and Tor. From the fact that it is mentioned in conjunction with Tor (pretty much as in ¯ Michiel’s letter), one might conjecture that the first toponym should be read as Ainona. 25 “la so [sopra] le spezie si cargave, digo dal Cus”. ˘ ˘

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Red Sea port of Tor (Garcin 1978:310 seq.; 1974:114, passim; 1976). In fact, it seems that the Venetian merchants perceived both spice routes, the one via Qu¯s and the one via the Northern Red Sea area as equally important and that ˙ the Mamluks still detached officials from the central administration to Upper Egypt during this time. A fifth and sixth segments of the spice trade route are not mentioned in the letters. These two inter-related routes are the caravan-borne spice transport from Mecca to Syria in the largest sense, mainly Damascus. More importantly to Alexandria, spices were smuggled from various nodes of the other systems in order to avoid interference by Mamluk tax officials in Qu¯s or Cairo. We find a few ˙ hints of smuggling to Alexandria (Christ, 2012a: 27), and Michiel talked repeatedly about the necessity to keep the Venetians in Damascus informed about the spice supply situation in the Red Sea, as we shall see below.

Fig. 5: The northern Red Sea

Even though the different routes or theatres of operation added an element of redundancy, Michiel seemed to have feared that the spices would not arrive on

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time. The bottle-neck was indeed the entrance to the Red Sea, and, if there was a problem at the Bab al Mandeb or in Aden, the overlap provided by the different land- and seaborne routes in the Red Sea could only do so much to remedy the problem.26 Probably, this is the reason why the spices arrived late in 1419. The letters, read in their temporal order, reflect how this rather unfavourable situation evolved. It became clear rather quickly that only a limited quantity of pepper was bound to Ainona, while the rest was stuck somewhere, first between Aden and Jeddah and then between Jeddah and Yanbu . Additional delays occurred in the Jeddah/Mecca area due to adverse winds, Bedouin interference and uncertainty about the political situation in Mecca (letters 3 and 5). Hence, Michiel’s hope was with the pepper of the river (fiumera, i. e. coming down the Nile) that supposedly had already arrived in Qu¯s. However, also these spices took ˙ longer to arrive, and the quantities coming were insufficient. This explains the rather distressed tone of Michiel’s last letter and his emphatic advice to take counter-measures in order to delay the arrival of the galleys: the convoy commander should stay in Damietta for three days and they 10 – 15 miles off the coast until the pepper had arrived (letter 7). The letters highlight the imbrication of information and news networks and the crucial importance of the intermediaries who were able to link the different networks of the Red Sea, the Mamluk Empire, and Venice. They thus extended the area of news coverage (i. e. the area of interest) beyond the area of direct Venetian mercantile operation. The letters also bear notable traces of how the acquired information was spread, although the information about the spice supply was meant to remain the exclusive knowledge of only a small circle of merchants.

Consular News Management and Intelligence Integration Angelo Michiel, as one of the most senior merchants and councillors of the Venetian community in Alexandria, did not only report news, but also gave advice, and with emphasis: The news should be communicated to the Venetian community in Damascus and to the convoy commander of the Venetian galleys so that the latter could stay off the coast until some spices arrived. The rationale behind this advice is clear ; the Venetian galleys were not allowed to stay longer in Alexandria than the defined thirty days. Waiting off the coast was a possible subterfuge to respect the regulations to the letter, while still putting off the spice fair until the arrival of the spices. The Venetian consul acted accordingly, but 26 There are obviously other and more heavily land-borne routes, through Mesopotamia for instance, which, however, in this time were of only secondary importance, cf. Lybyer 1915: 580 seq.

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whether he did this on Michiel’s behest cannot be established. However, as far as informing the Venetian community in Damascus was concerned, he perhaps did not quite do what Michiel proposed. It is likely, that he wrote to the consul in Damascus, but this cannot be established for sure. However, he did write a long letter to a merchant in Damascus detailing what information on the spice supply that he could muster, including a copy of one of Michiel’s letters.27 Hence, he certainly gave this particular merchant insider information and thus a preferential treatment over the Venetian community in Damascus as a whole. In other cases, Michiel recommended that information was kept secret or withheld. This advice is linked to speculative attacks on the pepper price, due to the Venetian future trading (in letter 2 mentioned explicitly : “The pepper [price], I tell you, is in fury because others, which are under our regiment [i. e. other Venetians], try to buy”).28 If the merchants knew that little pepper would be arriving on time, this would boost the future trade even more. Passages in letters 5 and 6 seem to be in concealed language: “The emperor Bernard is distressing heavily”, and I have no hypothesis to offer who is meant by the emperor Bernard.29 Letter 2 uses character encoding “IGADPB5/05XI/ D8BDHI/PI7H8BI/”, and I am again unable to decipher the code. Moreover, in several letters, Michiel urged the consul to keep news secret: “tegni queste nove sechrete” (letter 7), or even to hold letters back (letter 4). He detailed additional measures he took, for instance the expedition of letters by special despatch (messo proprio), and complained about the practice of merchants, and perhaps also Mamluk officials, to intercept and retain letters, or at least to inspect them, before handing them to the rightful addressees (letters 1 – 4).30 How did the Venetian consul verify this information? How did he ensure redundancy in his personal informational network concerning the spice supply? His above-mentioned letter to a colleague in Damascus sheds some light on this question: Furthermore, I thus advise you that of the na¯zir al-ha¯ss of this land I am informed as ˙ ˘ ˙˙ follows : the same tells [me] about [the spice situation] under many oaths that, for sure, before the arrival of our galleys here [in Alexandria] there will unfailingly be more than 1000 sporte of pepper in the hands of the Moors. Even though one should trust those Moors we would be misled if we [just] went by the day. Nevertheless, I tell you in conclusion that at best it would be half of what he says, as is of the knowledge

27 “El qual ser Anzolo me — fato per do suo letere quelo lo — sentido a chopia de la qual ve mando introcluxa aziý che de tuto sie avixado et chomo son my proprio.” Letter of Biagio Dolfin qd. Lorenzo to Venetian merchant in Damascus, cit. 28 “El piper ve dissy fo in pazia, perch¦ altri che n’À soto el nostro rezimento tenta di conprar.” 29 “L’imperador Bernardo chruzia grievemente .” 30 “Messo proprio”: letter 7; “messo del cottimo” and similar : letter 2, 7, cf. also the receipts for messengers cited in Christ 2012a:300 – 303.

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of A. Michiel, the saying of said Na¯zir ( ? ) and also of certain Saracens. Thus I am ˙ advised in such way ; now you can take the deliberation you deem [appropriate] .31

The consul used his own network of channels of information to verify and assess the validity of the news he received from Michiel. The processed information he diffused as a sort of intelligence bulletin to his colleague in Damascus and business partners in Venice.32

Michiel’s Personal Business Angelo Michiel repeatedly claimed that the sole purpose of his trip to Cairo was to gather intelligence on the behest and behalf of the community of Venetian merchants in Alexandria. Did he really stick to his official task and respect the letter of the Venetian regulations? There is strong evidence that he did not. Our documentation suggests that Michiel made the trip to Cairo worthwhile by engaging in personal business. In one of his letters, he responded angrily to objections raised by the Venetian council in Alexandria, who were apparently unwilling to cover all his expenses in Cairo: To you and the merchants it does not seem that the costs incurred with [i. e. calling on] the Na¯zir al-khass in order to remain here should be borne by the ˙ ˙˙ cottimo [communal fund of the Venetian community in Alexandria]. I am flabbergasted by this kind of [sic] point of view because I came up here [to Cairo] for the cottimo [here: commonwealth, i. e. Venetian community in Alexandria] and not for two velvets and three camlets. And if I had not had affair [i. e. to do] with community no utility would make me stay in Cairo.33 31 “Ultradeziý s‡ ve avixo, che dal Chadi nadro de questa tera sÀ son informadi; el qual n’el dixe con molty zuramenty, che per fermo el non mancher— chavandy al zonzer de le galie nostre de qui el non (?) sia in man di mory in questa terra oltra sporte 1000 de piper. Et bench¦’l sia da dar fede a questy mory semo trato quando se vade a la zornada. Non de men ve concludo che per lo meio parer el sera mitade quelo ch’el dixe se per lo saver del dito ser A. Michiel chomo per lo dir del dito chadi et anchor da zerty sarain chusy son avixado voy de pode far mo quela deliberazion che ve de par.” Letter of Dolfin, Biagio qd. Lorenzo to Venetian merchant in Damascus, cit. 32 Cf. for such bulletins: “De nuove de queste parte sie che per lo prexente in questa tera non d’À spezie da far conto. Piper À sta infugado per do di nostry et — meso a bisanti 150 et segondo my senza algun respeto, bench¦ lor dixe, che sente, chel non zonzer— le spezie al tenpo de le galie. Et io sento el contrario che’l me vien dito che le zonzer— sich¦ la chosa pasa chusy. Ma concludo che meio seria ad aver conprado piper a bx. 200 la sporta al tenpo de le galie per aver meio visto quelo se avese fato, che averge conprado chomo questy do marchadanty nostri a sporte? 25 in 30 a bx. 150.” Letter of Dolfin, Biagio qd. Lorenzo to Dolfin, Lorenzo qd. Antonio, 04. 08. 1419, ASVe, Procuratori di San Marco, Citra, b. 282, fasc. 3, f. [4]. 33 “Avui et i marcadanti non parse che la spexe fexi con Nadrachas per romagnir qui suxo che la varda a cotimo. Io me meraveio di tal parer, perch¦ qui suxo son vegnudo per cottimo e non per 2 veludi et 3 zambeloti. E se n’avesse abudo afar con comunit—, alguna utillit— non me ne

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Michiel thus admitted quite frankly that he did trade in cloth, but represented it as of little consequence, and certainly not substantial enough to make it profitable for him to stay in Cairo (letter 7). However, this was not the only business in which he was engaged. In fact, Angelo Michiel was engaged in a particularly delicate transaction: he transported considerable quantities of Cretan wine to Cairo and sold it via his middlemen, Andrea da Como and Filippo di Malerbi, to the chief-dragoman Sain, who, probably, was acting as a middleman for highranking Mamluk costumers. In a law-suit pushed against him later in Venice, the claimant stated that: I want to prove (…) that (?) from the rest of an account of our company (…) of wines he obtained in Cairo from Mr. Filippo de Malerbi 94 besants and 3 carats of the assets of this company founded in Alexandria; that is half of the debtors of wines.34

This trade was of considerable size, involving credits of 1000 ducats. Interestingly, in his letters to the consuls he distanced himself carefully from the abovementioned merchants acting as his middlemen, and even denigrated their trade activities to the consul (letter 2, 3). Furthermore, as a letter of the above-mentioned Malerbi to his brother in Alexandria indicates, Angelo Michiel was also engaged in the highly speculative business of pepper forward purchases, and increased his chances by using his informational edge regarding the spice supply in the Red Sea.35Analysing Michiel’s activity as a news agent for the Venetian commonwealth of merchants in Alexandria in a wider context, we come to realize that he did not cease to be a merchant, and that he thus still acted on his own behalf as well as for the community. His engaged advocacy of countermeasures appears in a very different light now: it was probably less about preventing future trades per se, but rather to preserve his competitive edge in it. This behaviour is not surprising; several elements, to be explored below, made it very feva romagnir a la Caiere.” Letter 7 of Michiel, Angelo qd. Luca to Dolfin, Biagio qd. Lorenzo, 01. 09. 1419, fundo cit. f. [17]. 34 “Vuoio provar (…) per resto d’un conto delle nostre conpagnie (…) de vini l’ave al Chayro da ser Philippo de Malerbi bx. 94 k. 3 della qual conpagnia de’ aver la mitade de debitori de vini l’— creado in Alexandria.” Law suit Baldassare Rizo vs. Angelo Michiel, 4 April 1424, Venice, ASVe, Giudici di Petizion, reg. 34, f. 37r – 38r ; for this wine trade, cf. Christ 2012a, 172 seqq. 35 “Conferixi con ser Anzolo Michael, che ho scrito a ser Piro Bernardo. Diebia eser con luy e achater de conpagnia. E per non guastar i fati de ser Piro non gli oso scriver al dito ser Anzolo niente. Ma chome ho dito, conferixi con lui mamchandete Piro. E conpro di conpagnia per la mia parte sporte 10 in 15 al modo te ho dito. E fezando sollo prima, non tuor alltro sanser che Momsor zudio. E non conferir con alltri, che non guastaxe i fati tuo. Fa con bom descrezion et avixame discretemente per l’afebeto del seguido. E fa i tuo fati con bona solizetudine e screti, chel non semta persona. Ser Angolo À bona persona, che te meter— in bon chamin. Perch¦ azierchamdote pero, non te partir da ser Anzolo Michiel”, Copy of a letter, Filippo di Malerbi qd. Nicolý to Pietro de Malerbi, before 8 August 1419, ASVe, Procuratori di San Marco, Commissarie miste, b. 181, fasc. 15, int. n, f. [18], published in Christ 2012b, see also there for more information on these speculative operations.

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unlikely that Michiel would cease his mercantile activity : the merchant’s network of mutual obligations, the high risk of a Cairo trip, and the deontology of Latin merchants in Alexandria. The base of a merchant’s activity is his personal network, which is built on trust and honour, i. e. the reputation of the merchant not to default on his obligations. Such obligations arose from continuing mercantile activity over an extended period, and it was thus almost impossible to exit the network temporarily for an official mission because of a conflict of interest. Looking at Michiel’s ventures, and especially his involvement in the wine trade, it becomes clear that his personal network linked him intrinsically to partners in Cairo. This probably influenced Michiel in accepting the official commission to go to Cairo, as well as for continuing his own business in violation of Venetian regulations (cf. Christ 2012a: 101 – 105). Michiel’s network of mutual obligations was also deeply intertwined with the local context, as highlighted by credits granted to local Egyptian merchants.36 This is yet another example of how Venetians offered credits to Egyptian merchants, a practice we have noticed already in the context of the advanced purchases of pepper. The reverse also happened: Mamluk officials would grant credits in the form of some sort of forbearance on taxes due or for imposed purchases of sultan’s/customs’ pepper. This was not a surprising phenomenon, since offering and accepting credit is the lubricant of trade, and was crucial in the marketplace of Alexandria characterised by a particularly acute seasonal fluctuation in money supply.37 Generally, journeys to Cairo were not particularly coveted by most Venetian merchants. In 1418, when the consul himself was ordered to travel to Cairo at the behest of the Serenissima, he tried his very best to avoid this trip. Finally he had to succumb to the growing pressure from merchants in Alexandria and (via the Senate) in Venice. In preparation for his journey, the Venetian council in Alexandria had to coerce two merchants to accompany him (Christ 2012a: 273 – 276). Different reasons made this journey extremely undesirable to the merchants, as the journey in itself was complicated and beset by problems: First, one had to ride to Abu¯ Q„r on roads that were not always safe, and in order to continue their journey to Rosetta; then one could travel by boat on the Canopic branch of the Nile to Boulaq, and from there again on horseback to Cairo (cf. Christ 2012a: 28 seq.). More importantly, Cairo was ridden wit epidemics at the 36 “E die’ dar che el non me fa crededor per Abd-e-ramen bazaryoto che io li desegni per debitor. I qual io le lasi a schuoder el quel xÀ di la raxion di mieli del Cholfo. El qual Abd-eramen fexe una charta morescha e fexese debitor de el dito ser Anzolo per la dita charta. Noto che se dano intravegnise di el dito debitor tocherya qual dito ser Anzolo, non li schuode el difeto À suo, e pero el dano tuto die’ eser suo.”ASVe, Procuratori di San Marco, Commissarie miste, “Commissaria Angelo Michiel”, b. 209 A, int. 2. 37 This was, however, characteristic for every emporium (Weissen 2002).

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time, and this was probably the most potent deterrent of all, as is clearly reflected by the Venetian consul’s letters (Christ 2012a: 276 – 279). Finally, the missions to Cairo typically involved calling on the Mamluk sultan or one of his most distinguished officials, which meant lengthy processes of admission, going from one office-holder to the other while giving and receiving gifts, until finally gaining access to the sultan’s palace, and maybe even to the sultan himself (Brancacci 1881: 169 – 188; cf. Christ 2012a: 149 – 150). A third reason might have been the deontology of the Latin merchants in the Levant. They were all “frontier runners”—some more, some less—but the longer they stayed in Alexandria and the more they were inserted into its multi-cultural milieu, the more they might have distanced themselves mentally from metropolitan rules and crossed the border to become ‘Levantines’ (cf. Schmitt 2005). These rules, as expressed in the deliberations of the Senate, reflected a Venetian societal consensus on what was and what was not acceptable practice. However, this was the consensus of the mercantile elite in Venice and as such was often not endorsed by the second- or third-rank merchants living in Alexandria. Hence, it is not surprising that these rules were not seen as particularly relevant or binding by those merchants; they found themselves somewhat at the margins of the establishment setting the rules. Of course, these merchants were not outlaws with an entirely different set of morals. It is indeed likely that they could widely subscribe to mainstream mercantile ethics, as for instance those proposed in the Venetian treatise on the ideal merchant (Cotrugli 1990, cf. Dotson 1994). While central elements of this code (honour, reputation, loyalty and mutual trust) were probably binding for dealings within the merchant’s in-group, the composition of this in-group varied strongly. The in-group was not necessarily the community of Venetian merchants and perhaps not even the family clan, but rather Levantine peers which were the closest collaborators and friends of the merchant: fellow Latin merchants operating at the same location, for a long time, and under the same conditions at the fringes of their nations (cf. Zug Tucci 1993: 72 – 73). Yet this was a fragile and unstable system which made violating rules and default easier. Many of the merchants active in Cairo later left Egypt and resettled elsewhere: Angelo Michiel in Cyprus, his colleague Chiaro Arcangeli and probably Filippo di Maleribi’s brother Piero in Rhodes.38 Defaulting on obligations towards Venetians meant that Alexandria was becoming a dangerous ground, but it did 38 For Arcangeli, see Brancacci 1881: 164. Filippo di Malerbi died in 1420. One can however, find references to a Filippo as well as a Nicolý Malerbi in Rhodes from 1475. It was customary among Venetians to name the first grandson after the grandfather ; probably this Nicolý was a nephew or son of our Filippo di Malerbi and the Rhodian Filippo perhaps his grandson, Vann 2007: 170; cf. the case of Giorgio Londachi, switching the theatre of operations from Alexandria to Rhodes, Apellaniz 2009b:587.

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not mean that trade with Alexandria had to stop: shifting the centre of activities to Lusignan Cyprus or Hospitaller Rhodes and skilfully exploiting one’s regional micro-/ego network assured the continuity of business. More importantly, it was a logical step to retreat to those even more remote fringes of Venetian trade, for Cyprus or Rhodes were traditionally the alternative emporia if Alexandria for a reason could not be called on.39

Fig. 6: Angelo Michiel’s personal network (qualitative analysis)

As the figure above makes clear, Angelo Michiel’s official mission could account for only a fraction of his activities in Cairo. The wine trade, arguably, was the most important constituent of his activities, followed by speculative future deals in spices. If he had wanted to respect the Venetian regulations, he could only have done so by interrupting his mercantile career completely, and this was not possible (cf. Christ, 2012a: 101 – 105).

Conclusion It should be taken as an uncontroversial assertion by now that the global trade system was not an invention of the early modern period (Abu-Lughod 1989, Bayly 2004, Curtin 1984, Darwin 2008:33 – 39). The difference was that, before 39 Cf. Christ 2005 and 2012a for the Catalan fleet’s unclear destination and trade between Rhodes and Alexandria in 1419.

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1500, supply lines were not vertically integrated. The spice route from India to Europe, for instance, as a global trade system or a network on the macro-level, was broken up in sections controlled by different political actors, with associated, but not congruent, networks on the meso-level that overlapped the section limits in the Indian Ocean, the Red Sea, the Mamluk Empire and the Eastern Mediterranean (cf. fig. 4). This chapter investigated qualitatively how networks of the meso-level overlapped and how they were inter-connected by focusing on a Venetian merchant who looked beyond the borders of his (proto-national) network. For the working of the Venetian section of the spice route, it was essential not only to extend the Venetian network’s range of operations well into the next adjacent section, that is, the Mamluk Empire, but also to look in the next section beyond that, the Red Sea. This meant going to Cairo, which was at the same time at the very fringes of the Venetian sphere of operation and the heart of the adjacent, Mamluk section of the route and its respective trade system/network. This enabled the Venetians to extend their sphere of interest into the next but one section of the spice route: the Red Sea. This intelligence could only be provided if some Venetians ventured into Cairo and sought this information, and they could only realistically do so by also engaging in their own trade and thus violating Venetian regulations. In this way, the macro-network of the great commerce connecting India and Europe was composed of a web of sub-networks on the meso-level. The latter, in return, were composed of personal or egonetworks connecting the different actors on the micro-level. Some of these players were operating only well within ‘their’ sectors and networks, while others operated on its margins. Those actors, such as Angelo Michiel, would venture into the next section of the spice route (the core of the Mamluk Empire) and connect directly to actors of its network (Mamluk merchants). In this way, they linked the different meso-level networks and exploited successfully their marginal position in the network (cf. Granovetter 1973). Furthermore, by extending their range of activity indirectly, in this case through intelligence gathering, into the next but one sector (the Red Sea area), they would create a soft link from one section across the next to a third section, thus adding yet another, crucial layer of connectedness (cf. Darwin 2008: 6; cf. Darwin 2012). Angelo Michiel’s case also illustrates how the three levels of networks were connected by one person as far as the traded commodities were concerned. While Michiel’s official mission and speculative future deals were connected to spices as a macro-level commodity travelling all the way from India to Europe, he invested substantial amounts in the regional wine trade that obviously was much more than just a complementary venture. It also became clear that Angelo Michiel was not a subaltern actor per se. He was not merely an agent for some sedentary merchants or masters in Venice. Of course, he fulfilled this role too, but he also acted as an independent master commanding his own substantial

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Fig. 7: Imbrication of meso-level networks and sector dividers; red=Venetian, green=Mamluk, yellow=Meccan/Karı¯mı¯

business ventures, which is corroborated by the considerable sums he handled during the autumn spice fair of 1419.40 On the level of personal micro-level networks, the case of Angelo Michiel highlights the polycentric structure of these networks. As one would expect, clusters would naturally emerge in Venice, Alexandria, Cairo or Jeddah. However, the agent active at the fringes of the network (geographically and socially) was able to create and shift new centres, making, to some extent, the margin a centre in its own right (cf. Schäbler 2007). Information flows were crucial. Michiel was driving information flows by crossing boundaries. However, he did this at first for himself and then perhaps for a select group of colleagues. Information was a precious commodity, and merchants tried to keep it exclusive. In this way, Michiel could explore the full potential of his insider information, fuelling his own speculative operations in the high-risk future trade. However, one might argue that, in practice, information could not be kept secret for long; bits and pieces always leaked, creating spill-overs for the whole community : negative ones if they caused a 40 See, for instance, a list with payments for the pepper auction, 2 November 1419, ASVe, Procuratori di San Marco, Commissarie miste, b. 181, fasc. 23, int. o, f. 1, cf. Christ, 2012a, passim.

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speculative bubble, positive ones if they prevented this or modestly facilitated the meeting of supply and demand in the marketplace. Angelo Michiel was breaking and brokering, i. e. interpreting rules by exploiting his liberty of action and efficiently combining private business with his official mission. Arguably, this was crucial for the success of the described intelligence operation. For Angelo Michiel, otherwise, could not have been convinced to undertake the trip to Cairo. Michiel’s activity thus connected in a larger sense: 1) Different spheres: the realm of the political (Venetian community in Alexandria) and the commercial; 2) Horizontally and directly, two networks of the meso-level (the margins of the Venetian with the core of the Mamluk network in Cairo); three or even four indirectly (adding the Red Sea area networks: Meccan, Karı¯mı¯); 3) Vertically, networks from micro to macro: Michiel was involved in trade on all levels; macro (spices), meso (wine) and micro (his personal interactions with other merchants). Instead of the belles images of a pre-capitalistic, speculation-free and wellregulated trade, we look at the familiar face of futures trading and venture capitalism. It is difficult to assess whether another modus operandi of trade would have been more efficient than the informal meshing of networks effected by merchants like Angelo Michiel and marked by speculation and high risk. Venetian regulations, if taken seriously, (which to assume, perhaps, is the crux of the traditional reading of norms) would indeed provide an alternative. Buttressed by Mamluk privileges, they constructed a neat system of low-contact trade in Alexandria, leaving little room for misunderstandings, conflict or speculation.41 Yet, as tempting as this would be as an inspiration and blueprint to combat excesses of the financial industry, it rather should be read as a caveat. For it seems that there was not much choice. The Venetian patricians could regulate as much as they wanted (and indeed they did), and their consul in Alexandria with his council certainly followed suit, and with good reasons, to limit speculative operations. However, ultimately they all failed, and trade continued to be handled by people like Angelo Michiel, a specialist in speculation and the transgression of borders and regulations. An alternative to this model of spice trade was developed a century later, with the Portuguese reaching India directly and thus integrating the supply chain vertically around 1500. At least in theory, they exerted a much tighter control of trade and, perhaps, even succeeded in curbing speculative practices. However, this system did not last. Antwerp emerged as a new centre for spice trade in the 1530s, and the Venetian spice trade also recovered in the second half of the 16th 41 Cf. Christ 2012a: 53, 65.

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century, making us mindful of how ephemeral this new regime of spice trade initially was (Tellier 2009:307; Lane 1933, 1940). Connectedness in trade seems to have come at a price, and that price was the not so ‘invisible hand’ greedily clutching even an ephemeral (that is merely expected) gain. This led to speculation, over-heated prices, and, occasionally bubbles which would eventually burst. In this case, merchants, more often than not, succeeded in collectivizing their losses and/or withdrawing from the theatre of operation when it became too risky to stay.42 That was the end of that for the bilked creditor or taxpayer. But this was by no means the end of those merchants. The spice trade continued, and the defaulted merchants reappeared in other emporia, such as Rhodes or Cyprus, along the route of the spice trade system. Yet, perhaps there is a quantum of prospect in such scandal. Unknowingly, dubious merchants such as Angelo Michiel, by employing the very same unscrupulous practices leading to speculative bubbles, depleted communal funds and default, enhanced the redundancy and thus the stability of trade systems by ultimately managing trade more flexibly, and perhaps more efficiently, than a centralized government agency could ever aspire to do. Their re-routing and switching between different connections and routes perhaps created the robust connectedness that was one of the strong points of the old-world spice trade system.

Bibliography Sources Archival sources Archivio di Stato, Venezia (ASVe):

Letters of Michiel, Angelo qd. Luca in Cairo to Dolfin, Biagio qd. Lorenzo, Venetian consul in Alexandria):43 Letter (1) 21. 08. 1419, ASVe, Procuratori di San Marco, Commissarie miste, b. 181, fasc. 15, int. d, f. [16]. Letter (2) 01. 09. 1419, Ibid., f. [17]. Letter (3) 02. 09. 1419, Ibid., f. [18]. Letter (4) 02. 09. 1419, Ibid., f. [14]. Letter (5) 13. 09. 1419, Ibid., f. [59].

42 For the collectivizing of debt see Christ 2012a:81, 149 seq.; cf. Apellaniz 2009a:242. For the switching the area of operation to Rhodes or Cyprus, see above. 43 See Christ 2012a: 300 – 303 for a detailed reconstruction of the correspondence.

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Letter (6) 15. 09. 1419, Ibid., f. [13], amended copy of the former. Letter (7) 26. 09. 1419, Ibid., f. [15].

**

List of pepper payments, Bembo, Lorenzo qd. Leonardo to Pisani, Pietro, 2 November 1419, ASVe, Procuratori di San Marco, Commissarie miste, b. 181, fasc. 23, int. o, f. 1. Letter of Dolfin, Biagio qd. Lorenzo to merchant in Damascus, 08 August1419, ASVe, Procuratori di San Marco, Commissarie miste, b. 181, fasc. 15, int. e, f. [17]. Letter of Malerbi, Filippo di qd. Nicolý an Malerbi, Pietro de qd. Nicolý, c. 08 August 1419, ASVe, Procuratori di San Marco, Commissarie miste, b. 181, fasc. 15, int. n, f. [18]. Letter of Dolfin, Biagio qd. Lorenzo to Dolfin, Lorenzo qd. Antonio, 04 August1419, ASVe, Procuratori di San Marco, Citra, b. 282, fasc. 3, f. [4]. Account Michiel, Angelo, 1420, ASVe, Procuratori di San Marco, Commissarie miste, b. 209 A, Commissaria Angelo Michiel, int. 1. Law suit Michiel, Angelo vs. Rizo, Baldassare, 4 April 1424, ASVe, Giudici di Petizion, Sentenze a giustizia, 34, f. 37r – 38r.

Biblioteca del Museo Civico Correr, Venice:

Commissione ducale a Girolamo Tiepolo, console in Alessandria, 29 July 1498, Ms. classe III (olim Cicogna, Commissioni), nr. 70.

Biblioteka Jagiellon’ska, Krakow:

Il console dei Veneziani in Alessandria (XVI w.), Berol., Ms. Ital. Qu. 8 (Nr inw. 17640).

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Map ˘

Hydrographer of the Navy (1971). 3595 Gulf of Aqaba 1:300000. Taunton: United Kingdom Hydrographic office.

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Balance of Payments Problem. In. S. Cavaciocchi (Ed.), Relazioni economiche tra Europa e mondo islamico, secc. XIII – XVIII, atti della ”trentottesima settimana di studi” 1 – 5 maggio 2006, (pp. 907 – 926). Fondazione Istituto Internazionale di Storia Economica ”F. Datini”, Prato: Serie 2, Atti delle ”settimane di studi” e altri convegni 38. Firenze: Le Monnier. Peacock, D. and A. (2008). The Enigma of ’Aydhab: a Medieval Islamic Port on the Red Sea Coast. International Journal of Nautical Archaeology 37/1, 32 – 48. Richards, D. S. (1972). Arabic Documents from the Karaite Community in Cairo. JESHO 15/1, 105 – 162. Schäbler, B. (2007). Area Studies und die Welt: Weltregionen und neue Globalgeschichte. Wien: Mandelbaum Verlag. Schmitt, O.J. (2005). Levantiner. Lebenswelten und Identitäten einer ethnokonfessionellen Gruppe im osmanischen Reich im “langen 19. Jahrhundert”. München: R. Oldenbourg Verlag. Serjeant, R.B. (1988). Yemeni Merchants and Trade in Yemen, 13th -16th Centuries. In D. Lombard, Aubin, Jean (Eds.), Marchands et hommes d’affaires asiatiques dans l’Oc¦an Indien et la Mer de Chine 13e – 20e siÀcles (pp. 61 – 83) Paris: Êd. de l’Êcole des hautes ¦tudes en sciences sociales. Stöckly, D. (1995). Le systÀme de l’incanto des gal¦es du march¦ — Venise. The Medieval Mediterranean 5. Leiden: E.J. Brill. Subrahmanyam, S. (1995). Of Imarat and Tijarat: Asian Merchants and State Power in the Western Indian Ocean, 1400 to 1750. Comparative Studies in Society and History 37/4, 750 – 780. Tellier, L.N. (2009). Urban World History : An Economic and Geographical Perspective. Montreal: Presses de l’Universit¦ du Quebec. Udovitch, A.L. (1977). Formalism and Informalism in the Social and Economic Institutions of the Medieval Islamic World. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Vallet, Ê. (2010). L’Arabie marchande : ¦tat et commerce sous les sultans Rasulides du Y¦men (626 – 858/1229 – 1454). BibliothÀque historique des pays d’islam 1, Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne. Vann, T.M. (2007). Christian, Muslim and Jewish Mariners in the Port of Rhodes, 1453 – 1480. Medieval Encounters, 13/2, 158 – 173. Wansbrough, J. E. (2000). The Medieval Karim: An Ancient Near Eastern Paradigm? In G. R. Hawting, J.A. Mojaddedi, A. Samely (Eds.). Studies in Islamic and Middle Eastern Texts and Traditions in Memory of Norman Calder, Journal of Semitic Studies Supplement, 12. Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 2000. Weissen, K. (2002). Dove il Papa va, sempre À caro di danari. The Commercial Site Analysis in Italian Merchant Handbooks and Notebooks from the 14th and 15th Centuries. In J.C. Hocquet & H. Witthöft (Eds.), Kaufmannsbücher und Handelspraktiken vom Spätmittelalter bis zum beginnenden 20. Jahrhundert = Merchant’s books and mercantile ’Pratiche’ from the late middle ages to the beginning of the 20th century (pp. 63 – 73) VSWG 163. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Wiet, G. (1955). Les marchands d’¦pices sous les sultans mamlouks. Cahiers d’Histoire Êgytienne, 2. Zug Tucci, H. (1992). Negociare in omnibus partibus per terram et per aquam: il mercante veneziano, in Mercati e mercanti nell’alto medioevo: l’area euroasiatica e l’area med-

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iterranea: 23 – 29 aprile 1992 (pp. 51 – 80). Settimane di studio del Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo 40. Spoleto: Presso la Sede del Centro.

Yehoshua Frenkel (Haifa)

The Mamluks among the Nations: A Medieval Sultanate in its Global Context

Historians take great efforts to generalize and conceptualize the broad phenomena of communication and continuity in order to look at a certain development in a broader perspective other than the development of a specific regime or a single pre-modern state. Their studies revolve around questions of networks and the expansion of ideas and institutions in a wider regional or even global perspective—if we agree to restrict ‘global’ to the continents of Asia, Southern Europe and Africa. Following this line of interpretation, the study of the historical continuity and branching-out of people and dynasties can take different forms. The most common research method is the study of long and slow changes. A second approach, which can elucidate these issues, is through the study of dynasties and their long histories. Both methods enable the historian to emphasize wide territorial expanses, the rich mosaic of people and the modus operandi of networks that encompass links and units. Such type of studies can shed light on two opposite directions of development: on unifying movements and on separatist forces. Certainly, these analyses are efficacious in explaining the collapse of regimes and the emergence of new powers.

Introduction This short contribution takes a different path and starts from the assumption that establishing links with venerated mythological heroes, alleged people and the imagined past, in general, have a legitimating function similar to the physical seizure of a royal throne or to the marrying of a royal princess. My “thÀse de travail” derives from the hypothesis, admittedly a speculative one, that sultans and courtiers desired to draw a picture of continuum and proximity. They envisioned such a picture as an influential instrument in order to establish images of identity and persistence, which would serve as a tool in their efforts to bolster the regime’s legitimacy. Historical accounts support the theory that the Sultanate was not an isolated entity but rather a link in a chain of political,

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religious and economic units worldwide. It is undisputed that cultural, ethnic and other ties and interests bound the Mamluk Sultanate to Muslim, Christian and polytheistic forces. Even a quick look at the sources supports this deduction. In the following, I would like to elaborate my views regarding the Mamluk elite’s efforts to establish (diachronic) connections with the past and to integrate the sultanate into contemporary (synchronic) elements. To achieve this goal, I will concentrate on artefacts and legends that the Mamluks utilized to foster ties with an imagined past and fabricated past entities. I will divide my analysis into four sub-sections, concentrating on an analysis of people, languages, mythical heroes and topography. I hope to demonstrate that Mamluk authors painted a wide spectrum of connections and links with friends and foes.

1.

The tree of Mankind

˘

Again and again, we will see that two themes – one of the biblical tree of mankind and the other of legendary literary heroes of Arab origin served as the major tool in affiliating remote people into the world of the Mamluks. This measure is in line with the traditional Islamic creation myth, which to a considerable degree resembles the biblical book of Genesis. By identifying these meta-historic figures among diverse people, Mamluk authors invented common mythological ancestors. This identification had the function of connecting remote people with the Arab ethnos and its use is evident in several chronicles and biographies. These themes served as a tool to establish fictitious blood ties between the diverse peoples that Mamluks came across or learned about and in creating the connections between these peoples. Al- Aynı¯, for instance, opens his panegyric work as-Sayf al-Muhannad, by presenting the genealogy of the book’s protagonist.1 Mankind, he states, is the offspring of Adam. Most of his progeny died in the Deluge and only Noah and his companions – eighty strong men – survived. Noah had three sons: Shem (Sa¯m), Ha¯m and Japheth (Ya¯ft). Gomer was one of ¯ ˙ the sons of Japheth, he is the father of the Turks. At the beginning there were twenty Turkish tribes, among them the Ughuz. Affiliated to the Turkish genitus (g˘ ins) are also the four Circassian tribes. The Circassians that were brought (musta’gˇaru¯n) in the territory that once was Byzantium (dawlat hirqal) and brought to Egypt are not Arabs.2 They are only related (muntasib ila¯) to the Banu G˙assa¯n, although blessed with good Arab qualities (hisa¯l). The Circassians are – ˘˙ according to this line of interpretation – perceived as descendants of the Arab ˘

1 Al- Aynı¯, as-Sayf al-muhannad. 2 As we shall see, this point was contested with some arguing that the Circassians are Arabs.

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˘

Ghassanids.3 This interpretation is suggested by Qa¯nsu¯h al-G˙awrı¯. This Sultan ˙ tells us that one of the Circassians’ ancestors was a Sa¯rkis, who fled from Mecca after being accused of killing a poor man. Sa¯rkis found refuge with Heraclius and converted to Christianity. The Byzantine emperor settled him in the Crimean ˇ a¯rkis (Circassians) are said to be the offspring of this Peninsula (dasˇt). The G Sa¯rkis. This legend would take its full turn in Ottoman Egypt, in a small booklet entitled Qahr al-wugˇu¯h al- a¯bisa bi-dikr nasab umara¯’ al-gˇara¯kisa wa-ttisa¯lih bi¯ ˙ quraysˇ (A cogent demonstration of the lineage of the amirs of the Circassians and its connection with Quraysˇ),4 where the Turks are said to be descendants of the Quraysˇ tribe. Such changes in the explanation of the Circassians’ history and origin reflect – at least partially – the merging of the various ethnic groups who lead the Sultanate into a common ruling stratum. These invented elements sought to make them identify themselves with stories based on blood relations with the indigenous Arab population. Another kind of example to the mixture of real and imaginative ties between the Sultanate and people far beyond the borders are several accounts by Mamluk authors who wrote about sub-Saharan lands.5 In the chapter on the African lands south of Egypt (bila¯d as-su¯da¯n), Abu¯ l- Abba¯s Ahmad b. Alı¯ al-Qalqasˇandı¯ (756 – 821/1355 – 1418) provides a detailed ˙ list of kingdoms and people.6 He offers additional information on this area in his collection of diplomatic letters (insˇa¯’). Al-Qalqasˇandı¯ mentions diplomatic contacts with Black Africa: 1) the ruler of Takru¯r (Senegal; al-Malik al-Mansu¯r ˙ Qalawu¯n); 2) the king of Ka¯nim (Kanem; Mali).7 and 3) the ruler of Bornu (Chad), who wrote to az-Za¯hir Barqu¯q (in 1391: in it he claimed that he is a ˙ ˙ descendant of Sayf b. D¯ı Yazan),8 a popular Arab adventurer whose ‘geste’ ¯ connected the African periphery with the Mamluk centers.9 Another example to Mamluk concern with this part of the world can be traced in several works of al-Maqrı¯zı¯ (766 – 845/1364 – 1441).10 His report on Ethiopia illustrates the in˘

˘

˘

3 On the pre-Islamic history of this tribal confederation s ee Ball, Rome, 101 – 05. 4 Sˇiha¯b ad-Dı¯n Ahmad as-Safadı¯ (d. 980 /1572) (Bulaq, 1316/1898). Holt, “Exalted Lineage,” ˙ ˙ ˙ 221 – 230. 5 Levtzion, “Kings of Mali” (analyzes of Ibn Haldu¯n’s information); Oliver, The Cambridge ˘ History of Africa, 3: 89, 95. 6 Al-Qalqasˇandı¯, Subh al-a ˇsa¯, 5: 273 – 337, 8: 5 – 12. ˙ (vol. ˙ 13: 290 – 91) the coronation oath of the Nubian kings. Holt, “Coro7 He also provides nation Oaths,” 5 – 9; Oliver, The Cambridge History of Africa, 3: 290 – 91. 8 Al-Qalqasˇandı¯, Subh al-a ˇsa¯, 5: 279 (ll. 12 – 18), 8: 8, 116 – 18; Oliver, The Cambridge History of Africa, 3: 80.˙ ˙ 9 Chelhod, “La geste,” 182, 184, 190. On a possible Mamluk version of the romance see Norris, “Sayf B. D¯ıyazan,” 128, 130; Chraibi, “Le roman de Sayf Ibn d„ Yazan,” 114; Garcin, “Sı¯ra/s,” ¯ ¯ 226. ˇ awzı¯, Tanwı¯r al-g˙abasˇ fı¯ fadl as10 Cf. as-Suyu¯t¯ı, Raf ˇsa’n al-habasˇa, 59 (he quotes Ibn al-G ˙ abu¯ l-habasˇ). ˙ ˙ abasˇ), 61 (ha¯m su¯da¯n wa-l-h ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘

˘

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˘

terest demonstrated by Cairo in political developments in regions beyond the Sultanate’s reach.11 Another piece of work by this well-known polymath is entitled al-Habar an agˇna¯s as-su¯da¯n.12 In it he also identifies the king of Ka¯nim as a ˘ descendant of Sayf b. D¯ı Yazan. We can envision the themes mentioned here as ¯ nodes in an imagined history of mankind.

Turkic Past: “The Epic of Dede Korkut”

˘

An additional source for historians to demolish the provincial compartmentalization of Mamluk history, is the study of the use of books and stories about popular heroes and mythological ‘events’ that Mamluk contemporaries manipulated in order to strengthen their ties with the past. The historical works by Abu¯ Bakr b. Abd Alla¯h b. Aybak Ibn ad-Dawa¯da¯rı¯ (c. 686 – 735/1288 – 1336) exposes the composer’s enthusiasm for ‘the strange and wonderful’ narratives. His minor – the Durar at-tı¯gˇa¯n – and his major chronicle – the Kanz ad-durar – which narrate the history of Egypt, are broken up into records of mirabilia and into excurses of Turkish legends and folklore. One of the Turkish stories that Ibn ad-Dawa¯da¯rı¯ outlines seems to be extracted from an early version of the Turkish epic “The Book of Dede Korkut.”13 In presenting this epic, Ibn ad-Dawa¯da¯rı¯ crafts a historical ‘event’ and narrates a fascinating story about his accidental stumbling upon a book that the Turks highly revere. In Turkish, the book is named “ulu ay atam bitki,” which is translated [into Arabic] “the book of the superb father” (the Turkish literally means “our supreme moon-father has given”). This occurred during a gathering in Bilbays in AH 710/1310 – 1311 with a secretary named Amı¯n ad-Dı¯n alˇ ama¯l ad-Dı¯n as-Samlu¯t¯ı Hamawı¯ and dignitaries and literati including the sˇayh G ˙ ˙ ˘ the physician, Sˇams ad-Dı¯n [Muhammad] Ibn Da¯niya¯l, the oculist and writer of ˙ ˇ ama¯l ad-Dı¯n al-Bala¯lı¯qı¯ (a satirist and shadow plays (tayf al-haya¯l), and G ˙ ˘ popular poet known as Ibn Zaytu¯n), who composed fine bala¯liq (popular poetry). From his account, we learn about the social life within a literary salon circle that met regularly and discussed various issues. The collective reading in a highly regarded book was considered a highlight by all attendees. Yet, his story has additional merits: the author connects the pre-Islamic remote eastern Asian past of the Turks with the contemporary discourse of the Mamluk-Islamic elite in the Nile Delta.

11 Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, al-Ima¯m. 12 Lange, “Un texte de Maqrı¯zı¯.” 13 Haarmann, “Turkish legends,” 97 – 107.

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˘

“On that particular day we discussed and agreed upon the art of history and talked about the coming of the Tatars (Mongols). The abovementioned Amı¯n ad-Dı¯n noted that he owns a book that no one else possesses; there is no match to it in the Abode of Islam. This book had been the property of Badr ad-Dı¯n Baysarı¯, who considered it to be his most exceptional and priceless possession. Whenever he brought the book out he demonstrated his deep affection for it, carrying it on his head and displaying his admiration as if it was the Holy Quran, the Book of Allah. So we asked Amı¯n ad-Dı¯n to show us the book and we would examine it. He departed and returned with the book. We inspected it and noticed that it was a valuable book of utmost price. The script was fine, resembling the handwriting of [ Alı¯ b. Hila¯l] Ibn al-Bawwa¯b’s students.14 Its paper was manufactured in Baghdad (waraq bag˙da¯dı¯).15 The outside of the book’s cover was red Atlas satin,16 on its inside was yellow [golden silk]. The padlock on it was made from gold. [I never saw anything like it.] These demonstrated that great care was paid to guard the book. We assembled around Amı¯n ad-Dı¯n and he read to us from the book. [Only Ibn Da¯niya¯l was missing.] We figured out that it is a history of the ancient Turks and their origins, according to their creed that contradict the unstained holy Islamic beliefs. Since I discovered in it wonderful and incredible mirabilia, I found it suitable to transcribe from it the section dealing with the myth of origin of the Tatars (Mongols) and Turks and their antecedents. Because the amazing stories are not in line with the tenets of Islam, the legends, which are not true and reliable tales, aim to amuse. These speculations were presented by philosophizing sages who intended to capture the minds of kings in whose service they worked.”

˘

˘

This extensive introduction is followed by a long creation narrative, said to be transmitted from Amı¯n ad-Dı¯n’s book. This book was translated from Persian ˇ ibrı¯l (Gabriel) b. Bahtisˇu¯ (Bokhtisho ) in 211 (826 – 827).17 Ibn into Arabic by G ˘ ad-Dawada¯rı¯, our source, claims that he followed the working method of Ibn Bahtisˇu¯ , and left original Turkish expressions intact in his translation and did ˘ not translate them. The story tells about the conception of the Man and the Woman, the father and mother of mankind. Concluding his transmission by a sharp statement he says: ˘

“I say : We Muslims pray to find shelter with God and to abstain from agreeing with the Turks’ cosmogony or the Persians’ faith. We proclaim that Allah created Adam from dust; He created man by His exclusive and incomparable power. The Prophet Muhammad transmitted this narrative. He is the Truth and all his sayings are true. Allah created everything ex nihilo. The false claims of the Turks and Persians that are narrated by the composer of the mentioned Turkish book are indeed extremely ridiculous. Neither a sound mind nor the Islamic faith will accept them as valid tales.”18

Roxburgh, “Transmission and Reconstruction.” Haarmann, “Altun Han,” 6 – 7. Stillman, Stillman, Arab Dress, 52, 135, 167. S.v. Sourdel, “Djibrı¯l b. Bakhtishu¯ .” Ibn ad-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz ad-durar, 7:217; ibid, Durar at-tigˇa¯n, 56 ff. (Arabic). ˘

14 15 16 17 18

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These lines reveal the interest of the author and his audience in non-Islamic narratives and their awareness of the cultural inheritance of other people and civilizations.

Tamgha

˘

The second example of the role of books in cementing the interpretation of the past and binding it to the present, is extracted from the writings of Badr ad-Dı¯n Mahmu¯d b. Ahmad al- Aynı¯ (726 – 855/1360 – 1451). This author was a Turk who ˙ ˙ succeeded in attracting the friendship and favor of Mamluk sultans. In his treatises, al- Aynı¯’s ethno-historical consciousness is clearly visible. Borrowing from Kasˇgarı¯, he provides a range of justifications for the Mamluk Sultans’ rule. The chapters on the early history of the Turkish people and their tribal organization are central elements in an account that aims at providing manumitted slaves with a glorious, albeit remote past. He says: ˘

˘

“All human beings are the progeny of Adam.19 Yet almost all his descendants vanished in the deluge, except those who boarded Noah’s ark who were rescued.20 According to the general opinion of scholars and exegeses they numbered eighty souls. Noah’s ark rested upon the Ju¯dı¯ Mountain.21 The passengers disembarked at the place of landing (apobaterion) and built a village there. This location is named the village of eighty and is situated in Upper Mesopotamia.22 After the Deluge, Noah lived for 350 years. He died at the age of 1780. All the passengers of the Ark passed away, except Noah and his three sons: Shem, Ham and Japheth and their wives.23 (…) Japheth was allotted the South and the eastern lands. All the experts in genealogy agree that all the nations issued from these three sons and spread throughout the earth. They also concur that Japheth was the eldest of the three, Ham was the youngest son and Shem the middle son.24 Japheth, had seven sons, according to the Bible (at-tawra¯h i. e. Torah).25 The eldest son of Japheth was Gomer, who fathered three: Riphath, who is the ancestor of the Franks. They inhabited a vast territory that encompasses 150 central towns and additional provinces. The second son is Ashkiyan (read Ashkenaz) who resembles the slaves (or Slavs; as-Saqa¯liba). The third son is Togarmah (tu¯g˙arma¯) who is the origin of the ˙˙ Turks. Another son of Japheth was Ma¯g˙u¯ (read Ma¯g˙u¯g˙ i. e. Magog), who is the origin of ˇ agˇugˇ and Magˇu¯gˇ) who are the Mongols. Tubal fathered the people of Gog and Magog (G ˘

Cf. Ibn Haldu¯n, al- Ibar, 2: 5 – 9. Q: 11.25˘– 50. Reynolds, “Reflection,” 683 – 688. Al- Aynı¯, as-Sayf al-muhannad, 14-(ll. 8 – 12); idem, ar-Rawd az-za¯hir, 3 (ll. 8 – 11). ˙ Ibn al-At¯ır, al-Ka¯mil, 1:78 (ll, This was the prevailing vision of the history of mankind. See ¯ 4 – 5), 80 (l.9)-81 (l. 1). 24 Al- Aynı¯, as-Sayf al-muhannad, 14 (l. 12)-15 (l. 10); idem, ar-Rawd az-zza¯hir, 3 (ll. 12 – 18). ˙ 25 Genesis Ch. 10: 2 and the book of 1 Chronicles Ch. 1: 5 “The sons˙ of˙ Japheth; Gomer, and Magog, and Madai, and Javan, and Tubal, and Meshech, and Tiras.” ˘

19 20 21 22 23

˘

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China. The correct opinion is that the Turks are the progeny of Gomer. Some say Turk was the son of Japheth.”26

˘

This section is followed by an account of the Turkic tribes insignias ( ala¯ma i. e. tamgha).27 He relates this organization to Alexander the Great (Du¯ l-Qarnayn i. e. ¯ the man with the two horns),28 who is said to advance towards the country of the Turks.29 “At that time the king of the Turks was a man named Sˇu (read: Sˇu¯l or Su¯l) who commanded an enormous army. Yet, under the darkness of the night Du¯ l-Qarnayn ¯ succeeded in surprising this huge camp that fled in great confusion to all directions. These twenty-two men were slow in reacting. Unable to flee, they remained in the encampment. Alexander recognized that they were intelligent men and said in Persian ‘they are Turk Manan,’ which means those people resemble the Turks.30 So the name Turkoman stuck to these people and they are known by it from that day till now. Nonetheless, to make the pronunciation smoother they omitted an ‘n’ from the ‘Manan.’”31

Both these and other examples illuminate the importance of the book in preserving collective identities and communal memories, as well as its function as instrument in a historical chain that transmitted information from generation to generation and from place to place. The book was transformed from a static artefact into a connecting link and joined remote peoples and cultures.

2.

Turkic in Mamluk Courts

In their studies about the Mamluk army, Sauvaget and Aylon explain the structure of the amirs names and titles.32 They both shed light on the common use of Turkish names.33 In line with the tradition established in the Zangid period they combined Islamic appellation with Turkish names. These names served as a tool in creating connection between the Eurasian memory and the Mamluk self-image. To make our point it should be sufficient to present here a handful illustration to the numerous examples that are provided by them. Explaining the name of the emir Su¯du¯n al-Muhammadı¯ al-Mu’ayyadı¯ (d. 853/1449), ˙ ˘

26 Al- Aynı¯, as-Sayf al-muhannad, 19; idem, ar-Rawd az-za¯hir, 4 (ll.11 – 12). ˙ ˙ ˙ Compendium of the Turkic dialects, 27 Cf. al-Ka¯sˇg˙arı¯, k. Dı¯wa¯n lug˙a¯t at-turk, 40 – 41 [Dankoff, 1:101 – 102.] The names in brackets are Ka¯ˇsg˙arı¯’s reading. 28 Doufikae-Aerts, Alexander Magnus Arabicus, 135 – 136. ˇ a far, al-Hara¯gˇ, 199. 29 Ibn G ˘ 30 Another explanation is offered by Kafesog˘lu, “A Propos,” 146 – 150. 31 Al- Aynı¯, as-Sayf al-muhannad, 20 – 21. 32 Sauvaget, “Noms et surnoms;” Ayalon, “Names.” 33 Ayalon, “Names,” 193 – 94, 197 – 98, 200. ˘

˘

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Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ says: “he was known by the Turkish name Etmekji, which means habba¯z (baker) in Arabic. Etmek in Turkish means bread (hubz; ekmek in ˘ ˘ modern Turkish; etmek denotes ‘to make’ – YF).”34 It is well-established that literary production in Turkic languages, although scanty, was not uncommon for Cairene palaces in the period researched by us.35 Army officers commissioned authors to translate texts from Arabic into Kipchak Turkish.36 In a concise study of Mamluk literature Robert Irwin summarizes: “The literary culture of the Mamluk period was Turkish as well as Arabic, though the production of literary works in Turkish mostly seems to have been a late development that reached its peak in the Circassian period.”37 A non-indigenous language combined the rulers of Egypt and Syria with Muslim people in other West-Asian territories and with the pre-Islamic past of their ancestors. The knowledge of Persian and Turkish, in addition to Arabic, contributed to the creation of a sense of closeness among the competing Muslim forces in Western Asia. The process of this expansion is visible in an ego-document by Sayf-i Saræa¯y (d. 1396):38 ˘

˘

“I read rare distiches and marvelous poems (äbya¯t-i g˙arı¯b vä äˇs a¯r-i ag˘¯ıb okudum) when the chief of the savants ( a¯limlär) asked me…would you translate the Gülista¯n of sˇayh Sa dı¯ into Turkish (türk-i tärg˘ümä kılsan) …I put my trust in God (tangari-ya ˘ täväkkül kılıp), girded up the loins of industry with the hands of zeal and set about to carry out my task.”39 ˘

˘

The linguistic makeup of the lines quoted above illustrates the language at the court, which was a mixture of Arabic, Kipchak-Turkish and some Persian.40 Another example to the paramount visibility of Turkic poetry in the Mamluk court is noticeable in an obituary written for the sultan Qa¯nsu¯h al-G˙awrı¯: ˙ ˘

“Söylemek kim og˘lu öldü hazrat-i sulta¯n-i Misr ˙ ˙ Bir mu’min ölmedi fi kull-i ard al- a¯mira ˙ Malik ag˘ldı kull-i dunya bil- ada¯la atsı Giti og˘lu ta ki tutsun mulk-i da¯r al-ahira ˘ ¯ kıl menden sordi ta’rı¯h-i vafatın söyledim A ˘ Yetis¸ir ta’rı¯hu a la al-qusu¯r al-fahira” ˙ ˘ ˘ ˘

˘

34 Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, an-Nugˇu¯m az-za¯hira, (ed. Popper), 7:338 (note f); (ed. Sˇams ad-Dı¯n), 15:267; (ed. Taraha¯n), 15:544; Sauvaget, “Noms et surnoms,” 35 (no. 1). ˙ ˘ 35 Bodrogligeti, “Notes;” Eckmann, “The Mamluk-Kipchak Literature;” Flemming, “Literary Activity.” 36 Eckmann, “The Mamluk-Kipchak Literature,” 304 – 18. 37 Irwin, “Mamluk Literature,” 3. 38 Cf. Bodrogligeti, “A Collection of Poems,” 247 – 50; D’Hulster, “Some Notes.” 39 Bodrogligeti, “Notes,” 276. 40 The “Rose Garden” collection of poems and prose was published by Bodrogligeti, Turkic Translation; idem, “A Collection of Poems,” 252.

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“Do not say that the son of His Majesty, the Sultan of Egypt, died. No believer died in the whole of the cultivated world. (While) his father became the master of the whole world through justice, his son departed, in order to hold power over the house of the Hereafter. Reason asked me to tell the date (ta’rı¯h) of his death. ˘ His ta’rı¯h (chronogram) reaches ‘the highest of splendid palaces’. [= 910/1505]41” ˘

The fables of Na¯sir ad-Dı¯n Hu¯gˇa (Nasreddin Hoca) are an additional proof. One ˙ ˘ example is the following anecdote: ˘

“Our master, [sic] the Sultan said: Ibn Utma¯n ordered Na¯sir ad-Dı¯n to roast a goose. He ¯ ˙ did so, but cut off a leg and ate it. The Sultan asked Na¯sir ad-Dı¯n about the leg and he ˙ informed him that the goose has only a single leg. The Sultan kept quiet and did not respond. One day the Sultan rode in the company of the ˇsayh Na¯sir ad-Dı¯n. Accidently ˘ ˙ they stumbled upon a pack of geese that stood on one leg only. Na¯sir ad-Dı¯n said to the ˙ Sultan: Look at them, each goose is standing on one leg. In response to this the Sultan tapped his hunting drum and the geese stood on both legs. He accused Na¯sir ad-Dı¯n: ˙ You ate the leg and lied. Na¯sir ad-Dı¯n answered: Sir, why did you not drum so that the ˙ 42 roasted goose stretched out his crooked leg?”

While Qa¯nsu¯h al-G˙awrı¯ recovered from an illness, two courtiers wrote a poem in ˙ Turkish to express their delight: 1) He is well, our pleasant sultan The sultan’s health is continuously fine. For his cause we sacrifice our souls The sultan’s health is continuously fine. 7) You are the ruler (ha¯n) of Egypt the Noble ˘ You are the paragon (burha¯n) of the lovers (Sufis) he sultan’s health is continuously fine.43

The multi-ethnicity within the Qa¯nsu¯h’s court is also visible in a couple of verses ˙ presented by Ibn Iya¯s: ˘

“Our prime amir is known as al- Agˇamı¯. His excellence among the people is unlimited / we say now: Egypt is governed by plain Arabs and non-Arabs ( agˇam).”44 ˘

The information presented here, demonstrates the conclusion reached by many scholars that the Mamluk court was multi-lingual and multi-ethnic.45 The sultan Qa¯nsu¯h al-G˙awrı¯ is said to have had a predilection for religious personalities ˙ from the east. Poets extolled him in Turkish. The language in these texts ex˘

41 Azza- m, Magˇa¯lis as-sulta¯n al-g˙u¯rı¯, 74; Flemming, “Nachtgesprächen,” 26; based upon a ˙ translation by Dr. K. D’Hustler, Ghent. 42 Azza- m, Magˇa¯lis as-sulta¯n al-g˙u¯rı¯, 113 – 114. ˙ ächen,” 27 – 28. 43 Flemming, “Nachtgespr 44 Ibn Iya¯s al-Hanafı¯, Bada¯’i az-zuhu¯r, 4: 220 (12 – 13). 45 On Turkish ˙literature in Mamlukdom see Irwin, “Mamluk Literature,” 3 – 6. ˘

˘

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emplifies the common use of diglossia: Turkish and Arabic words are used both used equally. These literary products and other stories and accounts convey a cross-border identity, a literary discourse that joined Arabs, Persians and Turkic people. This notion of a common Islamic piety46 of an “Islamic humour,” bound various peoples to a universal religious community : that of the ummah muhammadiyyah. ˙ 3.

Mythological Persona: Iskandar and Baybars

˘

Storytelling was popular art in Mamluk society.47 The sources provide names of several popular romances that circulated in Mamluk Egypt and Syria. In his account of Umayyad history, the Damascene historian Ibn Kat¯ır summarizes the ¯ story of al-Batta¯l, using Ibn Asa¯kir’s Ta’rı¯h as his major source. He points out: ˙˙ ˘ ˘

˘

“Regarding the popular stories that the common people tell about al-Batta¯l, using the ˙˙ pseudo-biography of Dalhama, al-Batta¯l, the amir Abd al-Wahha¯b and the judge Uqba; ˙˙ it is all lies and imaginative innovations (…) these stories will circulate only among the uneducated who also accept as true the forged folk romance of Antara al- Abası¯, the ˙ biography [of the Prophet] composed by [Abu¯ l-Hasan] al-Bakrı¯, the story of [Ahmad] ˙ ˙ ad-Danaf and other stories. The paramount lies told in the biography of the Prophet 48 that al-Bakrı¯ composed are severe sins and should be harshly punished.” ˘

Since a thorough examination of the popular romances will exceed the limits of this study, I will refrain from a detailed analysis of these stories and other texts such as the sı¯ra of the sultan Baybars,49 and concentrate briefly on Alexander/ Iskandar (Du¯ l-Qarnayn b. al-Filı¯fu¯s). The romance bearing his name was known ¯ to the learned stratum of the Mamluk Sultanate. At least one adaptation of Sı¯rat Iskandar was copied during the Mamluk period.50 The possibility of a close connection between its transmitters with storytellers of other Violksromane is attested by Ibra¯hı¯m b. Mufarrigˇ as-Su¯rı¯,51 who quotes Abu¯ l-Hasan al-Bakrı¯ as ˙ ˙ ˙ one of the sources of his narration of the history of Alexander, who was highly adored by the Muslim audiences. The Mamluk saw this pre-Islamic HellenisticPersian king as the archetype of the righteous king who regularly consults his 46 Eckmann, “The Mamluk-Kipchak Literature,” 309 – 10 (a poem by the sultan al-Asˇraf Qaytbay : I was a därvı¯sˇ). 47 Shoshan, “Popular Literature;” for earlier period see his, “High culture,” 83 – 84; cf. Berkey, “Popular Culture,” 138 – 39. 48 Ibn Kat¯ır, al-Bida¯ya, 13:115 – 116 (AH 122/740); Shoshan, Popular Culture, 23 ff. ¯ 49 Aigle, “Les inscriptions.” 50 During the short reign of Altın-Bugha (December 1467-January 1469), an illustrated Turkish Iskandar-Na¯ma was dedicated to a Mamluk official named Husˇqadam the hazinda¯r. ˘ ˘ 51 Doufikar-Aerts, Alexander Magnus Arabicus.

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philosopher-mentor. In the magˇa¯lis of Qa¯nsu¯h, the Macedonian king is men˙ tioned time and again. His character is presented as a wise, brave and sophisticated commander who travelled to remote lands. Moreover, some sultans gave themselves the epithet Iskandar az-Zama¯n, the best-known Baybars. In an inscription from Aleppo, al-Asˇraf Halı¯l b. Qalawu¯n is called “Alexander of his time, ˘ the conqueror of the regions and the annihilator of the armies of the Franks, Armenians, and the Tatars, the destroyer of Acre.”52 Much later, al-Malik al-Asˇraf Barsba¯y also bore the title of “Iskandar az-Zama¯n,” Ibn Iya¯s describes the headgear of Qa¯nsu¯h al-G˙awrı¯ (906 – 922/1501 – 1516) and quotes a poet who said ˙ (in 902/1496):53 “Our chief commander proceeded and declared: the One with the Double-Horn (i. e. Alexander) blessed me during the war / I am the ram and my enemy are sheep; if they come out I will gore them with my horns.”54

˘

The library of Qa¯nsu¯h contained at least one copy of a Persian epic Sˇa¯h-Na¯mah, ˙ which is mentioned at least in one version of the Mamluk Sı¯rat Iskandar.55 In addition, the Sultan commissioned a Turkish translation of the epic.56 Another example of these imagined biographies and their powerful presence at the Mamluk court, is a short tract called “magˇmu¯ a hikaya¯t wa-nawa¯dir” that was ˙ written at the request (bi-rasm) of the Sultan Abu¯ n-Nasr al-Asˇraf Qa¯nsu¯h al˙ ˙ G˙awrı¯. This text is a mixture of qisas al-anbiya¯’ and Sufi hagiography. It contains ˙ ˙ three separate stories: 1) The prophet Ezekiel and the vision of the Dry Bones, that Muslims exegesis generally relate to a verse in the Quran (in su¯rat alBaqara); 2) The conversation of Moses with God and his encounter with angels and his death; and 3) The story of Abu¯ Yazı¯d al-Bista¯mı¯.57 This unique colorful ˙ Mamluk manuscript from Jerusalem is not the only version of the saint’s hagiography. The story of Abu¯ Yazı¯d is known in several versions, although no single Ur-text. It should rather been seen as a common plot that was well received by different constituencies. Different transmitters narrated it in a similar manner. In this way they actually created a network of storytellers. Although this version of the legendary story of Abu¯ Yazı¯d al-Bistamı¯ is longer and its texture richer, it ˙ nevertheless resembles other versions of the story (qissa) of Abu¯ Yazı¯d and the ˙˙ monk (ra¯hib).58 The story that was narrated at the citadel on the hill overlooking De Polignac, “Un ‘nouvel Alexandre’ mamelouk.” Ibn Iya¯s, Bada¯’i az-zuhu¯r, 3:340 (ll. 6 – 7). On this article of clothing see Fuess, “Sultans with Horns.” The introduction ascribed to him mentions the Firdawsı¯’s Persian Sˇa¯hna¯mah. DoufikarAerts, “Sı¯rat Al-Iskandar,” 509. 56 Mostafa, “Miniature Paintings,” 10 – 11. 57 Jerusalem, The National Library of Israel, Yahuda Collection ms. Arab 294. 58 See Istanbul, Fatih ms. Arab 5381 – 2 ff. 44 – 51; Tokyo, Daiber Collection ms. 1330 ff. 1 – 3. ˘

52 53 54 55

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˘

Cairo, connected remote lands and linked between belief systems. It associated a master who lived in Iran with Byzantium (that ceased to exist some fifty years prior to the time of the earliest text inspected by me) and Arabia. The 15th century audience was exposed to adventures in a vast region that stretched from Central Arabia to the shores of the Black Sea. They followed the experiences of a great Sufi master, who was born in Eastern Iran and whose ˇ abal Arafat in Mecca. Then, the scene moved to a foreign adventures started at G territory, the city of Constantin (i. e. Constantinople), where Abu¯ Yazı¯d met with ˙ a monk. From the gathering of Hugˇgˇa¯gˇ in the open air on the mountain, the plot ˙ shifted to the synod of a church in a large hall in the city. Next, Abu¯ Yazı¯d traveled to a monastery in Syria. He shifts between Muslim pilgrims and Christian monks. Eventually, he succeeded in converting five hundred monks. Then Abu¯ Yazı¯d traveled back to Syria. His visit to a local monastery resulted in the conversion of another five hundred monks. The change is not only topographical but also a substantial one. It is a religious transformation, a victory of the true belief system. Thus, the hagiography of Abu¯ Yazı¯d connected a variety of communities to a universal Islamic audience. The audience in Cairo heard a story about religions and communities that were not staged as isolated congregations. They became familiar with remote peoples that negotiated with each other. A lasting tie bonds them together, even if competition and conflicts are not erased. Communication with the other was presented as a realistic opportunity. In this manner, the plot of these romances, epics and poems created links that connected religions, locations and periods. The texts mentioned here evidently speak for a political intention.59 The heroes of these stories also played the role of a connecting link between historical cities and people, as well as between the past and the contemporary audiences. Their role as a link cannot be underestimated.

4.

Topographical Continuum: Shrines and Local Rituals

Mamluk period ‘locality merits or praises’ (fada¯’il) compositions, which nar˙ rated stories on the history and topography of sacred places, were performed 60 publicly. They are an additional support to our assumption that writings served as a node that combined the audiences with a place and its past, whether real or imagined. The pyramids attracted the attention of locals and visitors. In his topography of Cairo (hitat) al-Maqrı¯zı¯ (766 – 845/1364 – 1442) devotes a ˘˙ ˙ chapter to the history and features of these constructions (ahra¯m – ahra¯ma¯t).61 59 Herzog, “The First layer.” 60 Al-Halı¯lı¯, “Mut¯ır al-g˙ara¯m.” ¯ ˘ Pyramidenkapitel. 61 Graefe,

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˘

To tell an imaginative history of the pyramids this industrious Egyptian pundit refers, in line with his method of composition, to early authors. The long list of names, which includes ‘native residents’ and travelers such as: al-Mas u¯dı¯, Alı¯ b. Ridwa¯n the physician, Ibn Hawqal, Ibn an-Nadı¯m, Abd al-Lat¯ıf al-Bag˙da¯dı¯, al˙ ˙ ˙ G˙arna¯t¯ı and others,62 illuminates not only the observer’s curiosity, but also a ˙ 63 sense of local interest in the past and of patriotism. An additional source that casts light on Mamluk society’s sense of continuity with Egypt’s pre-Islamic past is an ego-document by as-Saha¯wı¯.64 He reports on a night journey to the pyr˘ amids (al-ahra¯m) and states that “its vision astonished the minds.” He refers to al-Idrı¯sı¯’s book on the pyramids65 and mentions that also others wrote about these structures. Quoting several poets, as-Saha¯wı¯ articulates his excitement at ˘ the sight of the pyramids, which popular belief claimed were built during the ¯ d, another pre-Islamic Arab literary figure.66 This hero, who days of Sˇadda¯d b. A is often related to Iram Da¯t al- Ima¯d67 is portrayed as a combining link between ¯ the Arabs, and peoples and lands far beyond Arabia.68 Moreover, as with the popular romances that were presented above, also the transmission of topographical anecdotes was not limited to a single particular genre, but was carried on in geographical compendia, encyclopedias,69 administrative manuals70 and other genres. ˘

˘

˘

Summary It is well established that the days of the Mamluk Sultanate witnessed demographical upheavals, large-scale migrations71 and even minor Völkerwande-

˘

62 Graefe, Pyramidenkapitel, 8, 10, 12, 14, 15, 16, 18, 19. 63 Haarmann, “Regional Sentiment;” Cook, “Pharaonic History.” 64 Sˇams ad-Dı¯n Muhammad b. Abd al-Rahma¯n as-Saha¯wı¯ (831 – 902/1424 – 1497), at-Tibr al˙ Sequel to˘ [al-Maqrı¯zı¯’s] Suluk [covers the years ˙ masbu¯k fı¯ dayl as-sulu ¯ k (Refined Gold as ¯ ¯ 845 – 857]) eds. N. M. Kam„l & L. I. Mustaf‚ (Cairo: Dar al-Kutub, 2002), 2: 8 – 9 (AH 851); also see his al-Bulda¯nı¯ya¯ ed. H. al-Qatta¯n (Riyad, Dar al-Ata, 1422/2001), 142 – 144. ˙˙ 65 Al-Idrı¯sı¯, k. Anwa-r. 66 Al-Biqa¯ ¯ı, Nazm ad-durar, 22: 28; See Graefe, Pyramidenkapitel, 2 (ll. 5 – 6; quoting Ibra¯hı¯m ibn Was¯ıf Sˇa¯˙h). 67 Q: 89.6˙– 7. 68 Ibn Kat¯ır, Tafsı¯r al-qur’a¯n, 8:285 – 277 asserts that the Iram are a people or a tribe. He refutes ¯ the stories of the mysterious city built from gold and silver bricks as hura¯fa¯t al-isra¯’ı¯liyı¯n ˘ (“legendary non-(true) Islamic stories [that are deemed pretty]”). 69 Ibn Fadl al- Umarı¯, Masa¯lik al-absa¯r, 3:534. ˙ ¯n az-Za¯hirı¯, Zubdat kasˇf ˙al-mama¯lik, 24. 70 Ibn Sˇa¯hı ˙ ˙ 71 Ibn Sasra¯, ad-Durra al-mudi’a, 165; al-Biqa¯ ¯ı, Izha¯r al- asr, 1:163 – 64; al-Maqrı¯zı¯, as-Sulu¯k, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 1:898 (AH 699/1300). ˘

˘

˘

˘

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˘

rungen.72 These shaped – at least to some extent – the demographic history of Egypt and Syria, which were governed by non-Arab rulers (dawlat al-atra¯k) and the indigenous population. The ruling Mamluk elite governed a rich kaleidoscope of human groups. The data presented in this study support the assumption that they were familiar with the earlier history of the lands under their control and with the ethnic and cultural diversity beyond their frontiers. Mamluk authors, who wrote about these phenomena, operated within a society that was highly occupied with questions of kinship, ancestry and lineage.73 Ancestry was an important tool in the arsenal of status claims, at least among the urban elite. Not surprisingly, the studied writings reflect awareness of issues such as family trees and kinship. The origins of the Turks and their relations with the Arabs form a piece in the wider mosaic of the mappa mundi, which Mamluk authors painted. Certainly, this mappa mundi was not an innovation of the thirteenth to sixteenth centuries. It was deeply rooted in the geographical-humanitarian discourse that was emplotted, by earlier generations of Arabic writers, as suggested by Hayden White.74 These and later authors used it to explain similarity and distance between various nations and ethnic clusters, between cultural entities and geographical surroundings, between near and remote peoples. An example of this historiographic trend is visible in the biography of the Sultan Qutuz, who is said to have claimed Eurasian royal ancestry.75The popular ro˙ mances (al-sı¯ra al-sˇa biyya) named above and the chronicles served as a common tool in the explanation of the past and were used to transfer into the present. They played a significant role in producing historical ‘knowledge’ and in its dissemination. The narratives facilitated Mamluk society in demonstrating sympathy with past heroes – both pre-Islamic and Islamic characters. These legendary figures served as a node connecting generations and people. By associating the Sultan with past heroes, the authors provided their master with heroic qualities. In this manner multi-generational and multi-geographical ties were established. This phenomenon is clearly visible in anecdotes of the Umayyad, Abbasid, Salgˇuq and other dynasties that are mentioned and evaluated by the stories’ tellers. Analyzing stories, languages, lineages and ethnicity, seems to be a promising research method in advancing the paradigm of global/ world history or connective histories. It also contributes to historians’ efforts to elucidate the question: Is there a Mamluk society and what are its characteristics? From the anecdotes and episodes presented here, it seems safe to argue that the society studied was a complex one and that one can argue in favor of 72 73 74 75

Ayalon, “The Wafidiya,” art. II; and the critical review by Nobutaka, “Rank and Status.” Ibn Haldu¯n, al-Muqaddima, 1:236 – 250. ˘ Metahistory, 6 – 8. White, Ibn ad-Dawa¯darı¯, Kanz ad-durar, 8:39 – 40.

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existing “Mamluk” characteristics. The people of the Sultanate were bound together by mythical heroes, artefacts, and narratives that served connecting nodes and links in a rich social tissue.

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durar wa-gˇa¯mi al-g˙urar, vol. 7: ad-Durr al-matlu¯b fi ahba¯r mulu¯k banı¯ ayyu¯b, ed. Sa ¯ıd ˙ ˘ ¯ sˇu¯r, Cairo 1391/1972). Abd al-Fatta¯h A ˙ Ibn ad-Dawa¯darı¯, Abu¯ Bakr b. Abd al-Alla¯h b. Aybak (d. 713/1313), Kanz ad-durar wagˇa¯mi al-g˙urar, vol. 8 ad-Durra az-zakiyya fı¯ ahba¯r ad-dawla al-turkiyya, ed. U. ˘ Haarmann, Freiburg 1971. Ibn ad-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Abu¯ Bakr b. Abd Alla¯h b. Aybak (c. 686 – 735/1288 – 1336), Durar attigˇa¯n, in: Gunhild Graf, Die Epitome der Universalchronik Ibn ad-Dawadaris im Verhaltnis zur Langfassung: eine quellenkritische Studie zur Geschichte der aegyptischen Mamluken, Berlin 1990. Ibn Fadl Allah al- Umarı¯, Sˇiha¯b ad-Dı¯n Ahmad b. Yahya¯ (700 – 750/1301 – 1349), Masa¯lik ˙ ˙ ˙ al-absa¯r fı¯ mama¯lik al-amsa¯r, vol. 3: Mama¯lik asˇ-sˇarq al-isla¯mı¯ wa-t-turk ed. A. A. asˇ˙ ˙ Sˇa¯dilı¯, Abu¯ Dabı¯ 2003. ¯ ˙ Ibn Haldu¯n, Abd ar-Rahma¯n (732 – 808/1332 – 1406), al- Ibar. Diwa¯n al-mubtada¯’ wa-l˙ ˘ habar, 8 vols., eds. Halı¯l Sˇahada and Suhayl Zakkar, Beirut 1420/2000. ˘ ˘ ˘ Ibn Haldu¯n, Abd ar-Rahman (732 – 808/1332 – 1406), al-Muqaddima: Les Prol¦gomÀnes ˙ ˘ d’Ibn Khaldoun, ed. E. Quatremere, 3 vols., Paris 1858). Ibn Iya¯s al-Hanafı¯, Muhammad b. Ahmad (852 – 930/1448 – 1524), Bada¯’i az-zuhu¯r fı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ waqa¯’i ad-duhu¯r [Die Chronik des Ibn Ijas], ed. Muhammad Mustafa, 5 vols., Cairo: ˙ Da¯r al-Kutub 1429/2008. Ibn Kat¯ır, Abu¯ l-Fida¯’ Isma¯ ¯ıl (701 – 774/1301 – 1373), al-Bida¯ya wa-n-niha¯ya, ed. Abd ¯ Alla¯h b. Abd al-Muhsin at-Turkı¯, 21 vols., Cairo: Hagˇar 1998. ˙ Ibn Kat¯ır, Abu¯ l-Fida¯’ Isma¯ ¯ıl (701 – 774/1301 – 1373), Tafsı¯r al-qur’a¯n al- az¯ım, ed. Ibra¯hı¯m ¯ ˙ Sˇams ad-Dı¯n, 9 vols., Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al- Ilmiyya 1419/1998. Ibn Sˇa¯hı¯n az-Za¯hirı¯, G˙aras ad-Dı¯n Halı¯l (813 – 872/1410 – 1468), Zubdat kasˇf al-mama¯lik ˙ ˙ ˘ [Khalil ed-Dahiry, Zoubdat kachf el-mamalik (La CrÞme de l’Exposition d¦taill¦e des provinces; tableau politique et administratif de l’Êgypte, de la Syrie et du Hidj–z sous la domination des sultans mamlo˜ks du XIIIe au XVe siÀcle)], ed. Paul Ravaisse, Paris: Ernest Leroux 1894; reprint. Cairo 1988. Ibn Sasra¯, Muhammad b. Muhammad (d. c. 800/1397), ad-Durra al-mudi’a fı¯ d-dawla az˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Za¯hiriyya (A Chronicle of Damascus 786 – 799/1389 – 1397), ed. and trans. W. M. ˙ Brinner, University of California Press 1963. ˇ ama¯l ad-Dı¯n Yu¯suf (813 – 874/1411 – 1470), an-Nugˇu¯m azIbn Tag˙rı¯ Birdı¯, Abu¯ l-Maha¯sin G ˙ za¯hira fı¯ mulu¯k misr wa-l-qa¯hira, ed. William Popper, 9 vols., University of California ˙ Press 1936. ˇ ama¯l ad-Dı¯n Yu¯suf (813 – 874/1411 – 1470), an-Nugˇu¯m azIbn Tag˙rı¯ Birdı¯, Abu¯ l-Maha¯sin G ˙ za¯hira fı¯ mulu¯k misr wa-l-qa¯hira, ed. Muhammad Husayn Sˇams ad-Dı¯n, 16 vols., ˙ ˙ ˙ Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al- Ilmiyya 1413/1992. ˇ ama¯l ad-Dı¯n Yu¯suf (813 – 874/1411 – 1470), an-Nugˇu¯m azIbn Tag˙rı¯ Birdı¯, Abu¯ l-Maha¯sin G ˙ za¯hira fı¯ mulu¯k misr wa-l-qa¯hira, ed. I. A. Taraha¯n, 16 vols., Cairo: Da¯r al-Kutub al˙ ˘ ˙ Qawmiyya, 1428/2006. ˘

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Secondary sources

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Aigle, Denise, “Les inscriptions de Baybars dans le Bilad al-Sˇam. Une expression de la l¦gitimit¦ du Pouvoir,” Studia Islamica 97 (2003), pp. 57 – 85. Ayalon, David, “Names, Titles and ‘Nisbas’ of the Mamluks,” Israel Oriental Studies 5 (1975), pp. 189 – 232. Ayalon, David, “The Wafidiya in the Mamluk Kingdom,” Islamic Culture 1951, pp. 81 – 104. [reprinted in his Studies on the Mamluks of Egypt (1250 – 1517), London: Variorum 1977. Azza- m, Abd al-Wahha- b (ed), Magˇa¯lis as-sulta¯n al-g˙u¯rı¯: safaha¯t min ta’rı¯h misr fı¯ l-qarn ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ ˙ al- a¯ˇsir al-higˇ rı¯, Cairo 1941; reprinted 2010. Ball, Warwick, Rome in the East: The Transformation of an Empire, London: Routledge 2000. Berkey, Jonathan P., “Popular Culture under the Mamluks: A Historiographical Survey,” Mamluk Studies Review 9 (2005), pp. 133 – 146. Bodrogligeti, Andr‚s, “A Collection of Poems from the 14th Century,” Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 16 (1963), pp. 245 – 311. Bodrogligeti, Andr‚s, “Notes on the Turkish Literature at the Mamluke Court,” Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 14 (1962), pp. 273 – 82. Bodrogligeti, Andr‚s, A Fourteenth Century Turkic Translation of Sa‘di’s Gulistan, Bloomington, Indiana 1970. Chelhod, Joseph, “La geste du roi Sayf,” Revue de l‘histoire des religions 171/2 (1967), pp. 181 – 205. Chraibi, Aboubakr, “Le roman de Sayf Ibn d„ Yazan: sources, structure et argumentation,” ¯ Studia Islamica 84 (1996), pp. 113 – 134. Cook, Michael, “Pharaonic History in Medieval Egypt,” Studia Islamica 57 (1983), pp. 67 – 103. D’Hulster, Kristof, “Some Notes on Sayf-i Sarayi,” in: Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras V, eds. Urbain Vermeulen and Kristof D’Hulster, Proceedings of the 11th, 12th and 13th International Colloquium, Leuven: Peeters 2007, pp. 451 – 470. Dankoff, Robert (ed. and trans.), Compendium of the Turkic dialects, Harvard University 1982 – 85. see al-Ka¯sˇg˙arı¯, k. Dı¯wa¯n lug˙a¯t at-turk. De Polignac, FranÅois, “Un ‘nouvel Alexandre’ mamelouk, al-Malik al-Ashraf Khall et le regain eschatologique du XIIIe siÀcle,” Revue des mondes musulmans et de la M¦diterran¦e 89 – 90 (2000), pp. 73 – 87. Doufikar-Aerts, Faustina, “Sı¯rat Al-Iskandar : An Arabic Popular Romance of Alexander,” Oriente Moderno (Nuova serie) 22/2 (83) (2003), pp. 505 – 520. Doufikar-Aerts, Faustina, Alexander Magnus Arabicus:a survey of the Alexander tradition through seven centuries: from Pseudo-Callisthenes to Suri, Leuven: Peeters 2010. Eckmann, J‚nos, “The Mamluk-Kipchak Literature,” Central Asiatic Journal 8 (1963), pp. 304 – 18. Flemming, Barbara, “Aus den Nachtgesprächen Sultan G˙aurı¯s,” in: Folia rara Wolfgang Voigt LXV. diem natalem celebranti, eds. H. Franke et al., Wiesbaden 1976, pp. 22 – 28. ˘

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Flemming, Barbara, “Literary Activity in Mamluk halls and Barracks,” in: Studies in Memory of Gaston Wiet, ed. M. Rosen-Ayalon, Jerusalem 1977, pp. 249 – 260. Fuess, Albrecht, “Sultans with Horns: The Political Significance of Headgear in the Mamluk Empire,” MSR 12/2 (2008), pp. 71 – 94. Garcin, Jean-Claude, “Sı¯ra/s et Histoire,” Arabica 51/3 (2004), pp. 223 – 257. Graefe, Erich (ed.), Das Pyramidenkapitel in al-Makrı¯zı¯‘s Hitat, Leipzig 1911. ˙ ˘ ˙ ˙ Haarmann, Ulrich, “Regional Sentiment in Medieval Egypt,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 43 (1980), pp. 55 – 66 Haarmann, Ulrich, “Turkish legends in the popular historiography of medieval Islam,” Proceedings of the VIth Congress of Arabic and Islamic studies 1972, Uppsala 1975, pp. 97 – 107. Herzog, Thomas, “The First layer of the Sirat Baybars: Popular Romance and Political Propaganda,” Mamluk Studies Review 7 (2003), pp. 137 – 148. Holt, Peter Malcolm, “The Coronation Oaths of the Nubian Kings,” Sudanic Africa 1 (1990), pp. 5 – 9. Holt, Peter Malcolm, “The Exalted Lineage of Ridwan Bey : Some Observations on a Seventeenth-Century Mamluk Genealogy,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 22 (1959), pp. 221 – 230. Hrebek, Ivan, “Egypt, Nubia and the Eastern Deserts.” in The Cambridge History of Africa, ed. Roland Oliver, Cambridge University Press 2008, vol. 3, pp. 10 – 97. Irwin, Robert, “Mamluk Literature,” MSR 7/1 (2003), pp. 1 – 29. Kafesog˘lu, Ibrahim, “A Propos du nom Türkmen,” Oriens 11 (1958), pp. 146 – 150. Lange, Dierk, “Un texte de Maqrı¯zı¯ sur «Les races des Su¯da¯n»,” Annales Islamologique 15 (1979), pp. 187 – 209. Levtzion, N., “The Thirteenth- and Fourteenth-Century Kings of Mali,” The Journal of African History 4/3 (1963), pp. 341 – 353. Mostafa, Mohamed, “Miniature Paintings in some Mamluk Manuscripts,” Bulletin de l’Institut d’Egypte 52 (1970 – 71), pp. 5 – 12. Nobutaka, Nakamachi, “The Rank and Status of Military Refugees in the Mamluk Army : A Reconsideration of the Wafidiyah,” Mamluk Studies Review 10/1 (2006), pp. 55 – 81. Norris, Harry T., “Sayf B. D¯ıyazan and the Book of the History of the Nile,” Quaderni di ¯ Studi Arabi 7 (1989), pp. 125 – 151. Reynolds, Gabriel Said, “A Reflection on Two Qur’a¯nic Words (Iblı¯s and Ju¯dı¯), with Attention to the Theories of A. Mingana,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 124/4 (2004), pp. 675 – 689. Roxburgh, David J., “On the Transmission and Reconstruction of Arabic Calligraphy : Ibn al-Bawwab and History,” Studia Islamica 96 (2003), pp. 39 – 53. Sauvaget, Jean, “Noms et surnoms de Mamelouks,” Journal Asiatique 238 (1950), pp. 31 – 58. Shoshan, Boaz, “High culture and popular culture in medieval Islam,” Studia Islamica 73 (1991), pp. 67 – 108 Shoshan, Boaz, “On Popular Literature in Medieval Cairo,” Poetics Today 14 (1993), pp. 349 – 365. Shoshan, Boaz, Popular Culture in Medieval Cairo, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1993. Sourdel, D., “Bukhtı¯shu¯ ,” EI2, 1:1298

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Stillman, Yedida Kalfon edited by Norman A. Stillman. Arab Dress: a Short History from the Dawn of Islam to Modern Times, Leiden: Brill, Themes in Islamic studies 2007. Ulrich Haarmann, “Altun Han und Cingiz Han bei den ägyptischen Mamluken,” Der Islam 51/1 (1974), pp. 1 – 36. White, Hayden, Metahistory : The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP 1973.

Networks

Henning Sievert (Bonn/Zürich)

Family, friend or foe? Factions, households and interpersonal relations in Mamluk Egypt and Syria “But a great lord of the mamlu¯ks by the name of Qa¯nsawh Hamsumi’a claimed ˙ ˘ the sultanate for himself, because in his opinion, no heathen born should be sultan. So he assembled his party of about three thousand mamlu¯ks and laid siege to the castle to expel the [preceding sultan’s son], since whoever gained the upper hand would become sultan.”1

1.

Introduction

Compared to most medieval kingdoms, the sociopolitical makeup of the Mamluk sultanate must have made a rather peculiar impression on visitors.2 In fact, the functioning and relative stability of this polity defy much of conventional wisdom in Europeanist social science and history.3 Mamluk Studies can thus significantly contribute to historical scholarship by employing an adapted anthropological approach, which may also help to provide common ground for discussion with neighbouring fields.4 The purpose of this contribution is therefore to suggest that some aspects of social network analysis can be utilised to improve our understanding of Mamluk politics and society. Ten years ago, I 1 “[I]tem aber nv was noch eyn groysser here van den memeloicken, Kamsauwe Hasmansmea geheysschen, der warf sich off vur eynen zoldain, as he vermeynt dat geyn geboren heyde zoldain sulde sijn. soe hadde he zo sijnre parthijen wael drij dusent mameloicken, dae myt he tzouch vur dat sloss drij dage lijgen, den jungen zo verdrijuen, as wer oeuerhant beheldt der blijfft zoldain” (Arnold von Harff, Die Pilgerfahrt des Arnold von Harff von Cöln durch Italien, Syrien, Aegypten, Arabien, Aethiopien, Nubien, Palästina, die Türkei, Frankreich und Spanien, wie er sie in den Jahren 1496 bis 1499 vollendet, beschrieben und durch Zeichnungen erläutert hat… Ed. Eberhard von Groote. Köln 1860, p. 87). 2 For the comments of late-fifteenth century visitors from the Latin west, like von Harff, see Haarmann, “Joseph’s Law.” 3 Cf. Conermann/Haarmann, 209 – 40. 4 As my approach is inevitably influenced by “Western” scholarship in general and germanophone academic discourse in particular, I will not engage in the rather unfruitful discussion as to whether or in what sense culturally “neutralised” concepts are philosophically possible, but would recommend to adapt analytical concepts to the concrete context at hand.

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put forward this idea on a modest level5 in an attempt to make sense of power struggles for succession to the throne in the 15th century. At that time, I was unaware of Amalia Levanoni’s seminal article on “The Sultan’s Laqab” that was published simultaneously and – although concentrating mainly on promotion patterns and rebellion – confirmed much of what I had been arguing with regard to succession struggles. Based on extensive research and profound knowledge of the sources, her article broadens the basis for edging our conceptional tools. Without actually alluding to a network perspective, Levanoni suggests that Mamluk factionalism should not be imagined like a mechanism, but that we should differentiate the quality of relationships – the actual strength of ties and the actors’ individual agency.6 The book of Jo van Steenbergen about Order out of Chaos (2006) poses similar questions, but refers to the 14th century and does not explicitly pay attention to a network approach either. Nevertheless, the impressive material and intriguing explanations assembled in that inspiring book considerably improve our understanding of Mamluk7 politics, especially as van Steenbergen has recently initiated the compilation of a prosopographical database that is bound to become a major research tool for network-related research.8 These studies have contributed substantially to the field. However, it would be helpful to refine the conceptual framework to interpret Mamluk politics and society, as the impact of elite slavery on social networks and political factions are of interest from a broader historical as well as anthropological point of view. Key terminologies in this contribution are the concepts of network, faction, and household. As these terms are often referred to rather loosely or even interchangeably, mirroring quotidian usage, differentiating and sharpening these tools should lead to a better understanding of political dynamics in the Mamluk context. On the following pages, I will first briefly dwell on social network analysis and some suitable sources and then suggest a tentative typology of relationships between individuals, namely ascribed relations of kinship and origin as well as acquired relations of patronage and friendship that can be 5 Der Herrscherwechsel im Mamlukenreich: Historische und historiographische Studien zu Abu¯ Ha¯mid al-Qudsı¯ und Ibn Tag˙ rı¯birdı¯. Berlin 2003. This contribution is based on the second part ˙ that book, but several points have been revised. For a study guided by a network approach of towards an 18th century context, cf. my Zwischen arabischer Provinz und Hoher Pforte: Beziehungen, Bildung und Politik des osmanischen Bürokraten Ra¯g˙ıb Mehmed Pas¸a (st. 1763). ˙ Würzburg 2008. 6 Levanoni, “Laqab“, 88. 7 The adjective Mamluk (with capital ‘M’) indicates “the totality of the state, society and culture”, while the spelling mamlu¯k refers to “an individual who has that legal and social status” (Richards, 40). 8 For the Mamluk Political Prosopography Project, see www.Mamluk.ugent.be/node/4 [9. 2. 2013].

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identified in the Mamluk context. In the following section, pertinent concepts of households and factions will be explained that form the basis for succession struggles. To shed some light on the political process of which they formed part, we will then turn to the archetypical crisis of Mamluk politics, namely, succession to the sultanate. Every struggle for succession was not only a key political event (and an ordeal for those involved), but also a moment of crisis that allows us to uncover the dynamics at work, because sources reporting on it reveal details on relations they would normally have been silent about. For this reason, several examples substantiating the suggestions made in this chapter are related to 15th century succession struggles; particularly two fairly typical instances will be referred to, namely the succession to al-Mu’ayyad Sˇayh in 14219 and the ˘ ˇ aqmaq in 1453.10 succession to az-Za¯hir G ˙ ˙

1.1.

Social Networks

Although network analysis has become well-established as a method and an interpretive perspective in the social sciences,11 historians of the Middle East have remained reluctant in considering its potential. This, however, is starting to change.12 So far, the majority of these studies employ this type of analysis in a qualitative or metaphorical way,13 utilising concepts, propositions and methods of network analysis by adapting them to the concrete cultural and historical

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9 See the analytical narrative in Sievert, Herrscherwechsel, 111 – 123. This was the first instance of Circassian succession, which privileged the regent and seems to have served as a model for several subsequent succession struggles. As a result, az-Za¯hir Tatar ascended the throne. ˙ ˙ occured, ˙ ˙ 10 See Sievert, Herrscherwechsel, 123 – 132. When this struggle the Circassian succession had already become an established practice, but unlike several sultans before him, ˇ aqmaq refrained from appointing a regent and instead strove to make his adult son alG Mansu¯r Utma¯n his actual successor. In the end, the elderly al-Asˇraf ¯Ina¯l became the next ¯ ˙ sultan. 11 For an historical overview of network research, see Freeman, Development. 12 During the late 1990s and the early 2000s, a research group on Islamic networks of education led by Stefan Reichmuth and Michael Kemper at Bochum University, explored the possibilities of network analysis for the study of Muslim societies. Starting with the article of Loimeier/Reichmuth and Loimeier’s edited volume Die islamische Welt als Netzwerk, several monographs have been published by members of this research group (listed in Sievert, Zwischen arabischer Provinz und Hoher Pforte, 24; see also Reichmuth, World. Several scholars of European history have produced sophisticated studies based on network analysis, so that a basis for comparative work is already being established. For an overview of network-oriented research in European history, see, Reinhardt, “Blick” and Reitmayer/Marx, “Netzwerkansätze;” cf. also Polexe, 34. 13 Harders, 17 – 52. This should not be confused with quantitative network analysis, which requires a body of suitable sources (see, e. g., Reichmuth, World). By contrast, ethnological research can rely on a relatively comprehensive documentation of relational data.

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context that has generated the sources in question. Such an adapted network perspective can significantly enrich conventional philological and historical approaches without necessarily forcing modern concepts onto the historical actors’ world view. Due to the fragmentary nature of historical sources, a comprehensive network can rarely be constructed. Our knowledge of its structure will therefore always be limited; but this holds also true for most contemporary networks. In spite of historical distance, we should keep in mind that the source basis of many studies in the social sciences is also far from unassailable, as – for instance – contemporary interviewers depend on their partners’ trust and mutual comprehension as much as historians depend on interpreting the sources.14 However, the network perspective can lead to entirely new questions and readings of the sources, or it might reveal indirect connections like, for example, links of female relatives.15 Retrieving verifiable connections between individuals may prove useful where they would otherwise be overlooked, but even proof of their existence alone does not necessarily support further-reaching conclusions. Besides, evidence of a relationship usually represents a snapshot in time, while its content, strength and other characteristics are subject to change. The basic assumption of the network approach is that people form relations with each other and can use them to achieve their goals. Their actions form and influence a network’s configuration, which enables and supports or hinders and inhibits their action.16 The relations consist of material or immaterial exchange, like information, affection, money, property, offices, prestige, or protection, which means that they are also inherently power relations.17 From this perspective, connections and positions within a configuration are more important than common traits or cohesion. Hence, individual action is less determined by group membership, gender, estate, class or milieu than it is by the individual’s position in and relations with his or her social environment or field. The existence of social boundaries and identity is of course not denied, but a network perspective enables us to perceive connections crossing such boundaries.18 The 14 In this vein, Raoul Motika doubts the applicability of network analysis onto post-soviet Azerbayjan because of the difficulty of obtaining reliable information (Motika, 132 – 3). 15 Some examples for female connections are given in Sievert, Zwischen arabischer Provinz, 138 – 9, 306 – 7, 311, 339 – 41. 16 Schweizer, 119 – 145. 17 Cf. Elias’ “balances of power” (Machtbalancen) in social configuration (Elias, 11). For the pervasive tension between network structure and individual agency, or determinism and instrumental rationality versus cultural/historical conditions and meaning, see, e. g., Emirbayer/Goodwin. 18 Schweizer, 112 – 3; Harders, 19 – 20. It is important to keep in mind that network analysis is not a theory, but a method or a perspective that does not claim to describe or predict identity, motivation or agency.

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structure of a social network can be characterised in several ways,19 but for the present context, only three concepts have to be considered: firstly, direction, which refers to the symmetrical or asymmetrical quality of a dyadic relation;20 secondly, density – the level of connection among the “participants” in a network (i. e., realised vs. potential relations);21 and finally, the centrality of an actor within the network, which can be examined in several perspectives.22 Based on these concepts, this contribution suggests a qualitative approach to elucidate modes of relationships, household and faction building within the limits of the sources.

1.2.

Sources

As Mamluk Egypt and Syria produced a remarkable number of written sources, it is possible to study their culture and society with a particular focus on interpersonal relations.23 Preferably, a single source or a corpus of sources can be identified that are especially well-suited for a network approach; if this is not the case, historians have to collect bits and pieces from a plethora of sources related to the actors they are interested in. Either way, certain source types lend themselves more easily to a social network approach than others. In this regard, the most relevant type of sources are certainly the numerous biographical dictionaries from the Mamluk era, which contain information about an individual’s family, teachers, enemies etc., and which are of course heavily influenced by the intention and perspective of the compiler. In some cases, a biographical dictionary can be interpreted as the author’s ego-net,24 because he included all 19 See, in general, Scott, 63 – 145 and Jansen, 69 – 162. Considerations of this kind contributed substantially to the studies mentioned in footnote 9 but shall not be pursued in this article, because it was impossible to do the necessary amount of additional work on the sources. 20 Scott, 47 – 9 and 68 – 9; cf. Jansen, 142 – 181. 21 Scott, 69 – 81; Jansen, 108 – 112. 22 Degree-based, local centrality considers an actor’s direct connections, closeness-based global centrality also includes the indirect connections and betweenness centrality measures his importance as an intermediary (Jansen, 127 – 53 and Scott, 82 – 9). As in the present context many relationships are directed (especially patronage), it would also be appropriate to use the concept of prestige, but this cannot be done in this contribution. Besides, the scarcity or absence of connections is significant, as well. Therefore, structural holes and weak ties are significant because, for instance, an actor who has a weak relation with two otherwise unconnected clusters may be marginal to both of them, but become crucial as a connector (cutpoint) between the two clusters (Granovetter, “The strength of weak ties” and idem, “A network theory revisited”; Burt, Structural Holes). 23 Stephen Humphreys has already emphasised the necessity and, indeed, possibility of studies in Mamluk households, factions and prosopography (Humphreys, 227 – 8). 24 As, apart from shipwrecked people or hermits, all humans are directly or indirectly connected with each other, the scope of the network under study has to be defined. A practical

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persons important to himself. He may as well have wanted to display – for instance – his own family’s dignity as represented by its relations with respected contemporaries, or by metaphorical networks with certain traditions or even with his ancestors.25 Autobiographical writings like those of Ibn Haldu¯n, as˘ Suyu¯t¯ı or Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯, provide similar information on the relations of ˙ 26 ˙ individuals. So far, historiographical sources have scarcely been investigated with regard to interpersonal relations. Some chronicles address political relations quite directly, particularly when they come to the surface in times of crisis; for example, Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ paid special attention to struggles among the Mamluk emirs and their various plots, alliances and animosities.27 Apart from various scholarly chronicles and world histories, diary-like “private chronicles” have also been discovered28 and may occasionally offer insights into networks of less prominent actors. Apart from sources that more or less concentrate on interpersonal relations, traces of them can be found in literary sources like anthologies,29 collections of letters,30 encomiastic compositions,31 “blurbs” (taqa¯rı¯z),32 or in manuscripts themselves as marginal notes, dedications or owner’s ˙ marks as well as in reading certificates.33 Most of these sources belong to ulama¯’ contexts, which are also well-covered by biographical dictionaries, while nonulama¯’ would rather be referred to in sets of legal or commercial documents, especially endowment deeds and their administration.34 The case studies on ˘

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25 26

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solution for this requirement is focusing on an ego-net, which encompasses the direct relations of an actor declared as the centre as well as his indirect relations, but only including a certain number of intermediaries. Cf. Reichmuth, “Beziehungen”. See Reynolds, esp. 79 – 86 and 202 – 7. Ibn Haldu¯n’s autobiography has been published some ˘ g˙arban wa-sˇarqan. Ed. Muhammad at-Ta¯wı¯t time ago as at-Ta rı¯f bi-Ibn Haldu¯n wa-rihlatihi ˙ ˙ ˘ at-Tangˇ¯ı, Cairo 1951. ˙ ˙ His interest in the affairs of commoners was admittedly much less pronounced (Perho, 107 – 120). Apart from the well-known reference works, an amount of information on Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ has been compiled in the celebratory anniversary volume al-Mu’arrih Ibn Tag˙ rı¯ ˘ ˇ ama¯l ad-Dı¯n Abu¯ l-Maha¯sin Yu¯suf 812 – 874 h., collectively published by al-Hay’a Birdı¯ G al˙ ¯ Misriyya al- Amma li-l-Kita¯b, Cairo 1974. See˙ the edition of Ibn Tawq’s journal: Sˇiha¯b ad-Dı¯n Ahmad Ibn Tawq, at-Ta lı¯q. Mudakkira¯t ¯ ˙ Tawq, 874 – 915 h. / 1430 – 1509 ˙ m. Mudakkira ˙ Sˇiha¯b ad-Dı¯n Ahmad Ibn ¯ t kutibat bi-Dimasˇq fı¯ ˇ a¯ far al-Muha¯gˇir. 4 vols., Daawa¯hir al- ahd ˙al-mamlu¯˙kı¯ 885 – 908 h. / 1580 – 1502 m. Ed. G ˘ 2000 – 2007. For an “autobiographical chronicle,” see Guo, 101 – 21. mascus Bauer, “Literarische Anthologien,” with a list of 90 Mamluk-era anthologies. A magˇmu¯ at insˇa¯’ has recently been edited by Vesely´, Rauschgetränk. For this genre (Widmungsschriften), see Vesely´, “Ibn Na¯hid”, 157 – 8 and 164 – 5, Holt, ˙ “Offerings”, 3 – 6 and idem, “Biographies”, 19 – 27. Rosenthal, “Blurbs;” Vesely´, “Ibn Na¯hid’s As-Sı¯ra asˇ-Sˇayh¯ıya” and idem, “Der Taqrı¯z”; Le˙ ˙ “Who was.” ˘ vanoni, “Sı¯rat al-Mu’ayyad,” and eadem,

27

˘

˘

28

˘

32

˘

˘

29 30 31

33 See Leder/Sawwa¯s/Sa¯girgˇ¯ı as well as Leder, “Hörerzertifikate” and, for the Zangid and ˙ Ayyubid periods, Hirschler, 73 – 92 34 For example, people who were close to Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ are mentioned in his endowment deed

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˘

˘

succession struggles this contribution refers to are based on chronicles, mainly Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯’s an-Nugˇu¯m az-za¯hira, which was supplemented by al- Aynı¯’s Iqd al-gˇuma¯n, Ibn Hagˇar’s Inba¯’ al-g˙umr and the Ta¯rı¯h al-Malik al-Asˇraf Qa¯ytba¯y ˙ ˘ that should probably be attributed to Abu¯ Ha¯mid al-Qudsı¯,35 as well as the ˙ biographical dictionaries of Ibn Tag˙rı¯bridı¯, al-Manhal as-sa¯fı¯, and of as-Saha¯wı¯, ˙˙ ˘ ad-Daw’ al-la¯mi . ˙ ˙ ˘

2.

Types of relations

Among the first adaptations of network analytical concepts to premodern contexts was Wolfgang Reinhard’s Verflechtungsgeschichte.36 In his study of early modern Roman clergy, Reinhard identified four ideal types37 of relations: kinship, friendship, patronage and common origin. Kinship and common origin are ascribed relationships that can be, but are not necessarily, activated by explicitly forming ties. By contrast, friendship and patronage are purposefully formed for mutual benefit, often with considerable effort. All this may sound rather technical, but we must not forget that relationships like these formed an important part of an individual’s life.38 These ideal types are not usually employed in

35

36

37

38

˘

˘

(Hamza, 147 – 151). The private documents of a family of mamlu¯k origin in Aleppo is treated in Saghbini, Urkunden. For published documents in general, see the Mamluk Bibliography provided by the University of Chicago www.lib.uchicago/e/su/mideast/Mamluk and the services of the International Society of Arabic Papyrology at www.ori.uzh.ch/isap.html [9. 2. 2013]. For further information on al-Qudsı¯ and his work, see Sievert, Herrscherwechsel, 9 – 53, and idem, “Abu¯ Ha¯mid al-Qudsı¯.” In: Encyclopedia of the Medieval Chronicle. Ed. Graeme ˙ 2010, vol. I, p. 6 – 7. In the meantime, the text has been published, based on Dunphy, Leiden different manuscripts, as Ta¯rı¯h al-Malik al-Asˇraf Qa¯ytba¯y by Umar Abd as-Sala¯m Tadmurı¯ (Sayda¯ 2003). As the Ta¯rı¯h does˘ not give an author’s name, Tadmurı¯ treats it as an anonymous ˙ ˘ work, but Cook and Haarmann concur in its attribution to al-Qudsı¯ (Cook, “Abu¯ Ha¯mid al˙ Qudsı¯;” Ulrich Haarmann, “Einleitung”). Reinhard, Freunde. Cf. also idem, Papstfinanz and idem (ed.), “Führungsgruppen.” The further development is described in Reinhardt, “Blick.” Reinhard suggested to use the term Verflechtungsgeschichte for a historical variety of network analysis. Unfortunately, the German historians’ community preferred the clumsy loan translation Netzwerk and uses the term Verflechtungsgeschichte for the recent approach of Entangled History. They have to be addressed as such because they might overlap, intersect or even merge (Reinhard, Freunde, 40; Pflücke, 9 and Lind, 124). I use “types” and “modes” interchangeably ; the former stresses the ideal typical, and the latter the transactional aspect of interpersonal relations. Despite taking a specific cultural form, neither of these types are in themselves particular to Europe, nor to the Middle East, but rather provide common ground for comparison. Apart from the mentioned types or modes, further types like religious or economic relationships (e. g., between ˇsayh and murı¯d, or between creditor and debtor) should be included as well, ˘ the scope of this contribution. but that goes beyond

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network analysis, but they can be operationalised for historical contexts and can also be found, mutatis mutandis, in the Mamluk context.

2.1.

Ascribed relations of kinship

˘

Kinship is an ascribed genealogical relationship, which can also be acquired by marriage or other arrangements.39 As slaves, mamlu¯ks were supposedly cut off from their kin. Therefore, kinship ties that are mentioned in the sources have received a certain amount of attention, but as for their slave status, it is important to stress that mamlu¯ks have to be distinguished from common slaves as part of the military and, by extension, of the elite. For this reason, Ze’evi holds that Orlando Patterson’s concept of social death is not fully applicable to elite slaves, because most of them were more than a “social extension of the owner”, being allowed to have families or even maintain relations with their original families.40 Within the Mamluk elite, biological kinship was supposed to matter much less than the artificial ties of military slavery, i. e., “the Mamluk’s loyalty to his master, solidarity among Mamluks serving the same master (khushda¯shiyyah), and the concept of a ‘one-generation nobility’.”41 The latter phrase, coined by David Ayalon, epitomises this special feature of Mamluk society : freshly imported adolescents who had been bought by an emir, lacking any other ties, and family ties in particular, had to adapt to their master’s household where they were not only converted to Islam and trained in martial arts, but also lived decisive years of their life until they were manumitted and equipped as mamlu¯k warriors.42 Instead of family ties, they developed a familial affection for the other household members: the master (usta¯d) who had manumitted them expected ¯ their loyalty and their fellow mamlu¯ks (husˇda¯ˇsu¯n) their solidarity.43 The political ˘ and military advantages of the Mamluk “system“ had already intrigued Ibn Haldu¯n, a resident of the Mamluk realm for more than twenty years. He was ˘ fascinated by the fact that the system seemed to solve the problem of waning asabiyya, which, according to his theory, many dynasties had been suffering ˙ from. Ibn Haldu¯n praises the mamlu¯ks’ religious zeal ( aza¯’im ¯ıma¯niyya) and ˘ nomadic virtues (ahla¯q badawiyya) and adds: ˘ ˘

39 40 41 42 43

For the case of milk siblings, see Ze’evi, 76 – 7. Ze’evi, 74 – 5; but cf. Yosef, 56 and 69. Cited after Yosef, 55; see also Richards, 32. Ayalon, “L’esclavage,” 1 – 20 and idem, “Novice,” 1 – 8. Cf. Haarmann, “Osten”, 223 – 5. As Carl Petry put it: “allegiance through isolation” (Protectors, 73). See Ayalon, “Aristocracy,” 206 and idem, “L’esclavage,” 29 – 31.

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˘

“When people of group feeling ( asabı¯yah) take as followers (istana a) people of another ˙ ˙˙ descent; or when they take slaves and clients (mawa¯lı¯) into servitude and enter into close contact with them, as we have said, the clients and followers (mustana u¯n) share in ˙˙ the group feeling of their masters and take it on as if it were their own group feeling“.44 ˘

The only drawback of this ingenious system seems to have been that the civilian population was regularly terrorised by unruly mamlu¯k warriors.45 However, numerous violations of the ‘one-generation nobility’ guideline suggest that reality did not necessarily conform to the ideal – be it in the area of slave upbringing and training, loyalty to the master and intra-mamlu¯k solidarity, or with regard to the importance of genealogical kinship and passing on elite status to the next generation.46 Belonging to a Mamluk household established artificial kinship ties, which were represented by fictitious family relations with the usta¯d ¯ as a pseudo-father47 and brotherhood (uhu¯wa) between slave recruits, which ˘ indicated a very close relation between mamlu¯ks who had grown up together.48 A quasi-kin relationship between a master, his family and his slaves who lived in

˘ ˘

44 Mottahedeh, 89 – 90, citing Ibn Haldu¯n, The Muqaddimah I, 276, translated by Franz Ro˘ senthal, Princeton 1967. A corresponding usage of istina¯ (training, educating, fostering, but ˙˙ SN ) is documented in Forand, 60. In also artificially producing, as derived from the root ˙ another passage, Ibn Haldu¯n revisits the mamlu¯ks’ recruitment and its advantages for Islam: “By means of slavery˘they learn glory and blessing and are exposed to divine providence; cured by slavery, they enter the Muslim religion with the firm resolve of true believers and yet with nomadic virtues unsullied by debased nature […]. The slave merchants bring them to Egypt in batches […], and government buyers have them displayed for inspection and bid for them, raising their price above their value. They do this not in order to subjugate them, but because it intensifies loyalty, increases power, and is conducive to ardent zeal. […] Thus, one intake comes after another and generation follows generation, and Islam rejoices in the benefit which it gains through them, and the branches of the kingdom flourish with the freshness of youth” (cited in Northrup, 242 – 3). 45 Thorau, 374 – 7. According to Thorau, these unfortunate side effects could only be contained when there was war, danger to the system itself and a militarily capable sultan (which only coincided in 1260 – 93). 46 For complaints about a breakdown of good education, see Haarmann, “Osten,” 248, alQudsı¯, Duwal, 128 – 131. Deviations from loyalty and solidarity are mentioned abundantly in historiographical sources; see, e. g., Levanoni, Turning Point, and idem, “Laqab.” For contemporary and intergenerational family ties, Haarmann, “The sons,” idem, “Joseph’s Law,” Richards, “Mamluk amirs,” Broadbridge, “Sending,” Yosef, “Mamluks.” 47 Ayalon, “Aristocracy,” 206 – 7 and idem, “L’esclavage,” 31 – 34; cf. Haarmann, “Osten,” 223. The relationship between an elite slave and his master was often expressed in family terminology like son (walad) and father (wa¯lid) at least from the Abbasid period onwards (Forand, 60 – 2). Van Steenbergen, 88 – 92, calls the close relationship with the master usta¯diyya. ¯ 48 For example, since their early youth, Yasˇbak as-Sa¯qı¯ al-A ragˇ as well as the later sultans ˇ aqmaq had allegedly been brother-like close friends (ihwa) of the later sultan Barsba¯y and G ˘ also ibid., 100 – 1, and Tatar (Levanoni, “Laqab”, 106, citing Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ and as-Saha¯wı¯; see ˙ ˙ Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Manhal IV, 275 – 83, No. 849). ˘ Ibn ˘

See also Richards, 37 and van Steenbergen, 86 – 8.

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˘

the same household could become almost indistinguishable from genealogical kinship,49 as a result of a shared socialisation process taking place while the mamlu¯k “son” was still a slave. In the case of elite slaves, this amounts to an undeclared adoption, an institution meant to “create kin” that had existed in the Arab context since pre-Islamic times and had been reinforced by the Turkic institution of godfatherhood (kivrelik),50 or perhaps that of “surrogate fathership” (atalıq), which seems to have been common in Circassia.51 The manumitter’s mamlu¯k “son”52 would usually indicate his new status by taking a Turkish name and acknowledging the relation to his manumitter (mu tiq) in his nisba. The act of manumission established a legally accepted form of clientage (wala¯’)53 and quite literally created54 a new relative.55 At least for those who had actually entered the master’s household, mamlu¯k ties established an ascribed form of kinship.56 Contrary to what had formerly been maintained about a “waning of the biological family” and an “enhanced prestige of pseudo-familial ties”57 during the Circassian period, artificial kinship did not replace genealogical kinship. They rather seem to have coexisted,58 as it seems that mamlu¯ks increasingly brought their relatives from the native lands to Egypt since the 14th

˘

49 Ze’evi, 75; cf. Forand, 61 – 2. 50 Ze’evi, 76 – 79 (cit. 78). Ze‘evi poetically compares the transformation from slave to son to the pupal stage of a butterfly (ibid., 71). For the ban of adoption (tabannı¯) according to ˇsarı¯ a norms, see ibid., 76 – 7. 51 The latter kind of relationship might have been alluded to when Qurmusˇ al-A war explained ˇ a¯nibak as-Su¯fı¯: “How can I not support him, as I had carried him on my his familiarity with G ˙ ˙ him like a son” (kayfa la¯ aku¯n ma ahu wa-qad hamiltuhu shoulders in Circassia and raised ˇ arkas wa-rabbaytuhu ka-l-walad; Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, quoted in˙ Levanoni, ala¯ katfayya fı¯ bila¯d G “Laqab,” 108). However, the relationship seems not to have been that impeccable, as Qurmusˇ ˇ a¯nibak anyway, as Levanoni relates. finally abandoned G 52 According to some legal scholars, “a client becomes like a son” (al-wala¯’ yas¯ır ka-l-walad, ˙ Marmon, 14 – 6). 53 Marmon, 14 – 6. This obligation was brought about by the act of manumission, not by the training and upbringing in the household. 54 Forand, 63: “The word sanı¯ a is applied to one who has been nourished, raised and trained by ˙ another and who, is therefore beholden to the benefactor, to whom the sani a stands in the relation of a servant, pupil or fosterchild.” See also the reference to ˙istina¯ cited above. 55 Marmon refers to a relevant hadı¯t cited in legal compendia: “wala¯’ is ˙a˙ relation like the ¯ ˙ sold relation of kinship; it cannot be or given away” (al-wala¯’ luhma ka-luhmat an-nasab la¯ ˙ of a cliens ˙ by a patronus, yuba¯ wa-la¯ yu¯hab, Marmon, 15 – 16). For early Roman manumissio cf. Pflücke, 16 – 17. There were also other ways for slaves to become family, like attaining the privileged status of mother of the owner’s son (umm walad). 56 “Certain especially favoured mamlu¯ks of an amir could often be treated as quasi-kin, in that they were brought up in all respects as part of the family” (Richards, 34). This kind of “slave kinship” might even entitle mamlu¯k kin to inheritance, although property was more easily passed on as waqf (Richards, 33 – 5 and 37). 57 Yosef, 55 – 6. See also Richards, “Mamluk amirs.” 58 Yosef, 55; Levanoni, “Laqab,” 104; van Steenbergen, 76 – 85. ˘

˘

˘

˘

˘

˘

˘

93

Family, friend or foe?

century.59 This was one of the sultan’s prerogatives, which enabled emirs to do the same if they were sufficiently close to the monarch.60 Mamluk emir’s motives for bringing relatives to Egypt are difficult to ascertain, but once their relatives had arrived and had been appointed to more or less important positions, they would never fail the emir – not so much because they were biological relatives, but mainly because they were dependent on the emir who had brought them to Egypt. Not actually belonging to the mamlu¯k elite, they were more isolated in a foreign country than normal mamlu¯ks used to be, so that forming relationships independent from their relatives was extremely difficult for them. They were therefore very reliable associates for the importing emir, who had, for all intents and purposes, turned them into clients.61 Circassian recruits in Egypt often met relatives and old friends from home who had been sold as slaves before them (a fact which is only occasionally alluded to in the sources), so that they might have formed relationships based on common geographical origin or kinship.62 Similarly, there relationships through female relatives from Circassia and through marital ties with women imported from the native lands are occasionally mentioned.63 Another violation of the purported one-generation nobility rule happened when emirs managed to directly pass on military elite status to their sons (awla¯d an-na¯s).64 Belonging to a Mamluk family also helped awla¯d an-na¯s to find a place in the administrative or religious elite, with which emirs routinely formed marriage ties, as well.65 Obviously, both artificial and biological kinship mattered, and often coexisted.

˘

59 Richards, 36, Yosef, 55 – 69. 60 Yosef, 56. While the Qalawunid dynasty, already living in Egypt, had not imported further relatives, the Circassian sultanate had no royal dynasty, so that in the 15th century, several sultans exercised their prerogative (ibid., 60 – 63). Yosef concludes that “…only a small cadre of favoured Mamluks could bring their relatives into the Sultanate. This group of Mamluks could shed the signs of slavery, the most important of which was the lack of family ties. Only this group, and not all the Mamluks, can be regarded as elite” (ibid., 56 (quote) and 69). Yosef ’s concept of slavery is based on Orlando Patterson’s Slavery and Social Death (but cf. Ze’evi, 74 – 5). 61 For the concept of clientelism, see below. ˇ aqmaq al- Ala¯’ı¯ was supported considerably by 62 Yosef, 61 – 2. For instance, the later sultan G ˇ arkas was the brother of al-Malik az-Za¯hir ˇ arkas al-Musa¯ri : “G his influential elder brother G ˙ his ˙ He was the older one and the reason ˙for ˇ aqmaq – may God award victory to him. G advancement (wa-huwa l-asann wa-s-sabab fı¯ taraqqı¯hi)” (Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Manhal IV, 211). 63 Richards, 33 – 7; van Steenbergen, 84 – 4. 64 Haarmann, “The sons,” idem, “Joseph’s Law” and Richards, “Mamluk amirs,” with a list of 14th century awla¯d an-na¯s emirs. At least in Syria, elite families of Ayyubid and Mamluk origin established themselves for several generations well into the 16th or even 17th centuries; see Richards, 37 – 9, Winter, “Mamluks,” Meier, “Patterns,” Ze’evi, 80; cf. also the Ug˙ulbak family who belonged to the military elite for generations, as documented in Saghbini, Urkunden. 65 Richards, 34: “In the Mamluk state there was a commonly accepted role for family connections in both the religious and administrative spheres.” ˘

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Ascribed relations of common origin

Common geographical origin (Landsmannschaft)66 could also be activated as an ascribed relationship. The corresponding Mamluk concept was gˇ ins,67 which seems to have been employed to distribute the Sultanic mamlu¯ks on various barracks (sg. tabaqa)68 and was occasionally invoked in political struggle as ˙ ethnic solidarity (gˇ insiyya).69 From the late 14th century onwards, the Circassian element seems to have claimed political precedence against the Qıpcˇaq element that had predominated until then.70 However, it is difficult to ascertain whether they did this in a protonationalist way, actually justifying predominance with Circassian origin, because contemporary authors who touched upon this topic did so in accusing the Circassians of discriminating against mamlu¯ks of different origin. Other than such negative stereotyping, gˇ ins seems in general to have played a minor role as a potential grounds for positively forming relationships.71 Although instances of alleged discrimination caused resentment, certain can-

˘

˘

66 Reinhardt, Freunde, 40. 67 See van Steenbergen, 92 – 4. Ethnic origin as a social marker was also displayed by attire (idem, 94, citing al-Maqrı¯zı¯ on varying turban sizes). 68 It is, however, not entirely clear whether gˇ ins really refers to ethnicity in the modern sense, or perhaps to a less clear-cut concept of origin similar to that employed in dormitories of medieval universities. 69 Ayalon, “Circassians,” Van Steenbergen, 92 – 4, translates gˇ insiyya as ethnicity and suggests that it was employed by sultan al-Muzaffar Hagˇgˇ¯ı “…like several other kinship ties, to ˙ enhance the sultan’s relationship with ˙his clients, his Mamluks in particular” (ibid., 94). 70 Ayalon, “Circassians,” 137 – 144. Cf. Conermann/Haarmann, 218 – 9. Ayalon interprets the bloody struggles around 1400 marking the transition from the Qipchaq to the Circassian period not as a conflict among powerful emirs and their factions, but to a considerable degree as an ethnic conflict between Circassians and Turks (“Circassians,” 139 – 142). Ayalon, who published the mentioned article back in 1949, bases his argument mainly on Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯’s writings, which may be biased as that chronicler had close connections to several emirs and certain court circles and was himself the son of an emir of non-Circassian, Anatolian/Rumelian (ru¯mı¯) origin. 71 This can at least be said concerning the situation in the 15th century, the so-called Mongol faction (min gˇins at-tatar) led by Qugˇqa¯r al-Qurdumı¯ in 1421 probably being the last (and quite ephemeral) faction supposedly convened on grounds of ethnicity (Irwin, ”Factions“, 233). Sultan al-Mu’ayyad Sˇayh had started to purchase more “Turkish” slaves again to enter ˘ to the predominant Circassians (Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugˇu¯m VI, his gˇulba¯n as a counterweight 430). His close client Altunbug˙a¯ al-Qurmusˇ¯ı was said to have been of “Turkish” origin, as well (Garcin, Regime, 293). ˙It has to be kept in mind, however, that geographical or toponymic attributes might simply designate different groups or factions without any reference to allegiance or group formation. For example, troops coming from Egypt to Syria could be called misriyyu¯n just to distinguish them from their adversaries (Al-Qudsı¯, 52b – 53a, and al˙ 138). But as ethnical, religious or other characteristics can obviously be construed Aynı¯, Iqd, and exploited for political mobilizing, it is not surprising that in the late 13th century, ˇ asˇnakı¯r was allegedly Kitbug˙a¯ rallied support among Mongol mamlu¯ks, while Baybars al-G supported by Circassians (Rabbat, 96).

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didates may as well have been favoured for their patronage or friendship ties, which often coincided with and were reinforced by gˇ ins ties. This is not to say that gˇ ins discrimination was absent, but obviously the excluded quickly justified their misfortune by stating that belonging to ‘the gˇ ins’ or ‘the people’ (qawm), i. e. the Circassians, was a precondition for advancement.72 A functionally similar concept of common origin from the same master’s household was husˇda¯ˇsiyya. Husˇda¯ˇsiyya mainly served as a potential basis for ˘ ˘ establishing a relationship, which could be invoked, but did not become effective automatically.73 Socialisation in the barracks (sg. tabaqa)74 seems to have played ˙ a formative role, as each generation of new recruits established close relationships with older mamlu¯ks who took an important part in their training: an “older brother” (ag˙a¯) instructing and looking after “younger brothers” (iniya¯t).75 This means that husˇda¯ˇsiyya was only the context in which concrete ˘ relationships were formed and that it had a differentiated structure: on the general level, all recruits of a sultan (or emir) belonged to a husˇda¯ˇsiyya, but there ˘ were subdivisions (in the Sultanic mamlu¯ks’ case, the various barracks or, tiba¯q), ˙ which were further divided into small groups of ag˙a¯s and inı¯s.76 As intensity and effectiveness of mutual ties tend to increase with diminishing group size, various tabaqas might compete with each other, while the husˇda¯˙ ˇsiyya, like other types of common origin, was only meaningful in relation˘ to the outside world. The ag˙a¯-inı¯ group, however, was the closest thing to a family a

˘

72 Ayalon cites acerbic comments by Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯: “To my knowledge, he did not posses any virtues except that he was a Circassian, belonging to ‘the race’” (wa-la¯ a rif fı¯hi min almaha¯sin g˙ayr annahu gˇarkası¯ al-gˇins min gˇins al-qawm), or : “He displays the giddiness of ˙ and the frivolity of the Circassians” (wa- indahu taysˇ asˇ-sˇubu¯biyya wa-hiffat al-gˇayouth ˙ of al-Manhal as-sa¯fı¯˘). ra¯kisa) (Ayalon, “Circassians,” 143 – 4, citing a manuscript ˙˙ Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ maintains in Nugˇu¯m VI, 547 that al-Mu’ayyad Sˇayh had appointed Altunbug˙a¯ ˘ ata¯bak al- asa¯kir because the latter was “not of the race of the people” (ka¯na min g˙ayr˙ gˇins alqawm la¯ g˙ayr), meaning, according to Ayalon, that Altunbug˙a¯ did not pose a political threat because he was not of Circassian origin (Ayalon, ibid.).˙ Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯’s view might, however, be influenced by a critical attitude towards Circassian predominance. His assessment of support for Husˇqadam’s application for the sultanate is similar, reasoning that it would be ˘ of Husˇqadam because he was (like Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯’s father) of Anatolian or easy to dispose ˘ Rumelian origin (fa-innahu min g˙ayr al-gˇins ya nı¯ kawnahu ru¯mı¯ al-gˇ ins; Nugˇu¯m VII, 667, cited in Ayalon, ibid.). 73 Cf. Levanoni, “Laqab,” 92, and Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugˇu¯m VI, 425. 74 The tiba¯q were not strictly barracks, but “included a variety of building types” (Rabbat, 94). ˙ 75 Levanoni, “Laqab,” 93. The honorary title ag˙a¯ could also refer to a eunuch functioning as a tutor (Rabbat, 95); a eunuch ag˙a¯ could be distinguished from a mamlu¯k called ag˙a¯ as ag˙a¯ tawa¯ˇs¯ı (al-Qudsı¯, Duwal, 129). These eunuchs probably formed relationships with the pupils ˙(Sg. kutta¯bı¯) as well, but would permanently remain in their positions, in contrast to mamlu¯k ag˙a¯s. 76 Levanoni, “Laqab,” 93 – 4 and 100 – 3. ˘

˘

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young mamlu¯k recruit could have.77 As the inı¯s were also closely related to each other, the group’s structure is not typical of a patronage network (as Levanoni seems to suggest). A patronage network is characterised by low density, because the clients only have their hierarchical relationship with the patron in common, who is not interested in the creation of clusters or increased density, because such close ties would diminish his own centrality. Husˇda¯ˇsiyya intensity should ˘ therefore ideally be conceptualised on these three levels: the master’s household, where applicable its subdivisions, and their ag˙a¯-inı¯ groups. In most cases, a Sultanic mamlu¯ks’ career became more complicated when he had to leave the citadel and entered an emir’s household after his master’s demise. The integration into an emir’s household proved decisive for the further development,78 because the relationships formed in it provided the basis for faction building. This was for the most part irrespective of husˇda¯ˇsiyya with other former ˘ sultanic mamlu¯ks, but often combined with familial ag˙a¯-inı¯ relations. Levanoni states that “not a single coalition (hizb) was found in the Circassian period that ˙ formed around a candidate for rule in which husˇda¯ˇsiyya was the central and the ˘ only unifying factor.“ Consequently, the political struggle took place between “coalitions through a multi-dimensional network of connections,”79 because the inexperienced and disorganised young sultanic mamlu¯ks (gˇulba¯n) and the senior mamlu¯ks were structurally compelled to cooperate.

2.3.

Acquired relations of patronage and friendship

Patronage and client relationships denote the same concept from the patron’s and the client’s point of view, respectively. It is based on the asymmetry between the favour-giving patron and the loyalty-giving client, so long as the client is unable to compensate for the patron’s favour.80 Nevertheless, patronage is a

77 See the section about kinship. To give one example, Tatar had been among Barqu¯q’s gˇulba¯n, ˇ˙aqmaq, who were only one “intake” in the Zamma¯miyya barracks, as had Barsba¯y and˙ G (hargˇ) younger. So they had known each other well from their early youth, which formed the ˘ basis for a lasting friendship (perhaps even uhu¯wa) between Tatar and Barsba¯y as well as ˘ ¯ t of the same ˙ag˙˙ a¯); a similar relationship ˇ aqmaq (both being iniya between Barsba¯y and G (mahabba akı¯da; wadd qadı¯m wa-suhba) is reported for Barsba¯y and Tara¯ba¯y (Levanoni, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 102 – 3). “Laqab,” 100 – 1; further examples ibid., 78 Levanoni, “Laqab,” 99 and 104. 79 Levanoni, “Laqab,” 109. 80 Pflücke defines patronage as a “dyadic, interpersonal contract of formal or informal character, by which a person P, on the basis of his/her superior opportunities, provides permanent protection for another person C. In return, C provides spontaneous or deferred services […], but P’s services [i. e., protection and favour] must not be compensated for, in the involved person’s opinion, in order to sustain C’s dependence of P.” In that case, the client

Family, friend or foe?

97

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reciprocal relationship that confers social status as an influential patron and as a client, respectively, of an important personality onto both partners.81 It is therefore an acquired, asymmetrical and purpose-oriented relationship that entails mutual obligations, mainly loyalty and service (hidma) on the client’s ˘ part and protection and favour the part of the patron82, while the patron’s favour (ni ma) could take the form of promotions or appointments, financial and other benefits conferred upon the client by his patron, or at least through his intercession (sˇafa¯ a).83 From the client’s point of view, establishing and maintaining a patronage relationship was historically84 an investment of social capital, which he entrusted to his patron for mutual benefits. The patron also invested social and economic capital as well, so that patronage was indeed a business relationship. This does not mean, however, that patronage was an exclusively utilitarian endeavor without any commitment on both sides.85 However, it was possible (albeit not necessarily advantageous) to have more than one patron at a time,86 and it was common to change allegiances from one patron to another. It goes without saying that the same person could at the same time be a client and a patron to different people. While this kind of relationship is often frowned upon in modern times,87 it formed an entirely functional and universally accepted part of life in pre-modern societies, and included moral and social obligations. In spite of the ubiquity of patronage, however, the specific conditions and characteristics of patronage relationships should be kept in mind to avoid seeing patronages everywhere, while ignoring other factors. The master-slave relationship between an usta¯d ¯ and his mamlu¯k lasted until manumission. After that, the mamlu¯k usually re˘

81 82

83 84 85 86 87

relationship either ends or changes into a symmetrical relationship, like friendship. (Pflücke, 113). Cf. Ma. czak, 344. See, e. g., Reinhard, Freunde, 19 – 40, cf. Schweizer, 125, as well as van Steenbergen, 62 – 3 and 72 – 5. Literature on the phenomenon of patronage is abundant. See, e. g., Droste, “Patronage,” 555 – 7; Sharon Kettering, Patronage in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth Century France. Aldershot 2002; Ronald G. Asch and Andreas M. Birke (eds.), Princes, Patronage and the Nobility. The Court at the Beginnings of the Modern Age. London 1991, and Antoni Ma. czak (ed.), Klientelsysteme im Europa der Frühen Neuzeit. München 1988. This is exemplified by van Steenbergen, 63 – 8. The following past-tense remarks concern the cultural conditions of pre-modern patronage, which might well continue to be true for modern informal patronage relations. Asch, 274 – 8; Droste, “Patronage,” 555 – 589 and idem, “Habitus,” 112 – 3. For a different assessment, cf. van Steenbergen, 59. Although patronage and similar social practices seem to contravene modernity and democracy, they turn out to be practically indispensable (Asch, 266 – 9, citing, among others, Pierre Bourdieu’s La noblesse d’Êtat on France and Adam Bellow’s In Praise of Nepotism on the United States).

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˘

mained in his master’s service, but could enter a relationship with another master at some stage. Levanoni even asserts that the [clientelistic] relationship between an emir and a manumitted mamlu¯k, i. e. between two free men, “could be severed whenever one of the parties wished”.88 It is certainly true that this was a voluntary relationship, but in order to be effective it had to include mutual obligations of the patron and the client. The occasion to dissolve it might have arisen if either of the two actors involved fell short of fulfilling their obligations, or either of them might consciously accept severe damage to his reputation by violating his obligations. Apart from formally entering the service of an emir or sultan other than one’s manumitter (istihda¯m), there were various other terms ˘ to denote a clientelistic relationship (ittisa¯l, indima¯m, intima¯’),89 which became ˙ ˙ more important than the initial master-slave relationship. Another expression applied to clients in the sources is follower (ta¯bi ),90 while the patron’s clientele, i. e., the whole of his clients, was often called his entourage (ha¯ˇsiya),91 although it ˙ is not always clear whether this also included the household itself. The related type of friendship is an acquired, symmetrical and purposeoriented relationship between social equals. Pre-modern friendship92 was closely related to patronage, as it was also a voluntary arrangement for mutual benefits that entailed obligations and expectations. Sometimes patronage relationships were verbally veiled as friendships.93 Just like patronage, this characterization of friendship might look “cold and calculating,”94 but in the absence of legally reliable impersonal institutions, instrumentalising interpersonal relations was simply a necessity.95 In contrast to clients and patrons, friends (who might as well be called allies in a political setting) enjoyed a symmetrical relationship which might be dissolved with much less damage to reputation and trustworthiness, depending on the situation. If friendship loses its symmetry,

88 Levanoni, “Laqab,” 90. 89 Levanoni, “Laqab,” 89 – 90 (ittasala bi-, indamma ila¯ and intama¯ li-). A mamlu¯k regularly ˙ (mahdu¯m) ˙ after his manumitter (usta¯d) had died (Ayalon, entered the service of another lord ¯ ˘ (ittisa¯l, hidma) could terminologically “Structure,” 216), so that cliental service differen˙ ˘ tiated from quasi-kinship. It would be an important task to further study the relevant terminology employed in the sources to differentiate the mode and intensity of such relations. 90 Levanoni, “Laqab,” 90. 91 See, e. g., Richards, 35 – 6. 92 For various aspects and recent literature, see Descharmes/Heuser/Krüger/Loy (eds.), Varieties of friendship, especially the article of Polexe, 31 – 2 and 52 – 66. 93 Asch, 272 – 4. Patronage veiled as friendship seems to have occurred in Mamluk Egypt as well, as clients were sometimes called asha¯b (van Steenbergen, 59). ˙ ˙ character of clientelism/patronage (cf. also ibid., 94 Van Steenbergen, 77, on the business-like 90 and 170). 95 Asch, 268 – 71 and 277 – 8.

99

Family, friend or foe?

friends can become clients and patrons, respectively.96 Except for the very close “old companionship” (suhba qadı¯ma) or quasi-kin uhu¯wa ties mentioned ˙ ˙ ˘ above,97 friendship relations appear less frequently in the context of power struggle. They should, however, not be underestimated against the background of husˇda¯ˇsiyya, because friendships functioned as alliances between in˘ dividuals.98

2.4.

Interim result: Mamluk relations

In Mamluk society, modes of interpersonal relationships similar to other societies existed. Patronage, for instance, was socially as indispensable as in the West and elsewhere, even though it took different forms. Pre-modern relationships between patrons and clients, or between friends, served mutual benefit and had mutual obligations. In addition to common biological kinship, slave kinship played a particularly important role. This does not mean that it completely eclipsed biological kinship, but creating kin by de facto adopting slaves, or former slaves, belonged to the main characteristics of Mamluk society. Many relationships, like those between master and slave, or wala¯’ towards a manumitter, had a legal dimension, which should be distinguished from their social meaning and from social institutions like patronage or households. As, on the other hand, most relationships were of a multiplex nature, they regularly intersected. For example, a master could become a manumitted slave’s patron or quasi-kin while both shared a wala¯’ relationship at the same time, or an emir’s kinsman brought to Egypt from Circassia would subsequently become the emir’s client. Common origin – like ethnic background (gˇ ins) or comrade solidarity (husˇda¯ˇsiyya) – would be invoked as a collective self-description vis-—-vis out˘ siders. Ascribed relationships like these changed easily from potentiality into

˘

˘

96 When the regent Tatar left Cairo for Syria in 1421, he enstrusted several emirs of his own ˙ ˙ the situation in the capital under control, among them his former inı¯ faction with keeping ˇ aqmaq al- Ala¯’ı¯, his uhu¯wa friend Yasˇbak as-Sa¯qı¯ al-A ragˇ, as well as Qa¯nı¯ba¯y al-Hamza¯wı¯, G ˙ Sˇayh’s and Aqbug˙a¯ at-Timra¯zı¯˘. Just like Tatar himself, the four of them had been al-Mu’ayyad ˙ ˙ after Sˇayh’s death, Tatar must have become their new ˘ clients (but not his mamlu¯ks), but ˙ ˙ ˘ patron; if they had only been his allies in a more or less symmetrical relationship, it would have been risky to leave them back in Cairo. In fact, Tatar took his most powerful allies, ˙ ˙ Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Manhal IV, 275 – 83, especially Tanibak Miyiq, with the army into Syria (Ibn No. 849, Levanoni, “Laqab,” 106, as-Saha¯wı¯, Daw’ VI, 195, No. 661, Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Manhal II, ˙ ˘ throne, 475, No. 484). Shortly after ascending the Tatar’s alliance with Tanibak Miyiq seems ˙ ˙ the new sultan as the supreme patron to have turned into a patronage relationship between and one of his influential emirs. 97 Richards, 37. 98 In this regard, friendship is analogous to an alliance between households or factions on a collective level (see below).

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actuality, but would rarely be relied on as the sole link between two actors. Acquired relationships like patronage or friendship, however, needed to be established and maintained, but were much more reliable and effective, so that ascribed relations rather used to reinforce acquired relationships and constituted the background against which actual networks were formed. In this vein, husˇda¯ˇsiyya can be further differentiated on two or three levels, depending on the ˘ size of the household to which the mamlu¯ks pledged allegiance: Beneath general husˇda¯ˇsiyya against other Mamluk households, tabaqa solidarity was directed ˙ ˘ against other tabaqas, while close ag˙a¯-inı¯ groups could be connected by familial ˙ quasi-kinship relationships as well as friendship and patronage. In contrast, only a small number of slave recruits could be integrated into a quasi-kin relationship with the household core to become part of the household proper (like the ha¯s˘ ˙ sakiyya), while all other retainers became clients if not paid soldiers. ˙

3.

Households and Factions

3.1.

Households

The household concept has become widely accepted in the field, but it is rarely mentioned explicitly in the sources, except for some references to a house (bayt) or a gate (ba¯b).99 Accordingly, the household concept is not inherently closer to the sources than the above-mentioned concepts of interpersonal relations. Unlike patronage, the household may have been taken for granted in many instances, when it was well-known that an individual belonged to a certain household. For all that we know, Middle Eastern households were comparable to the Greek oikos or the Roman and Latin familia of ancient and medieval times,100 which would rather be described as a household than as a family according to modern categories.101

99 Richards, 36; van Steenbergen, 94 – 5; cf. Hathaway, Politics, 21 – 2. The term gate (ba¯b, qapu, derga¯h) used to denote the physical as well as the social institution pars pro toto in Middle Eastern and Ottoman contexts. 100 For the oikos, see Cox, 130 – 167, and Pomeroy, 17 – 66. In the early Roman familia, clientes sought the legal, political and ritual protection of a patronus. The strong and, in fact, eponymous Roman patron-client relationship was primarily formed by manumission (manumussio), and was inherited by the following generations (Pflücke, 16 – 17). 101 For the related medieval and early modern concept of “Ganzes Haus,” which in central Europe included the whole retinue of a nobleman, see Brunner, 103 – 127; cf. also Völkel, 15.

101

Family, friend or foe?

3.2.

Mamluk households between kinship and patronage

˘

A 15th century emir’s household was an extended family household,102 that is a compact, densely interrelated and economically interdependent group consisting of the grandee’s genealogical family, his military and domestic slaves and his closest clients who actually had become part of the extended family.103 However, the fact that a household formed a closely interrelated group does not necessarily mean that its members always acted unanimously, since individuals within a household as well as different households of the same lineage often became rivals. Quite adequately, Rapoport “…sheds doubt on the notion of elite households as autonomous, hierarchical and well-defined units”.104 In connection with the group itself, clientelistic and other ties with household members were widespread without necessitating household membership. The extended family formed a household as it lived in the same palatial mansion on a shared economic basis,105 which means that permanent residents of the physical household were closer to its core than clients and further subordinates who were economically dependent on the household head. The economic basis of the household consisted of the emir’s sources of income (particularly iqta¯ a¯t and ˙ perhaps awqa¯f). Perhaps the emir managed to secure similar, supplementary sources for household members by means of his influence at court, which would continue to belong to the same household so long as they were held in dependence from the emir’s favour. Family members in the household core were bound by blood ties as well as marital ties, while slaves included domestic servants and mamlu¯k recruits before manumission. Among the emir’s closest clients, who could become family as well, were his most trusted mamlu¯ks who lived in his residence, formed his personal guard and trained the mamlu¯k recruits. It is not clear if or to what extent the emir’s other manumitted mamlu¯ks 102 Eric Arnold, “Households,” In: SSE, 364 – 66, for the extended family household, ibid., 365; cf. Marcel Nicolas, “Haushalt(ung), Haushalt(ung)s-Statistik.” In: W. Bernsdorf (ed.), Wörterbuch der Soziologie. Stuttgart 21969, S. 413 – 15. 103 This broad definition of the extended family household is generally undisputed. See, e. g., van Steenbergen, 94 – 5 and 167. The same institution continued to exist and develop in Ottoman Egypt at least until the 17th-18th century, for which Jane Hathaway identifies three contiguous types of households; the variety closest to 15th century Mamluk households seems to be the grandee household. Hathaway criticises the vague usage of the term household, which implied the revival or uninterrupted existence of the same Mamluk institution that went unchanged from the 13th to the 19th century (ibid., 47 – 51). Instead, the 17th century elite household should be firmly situated within the Ottoman context (ibid., 27 and 167), in which households developed into an entirely new direction; in Baghdad, for example, the dominating household grew into an Ottoman-local elite that almost coincided with the imperial state structure in that province (Lier, Haushalte). 104 Rapoport, “Divorce,” 213. Cf. Hathaway, Politics, 70 – 87 and Lansing, 177. 105 Cf. Hathaway, Politics, 19 – 20, 109 – 124 and 130 – 138.

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and clients of origins other than his household resided in that very location. In the case of less affluent emirs, no such distinction may have been made; but when an emir acquired hundreds of mamlu¯k slaves,106 it is hard to imagine that they stayed on all in the same place.107 As a consequence of these considerations, the household of the ruling sultan can be described as an extended family household only in a very limited sense, simply because of its enormous size, including thousands of servants, officials and mamlu¯ks, many of whom would enter the service of other masters than the present sultan, or remain at court after the end of his reign. The fusion of the sultan’s household, court, and royal guard was a result of the sultanate’s political structure that transformed the household of each new ruler into the central institution of patrimonial politics. Besides the royal household, the emirs’ households were the place where the Mamluk military and elite reproduced. However, as elite status could not easily be inherited by family members like women and mamlu¯ks’ sons (awla¯d an-na¯s), a mamlu¯k close to the household head had to continue the household, starting with marrying his master’s or patron’s daughter. Another possibility of continuation was that, for instance after an emir’s or sultan’s demise, an ambitious emir married his widow to achieve control over the household and its assets.108 This phenomenon should at the same time be considered as part of elite networking in general, in which women were certainly key figures, although unfortunately for the most part inaccessible to modern scholarship.109 The boundary between members of the

˘

106 Richards, 35, and van Steenbergen, 89. 107 Besides, on that level, the same limitations as in the royal barracks would have applied (see below), as the number of persons involved would simply have been too great to integrate them all in sufficient density, so that inner and outer circles would necessarily have formed. 108 Several regents married widows or daughters of their predecessors especially when acting as guardian regents. Tatar enforced his claims to the sultanate by marrying hawand Sa a¯da¯t ˙ ˙ dowager and mother of sultan al-Muzaffar Ahmad,˘only to divorce bt. Sarg˙itmisˇ, the queen ˙ ˙ ˙ her as soon as he could dispense with the support of Sˇayh’s former household and mamlu¯ks ˘ XII, 62, No. 376). Other instances (Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugˇu¯m VI, 500 and 507; as-Saha¯wı¯, Daw’ ˙ include Sˇayh who married Zaynab bt. Barqu¯q˘ and Barsba ¯y who married Fa¯tima bt. Tatar ˙ ˙ (as-Saha¯wı¯, ˘Daw’ XII, 40, No. 234 and ibid., p. 92, No. 572). This policy worked in ˙both ˙ ˘ ˇ ways: When sultan al-Mu’ayyad Sayh married his daughter to his close client and commander-in-chief (ata¯bak al- asa¯kir) ˘Altunbug˙a¯ al-Qurmusˇ¯ı, he effectively entrusted his ˙ household to the latter, enabling him continue it and to buttress his claim to the throne (Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugˇu¯m VI, 411, and Manhal III, 62 – 6, No. 537). Cf. also van Steenbergen, 96. 109 For intra-elite matrimonial networking within the same personal and historical context, cf. the marriages of Barsba¯y and Fa¯tima bt. Qugˇqa¯r (as-Saha¯wı¯, Daw’ XII, 99, no. 622), as well ˙ nı¯ (as-Saha¯wı¯, Daw’ XII, 58, ˘ ¯ du as Sitt al-Mulu¯k bt. Tatar and ata¯˙bak al- asa¯kir Yasˇbak as-Su ¯ ˙ ¯ ˇs Qa¯ˇsuq, ˙ ˙ himself married the daughters of several emirs ˘ (G ˇ aqmaq ˇ arba no. 348). Sultan G Kurtba¯y, Arg˙u¯n Sˇa¯h), ulama¯’ notables (Zayn ad-Dı¯n Abd al-Ba¯sit, Muhammad al-Ba¯rizı¯) ˙˙ a¯dir ˙emirate). See, e. g., and foreign rulers (an Ottoman princess and another from the Dulg Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugˇu¯m VII, 253; al- Aynı¯, Iqd, 519; as-Saha¯wı¯, Daw’ VII, 210; Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, ˙ ˘ Manhal IV, 647. ˘

˘

˘

˘

˘

˘

103

Family, friend or foe?

extended family and clients dependent on the household head as a patron was often blurred. Even though our knowledge of the cultural ramifications and possible varieties of patron-client relationships in the Mamluk context is still limited, clients who became members of a household (extended-family members) should be distinguished from clients outside the household who merely shared the same patron. As long as the focus is not on actors of the transitional stage between these two, the former should be referred to as household members, while the latter were clients in every sense of the word.110 If the Mamluk household established an ascribed and formally acknowledged form of artificial kinship through mamlu¯k-usta¯d and husˇda¯ˇsiyya relations, this ¯ ˘ meant that it could easily be activated and invoked in case of need. Artificial kinship also required a high density of husˇda¯ˇsiyya relations and – as con˘ sequence – a low centrality of the usta¯d. These characteristics indeed resembled ¯ a kinship group, but clearly differed from a patronage network (with high centrality, low density, no group consciousness and weak internal structure).111 However, integration by quasi-familial relations in high density could only have worked in a limited setting,112 as it would have been impossible to integrate several hundred or even thousands of recently recruited sultanic mamlu¯ks (gˇulba¯n) inhabiting the royal barracks, and neither would that have been possible in large emir’s households. In such an environment, the usta¯d (i. e., the ¯ sultan or, in some cases, a very affluent emir) did certainly not appear as a father 113 figure, but rather as an employer. What the gˇulba¯n had in common was their

˘

110 Hathaway makes a similar distinction with reference to the 17th century, namely between inner and outer clients. Similarly, in the Mamluk context, the term ta¯bi meant a closer client, irrespective of the individual’s status as a slave or a free man. His relationship with the patron went beyond mere clientelism, especially when the ta¯bi entered his master’s household and established further relations with other household members (Hathaway, Politics, 22 – 4 and 64). In this way, a former client could become a member of the patron’s extended family. According to Hathaway, a client who was also a ta¯bi belonged to his master’s household, while clients in general could also enter other people’s service as assistants (müla¯zim, Åıraq) without giving up loyalty to their patron. If an OttomanEgyptian ta¯bi thought of himself as a quasi-relative of his master, he may as well have felt, for example, an obligation towards the latter’s son (Philipp, 123 – 4). In the second half of the 18th century, however, the basis of loyalty seems to have been destroyed by murders of master and comrade (idem, 124 – 127). These later developments show that relationships vary in intensity ; it will therefore not be sufficent to determine whether a patronage relationship existed at some point, but at least a distinction has to be made between actual clients and former clients who had become members of the extended family household. 111 For the marked difference between a group and a clientele (or, a patronage network), see Pflücke, 107. 112 Richards, 35; cf. Levanoni, “Laqab,” 92. 113 In Irwin’s words: “A Mamluk served his master because his master served him, and there was money involved” (Irwin, “Factions,” 237). ˘

˘

˘

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patronage relationship with the sultan.114 Hence, the mamlu¯ks who became extended family members have to be distinguished from the large number of other mamlu¯ks serving the same master. Their “business-like” patronage relationship with their master was almost equivalent with that of mamlu¯ks of other origin who had entered their master’s service (mustahdamu¯n), or of con˘ tractually bonded servants (alza¯m).115 However, to describe the relation of manumitted clients with their master, family terms were applied metaphorically,116 so that in evaluating the content of a relationship alluded to in the sources, it would be appropriate not to attach too much significance to a single word, but to focus on the context and the actors’ behaviour. As inmates of the same barracks, mamlu¯ks might establish relations based on common ethnic or geographical origin. In the same vein, husˇda¯ˇsiyya between the ˘ sultan’s mamlu¯ks could be activated as a political link for tactical purposes, for distinction, inclusion and exclusion, or perhaps forming alliances, but it had little to do with affection.117 The patronage relationship between a large mamlu¯k corps and their master ended with the latter’s demise, forcing the mamlu¯ks to find a new patron. Therefore, the split of a corps of Sultanic mamlu¯ks like that after al-Mu’ayyad Sˇayh’s death can not only be explained by the corps’ sheer ˘ size,118 but also with the fact that their parallel relationship of clientage with Sˇayh ˘ had simply come to an end.119 While the whole of the Sultanic mamlu¯ks did not become part of the royal household in the narrow sense of the word, a small part 114 The business-like relationship between the usta¯d and the bulk of his mamlu¯ks is aptly ¯ described by Richards: “It must surely be true that if a great amir had mamlu¯ks in any considerable number, then his relationship to the mass of them must have been of a more contractual nature, based on the satisfaction of maintenance expectations on the one hand, and the performance of their duties on the other” (Richards, 35). The limited reliability of the relationship between the sultan and his gˇulba¯n became already obvious when an-Na¯sir ˙ Muhammad accelerated the promotion of Sultanic mamlu¯ks to counterbalance the emirs’ ˙ but seems to have overtaxed the network ties, which might have contributed to the power, weakening of their loyalty (cf. Levanoni, “Rank-and-file Mamluks,” 23). 115 Richards, 35 – 6. According to him, a la¯zim (pl. alza¯m) was a warrior who hired himself for a lengthy period of time to a master (the references pertain to the 14th century). Both mustahdamu¯n and alza¯m could be mamlu¯ks as well as non-mamlu¯ks. It was also not un˘ common to seek employment with one’s master’s enemy after the former had died. In this way, ¯Ina¯l an-Nawru¯zı¯, a mamlu¯k of Nawru¯z al-Ha¯fiz¯ı, served his master in his struggle with ˙ ˙ z’s death, ¯Ina¯l entered Sˇayh’s service his former ally and then rival Sˇayh, but after Nawru ¯ ˘ ¯, Manhal III, 200 – 1, No. 618). Obviously, ˘ in large without further ado (Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı Mamluk households like that of a wealthy emir, a mamlu¯k’s relationship with the usta¯d was ¯ usually not familial, but clientelistic, i. e., based on mutual benefit and not on an affective bond. 116 Forand, 60. 117 Cf. Irwin, “Factions,” 237: “What husˇda¯ˇsiyya conveyed was expectations of mutual service ˘ and log rolling.” 118 Cf. Irwin, “Factions,” 238. 119 Cf. the split of the gˇulba¯n after Barsba¯y’s demise (Nugˇu¯m VII, 13 – 4).

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of the sultan’s mamlu¯ks did enter a kinship-like relationship with their master, particularly those referred to as ha¯ssakı¯ who did enter the royal household and ˘ ˙˙ could thus gain access to influential people or the sultan himself. The privileged ha¯ssakı¯s were accomodated separately from the ordinary Sultanic mamlu¯ks; ˘ ˙˙ they served as pages in the royal household, some of them being educated together with sons of the sultan, or they entered the royal guard (sila¯hda¯riyya, ˙ gˇamda¯riyya).120 Integration into the households of emirs must have happened in similar, less formalised ways, but clearly, only the closest mamlu¯ks became part of the family.121

3.3.

Factions

Political struggle in the Mamluk sultanate is often framed as factional strife between households, but to achieve a better understanding of these processes, it would be helpful to differentiate between household and faction, which are both connected with certain modes of interpersonal relations. Based on the differences between the group-related and patronage-related types of relations explicated in the previous section, I would further suggest to differentiate between two ideal types of political factions as well, which I will call group parties and patronage factions because the former is related to group formation and the latter to patronage. 3.3.1. Group parties The members of a group party interact with each other intensely, sharing an emotional and continuous group consciousness (”emotional solidarity and esprit de corps“),122 which is represented by colours and emblems, meeting places and territories, slogans and myths, religious acts and rituals, public performance, storytelling and political literature.123 According to Levanoni, an outstanding symbol of unity was the sultan’s throne name (laqab). By juxtaposing 120 Rabbat, 287 – 91; Ayalon, “Studies,” 213 – 15; Haarmann, “Osten,” 226. 121 “Certain especially favoured mamlu¯ks of an amir could often be treated as quasi-kin, in that they were brought up in all respects as a part of the family” (Richards, 34). 122 Heers, 273; K v. Beyme, “Partei, Faktion.” In: GGL, 672 – 733, esp. 681. Further characteristics of groups are shared norms of communication and interaction, reciprocal social roles and shared objectives (Schäfers, 20 – 1). Households qualify as groups, as well. 123 Hathaway, Tale, 188 and passim. The book title A Tale of Two Factions indicates that the distinction made above is not usually made in English usage, as the Ottoman-Egyptian factions referred to in the book seem to resemble group parties in the sense described above. For similar phenomena in Buyid Iraq and Iran, cf. Mottahedeh, 150 – 67; cf. also Irwin, “Factions,” 228 – 9.

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the two laqabs taken by virtually all Circassian sultans who actually ruled, namely az-Za¯hir and al-Asˇraf, Levanoni suggests that in the Circassian sultanate ˙ ˙ a political system of two opposing coalitions was established.124 In this way, the various households, factions and generations would flock to the symbolic name of an “ancient, quasi-mythological ancestor,” thereby avoiding bloody power struggles. However, this intriguing suggestion still needs to be corroborated by further evidence that would confirm the existence of coalition or party symbols and the formation of this specific tradition.125 A group party strives to exclude all competitors from power, hence avoiding alliances and allotting all available resources and allegiances to itself. In extreme cases – such as in medieval Italian city states – the struggle between group parties tends to involve all layers of society, because the parties consisted of noble families in the core and large numbers of clients on the fringes. This type of comprehensive power struggle obviously caused considerable damage, continuing for generations and entailing the destruction of whole city quarters. Compromise or temporal cooperation were quite uncustomary, since “[T]otal rivalry did not allow the existence of three factions,”126 leaving only room for two rival parties. The collective sentiment of honour was highly valued; public and religious feasts acquired a serious political meaning; battle cries, party symbols, religious ceremony and political polemics were meant for moral support of the respective party.127 Less extreme examples of what Hathaway calls bilateral factionalism occurred in various Middle Eastern settings, from the Byzantine Blues and Greens to the Qays and Yaman divide, and its 17th century Egyptian variety were the farı¯qayn of the Qa¯simı¯ and Faqa¯rı¯ parties. Although this full-fledged group party politics is “inherently divisive,” its assimilative power can provide cohesion to a fragmented society, instilling a sense of community and continuity, albeit only in opposing the rivaling party.128

124 She describes it as a development “from an one-generation and uni-factional structure to a multi-generation and bi-party structure” (Levanoni, “Laqab,” 114). Of the twenty-four Circassian sultans (1382 – 1517), seven did indeed take the laqab az-Za¯hir and six that of al˙ ˙ Asˇraf, almost all of whom were effective rulers. 125 For the Ottoman period, the functioning, symbolism and persistence of bilateral factionalism has been explained in detail by Jane Hathaway, Tale. Important tasks for future research will be to trace the start and development of bilateral factionalism or its predecessors in Egypt, to clarify whether late Mamluk and early Ottoman bilateral factionalism were linked and if, in what ways exactly. 126 Heers, 57. 127 Heers, 41, 54, 157 – 196, 257 – 67 and 281 – 90. 128 Hathaway, Tale, passim, esp. 27 – 8, 42 – 4 and 188 – 9.

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3.3.2. Patronage factions To achieve a shared goal, an existing network based on a variety of relationship types, especially on patronage, can be activated as an action set, which will henceforth be termed a patronage faction.129 A patronage faction’s sole purpose is to prevail in a conflict for obtaining or defending benefits; therefore, the faction mobilises its supporters along the threads of network relations130 on the basis of shared or complementary interest. A patronage faction is not a corporate group, but exists for a limited period of time and only on a political level.131 These characteristics, which Robert Irwin has found in 15th century Mamluk factions as well, clearly distinguish patronage factions from households.132 When a patronage network transformed itself into a patronage faction for conflict, the leading emir’s household formed the core, around which the clients of the leader and their household members assembled. In a third zone came clients of the clients and other indirectly connected followers recruited along network ties that were now activated. In addition, the faction accepted less committed supporters, particularly from among the Sultanic mamlu¯ks, as a promising faction in a struggle for succession to the throne attracted ever more gˇulba¯n and other fellow travellers. The core household allied itself with other households (or reminded lesser households of clients of their duty) by activating potential relationships and identifying common goals.133 A whole faction could also form a temporal alliance with other factions, which was facilitated by its purely “tactical” orientation. For the same reason, patronage factions limit their recruitment of supporters, so that common people only participate in their conflict as bystanders. Hence, 129 For “Islamic” action sets, see Loimeier/Reichmuth, 148. Cf. Nicholas, 57 – 8 and 66. The patronage faction is equivalent to (and named after) Max Weber’s Patronage-Partei (Max Weber, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft: Grundriß der verstehenden Soziologie, ed. J. Winckelmann, Tübingen 51976, 167). It seems to correspond roughly to a network in van Steenbergen’s terminology. 130 According to Reinhard, Freunde, 40, recruitment along these network relations selectively prefers actors connected with the patron (Siebungseffekt). However, the precise character of the supporters’ relations with the faction leader (or leaders) may vary individually and over time and may include other relation types than patronage, like kinship or friendship, religious or economic ties. For a similar process in group parties, cf. Lansing, 177 and 181. 131 Nicholas, 57 – 8 and 66. 132 Irwin, “Factions,” 236 – 9, esp. 229: “They cannot be seen as social building blocks,” quite in contrast to households: “The lesser households were the building blocks of that society” (Hathaway, Politics, 27). While Irwin’s article, taking the development of the Mu’ayyadiyya as a case in point, offers many valuable insights, his concept of faction is not as convincing. 133 Cf. Lind, 129 – 130, and Ma. czak, 343. Cf. also Padgett/Ansell, “Action” and, based on them, Jansen, 208 – 12. In medieval Florence, group parties organised along the Guelf-Ghibelline divide seem to have had an analogous basic structure, but with kinship relations at its core (Lansing, 176 – 80).

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ideal-type patronage factions do not use shared symbols and myths, nor do they engage in political debates in polemical treatises or literary works. They are not very interested in common welfare or specific policy objectives – what matters to them is the distribution of resources. They do not carry on feuds or vendetta, on the contrary, defection is commonplace and in fact part of the game.134 The tactical alliances patronage factions employed were very useful in winning a conflict, but after that had been accomplished, the difficult part for the rivalising faction leaders was to pick the right moment for dissolving the convenient coalition and eliminating their potential rivals. When such a manoeuvre was successful, the patronage faction would start to transform itself into a more stable and balanced non-combative patronage network to establish itself and remain in power. This involved not only disposing of enemies and inconvenient former allies and filling important positions with clients, but also integrating less closely-bound clients and accepting useful followers like the predecessor’s mamlu¯ks into the new ruler’s clientele.135 This process started immediately after his takeover : “Since everyone wanted to be on the winning side, by the time an emir actually reached the throne room his faction might be inordinately large. It was usually necessary after the first flush of victory celebrations to purge the dispensable fringes of the winning coalition, in order that the fruits of victory could be shared out less fairly and more profitably.”136

From a network perspective, group parties and households are characterised by high density and not especially conspicuous centrality of the leader or leaders. By contrast, the members of patronage networks and patronage factions tend to have only the dyadic, asymmetrical and directed relationship with the patron in common,137 resulting in a directed network of low density, but high centrality of the leader, and lacking internal interaction and group consciousness.138

134 Of course, the persons involved do remember what has happened (forgetting it if necessary), but a prolonged conflict over generations is not to be expected. 135 See, for instance, Tatar’s manoeuvring in an effort to arrest Mu’ayyadı¯ emirs with the help of ˙ the same time accepting lower-ranking Mu’ayyadı¯s as clients (Ibn their rivals, while˙ at ˇ Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugu¯m VI, 505 – 7). Among Tatar’s first orders after his enthronement in 1421 ˙ ˙ resulted in appointments of some of his clients, was a reshuffle of several high offices, which several promotions to emirs of a thousand, and a number of Tatar’s own mamlu¯ks entering into ha¯ssakiyya (Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugˇu¯m VI, 508 – 9 and 512).˙ ˙ ˙˙ ˘ “Factions,” 136 Irwin, 238. 137 This parallelism renders their positions within the network structurally equivalent (see Sailer, 73 – 90, cf. Schweizer, 194 – 201). 138 Cf. Pflücke, 107.

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3.4.

Interim result: households, parties, factions

An extended family household (not to be confused with a faction or other network) consisted of genealogical kin and quasi-kin in addition to close clients, forming a dense social, economic and spatial cluster at the core of a larger network. Clients on its periphery could become extended family members, transforming patronage into marital or quasi-kinship. Adopted mamlu¯k clients, rather than biological descendants, tended to continue the household and to preserve its Mamluk elite status. The patronage network surrounding the household could be depicted as a directed graph characterised by low density but high centrality of the household head. In case of conflict, this structure retained its characteristics, but transformed itself into a patronage faction by activating potential and indirect ties and mobilizing resources to recruit further supporters for a common goal, which usually amounted to achieving or defending power. During the Circassian sultanate, the adversaries in power struggles belonged to this type of faction – political associations convened temporarily on a tactical basis – and were not part of group parties with a group consciousness and a high density, but only an inconspicuous centrality of its leaders.139

4.

Succession struggles

4.1.

Stand-in sultans and regents

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Succession to the throne is not infrequently a dangerous affair, but in the Circassian sultanate, this was aggravated by its weak legitimacy,140 the emirs’ oligarchic tendencies and the politics of factions. Besides, at least the ulama¯’ felt that the realm must not be without a ruler even for a single day to prevent chaos.141 For these reasons, a new sultan was formally enthroned as soon as possible, usually immediately after or even before his predecessor’s funeral, but at this point, several rivalising factions started to struggle for succession. As each faction leader, usually an emir of the highest rank (amı¯r mi’a wa-muqaddam alf), could only rely on his extended household as well as a number of clients, he 139 As this latter type seems to have dominated the scene in the 17th and 18th centuries, mirroring profound sociopolitical changes, it would be interesting to study its possible roots in the late Circassian and early Ottoman period to connect the findings of Levanoni, “Laqab” and Hathaway, Tale. 140 Humphreys, “Legitimacy,” Haarmann, “Zwangsherrschaft.” 141 Haarmann, “Zwangsherrschaft”, 263 – 67; Humphreys, “Legitimacy,” 7 – 12; cf. Levanoni, “Conception,” 382 – 3.

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had to gain the support of his husˇda¯ˇsu¯n and as many Sultanic mamlu¯ks as ˘ possible.142 During such a period of transition, a deceased sultan’s son was almost inevitably enthroned for a short period of time. However, since an-Na¯sir ˙ Faragˇ b. Barqu¯q’s violent death in 1412, no son did ever manage to actually reign 143 and rule. This was not necessarily the intended outcome, but even sultan ˇ aqmaq’s endeavour to install his adult son Utma¯n as his successor, who was G ¯ also determined to rule, failed.144 Apart from a lack of support by the senior emirs, Utma¯n had to rely on very few emirs bound to the royal household and ¯ inexperienced mamlu¯ks of his father, and to make things worse, when Utma¯n ¯ had to pay the enthronement bonus (nafaqa) to the Sultanic mamlu¯ks, his second problem turned out to be that his father had left him empty coffers.145 The regular overthrow of these youthful sultans cannot be dismissed as a consequence of general instability, because they usually left quietly and were treated with respect in their later lives. On the contrary, these interim rulers served to stabilise the political system. In the eyes of emirs and mamlu¯ks, however, they were unfit to rule,146 and the Mamluk brand of factional politics prevented them from asserting themselves against Mamluk emirs. Nevertheless, such an interregnum proved quite useful to ride out the crisis until one of the leading emirs was enthroned as the new sultan, namely either the interim sultan’s regent or a rival who had defeated him. The role played by the Circassian sultans’ sons amounts to what Jack Goody called a “stand-in”: a person that acts as a ruler temporarily until the real successor has been determined. This person is not entitled to inherit the throne and therefore poses no threat to either the old ˘

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142 Garcin, “Regime,” 300 – 2. 143 Sultan Qa¯ytba¯y’s son an-Na¯sir Muhammad II’s brief and not very successful reign (1496 – ˙ 98) might be considered an ˙exception. See Petry, Protectors, 18 – 9, Ibn Iya¯s III, 324 – 401. Between 1412 and 1516, the son of every single sultan briefly ascended the throne, except for Husˇqadam and his successors Yalba¯y and Tamurbug˙a¯ who lost power after a very short time ˘ three dying in 1467). (all ˇ aqmaq appointed him emir of a 144 To improve Utma¯n’s chances for staying in power, G ¯ thousand (amı¯r mi’a wa-muqaddam alf) and commander-in-chief (ata¯bak al- asa¯kir), in spite of established privileges and career paths (Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugˇu¯m VII, 237). Famously, ˇ aqmaq even abdicated immediately before he died in order to install Utma¯n on the throne G ¯ himself, instead of leaving that to the emirs (Qa¯ytba¯y would fail with the same strategy in ˇ 1496). It is, however, not entirely clear whether Gaqmaq managed to formally designate Utma¯n as his successor before it was too late. While Abu¯ Ha¯mid al-Qudsı¯ (Ta¯rı¯h, 80b – 81a) ¯ ˙ 301) claim that ˘he did, the and the posterior chronicler Ibn Iya¯s (Bada¯’i II, 299 and contemporary Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ denies it (Nugˇu¯m VII, 240 – 1). For succession from father to son as a breach of law or at least tradition, see Haarmann, “Joseph’s Law,” 55 – 62, and idem, “Regicide,” 130. 145 Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugˇu¯m VII, 383 – 4. Several problematic moves of al-Mansu¯r Utma¯n and his ¯ ˙ retinue are described in Nugˇu¯m VII, 388 – 94. 146 Holt, “Structure,” 48, idem, “Position,” 240 and 246 – 7 and idem, “Observations,” 505. Cf. Haarmann, “Regicide,” 130. ˘

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or the new de-facto ruler (“a royal neutral”).147 By the 15th century, the Mamluk sultanate had evolved almost into an informal elective monarchy,148 as the successful candidate had to convince especially the large corps of his predecessor’s mamlu¯ks (gˇulba¯n), and the most promising way to do that was to present his faction as the winning one. Once established, the sultan had to balance the emirs and their retinues against each other and against the Sultanic mamlu¯ks in a carefully built geometry of power that broke down as soon as he died.149 Then, rivalising factions started to form and to fight each other until the most powerful and shrewd emir could decide the conflict in his favour, became sultan and established a new political balance. This meant that no candidate could immediately ascend the throne; therefore, the son’s interregnum was accepted to avoid unnecessary chaos and to gain time to organise the own faction and to mobilise resources.150 The only way for the old sultan to influence the anticipated power struggle was to appoint a regent.151 If the deceased sultan’s household hoped that the son would actually remain sultan, this hope would regularly be in vain.152 The son’s accession to the throne, however, was in the household’s interest in order to stay in power for some more time and to make favourable arrangements for the future. The household could also support one of the old regime’s leading emirs to become the real successor and to continue (or rather re-create) the household. In this way, the old sultan could appoint this emir – often the commander-in-chief (ata¯bak al- asa¯kir) – guardian to his son and/or regent of the realm.153 The combination of guardianship, commander-in-chief and regency put this emir into an advantageous position154 as guardian (mutakallim) of a minor sultan155 and “administrator of the realm” (mudabbir al-

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147 Goody, 10 – 11. 148 Not everybody was entitled to run for the sultanate, though. Apart from the stand-in sons, all sultans of the 15th and early 16th century were mamlu¯ks of Barqu¯q or mamlu¯ks of his mamlu¯ks (Conermann/Haarmann, 221), a “lineage” that coincides with Circassian gˇins. 149 Cf. Petry, Twilight, 42 – 3. 150 Cf. Levanoni, “Conception,” 380. 151 The sultans seem to have avoided to officially designate a powerful emir as successor for he might become a dangerous rival. ˇ aqmaq (Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugˇu¯m VII, 152 Fairly typical examples were, for instance, Utma¯n b. G ¯ 379 – 415) and Ahmad b. ¯Ina¯l (ibid., 644 – 79). ˙ with Sˇayh’s son Ahmad and Altunbug˙a¯ al-Qurmusˇ¯ı (Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, 153 This was the case ˙ ˘ with Tat˙ar’s son Muhammad ˇ a¯nı¯bak as-Su¯fı¯ as Regent ˇ Nugu¯m VI, 411 and 416 – 425); and G ˙ ˙ ¯y as his educator ˙ ˙ ˙ ¯, Nugˇu¯m VI, (mudabbir) in collaboration with Barsba (la¯la¯) (Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı ˇ 516; cf. al-Qudsı¯, 55a); as well as with Barsba¯y’s son Yu¯suf and Gaqmaq (al-Qudsı¯, 77b and 78a). 154 This resembles the Selgˇuq atabeg institution, which had been passed down to the mamlu¯ks through the Ayyubids, even though the title changed its meaning in the process. 155 The term mutakallim seems to be close or equivalent to was¯ı (which is not used very often in connection with minor sultans), i. e., executor of the late˙ sultan’s will, including the ad-

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mamlaka)156 or order of the realm (niza¯m al-mulk, niza¯m al-mamlaka, amı¯r ˙ ˙ niza¯m).157 The title of grand emir (amı¯r kabı¯r), which was often granted to the ˙ same person, seems to have expressed a claim to royal succession as the primus inter pares of the emirs.158

4.2.

Restricted violence

Legitimacy was not achieved by pedigree, but was based on what mamlu¯ks expected from a ruler, namely political and military prowess, which necessitated some form of martial display for want of glorious battles.159 Instead, succession struggles were often fought, but with minimal bloodshed, as Robert Irwin’s vivid description illustrates: “Fighting for the succession in Cairo was more in the nature of a voting by a show of swords than anything a medieval Englishman would recognise as a civil war. The street fighting in Cairo tended to be a matter of armed demonstrations rather than hard handto-hand, life or death fighting. It was usually restricted to one area of the city around the horse market and the Citadel. The Mamluks rode around in armoured demonstration and occasionally engaged in skirmishes. If nothing had been decided by the end of the day, they went home to bed, and forgathered on the following morning. Partisans tended to be constantly looking over their shoulders to see how many were on their side and how many were on the other. If they sensed they were on the wrong side, part of a losing minority, then they would drift over to the other side. It did not take long, four days in 1438, seven days in 1453, two days in 1461, one day in 1468. In this sense the restricted violence of Mamluk succession disputes can be seen as tending towards a form of consensus politics.”160

156

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157

ministration of the minor’s property and acting as his legal guardian, similar to a walı¯ (Schacht, 120 and 173). Holt, “Structure,” 53 – 4; Qalqasˇandı¯, Subh VI, 69 and 147. The topics of regency and ˙ in Abu¯ Ha¯mid al-Qudsı¯’s Ta¯rı¯h. guardianship are touched upon several˙times ˘ VI, 33 and This title appears in Ibn Iya¯s, Bada¯’i I/2, 825 and II, 66˙– 9. Cf. Qalqasˇandı¯, Subh ˙ 74. However, its usage in al-Qudsı¯’s Ta¯rı¯h makes it clear that the title denotes˙ the regent ˘ (fol. 35b, 36a, 42a – 43b, 50a – 51a, 55a, 56a-b, 57a, 77b, 80a, 89b); see also Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugˇu¯m VI, 531 – 2 and Ibn Iya¯s, Bada¯’i I/2, 406 and 824 – 6; II, 5; cf. Sievert, Herrscherwechsel, 88 – 95. See, e. g., Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugˇu¯m VI, 479. Holt explains that these offices were usually held by the same person during the Circassian sultanate (“Structure,” 54 – 5). This “primitive and barbaric” legitimation comparable to a Germanic “Heerkönig” has been put forward by Holt, “Structure,” 48 and ibid., “Position,” 246 – 7. The issue of royal legitimacy and legitimation, which had at least three levels in the Mamluk sultanate, will not be dwelled upon in this contribution (see, e. g., Sievert, Herrscherwechsel, 79 – 81). Irwin, “Factions,” 238, after Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯. Cf. al-Qudsı¯, 52b – 53a, al- Aynı¯, Iqd, 138 and Levanoni, “Laqab,” 114 – 5. Such action did, however, unsettle the subjects (see, e. g., Labib, Handelsgeschichte, 416). When in 1421, Tatar managed to capture his rival in Cairo, Qugˇqa¯r ˙ ˙ ¯ and Za¯hirı¯ mamlu¯ks over to his side, the al-Qurdumı¯, after winning most Mu’ayyadı ˙ ˘

158 159

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160

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This tendency towards a pragmatic election process may have been supported by another factor, as the 15th century Mamluk regime increasingly resembled, in spite of its military structure, an oligarchy of quite literally senior emirs: “…most of the Mu’ayyadı¯s, though they enjoyed a reputation of military prowess and discipline, seem rarely to have raised a sword or even a voice in anger. They studied, administered, wheeled and dealed. These soldiers almost certainly had a higher life expectancy than the peasants they affected to protect. […] They died in their sixties, seventies and eighties. It is at least as accurate to regard them as a political militia as a military formation.”161

Irwin goes on to suggest that political skill and seniority did play an important role in the slow advancement of emirs who therefore achieved the highest echelons only late in life.162 The importance of political skill becomes immediately apparent in the shrewd tactical manoeuvres employed in succession struggles. The significance of experience and seniority in age and mamlu¯k lineage was certainly reinforced by the fact that long-time activity at court or in other influential positions brought about many opportunities to make useful acquaintances and forge closer bonds as well, as network-building naturally takes time.

4.3.

The gˇulba¯n

Every Mamluk sultan tried to expand his power base by building up his own corps of young sultanic mamlu¯ks (gˇulba¯n, musˇtarawa¯t).163 These newly-im-

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common people feared armed conflict, but nothing happened. According to Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, this was because Qugˇqa¯r lacked a sufficient number of dedicated supporters ( adam ha¯ˇsiya) and because he was originally an emir’s mamlu¯k, thus lacking the powerful husˇda¯ˇs ˙allies a ˘ former Sultanic mamlu¯k could solicit (Nugˇu¯m VI, 478). As head of a patronage faction, however, Qugˇqa¯r lost his followers because he did not hold up his part of the bargain. A patronage faction is established and defined by its leader (or leaders), and mainly based on patronage relationships without a strong affective, long-term bond. The alleged common origin – Mongol gˇ insiyya – therefore proved as insufficient to stabilise the faction as their parallel patronage relationship with Qugˇqa¯r. 161 Irwin, “Factions,” 240. See also Levanoni, “Laqab,” 82. 162 Irwin, “Factions,” 236; cf. Levanoni, “Laqab,” 80. Irwin even points at similarities “to modern Western business precepts, […] and, in its stress on age, experience and dead men’s shoes, Mamluk factional politics more closely resemble our modern civil service practice than they do the fratricidal civil wars of England and France in the XVth century.” (Idem, 242 – 3). The ata¯bak al- asa¯kir ¯Ina¯l al- Ala¯’ı¯ al- Agˇru¯d (“the bald”) can be considered a fairly typical member of the emirs’ oligarchy. When he ascended the throne in 1453 after more than five decades of service, he was already over 70 years old (Cengiz Tomar, “elMelikü’l-Es¸ref I˙nal”, in: DIA XXIX, 63 – 4). 163 Each generation of sultan’s mamlu¯ks was thus named after their master’s throne name ˘

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ported mamlu¯ks, often bought in large numbers within a short period of time, were a special category, because of their numerousness and their strategic position. At least since the second half of the 14th century, the rank-and-file gˇulba¯n gained so much political significance that the sultan as well as aspiring emirs became increasingly dependent on their support,164 which made it difficult to prevent them from their notorious misbehaviour.165 The sultans might even have utilised the large yet undisciplined body of violent men to intimidate too powerful emirs.166 The available sources describe uncontrolled rapacity, abuse of power and ultimative demands on the part of the gˇulba¯n, but no coordinated rebellion without the leadership of an emir. As the Sultanic mamlu¯ks lacked leaders as well as a group identity,167 they could only become a politically effective force if they followed experienced and influential emirs. They could act destructively ; but as an uncoordinated and inexperienced force,168 their fighting capacity should not be overestimated.169 During struggles for succession, most of the preceding sultan’s mamlu¯ks flocked to the rivalising emirs, opting for the most promising faction. From the gˇulba¯n’s as well as the contending emirs’ perspective, it made perfect sense to integrate the sultanic mamlu¯ks individually into existing factions,170 so that most of them routinely abandoned the former

164 165

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169

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170

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168

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166 167

ˇ aqmaq), Na¯siriyya (Faragˇ), Mu’ayyadiyya (Sˇayh), or (laqab), like Za¯hiriyya (Barqu¯q, G ˙ ¯y). ˙ ˘ Asˇrafiyya (Barsba Levanoni, Turning Point, 17 – 40; 53 – 101; 114 – 32; idem, “Rank-and-File Mamluks,” 17 – 30. Cf. Sievert, Herrscherwechsel, 61 – 67. E. g., Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugˇu¯m VII, 475 – 6, al-Qudsı¯, 90b and 92b. Cf. Haarmann, “Osten,” 248, Irwin, Middle East, 155 and Labib, Handelsgeschichte, 409 – 10. Levanoni, “Laqab,” 83 – 4. Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ confirms their inabiloity to form a veritable faction ( adam igˇtima¯ , as cited in Levanoni, “Laqab,” 84). Levanoni, “Laqab,” 84 – 7; Irwin, “Factions,” 232. In 1421, the ambitious emir Tatar was not ˙ afraid of the gˇulba¯n left by Sˇayh, but took advantage of their inexperience to˙ garner their support: He exaggerated the ˘threat posed by Qugˇqa¯r’s “Mongols” and promised the Mu’ayyadı¯s to keep Sˇayh’s household in power by becoming regent for their former patron’s ˘ by the fact that Tatar belonged to Sˇayh’s household himself. They son, which was facilitated ˙ ¯ resentfully states: ˘ accepted Tatar as their leader, as Ibn Tag˙˙rı¯birdı “They sided with him, ˙ ˙ by him, and entered his faction, not concealing anything from him” (Nugˇu¯m were deceived VI, 425: “fa-ma¯lu¯ ilayhi wa-nhada u¯ lahu wa-sa¯ru¯ min hizbihi la¯ yahfawna anhu amran ˙ ˙ ˘ ˘ min al-umu¯r”). On one occasion in 1438, a large force of inexperienced and perhaps inadequately trained gˇulba¯n was defeated by street gangs (zu ar); see al-Qudsı¯, 81b – 82a; cf. the differing views in Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugˇu¯m VII, 40, and Ibn Iya¯s, Bada¯’i II, 201 – 2. For instance, most gˇulba¯n of the deceased sultan al-Mu’ayyad Sˇayh became proteges of ˘ emirs who were clients of the regent Tatar (on him, see below; Levanoni, “Laqab,” 86 – 7, ˙ ¯ hid minhum intama¯ li-sˇahs min hawa¯ˇs¯ı Tatar”). citing Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯: “… ala¯ anna kull˙ wa ˙ ˙of his ˙ ˙ ˙ most ˘ ˇ aqmaq’s demise The same development seems to have taken place after G when gˇulba¯n abandoned his son al-Mu’ayyad Ahmad for an alliance of senior emirs (Ibn ˙ Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugˇu¯m VI, 425) and were in due course accepted into senior emirs’ patronage networks (Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯, Inba¯’ VII, 406. Cf. al-Qudsı¯, 50b – 51a). After Tatar’s rise ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘

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sultan’s dissolving household.171 Therefore, the deceased sultan’s gˇulba¯n had without any doubt considerable leverage in the political struggle, but they did not become a faction of their own,172 even though they did play an important role in the political struggle indirectly by what might be termed voting with their feet. Once the next sultan had been enthroned, his predecessor’s gˇulba¯n were carefully screened to determine whether they could re-enter the royal barracks as Sultanic mamlu¯ks, or should be transferred to an emir’s household.173 As soon as an emir became sultan, his most important task was to secure his power. For this purpose, the new sultan awarded the most influential offices and the largest prebends of the realm to clients and especially to allied emirs – often his husˇda¯ˇsu¯n – whose support had proved critical and who – by the same token – ˘ were able to threaten his rule. The previous office holders, however, were dismissed if they had supported a rival, and sent to distant provinces, their leaders being exiled, incarcerated or executed. As the new sultan depended politically on the segment of the emirs’ oligarchy that supported him, he acted in fact as a primus inter pares. To counterbalance his powerful allies in favour of his own household and patronage network, the sultan gradually promoted his clients and acquired large numbers of musˇtarawa¯t. A difficult task the sultan had to face at the same time consisted in successively replacing his husˇda¯ˇsu¯n first with his ˘ clients, later on with his ha¯ssakı¯s174 and, finally, with his own mamlu¯ks, but ˘ ˙˙ 175 without antagonising too many powerful emirs. Until the time was right, a precarious balance had to be preserved, allowing for a gradual roll back, starting with the weaker groups. In fact, only the few sultans who reigned for exceptionally long periods managed to staff virtually all court and government offices with their own mamlu¯ks.176 However, filling all offices with his own mamlu¯ks

171 172 173 174 175

176

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to power, several of these Mu’ayyadı¯ mamlu¯ks were appointed to high offices, often skipping steps of the usual career path, which seems to indicate that they had become his clients (Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Nugˇu¯m VI, 482 – 3; cf. al-Qudsı¯, 51a (= ed. Tadmurı¯, 118), and al- Aynı¯, Iqd, 121 – 7). ˇ ulba¯n who had supported their late master’s son were usually expelled from the citadel G (Levanoni, “Laqab,” 88). Irwin, “Factions,” 232; cf. “Laqab”, 88. Levanoni, “Laqab”, 89. Expelled gˇulba¯n had to endure considerable hardship when they entered an emir’s entourage (ibid., 91). The mamlu¯k pages and confidants of the sultan, who were destined for high office (Haarmann, “Osten,” 226 and Ayalon, “Studies,” 213 – 15. Cf. Northrup, 263, and Ayalon, “Studies,” 208. As van Steenbergen, 27, puts it, the sultan’s prerogative of “absolute control of access to the amirate” was politically far more important than his supreme command of the army, even though the former was a consequence of the latter. This situation was a consequence of, one the one hand, the military character of the ruling elite, and the happy absence of large-scale warfare, on the other. ˇ aqmaq managed to appoint the first of their own mamlu¯ks to high office Both Sˇayh and G ˇ aqmaq only after˘ eight and fifteen years of rule, respectively. While Sˇayh, Barsba¯y and G ˘ they largely refrained ruled long enough to appoint their own mamlu¯ks to leading positions,

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might not really have been the ruler’s goal, because he had to avoid any kind of unilateral dependence, but rather establishing an advantageous balance at the expense of his husˇda¯ˇs allies. When a sultan died, however, the carefully con˘ structed patrimonial power structure broke down with the demise of the supreme patron until the crisis was again resolved.

4.4.

Interim result: Circassian Succession

A single patronage faction was usually not strong enough to decide the conflict in its favour and therefore formed a tactical alliance that was later dissolved in a process of stabilising the new regime’s rule, transforming the new sultan’s patronage faction into a large patronage network, still with his household at the core, but merging with the royal court to become the patrimonial nexus of the realm.177 The old sultan could not simply pass on the throne within his household, but he could influence the ensuing struggle’s outcome by appointing a regent in the name of his son. In this way, the brief reign of the stand-in sultan gave the regent and royal household associated with him an advantage, and the competing factions had time to organise and mobilise resources. Although bloodshed did happen and no concrete rules were laid down in writing, this Circassian succession emphasised political skill and seniority rather than violence, providing (perhaps unintentionally) a degree of political stability in the systemic crisis of succession. This tendency might have been reinforced by interconnectedness of the leading households and their relevant personnel, as all Circassian sultans were mamlu¯ks of Barqu¯q (and, after several decades, mamlu¯ks of those mamlu¯ks). Genealogical or mamlu¯k lineage, however, was not from doing so, which might be a result of the separation between command and rank-andfile levels (Levanoni, “Laqab,” 80 – 1), but the sultan also had to balance the gˇulba¯n’s and the leading emirs’ interests. 177 In the process of demobilising the combat-oriented patronage faction into the new supreme patron’s patronage network, potentially dangerous allies had to be neutralised. This did not primarily happen violently (of course that was always an option, too), but by absorbing clients from their ranks. For example, the regent Tatar in 1421 removed his ally Tanibak Miyiq from the capital and from the latter’s Za¯hirı¯ h˙usˇ˙da¯ˇsu¯n by appointing him governor of ˙ Damascus, without alienating him by demotion. T˘atar’s relationship with Tanibak changed ˙ now because the new sultan became a patron of˙several Za¯hirı¯ emirs himself and was no longer dependent on Tanibak’s cooperation as an ally. For˙Tanibak, it made sense to accept an asymmetrical relationship with the increasingly powerful regent and may even have become his client. Tatar consistently expanded his clientele by releasing incarcerated or ˙ ˙ retainers. Some of these were Tatar’s husˇda¯ˇsu¯n, but all of them exiled emirs and their ˙ ˙ ˘ because of their many became his clients, who had to rely especially on his protection enemies (Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Manhal VI, 375; cf. ibid., IV, 17; for the emirs in question, see Manhal IV, 16 – 21 and 222 – 4; VI, 152 – 6 and 374 – 8, as-Saha¯wı¯, Daw’ X, 275 – 6, No. 1084). ˙ ˘

Family, friend or foe?

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enough to ascend the throne; a key factor in the ensuing contest, for the most part staged as a martial performance, was winning the support of the late sultan’s mamlu¯ks. The Sultanic mamlu¯ks did not form a faction nor a group of their own, but rather resembled armed voters.

4.5.

Excursus: emirs and cardinals

There are certain similarities between the households and networks of Mamluk emirs and those of late medieval and early modern Roman high clergy, for the Roman Church was one of the few political system in Europe that precluded genealogical heredity of offices.178 Theoretically, celibacy and elective monarchy should have caused a renewal of the oligarchy every time a new pope was elected, but in practice, these factors did not inhibit political continuity at all. According to Reinhard, both factors were compensated for by the extraordinary institutional stability of church administration and by high vertical and horizontal mobility – the latter of which seems to be true for the Mamluk sultanate as well, while the stability of administration is more difficult to determine.179 Like a Mamluk emir, a Roman cardinal could usually not pass on his status genealogically. But the emir – as mentioned above – had the option of marrying his daughter to his most trusted client, which was not feasible for the cardinal. In political systems with genealogical heredity, kinship and patronage relationships worked analogously, usually forming the inner circle of a political actor’s ego net.180 By contrast, what the Mamluk sultanate and Roman high clergy had in common was a political system “without heredity and therefore with a reduced continuity of opportunities”,181 which favoured and in fact necessitated recruitment by patronage. In both Cairo and Rome, this did of course not preclude relations of kinship, friendship or common origin, but patronage relationships often superseded them in both settings. Considering the (albeit limited) parallels with Papal Rome, it would be interesting to know whether the surprising durability of the conflict-ridden Mamluk polity could be explained by well-established patronage structures and factionalism,182 in addition to the role of the stand-in sultan. For example, due to the frequent changes in early modern 178 Cf. Völkel, 8 – 9, 401 and 403. 179 Reinhard, Freunde, 46 – 75; cf. Lind, 125 – 129. 180 Lind, 123 – 126: “Kin and clients were patronised in the same way. Family and patron-client links would together form a personal network” (idem, 123). Cf. Ma. czak, 343, 350 und 356. 181 Reinhard, Freunde, 52: “ohne Erblichkeit und daher mit verminderter Kontinuität der Chancen”, see also ibid., 58. 182 Cf. Ma. czak, 350 and 357. For stabilising effects of factionalism, see Hathaway, Tale, 188 – 9; Levanoni, “Laqab,” 113 – 5; Irwin, Middle East, 152.

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Rome’s power structure, multiple contacts with potential patrons or allies and enhanced network density were more promising strategies of political success than aggressive and prolonged factional rivalry.183 In Circassian Egypt, the same could be said for mamlu¯ks who kept several options open to change allegiances if necessary, and the political system remained remarkably stable in spite of frequent unrest and power struggles, partly because these struggles were usually resolved very quickly instead of prolonged fighting.

5.

Conclusion

Certain patterns of interpersonal relations took a distinctive form in Mamluk society. Genealogical kinship was supplemented by quasi-kin relations, i. e. the familial integration of slaves into their master’s household. Since full elite status could only be obtained by mamlu¯ks recruited in that way, biological kin was on the one hand of secondary importance because imported family members would be dependent to their mamlu¯k kin in a clientelistic fashion. On the other hand, family relations were a key component of household formation, and genealogical patterns of thought permeated biological as well as mamlu¯k kin relationships. Another ascribed relationship could be active on the basis of common origin, which might refer to geographical or ethnic background or to having had the same usta¯d. The latter relationship (husˇda¯ˇsiyya) ¯ ˘ should be further differentiated in terms of density and centrality, which had implications for its quality, as for instance quasi-kinship in small households or ag˙a¯-inı¯ relationships resembled family ties, while large regiments of slaves would instead form a patron-client relationship with their master. The most important acquired relationships were patronage and friendship (an alliance between individuals). Especially the asymmetrical variation – patronage – could easily eclipse a non-familial relationship between a master and his manumitted slave, because changing one’s patron was common practice. An improved understanding of Mamluk politics would benefit from a focus on interpersonal relations between individual actors, acknowledging that their allegiances and relations varied in intensity or changed completely over time. In addition, it is crucial to distinguish between the different types of networks that I have tentatively described as extended family households, patronage networks, group parties and patronage factions. In contrast to an emir’s extended family household consisting of a limited number of people, a sultan would simply be the patron of his hundreds or thousands of mamlu¯k recruits. While households 183 Reinhard, Freunde, 59 – 71. Adversaries in the Papal Estates admittedly managed to solve political differences with less resort to violence than their Mamluk counterparts.

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could easily become the core of a group party, in the Mamluk sultanate they were combined with their master’s patronage network that could be transformed into a patronage faction for the purpose of prevailing in specific conflicts. The way in which these conflicts within the emirs’ oligarchy were settled is in accord with the types of relationships that underly patronage factions as opposed to group parties. In addition to the concept of dynamic patronage factions and their alliances, the performance of “restricted violence“ to win the armed voters’ support and the stabilising role of the predecessor’s son as a stand-in should are inextricably connected to the Mamluk version of patrimonial rule.

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Rapoport, Yossef, “Divorce and the elite household in late medieval Cairo”. Continuity and Change XVI, 2 (2001), 201 – 218. Reichmuth, Stefan, “Beziehungen zur Vergangenheit: Murtada¯ az-Zabı¯dı¯ (gest. 1791) und ˙ seine Archäologie Islamischer Kultur”. Asiatische Studien / Êtudes Asiatiques LVI, 2 (2002), 439 – 69. Reichmuth, Stefan, The World of Murtada al-Zabı¯dı¯ (1732 – 91): Life, Networks and ˙ Writings. Cambridge 2009. Reinhard, Wolfgang, Freunde und Kreaturen. “Verflechtung” als Konzept zur Erforschung historischer Führungsgruppen. Römische Oligarchie um 1600. München 1979. Reinhard, Wolfgang (ed.), Augsburger Eliten des 16. Jahrhunderts. Prosopographie wirtschaftlicher und politischer Führungsgruppen 1500 – 1620. Berlin 1996. Reinhard, Wolfgang, Papstfinanz und Nepotismus unter Paul V. (1605 – 1621). Studien und Quellen zur Struktur und zu quantitativen Aspekten des päpstlichen Herrschaftssystems. Stuttgart 1974. Reinhardt, Nicole, “Verflechtung – ein Blick zurück nach vorn.” In: P. Burschel, M. Häberlein, V. Reinhardt et al. (eds.), Historische Anstöße. Festschrift für Wolfgang Reinhard zum 65. Geburtstag am 10. April 2002. Berlin 2002, 235 – 262. Reitmayer, Morten, and Christian Marx, “Netzwerkansätze in der Geschichtswissenschaft.” In: Christian Stegbauer / Roger Häßling (eds.), Handbuch Netzwerkforschung. Wiesbaden 2010, 869 – 80. Reynolds, Dwight F. (ed.), Interpreting the Self. Autobiography in the Arabic Literary Tradition. Berkeley 2001. Richards, Donald S., “Mamluk amirs and their families and households”. In: Thomas Philipp and Ulrich Haarmann (eds.), The Mamluks in Egyptian politics and society. Cambridge 1998, 32 – 54. Rosenthal, Franz, “‘Blurbs’ (taqrı¯z) from Fourteenth-Century Egypt”. Oriens 27 – 28 ˙ (1981), 177 – 196. Saghbini, Souad, Mamlukische Urkunden aus Aleppo. Die Urkundensammlung (gˇa¯mi almustanada¯t) der Mamlukisch-aleppinischen Familie Ug˙ulbak. Hildesheim 2005. Sailer, Lee Douglas, “Structural equivalence: Meaning and definition, computation and application”. Social Networks I (1978), 73 – 90. Schacht, Josef, An Introduction to Islamic Law. Oxford 1964. Schäfers, Bernhard, “Entwicklung der Gruppensoziologie und Eigenständigkeit der Gruppe als Sozialgebilde”. In: Idem (ed.), Einführung in die Gruppensoziologie. Geschichte, Theorien, Analysen. Heidelberg/Wiesbaden 31999. Schweizer, Thomas, Muster sozialer Ordnung. Netzwerkanalyse als Fundament der Sozialethnologie. Berlin 1996. Scott, John, Social Network Analysis. A Handbook. London, Thousand Oaks, New Delhi 2 2000. Sievert, Henning, “Abu¯ Ha¯mid al-Qudsı¯”. In: Encyclopedia of the Medieval Chronicle. Ed. ˙ Graeme Dunphy, Leiden 2010, vol. I, p. 6 – 7. Sievert, Henning, Der Herrscherwechsel im Mamlukenreich: Historische und historiographische Studien zu Abu¯ Ha¯mid al-Qudsı¯ und Ibn Tag˙ rı¯birdı¯. Berlin 2003. ˙ Sievert, Henning, Zwischen arabischer Provinz und Hoher Pforte: Beziehungen, Bildung und Politik des osmanischen Bürokraten Ra¯g˙ıb Mehmed Pas¸a (st. 1763). Würzburg ˙ 2008.

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Steenbergen, Jo van, Order Out of Chaos. Patronage, Conflict and Mamluk Socio-Political Culture, 1341 – 1382. Leiden 2006. Thorau, Peter, “Einige kritische Bemerkungen zum sogenannten ‘mamlu¯k phenomenon’”. In: Anja Pistor-Hatam and Stephan Conermann (eds.), Die Mamluken. Studien zu ihrer Geschichte und Kultur. Zum Gedenken an Ulrich Haarmann (1942 – 1999), Schenefeld, 366 – 78. Vesely´, Rudolf, “Ibn Na¯hid’s As-Sı¯ra asˇ-Sˇaykhı¯ya (Eine Lebensgeschichte des Sultans al˙ Mu’ayyad Sˇaykh). Ein Beitrag zur Sı¯ra-Literatur”. Archiv Orient‚ln† 67 (1999), 149 – 220. Vesely´, Rudolf, Das Rauschgetränk der Stilkunst oder Qahwat al-Insˇa¯’ von Taqı¯yuddı¯n Abu¯ Bakr n. Alı¯ Ibn Higˇgˇa al-Hamawı¯ al-Azra¯rı¯. Kritisch herausgegeben von Rudolf Vesely´. ˙ ˙ Beirut 2005. Vesely´, Rudolf, “Der Taqrı¯z in der arabischen Literatur”. In: Stephan Conermann and Anja ˙ Pistor-Hatam (eds.), Die Mamluken. Studien zu ihrer Geschichte und Kultur. Zum Gedenken an Ulrich Haarmann (1942 – 1999). Schenefeld 2003, 379 – 85. Völkel, Markus, Römische Kardinalshaushalte des 17. Jahrhunderts. Borghese – Barberini – Chigi. Tübingen 1993. Weber, Max, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft: Grundriß der verstehenden Soziologie. Ed. Johannes Winckelmann. Tübingen 51976. Winter, Michael, “Mamluks and their Households in Late Mamluk Damascus. A Waqf Study”. In: Michael Winter and Amalia Levanoni (eds.), The Mamluks in Egyptian and Syrian Politics and Society. Leiden 2004, 297 – 316. Yosef, Koby, “Mamluks and Their Relatives in the Period of the Mamluk Sultanate (1250 – 1517)”. Mamluk Studies Review XVI (2012), 55 – 69. Ze’evi, Dror, “My Slave, My Son, My Lord. Slavery, Family and State in the Middle East”. In: Miura Toru and Edward Philips (eds.), Slave Elites in the Middle East and Africa. A Comparative Study. London / New York 2000, 71 – 80.

Johannes Pahlitzsch (Mainz)

Networks of Greek Orthodox Monks and Clerics between Byzantium and Mamluk Syria and Egypt

The history of the Greek Orthodox Church under Mamluk rule is still quite obscure and, because of the scarcity and the contingency of the source material, it will be difficult for the time being to gain more than a rudimentary picture. The same holds true for the relations of the three oriental patriarchates – Antioch, Jerusalem and Alexandria – with the patriarchate of Constantinople. But nevertheless these oriental churches were able to remain part of the networks of the Byzantine Church. Indeed, it can be demonstrated that these oriental churches were very much involved in the political and ecclesiastical life and struggles of the Byzantine Empire.1 A prerequisite for the establishment and maintenance of close ties between the oriental patriarchates and Byzantium was the fact that the Byzantines were generally on good terms with the Mamluks during this period. Soon after the recovery of Constantinople in 1261, the Emperor Michael VIII sent ambassadors to the Mamluk Sultan Baybars to establish good relations. Being still weak and threatened from all sides, Byzantium had to find means to deflect these threats. The main instruments were diplomacy. The Byzantine emperor was specifically interested in maintaining good relations to his powerful neighbour, the Golden Horde that was again allied with the Mamluks.2 The Mamluks’ main interest in this relation was to prevent any harm being done to the import of military slaves from the northern Caucasus Mountains. To open the Bosporus for cargo ships that were to carry slaves to Egypt, the Mamluk sultans concluded between 1261 and 1281 a number of agreements and treaties with Michael VIII, containing specific clauses extending freedom of navigation through Byzantine waters to Egyptian merchants and ships.3 The relations were even intensified in the 14th 1 For the Greek Orthodox patriarchates of Jerusalem and Alexandria cf. Pahlitzsch 2001; idem 2005; idem 2007; idem in print1. For Antioch until the 14th century cf. Todt 2001; idem 2006. 2 For the Mamluk-Byzantine relations in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, cf. Canard 1937; Schmid 1956; Lippard 1983; Holt 1986: 159 – 63; Mansouri 1992; Amitai-Preiss 1995: 91 – 4; Pahlitzsch 2005. 3 Canard 1935; Mansouri 1992: 116 f., 126 – 131; 240 – 256; Amitai-Preiss 1995: 91 – 4; Holt

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century when numerous embassies were exchanged between Constantinople and Cairo.4 Due to the good relations between the two powers, Byzantium was able to regain its role as protector of the Orthodox Christians in the Holy Land that it had lost as a consequence of the Forth Crusade in 1204. So, for instance, the restitution of the Georgian Monastery of the Holy Cross in Jerusalem at the beginning of the 14th century was effected with the participation of the Byzantine Empire.5 In all the extant treaties and letters between the emperor and the Mamluk sultan the emperor always requested that Orthodox Christians are protected and should be well treated by the Mamluk authorites.6 How much the Melkite patriarchs depended on the Byzantine-Mamluk relations is shown by the example of Athanasios II of Alexandria. He was a former Sinaite monk who, because of tensions between the Mamluks and Byzantium, had to leave Alexandria around 1276. Most of his tenure he spent in exile in Constantinople, where he rapidly became involved in ecclesiastical controversies and found himself in opposition to the patriarch of Constantinople Athanasios I. In 1305 he was thus compelled to leave the capital. After some travels and having narrowly escaped the Franciscans of Negroponte who tried to burn him, he returned to Alexandria around 1306.7 This certainly did not happen by chance right at the time of intensive diplomatic exchange between Cairo and Constantinople concerning the Georgians in Jerusalem and the Melkites in the Mamluk state in general.8 Indeed, the Christians in Constantinople were quite aware of the fate of their fellow Christians in the Mamluk Empire. As some Melkites, i. e. Arabic-speaking

4 5 6

7

8

1995, 118 – 128. On the importance of the slave trade in this context cf. Ehrenkreutz 1981: 340 f. and Laiou 2001: 189 – 92. For a list of the embassies cf. Mansouri 1992: 234 – 237, who also has lists of the gifts exchanged between Byzantium and the Mamluks and the ambassadors according to the Mamluk sources, ibid. 238 f.; and Schmid 1956: 201 – 213. Pahlitzsch 2003: 42 – 46. For the oriental policy of Andronikos II (ruled 1282 – 1328) cf. Pahlitzsch 2012: 802 – 808. Another example is the letter the Mamluk Sultan an-Na¯sir Hasan sent to the Byzantine ˙ ¯˙sir Hasan promised that all Emperor Ioannes VI Kantakouzenos in 1349 in which an-Na ˙ all˙ Byzantine merchants in pilgrims, priests and monks at the Holy sites in Jerusalem as well as the Mamluk Empire would be under his protection, Ioannes Kantakouzenos 1828 – 1832, vol. 3: 95 – 98; Canard 1946: 49 – 51. Failler 1977; PLP: no. 413. Skeat 1955: 233 – 35, suggests that Athanasios returned to Alexandria. This information was overlooked by Failler and in the PLP, where it is assumed that Athanasios spent the rest of his life on Crete. The Vaticanus Ottobonus gr. 452 contains an Arabic note signed by Athasnasios saying that this manuscript was sought as a gift from the Emperor Andronikos II (probably during Athanasios’ sojourn in the Byzantine capital), brought from Constantinople as Athanasios’ property and then made an inalienable gift to the patriarchate of Alexandria, McKendrick 2003: 7. Mansouri 1992: 217 f.; cf. above n. 5

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Orthodox Christians, were accused of having started a fire in 1339 and were under the death penalty, the sultan tried to convince the governor of Damascus to alleviate the judgment stating explicitly that this would be in the interest of the Muslims since otherwise the inhabitants of Constantinople could be carried away to treat the Muslim merchants in the town in the same way.9 It can therefore be assumed that there existed several networks on different levels that transmitted information beyond the official embassies. It is the goal of this paper to present a few examples for the networks the Greek Orthodox Church was able to establish between Byzantium and Mamluk Syria and Egypt.10 With regard to the various modes and types of connections between the oriental patriarchates and Byzantium one could in general differentiate between (a) categories concerning the ways these contacts were established and (b) categories describing the context in which the contact happened or the actual topics that were negotiated.

(a)

Ways and Modes

1:

Embassies

Maybe the most important – or at least the best known – category of the first group was represented by the exchange of embassies with the oriental patriarchates.11 With reference to the sender of the embassies one could distinguish between embassies sent by the emperor or other secular rulers and ecclesiastical embassies, usually from the patriarch of Constantinople to his colleagues or vice versa. However, this differentiation is somehow artificial since the Constantinopolitan patriarchs often acted together with the emperor or took advantage of the fact that imperial embassies were sent to the Near East by just sending their own ambassadors or letters with them. In the context of embassies, the crucial role of the patriarchs in the diplomatic contacts between Constantinople and Cairo has to be pointed out. In general, the Melkite patriarchs of Alexandria functioned as the primary links between the Mamluks and the Orthodox world. As had long been the custom, it was in-

˘

9 Labib 1965: 107. The situation of Muslim merchants in Constantinople at the end of the 13th century is described by the merchant Abdalla¯h ibn Muhammad, cf. Izeddin 1958: 454 f.; cf. ˙ also Reinert 1998: 143 f.; El Cheikh 2004: 205 f. 10 Matschke and Tinnefeld 2001: 6 f. For the application of computer based network analysis for Byzantine history cf. Preiser-Kapeller 2013: 109 – 138. However with regard to the present paper it was not possible to use quantitative methods because of the small amount of available data. 11 For the period between 700 and 900 cf. McCormick 2001: 434, table 14.1, who demonstrates that the most frequent travelers at this period were ambassadors; Drocourt 2012: 93 f.

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cumbent upon the Mamluk sultan to express his approbation by issuing a document (tawqı¯’). The fixed language of these documents of approbation obliged the new patriarch not only to conscientiously serve the believers entrusted to him, and to do so in accordance with their own laws, but also forbade him to establish contact with foreigners, and, more specifically, to foreign rulers without the knowledge of the sultan. Every letter, all emissaries were to be promptly disclosed to the sultan.12 Thus, in the eyes of the Mamluks, the patriarch was fully dependent on the sultan, even in his contacts to the Church of Constantinople and to the Byzantine emperor. The career of the Patriarch Lazaros of Jerusalem is an example for the intermediary position and the dependence of the oriental patriarchs on the sultan and on the Byzantine emperor. Lazaros was elected to the office of patriarch in Palestine sometime before 1341. When Gerasimos, a monk from Jerusalem, objected to the election of Lazaros, it would thus have been the sultan’s obligation to resolve the dispute. However, at this moment, Lazaros was in Constantinople in order to be confirmed as patriarch and may have also been on a diplomatic mission on behalf of the sultan. Thus, the Byzantine emperor was involved in this conflict and consequently sent an embassy to the sultan an-Na¯sir ˙ Muhammad and further on to Palestine to examine the matter closely together ˙ with the local bishops. The issue was complicated by the outbreak of a civil war in Byzantium, so that it took several years until this problem was solved and Lazaros was sent by the successful pretender to the crown Ioannes VI Kantakouzenos together with an emissary to Cairo to ask for his reinstatement. The request was granted, but Lazaros nevertheless saw himself exposed to Muslim assaults some time later in 1357. Only a few months after the anti-Christian excesses came to an end, Lazaros was again sent to Constantinople as an emissary of the sultan. This sudden transition, from a persecuted individual to an emissary traveling in official, governmental matters poses the question whether Lazaros would have been able to oppose to this assignment. What the case of the patriarch Lazaros however clearly illustrates, is how patriarchs had to fill a double function: not only were they representatives of the emperor and the Orthodox Church in the Orient, but also served as intermediaries of the Mamluks vis-—-vis Byzantium, whether they wanted to or not.13 Thus, it is in most cases not possible to decide if the patriarchs actually travelled to Constantinople on their own accord and the sultans just used the opportunity to have them deliver a message to the Byzantine emperor or if the journey was initiated by the sultan. 12 Al-Qalqasˇandı¯ 1913 – 1919, vol. 11: 392 – 5. Bosworth 1972: 199 – 203; Pahlitzsch 2005: 36 f. with n. 18. 13 For Lazaros cf. Pahlitzsch 2005: 36 – 40.

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Andreas Libadenos, who later became chartophylax of the metropolis of Trebizond, has included a report of an imperial embassy in his autobiography. Between 1325 – 1328, at the age of 23, Andreas Libadenos was chosen by the imperial ambassadors to join them as hypogrammateus, i. e. as auxiliary secretary. They went by ship to Alexandria and were brought to Cairo by Egyptian galleys where they were received by the sultan. After they spent some time with the sultan and after they had finished their talks with him (which were conducted with the help of an interpreter), the embassy asked for permission to visit the Holy Sites in Palestine. In Jerusalem they met the patriarch, spent a day in the Church of the Anastasis and in the evening the patriarch entertained them with a meal. Afterwards, they visited Bethlehem and the Orthodox monasteries along the Jordan River, meeting the ascetics that lived there, before returning to Alexandria via Jerusalem where they had another encounter with the patriarch on his request. In Alexandria they finally boarded a ship to Constantinople.14 Thus, while Libadenos’ report of this journey contains many elements of a pilgrim’s report, it can be assumed that the meetings with the patriarch served also the purpose of exchanging information and delivering messages. It is important to note that, according to Libadenos, the patriarch explicitly wished to meet the embassy during their second stay in Jerusalem. Through the example of Lazaros of Jerusalem, we have already seen that disputes about the succession in an episcopal or patriarchal see were often the cause for the exchange of embassies between the oriental patriarchates and Constantinople. The same holds true for Athanasios III at the beginning of the 14th century. When the bishop of Caesarea Philippi Gabriel Broulas travelled to Constantinople to file a complaint against Athanasios before the emperor and the patriarch of Constantinople around 1308, an imperial commission of inquiry was sent to Jerusalem which – presumably in cooperation with a local synod – removed Athanasios from office and elevated instead this bishop to patriarch. It seems that then Athanasios turned to the emperor himself, who cancelled his envoys’ decision. The situation was obviously pending for some time, but around 1310, after the death of Gabriel Broulas, Athanasios was restored to his office. We know that Athanasios went to Constantinople afterwards, probably to present himself to the emperor and the patriarch of Constantinople.15 This episode shows that the Church of Jerusalem was clearly included in the Byzantine Imperial Church. The emperor and the patriarch of Constantinople were actively involved in Jerusalem affairs. We even have a letter dated from 1315 14 Lampsides 1975: 45 – 50 (German translation: Külzer 1994: 312 – 317). Cf. also Külzer 1994: 21 – 4. 15 Georgios Pachymeres 1984 – 2000, vol. 4: 676 – 9; Nikephoros Kallistos Xanthopoulos 1865: col. 1197C. Grumel 1962: 264 – 7.

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by Ioannes XIII Glykys, the patriarch of Constantinople, that was delivered to Athanasios by an imperial embassy, inquiring about the situation in Jerusalem and requesting that Athanasios send regular reports.16 During this period, it was expected that any newly-elected patriarch should not only send his written creed to Constantinople as proof for his Orthodox faith, but should also travel to the capital himself. Therefore, Gregorios II of Alexandria sent his creed to Ioannes XIII Glykys of Constantinople in 1315. The patriarch of Constantinople answered with a letter stating that the emperor demanded that Greogrios come to the capital as soon as possible. According to Ioannes Glykys the emperor had already sent emissaries with letters to Gregorios to invite him and to organize his arrival in Constantinople. Gregorios actually went to Constantinople and returned in 1317 together with envoys of the emperor. These envoys visited on this occasion Jerusalem, probably also to contact the patriarch of Jerusalem.17 This practice served certainly as a means to maintain close ties between the capital of the empire and the oriental patriarchs. Concerning embassies from the oriental churches to Constantinople the patriarchs usually attended them in person as demonstrated above.18 A very detailed report is given by the historian Nikephoros Gregoras. Gregorios III of Alexandria was sent to the Byzantine emperor by the Mamluk sultan with an embassy in 1352. However, only after he left Egypt he learned about the civil war in Byzantium. He hence interrupted his journey and waited on Cyprus and then on Crete to observe how the war developed. After some time, he decided to continue his journey in order to be close to the events; firstly, to check whether the information about the war he received was correct and secondly, to be able to deliver his message to the victorious party as soon as possible. Gregorios is thus presented as a committed ambassador of the sultan who received information about the Byzantine civil war only after he had left Egypt.19 After the end of the Byzantine Empire in 1453, the patriarchs of Constantinople continued to send embassies to Syria and Egypt. Hence, Daniel, metropolitan of Smyrna and later of Ephesos, undertook an inspection of the 16 PRK, vol. 1: no. 18, 208 – 13. 17 PRK, vol. 1: no. 16, 194 – 201 (Gregorios’ creed); ibid: no. 17, 202 – 9, esp. 206 f. Schmid 1956: 206. 18 The journey of Gabriel Broulas to Constantinople could also be classified as an embassy since Gabriel acted as a claimant to the patriarchal office with the support of at least a part of the local bishops. 19 Nikephoros Gregoras 1829 – 1855, vol. 3: 182 f. (cap. XXVIII) [German translation – van Dieten 1973 – 2007, vol. 5: 147 f.] This account is given in the chronicle of Nikephoros Gregoras by his pupil Agathangelos which is a pseudonym of Manuel Angelos, cf. below page 135. Although the historicity of Agathangelos’ journey to Egypt and Syria where he met Gregorios III of Alexandria, has been questioned, it seems that this very concrete report of the events, in which Agathangelos was not involved, is reliable.

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three oriental patriarchates to discuss certain ecclesiastical matters on behalf of the patriarch of Constantinople around 1480/81. He wrote a report of his journey in the style of a pilgrim’s report of the Holy Land. In congruence with this genre, he did not refer to any people he might have met or the actual situation of the Melkite population in Palestine but instead gave a quite traditional description of the Holy Sites. This certainly does not mean that he did not visit the patriarchs of Alexandria, Jerusalem and Antioch. It is just due to the genre of the text that he omitted all information about his actual mission.20 An interesting case for an embassy from Jerusalem to Russia is the one of patriarch Ioakeim in 1462 to Vasilij II. Vasil’evicˇ TÚmnyj, the grand prince of Moscow. Its purpose was to ask for money from the grand prince which had to be paid to the Mamluk sultan for repairs of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre after an earthquake.21

2:

Letters

An important means to maintain a network were obviously letters.22 As already mentioned, official letters were often sent via embassies. We do not have collections of letters of any of the monks or clerics from Eygpt or Syria, however there are some references in the sources pointing to a lively and regular correspondence between Byzantium and the oriental patriarchates as well as between the Melkite Churches themselves. The exchange of letters between Gregorios II of Alexandria and the patriarch of Constantinople from 1315 has been referred to above. Gregorios also wrote a letter to the bishop of Mesopotamia.23 And in the collection of the letters of the Constantinopolitan monk and author Ioseph Bryennios at the end of the 14th century, letters to patriarchs of Jerusalem and Alexandria are transmitted. Markos IV of Alexandria seems to have written at least three letters to Bryennios.24 Very remarkable is the letter of the Patriarch of Constantinople Antonios IV to his colleague in Jerusalem Dorotheos I which he sent in 1397. In this letter Antonios informs Dorotheos that he had heard first from people coming from Egypt and then from the Cypriot consul in Alexandria, who was of Greek origin and maybe of Orthodox creed, that the patriarch of Alexandria recently had died. 20 PLP: no. 5133. Cf. also Külzer 1994: 28 f. and 337 – 351 (German translation of Daniel’s description of the Holy Land). 21 PLP: no. 8383. 22 Cf. in general for this topic Mullett 2007; Hörandner and Grünbart 2003. 23 PLP: no. 4587. 24 Ioseph Bryennios 1991: no. 5, 142 – 44 (to Dorotheos I of Jerusalem); no. 8, 148 – 50 (to Markos IV of Alexandria). PLP: no. 17077.

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Actually, the Cypriot consul had asked Antonios to send a candidate to Alexandria, since the Mamluk sultan would also prefer a candidate from Byzantium to a local one. Obviously, Antonios did not trust this information, stating that if someone else would have written him, he might have sent someone. Under these circumstances, he however thought it dangerous to do so without knowing what the sultan and the local Christian community were actually doing. In the worst case, this candidate would have arrived in Alexandria only to learn that they had already chosen someone else. To avoid such problems, Antonios asked Dorotheos, also on behalf of the emperor, at the end of his letter to go to Alexandria to reach an agreement on this matter. He noted that this would contribute to the glory of God if someone from Byzantium would be established down there instead someone local. As soon as this goal was achieved, Dorotheos was to send letters to Constantinople to inform him about the results.25 With regard to the ways of communication described in this case no official messengers were sent from Alexandria to Constantinople. Instead travelers, probably merchants, reported on the events happening in Egypt. Why the Cypriot consul was taking an active role in this, is also not clear. It seems that the usual means of communication between the Churches of Alexandria and Constantinople were interrupted; probably because of the rapid decline of Byzantine power at this time. In any case, the patriarch of Jerusalem was able to provide help. Indeed, it seems to be of importance for a stable network that the failure of one strand of the network could be compensated by others. A letter from Manuel II to the Mamluk Sultan Faragˇ, dated 27th Safar 814 A.H. ˙ (June 20 1411) is interesting in this context. The letter is transmitted in the chancery manual of al-Qalqasˇandı¯ and had been translated into Arabic by the Melkite patriarch of Alexandria in presence of the Mamluk chief dragoman. So the patriarchs did act not only as ambassadors but also as interpreters for the Mamluks in matters concerning the Mamluk-Byzantine relations. In this letter, Manuel spoke of the special friendship between the two realms which had existed already between his father and the sultan’s father. He explained that he was not able to send an official ambassador as envoy because of the troubles in his empire, obviously referring to the ongoing struggles with the Ottomans. Hence he had committed the merchant Su¯rmusˇ ar-Ru¯mı¯ (the Roman, i. e. Byzantine), probably Zomas, who “has the habit of frequently visiting your illustrious realm”, with the task to deliver his letter. Manuel’s main concern however, was to ask the sultan to show favour to the patriarchs, Christians and all churches under

25 Miklosich and Müller 1862: no. 510, 273 f. DarrouzÀs 1979: no. 3036, 298 f.

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his rule and to protect their rights. Indeed the patriarchs had informed him ( arrafu¯na¯) that the sultan had already issued a decree in their favour.26 This letter provides us thus with a more nuanced picture of the ways of communication between Egypt and Constantinople during the final decades of the Byzantine Empire. Again a merchant played an active role. And even as Manuel was not able to send an official envoy to Cairo he still received information about the situation of the Christians in the Mamluk realm from the oriental patriarchs. If the patriarchs however relied for the transmission of messages also on merchants or rather on travelling clerics or monks remains an open question.27

3:

Exchange of manuscripts

The already mentioned Athanasios II of Alexandria was actively involved in the cultural exchange between the Melkites of Egypt and Byzantium. According to various colophons that were written in his name in Greek and Arabic, it seems that he knew both languages. As a cultured bibliophile, he had acquired several Greek manuscripts during his stay in Constantinople which he incorporated after his return to his see into the patriarchal library in Alexandria, the most famous one being the so-called 5th century Codex Alexandrinus.28 The exchange of manuscripts was not only an indicator of existing connections, but also was a means to establish and strengthen contacts depending on the respective manuscript. This is demonstrated, albeit ex negativo, by the efforts of the two Cretan monks Maximos and Sabas who brought a text (gramma) of the patriarch of Alexandria to the well-known copyist Michael Apostolis in the second half of the 15th century. They obviously wanted to distribute this text full of maledictions against the supporters of the church union. The copyist unfortunately was a unionist himself and thus, the Venetian authorities were informed, who banished the monks to Syria.29 In return, Maximos and Sabas excommunicated Michael Apostolis and everyone involved in their 26 Al-Qalqasˇandı¯ 1913 – 1919, vol. 8: 121 f. The correct reading of the name is Su¯rmusˇ or Su¯rmasˇ. Lammens 1904: 359 – 362; Labib 1965: 343; Mansouri 1992: 123 – 125. 27 For individually travelling clerics or monks cf. below (a) 4. 28 Skeat 1955: 234 f., who demonstrates that the codex Alexandrinus did not originate from Alexandria but was brought there first by Athanasios; cf. above n. 7. McKendrick 2003 gives a detailed history of the manuscript. 29 If the designation “en te¯ Syria” for the place where Maximos and Sabas were banished refers to Syria in South Cyprus or rather to Syria as such is not clear, cf. PLP: no. 16813. However, it seems more likely that they moved to Mamluk Syria where their anti-Latin attitude would not have been a problem in contrast to Cyprus where they would have been still under Latin rule.

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banishment.30 Surely a thorough study of manuscripts, either in Greek or Arabic, would produce new information about networks on the individual level and between monasteries.

4:

Individual travelling

Another category is journeys not by bishops and patriarchs – who were in most cases official members of an embassy – but of individual monks and clerics to Syria and Egypt.31 A typical example is Neilos Hierychiotes (died 1336) whose life is described in a brief hagiographical text. Early in his monastic career, Neilos, then resident in Constantinople, suffered persecution and exile for his opposition to the union of the Orthodox Church with the Latin Church. After the abandonment of the unionist policy in the 1280s, Neilos went to the Holy Land, where he lived for thirty-one years at Mount Sinai, Mount Carmel, and a monastery near the Jordan River. Later, he moved to Greece, finally settling in the territory of the Despotate of Epiros where he founded a monastery around 1330.32 The most detailed description of such a prolonged sojourn in the Levant could be found in the life of Saint Sabas Tziskos (c. 1283 – 1347). He originated from a wealthy family and had to sneak away secretly from his family to enter the Vatopedi-monastery on Mount Athos. Around 1307, he left Athos for a journey to Jerusalem according to the author of his vita because he had heard a voice that ordered him to do so. He suspended his journey to live for a while on Cyprus as a Holy Fool and hermit, his trademark being to sit for a long time in the dirt. From his desire to die as a martyr, he insulted an Italian nobleman who indeed mistreated him badly but failed to kill him. Finally, he moved to a hermitage where he soon was visited by many pilgrims. To avoid this popularity he finally moved on to Jerusalem. After having visited the Holy Sites he spent two years in St. Catherine’s monastery on Mount Sinai to be instructed by the monks there. Then he settled in a cave along the Jordan River but again he drew the attention of many monks from Palestine and Syria. When he was assaulted by two Arabs, he decided to join several monasteries in succession in the Judean desert. After approximately twenty years, he finally decided to return to Byzantium again on divine orders. Heading back to Constantinople he came to Jerusalem where a big 30 Michael Apostoles 1889: 102. Papadopulos 1935: 582; PLP: no. 16813. 31 For anonymous pilgrim reports from the late Byzantine period (13th-15th centuries) cf. Külzer 1994: 41 – 46, 305 – 312, 317 – 337. Anyhow monks and clerics visiting the Holy Land individually were also pilgrims. 32 Life of Neilos Hierychiotes, in Krapsites 1973: 329. PLP: no. 20021; BMFD: 1396; Nicol 1984: 244.

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crowd gathered and even the Muslim governor showed him reverence. On his return journey he also visited Damascus and Antioch before leaving Syria.33 His goal was obviously to spend some time in the different famous and venerated places of Orthodox monasticism, such as St. Catherine’s or Mar Saba in the Judean desert, founded in the 6th and the 5th century respectively. The quite common reports of such round trips through the desert monasteries show indeed how these monasteries constituted a very closely connected network in the area which was used by monks coming from Byzantium to stay there for an extended amount of time, sometimes even for years.34 The reason for coming there was that these desert monasteries represented the age-old tradition of Byzantine monasticism. Obviously, it was necessary to maintain this tradition by constantly referring to it in the texts and, for some, even to be there physically.35 Thus, the monastic ideal of the Byzantine Church not only created an ideological link with the monasteries in Palestine and Egypt, but also lead to the establishment of personal ties between monastic institutions across political boundaries through the frequent visits of monks from the lands of the Byzantine Empire. A very different kind of traveller was Agathangelos, a pseudonym given by Nikephoros Gregoras to his friend and pupil Manuel Angelos.36 According to Gregoras, this Agathangelos visited him secretly several times when he was imprisoned in Constantinople, due to his opposition to the theological doctrine of Gregorios Palamas, around 1342. On these occasions, Agathangelos told Gregoras what was happening in the outside world. He also gave a lengthy report of his travels to the Near East, the motive for the journey being his desire to explore foreign countries and to profit from the wisdom of the ancient Chaldeans and Persians. In this context, astronomy obviously was one of his special interests.37 Since we do not have any other evidence that Manuel Angelos ever went to Egypt and Syria Agathangelos’ narration has been questioned.38 But even if Manuel Angelos did not visit the Near East, it seems very likely that Gregoras used other sources for his quite detailed account of the oriental patriarchates. After a rather traditional geographic description of Egypt and Syria, which 33 The Life of Sabas Tziskos of Vatopedi was written by Philotheos Kokkinos (Philotheos Kokkinos 1985: c. 16 – 52, 188 – 260). PLP: no. 27991; Talbot 2011: 183 f.; Congourdeau 2006. 34 For such trips in the 11th and 12th centuries cf. Pahlitzsch in print3. 35 Cf. Nicol 1985: 199, who refers also to the Saint Meletios Galesiotes. Cf. also Laiou 1980. 36 For Manuel Angelos cf. PLP: no. 91040, and Külzer 1994: 24 f. 37 Nikephoros Gregoras 1829 – 1855, vol. 3: 18 (cap. XXV) (German translation – van Dieten 1973 – 2007, vol. 5: 49). Interestingly, in 1386 Ioannes Abraamios, an astrologer of the emperor, went on behalf of his lord to Alexandria to buy pharmaceuticals. So the quest for scientific knowledge was maybe a common motive for travels to the Islamic world, cf. Schreiner 1979: 303 f.; Makris 1988: 78 f. 38 PLP: no. 91040.

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however includes an interesting comparison of Damascus and Alexandria39, Agathangelos reported how he had met many local bishops and also the patriarchs of Antioch, Jerusalem and Alexandria. At first, they all had mocked and reproached him because of the corruption of the Christian doctrine in Byzantium caused by Palamas and the current emperor. Agathangelos placed emphasis on how quickly they learned about events in Byzantium. Only after he had assured them that he also objected to Palamas’ false teaching, was he respected. The patriarch of Antioch, Ignatios II, even showed him a decree against this doctrine which he had signed in Constantinople some years ago, as the antiPalamite party still predominated.40 Considering the militant anti-Palamite attitude of Gregoras, the text’s author, the function of this passage was obviously to demonstrate that the Melkite communities in the Orient, being out of reach of the heretic emperor’s power, still followed the true faith which proved consequently that the momentary victory of Palamism in Byzantium could have happened only because the emperor had enforced it.

(b)

Context and Content

The second general category of the occasions on which the networks were activated can be presented very briefly. Although the historicity of the encounters of Agathangelos/Manuel Angelos with the Melkite patriarchs and bishops is not beyond doubt, this text nevertheless demonstrates the importance of the three oriental patriarchates for the religious ideology of the Byzantine Empire. As soon as a general doctrinal conflict emerged, the oriental patriarchs were involved in these struggles in accordance with the Orthodox ecclesiology that the universal Church should be governed by the patriarchs. The oriental patriarchates were anything but mere local churches that were only engaged in internal affairs.41 It is possible therefore to define three major issues which lead to an intensification of communication between Byzantium and the oriental patriarchates in Mamluk Egypt and Syria: 1. the question of the Church Union; 2. the controversy about the doctrine of Gregorios Palamas; 3. disputes over succession. The first topic gained special importance after the council of Lyon in 1274, in which the Emperor Michael VIII concluded a union of the churches with the papacy.42 However Maria, Michael’s niece and the wife of the tsar of Bulgaria 39 Nikephoros Gregoras 1829 – 1855, vol. 3: 13 – 15 (cap. XXIV) (German translation – van Dieten 1973 – 2007, vol. 5: 46 – 48). 40 Nikephoros Gregoras 1829 – 1855, vol. 3: 22 – 24 (cap. XXV) (German translation – van Dieten 1973 – 2007, vol. 5: 52 f.). 41 For the so-called pentarchy theory cf. Gahbauer 1993; Avvakumov 2002. 42 For the church union of 1274 cf. Riebe 2005: 23 – 100.

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Konstantin Tich Asen, was a fervent opponent of this union. Hence, despite her Byzantine origin, she supported the plans of her husband to wage war against Byzantium. In this context she sent a certain Ioseph Katharos with others to Gregorios I, the patriarch of Jerusalem who was also an anti-unionist, and to the Mamluk sultan Baybars, around 1276. In this scheme, the patriarch of Jerusalem was supposed to convince the sultan to start a coordinated attack against Byzantium together with the Bulgarians. Gregorios obviously had access to other information channels, since – according to the historian Georgios Pachymeres – the patriarch had already learned from others about the religious policy of the emperor. In the end, however, this mission did not obtain its goal. Baybars was suspicious of this Bulgarian embassy and sent them away without a word from him.43 In 1367, when Pope Urban V again proposed a union of the Churches, the Patriarch of Constantinople Philotheos Kokkinos suggested to convene an ecumenical council together with his colleagues from Jerusalem and Alexandria to discuss this issue, which meant nothing else than that they would not accept the supremacy of the Church of Rome as propagated by the papacy.44 When a union of the churches was again decided during the middle of the 15th century, the three oriental patriarchs even convened in Jerusalem at the instigation of the anti-unionist party to publish a common statement against the Church union.45 The Palamite controversy led to similar reactions, as has been shown above with the case of Nikephoros Gregoras and Agathangelos. Regarding the dispute about succession numerous examples have been provided such as Lazaros, Athanasios III and the letter of Antonios IV of Constantinople. Very different means and ways of communication have been established by the Melkites and the Greek Orthodox Church of Byzantium to create and maintain networks transcending political boundaries. Since the Melkite communities in the Mamluk Empire were defined as religious communities under the leadership of their bishops and patriarchs, it was just natural and actually unavoidable that any network connecting Byzantium with the Greek Orthodox Christians in the Near East had to be based on ecclesiastical structures and channels of communication. Maybe there might have also been Byzantine mercantile networks, but we hardly know anything about them.46 In any case, the ecclesiastical networks were certainly far more important. Nevertheless, our knowledge of these 43 PLP: no. 16910. For the plot against the union cf. Georgios Pachymeres 1984 – 2000, vol. 2: 544 – 7; Laurent 1927: 404; Nicol 1961: 470. Georgios subsequently had even a treatise published arguing against the union of both Churches, written by Georgios Moschabar on Georgios’ instructions, cf. Laurent 1929: 153 – 55. 44 Meyendorff 1960: 159 – 61; Schreiner 1971; PLP: no. 21173. 45 PLP: no. 8383; Laurent 1956: 353 n. 5. 46 For Byzantine trade with the Mamluks cf. Jacoby 2003: 249 – 68; Pahlitzsch in print2.

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ecclesiastical networks is also quite limited and it will require further research to achieve a better understanding of the close relationship between the Melkite Churches and Byzantium in the Mamluk period.

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˘

Georgios Pachymeres (1984 – 2000), Relations historiques, ed. Albert Failler, French transl. Vitalien Laurent, 5 vols., Paris: Soci¦t¦ d’Edition. “Les Belles Lettres” (“Corpus fontium historiae Byzantinae. Series Parisiensis,” vol. 24,1 – 5). Ioannes Kantakouzenos (1828 – 1832), Eximperatoris historiarum libri IV, ed. Ludwig Schopen, 3 vols., Bonn: Weber (“Corpus scriptorum historiae Byzantinae,” vols. 2, 12, 13). Ioseph Bryennios (1991), Io¯se¯phou monachou tou Bryenniou ta heurethenta, ed. Thomas Mandakases, vol. 3., Thessaloniki [repr. of (1784) Leipzig with different pagination]. Izeddin, Mehmed (ed.) (1958), “Un texte arabe in¦dit sur Constantinople Byzantine,” Journal Asiatique 246: 453 – 7. Krapsites, Basiles I. (1973), Basile¯ Krapsite¯ Thespro¯tika, 2nd suppl. ed., Athens. Lampsides, Odysseas (ed.) (1975), Andreou Libade¯nou bios kai erga, Athens: Epitrope¯ Pontiako¯n Meleto¯n (“Archeion Pontou. Pararte¯ma,” vol. 7). Michael Apostoles (1889), Lettres in¦dites de Michel Apostolis, ed. Hippolyte Noiret, Paris: Thorin (“BibliothÀque des Ecoles FranÅaises d’AthÀnes et de Rome,” vol. 54). Miklosich, Franz and Müller, Joseph (1862), Acta et Diplomata Graeca Medii Aevi Sacra et Profana, vol. 2. Acta patriarchatus Constantinopolitani 1315 – 1402, Vienna. Nikephoros Gregoras (1829 – 1855), Byzantina historia, ed. Ludwig Schopen and Immanuel Bekker, 3 vols., Bonn (“Corpus scriptorum historiae byzantinae,” vols. 4, 9, 48) [German translation: (1973 – 2007), Rhomäische Geschichte – Historia Rhomake, trans. and com. Jan-Louis van Dieten, 7 vols., Stuttgart: Hiersemann (“Bibliothek der griechischen Literatur. Abt. Byzantinistik,” vols. 4, 8, 9, 24, 39, 59, 66]. Nikephoros Kallistos Xanthopoulos (1865), in Patrologiae Graecae Cursus Completus, ed. Jacques Paul Migne, vol. 146, Paris. Philotheos Kokkinos (1985), Hagiologika erga. A’ Thessalonikeis hagioi, ed. Demetrios G. Tsames, Thessaloniki: Kentron Byzantino¯n Ereuno¯n (“Thessalonikeis Byzantinoi syngrapheis,” vol. 4). PRK = Das Register des Patriarchats von Konstantinopel, ed. Herbert Hunger et al., Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, vol. 1. Edition und Übersetzung der Urkunden aus den Jahren 1315 – 1331 (1981), vol. 2. Edition und Übersetzung der Urkunden aus den Jahren 1337 – 1350 (1995), vol. 3. Edition und Übersetzung der Urkunden aus den Jahren 1350 – 1363 (2001) (“Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae”, vols. 19,1 – 3). Al-Qalqasˇandı¯ (1913 – 19), as-Subh al-a sˇa¯ fı¯ sina¯ at al-insˇa¯’, 14 vols., Cairo (repr. (1963) ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Cairo).

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Gahbauer, Ferdinand R. (1993), Die Pentarchietheorie. Ein Modell der Kirchenleitung von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart, Frankfurt a. Main. Grumel, Venance (1962), “Notes de chronologie patriarcale. Un synchronisme de patriarches (Constantinople, Alexandrie, Antioche, J¦rusalem) dans un rouleau liturgique de l’Athos (XIVe s.),” in M¦langes offerts au pÀre Ren¦ Mouterde pour son 80e anniversaire, vol. 2: 257 – 67. Holt, Peter M. (1986), The Age of the Crusades: the Near East From the Eleventh Century to 1517, London: Longman. Holt, Peter M. (1995), Early Mamluk Diplomacy (1260 – 1290): Treaties of Baybars and Qala¯wu¯n with Christian Rulers, Leiden et al.: Brills. Hörandner, Wolfram and Grünbart Michael (ed.) (2003), L’Êpistolographie et la po¦sie ¦pigrammatique: projets actuels et questions de m¦thodologie. Actes de la 16e table ronde organis¦e dans le cadre du XXe CongrÀs international des ¦tudes byzantines, collÀge de France, Sorbonne, Paris, 19 – 25 ao˜t 2001, Paris: Centre d’¦tudes byzantines, n¦o-hell¦niques et sud-est europ¦ennes, Êcole des hautes ¦tudes en sciences sociales. Jacoby, David (2003), “Byzantine Traders in Mamluk Egypt,” in Byzantio kratos kai koino¯nia mne¯me¯ Nikou Oikonomide¯ (Byzantium, State and Society. In Memory of Nikos Oikonomides), ed. Anna Avramea, Angeliki Laiou and Evangelos Chrysos, Athens: Institute for Byzantine Studies. The National Research Foundation: 249 – 68. Külzer, Andreas (1994), Peregrinatio graeca in terram sanctam. Studien zu Pilgerführern und Reisebeschreibungen über Syrien, Palästina und den Sinai aus byzantinischer und metabyzantinischer Zeit, Frankfurt a.M. et al.: Lang. Labib, Subhi Y. (1965), Handelsgeschichte Ägyptens im Spätmittelalter (1171 – 1517), Wiesbaden: Steiner. Laiou, Angeliki E. (1980), “Saints and Society in the Late Byzantine Empire,” in Charanis Studies: Essays in Honour of Peter Charanis, ed. Angeliki E. Laiou-Thomakidis, New Brunswick, N.J: Rutgers University Press: 84 – 114. Laiou, Angeliki E. (2001), “Byzantine Trade with Christians and Muslims and the Crusades (with an Appendix by Cecile Morrisson),” in The Crusades from the Perspective of Byzantium and the Muslim World, ed. Angeliki E. Laiou and Roy Parviz Mottahedeh, Washington, D.C: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection: 157 – 96. Lammens, Henri (1904), “Correspondances diplomatiques entre les sultans mamlouks d’Êgypte et les puissances chr¦tiennes,” Revue de l’Orient Chr¦tien 9: 151 – 187, 359 – 392. Laurent, Vitalien (1927), “Le serment antilatin du patriarche Joseph Ier (Juin 1273),” Êchos d’orient 26: 396 – 407. Laurent, Vitalien (1929), “Un pol¦miste grec de la fin du XIIIe siÀcle: La vie et les oeuvres de Georges Moschabar,” Êchos d’Orient 28: 129 – 58. Laurent, Vitalien (1956), “Une famille turque au service de Byzance: les M¦likÀs,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 49: 349 – 68. Lippard, Bruce G. (1983), The Mongols and Byzantium, 1243 – 1341 (Diss. Indiana University). Makris, Georgios (1988), Studien zur spätbyzantinischen Schifffahrt, Genova: Istituto di Medievistica. Mansouri, Mohamed T. (1992), Recherches sur les Relations entre Byzance et l’Egypte (1259 – 1453) (d’apr¦s les sources arabes), Tunis.

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Matschke, Klaus-Peter and Tinnefeld, Franz (2001), Die Gesellschaft im späten Byzanz. Gruppen, Strukturen und Lebensformen, Cologne: Böhlau. McCormick, Michael (2001), Origins of the European Economy : Communications and Commerce, A.D. 300 – 900, Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press. McKendrick, Scot (2003), “The Codex Alexandrinus or The Dangers of Being A Named Manuscript,” in The Bible as Book: The Transmission of the Greek Text, ed. Scot McKendrick and Orlaith A. O’Sullivan, New Castle, Del.: Oak Knoll: 1 – 16. Meyendorff, John (1960), “Projects de Concile oecum¦nique en 1367,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 14: 147 – 77. Mullett, Margaret (2007), Letters, Literacy and Literature in Byzantium, Aldershot et al.: Ashgate. Nicol, Donald M. (1961), “The Greeks and the Union of the Churches: The Preliminaries to the Second Council of Lyon, 1261 – 1274,” in Medieval Studies: Presented to Aubrey Gwynn, S.J., ed. John A. Watt et al., Dublin: Colm o Lochlainn: 454 – 80. Nicol, Donald M. (1984), The Despotate of Epiros, 1267 – 1479, Cambridge et al.: Cambridge Univ. Press. Nicol, Donald M. (1985), “Instabilitas Loci: The Wanderlust of Late Byzantine Monks,” in Monks, Hermits and the Ascetic Tradition: Papers Read at the 1984 Summer Meeting and the 1985 Winter Meeting of the Ecclesiastical History Society, Oxford et al.: Blackwell et al.: 193 – 202. Pahlitzsch, Johannes (2001): Graeci und Suriani im Palästina der Kreuzfahrerzeit. Beiträge und Quellen zur Geschichte des griechisch-orthodoxen Patriarchats von Jerusalem, Berlin: Duncker & Humblot. Pahlitzsch, Johannes (2003), “Georgians and Greeks in Jerusalem from the End of the 11th to the Early 14th Century,” in East and West in the Crusader States: Context – Contacts – Confrontations, ed. by Krijnie N. Ciggaar and Herman Teule, vol. 3, Leuven and Dudley : 35 – 51. Pahlitzsch, Johannes (2004), “Ärzte ohne Grenzen: Melkitische, jüdische und samaritanische Ärzte in Ägypten und Syrien zur Zeit der Kreuzzüge,” in Gesundheit – Krankheit. Kulturtransfer medizinischen Wissens von der Spätantike bis in die Frühe Neuzeit, ed. Kay Peter Jankrift and Florian Steger, Cologne et al.: Böhlau: 101 – 19 (French transl. (2011) “M¦decins sans frontiÀres. M¦decins melkites, juifs et samaritains en Êgypte et en Syrie — l’¦poque des croisades“, Trivium 8 (http://trivium. revues.org/3962). Pahlitzsch, Johannes (2005), “Mediators between East and West: Christians under Mamluk Rule,” Mamluk Studies Review, 9,2: 31 – 47. Pahlitzsch, Johannes (2007), “The Translation of the Byzantine Procheiros Nomos into Arabic: Techniques and Cultural Context,” Byzantinoslavica 65: 19 – 29. Pahlitzsch, Johannes (2012), art. “Theodore Metochites,” in Christian-Muslim Relations. A Bibliographical History, ed. David Thomas, Alex Mallet et al., vol. 4, Leiden et al.: Brill. Pahlitzsch, Johannes (in print)1, “The Melkites in Fatimid Egypt and Syria (1021 to 1171),” in Non-Muslim Communities in Fatimid Egypt (10th-12th centuries CE), ed. Maryann M. Shenoda, Johannes den Heijer et al., Leiden and Boston. Pahlitzsch, Johannes (in print)2, “Slavery and Slave Trade in Byzantium in the Palaiologean

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Period,” in Slavery and the Slave Trade in the Medieval Mediterranean (10th-15th Centuries), ed. Reuven Amitai and Christoph Cluse, Turnhout. Pahlitzsch, Johannes (in print)3, “Syria and Palestine in Byzantine Hagiography of the 11th and 12th Centuries,” in Monks, Merchants and Artists in the Eastern Mediterranean. The Relations of Byzantium to the Arab Near East (9th to 15th c.), ed. Johannes Pahlitzsch and Vasiliki Tsamakda, Mainz. Papadopulos, Chrysostomos (1935), Historia te¯s ekkle¯sias Alexandrias (62 – 1934), Alexandria. PLP = Trapp, Erich (ed.) (1976 – 1996), Prosopographisches Lexikon der Palaiologenzeit, 12 vols., Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften (“Veröffentlichungen der Kommission für Byzantinistik,” vol. 1,1 – 12). Preiser-Kapeller, Johannes (2013), “‘Our in the Holy Spirit beloved Brothers and CoPriests’. A Network Analysis of the Synod and the Episcopacy in the Register of the Patriarchate of Constantinople in the Years 1379 – 1390,” in The Register of the Patriarchate of Constantinople. An Essential Source for the History and Church of Late Byzantium, Proceedings of the International Symposium, Vienna, 5th-9th May 2009, ed. by Christian Gastgeber, Ekaterini Mitsiou and Johannes Preiser-Kapeller, Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften: 109 – 138. Reinert, Stephen W. (1998), “The Muslim Presence in Constantinople, 9th–15th Centuries: Some Preliminary Observations,” in Studies on the Internal Diaspora of the Byzantine Empire, ed. Helene Ahrweiler and Angeliki E. Laiou, Washington: 125 – 50. Riebe, Alexandra (2005), Rom in Gemeinschaft mit Konstantinopel. Patriarch Johannes XI. Bekkos als Verteidiger der Kirchenunion von Lyon (1274), Wiesbaden: Harassowitz. Schmid, Pia (1956), Die diplomatischen Beziehungen zwischen Konstantinopel und Kairo zu Beginn des 14 Jahrhunderts im Rahmen der Auseinandersetzungen Byzanz – Islam (unpublished doctoral dissertation, Munich). Schreiner, Peter (1971), “Ein Schreiben Papst Urbans V. an die Patriarchen des Ostens,” Archivum Historiae Pontificiae 9: 411 – 7. Schreiner, Peter (1979), “Byzanz und die Mamluken in der 2. Hälfte des 14. Jahrhunderts,” Der Islam 56: 296 – 304. Skeat, Theodore C. (1955), “The Provenance of the Codex Alexandrinus,” Journal of Theological Studies 6: 233 – 5. Talbot, Alice-Mary (2011), “Hagiography in Late Byzantium (1204 – 1453),” in The Ashgate Research Companion to Byzantine Hagiography. 1. Periods and Places, ed. Stephanos Euthymiadis, Farnham et al.: Ashgate: 173 – 95. Todt, Klaus-Peter (2001), “Region und Griechisch-Orthodoxes Patriarchat von Antiocheia in mittelbyzantinischer Zeit,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 94: 239 – 67. Todt, Klaus-Peter (2006), “Griechisch-orthodoxe (Melkitische) Christen im zentralen und südlichen Syrien. Die Periode von der arabischen Eroberung bis zur Verlegung der Patriarchenresidenz nach Damaskus (635 – 1365),” Le Mus¦on 119: 33 – 8.

Michael Winter (Tel Aviv)

Sufism in the Mamluk Empire (and in early Ottoman Egypt and Syria) as a focus for religious, intellectual and social networks

Introduction

˘

Sufism generally, and during the Mamluk period in particular, is relevant to the research of trans-regional networks. Only in very few movements are social and religious networks as vital as in Sufism. The social structure of a Sufi tarı¯qa was ˙ based on networks with a ˇsayh at the head, followed his disciples. Often, the ˘ master had links to an eponymous founder of the tarı¯qa; he could be his de˙ scendant or linked to him by passing the spiritual and leadership from previous ˇsayh. Often the founder’s tomb was the center for the tarı¯qa’s ritual and training ˙ ˘ murı¯du¯n (novices). The novices were initiated as full members by special ceremonies that were different from one another. The ˇsayh was believed to be ˘ endowed with holiness (baraka, lit. blessing, but it could also inflict harm), and also could have miracles (kara¯ma¯t). In contrast to Catholic brotherhoods or orders, the hierarchy in Sufi tarı¯qas was less rigid and they could split by fis˙ siparous processes. The term for the Catholic brotherhood is “order,” while the Sufi tarı¯qa is derived from “way,” which is a typical Muslim religious termi˙ nology. Note the terms Sˇarı¯ a, the way to the water fountain, madhab, from the ¯ root to go, the legal schools in Muslim law. The way of the novice’s progress is called sulu¯k, traveling, or taking a road.1 Egyptian and Syrian Sufism during the thirteenth through the sixteenth centuries were open to outside influences that shaped the various forms that developed in the Mamluk Empire. It is intriguing to observe what types of Sufism succeeded in taking roots there, and what doctrines, cults and customs did not. It is worthwhile to examine the reasons for these attitudes. The first examples that come to mind are the monism of Ibn alArabı¯, and the heterodox dervish orders that were popular in the Turkish and Iranian regions,2 but not in Egypt and Syria (despite a few notable exceptions of Egyptian and Syrians admirers of Ibn al- Arabı¯). The thirteenth century, when

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1 Lewis 1988. 2 Karamustafa c. 1994.

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the Mamluk Empire was established, was a watershed era in Islam. The Muslim lands were attacked by the Mongols, who defeated Muslim armies and conquered important centers of Muslim civilization in the east, culminating their chain of victories by the destruction of the Abbasid caliphate of Baghdad (1258). ˇ a¯lu¯t The Egyptian Mamluks stopped the Mongol onslaught in the battle of Ayn G in Palestine (1260) and won the gratitude and admiration of the Muslims for pushing the Mongols behind the Euphrates, thus saving Syria and Egypt. The thirteenth century was a heady time for Sufism in many parts of the Muslim world. Some of the greatest Sufi writers, poets, Sufi ˇsayhs and tarı¯qa originated ˙ ˘ from this period. One can speculate about the impact of the dramatic political upheavals on the flourishing of the intellectual and social Sufi movements which were by no means monolithic or similar. Egypt was open to Sufi influences mainly from the west (North Africa) and to a lesser extent also from the east (Arabia) and the north (mainly the Turkish regions). The following list of famous Sufis in the thirteenth century includes men of various cultures, languages and countries, as well as religious orientations, mainly orthodox and antinomian Sufis. ˘

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Nagˇm ad-Dı¯n Kubra¯ (d. 1221), the founder of the Kubra¯wiyya Sufi order in the Mongol period in Central Asia and Hurasa¯n. He was born in Hwarazm and was ˘ ˘ educated as a a¯lim. His Sufi personality was developed in Tabriz. Finally, he returned to Hwarazm where he died in 1220. It is said that he was murdered while ˘ fighting the Mongols who invaded his homeland. In the present context, it is interesting to note that he became a Sufi in Egypt where he lived for a few years, although his Sufism was shaped elsewhere.3

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ˇ ala¯l ad-Dı¯n Ru¯mı¯ (Balh 1207-Qonya 1273)4 G ˇ ala¯l ad-Dı¯n was a Persian refugee G ˘ living in Anatolia, who fled the Mongol advance. He settled in Qonya, in the region governed by the Seljuks of Ru¯m (hence his nisba Ru¯mı¯). He became a Sufi and established an order called Mewlewiyya, the Mevlev„ order in Turkish, after his title mawla¯na¯ (our master), in Turkish mevl–na. The order earned fame through the master’s mystical poem Matnawı¯. The Mevlev„s regard it as reve¯ lation of the inner meaning of the Quran, and it was called “the Quran in Persian.” The Mewlewiyya order was regarded as ˇsarı¯ a-leaning in the Ottoman Turkish provinces, but not among the Arabs. Their membership was Turkish; its basic Sufi text was the eponym’s famous Mesnevi (Matnawı¯), the poet’s mystical ¯ experiences through a Persian poem of parables. The music and the ritual of 3 Trimingham [1971] 1973, 55 – 56. 4 Trimingham [1971] 1973, 60 – 62.

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dancing “the Whirling Dervishes,” as they were known in the West, symbolizing the universal movement of the spheres, did not attract Arabs. Besides its centralist organization, it did not spread beyond Anatolia and the Ottoman parts of Europe. Another obvious reason for the fact that the order did not appeal to the Arabs, was the Persian influence of the order. The Persian language and literature were regarded as a part of high culture, not only among the Persians but also among Ottoman educated elite. Most of the Arabs had no use for that language.5 (This changed somewhat after the Ottoman conquest of Syria and Egypt.) ˘

Muhyı¯ d-Dı¯n Ibn al- Arabı¯ (Murcia, al-Andalus, 1165 – Damascus, 1240). The ˙ influence of Ibn al- Arabı¯ on Muslim religious discourse was immense. He was arguably the greatest mystic in the Arabic-speaking world and beyond. His monistic doctrine is controversial to this day. It was popular in the Turkishspeaking regions, but not among the Arabs, who were more legalistic in their religion. The fact that in legal matters Ibn al- Arabı¯ chose the Za¯hirı¯ madhab, the ¯ ˙ minority school of law that adhered strictly to the letter of the ˇsarı¯ a did not endear him to the Arab ulama¯’. Through a fatwa¯ of Kema¯lpas‚ a¯zade, one of Sultan Süleyman Grand Muftis, the Ottomans officially adopted the views of Ibn al- Arabı¯, who was known as “asˇ-Sˇayh al-Akbar.”6 The Arab ulama¯’, and most ˘ orthodox Sufis, with several notable exceptions, were opposed to Ibn al- Arabı¯ and his supporters. ˘

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Umar b. al-Fa¯rid (d. 1235, in Egypt) is often compared to Ibn al- Arabı¯. He was ˙ born and died in Egypt and was considered as the greatest Arab mystical poet. While Ibn al- Arabı¯’s mysticism is known as wahdat al-wugˇu¯d (the Unity of ˙ Being), Ibn al-Fa¯rid’s mysticism is known as hulu¯l (incarnationism) and ittiha¯d ˙ ˙ ˙ (monism). As will be discussed below, Umar b. al-Fa¯rid’s poetry had critics who ˙ doubted his orthodoxy, although he did not encounter such vicious hostility as did Ibn al- Arabı¯.7 ˘

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As-Sayyid Ahmad al-Badawı¯8 (d. 1260) was born in Fez and moved to Egypt. He ˙ is still the most popular saint in Egypt. He has three mawlids (saint-days) that are celebrated at his tomb in Ta¯nta¯. These mawlids were festivals and were held ˙ ˙ ˘

5 Le Gall 2005, 94. 6 Geoffroy, 1995, 97 – 102, 133 – 137. The literature on Ibn al- Arabı¯ is vast and growing. See also, Ates‚ , A. EI2. 7 Ingalls 2011, 59 – 63. Zakariyya al-Ansa¯rı¯ quoted that both Ibn al- Arabı¯ and Ibn al-Fa¯rid were ˙ rifa) saints, but the latter was superior. Ibn˙ al- Arabı¯ was stronger in mystical knowledge (ma and Ibn al-Fa¯rid was better in the love of God ( isˇq) Al-G˙azzı¯, 1979, 1:203. 8 Mayeur-Jaouen ˙1994. ˘

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according to the Coptic calendar ; as fairs they needed to take note of the agricultural seasons. His tarı¯qa appealed to the uneducated people, particularly in ˙ the villages. Ahmad al-Badawı¯ did not leave any writings, but many miracles are ˙ attributed to him. Ahmad al-Badawı¯ is a representative of the lower type of ˙ dervishes and his intellectual qualities seem to have been of small importance. The mawlids were criticized by ulama¯’ who accused the participants of immoral behavior, such as the mingling of men and women. The adherents of the Ah˙ madiyya (or Badawiyya) order were often regarded as ignorant people who paid no attention to the laws of the ˇsarı¯ a. Several orthodox Sufis (like asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ and his circle) expressed respect to the saint, while disapproving the behavior of his followers. They used to say that Sayyid Ahmad al-Badawı¯ would have blamed them as well. The Mamluk rulers ˙ usually supported the Sufis of this order. It was reported that az-Za¯hir Baybars ˙ ˙ kissed al-Badawı¯’s feet. Whether the sultan was a genuine admirer of the Sufi ˇsayh or, as political leaders have often done, he wanted to demonstrate his ˘ adoration for his political purposes is a moot question. ˘

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Abu¯ l-Hasan asˇ-Sˇa¯dilı¯,9 a contemporary of Ahmad al-Badawı¯ who was another ¯ ˙ ˙ Moroccan Sufi ˇsayh. He came to Egypt, and became the eponym of an important ˘ Sufi order. During his life-time, he was regarded as saint, but he did not found the Sˇa¯diliyya that became a Sufi order only about more than a century after his death ¯ in 1258 in Upper Egypt. Unlike the Ahmadiyya tarı¯qa, the Sˇa¯diliyya was an orthodox and intellectual ¯ ˙ ˙ order. The masters of the order wrote many treatises, poems, maxims and other Sufi writings. The Sˇa¯diliyya was an urban tarı¯qa. They used music in their ¯ ˙ ceremonies and wore nice clothes without wearing a specific Sufi habit. The order was opposed to asceticism and insisted that its adherents work for their living and should be involved in their society. The ˇsayhs were careful to be in ˘ good terms with the rulers in order to enjoy official support and material help.

Sufism in Egypt in the Ayyu¯bid and early Mamluk periods

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9 Trimingham [1971] 1973, 47 – 51, 84 – 90, Hofer 2011, 92 – 145.

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In his recent dissertation about Sufis in Ayyubid and early Mamluk Egypt, Nathan C. Hofer describes four categories of Sufis: 1. The ha¯nqa¯h Sa ¯ıd as-Su ada¯’ ˘ that was established by Sala¯h ad-Dı¯n and was financed by the state; Hofer calls it ˙ ˙ State-Sponsored Sufism; 2. State-Sanctioned Sufism: Ibn Ata¯’ Alla¯h al-Iskandarı¯ ˙ and the Nascent Sˇa¯diliyya; 3. Non-State-Sanctioned Sufism: The Independent ¯

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Sufis of Upper Egypt; 4. Subaltern Sufism: Abraham Maimonides and the Jewish Pietists of Fusta¯t.10 ˙ ˙ In Egypt there were many tarı¯qas that were different in their customs, degrees ˙ of literacy, orthodoxy, leadership, geographic locations, relations with the rulers, and, in one case, even in religion (the Jewish Pietists of Fustat). This is the only case that Jews adopted Sufi ideas and practices without compromising their Jewish identity. They did not regard themselves as Jews who were influenced by Muslim Sufis, but as Jewish Sufis. This group of Jews, led by Abraham Maimonides (d. 1237), the son of the famous philosopher Moses Maimonides, called themselves Pietists (hasidim). The ha¯nqa¯h Sa ¯ıd as-Su ada¯’ was established and ˙ ˘ financed by Sala¯h ad-Dı¯n. Its Sufi dwellers were from the east and were educated ˙ ˙ ˇ in fiqh. Their chief Sayh asˇ-Sˇuyu¯h was appointed by the sultan. The ˇsayh usually ˘ ˘ ˘ was not really a Sufi. He was well connected to the political rulers. By the processions of the residents of the ha¯nqa¯h, Sufism became a part of the urban ˘ landscape. The local Sufis of Cairo belonged to western orders and were poor. Sala¯h ad-Dı¯n’s endowment of the ha¯nqa¯h Sa ¯ıd as-Su ada¯’ and his support of its ˙ ˙ ˘ Sufi residents of any form of state-sponsored Sufism marked the first appearance in Egypt. The project was so successful and popular that, after wresting control of Egypt from the Ayyubid dynasty, the Mamluk sultans began founding and endowing new ha¯nqa¯hs in rapid succession all over Egypt. Abu¯ l-Hasan asˇ-Sˇa¯d- ilı¯ ˙ ˘ did not leave behind any written work. An Egyptian scholar, Ta¯gˇ ad-Dı¯n Ibn Ata¯’ ˙ Alla¯h al-Iskandarı¯ (d. 709/1309 in Cairo) wrote numerous treatises of a doctrinal nature, as well as collections of prayers, which played a decisive role in the constituting of a genuine Sˇa¯d- ilı¯ spirituality.11 The order was opposed to asceticism and insisted that its adherents work for their living and should be involved in their society. The Sˇadiliyya was an urban and relatively literate order. The ¯ Sˇadilı¯s were careful to be on good terms with the rulers so that they would enjoy ¯ official support and material help. The independent Sufis of Upper Egypt acted to spread the normative Islam and attacked Sˇ¯ı ¯ıs and Christians to reach that goal, believing that the state did not want or was unable to defend the true version of Islam in these remote regions. In 1307, these Sufis, led by Ibn Nu¯h al-Qu¯s¯ı, rioted in the streets of Qu¯s ˙ ˙ ˙ and left thirteen churches destroyed in less than two hours. The reaction of the high amirs of the Mamluk Sultan an-Na¯sir Muhammad toward the rioters and ˙ ˙ their leader was quick and ruthless.12 The case of the Upper Egyptian Sufis is a unique phenomenon of Sufi behavior, at least in Egypt. As a rule, the Sufis in that ˘

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10 Hofer 2011, 215 – 284. 11 Hofer 2011, 92 – 108. 12 For more examples of anti-dimmı¯ (and implicitly anti-state riots in Upper Egypt), see Hofer ¯ 2011, 158, 189, 194, 195.

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country were quite docile, wary of the power of the state, and more often than not interested in receiving material benefits from the rulers. The Sufis of Upper Egypt were of a different brand, whose antagonism to the Mamluk regime lead to violence that was quickly crushed by the state. They were most probably influenced by North African and Ma¯liki traditions.13 Hofer explains the inability of the Sufis of Upper Egypt to organize themselves: ˘

“They lacked a systematizing spokesperson like Ibn Ata¯’ Alla¯h al-Iskandarı¯ [the Sˇa¯dilı¯ ¯ ˙ ˇsayh]. Networks are collectivities of individuals with overlapping interests and goals ˘ and, by their very nature, tend to be non-hierarchical and lack formal leadership.Without clear spokespersons and hagiographers, Upper Egyptian Sufis were unable to institutionalize the identity of one or more of these Sufi masters. Nevertheless, as members of networks these Sufis did have overlapping interests and goals.”14

The above-mentioned Sufi groups were different from each other by geography, degree of orthodoxy, size and influence, relations with the rulers, and even, in the Jewish Pietists case, religion. As Hofer summarizes: “These four groups represent a broad cross-section of medieval Egyptian Sufism. From Alexandria to Qu¯s, urban and rural, state-sponsored to non-state-sanctioned, highly ˙ organized to loose networks, elites to dimmı¯s, these groups provide an overview of the ¯ diversity of Sufism in medieval Egypt. The groups in this study were politically, socially, institutionally, and even religiously diverse. Nevertheless, they resembled each other in that they all inherited and worked within a set of institutionalized doctrines and practices formulated in the tenth through the twelfth centuries C.E.”15

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In addition, several other orders emerged in Egypt around the mid-thirteenth century. The Badawiyya or Ahmadiyya, the order of Ahmad al-Badawı¯, has ˙ ˙ already been mentioned, and we will come to it later. It was by far the most popular, at least in Egypt. There was also the Dasu¯qiyya, named for Ibra¯hı¯m adDasu¯qı¯ (d. 676/1261), and many others, including the nascent Rifa¯ iyya. All three were non-orthodox, and were criticized by most ulama¯’ and orthodox Sufis.16 ˘

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13 One must, however, beware of generalizations. Sˇayh Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n al-Fa¯sı¯, a Moroccan and ˘ a Ma¯likı¯, who will be discussed below, were very diplomatic in their dealings with powerful Mamluk amirs and probably with the Ottoman rulers as well. 14 Hofer 2011, 167 – 8. 15 Hofer 2011, 37. 16 See, Trimingham [1971] 1973, 37 – 40 45 – 46. Some dervishes of these and other orders performed shows that demonstrated the victory of the spirit over the body, like playing with fire, swallowing sharp objects or charming serpents from homes. Lane 1954, 248 – 250.

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Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n and Ibra¯hı¯m al-Matbu¯lı¯ (and asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯): Two Sufi Networks

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In addition to the Sufi orders that have been described, it is worth comparing two Sufi networks in a later period that were not full-fledged tarı¯qas. The one is the ˙ Sufi movement which was initiated in Syria by Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n al-Fa¯sı¯ (d. 917/ 1511). The other was created in Cairo and Lower Egypt by the followers and spiritual descendants of Ibra¯hı¯m al-Matbu¯lı¯ (d. ca. 877/1472). Abd al-Wahha¯b asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ (d. 1565 or 1566) was neither the leader nor the founder of that network, but the principal historian, biographer, advocate, interpreter and apologist of this orthodox Sufi movement in Egypt. Had it not been for his numerous, lively, readable, and popular writings, our knowledge of Sufism in the late Mamluk and early Ottoman Egypt would have been much poorer. The religious atmosphere in Egypt and Syria were different, although both were parts of the same empire and shared the tradition of Sunni Islam in the central Arab lands. Key figures in both networks, such as Ibn Maymu¯n and asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ in particular, were familiar with the Sˇa¯dlilı¯ ideological and literary heritage, al¯ though the former was a member of that order, while the latter was not. As expected, both networks were created and developed informally ; they were not called after the most distinguished ˇsayhs, and no rigid hierarchy emerged. Fi˘ nally, Ibn Maymu¯n’s network did not succeed in growing into a stable organization. It did not leave any shrine, mawlid, or enduring family order, as we see happening in Egypt. ˘

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The Sufi network in late Mamluk Syria

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At the beginning of the sixteenth century, there were several Sufi orders in Syria, but Sufi movements in Egypt were stronger and more numerous. The Sufi who invigorated Sufism in Syria was a Mag˙ribı¯ ˇsayh named Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n al-Fa¯sı¯, ˘ who engaged in intensive activity in Syria, and for a few years also in Anatolia. It is probable that he decided that the competition in Egypt was too hard, so he devoted his energy to strengthen the movement in Syria.17 He was very orthodox, puritanical, learned, and charismatic. He did not establish a new tarı¯qa, but was ˙ influential and succeeded in creating a network of orthodox Sufis that included several talented, scholarly, and principled Sufis, who were his disciples and 17 There is no evidence that Ibn Maymu¯n visited Egypt. The Egyptian contemporary sources do not mention him at all. Syrian and Ottoman historians included him in their collections of biographies or chronicles. Ibn Tu¯lu¯n 1962 – 64, 1:312, 319, 322, 359. Al-G˙azzı¯ 1979, 1:271 – 8, Ta¯s‚ köprüzade 1985, 252 – 3. ˙ ˙

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continued his brand of moral and strict Sufism after his death. Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n claimed a ˇsarı¯fı¯ descent, which increased his reputation. He took pride of his independence and claimed that he would treat anybody even the Ottoman sultan according to the Sunna.18 Ibn Maymu¯n developed a special method of guiding his disciples: they revealed to him all their thoughts and he interpreted them. Muhammad b. Arra¯q, Alı¯’s closest follower, founded a system which was called ˙ Arra¯qiyya or Hawa¯tiriyya (from ha¯wa¯tir, quick-passing thoughts). Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ ˙ ˙ ˘ ˘ discusses the ˇsayh’s role as confessor, as “some Syrian and Mag˙ribı¯ faqı¯rs are ˘ wont to do”, clearly referring to Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n and Ibn Arra¯q or to their 19 successors. Ibn Maymu¯n’s Sˇa¯dilı¯ education and ideas were in the background, but he did ¯ not act as a Sˇa¯dilı¯ propagandist, but as a strict keeper of the Sunna. Nevertheless, ¯ he did not accept wearing the hirqa (the dervish’s patched garment, symbol his ˘ vows of obedience to the order) and the halwa (the seclusion or place of retreat), ˘ both practiced in many orders, but not in the Sˇa¯diliyya.20 His network was wholly ¯ under his control. It was not a mass movement, but its impact on Syrian Sufism was considerable. An important and revealing passage from the chronicle of Sˇams ad-Dı¯n b. Tu¯lu¯n, the most important and trustworthy historian of late ˙ Mamluk and early Ottoman Damascus, describes Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n as being learned and charismatic, but also as quarrelsome troublemaker. According to Ibn Tu¯lu¯n, Ibn Maymu¯n was writing against “the injustice of the Turks,” namely ˙ the Mamluk rulers at the time. This criticism, particularly when it came from a foreign Mag˙ribı¯ Sufi, showed courage and could be accepted favorably by the Damascene readers. Yet Ibn Maymu¯n picked up a fitna, a public and angry quarrel, with Taqı¯ d-Dı¯n b. Qa¯d¯ı Agˇlu¯n, the chief Sˇafi ¯ı qa¯d¯ı, and the leader of the ˙ ˙ Sˇafi ¯ıs in Damascus and beyond. He is described as resembling Zakariyya alAnsa¯rı¯, the most revered scholar, judge and teacher of Cairo at the time. Ibn ˙ Maymu¯n rudely insulted him, accusing him of unlawful behavior (fisq) and of financial corruption in administering a waqf-supported institution. Ibn Maymu¯n had a vested interest regarding this institution. It is interesting that the teacher of Ibn Tu¯lu¯n, Abd al-Qa¯dir an-Nu aymı¯, a respected scholar, but a much ˙ less flexible and lenient in his religion than Ibn Tu¯lu¯n, expressed a negative ˙ opinion on Ibn Maymu¯n. He called him “mutamadkir”, an adjective meaning ¯ someone who pretends to perform a Sufi dikr. Nu aymı¯ does not forget to ¯ mention that Ibn Maymu¯n believed in the doctrine of Ibn al- Arabı¯.21 In Syria, even more than in Cairo, the issue of the attitude toward Muhyı¯ d˙ ˘

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Winter 1977, 305. Winter 1977, 294. Al-G˙azzı¯ 1979, 1:271 – 8. Ibn Tu¯lu¯n 1962 – 4, 1:319, 320. ˙

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Dı¯n b. al- Arabı¯’s mysticism cannot be exaggerated. Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n became an admirer of Ibn al- Arabı¯’s monistic doctrines. What is truly surprising is that he was attracted to this brilliant but controversial figure of Abd al-Qa¯dir b. Habı¯b ˙ as-Safa¯dı¯, a strange and modest Sufi from Safa¯d, who was a kutta¯b teacher and a ˙ ˙ ˙ 22 muezzin. He was a typical Mala¯matı¯, a mystic who concealed his saintly qualities behind frivolous behavior, such as playing musical instruments and beating a drum. The ulama¯’ of Damascus had nothing positive to say about him. Invariably, when as-Safa¯dı¯ is mentioned in the sources, his belief in the ideas of ˙ ˙ Ibn al- Arabı¯ is mentioned in a negative tone. He is described as visiting Ibn alArabı¯’s tomb in Damascus, followed by a mob. This hostile criticism was used against any other person who liked or was suspected of liking the doctrines of Ibn al- Arabı¯.23 After Ibn Maymu¯n’s return from Bursa in 1505, his reputation increased immensely. He stayed some time in Hama¯t, where Alwa¯n al-Hamawı¯, a ˙ ˙ renowned poet and theologian, became his follower and later his biographer. Then, Ibn Maymu¯n moved to al-Sa¯lihiyya, the suburb of Damascus. It became ˙ ˙ the location of his activities. Significantly, there was the site of Ibn al- Arabı¯’s sepulcher where Alı¯ held his regular sessions. These were attended by leading ulama¯’, qa¯d¯ıs and muftı¯s belonging to the four legal madhabs. Ibn Maymu¯n ¯ ˙ belonged to the Ma¯likı¯ madhab, like almost all the Mag˙ribı¯s. In Syria, the Ma¯likı¯ ¯ community was considered foreign and small, much smaller than that of Egypt, and quite unpopular. Nevertheless, Ibn Maymu¯n did not make much of his Ma¯likı¯ identity. Alı¯ did not cease to travel in Syria. Of particular interest was his sojourn at Batrun, a town on the Lebanese coast that was frequently attacked by the Franks during the later Middle Ages. Al-Hamawı¯ reports that Alı¯ volunteered to ˙ strengthen the town’s fortifications. He personally guarded the tower and ensured that the town was provided with war materials and weapons, including firearms. Alı¯ at his own cost stationed guards to warn by beating drums against enemy attacks. It is more probable that Alı¯ convinced the governor of Tripoli to send the provisions. Alı¯, who always knew how to handle rulers, ordered the governor to exempt the people of Batrun from taxes and to ransom Muslim prisoners. The biography of Muhammad b. Arra¯q, Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n’s most im˙ portant and loyal disciple and follower, provides an insight into the ˇsayh’s way of ˘ controlling the Sufi network which he created in Syria.24 Before becoming a Sufi, Ibn Arra¯q was a rich and respected man. He belonged to the awla¯d an-na¯s, sons of the mamluks. His father was a Circassian amir, and Muhammad wore military ˙ ˘

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22 It is possible that Ibn Maymu¯n was also influenced in the Turkish regions, where the support for Ibn al- Arabı¯ was widespread. 23 Ibn Tu¯lu¯n 1962 – 4, 1:324. 24 Al-G˙˙azzı¯ 1979, 1:56 – 68.

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clothes and handled the family iqta¯ . He exercised in equestrian games (fur˙ u¯siyya), and enjoyed hunting and shooting, ate good food and played chess and backgammon. After meeting Ibn Maymu¯n, he forsook everything and joined his circle. He was highly immersed in his spiritual trance that he did not drink enough and fainted. The ˇsayh ordered to pour water on him. Muhammad re˙ ˘ covered and started to make spiritual progress. The ˇsayh left for Anatolia and ˘ spent most of the time in Bursa, where he stayed for five years. Ibn Arra¯q wanted to join him, but Ibn Maymu¯n ordered him to go to Safad to Abd al-Qa¯dir b. ˙ Habı¯b, whom he revered, despite his Mala¯matı¯ reputation. The latter invested ˙ Ibn Arra¯q with the Sufi hirqa (patched garment, symbol of the novice’s obe˘ dience to the order) and taught him the dikr formula of his tarı¯qa (he was a ¯ ˙ member of the Qa¯dirı¯ order, that was considered as orthodox). In his memoir, as-Safı¯na al- Arra¯qiyya, Ibn Arra¯q mentioned that he stayed with Ibn Habı¯b for ˙ seventeen days. He studied the ˇsayh’s best known poem at-Ta¯’iyya al-kubra¯, a ˘ Sufi popular ode rhyming on ta¯’.25 Despite its weaknesses, it carries a clear, easily understood, although banal, religious message. Later, Ibn Arra¯q boarded a ship to Egypt and met there several distinguished scholars and Sufis. Upon his return to Syria, he spent some time in Beirut with the purpose of guarding the coast and engaging in gˇ iha¯d against the infidels, emulating his master. When Ibn Maymu¯n returned from Anatolia, Muhammad ˙ asked his permission before undertaking any trip or activity. Muhammad spent ˙ time in Hama¯t and Damascus, guiding novices and studying. He completed ˙ writing twenty-four books on Sufism. He moved with his mother and wife to Damascus. When he showed his books to Ibn Maymu¯n, the ˇsayh rebuked him ˘ severely and ordered to destroy all the mystical treatises by pouring water on them. He allowed Ibn Arra¯q to keep only his works on instruction of basics and ethics. Ibn Maymu¯n raised Muhammad above all the other members of his ˙ circle, to lead the prayers, and open the devotions (awra¯d) and the public dikr. ¯ Muhammad stayed with his ˇsayh until Alı¯’s death in retirement in Magˇdal Ma usˇ, ˙ ˘ a village in the district of Beirut that Ibn Arra¯q suggested for him. Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n died in 917/1511 in his fifties. He was married to two wives. He divorced one of them after providing for her needs; the other, a freed slave, went with him to Magˇdal Ma usˇ. After Alı¯’s death, Ibn Arra¯q gave Alı¯’s widow in marriage to his own son. Alwa¯n al-Hamawı¯ writes that Ibn Maymu¯n maintained a peaceful ˙ household and was devoted to his two wives.26 Six years later, Ibn Arra¯q returned to the Beirut coast. He built a house for his family and a riba¯t (a religious hostel ˙ ˘

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25 The poem was typical of Sufi poetry of that period. It was devoid of artistic value and is technically poor. Al-G˙azzı¯ writes that the linguists disapproved of its weak construction and faulty measure. Al-G˙azzı¯ 1979, 1: 245. 26 Winter 1977, 291, quoting al-Hamawı¯, Mugˇlı¯ al-huzn, fols. 115b – 116a. ˙ ˙

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for his faqı¯rs. The term has also the meaning of frontier-post). People arrived to receive the Way (tarı¯qa) from him. Distinguished people from Damascus urged ˙ him to come back to as-Sa¯lihiyya. He accepted the invitation, and many people ˙ ˙ ˙ went to meet him. He devoted his time to guide the applicants. Thursdays were for teaching refined behavior (ta’dı¯b), Fridays, for reciting the Quran according to the rules of intonation (tagˇwı¯d), Saturdays were for reading hadı¯t and fiqh. ˙ ¯ Several people came to be introduced to Sufism (sulu¯k). It is noteworthy that only a minority of Ibn Arra¯q’s visitors came to him for the purpose of becoming Sufis through initiation and training. Ibn Arra¯q’s accomplishments in Damascus were impressive. Yet, although he was very scrupulous about adhering to the ethical and religious norms of his religion, some of his activities would have been unacceptable to Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n, had he still been alive. He was a qa¯d¯ı at as-Sa¯lihiyya, despite the reluctance of the ˙ devout to fulfill the office of a judge.27 He was a prolific poet and writer on religious matters, warning against innovations (bida ). After a while, Ibn Arra¯q wanted to retreat himself and to stay in a cave in Safad, but people visited him, so he could not fulfill his wish. After three months ˙ in Safad, Ibn Arra¯q received a letter from his family in Damascus informing him ˙ that the governor of the province intended to go on the hagˇgˇ and appointed him ˙ to be in charge of the caravan (probably as the qa¯d¯ı, or the religious supervisor of ˙ the mammoth Syrian hagˇgˇ caravan, that included also the pilgrims from the ˙ Turkish north). Upon Ibn Arra¯q’s insistence that the hagˇgˇ must adhere strictly ˙ to the Book and the Sunna, certain “innovations”, such as the hanging of bells on the necks of the camels, were removed. Ibn Arra¯q agreed to go with the hagˇgˇ ˙ caravan. He walked on foot the whole way. Muhammad b. Arra¯q spent his last ˙ years as resident (mugˇa¯wir) in the Higˇa¯z, alternating between Mecca and ˙ Medina. He continued to propagate his strictly ascetic Sufism. He had the reputation of a holy man, walı¯ or even a qutb (head of the hierarchy of awliya¯’). ˙ Muhammad b. Arra¯q died in Mecca in 933/1526. ˙ ˘

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27 There are countless examples of scrupulous scholars and Sufis who refused to be appointed as qa¯d¯ıs, or they accepted the appointment only under pressure. See, for example, Zakariyya ˙ a¯rı¯’s confession to asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ that he regretted accepting the post of the chief Sˇafi ¯ı qa¯d¯ı. al-Ans ˙ Ingalls˙ 2011, 110.

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The orthodox Sufi network in late Mamluk and early Ottoman Egypt ˘

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Due to his personality and writings, Abd al-Wahha¯b asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ was a central figure in the most important network of orthodox Sufis in Cairo and Lower Egypt in the second half of the fifteenth and the first half of the sixteenth century. As a committed participant and the historian of the movement, and a sensitive observer, he is a first-rate source.28 It is worth emphasizing that this orthodox network, that lasted at least one century and was active under the last Mamluks and the first Ottomans, was not an order. The members either belonged to several orders. It is not clear from the available sources what their tarı¯qa af˙ filiations were. They were committed to tarı¯q al-qawm. The way of the [good] ˙ people, namely, the Sufis. The network was created in Cairo and Lower Egypt by the followers and spiritual descendants of Ibra¯hı¯m al-Matbu¯lı¯ (d. ca. 877/1472), a central figure in the Sufi circles of Cairo in the second half of the ninth/fifteenth century. Al-Matbu¯lı¯ shaped the character of the network: Many Sufis who belonged to this network and tradition were of different personalities and approaches as ˇsayhs and educators. Ibra¯hı¯m al-Matbu¯lı¯ had the authority to im˘ pose his values on his followers and to make them live according to these values. He insisted that they contribute to society by working for their living. He ordered them to establish projects that would benefit society, the poor people in particular. Thus, at his command, an important ˇsayh planted palm trees, another ˘ opened an oil shop, another dug a well, etc. Al-Matbu¯lı¯ himself opened a shop and sold chic-peas in the Husayniyya quarter in Cairo. During an economic ˙ crisis he provided food and shelter to five hundred people. Al-Matbu¯lı¯ was admired by Sultan Qa¯yit Ba¯y, whom he “guided” for many years.29 As it was customary, al-Matbu¯lı¯ and his followers occasionally left Cairo to make visits to the countryside and they would convene for a feast at Alı¯ asˇSˇa ra¯nı¯’s za¯wiya. Alı¯ was Abd al-Wahha¯b asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯’s grandfather, whom our author held in great reverence. This connection tells much about the continuing ties in the Sufi network for three generations. Al-Matbu¯lı¯’s ˇsayh was one Yu¯suf al˘ Burullusi al-Ahmadı¯, who instructed him during Ibra¯hı¯m’s sojourn at Ahmad al˙ ˙ Badawı¯ in Tanta¯, which provides a clear evidence for al-Matbu¯lı¯ having had links ˙ ˙ to Ahmadiyya. He declared that he was an Ahmadı¯ and wore a garb with the red ˙ ˙ sign of that order. So did several of his disciples. Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ himself was regarded by later Egyptian historians as Ahmadı¯, although it seems that he was cautious ˙ not to identify as one. He gave all kinds of excuses in this matter. It is likely that ˘

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28 Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ was not a real historian. He was not critical, and in addition, he was inaccurate with his facts and dates (when he provided dates at all, which was rare). Yet, as J.-C. Garcin wrote aptly, “In asˇ-Sˇa‘ranı¯’s biographies, there is life.” Garcin, 1966, 31 – 94. For my evaluation of asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ as an historian, see Winter 2007, 58 – 61. 29 Winter 2007, 75. ˘

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he wanted to distance himself from the vulgar side of that order.30 Naturally, his colleagues in the network were also very far from the Ahmadiyya of the ignorant ˙ dervishes. Al-Matbu¯lı¯ was illiterate. Supernatural powers were attributed to him. His behavior and speech often gave rise to rumors and accusations about his morality and religiosity ; he never married. Yet, many people considered him as a perfect Sufi, hiding behind a mala¯matı¯ cover. While he was an orthodox Sufi, he doubted the morality of al-Azhar students. Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯’s most important manual of ethics, al-Ahla¯q al-Matbu¯liyya, was named after Ibra¯hı¯m al-Matbu¯lı¯. In this ˘ book Sˇa ra¯nı¯ refers to his own beliefs. Many sections of the Lata¯’if al-minan, asˇ˙ ˇSa ra¯nı¯’s autobiography, are mere repetitions of al-Ahla¯q al-Matbu ¯ liyya.31 Mu˘ hammad b. Inan was Ibra¯hı¯m’s most distinguished follower. He was active ˙ against antinomian Sufis in the Sˇarqiyya Province. It was he who suggested that asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ should accept Alı¯ al-Hawwa¯s, another disciple of al-Matbu¯lı¯, as his ˙ ˘ spiritual director. This is another example of a learned Sufi who submits to an illuminated illiterate. More than any other of asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯’s ˇsayhs, Muhammad asˇ-Sˇina¯wı¯ truly rep˙ ˘ resented popular, optimistic and lenient Sufism. He spread his dikr throughout ¯ the G˙arbiyya Province and did not hesitate to allow women or even children to arrange dikr sessions. He abolished some of the more violent manifestations of ¯ fervor during the mawlid of Ahmad al-Badawı¯. Once he successfully intervened ˙ on behalf of the fellaheen against an oppressive Mamluk amir, a multazim (tax32 farmer) of that region. Many young men from the Egyptian countryside and abroad came to Cairo in order to study at al-Azhar, the highest Muslim institution of learning and education. Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯’s attitude towards the al-Azhar was ambivalent. He never joined the community of the students and teachers there; his career was in his za¯wiya, a Sufi center, where he lived with his family and Sufis. Hundred visitors lived, were served food, studied and worshiped there. His za¯wiya was one of the largest and richest ones in Cairo. It was established by the generosity of a qa¯d¯ı who was in trouble with the Ottoman ˙ authorities in Cairo. Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯’s religious and social life was within his Sufi network. On the other hand, he respected the ulama¯’ and criticized dervishes who ignored the Sˇarı¯ a and the ulama¯’. He complained that certain Azharites spoke against him. In his youth, asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ had the privilege to be the student, confidant and assistant of Zakariyya al-Ansa¯rı¯ (826 – 926/1423 – 1520), arguably the greatest, ˙ most revered scholar, legist, teacher, qa¯d¯ı, educator, and Sufi of his time. He ˙ ˘

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30 Winter 2007, 77 – 78. 31 Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯, 1976. This interesting book is not a usual autobiography – but as the title indicates – a list of the favors that God bestowed on the author. However, it does include autobiographic elements. 32 Winter 2007, 46.

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wrote many works in the religious sciences, including Sufism. Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ read with al-Ansa¯rı¯ his writings and other texts.33 This explains his impressive eru˙ dition, although he never studied at al-Azhar. Zakariyya al-Ansa¯rı¯ belonged to ˙ two different parts of Islam: One was the ulama¯’ milieu of Cairo, which extended beyond the capital, thanks to his huge prestige and charisma and his unusually long lifespan, during which many students and scholars, generation after generation, attended his lessons. The other was the Sufi world. He was committed to both aspects of religion, among other things, owing to his conciliatory deposition. It should be noted, however, that the two kinds of commitment were not equal. Al-Ansa¯rı¯ was seriously committed to the study of Sufi thought and ˙ beliefs. As Ingalls describes in his study, al-Ansa¯rı¯ wrote important and pio˙ neering works about Sufism, interpreting it in a more updated way, such as his commentary on al-Qusˇayrı¯’s Risa¯la, one of the classical texts of Sufism. As Ingalls shows in detail, al-Ansa¯rı¯ was deferential in recasting the text of al˙ Qusˇayrı¯, but interpreting it in a way that suited the readership of the tenth/ sixteenth century. There is no evidence that he was socially involved in a specific order or network, like his young student. Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ held him in great awe, but alAnsa¯rı¯ was not among the important ˇsayhs in his Sufi education.34 At the same ˙ ˘ time, asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ describes al-Ansa¯rı¯ primarily as a Sufi, seemingly more than was ˙ the case in reality. Ingalls analyses al-Ansa¯rı¯’s profound and nuanced thought ˙ about Sufism, but as his career makes abundantly clear, al-Ansa¯rı¯ primarily ˙ belonged to the ulama¯’ establishment. In any case, Ingalls rightly observes that if Zakariyya had not forged such an intimate relationship with the young asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯, our knowledge of him today would be significantly less detailed than it is. In the year 874/1469, a famous public theological debate took place between Burha¯n ad-Dı¯n al-Biqa¯ ¯ı, a Syrian scholar, with some of his supporters against the defenders of Ibn al-Fa¯rid’s ideas. ˙ Al-Ansa¯rı¯ was asked to issue a fatwa¯ in defense of the poet. Al-Ansa¯rı¯ was ˙ ˙ reluctant to take sides so as not to criticize a fellow Muslim scholar. Finally, he wrote the fatwa¯. The essence of the fatwa¯ was that unless one is thoroughly familiar with the terminology of the Sufis, one must not pass judgment on them. This opinion was hardly original, but al-Ansa¯rı¯’s prestige decided the matter, ˙ and al-Biqa¯‘ı¯ and his party was defeated and humiliated. In any case, the Sultan and high-ranking amirs admired Ibn al-Fa¯rid’s poetry. ˙ Contemporary sources mention that what convinced al-Ansa¯rı¯ to write the ˙ fatwa¯ was a mysterious and supernatural encounter he had with the ghost of the deceased poet and a meeting with the rather obscure Sufi, Muhammad al-Is˙ ˘

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33 Ingalls 2011, 94. 34 Ingalls 2011, 93.

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tanbu¯lı¯ by name, who implored him to stand up for the Sufis.35 As Ingalls points out the following: “Al-Ansa¯rı¯ would function as a translator between the two networks and would find ˙ himself at the center of an amalgamated network, within which ‘problems of translation and reference become less severe’ as they morph into institutions, such as natural kinds, logical rules, tautologies, and definitions.”36

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Now let us turn to the Sufi connections of Abd al-Wahha¯b asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯, the most important Sufi writer in the sixteenth century, who was also the historian of the Sufi movement in Egypt. He was familiar with the Sˇadilı¯ literature and tradition ¯ and approved its central principles, but he found the order too elitist. He was an orthodox Sufi and strongly disapproved of the Ahmadiyya. He also could not ˙ identify with the Sˇa¯dilı¯ tarı¯qa.37 As a member of a Sufi network that was active ¯ ˙ against the ignorant, antinomian dervishes, he also was against the ulama¯’ of alAzhar who generally found fault with the Sufis for their ignorance in the religious law and being negligent in fulfilling their religious duties. Significantly, this network of orthodox Sufis was not a part of any specific tarı¯qa. Nevertheless, ˙ asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ and others in his circle were initiated into several orders “for the sake of blessing” (li-t-tabarruk). The historian who studies asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯’s life and his Sufi milieu from his many writings, which include his autobiography, lives of Sufis in the past and his own time and other Sufi treatises, will finds it difficult or impossible to determine his tarı¯qa affiliation. There are indications that several ˙ among his ˇsayhs were known as Ahmadı¯s. Most importantly, Ibra¯hı¯m al-Matbu¯lı¯ ˙ ˘ was known by nisba al-Ahmadı¯. So were other of the closest asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯’s asso˙ ciates. Even he himself was called Ahmadı¯ by later sources.38 Despite its weak˙ nesses, the Ahmadiyya was the largest order in Egypt. This order held the ˙ mawlids (saint-days) of as-Sayyid Ahmad al-Badawı¯ in Tanta¯ that were the most ˙ ˙ ˙ popular events that attracted common people, Sufis and also Mamluk rulers. Several sultans venerated the saint and the chief halı¯fa (deputy, actually the head ˘ who represented the founder) of the order was appointed by the sultan. The Sufi network to which asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ belonged harshly criticized the Ahmadı¯ ˙ ˘

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35 On the Ibn al-Fa¯rid debate, see Homerin 2001, 60 – 75. See also, Geoffroy 1995, 439 – 43. 36 Ingalls 2011, 249. ˙ 37 Trimingham 1973, 221 writes that asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ was trained within the Sˇa¯dilı¯ tradition. However, ¯ his social links were with the Ahmadı¯s. It is true that he was well read in Sˇadilı¯ literature. ¯ ˙ Obviously, this corpus was the best and was easily available in Egypt during that time. Note that even the title of his autobiographic volume Lata¯’if al-minan takes after similar books authored by Sˇadilı¯ writers in praise of Abu¯ l-Hasan ˙asˇ-Sˇa¯dilı¯. See, Ibn Ata¯’ Alla¯h, Ahmad b. ¯ ¯ ˙¯ s al-Mursı¯˙and his Muhammad, -1309. The subtle blessings in the˙saintly lives of Abu¯ al-‘Abba ˙ Abu¯ al-Hasan al-Sha¯dilı¯, the founders of the Sha¯dilı¯ order = Lata¯’if al-minan / master ¯ ¯ ˙ translated from ˙the Arabic with a preface and notes by Nancy Roberts. Louisville, Ky.: Fons Vitae, 2005. 38 Winter 2007, 78. ˘

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dervishes for their disregard of the ˇsarı¯ a and the ulama¯’. The orthodox Sufis admired Ahmad al-Badawı¯, but strongly disapproved of the violence and the ˙ loose morals that took place during the mawlid. Muhammad asˇ-Sˇina¯wı¯, asˇ˙ Sˇa ra¯nı¯’s ˇsayh, whom he expressly called al-Ahmadı¯, wielded his influence from ˙ ˙ ˘ his za¯wiya on the Sufis and other villagers in the Garbiyya Province. He forbade acts of violence and robbery during the mawlid and abolished the music of drums and flutes on the days of the mawlids, arranging dikr sessions instead. In ¯ his usual apologetic manner, asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ distinguished between the thirteenth century saint and his admirers three centuries later. He says: “If Sayyidı¯ Ahmad ˙ al-Badawı¯ could see the behavior of his followers, he would not accept it.”39 ˘

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Similar and different features of the two networks ˘

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Ibn Maymu¯n and asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ were different types. Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ was a meek man and was always looking for a compromise with Sufi rivals, the ulama¯’ and the rulers. He was a moderate Sufi, yet he was a defender of the doctrines of Ibn al- Arabı¯, claiming that words that were attributed to him were not in line with the ˇsarı¯ a, as included into his writings by others. Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n could be aggressive and harsh. He was quarrelsome and clashed with high standing ulama¯’. Occasionally, he beat his disciples. As has been mentioned above, he, also accepted the mysticism of Ibn al- Arabı¯. Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n died in Lebanon in 917/1511 before the Ottoman conquest of Syria and Egypt, but he had stayed for six years in Bursa. Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ lived most his years under the Ottoman rule, but many of his family members, teachers and colleagues lived under the last Mamluks. Therefore, both Sufi ˇsayhs had familiarity with the Mamluk state as well as with ˘ the Ottoman regime. The dominant ˇsayh as authoritarian and charismatic figure ˘ was crucial. Despite the differences between the scholar Ibn Maymu¯n and illiterate al-Matbu¯lı¯, both Sufis had leadership and assertiveness qualities that were necessary to create and maintain the network. Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯, despite his erudition and gentle nature, was not fit for leadership. He was the observer and the reporter.The networks that have been discussed lacked the organization of an order. As mentioned, Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n designated Muhammad b. Arra¯q as his ˙ deputy and his closest follower, but he was not called the halı¯fa, as it was ˘ customary in Sufi orders. Ibra¯hı¯m al-Matbu¯lı¯ possessed the authority to impose his values on his followers, and to make them live according to these values. He insisted that they contributed to society by working for their living and establish projects that would benefit society, the poor people in particular. Thus, at his command, an important ˇsayh planted palm trees, another opened an oil shop, ˘ ˘

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39 Winter 1992, 133.

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another dug a well. Al-Matbu¯lı¯ himself opened a shop and chic-peas sold in the Husayniyya quarter in Cairo. ˙ During an economic crisis al-Matbu¯lı¯ gave food and shelter to five hundred people. He was admired by Sultan Qa¯yit Ba¯y, whom he “guided” for many years.40 This brings us to the old problem of the Sufi ˇsayhs’ relations with the rulers. In ˘ theory, the scrupulous man of religion should have avoided the rulers’ company and refused to receive any favors or presents from them. Conversely, a good ruler sought the company and advise of Sufis (or ulama¯’ generally). On the other hand, only the rich and the powerful were able to provide the means for charity and religious purposes, such as schools and mosques. Both Sufi ˇsayhs agreed on ˘ the old principle of cautious orthodox Sufism, namely that the mystical part of Sufism should not be revealed to ordinary people and to the uninitiated. AsˇSˇa ra¯nı¯ reports that several of his colleagues, who were trying to bring true religion to uneducated people, would make them take the Sufi oath, but did not tell them anything of the secrets of the Way. Instead, they made them vow to keep the basics of Islam, like praying and fasting.41 In a paper that studies Sufi networks and the differences between them, it is important to point out that although both ˇsayhs – the Mag˙ribı¯ in Syria and the Egyptian in Cairo – lived in a ˘ milieu that were dominated by tarı¯qas, the two orthodox ˇsayhs operated mainly ˙ ˘ via their networks. Moreover, in their activities and writings, they never identified with a specific order. Even asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯’s initiation into many orders concealed more than revealed. He identified with a well-defined network of orthodox Sufi ˇsayhs for which he wrote obituaries and biographies. They who took ˘ upon themselves to spread the practice of the Sˇarı¯ a among peasants and common Muslims through social, tolerant and open Sufism, offering the believers and the adherents the rituals of Sufism such as the dikr, worship of saints, ¯ without introducing mysticism. A few of these ˇsayhs (including asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯) de˘ fended the doctrines of Ibn al- Arabı¯, without making them available to the common people, however. Several ˇsayhs of the networks in Syria and Egypt ˘ established za¯wiyas, Sufi centers. These institutions provided home for the ˇsayhs ˘ and their families and residence for their faqı¯rs. These were small places to study and worship. Some za¯wiyas were large and poor people, sometimes hundreds of them, were offered food there. Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ had such a large za¯wiya, built for him by an official who probably was in trouble with the rulers. Also several of his colleagues had za¯wiyas in Cairo and in the countryside. In Syria, Muhammad b. ˙ Arra¯q also had a za¯wiya. Finally, the two networks that we have discussed had a ˘

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40 Winter 2007, 75. 41 Winter 2007, 98, quoting asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯, al-Ahla¯q al-matbu¯liyya, MS, Department of Special ˘ Collections, UCLA, fol. 131b.

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relatively short life span. Although, the Matbu¯lı¯-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ network42 lasted longer, approximately one hundred years. Geographically, they were also quite limited, if one compares to some Sufi orders that lasted for centuries (a few are still around and established branches in many countries). They often changed their original character, but continued the same traditions and maintained the chains of the tarı¯qas, the sagˇgˇa¯da, a prayer carpet or rug, the symbol of the founder of ˙ an order or the head of the order in later generations.43

A concluding note

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The distinction between an order tarı¯qa and a Sufi network, which is the main ˙ topic of the present paper, ought to be made. This is simple enough: practically every Sufi order tarı¯qa, ta¯’ifa and the like, consists of networks. The reverse is ˙ ˙ not true. As Hofer rightly argues, the disciples of Abu¯ l-Hasan asˇ-Sˇadilı¯ was a ¯ ˙ network, but it took a century until the Sˇadilı¯ order emerged. The Sufis of Upper ¯ Egypt never established an order or orders for the reasons which Hofer explained. The networks of Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n and Ibra¯hı¯m al-Matbu¯lı¯ did not develop into orders, mainly because the leading persons were already members of orders, but their efforts and public activities were outside these orders.44

Select Bibliography A bibliographical note is due to two recently completed prize winning dissertations. These are Sufism, State, and Society in Ayyubid and Early Mamluk Egypt, 1173 – 1309, by Nathan C. Hofer, Emory University 2011, and Subtle Innovation within Networks of Convention: The Life, Thought, and Intellectual Legacy of Zakariyya¯ al-Ansa¯rı¯ (d. 926/1520), by Matthew B. Ingalls, Yale Uni˙ versity 2011. As the titles make clear, the two studies are different from one another, but both are about Sufism during the Mamluk period. Beside the excellent research, both have paid a special attention to networks, referring to the

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42 I call it so for a lack of a better name. Al-Matbu¯lı¯ was the man who inspired his disciples during his and the following generations. Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯ recorded the development of the network. It is highly significant that that he entitled his long and important book of ethics alAhla¯q al-Matbu¯liyya after a man who died before the writer was born. ˘ example, compared to the resilience of the Egyptian family order of the al-Bakrı¯ as43 For ˙ Siddı¯qı¯ family that continued as a Sufi aristocracy throughout the Ottoman period until the ˙ mid-twentieth century. 44 This was the case for Abd al-G˙anı¯an-Na¯bulsı¯ (d. 1731), the greatest Sufi in Ottoman Syria. He was a member of the Naqsˇbandı¯ tarı¯qa, but he saw his role as the defender of all Sufis and was ˙ of Ibn al- Arabı¯. See, for example, Pagani 2010, 309 – 335. a forceful champion of the doctrine ˘

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theoretical literature about the subject, and applying it in their dissertations. Their research contributed insights and information to the present paper.

Primary literary sources ˘

Al-G˙azzı¯, Nagˇm ad-Dı¯n Muhammad b. Muhammad (1979), al-Kawa¯kib as-sa¯’ira bi-a ya¯n ˙ ˇ ˙ ˇ abbu¯r, 2nd ed., Beirut: Da¯r al-Afa¯q alibra¯’ı¯l Sulayma¯n G al-mi’a al- a¯ˇsira, 3 vols., ed. G ˇ adı¯da. G Al-Hamawı¯, Alwa¯n Alı¯ b. Atiyya, Mugˇlı¯ l-huzn an al-mahzu¯n fı¯ mana¯qib Alı¯ b. Maymu¯n. ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Ms. Berlin, Oct. 2206. Ibn Ata¯’ Alla¯h, Ahmad b. Muhammad (2005), The subtle blessings in the saintly lives of Abu¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ al-‘Abba¯s al-Mursı¯ and his master Abu¯ al-Hasan al-Sˇa¯dilı¯, the founders of the Sˇa¯dilı¯ ¯ ¯ ˙ order = Lata¯’if al-minan / translated from the Arabic with a preface and notes by Nancy ˙ Roberts. Louisville, Ky.: Fons Vitae. Ibn Tu¯lu¯n, Sˇams al-Dı¯n Muhammad b. Alı¯ (1962 – 64), Mufa¯kahat al-hilla¯n fı¯ az-zama¯n, ˙ ˙ ˘ ta¯rı¯h misr wa-sˇ-sˇa¯m, ed. Muhammad Mustafa¯, Cairo: al-Mu’assasa al-Misriyya al˙ ˙ ˙˙ ˙ ˘ ¯ Amma li-t-Ta’lı¯f wa-t-Targˇama wa-t-Tiba¯ a wa-n-Nasˇr. ˙ Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯, Abd al-Wahha¯b b. Ahmad (1993 – 2001), Lawa¯qih al-anwa¯r fı¯ tabaqa¯t al-ahya¯r ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ ¯ da al-masˇhu¯r bi-t-Tabaqa¯t al-kubra¯, Cairo: Maktabat al-A ¯ b. ˙ ˙ Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯, Abd al-Wahha¯b b. Ahmad: al-Ahlaq al-Matbu¯lı¯yya, MS. Department of Special ˙ ˘ Collections, UCLA, ˇ Asˇ-Sa ra¯nı¯, Abd al-Wahha¯b b. Ahmad (2003), al-Ahla¯q al-matbu¯liyya, 2nd ed., 2 vols. ed. ˙ ˘ Manı¯ Abd al-Halı¯m Mahmu¯d al- Azu¯zah, Egypt: Maktabat al-I¯ma¯n. ˙ ˙ Asˇ-Sˇa ra¯nı¯, Abd al-Wahha¯b b. Ahmad (1976), Lata¯’if al-minan wa-l-ahla¯q fı¯ wugˇu¯b at˙ ˙ ˘ ¯ lam tahaddut bi-ni mat Alla¯h ala¯ l-itla¯q al-ma ru¯f bi-l-minan al-kubra¯, 2nd ed., Cairo: A ¯ ˙ ˙ al-Fikr. Ta¯s‚ köprüzade (1985), ‘Isa¯m al-Din, Es‚ -s‚ eka¯’iku n-nu’ma¯niye fı¯ ’ulema¯’I d-devleti l-’os˙ ˙ ma¯niye, ed. Ahmed Subhi Furat. Istanbul: Faculty of Humanities. ˘

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Secondary sources, monographs Geoffroy, Êric (1995), Le Soufisme en Êgypte et en Syrie sous le derniers Mamelouks et les premiers Ottomans; orientations spirituelles et enjeux culturelels, Damascus: Instutut FranÅais de Damas. Homerin, Th. Emil (2001), From Arab Poet to Muslim Saint: Ibn al- Fa¯rid, His Verse, and ˙ His Sˇrine, Cairo, New York: The American University in Cairo Press. Karamustafa, Ahmet T. (c1994), God’s unruly friends: dervish groups in the Islamic later middle period, 1200 – 1550, Salt Lake City : University of Utah Press. Le Gall, Dina (2005), The Culture of Sufism; Naqsˇbandı¯s in the Ottoman World, 1450 – 1700, Albany : State University of New York Press. Lewis, Bernard (1988), The political language of Islam, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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Mayeur-Jaouen, Catherine (1994), Al-Sayyid al-Badawı¯: Un grand saint de l’islam ¦gyptien, Cairo: IFAO. Trimingham, J. Spencer (1973), The Sufi orders in Islam, New York: Oxford University. Winter, Michael [1982] (2007), Society and Religion in Early Ottoman Egypt: Studies in the Writings of Abd al-Wahhab al-Sˇa‘rani, New Brunswick and London: Transaction Publishers. Winter, Michael, (1992), Egyptian Society under Ottoman Rule, 1517 – 1798. London, New York: Routledge.

Secondary sources, chapters and articles ˘

Ates‚ , A. “Ibn al- Arabı¯,” Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Brill Online, 2013. Pagani, Samuela (2010): ‘D¦fendre le soufisme par des temps difficiles: Abd al-Ghan„ alN–bulus„, pol¦miste anti-puritain’, in Le soufisme — l’¦poque ottomane, XVIe – XVIIIe siÀcle = Sufism in the Ottoman era, 16th-18th century / sous la diection de Rachida Chih et Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen. Le Caire: Institut franÅais d’arch¦ologie orientale, pp. 309 – 335. Schimmel, Annemarie (1968), „Sufismus und Heiligenverehrung im spätmittelalterlichen Ägypten (eine Skizze),“ in: Festschrift für Werner Caskel, ed. E. Gräf, Leiden: Brill, pp 274 – 289. Vollers, K./Littmann, E., „Ahmad al-Badawı¯“, Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Brill ˙ Online, 2013. Winter, Michael (1977), “Sheikh Alı¯ ibn Maymu¯n and Syrian Sufism in the Sixteenth Century,” Israel Oriental Studies 7, pp. 281 – 308. ˘

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Carl F. Petry (Northwestern University, Evanston, IL)

“Travel Patterns of Medieval Notables in the Near East” Reconsidered: contrasting trajectories, interconnected networks

1.

Motive: rationale for selection of the following biographies as case studies

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In light of the focus of this conference on trans-regional networks, I recalled an article I submitted to the Journal Studia Islamica in 19851 that addressed the issue of travel outside Cairo undertaken by civil notables (a ya¯n) listed in two biographical dictionaries compiled during the Circassian Mamluk period: asSaha¯wı¯’s ad-Daw’ al-La¯mi 2 and Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯’s Manhal as-Sa¯fı¯.3 Revisiting ˙ ˙ ˙˙ ˘ hypotheses that were drawn from research conducted several decades earlier, while likely to qualify previous assertions, can also be a stimulus to incorporate new perspectives. I therefore returned to this article to review the findings about travel I had summarized at that time. The 1985 article traced travel patterns derived from several hundred biographical entries that mentioned this activity (from ca. 4600 total), organized according to some 22 occupations distributed across five categories: bureaucratic, legal, artisanal-commercial, scholarly and religious. References to individual trips (not including the hagˇgˇ) were ranked against these occupations ˙ according to destinations: within Egypt itself (the Delta and Upper Valley), Syria-Palestine, Iran and Central Asia, Anatolia, Iraq, North Africa (al-Mag˙ rib), the Indian Subcontinent, Sudanic Africa and Ethiopia, Europe (Bila¯d al-Firangˇ), and Spain (al-Andalus). Predictably, the majority of references to discrete trips focused on territories within the Mamluk Empire, and more specifically to eight towns: Alexandria (al-Iskandariyya), Damietta (Dumya¯t), Hebron (al-Halı¯l), ˙ ˘ Jerusalem (al-Quds), Damascus (Dimasˇq), Aleppo (Halab), Mecca, and Medina. ˙ The patterns that emerged from these comparisons might strike an observer superficially acquainted with the collective behavior of the civilian (non˘

1 Petry 1985: 53 – 87 2 As-Saha¯wı¯ 1934 et seq. ˘˙ rı¯birdı¯ 1984. 3 Ibn Tag

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Mamluk) elite during this period as counter-intuitive. For example, trips taken from Cairo to Syrian destinations substantially outnumbered trips to destinations within Egypt itself in almost all the occupational categories (and inside Egypt, the Upper Valley [as-Sa ¯ıd] figured minimally in comparison with the ˙˙ Delta). The Syrian provincial capitals: Damascus, Aleppo, Hama¯, Hims, plus ˙ ˙ ˙ Hebron and Jerusalem appeared as the primary destinations of individuals traveling on government business, commerce or spiritual renewal. Travels further afield to destinations beyond the Sultanate’s frontiers occurred significantly less often, but were still noticeable – with Iran and Anatolia outranking all other destinations by a substantial margin. As one might expect, merchants were the most likely to have ventured the farthest from Cairo, but they were not too far ahead of low or medium-level district administrators (wula¯h, ˇsuyu¯h) or in˘ structors of learned disciplines (mudarrisu¯n). Despite the passage of time, and the resultant alteration of my own perspectives about the behavior of the civilian elite, I doubt that a second survey of the data would substantively alter these findings numerically. But I suspected that a closer look at the patterns of single individuals might reveal nuances – or even real correctives from the perspectives of networking – that I failed to discern back in my days as a (youthful) enthusiast of quantitative methods and bulky computer print-outs. Such was indeed the case when I selected several biographies to scrutinize their texts. I will therefore discuss two examples whose travel trajectories bring into focus the networks that linked them to the communities they interacted with in distinctive ways – the objective of this essay. The first referred to a mystic among the most traveled to emerge in the biographical records, the second to a merchant whose ventures to foreign lands earned him something more ominous than the notoriety he may have initially sought – a death sentence.

2.

Methodology: definitions and challenges

As prescribed by the its planners, the objective of this conference was to a) identify persons, procedures or events relevant to the era of the Mamluk Sultanate in Egypt and Syria (648 – 922/1250 – 1517), and b) address their significance in the context of ‘networks’ broadly defined as trans-regional. The following discussion focuses on the career trajectories of the individuals noted above according to networks that can be discerned from the myriad destinations listed in their relevant biographies or narrative depictions, and in which their participation contributed to the vivid impressions, positive or negative, they made on their peers during their own lifetimes – and to subsequent readerships down to our own day. The networks considered in this essay, in addition to their

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trans-regional character, may be envisioned as: communal (in the sense of religious identities, whether respected or disputed), commercial (with regard to commodities traded for either profit or influence), political (relative to limits [or their lack] placed on geographic mobility or the regime rivalries that affected career trajectories), and criminal (as determined by legal authorities who, in the second case, convicted the offender as guilty of capital crimes due to his implicit connivance with groups that compromised regime security or violated accepted canons of Muslim belief). The methodological challenge confronted in this essay involves the lack of explicit references to groups or institutions overtly described in the period sources; i. e., with phrases that approximate terminology relevant to networks as defined in the contemporary Social Sciences. Its task therefore is to discern – and argue – their likely presence from the depictions these sources do provide, and to suggest hypotheses in their defense. The persuasiveness of these hypotheses is the reader’s to judge. Summaries on implications of the findings that follow for the presence of networks that inform our understanding of these persons and their itineraries are presented at the concluding discussion of each case.

3.

Cosmopolitan connections: reconstructing a mystic’s interaction with foreign Sufi networks

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The first individual belonged to a family of Syrian derivation who, in 1985, I placed in the commercial category. But upon more recent scrutiny of the biography, his travels revealed no artisanal leanings, a lacuna that raises the issue of his livelihood and with whom he interacted to pursue it. Abu¯ l-Fayd Muhammad ˙ ˙ b. al- Ala¯’ Alı¯ b. Abd Alla¯h al-Halabı¯ by origin, Damascene by birth (Ragˇab 785/ ˙ August-September 1383), was raised in Cairo (with the nisba al-Misrı¯, appearing ˙ in subsequent references) under his father’s supervision.4 After studying fiqh and hadith with several scholars in the Mamluk capital, al-Misrı¯ sought out ˙ learned savants in Damascus and Aleppo to receive their confirmations of his own erudition. This al-Misrı¯ did in 815/1412 – 13, so he had already attained the ˙ status of a mature scholastic before initiating his travels further afield. Performing the hagˇgˇ the next year (816/1413 – 14), al-Misrı¯ sojourned (gˇa¯wara) in ˙ ˙ Medina, at which site he allegedly received a vision from the Prophet: his life’s pivotal event according to as-Saha¯wı¯ (happening in the year 828/1424 – 25, which ˘ meant that al-Misrı¯ had already spent more than a decade in the Prophet’s town, ˙ although no details other than his vision are provided). When charged by the 4 As-Saha¯wı¯ 1934, 8:193 – 195 (# 503). ˘

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Prophet to set out on a journey of indefinite duration, al-Misrı¯ queried: “to (my) ˙ death (i. e., in paradise)?,” to which the Prophet responded: “No, throughout the world.” Heeding this admonition, al-Misrı¯ performed the hagˇgˇ again and then set off ˙ ˙ on a series of sojourns that would ultimately exceed forty destinations. The list of sites embraced the Yemen, Adan, Hurmuz, Bahrayn, and then across the Gulf to ˙ towns in southwestern Iran. Al-Misrı¯ resided a year in Sˇira¯z, according to as˙ Saha¯wı¯: speaking Farsi, teaching Arabic and authoring books (no titles pro˘ vided). During his residence in Sˇira¯z, al-Misrı¯ experienced another event that ˙ would alter not only his travel itinerary but his life’s purpose. Al-Misrı¯ en˙ countered an emotionally possessed, even deranged, ascetic (magˇdu¯b) who, ¯ while nude, cast stones at passers-by. Accosting al-Misrı¯, the magˇdu¯b, in fluent ¯ ˙ Arabic, asked whether he had a son in Baghdad. When al-Misrı¯ replied in the ˙ negative, the ascetic admonished him to proceed to that city, where he would find his child in due course. Al-Misrı¯ journeyed to Baghdad by way of Wa¯sit, residing ˙ ˙ in the former city for three years. Since al-Misrı¯ took a wife (unnamed) in ˙ Baghdad, he fathered a son – fulfilling the magˇdu¯b’s prophecy. Al-Misrı¯’s sub¯ˇ ˙ sequent travels took him to Kurdish Iraq, the G azı¯ra, and Aleppo before he settled down in Damascus. After residing in Jerusalem and Hebron, al-Misrı¯ ˙ made it back to Cairo in 840/1436 – 37, but returned to Damascus before setting out for destinations in Anatolia (visiting sites as far west as Bu¯rsa). ˙ Five years later, al-Misrı¯ was back in Cairo, intent upon departure to dwell ˙ with Sufi mystics in Upper Egypt. Al-Misrı¯ performed the hagˇgˇ a third time in ˙ ˙ 848/1444 – 45, returning to settle in the famous Sufi ha¯nqa¯h of Sa ¯ıd as-Su ada¯’, at ˘ which time as-Saha¯wı¯ made his acquaintance. Although now advanced in years, ˘ al-Misrı¯ set out for Jerusalem in 857/1453. As-Saha¯wı¯ reported his death soon ˙ ˘ after, possibly in that city’s holy precinct. ˘

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4.

Al-Misrı¯’s embodiment of mystic cosmopolitanism ˙

So what to make of this extraordinary itinerary? As-Saha¯wı¯ labeled al-Misrı¯ an ˙ ˘ inveterate traveler (gˇawwa¯l) to depict the avocation that defined him. Although formally trained in jurisprudence and Hadith transmission, his biography does not indicate that he made his living from either. Al-Misrı¯ became prominent for ˙ public recitation of Sufi poetry, for which talent he found receptive listeners throughout his later wanderings. Convinced by a miraculous vision to fulfill a mission that would inspire in others the heightened consciousness he had attained for himself, al-Misrı¯ persuaded as-Saha¯wı¯ that he was the genuine article. ˙ ˘ As-Saha¯wı¯’s entry for al-Misrı¯ paraphrased the personal interview he conducted ˙ ˘ with him near the end of his life (apparently verbatim, with the prose text

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composed in first person singular past tense). As-Saha¯wı¯ was not routinely ˘ impressed by persons who sought fame through assertions of their personal encounters with divine intervention that altered their lives – a bombastic sense of entitlement among the chosen. But he did attribute this status to al-Misrı¯, also ˙ claiming that his fame as a reciter of poetry had preceded him in foreign lands. With regard to practical considerations, the roster of al-Misrı¯’s destinations ˙ provides tangible evidence of the mobility that a person with his calling could achieve. And the support that a network of mystics similarly inclined could provide in a wide range of geographic settings (from western Iran to southern Egypt). The regimes nominally in control of the territories where these sites are located were not consistently on positive terms during the first half of the ninth/ fifteenth century. Yet he felt a mystic bound on a mission to share the enlightenment, after being enjoined to do so by the Prophet himself, encountered no barriers in his path (if one is to accept his biographical account). Quite the opposite, al-Misrı¯ found listeners allegedly attuned with rapture to the poetic ˙ recitations for which he had become renowned. As-Saha¯wı¯’s entry focused on ˘ the eminence that al-Misrı¯ attained as a poetic orator throughout a broad swath ˙ of territory that embraced all three languages in which mystics conversed: Arabic, Persian and Turkish. As-Saha¯wı¯’s depiction of al-Misrı¯’s sojourn men˙ ˘ tions his temporary livelihood as a teacher and translator of Arabic into Persian during his time in Sˇira¯z. How al-Misrı¯ acquired a facility in Persian sufficient to ˙ enable this vocation as-Saha¯wı¯ did not elaborate. But al-Misrı¯ managed some˙ ˘ how to interact with Farsi speakers on a basis sufficiently sustained for him to do so. As-Saha¯wı¯ also implied a connection between bilingualism and miraculous ˘ powers when he depicted al-Misrı¯’s encounter with the deranged magˇdu¯b, who ¯ ˙ admonished al-Misrı¯ to find his (as yet unborn) son in Baghdad. The magˇdu¯b’s ¯ ˙ fluency in Arabic during the encounter was allegedly attributed to his mental condition (divinely endorsed) rather than to any previous formal study. The magˇdu¯b, according to Saha¯wı¯’s depiction, intuitively sensed al-Misrı¯’s own ¯ ˙ ˘ heightened awareness of divine agency along with the miraculous circumstances that would surround the birth of a future son. The theme apparent throughout alMisrı¯’s biography as a whole, following his Prophetic vision, is one of a mission ˙ to engage in an extended spiritual journey, its temporal needs supported by the voyager’s sustained contact with a trans-territorial trans-lingual communal network composed of persons similarly inclined – to whom al-Misrı¯ was re˙ peatedly guided by God’s intervention (but in fact probably made his contacts by word-of-mouth endorsements). Al-Misrı¯’s remarkable itinerary is thus poignant ˙ testimony to the existence of a this far-reaching yet tightly integrated network of itinerant Sufis that pervaded North Africa and Southwest Asia during the later medieval period.

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Covert criminality within an overt mercantile network: the espionage trial of Nu¯r ad-Dı¯n at-Tabrı¯zı¯

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The second case is more thoroughly documented, more dramatic in its presentation, more visible in contemporary scholarship, and more challenging to assess. Textual versions of the accused’s activities contradict each other, and thus impede a uniformly verifiable summation of his career – and his fate. This individual, Nu¯r ad-Dı¯n Alı¯ b. Muhammad b. Muhammad b. Muhammad b. Yu¯suf ˙ ˙ ˙ al- Agˇamı¯ was a merchant of Persian origin who was subjected to one of the most sensational espionage trials reported in the narrative literature of the Mamluk period. Contrasts in the merchant’s depiction initially emerge with his geographic nisba. With one exception, biographical and narrative references to him identify Tabrı¯z in Northwestern Iran as the site. But in As-Saha¯wı¯’s ad-Daw’,5 the site is given as Tawrı¯z (at-Tawrı¯zı¯). As˙ ˙ ˘ Saha¯wı¯’s rendition appears to be an alternative variant for the city of Tabrı¯z. ˘ Since as-Saha¯wı¯ lifted most of at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s biographical details verbatim from ˘ Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯’s obituary of him,6 there can be no question of confusion ˙ with another individual. In any case, Ibn Hagˇar consistently referred to Nu¯r ad˙ Dı¯n Alı¯ as at-Tabrı¯zı¯. The more substantive disparity involves allegations of atTabrı¯zı¯’s illicit, and ultimately treasonous, contact with Europeans as the secret emissary of an Ethiopian monarch. Nu¯r ad-Dı¯n Alı¯ was described as the third son of a prominent merchant in Tabrı¯z whose two older siblings had successfully pursued commerce in their native land. But their younger brother was intensely motivated from childhood (an inclination stressed in all the sources) to journey first to Egypt and subsequently to the Amharic Kingdom of Ethiopia (al-Ha˙ basˇa). Once there, he avidly cultivated the favor of notables among its Christian inhabitants, offering to fashion, on his own initiative, gold crosses for their adornment or church services, and readily selling – for lucrative profit – weapons he had either brought with him personally from Egypt or could acquire from contacts back in Cairo. The sources uniformly concurred on this, as they did on Nu¯r ad-Dı¯n Alı¯’s consequent rise to prominence within Ethiopia’s elite circles. They also concurred that at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s activities attracted the notice of the Ethiopian ruler, referred to as al-Hatt¯ı (personal name not given), who summoned at-Tabrı¯zı¯ to ˙ ˙˙ join his entourage and to craft even more precious, gem-studded crosses (and other Christian regalia), and to continue his arms trafficking. Ibn Hagˇar also ˙ mentioned that the Ethiopian ruler requested at-Tabrı¯zı¯, during his travels to ˘

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5 As-Saha¯wı¯ 1934, 6:28 – 29 (# 69). 6 Ibn H˘agˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯ 1972, 3:426 (# 12). ˙

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Europe, to purchase a nail alleged to have been among the three that fastened the Messiah at his crucifixion (on the True Cross). It is at this phase of at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s sojourn in Ethiopia where the accounts diverge. The historians al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ and Ibn as-Sayrafı¯ each de˙ ˙ scribed a spy mission to plot an anti-Muslim crusade instigated by the Ethiopian 7 king. Reacting to the earlier invasion of the Principality of Cyprus, under the Lusignan dynasty, at the orders of Sultan Barsba¯y (r. 825 – 41/1422 – 38), al-Hatt¯ı ˙ ˙˙ was reported to have unleashed a violent persecution of Muslims throughout Ethiopia. He allegedly entrusted at-Tabrı¯zı¯ with missives to monarchs in Europe (most likely Aragon and France but depicted generically as Firangˇ), inciting them to join a counter-invasion of Egypt. While they launched an invasion across the Mediterranean, the Ethiopians would proceed north, crossing the Sudd swamp in southern Sudan, the Nubian territories south of Aswa¯n, and then attacking the Mamluk Sultanate on its southern flank.8 Their assertion, most elaborately described in Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯’s Nugˇu¯m, thus laid out effectively a pincher operation, forcing the Cairo regime to confront invasions by Christian forces on two fronts.9 It is this assertion that as-Saha¯wı¯ vehemently contested, on ˘ 7 Al-Maqrı¯zı¯ 1972, 4:79; Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ 1971, 14:334; Ibn as-Sayrafı¯ 1972, 2: 149. ˙ ˙ as above. 8 The most detailed account is provided by Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ 1971, 9 The issue of feasibility is relevant. There is little if any substantive evidence in Egyptian sources throughout this period that the Ethiopian monarchy could realistically plan, let alone carried out, a major expedition over land against the Mamluk Sultanate. The logistics of conducting such a venture appear daunting. The distance between the Ethiopian highlands and Aswan on the Egyptian-Nubian frontier exceeds 2000 kilometers. An invasion route would either traverse the Sahara desert or Nile swamps – both inhospitable to an invasion force capable of challenging Mamluk garrisons in league with local Bedouin. From the European perspective, although Frankish regimes had successfully landed troops on the Egyptian and Syrian coasts since the eleventh century, Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯’s version does not suggest their unbridled enthusiasm for this particular venture. To what extent Roman Catholic governments in Western Europe were disposed to heed dubious schemes concocted by the monarch of a distant state whose Monophysite church must have seemed more alien than the Sunni Islam of the Cairo Sultanate, with which they were familiar, is problematic. Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ raised the matter of their covert misgivings about at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s loyalties, which presumably came to light during the inquest following his arrest in Alexandria. The Europeans had every reason to question the wisdom of involving themselves in an adventure with minimal strategic prospects for success, but very real prospects for damaging their profitable trade ties with the power that monopolized access to the Red Sea and Indian Ocean. And yet, the Sultanate hardly dismissed this incident as trivial. Following at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s conviction and execution, the Sultanate initiated a sporadic campaign of harassment and forced conversion of Nubians from Christianity to Islam – from Aswan on south. A pervasive sense of a Christian fifth column lurking among Nubians in the Sudan who chafed under Mamluk suzerainty unsettled the ruling authorities in Cairo, especially after European powers intensi-fied their own piracy in the Mediterranean. These worries would be exacerbated decades later when the Portuguese actually showed up with their vessels in the Red Sea. To what extent the Sultanate credited the Ethiopian monarchy itself with the capacity to pose a genuine military threat is debatable. But its ire over at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s antics in the Ethiopian court does lend credibility to its

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the basis of Ibn Hagˇar’s earlier dismissal. As-Saha¯wı¯ actually duplicated Ibn ˙ ˘ Hagˇar’s rendition, which reads as follows: ˙

˘

“And during the preceding year (831/1427 – 28), certain individuals conspired against him (at-Tabrı¯zı¯): their claim: that he proceeded as an emissary from the King of Ethiopia to the King of the Franks to incite him against the Muslims. This (allegation) was not credible to me, because reliable persons disavowed (it). It was said that he (atTabrı¯zı¯) had (previously) entered the Frankish lands to acquire a cross they held. When the Ethiopian ruler learned of his project, he sought to engage him. When that (accusation) was made known (to at-Tabrı¯zı¯), he feared for his safety (in Cairo), and secluded himself in a locale near the Na¯siriyya Ha¯nqa¯h at Sı¯rya¯qu¯s (north of Cairo, the ˙ ˘ timing of which means that at-Tabrı¯zı¯ was back in Cairo when the charges were lodged ˇ against him). Abd as-Sala¯m al-Gabartı¯ (otherwise unidentified) libelously accused him and informed against him to the Sultan (al-Mu’ayyad Sˇayh, r. 815 – 24/1412 – 21). He ˘ (the Sultan) ordered the wa¯lı¯ prefect to arrest him. He (the wa¯lı¯) discovered articles of Frankish clothing, weapons, precious objects of gold and gems, and a book that contained a missive from the Ethiopian ruler, requesting him (at-Tabrı¯zı¯) to fashion gold crosses encrusted with gems. He had urged him to purchase a nail that belonged to those by which the Messiah was crucified–according to their belief. As for the book, all of it was in Ethiopic. (After) it was translated into Arabic, he (at-Tabrı¯zı¯) was imprisoned.

˘

A council was convened over this affair. The Sultan consigned his case to the Ma¯likı¯ (qa¯d¯ı – unnamed by Ibn Hagˇar, but identified by Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ as one ˙ ˙ ˇ uma¯da¯ I 831/26 February 1428. Sˇams ad-Dı¯n Muhammad al-Bisa¯t¯ı10), on 10 G ˙ ˙ The judge heard the allegations against (at-Tabrı¯zı¯), which (the latter) denied. Sadr ad-Dı¯n b. al- Agˇamı¯ and the Sˇayh Nasr Allah (otherwise unidentified) and ˙ ˙ ˘ others testified against him. The majority urged that he be absolved, the charges lodged against him dismissed. Some (thus) called for guilt, others for absolution. He (the qa¯d¯ı) (then) ruled that he (at-Tabrı¯zı¯) be executed, by the testimony of he ˙ who had absolved him. His neck was struck at the Bayn al-Qasrayn on the 19th of ˙ the aforementioned month. After he pronounced the two attestations and a recitation from the Quran, he declared his innocence of any religion other than Islam. His family retrieved his body, washed it, prayed over it and buried it. alarm about inchoate Ethiopian influence over Nubian populations restive under Mamluk control. The Sultanate may also have worried about unrest latent among its local Coptic subjects, for whom a call to invasion by a ruler prominent as a co-religionist might arouse insurrectionary sentiments. See Petry 2013, 149 – 51. 10 Al-Bisa¯t¯ı’s biographies: as-Saha¯wı¯ 1934, 7:5 (# 7); Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ 2002, 9:291 (# 2058). Neither ˙ ˘ ¯t¯ı’s doctrinal or political leanings that would have disposed source offers details about al-Bisa him to condemn at-Tabrı¯zı¯ out of˙ hand for claims of his leanings toward apostasy. Whether his identity as a Ma¯likı¯ jurist may have influenced his verdict is also indeterminate. Nonetheless, Ma¯likı¯ jurists during the middle and later decades of the Mamluk Sultanate were known for their propensity to mete out death sentences on cases that their peers in other madhabs addressed with more leniency. See Petry 2012, 198 – 201. ¯

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Then, after several days the Sultan restored to his family the items discovered in his possession. Most of the people perceived that he had been falsely accused. ˘

My (own) servant, Fa¯tin, the Ethiopian eunuch (whom he [ Alı¯] had imported from that country), recounted to me that he (at-Tabrı¯zı¯) had devoted himself, while resident in Ethiopia, to prayer and (Quranic) recitation. Those among his associates who did not pray he admonished to do so. Attending him was a faqı¯h who read the Quran to his children and associates (n.b., possibly Christians, although this is indeterminate). To the Muslims in his entourage, his stature was beneficial, for because of him they were honored and respected in Ethiopia. He who had testified against him (at the trial) did not (live to) savor the result, but rather was united with him shortly (in death), as will be related. For God knows all in his transcendence (wa-Alla¯h a lam bi-g˙aybihi).” ˘

Ibn Hagˇar thus discredited at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s mission to the Franks, discounted the ˙ testimony of the hostile witnesses and upheld the assertion of his Ethiopian eunuch, who attested to at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s allegiance to Islam during his residence in Ethiopia. His version contradicted Ibn Taghrı¯birdı¯’s detailed depiction of atTabrı¯zı¯’s mission to Europe, the contrast between at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s positive reception there and his hosts’ private doubts over the feasibility of aiding the Ethiopian monarch’s scheme for a joint invasion. Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ also described at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s return to Alexandria in the company of two Ethiopian (Coptic) monks who had accompanied him to Europe, the disclosure of at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s mission by a Muslim deck hand who had been impressed to the ship’s crew as a slave, the ship’s impounding by the port authorities in Alexandria, their discovery of at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s hidden missives, and his subsequent trial in Cairo. Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ named the Ma¯likı¯ qa¯d¯ı assigned to the ˙ case, but made no mention of the hostile witnesses – described by Ibn Hagˇar. ˙

6.

Conflicting testimonials, probable networks

˘

We are therefore left with a quandary of conflicting versions in this case. Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ tended not to rely on testimonies filed in court logs for much of his data on contested litigation generally, exploiting his connections to high placed persons in the Sultanic court for most of his detailed depictions. Ibn Hagˇar, by ˙ contrast, relied consistently on ˇsarı¯ a court proceedings, as evidenced by his mention of the hostile witnesses. His dismissal of at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s guilt derived from his claim of their conspiracy, steeped in their suspicion of at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s latent receptivity to Christianity. Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ apparently bought into these allegations of at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s Christian inclinations, a bias bolstered by suspicions widespread in Cairo during this period that expatriate Iranians resident in the city were inherently disposed to indulge in heterodox, if not heretical, doc-

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˘

trines.11 The alleged appeal of their aberrant beliefs to the ruling military elite was widely interpreted by the indigenous ulama¯’ as a serious threat to the integrity of the Islamic religion–the corrupting of the military caste: religious deviance at society’s highest levels. It is in this context that one must weigh the contrasting versions of Nu¯r ad-Dı¯n Alı¯ at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s espionage trial, and what they imply with regard to the accused’s contacts during his travels. While these contrasts may not be resolvable on the basis of surviving evidence, they provide tangible glimpses into the overt and covert networks between which at-Tabrı¯zı¯ adroitly balanced himself – with considerable aplomb apparently until his trial and dramatic execution. Tensions between these networks: mercantile and criminal, reveal both the ubiquity of each and the (potentially lethal) risks to which an individual enmeshed in both was exposed. The overt network of international merchants active throughout Northeast Africa and Southwest Asia during the late Mamluk period is amply documented.12 AtTabrı¯zı¯’s biography and chroniclers’ entries however emphasized a particular ethnic aspect of this network. At-Tabrı¯zı¯’s background as an Iranian merchant was presented in the context of a highly visible Iranian expatriate community established in several of the urban centers throughout the central Arabicspeaking lands. Mamluk-period historians consistently castigated this community in terms of its religious heterodoxy, an inclination they regarded as inherently deviant and threatening to accepted Sunni practice (although explicit references to Sˇi ism rarely appeared). At-Tabrı¯zı¯’s objective of attaining royal favor at the Christian court in Ethiopia, after his sojourn in Cairo, was fully in keeping with this ambivalence on the historians’ part. His technique for doing so aroused their suspicions of his motives as publicly corrupting and thus dangerously criminal. At-Tabrı¯zı¯ allegedly committed two kinds of malfeasance during his stay in Ethiopia: arms trafficking with a power openly hostile to the Sultanate and abetting Christian idolatry by crafting the most iconic of its symbols for profit. When at-Tabrı¯zı¯ was tried on charges of espionage (itself a capital crime), the animus of his accusers clearly focused on an even more serious offense: implicit apostasy (the ultimate penalty for which was damnation—a fate worse than execution due to the eternal suffering inflicted on the convicted). The versions of at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s nefarious activities at the Ethiopian court conflicted primarily over whether he had himself crossed the line from a pragmatic desire for gaining personal Christian allegiance when he crafted the crosses and gem-embossed regalia that he sold to an eager group of Christian consumers. Ibn Hagˇar (and thus as-Saha¯wı¯) spent ˙ ˘ ˘

˘

11 Petry 2012, 260 – 262. 12 Works on long-distance commerce, with extensive bibliographic references: Ashtor 1983, 1986, 1992; Cahen 1970; Labib 1965, 1970; Meloy 2010.

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little time investigating the story about at-Tabrı¯zı¯ contacting Frankish rulers with an implausible scheme for a joint venture against the Sultanate (central to Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯’s account). But they less vehemently contested the credibility of at-Tabrı¯zı¯ seeking to purchase a nail from the alleged True Cross in Europe for his royal sponsor in Ethiopia, al-Hatt¯ı. They did vigorously dispute allegations ˙ ˙˙ that at-Tabrı¯zı¯ participated in Christian practices during his sojourn in Ethiopia, with Ibn Hagˇar citing the testimony of the eunuch servant at-Tabrı¯zı¯ sold to him: ˙ that his master had remained consistently true to his Islamic faith and had admonished other Muslims resident at the Ethiopian court to maintain their observance of Islam when they were tempted to stray. As noted above, the veracity of these conflicting claims is irresolvable from the surviving evidence. But the networks they hint at are plausible. At-Tabrı¯zı¯ pursued his fortune along a realizable, if hazardous, career trajectory. The details of his biography indicate: 1) sales to high-placed Ethiopian customers of arms manufactured in Egypt for the exclusive use of its Mamluk military elite, and 2) crafting of religious icons and regalia highly prized by the Ethiopian Coptic aristocracy. Access to both these commodities required interaction with the skilled communities that produced and marketed (or smuggled) them. The historians’ entries on this specific case do not identify these communities by name, but at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s reliance on them is obvious. That trafficking in arms essential to maintenance of the Mamluk caste’s hegemony with a foreign power hostile to its supremacy, or promoting icons essential to the practice of a rival religion were criminal is less significant than the implicit engagement with the subversive networks necessary to carry out these activities. Successful arms trafficking or illicit icon crafting required close interaction with expert producers and smugglers whose services were costly because of the risks they ran and probabilities of losses they faced. It was this interaction that at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s accusers implied as the crimes whose severity merited the death sentence they advocated – and which the presiding judge meted out.

7.

Discerning the networks relative to these preceding cases and contrasting their plausibility

˘

As noted above, the sources discussing these two individuals did not overtly refer to the groups or organizations to which they belonged or with whom they identified in a formal sense. Yet their interaction with such groups can be teased from the contexts of their activities. The Sufi reciter, al-Misrı¯, abandoned (in ˙ mid-life) a rather predictable a¯lim’s career as a scholar of jurisprudence and Hadith Traditions upon his receipt of a vision from the Prophet admonishing

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him to begin his roster of travels that would last the remainder of his life. But alMisrı¯ was sojourning in Medina when he experienced this miraculous event. He ˙ therefore had already departed Egypt to ensconce himself in a setting sought out by persons who gathered from all over the Muslim world in hopes of similar enlightenment. Nothing unusual in this. The distinctive fact of al-Misrı¯’s experience was his subsequent Iranian ˙ itinerary. It is impossible to know whether al-Misrı¯ was predisposed by family ˙ background or personal leanings to seek out Persian Sufis resident in the Prophet’s city. Nowhere does the source shed any light on this. But we next see alMisrı¯ based in Sˇira¯z, engaged in teaching Arabic and translating Arabic works ˙ (presumably into Farsi). As-Saha¯wı¯’s biography supplied no details on how al˘ Misrı¯ attained the linguistic skill to accomplish these feats, but there is no ˙ indication in his genealogy to suggest prior instruction by family members. This individual was a Syrian transplanted to Cairo, and then to the Higˇa¯z – all Arabic˙ speaking regions. Of course, al-Misrı¯ may have claimed that he learned Farsi by ˙ God’s grace, as a divine gift. But if so, he made no mention of it during his interview with as-Saha¯wı¯ (a miracle one suspects that he would have brought up, ˘ or his interrogator would not omit). So al-Misrı¯’s probable medium was more ˙ mundane: instruction by Persian speakers, either in Medina or Sˇira¯z. Such instruction requires sustained involvement with native speakers. The likely candidates would be Iranian Sufis with whom al-Misrı¯ had become intimate in ˙ Medina and Sˇira¯z. His subsequent travel itinerary is plausible in this context. Al-Misrı¯’s receipt of later miracles, in particular his confrontation with the ˙ magˇdu¯b who predicted his fathering a son (no other references to a previous wife ¯ or offspring appeared in the biography), occurred exclusively during his travels throughout Iran. None were mentioned in the concluding asides to al-Misrı¯’s ˙ final sojourns in Upper Egypt or Jerusalem. Throughout as-Saha¯wı¯’s description ˘ (based on a first-hand interview), no aspersions of character marred his depiction of al-Misrı¯ as a profoundly spiritual person esteemed throughout the ˙ mystic communities of Southwest Asia for his piety. The same cannot be said of Nu¯r ad-Dı¯n at-Tabrı¯zı¯, whose attraction to a rival religion, engagement with arms traffickers or espionage with powers hostile to the Sultanate, as insinuated by his libelers, led to his condemnation as a traitor and apostate. His alleged crimes pointed to involvement with networks more tangible than those that can be speculated for al-Misrı¯. At-Tabrı¯zı¯ arrived in ˙ Cairo as a merchant from a family of established traders in Iran. No comments on his or their religious proclivities appeared. The sources referred only to his successful immersion within the Persian expatriate community in the Mamluk capital, preceding his departure for Ethiopia. Yet they also noted his longstanding determination to settle in this foreign Christian environment, without commenting on any prior sympathy for its religion. But at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s illicit sale of

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weaponry and crafting of icons point to his sustained contact with the groups equipped to fashion, market or smuggle them. The eager receipt of these weapons, icons and regalia by Christians of high status in the Coptic Church of Ethiopia, with its ruler at the summit, suggests that at-Tabrı¯zı¯ was well versed in their manufacture before he arrived. Expertise in production implies some degree of personal affinity, along with requisite artisanal skills. The vehemence of these contradictory versions as to at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s ultimate objectives raises the deeper questions as to his alleged religious ambiguity and criminal intentions. The fact that Ibn Hagˇar (and by quotation, as-Saha¯wı¯) ˙ ˘ vigorously discredited at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s accusers, who claimed that he plied his lucrative arms and icon sales as much from deviant spiritual convictions and a desire to threaten the Sultanate as he did for profit, underscores his involvement with concrete networks of suppliers and clerics, whatever the veracity of their claims. While the accuracy of these contrasting claims is indeterminate from the sources, the circumstances they provide point to tangible institutions and scenarios. Ibn Hagˇar might cursorily dismiss depictions of at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s hazardous ˙ espionage journey across the Sahara to reach Frankish rulers (detailed by Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯) as less than credible. The plausibility of such a venture may indeed be questioned because of practical logistics and doubts by its potential European collaborators as to its chances for success, threats to their profitable commercial relationship with the Sultanate, and antipathy toward the Monophysite rite of the Ethiopian Coptic Church (see note 9). Nonetheless, the specificity of these contradictory depictions points to the existence of commercial, clerical and political networks that actively competed for trade, affinity and allegiance across the central Islamic lands and the Mediterranean during this period. An objective verdict as to at-Tabrı¯zı¯’s guilt or innocence remains elusive; his ties to tangible networks are credible.

8.

Conclusion

The preceding remarks offer two examples, among many more in the 1985 article, of how the presence of communal networks flourishing in the Mamluk Sultanate can be extracted from the biographical and narrative sources that depict the individuals who interacted with them but do not explicitly name or describe them. Inference plays a significant role in this process; one must speculate that its application rests on plausible interpretations and informed judgments. The Sufi Abu¯ l-Fayd al-Misrı¯ and merchant Nu¯r ad-Dı¯n at-Tabrı¯zı¯ ˙ ˙ received detailed attention by the period sources who transmitted their legacies. Despite the contrasts between the accolades showered on the poet for his oratory and piety and castigations heaped on the merchant for his alleged apostasy and

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treason, these details bring to light their engagement with a cosmopolitan setting rife with interlocking networks: groups defined by their mystic consciousness, commercial competition, religious heterodoxy, political intrigue and profitable crime. The inter-connectedness between these phenomena enable the contemporary observer to sense the dynamics behind the ties that determined the trajectories of these two careers, similarly cosmopolitan but radically distinct in their peers’ eyes.

Bibliography Sources ˘

˘

Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯ (1972), Inba¯’ al-g˙umr bi-anba¯’ al- umr. ed. Hasan Habasˇ¯ı, Cairo: ˙ ˙ ˙ Lagˇnat at-Tura¯t al-Islamiyya, vol. 3. ¯ ¯ sˇu¯r, Cairo: Matba at Al-Maqrı¯zı¯ (1972), k. as-Sulu¯k li-ma rifat duwal al-mulu¯k, ed. Sa ¯ıd A ˙ Da¯r al-Kutub, 1970 – 1973, vols. 3 and 4. As-Saha¯wı¯ (1934 et seq), ad-Daw’ al-la¯mi fı¯ a ya¯n al-qarn at-ta¯si , ed. Husa¯m ad-Dı¯n al˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ Qudsı¯, Cairo: Matba a al-Qudsı¯, 12 vols. ˙ Ibn as-Sayrafı¯ (1973), Nuzhat an-nufu¯s wa-l-abda¯n fı¯ tawa¯rı¯h az-zama¯n, ed. Hasan ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ Habasˇ¯ı, Cairo: Matba a Da¯r al-Kutub, vol. 3. ˙ ˙ Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ (1984 et seq), al-Manhal as-sa¯fı¯ wa-l-mustawfı¯ ba d al-wa¯fı¯, ed. Muhammad ˙ ˙˙ ¯ ˙˙ mma li-l-Kita¯b, vol. 9 (2002). M. Amı¯n, Cairo: al-Hay’a al-Misriyya al- A ˙ Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ (1971), an-Nugˇu¯m az-za¯hira fı¯ mulu¯k misr wa-l-qa¯hira, Cairo: al-Hay’a al˙ ¯ mma li-t-Ta’lı¯f wa-n-Nasˇr, (multiple editors), vol. 14. Misriyya al- A ˙ ˘

˘

˘

˘

˘

˘

˘

˘

˘

˘

˘

Literature Ashtor, Eliyahu (1983), Levant Trade in the Later Middle Ages, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Ashtor, Eliyahu (1986), East-West Trade in the Medieval Mediterranean, ed. Benjamin Z. Kedar, London: Variorum. Ashtor, Eliyahu (1992), Technology, Industry, Trade: the Levant versus Europe, 1250 – 1500, Brookfield, Vermont USA. Cahen, Claude (1970), L’Islam: des origines au d¦but de l’empire Ottoman, Paris. Labib, Subhi (1965), Handelsgeschichte Ägyptens im Spätmittelalter (1171 – 1517), Vierteljahrschrift für Sozial- und Wirtschaftgeschichte, Beihefte 46, Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner. Labib, Subhi (1970), “Egyptian Commercial Policy in the Middle Ages,” in Studies in the Economic History of the Middle East, ed. Michael A. Cook, London: Oxford University Press, pp. 63 – 77.

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Meloy, John L. (2010), Imperial Power and Maritime Trade: Mecca and Cairo in the Later Middle Ages, Chicago: Middle East Documentation Center. Petry, Carl F., (2013), “Crime and Scandal in Foreign Relations of the Mamluk Sultanate: Espionage and Succession Crises linked to Cyprus,” in La frontiÀre m¦diterran¦ene du 15e au 17e siÀcles, ed. Bernard Heyberger, Albrecht Fuess, Centre d’¦tudes superiÀures de la Renaissance, Universit¦ FranÅois-Rabelais, Tours, pp. 143 – 159. Petry, Carl F. (2012), The Criminal Underworld in a Medieval Islamic Society ; Narratives from Cairo and Damascus under the Mamluks, Chicago: Middle East Documentation Center. Petry, Carl F. (1985), “Travel Patterns of Medieval Notables in the Near East,” Studia Islamica, 67, pp. 53 – 87.

Miriam Kühn (Berlin)

“Stars, they come and go, […] and all you see is glory” – minbars as Emblems of Political Power in Intra-Mamlu¯k Strife

In this article I want to contribute to some ideas on the avail of network analysis1 in Mamlu¯k art history.2 I try “to describe the behaviour of social actors based on the configuration of the social networks they are involved in.”3 The social actors in the following are a Mamlu¯k sultan and three high ranking amı¯rs; and the behaviour I am going to analyse is the endowment of four minbars between 1296 and 1310. The social network in which they participate is the upper echelon of Mamlu¯k military society,4 especially the network of amı¯rs of one hundred.5 The configuration of this upper echelon of the Mamlu¯k military society between 1290 and 1310 – hence the time between Sultan al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n’s death in 1290 ˙ and the beginning of Na¯sir Muhammad’s third reign in 1310 – was characterized ˙ ˙ by a massive power struggle between high ranking amı¯rs and the Qala¯wu¯nids.6 I thereby act on the assumption that the configuration of the network results from the actors’ behaviour and, in turn, facilitates or impedes their actions.7 1 Regarding the understanding and definition of network analysis, I refer to Stephan Conermann’s introduction, Henning Sievert’s article in this volume, Thomas Eich’s article, “Islamic Networks,” http://www.ieg-ego.eu/en/threads/european-networks/islamic-networks (accessed: 2013 – 06 – 05), Harders 2000. 2 This article is based on the on-going research for my PhD project, in which I however do not pursue a network approach. Hence, the following should be understood as a preliminary presentation of first ideas, intended as a basis for further discussion. 3 Conermann, in this volume, 13. 4 For a distinction of the Mamlu¯k social environment in three groups, see van Steenbergen 2006, 16 – 22. Therein, the patrons of the minbars are placed in the third group, “that was of an exclusively military and urban character and that included the socio-political elite.” (16) They share a military background and were endowed with military ranks and income. (18) And further they can be even assigned to the “socio-political elite of amı¯rs that enjoyed superior political and social status that is authority, power, and commensurate wealth.” (19) 5 Cf. for their rank Ayalon 1953, 467 – 469. 6 Cf. Levanoni 1995, 115. This period has been extensively analysed in the historical studies by Levanoni 1994; Holt 1973; Elham 1977; Irwin 1986. However, studies dealing with the reign of al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n and the third reign of Na¯sir Muhammad also refer to this period: van ˙ ˙ ˙ Steenbergen 2006; Northrup 1998; Levanoni 1995; Clifford 2013. 7 See Conermann, in this volume, 13.

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As an art historian, I will focus on the fact that the relationships between the actors consist of material […] goods …8 Minbars can be understood as these material goods, that the relationship between the actors (sultan, amı¯rs) may consist of. It will be argued that their endowment until then had been the Mamlu¯k sultans’ prerogatives and, that by endowing a minbar, the actors underlined their exalted position in Mamlu¯k society in relation to the sultan and their Mamlu¯k peers. Thus, the minbars will be interpreted as emblems of political power in intra-Mamlu¯k strife.

1.

State of Research

Network analysis has not been a core issue in art historiography until quite recently and – if applied at all – only in certain fields of research. Looking up “social network” and “network analysis” in relevant art historical bibliographies, only some thirty items turn up9. These mainly refer to network analysis as a tool in publications regarding the critique of cultural institutions and their historiography,10 analyses of the art market11 and artefact trade, as well as an approach for studying the distribution of reproductions, e. g. prints,12 and analyses of contemporary and global art.13 Only a few examples of art historiography dealing with historical topics can be noticed: They mainly broach the issue of workshops,14 patron – client relationships15 and trade or material supply networks.16 Anne Helmreich, researching the history of London’s art market, observes that “art history has long privileged close reading; attention to the individual work of art is shared by diverse methodological approaches, in8 See ibid. Cf. as well Zell’s argument for the ANT as an applicable method in art history as it “undertakes to ‘rescue’ objects from the subordinate and passive role typically assigned to them in social theory. […] Objects are thus considered constitutive elements and embodiments of social relations, and focusing on their capacity to exercise agency underscores the practical means used in human ties to create, sustain, and recruit others.” Zell 2011. 9 See terms “social network,” and “network analysis” in the Bibliography of the History of Art (BHA) and R¦pertoire de la litterature de l’art (RILA) hosted by The Getty Research Institute (http://www.getty.edu/research/tools/bha/index.html). Further titles can of course be found combining “network” and “art market,” “trade” and “artist”. 10 Dolff-Bonekämper 1993, 262 – 267. 11 http://www.19thc-artworldwide.org/index.php/autumn12/fletcher-helmreich-mappingthe-london-art-market#local; Moulin 1990, 4 – 7. 12 Dyson 1984; Beegan 1995. 13 Jacob, Streams 2003/04. 14 Steinhoff (2000). 15 DOI 10:5092/jhna.2011.3.2.2 very elucidating article on Rembrandt’s Gifts. A Case Study of Actor-Network-Theory. 16 Clifford, Myth.

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cluding connoisseurship and social-historical analysis. The development of new tools and techniques for research made possible by emerging technologies has, in other disciplines, given rise to the practice of ‘far reading,’ referring to examinations conducted across a large data set. What might far reading look like in art history? We do not, as yet, have a strong set of responses to this provocative question.”17 Therefore, it is not surprising that in one of the latest publications of Mamlu¯k art historiography18 none of the authors has applied network analysis. The object-centred approach is dominating in the assembled essays: The singular artefact, e. g. its decoration and its form is put at the centre of reasoning. Only in some cases social-historical analysis is applied.19 Generally speaking, network analysis has so far not been fully methodologically formulated, reflected and broadly adopted as a useful tool in (Mamlu¯k) art historiography.

2.

Minbars – a Distinct Group of Artefacts

As I want to pursue the idea of underlining the significance of a distinct group of artefacts for a distinct group of actors within a social network, I will first introduce four minbars, which were created between 1296 and 1310. They can be distinguished as a group, because of sharing similar features: first – architectural context, material and structure as well as decoration, second – function, and third – political connotation. Well preserved minbars from Fatimid, Zengid, and Ayyubid times are rare in Bila¯d asˇ-Sˇa¯m and Egypt. Hence, we only find a Fatimid minbar in Hebron,20 the remains of minbars commissioned by Nu¯r ad-Dı¯n in Hama21 and Jerusalem22 as well as a minbar from the Ayyubid rule in Damascus23

˘

17 “Network Analysis and the Art Market”. (http://digitalarthistory.weebly.com/abstracts. html)/ ; http://www.ipam.ucla.edu/abstract.aspx?tid=9982 ; http://digitalarthistory.weebly. com/uploads/6/9/4/3/6943163/helmreich_malaga_short.pdf 18 Behrens-Abouseif 2012. 19 Loiseau 2012. ˇ ama¯lı¯ in 484/1091 for the sanctuary of the head 20 The minbar was commissioned by Badr al-G of Husayn in Asqalon (Bloom 2009, 137, No. 1; R¦pertoire chonologique d’¦pigraphie arabe, ed. by Combe, Etienne, Cairo 1936, Bd. 7, 259 – 260, No. 2790; Sharon 1997, 1:154) and was later transferred to the sanctuary of Ibrahim in Hebron. 21 The minbar was commissioned by Nu¯r ad-Dı¯n az-Zankı¯ 559 (1164) for his mosque in Hama (RCEA 9:35 – 36, No. 3255; Auld 2009, 80; Tabbaa 1982, 62. See for an illustration: Riis, Poulsen 1957, 5 fig. 2. 22 The minbar was commissioned by Nu¯r ad-Dı¯n az-Zankı¯ 546 (1168/69) (van Berchem 1927, 2:393 – 394 No. 277) and accomplished by his son Malik Sa¯lih Isma¯ ¯ıl ca. 570 (1174 – 75) (van Berchem 1927, 2:395 No. 278; cf. RCEA 9:80, No. 3316;˙ cf.˙ also Bloom 2009, 142, No. 15; Tabbaa 2001, 93) in Aleppo and was transferred to the Aqsa-Mosque in Jerusalem by Saladin in 1187 (Herzfeld 1954 – 56, 121; see also Tabbaa 2001, 94; Auld 2005, 58). For illustrations see: http://creswell.ashmolean. museum: EA.CA.5005 – EA.CA.5011. 23 The minbar was commissioned for the Mosque al-Hana¯bilı¯ by Malik Gokabouri/Ku¯kbu¯rı¯ b. ˙

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in Bila¯d asˇ-Sˇa¯m. Two minbars from Fatimid times are preserved in Egypt: one in the monastery of Mount Saint Catherine24 and the other minbar in Qu¯s.25 The situation changed fundamentally under Mamlu¯k rule. More than fifty minbars are preserved from this period, mostly in Egypt. This paper focuses on the four earliest preserved minbars, commissioned under Mamlu¯k rule: 1. The minbar in the Cairene Mosque of Ahmad b. Tu¯lu¯n was commissioned ˙ ˙ by Sultan al-Malik al-Mansu¯r, shortly after his accession to the throne as part of ˙ the restoration and reactivation of this mosque for Muslim Friday service in 696/ 1296. (Fig. 01)26 2. The minbar in the Mosque of Tala¯’ı¯ Ibn Ruzaik in Cairo was donated in ˙ Juma¯da¯ II 699/March 1300. However, the patron was not a sultan, but the amı¯r ˇ uka¯nda¯r al-Mansu¯rı¯ as-Sayfı¯. (Fig. 02)27 kabı¯r Baktamur al-G ˙ 3. The minbar in the Great Mosque of Hama was commissioned by the governor of Hama, Zayn ad-Dı¯n Kitbug˙a¯ al-Mansu¯rı¯, in Mid Sˇa ba¯n 701/15th April, ˙ 1302.28 It was destroyed and replaced by a replica in 1982. 4. The minbar in the Great Mosque of Aleppo was endowed by Sˇams ad-Dı¯n ˇ u¯kanda¯r al-Malikı¯ al-Mansu¯rı¯. However, contrary to the other Qara¯sunqu¯r al-G ˙ minbar, it is not dated by an inscription. Nevertheless, it can be dated to 699/ 1299 – 1300 until 709/1309 – 10. (Fig. 03)29 The four minbars share several characteristics. First, the name of their patrons is inscribed on them.30 Second, all of these four minbars were commissioned for already existing congregational mosques, which were reactivated for ˘

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Alı¯ b. Baktakı¯n and is dated between 599/1202/03 and 610/1213 – 14 (RCEA 9:243 – 244, No. 3552; Sauvaget 1949, 316). The minbar was commissioned by al-Afdal in 500 H/1106 (RCEA 8:69 – 70, No. 2912; Mi˙ nistry of Waqfs 1949 – 1954, 1:12; Lamm 1935 – 36, 78 pl. IXd) The minbar was commissioned by Tala¯’ı¯ Ibn Ruzayk in 550/1156 (Garcin 1970, 99. See also ˙ Garcin 1976). See for an illustration: Bloom 2009, 139 for the role of Qu¯s in Mamlu¯k times: pl. 7.14. Meinecke 1992/2, 83, No. 11/2; Karnouk 1977, 47 – 61; van Berchem 1903, 36, No. 14 – 15; RCEA 13:154, No. 5019; RCEA 13:155, No. 5020. RCEA 13:190 – 191, No. 5073 – 5074; Meinecke 1992/2, 89 – 90, No. 9B/8; Karnouk 1977, 62 – 70; van Berchem 1903, 75 – 78, note 47. Riis Poulsen 1957, 8 – 9; RCEA 13:225 – 226, No. 5136; Meinecke 1992/2, 92, No. 9B/23; Sˇaha¯da 1976, 203; O’Kane 2009, 232, figs. 9.6.–9.12. ˙ Meinecke 1992/2, 104, 12/4; RCEA 5293 – 94; Herzfeld 1954 – 1956, 168, No. 81; L. A. Mayer, Islamic Woodcarvers and Their Works, Geneva 1958, 55; Muhammad Ra¯g˙ib Tabba¯h, I la¯m ˙ Materiaux ˘ an-nubala¯’ bi-ta’rı¯h Halab asˇ-Sˇahba¯’, Aleppo 1923 – 1926, II, ˙170; Gaston Wiet, ˘ ˙ pour un Corpus Inscriptionum Arabicarum. Êgypte II, Le Caire 1930, 114, note 3. The dating of this minbar is disputed. O’Kane argues that it is safe to date the minbar to the second term of Qara¯sunqur’s governorship 699 – 709/1300 – 10 (O’Kane 2009, 238). See his argumentation against Mayer’s dating it to the reign of Qala¯wu¯n (died 689/1290). Cairo, Mosque of Ahmad b. Tu¯lu¯n: RCEA, 13:154, No. 5019; Cairo, Mosque of Tala¯’ı¯ Ibn ˙ – 191, No. ˙ 5073; Hama, Great Mosque: RCEA 13:225 – 226, ˙No. 5136; Ruzaik: RCEA 13:190 Aleppo, Great Mosque: Herzfeld 1954 – 1956, 168, No. 81.

24

26 27 28 29

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25

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30

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Fig. 01: Cairo, minbar in the Mosque of Ahmad b. Tu¯lu¯n, 696/1296. (M. Kuehn) ˙ ˙

Muslim Friday service.31 Third, they all are made of wood, inlaid with precious material as i. e. ivory and ebony. Furthermore, they share a similar structure: a 31 Hama: Meinecke 1992 2, 92, No. 9B/23; Aleppo: Meinecke 1992/2, 104, 12/4; 116: Meinecke 1992/2, 89 – 90, No. 9B/8; 220: Meinecke 1992/2, 83, 11/2.

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Fig. 02: Cairo, minbar in the Mosque of Tala¯’ı¯ Ibn Ruzaik, Juma¯da¯ II 699/March 1300. ˙ (M. Kuehn)

portal opens to a staircase, a baldachin is placed on its top. However, regional differences may be observed to a certain extent, as i. e. the structure of the flanks: While the Syrian examples show a division into a triangular part flanking the staircase and into an area beneath the preacher’s seat – the Cairene examples

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Fig. 03: Aleppo, minbar in the Great Mosque of Aleppo, dated to 699/1299 – 1300 until 709/1309 – 10. (M. Kuehn)

show a continuing strapwork pattern. Furthermore, the top of the portal is designed differently : In Cairo we find a beam with rounded protruding ends;32 in 32 The muqarnas frieze on minbar in the Mosque of Ahmad b. Tu¯lu¯n can be seen as an exception ˙ ˙

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Syria muqarnas elements are used. Additionally, it is interesting to observe that while craftsmen signed the Syrian minbars,33 the ones in Cairo were not signed. These traits can be traced back to preserved pre-Mamlu¯k minbars in the according region: to the minbar in Qu¯s and St. Catherines and the minbars in Hama, Hebron and Jerusalem. In sum, these objects form a distinct group of objects,34 with distinct characteristics regarding their architectural context, material, structure and decoration. They furthermore share the same function and symbolism, which is referred to later.

3.

Social Network: the Patrons

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All four minbars mention their patrons in inscriptions, which is not a standard practice. However, the mentioned patron’s name helps the historian to interpret the social context of these artefacts. Their patrons belong to a social network: They are all high-ranking Mamlu¯ks, who struggled for power on the highest possible level in Mamlu¯k society and shared similar social, cultural35 and economic36 characteristics and that can be set in relation to one another. 1. al-Malik Mansu¯r. The earliest preserved minbar from the time of Mamlu¯k ˙ rule, was endowed by Sultan al-Malik Mansu¯r. Husa¯m ad-Dı¯n La¯gˇ¯ın b. Abd ˙ ˙ Alla¯h al-Mansu¯rı¯37 was educated in the household of al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n.38 ˙ ˙ After Qala¯wu¯n’s accession to the sultanate in 679/1280, he was soon appointed na¯’ib of Damascus.39 He held this position for eleven years, until he was arrested by Qala¯wu¯n’s son al-Asˇraf Halı¯l in 690/1291.40 However, he was ˘

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(Karnouk 1977, 49). 33 Hama: RCEA 13:225 – 226, No. 5136; RCEA 14: 285; Aleppo: Herzfeld 1954 – 1956, 168, No. 81 34 However, the relationships between the minbars of this group are not direct ones – in the sense of one being a copy of another or a model for another – but rather indirect , e. g. the older minbars in the according region could possibly have been an “inspiration” to the craftsmen or commissioners of the newer ones. Furthermore, the Mamlu¯k minbars are not directly linked by the creation of the same craftsmen or the same commissioner. For an application-oriented definition of direct and indirect relationships between art objects regarding the building art information systems (CDWA) see: http://www.getty.edu/research/ publications/electronic_publications/cdwa/21related.html . 35 For an analysis of the training, advancement and networks of power in the Mamlu¯k military hierarchy, see Levanoni 1995, 5 – 27 and 30 – 72; van Steenbergen 2006, 53 – 101. 36 The economic capital of these amı¯rs might have been comparable as they all were amı¯rs of the one hundred and were accorded corresponding iqta¯ (see e. g. Northrup 1998, 194; van Steenbergen 2006, 45 – 49; Levanoni 1995, 53 – 60). ˙ 37 Mayer 1933, 148; for his vita see: Elham 1977, 185 – 188. 38 Mayer 1933, 148; Levanoni 1995, 16; Irwin 1986, 70. 39 Mayer 1933, 148; cf. as well Irwin 1986, 70. 40 Mayer 1933, 148; Levanoni 1995, 25; Irwin 1986, 77; Clifford 2013, 151 – 152.

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handed over to Badr ad-Dı¯n Baydara¯. Eventually al-Malik Mansu¯r, Badr ad˙ Dı¯n Baydara¯ were involved in the murder of al-Asˇraf Halı¯l in 1292.41 In 694/ ˘ ¯ dil’s na¯’ib as-saltana (viceroy).42 In 696/ 1294 he was appointed Sultan al- A ˙ ¯ 1296 al-Malik al- Adil was deposed by a group of amı¯rs, including the other three here discussed patrons of minbars – Husa¯m ad-Dı¯n La¯gˇ¯ın, Baktamur ˙ and Qara¯sunqur.43 Husa¯m ad-Dı¯n La¯gˇ¯ın finally ascended the sultanate in 696/ ˙ 44 1296 as al-Malik al-Mansu¯r. In 698/1299 he was murdered by his own ˙ peers.45 ˇ ukanda¯r al-Mansu¯rı¯ as-Sayfı¯. The next preserved minbar in 2. Baktamur al-G ˙ ˇ ukanda¯r al-Mansu¯rı¯ as-Sayfı¯. He was Cairo, was endowed by Baktamur al-G ˙ 46 ˇ ukanda¯r by Qala¯wu¯n and later amı¯r gˇa¯nda appointed G ¯ r ; a post he held 47 again in al-Malik al-Mansu¯r’s and Na¯sir Muhammad’s second term of office ˙ ˙ ˙ (698/1299 until 708/1309)48 in which he was one of the four most eminent amı¯rs.49 As amı¯r gˇandar of Na¯sir Muhammad he endowed the minbar in the ˙ ˙ Mosque of Tala¯’ı¯ Ibn Ruzayk. Later, in 1307, he was promoted to the top office ˙ 50 of na¯’ib as-saltana. When he was arrested for conspiracy against Na¯sir ˙ ˙ Muhammad together with other na¯’ibs of Syria51, he was Governor of Safad. ˙ 3. Zayn ad-Dı¯n Kitbug˙a¯ al-Mansu¯rı¯. The minbar in the congregational mosque ˙ of Hama was endowed by Zayn ad-Dı¯n Kitbug˙a¯.52 He was captured by alMansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n at the battle of Homs 1260 and became one of the closest ˙ and most trusted amı¯rs.53 He served as his acting na¯’ib al-g˙ayba from the beginning of Qala¯wu¯n’s term of office until its end.54 He kept this position under al-Asˇraf Halı¯l55 and during the first reign of Na¯sir Muhammad.56 ˙ ˙ ˘ However, in 694 – 696/1294 – 1296 he took over the sultanate from the later ˘

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41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56

Irwin 1986, 80 – 82. Mayer 1933, 148; Elham 1977, 99, 158. Holt 1975, 242; Elham 1977, 113 – 116; Clifford 2013, 162 – 163. Mayer 1933, 148; Holt 1975, 242; Clifford 2013, 163 – 167. Holt 1983, 32 – 33; Levanoni 1994, 377 – 378; Elham 1977, 134 – 138, 222 – 229; Clifford 2013, 166 – 167. van Berchem 1903, 77 n. 5. Elham 1977, 115. van Berchem 1903, 77 n. 5; Irwin 1986, 106. Irwin 1986, 106. van Berchem 1903, 77 n. 5; cf. for a different date of the appointment as na¯’ib as-salta¯na: ˙ Amitai 1990, 152 – 153. van Berchem 1903, 77; Amitai 1990, 153; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdat al-fikr, 430. ˙ Elham 1977, 74 – 79. Mayer 1933, 143 – 144; Holt 1973, 524 – 525; Levanoni 1995, 16 – 17; Irwin 1986, 70; Irwin 1986, 85. Levanoni 1995, 25; Northrup 1998, 209. However, he was like Husa¯m al-Dı¯n La¯gˇ¯ın in between arrested and restored to power by alAsˇraf Khalı¯l. (Clifford ˙2013, 152) Mayer 1933, 143 – 144; Elham 1977, 75. 83. 141.

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¯ dil.57 He appointed Husa¯m ad-Dı¯n La¯gˇ¯ın as with the regnal title al-Malik al- A ˙ his vice regent (na¯’ib as-saltana), who eventually deposed him in 1296. He ˙ fled to Damascus. Husa¯m ad-Dı¯n La¯gˇ¯ın had left him alive58 and appointed ˙ him governor of Sarkhad.59 In the second term of Na¯sir Muhammad’s office ˙ ˙ (698 – 708/1299 – 1309) he was promoted by the latter to be governor of th Hama, an office, he held until his death on the 10 Du¯ l-Higˇgˇa 702 (26th July, ¯ ˙ 1303).60 4. Qara¯sunqur. The last of the four minbars discussed here was endowed by ˇ arkası¯ al-Mansu¯rı¯ for the Friday Mosque of Aleppo. It was Qara¯sunqur al-G ˙ originally bought by al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n,61 who appointed him governor ˙ 62 (na¯’ib) of Aleppo in 681/1282. He stayed in this position until the ascension of al-Asˇraf Halı¯l in 689/1290.63 In 696/129764 he became al-Malik al-Mansu¯r’s ˙ ˘ na¯’ib as-saltana, who, however, soon deposed and arrested him.65 Na¯sir ˙ ˙ Muhammad appointed him na¯’ib in Subayba and in 698/1298 governor of ˙ Hama.66 699 – 709/1300 – 10 he was promoted to the governorate of Aleppo.67 Qara¯sunqur supported Na¯sir Muhammad in his revolt in 708/1309 and was ˙ ˙ after Na¯sir Muhammad’s victory promoted to governor (na¯’ib) of Dam˙ ˙ ascus.68 However, for “fear” of Na¯sir Muhammad he voluntarily returned to ˙ ˙ the governorate of Aleppo.69 By the end of 711/1312, due to his fear of being arrested by Na¯sir Muhammad, he deserted to the Mongols, where he even˙ ˙ tually died on 27. Sˇawwa¯l 728/14th September 1328.70

During this short glimpse on the biographies of these Mamlu¯ks we may have discerned the following: The four individuals described above shared several characteristics, which allow us to see them as members of a distinct social group

57 Mayer 1933, 143 – 144; Holt 1973, 524 – 525; Irwin 1986, 85; Elham 1977, 77. 83. 98. 156 – 58; Clifford 2013, 158 – 162 58 Mayer 1933, 143 – 144; Holt 1973, 524 – 525. 59 Holt 1973, 524 – 525; Elham 1977, 78. 117. 60 Mayer 1933, 143 – 144; Holt 1973, 524 – 525; Holt 1983, 42. 61 Levanoni 1995, 17. 62 Mayer 1933, 183 – 184. 63 Mayer 1933, 183 – 184; cf. Levanoni 1995, 25. 64 Holt in EI, q.v. La¯djı¯n, 595. Chapoutout-Remadi 1983, 239. Cf. also Holt 1973, 523; Elham 1977, 114. 65 Holt 1973, 527; Elham 1977, 115. 119. 194 – 195. 66 Mayer 1933, 183 – 184. 67 Mayer 1933, 183 – 184. 68 Mayer 1933, 183 – 184. 69 Holt 1983, 57; Irwin 1986, 106. 70 Mayer 1933, 183 – 184; Amitai 1990, 159 – 160; Irwin 1986, 106.

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within the Mamlu¯k military society : They were members of the household71 of al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n, belonging to the Mansu¯riyya, the royal Mamlu¯ks,72 and ˙ ˙ were, as amı¯rs of one hundred at the head of the military hierarchy from which the highest officers in the state were appointed, such as the na¯’ib as-saltana in ˙ Egypt, in Aleppo, in Hama, and na¯’ib in Safad, for example/to mention a few.73 From these positions certain privileges were deduced. First, the individuals thus disposed over a certain income related to their rank. Second, they seem to dispose over a certain social capital. We might assume that they could have had relatively close contact to the sultan: First, the rank of amı¯r mi’a (amı¯r of one hundred) was a prerogative of the sultan.74 Second, during the reign of Na¯sir ˙ Muhammad only 24 amı¯r mi’a were appointed.75 Thus, they could be described ˙ as being “well connected” and thereby also possessing social capital. They reached their peak of power when al-Asˇraf Halı¯l in 693/1293, in which two amı¯rs ˘ – Qara¯sunqur76 and Husa¯m ad-Dı¯n La¯gˇ¯ın77 – were actively involved, and the ˙ beginning of Na¯sir Muhammad’s third term of office in 709/1310. As already ˙ ˙ ¯ dil Kitbug ˙a¯ and La¯gˇ¯ın al-Mansu¯r even succeeded in becoming mentioned, al- A ˙ sultans themselves: after the murder of al-Asˇraf Halı¯l, Na¯sir Muhammad was ˙ ˙ ˘ ¯ dil enthroned (first reign), but soon deposed by al- A Kitbug˙a¯ (1294 – 1296) and the latter in turn by La¯gˇ¯ın al-Mansu¯r (1296). Three amı¯rs (Qara¯sunqur, Kitbug˙a¯ ˙ and Baktamur) held important offices during Na¯sir Muhammad’s second term ˙ ˙ of office (698/1299 until 708/1309). At this period of time he was actually no 78 effective power holder, but stood under the tutelage of powerful amı¯rs.79 The two amı¯rs, Qara¯sunqur and Baktamur, who survived Na¯sir Muhammad’s third ˙ ˙ accession to the throne (709/1310), were soon deposed, arrested or fled. They were – as mentioned above – part of the Mansu¯riyya amı¯rs, who Na¯sir Mu˙ ˙ hammad tried to eliminate for consolidating his power after his third accession ˙ 80 to the throne. In conclusion it can be stated that these four members of the Mamlu¯k military society can be positioned at the head of its hierarchy and that ˘

71 For a discussion of the term “household” cf. Henning Sievert, 15 – 20. 72 Cf. Northrup 1998, 189 – 196. 73 Ayalon 1953, II, 467; cf. also Levanoni 1995, 24; Amitai 1990, 147 footnote 7; van Steenbergen 2006, 34. While Levanoni 1995, 201 differentiates between the muqaddam alf and the amı¯r mi’a, stating that the muqaddam alf is the highest and the amı¯r mi’a is the second highest rank of an officer in the Mamlu¯k army, Ayalon, Amitai and van Steenbergen equate these positions. 74 Levanoni 1994 (sultanate), 384. 75 Ayalon 1953, II, 468; cf. also Levanoni 2011, 48. 76 Holt 1983, 22. 77 Cf. Levanoni 1994, 377 – 378. 78 For a definition and distinction of effective and legitimate power, cf. van Steenbergen 2006. 79 Cf. Amitai 1990, 145; Levanoni 1995, 28. 30. 80 Cf. Amitai 1990, 145 – 146; Levanoni 1995, 28 – 30 f.

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they have succeeded81 in accumulating economic, cultural, social capital in comparison to their Mamlu¯k peers (amı¯rs of forty etc.).82

4.

Minbars as Emblems of Power

Finally, I want to argue that a patron’s endowment of a minbar can be understood as the endowment of one important emblem of power and can thus be regarded as materializing the patron’s elevated position in the Mamlu¯k political hierarchy. The symbolism ascribed to the minbar is not to be underestimated: up to a certain point in Mamlu¯k history it was the sultan’s prerogative to commission congregational mosques. Their centre and raison d’etre is the minbar as place of the hutba. In any case, the patronage of religious buildings – be it congregational ˘ ˙ mosques or others – was seen as the ruler’s duty. The congregational mosque was thereby regarded as the most important foundation, providing the Muslim community a place for Friday worship and listening to the hutba.83 Amı¯rs en˘ ˙ dowing a minbar and appropriating this emblem of political power first positioned themselves or underlined their position at the head of Mamlu¯k society and then distinguished themselves from other members of their social context at that time.

4.1

Pre-Mamlu¯k minbars

The minbar is generally perceived as a symbol of political power. This symbolism is interpreted by Western scholarship as on Muhammad’s use of a pro˙ totype of this furniture as a throne. Becker is the first scholar who points out that the minbar is not solely intended for the service, but for all public announcements by the prophet.84 The use and creation of additional minbars was defined 81 Cf. Ellen Loot’s [Past Performance and Sense-Making Mechanisms in Art. A NetworkApproach for Disentangling the Various Effects on Performance in Contemporary Visual Arts, http://www.jace.gr.jp/ACEI2012/usb_program/pdf/2.2.4.pdf (accessed: 2013 – 06 – 10)] definition of success of contemporary visual artists referring to social capital studies. She argues that success and succeeding could be defined as a function of social ties. Careers could be understood as a sequence of positions held within a network, which itself is always changing; two observations that can be transferred to the network and careers of the four Mamlu¯k amı¯rs in question as well. 82 Cf. van Steenbergen 2006, 19. 83 Fernandes 1997, 108 – 109. 84 Cf. Meier 1981, 225; Zwemer 1933, 221; Pedersen 1999, VII:74b. Raised seats for judges and thrones for rulers have a long tradition on the Arabian Peninsula (Becker 1906, 338 – 339). Becker argues that the minbar is primarily used by Muhammad as an analogy of a ruler’s ˙ throne and judge’s seat, as Muhammad was not only a religious person, but acting as well as a ˙

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after Muhammad’s death. Until the end of the Umayyad reign, the minbar stayed ˙ primarily a marker of political power as e. g. governors in the provinces ascended the minbar of the provincial capitals directly after the accession or by arriving at the place as well as for resignation.85 At the end of the Umayyad reign, this very political perception of the minbar changed. The rulers and their governors in the congregational mosques of the provincial capitals abandoned the prerogative and task to celebrate the Friday service. They assigned a hat¯ıb for the purpose of ˘ ˙ preaching and leading the prayer on Friday. The minbar was thus primarily used as a pulpit for the spiritual preacher.86 Thereby, the political intent was diminished and religious aspects became predominant in the hutba. This process ˘ ˙ resulted in the fact that every mosque in which the Friday service was celebrated was given a minbar and the minbar became analogous to the Christian pulpit.87 However, the political88 and communal aspect of the hutba did not disappear ˘ ˙ completely. Mentioning the rulers’ name in the hutba was performed as a ˘ ˙ symbolic expression of the fidelity of his subjects.89 Furthermore, major events for the community, such as proclamation or deposition of a ruler, the nomination of an heir, the outbreak or termination of hostilities, were effectively made known through the hutba.90 ˘ ˙ 4.2

Mamlu¯k minbars

Can this symbolism conclusively be traced within a Mamlu¯k context? As far as I know, no literary sources are available on the symbolism of the minbar or how they were perceived by Mamlu¯k contemporaries. Short glimpses can be caught when reading annals and chronicles in which cursory mentions can be found: a certain hat¯ıb (Na¯sir ad-Dı¯n b. al-Ba¯rizı¯) preached from the pulpit (in the mosque ˙ ˘ ˙ of al-Mu’ayyad Sˇayh in Cairo),91 the name of the sultan/ruler was mentioned92 or ˘ not mentioned any more, etc. In the following it will, however, be argued that the

85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92

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statesman and judge in Medina. (Becker 1906; cf. Meier 1988, 225.) Consequently, the statesman Muhammad might have referred deliberately to their political connotation (Cf. Meier 1981, 225), ˙as they are closely associated with power and acted as markers of such. (Cf. Pedersen 1999, VII:73a) Becker 1906, 336. Busse 1988, 100; Talmon-Heller 2007, 88. Busse, 1988, 100. Cf. Humphreys 1973, 109. Talmon-Heller 2007, 88. Talmon-Heller 2007, 89. Popper 1957, 17, 73 – 74. Yu¯nı¯nı¯ mentions that during the occupation of Damascus by the Mongols on Friday, 8. January 1300 (Rabı¯ II 14) the hutba was held in the name of the ruler Mahmu¯d Gha¯za¯n (Guo ˙ ˘ ˙ 1998, 214).

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connotation of minbars from 1260 to 1310 with respect to political power can be deduced from the social status of commissioners of congregational mosques – the architectural and functional context of the minbars – in the Mamlu¯k Empire93 recorded by Michael Meinecke.94 4.2.1 Challenging the Sultan’s Prerogatives The following picture can be drawn, when comparing the commissioning of congregational mosques between 1260 – 1290,95 1290 – 1310,96 1310 – 1341:97 Of 46 commissions on congregational mosques from 1260 to 1290, 42 were constructed by sultans,98 three by amı¯rs99 and one by a civilian.100 Of fifteen com-

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93 Regarding the term “congregational mosque”, I refer to all buildings, where a Friday prayer was held. Because of the close functional relation of a congregational mosque and the minbar, I equate the commissioning of a minbar and that of a congregational mosque. The commissioning of a minbar does not hint to a lack of power or financial wealth, but is due to political and social circumstances. Thus, sultan Baybars reactivates the Azhar Mosque in 665/1266 and Sultan La¯gˇ¯ın reactivates the Ibn Tu¯lu¯n Mosque in 1296 by installing minbars. ˙ 94 Meinecke’s work is the most comprehensive account of Mamlu¯k building activities across the whole Mamlu¯k empire, comprising the whole Mamlu¯k period. However, in the following analysis certain constrains have to be made: I refer only to buildings, which are explicitly coined “Große Moschee” or “gˇa¯mi ” according to Meinecke or from which I know, that they contain(ed) a Mamlu¯k period minbar. I also include mosques (“Moschee”) in citadels and castles, which can be assumed to have been used for the Friday services of the stationed army, and buildings, which Meinecke refers explicitly to a Friday service, but does not call them “Große Moschee” or “gˇa¯mi ”. I only refer to these buildings as “commissioned” in the case of construction, (re-)construction of the Friday service, and explicit mention of the installation of a minbar. However, I am well aware of the fact that this list is not at all complete and based on interpretations on different levels. In Meinecke’s list the term “Moschee” is ambiguous, as it can refer to “gˇa¯mi ” or “masgˇid”. However, in other cases buildings are explicitly referred to as “Große Moschee”. In some cases I interpret “Moschee” as “Große Moschee”, as some are known to have (had) a Mamlu¯ period minbar, etc. Furthermore, the terminology of how buildings are “really” called in Mamlu¯k period sources (building inscriptions vs. waqfiyyas vs. chronicles) is a still ongoing discussion. Moreover, the attribution of a social profile to every patron is problematic (cf. Loiseau 2012, 188, in addition see his article for different results regarding the patronage and status of buildings compared to Meinecke’s). Thus, this listing should be understood as preliminary. In any case, the overall picture I want to give can be sustained. 95 Beginning Mamlu¯k reign until the death of al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n. 96 Death of al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n – 3rd term of office of˙Na¯sir Muhammad. ˙ ˙ ˙ of Na¯sir Muhammad. 97 Third term of office ˙ ˙ 98 In the following I refer to Meinecke’s page numbers and numbering system in the second volume of his „Die Mamlukische Architecktur in Ägypten und Syrien”. Sultan al-Za¯hir ˙ 23, Baybars: 8 – 9, No. 4/12; 9, No. 4/16; 10, No. 4/17; 11, No. 4/24; 12, No. 4/30; 23, No. 4/89; No. 4/90; 24, No. 4/97; 25, No. 4/102; 26, No. 4/104; 26 – 27, No. 4/105; 27, No. 4/107; 27, No. 4/108; 31, No. 4/127; 31, No. 4/128; 31, No. 4/130; 32, No. 4/131; 32, No. 4/132; 32, No. 4/133; 32, No. 4/135; 33, No. 4/142; 34, No. 4/147; 35, No. 4/149; 35, No. 4/150; 35, No. 4/151; 36, No. 4/152; 36, No. 4/156; 36 – 37, No. 4/157; 37, No. 4/161; 37, No. 4/162; 41, No. 4/186; 41, No. 4/187; 41, No. 4/188; 41, No. 4/189; 41, No. 4/190; 46; No. 4/226; 51, ˘

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missions on congregational mosques within the time span of 1290 – 1310, seven have been made by sultans,101 six by amı¯rs,102 one by two ˇsayhs103 and one by a ˘ civilian.104 Of 50 commissions on congregational mosques from 1310 to 1341, nine were made by sultans,105 26 by amı¯rs (incl. women and eunuchs),106 13 by qadis/merchants (civil elite)107 and two by ˇsayhs.108 Between 1260 and 1290, it can ˘ be recapitulated that the sultan commissioned most of the congregational mosques. This situation seemed to start to change between 1290 and 1310 and even seemed to inverse between 1310 and 1341. This picture is not only valid for Cairo, but for the provinces as well like Hama,109 Aleppo,110 Damaskus, Tripoli,111 Safad,112 just to mention a few. On the basis of this data, the following picture can be drawn: Generally speaking, the commissioning/(re-)construction of congregational mosques in Cairo and Bila¯d asˇ-Sˇa¯m between 1260 and 1310 were almost exclusively reserved to the sultans and amı¯rs of the highest rank. More precisely, between 1260 and 1290 the sultans commissioned the largest amount of congregational mosques. During the period from 1290 to 1310, we seem to face a turning point as amı¯rs became more involved in the commissioning of congregational mosques. This may in part be the result of the political situation during this period: high-

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No. 4/263; 51, No. 4/264. Sultan al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n: 62, No. 7/27; 62, No. 7/31; 63, No. 7/ ˙ 35; 75, No. 8/28; Amı¯r : Amı¯r Alam ad-Dı¯n, Sayf ad-Dı¯n Balaba¯n al-Hubaisˇ¯ı, Rukn ad-Dı¯n as-Sarwı¯: 21, ˇ umaqda¯r : 65, No.˙ 7/48; A ¯ qqu¯sˇ al- Ala¯’ı¯: 66, No. 7/53; No. 4/76; Alam ad-Dı¯n Sangˇar al-G Civilian: Muhyı¯ d-Dı¯n Ibn Abd az-Za¯hir : 60, No. 7/23 ˙ ˙ 8/7; 75, No. 8/28; Al- A ¯ dil Kitbug˙a¯ : 79, No. 10/6; 81, Al-Asˇraf Halı¯˙l: 71, No. 8/6; 71, No. ˘ No. 10/17; Al-Mansu¯r La¯gˇ¯ın: 83, No. 11/2; 85, No. 11/10. ˇ u¯kanda¯r : 89, No. 9B/8; Kitbug˙a¯ alAmı¯r : Sayf ad-Dı¯n˙Kurgˇ¯ı: 87, No. 11/23; Baktamur al-G Mansu¯rı¯: 92, No. 9B/23; 98, No. 9B/53; Qara¯sunqur : 104, No. 12/4; 105, No. 12/8; Sˇayh˙: Sˇayh Nu¯r ad-Dı¯n Alı¯, Sˇayh Fahr ad-Dı¯n xxx ar-Rifa¯ ¯ı: 97 – 98, No. 9B/51. ˘ 93, No. 9B/29; ˘ ˘ Husa¯m ad-Dı¯n al-H˘asan: Civilian (?): ˙ No. 9C/9; 110, No. 9C/18; 122, No. 9C/78; 142, No. 9C/ Sultan: an-Na¯˙sir Muhammad: 108, ˙ 167, No. 9C/324; 167, No. 9C/326; 186, No. 9C/413; 192, No. 9C/444 ˙ 195; 156, No. 9C/265; ˇ ukanda¯r : 111, No. 9C/21/No. 9C/22; 113, No. 9C/35; 121, No. 9C/75; Amı¯r : Baktamur al-G 122, No. 9C/76; 125, No. 9C/89; 149, No. 9C/229; 155, No. 9C/261; 155, No. 9C/263; 156, No. 9C/269; 157, No. 9C/270; 158, No. 9C/278; 164, No. 9C/314; 164, No. 9C/315; 165, No. 9C/317; 167, No. 9C/328; 172, No. 9C/344; 174, No. 9C/352; 178, No. 9C/373; 179, No. 9C/375; 185, No. 9C/407; 189, No. 9C/427; Woman: 175, No. 9C/356; 183, No. 9C/395; Eunuch: 191, No. 9C/437; 191, No. 9C/438 Civilians: 122, No. 9C/79; 136, No. 9C/156; 145, No. 9C/210; 149, No. 9C/234; 159, No. 9C/ 286; 159, No. 9C/287; 159, No. 9C/288; 161, No. 9C/297; 165, No. 9C/320; 172, No. 9C/346; 188, No. 9C/420; 190, No. 9C/436; 191, No. 9C/439 Sˇayh : 156, No. 9C/264; 165, No. 9C/316 ˘ Great Mosque: 92, 9B/23. Hama, Great Mosque in Aleppo: 11, 4/24; 63, 7/35 (1260 – 1290); 104, 12/4 (1290 – 1310). Tripoli Great Mosque: Sultans (75, 8/28) ˇ a¯mi al-Ahmar by az-Za¯hir Baybars (23, 4/89); the next Friday Mosque reported to Safad: G ˙ Baktamur ˙ ˙ al-G ˇ ukandar. be erected is one by ˘

108 109 110 111 112

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ranking amı¯rs and their factions temporarily succeeded to prevent Qala¯wu¯n’s sons to rule by murdering al-Asˇraf Halı¯l and by removing Na¯sir Muhammad ˙ ˙ ˘ from the throne, thereby taking over power.113 Amı¯rs involved in these events were Qara¯sunqur, Kitbug˙a¯ and La¯gˇ¯ın; the latter two eventually even succeeded in becoming sultans. From 1310 to 1341, the amı¯rs commissioned the largest amount of congregational mosques114 and a new group of commissioners substantially aroused: the civilians.115 The four discussed minbars are dated to the period 1290 – 1310. While La¯gˇ¯ın commissioned his minbar himself shortly after his accession to the throne as sultan, the minbars in Hama, Aleppo and in the Mosque of Tala¯’ı¯ Ibn Ruzaik were built during the second term of Na¯sir Mu˙ ˙ hammad’s rule. At that point in time he was not yet the effective power holder116 ˙ 117 that he was going to be during his third reign, but was controlled by the senior ˇ a¯sˇanakı¯r and Sayf ad-Dı¯n Sala¯r.118 During this period the amı¯rs Baybars al-G senior amı¯rs Baktamur, Kitbug˙a¯, and Qara¯sunqur were the first to contest the prerogative of the Mamlu¯k sultan – at that point maybe too young and/or too weak and/or busy with other things119 – to commission places for the Friday worship120 by commissioning minbars themselves. Summarizing the above, it becomes quite clear, that from 1290 onwards more and more congregational mosques and consequently minbars were commissioned by others than sultans. While from 1310 onwards, when even civilians started substantially to commission congregational mosques, this practice seems to have become a norm, the amı¯rs Baktamur, Qara¯sunqur and Kitbug˙a¯ can be seen as pioneering in contesting this prerogative of the Mamlu¯k sultan.

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113 See above. 114 Cf. Behrens-Abouseif 1995, 268; Fernandes 1997, 109. 115 They foreshadow a development, Julien Loiseau is conclusively describing for Cairo (Loiseau 2010, 2:386 – 394, esp. drawings 3 and 4.) 116 For a definition of legitimate and effective power, see van Steenbergen 2006. 117 Cf. amongst others: Levanoni 1995; Amitai 1990. 118 Holt 1973, 531. 119 Cf. Amitai 1990, 145 – 146. 120 He was rather busy with infrastructural measurements after an earthquake, involved in commissioning building activities in Mekka, Medina and Hebron as well as with his own Madrasa in Cairo (Madrasa Kairo: 88, No. 9B/1; Haram, Hebron: 89, No. 9B/5; 94, No. 9B/ 34 (restoration of the Mosque of Tala¯’ı¯ Ibn Ruzaik); city wall in Alexandria: 95, No. 9B/5; al˙ Manar: 95, No. 9B/38; 95, No. 9B/39; Medina: 98, No. 9B/52; Mekka, sabı¯l: 99, No. 9B/59; 101, No. 9B/71 (erection of a tomb for an Amı¯r)). However, Baybars (97, No. 9B/46; 99 No. 9B/60; 100, No. 9B/66; 103, No. 9B/77) and Sala¯r (Magˇdal: 91, No. 9B/14; Hebron: 93, No. 9B/26; 93, No. 9B/28; Kairo: 94, No. 9B/31; 94, No. 9B/32; 95, No. 9B/40) were active patrons as well.

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4.2.2 Minbars as means of distinction regarding other members of the Mamlu¯k ruling elite However, the amı¯rs did not only challenge the sultan in his prerogative to commission congregational mosques, but also distinguished themselves from other peers of their social context:121 Looking at the building activities between 1290 – 1310, it can be resumed that amı¯rs only commissioned six places for the hutba,122 but 17 mausoleums,123 seven madrasas,124 seven masgˇ ids or not ex˘ ˙ plicitly claimed congregational mosques,125 and five ha¯nqa¯hs.126 It seems that ˘ other members of the amı¯rate than Baktamur, Kitbug˙a¯ and Qara¯sunqur, rather focused on commissioning their own mausoleums. This might result firstly from the fact that at that point of time not many places for the Friday service were generally commissioned anyway. The multiplication of Friday Mosques only started later in the 14th century.127 Secondly, at that point of time it was necessary to obtain the permission of the sultan to build a congregational mosque or to introduce a hutba in addition the approval of religious scholars.128 The sultan’s ˘ ˙ prerogative of awarding this privilege might result from the fact that the congregational mosque and the minbar ultimately were the places where the name of the ruling sultan – in our case Na¯sir Muhammad – was perpetuated and thus his ˙ ˙ rule emphasized.129 Attaining his permission resulted from the social capital of being close to or being important enough for sultan Na¯sir Muhammad to receive ˙ ˙ this privilege.130 Thus, Baktamur, Qara¯sunqur and Kitbug˙a¯ underlined not only their economic and their cultural capital – two kinds of capitals they might have had in common with the other amı¯rs – but, in contrast to other Mamlu¯k amı¯rs – especially established their social capital by commissioning a minbar, The pa-

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121 For further status symbols and their importance in the Mamlu¯k hierarchical system accorded to the Mamlu¯k amı¯rs by the sultan, see Levanoni 1995, 26 – 27. For a greater differentiation even within a rank (amı¯r of forty and amı¯r of one hundred) regarding the iqta¯ between 1375 and 1376, see van Steenbergen 2006, 47 – 49. 122 Our three + Sayf ad-Dı¯n Kurgˇi (87, No. 11/23); 71, No. 8/6 (?); 105, No. 12/8. 123 74, No. 8/27; 76, No. 9 A/2; 80, No. 10/14; 81, No. 10/18; 86, No. 11/13; 87, No. 11/17; 89, No. 9B/6 (Eunuch); 90, No. 9B/9; 92, No. 9B/24; 93, No. 9B/27; 93, No. 9B/30; 95, No. 9B/40; 96, No. 9B/41; 101, No. 9B/70; 101, No. 9B/72; 106, No. 12/11; 106, No. 12/13. 124 70, No. 8/1 (+ mausoleum); 84, No. 11/8; 86, No. 11/12; 87, No. 11/21 (+ mausoleum); 90, No. 9B/11 (+ mausoleum); 101, No. 9B/68; 105, No. 12/7. 125 74, No. 8/26; 77, No. 9 A/8; 78, No. 10/4 (Eunuch?); 86, No. 11/14; 92, No. 9B/20; 99, No. 9B/ 62; 101, No. 9B/71. 126 74, No. 8/25 (?); 80, No. 10/12; 81, No. 10/15; 96, No. 9B/42; 100, No. 9B/66 (+ mausoleum). 127 Cf. Loiseau 2010, 2:386 – 394; Loiseau 2013. 128 Fernandes 1997, 109. 129 See for the functional and symbolic role of congregational mosques as well Loiseau 2012, 183 – 185. 130 See for other privileges accorded to amı¯rs with a certain rank and their awareness of standing Levanoni 1995, 26 – 27.

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tron’s link and tribute to the sultan is clearly visible inscribed on the front of Qara¯sunqur’s minbar in Aleppo: “It [the minbar] was made during the reign of al-malik al-Na¯sir Muhammad – may his victory be glorified”.131 Qara¯sunqur’s ˙ ˙ name is only inscribed underneath the preacher’s seat.132

Conclusion The minbar can be understood as a status symbol for certain “stars” within the Mamlu¯k society. Through the act of commissioning this kind of furniture, the actors distinguished themselves from other Mamlu¯ks and positioned themselves at the head of Mamlu¯k society on the basis of effectively investing their social, cultural and economic capital. Furthermore, it is tempting to interpret the three senior amı¯rs, Kitbug˙a¯, Baktamur and Qara¯sunqur commissioning minbars, as emblems of political power by challenging the sultan Na¯sir Muhammad’s pre˙ ˙ rogative at that point of time.133 To conclude, the preserved minbars should be taken into account in addition to written sources, when reconstructing the status and position of their patrons within the network of Mamlu¯k society. However, these first preliminary thoughts need to be grounded on further, more extensive qualitative and quantitative analyses of the commissioning strategies of amı¯rs as well as of other participants in the Mamlu¯k society. This way it might become easier to conclude about the significance and meaning of taking over certain commissions/building activities by certain patrons. In any way, the four commissioners of the four earliest preserved minbars from the Mamlu¯k period all reflect fast change of political fate and the decline of political success in a network in flux. Nevertheless, the commissioners’ glory and memoria remains materialized and inscribed in four minbars – objects which can be ascribed a certain political connotation and therefore interpreted as emblems of political power – carrying their names.134

131 Herzfeld 1954 – 1956, 168, No. 81 (A). Maybe this reference to Na¯sir Muhammad can already ˙ be interpreted as tribute to Qara¯sunqur’s fear to be arrested ˙– as Baktamur – by Na¯sir ˙ Muhammad (cf. Levanoni 1995, 28 – 29). Interestingly, the other amiral patrons do only ˙ mention their own and not the sultans name. 132 Herzfeld 1954 – 1956, 168, No. 81 (B). 133 It is even more tempting to interpret their behaviour as “imitating” the sultan (cf. van Steenbergen 2006, 49 – 51 for the amı¯rs between 1341 and 1382). However, we should keep in mind that our observations only apply for the short period of time from 1290 to 1310. 134 “Stars, they come and go, they come fast or slow/They go like the last light of the sun, all in a blaze/And all you see is glory…” (Nina Simone).

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Albrecht Noth (eds.), Studien zur Geschichte und Kultur des Vorderen Orients. Festschrift für Bertold Spuler zum siebzigsten Geburtstag, Leiden, pp. 225 – 248. Meinecke, Michael (1992/2), Die Mamlukische Architektur in Ägypten und Syrien (648/ 1250 bis 923/1517), Glückstadt. Ministry of Waqfs (1949 – 1954), The mosques of Egypt, Cairo. Moulin, Raymonde (1990), “Museer och konstmarknad. Iscensättning och värdesättning,” Konstperspektiv 3, 4 – 7. Northrup, Linda S. (1998), From Slave to Sultan. The Career of al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n and the ˙ Consolidation of Mamluke Rule in Egypt and Syria (678 – 689 A.H./1279 – 1290 A.D.), Stuttgart. O’Kane, Bernard (2009), “The Great Mosque of Hama Redux,” in: Bernard O’Kane (ed.), Creswell Photographs Re-Eamnined. Newe Perspectives on Islamic Architecture. Cairo, pp. 219 – 246. Pedersen, J. (1999), “Minbar. 1. Early historical evolution and place in the Islamic cult.“ Encyclopedia of Islam CD-Rom Edition v.1.1, 2nd Edition, VII: 73a – 76a. Popper, William (1957), History of Egypt 1382 – 1469 A.D. (Part III, 1412 – 1422 A.D.). Translated from the Arabic Annals of Abu l-Mahasin ibn Taghrı¯ Birdı¯ by William ˙ Popper, Berkeley/Los Angeles. R¦pertoire chonologique d’¦pigraphie arabe (RCEA), ed. by Combe, Etienne, Cairo 1936. Riis, Poul Jorgen and Vagn Poulsen (1957), Hama. Fouilles et recherches 1931 – 1938. Les Verreries et poteries m¦di¦vales, vol. 4/2, Copenhague. ˇ a¯mi al-a la¯ al-kabı¯r fı¯ Hama¯,” Les annales arch¦logiques arabes Sˇaha¯da, Ka¯mil (1976), “al-G ˙ ˙ syriennes 26, pp. 193 – 222. Sauvaget, Jean (1949), La chronique de Damas d’al-Jazari, regesta translation [689 – 698], Paris. Sharon, Moshe (1997), Corpus Inscriptionum Arabicarum Palaestinae, vol. 1. A, Leiden/ New York/Köln. Steinhoff, Judith (2000), “Artistic Working Relationships after the Black Death. A Sienese Compagnia, c. 1350 – 1363(?),” Renaissance Studies 14, pp. 1 – 45. Tabbaa, Yasser (1982), The Architectural Patronage of Nur al-Din, 1146 – 1174, New York. Tabbaa, Yasser (2001), The Transformation of Islamic Art during the Sunni Revival, Seattle. Talmon-Heller, Daniella (2007), Islamic Piety in Medieval Syria. Mosques, Cemeteries and Sermons under the Zangids and Ayyu¯bids (1146 – 1260), Leiden. van Berchem, Max (1903), Materiaux pour un Corpus Inscriptionum Arabicarum. Êgypte I, Le Caire. van Berchem, Max (1927), Materiaux pour un Corpus Inscriptionum Arabicarum. Syrie du Sud. Jerusalem, Le Caire. van Steenbergen, Jo (2006), Order out of Chaos. Patronage, Conflict and Mamluk SocioPolitical Culture, 1341 – 1382, Leiden, Boston. Zell, Michael (2011), “Rembrandt’s Gifts. A Case Study of Actor-Network-Theory,” Journal of Historians of Netherlandish Art 3,2, DOI 10:5092/jhna.2011.3.2.2 (accessed: 2013 – 06 – 10). Zwemer, S. M. (1933) “The Pulpit in Islam,” The Moslem World 33, pp. 217 – 229.

Ego-Networks

Thomas Bauer (Münster)

How to Create a Network: Zaynaddı¯n al-A¯ta¯rı¯ and his ¯ Muqarrizu¯n ˙

1.

Introduction

A taqrı¯z (pl. taqa¯rı¯z) is a text that praises an author on one of his works. ˙ ˙ Gathering taqa¯rı¯z was a practice that often served to create, consolidate and ˙ document a network. Despite growing interest in taqa¯rı¯z in recent years, the ˙ practice of asking for and granting taqa¯rı¯z might have been more important than ˙ the still small number of studies dedicated to it suggests. An extraordinarily ¯ ta¯rı¯, who managed to induce successful collector of taqa¯rı¯z was Zaynaddı¯n al-A ¯ ˙ fifteen renown scholars to grant him a taqrı¯z. This is a comparatively large ˙ number of taqa¯rı¯z written for a single work and therefore reason enough to make ˙ ¯ ta¯rı¯ the subject of this case study. I will introduce this scholar very briefly al-A ¯ and dedicate the rest of the paper to an analysis of the taqa¯rı¯z and the network ˙ ¯ ta¯rı¯ and they represent. Who were the scholars that praised al-A his work, what ¯ ¯ ta¯rı¯’s selection, and how was his network related to were the criteria of al-A ¯ others? Attention will also be given to the aspect of transregionality, which will appear several times.

2.

Zaynaddı¯n al-A¯ta¯rı¯ (765 – 828/1364 – 1425) ¯ ˘

The young scholar who received fifteen taqa¯rı¯z around the year 796/1394 is ˙ ¯ ta¯rı¯.1 Despite Zaynaddı¯n Sˇa ba¯n ibn Muhammad al-A the number of works pre¯ ˙ served to this day, he is one of the lesser known figures among the ulama¯’ in the Mamluk period. This may be due to several reasons, among them his turbulent life, his inability to keep a stable network and the fact that for whatever reason he attracted the disdain of Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯, who wrote about him in an ˙ unusually deprecatory way. Because almost all other sources depend on the ˘

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¯ tha¯rı¯, 119 – 120; al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Durar al- Uqu¯d, 2:122 – 123; Ibn Hagˇar, Inba¯’ al1 See Bauer, al-A ˙ ˙ umr, 8:82 – 84; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 3:301 – 303; Ibn Fahd, ad-Durr al-Ka¯min, G 2:767 – 70. ˙ ˙ ˘

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¯ ta¯rı¯’s latter’s account, it is quite difficult to gain a more objective picture of al-A ¯ ¯ life and character. Fortunately, al-Ata¯rı¯’s works fill some of the gaps left by Ibn ¯ ¯ ta¯rı¯’s father came from Mosul to Cairo where Sˇa ba¯n was born and Hagˇar. Al-A ˙ 2 ¯ also died. By the year 796 – the year in which he received most of his taqa¯rı¯z – ˙ his father had already died. Though his father is called asˇ-sˇayh al-afdal in two of ˙ ˘ the taqa¯rı¯z I could not find him in any of the biographical dictionaries. Ob˙ viously, he remained a scholar of lower rank and it is probable that Sˇa ba¯n al¯ ta¯rı¯ did not inherit a network of considerable importance. A ¯ ¯ ta¯rı¯ was the author of some thirty3 works, more than half of which are still Al-A ¯ ¯ ta¯rı¯ displays two interests: The prophet Mupreserved. In these works al-A ¯ hammad and adab. As for the first, he wrote a number of poems in praise of the ˙ prophet – a tahmı¯s of Ka b ibn Zuhayr’s burda, a tahmı¯s and a mu a¯rada of al˙ ˘ ˘ Bu¯s¯ırı¯’s burda etc. He is also the author of three badı¯ iyya¯t, the largest number of ˙ badı¯ iyya¯t ever composed by a single author, in which he could combine his interest in the prophet and in adab. As for adab, the term must be taken here not in the sense of belles-lettres, but as designating the scientific fields of pen¯ ta¯rı¯’s works is a didactic poem in manship, linguistics and rhetoric. One of al-A ¯ ˇ the form of an urgu¯za (a poem composed in the metre ragˇaz), which is meant to provide an introduction to the field of adab. It is called Magˇma al-Arab fı¯ Ulu¯m al-Adab and gives the shortest possible introduction to all fields of adab in hardly more than sixty pages with the exception of lexicography ( ilm al-lug˙a). Its ten chapters deal with 1. morphology (at-tasrı¯f), 2. orthography (al-hatt), 3. ˙ ˘ ˙˙ syntax (an-nahw), 4. phonetics (maha¯rigˇ al-huru¯f), 5. metre (al- aru¯d), 6. rhyme ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ (al-qawa¯fı¯), 7. poetic licenses (daru¯rat al-asˇ a¯r), 8. – 10. rhetorics and stylistics ˙ (al-ma a¯nı¯, al-baya¯n, al-badı¯ ). ¯ ta¯rı¯, as firstly, its comprehensive approach The work is characteristic for al-A ¯ towards the disciplines of adab shows, and secondly, as demonstrated through ¯ ta¯rı¯ authored its didactic intention. In addition to this summary of adab, al-A ¯ separate works, mostly again didactic poems on each of these fields. Finally, he wrote a treatise on lexicography by which he finally managed to cover the entire field of scholarly adab. In a certain way, this is also a kind of a “network” in so far as he cast a net of works in order to cover a complete scholarly department (just as Ibn Hagˇar did in the field of Hadı¯t at the same time). I am sure that striving for ˙ ˙ ¯ completeness was a purposeful enterprise, meant to contribute to the scholar’s ˘

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2 According to Hila¯l Na¯gˇ¯ı (introduction to al- Ina¯ya ar-Rabba¯niyya, p. 221 and in other texts) al¯ ta¯rı¯ was born in Mosul, but this cannot be corroborated from the sources, which claim that A ¯¯ al-A ta¯rı¯’s father came from Mosul but he himself was born in Cairo (al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Durar al¯ Uqu¯d, 2:122 – 123 and others). My article in EI Three, for which I had trusted Na¯gˇ¯ı, has to be corrected accordingly. ¯ ta¯rı¯, al-Hayr al-Kat¯ır, 15 – 18 and as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 3:302. 3 See the introduction to al-A ¯ ¯ ˙ ˙ ˘ ˘ ˘

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distinction and certify him as a unique and universal authority for all linguistic matters.

3.

Debut-Taqa¯rı¯z ˙

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¯ ta¯rı¯ still had a long way to go But let us go back to Cairo to the 790s, when al-A ¯ before he achieved universal expertise. In 790, aged 25, he had finished what was probably his first publication: a didactic poem on writing and penmanship (alIna¯ya ar-Rabba¯niyya fı¯ t-Tarı¯qa asˇ-Sˇa ba¯niyya). As far as we know, he did not try ˙˙ to collect taqa¯rı¯z for this work – and indeed – the age of 25 seems to be too young ˙ for such an initiative. Instead, he made his – so to say – ‘official’ debut with his second work, a didactic poem on prosody and rhyme in the meter ragˇaz. It is an alfiyya fı¯ l- aru¯d, a “thousand-line-urgˇu¯za on metre”, as it is called in the col˙ ˇ amı¯l fı¯ Ilm al-Halı¯l “The Beautiful Face: ophon4 and bears the title al-Wagˇh al-G ˘ On the Discipline of al-Halı¯l.” The reference is to al-Halı¯l ibn Ahmad al-Fara¯hı¯dı¯ ˙ ˘ ˘ nd th (2 /8 century) who is credited with inventing the theory of metre.5 A looser ¯ ta¯rı¯ translation would be “A Nice Way to Learn the Principles of Prosody.” Al-A ¯ finished the book in Ragˇab 793/June 13916 and it took exactly three years before the first of the fifteen taqa¯rı¯z arrived. At this point, we have to distinguish ˙ between two different types of taqrı¯z. First, there is the ordinary taqrı¯z, which an ˙ ˙ author can get from anyone at any time, whether as a sign of friendship or esteem or because the person who writes the taqrı¯z wants to foster his relation with the ˙ person praised.7 In addition to this, there is the institution of the debut-taqa¯rı¯z. ˙ In this case, a young (but not too young) scholar who has not yet acquired an established place among elite ulama¯’ actively goes in search of taqa¯rı¯z, sends ˙ around a recently completed work and asks his colleagues to write a taqrı¯z for ˙ him. Having collected a reasonable number of them, he would publish them either as a separate publication – as in the case of Ibn Nuba¯ta – or as an appendix ¯ ta¯rı¯. One could to the work itself – as in the case of Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ and al-A ¯ consider these debut-taqa¯rı¯z as a sort of initiation rite by which the aspirant is ˙ accepted as a full member of the ulama¯’ establishment. The most spectacular (and perhaps even the first) case of debut-taqa¯rı¯z are ˙ the eleven taqa¯rı¯z Ibn Nuba¯ta al-Misrı¯ received for his Matla al-Fawa¯’id wa˙ ˙ ˙ Magˇma al-Fara¯’id in the year 719 when he was 34 years old. Ibn Nuba¯ta made ˘

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ˇ amı¯l, 148. ¯ ta¯rı¯, al-Wagˇh al-G al-A ¯ See EI2, 4:962 – 964 (R. Sellheim); GAS, 8:51 – 56. ˇ amı¯l, 147. ¯ ta¯rı¯, al-Wagˇh al-G al-A ˇ ala¯¯laddı¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯ wrote a taqrı¯z, praising Kifa¯yat al-G ˙ ula¯m fı¯ I ra¯b al-Kala¯m (as-Saha¯wı¯, G ¯ ta¯rı¯, which he had finished in Mecca in 809 (al-A ¯˘ ta¯rı¯, ad-Daw’, 3:303), another urgˇu¯za by˙ al-A ¯ ˙ ¯˙yat al-G ˙ ula¯m, 110). This is clearly a¯ case of a single taqrı¯z which is not a debut-taqrı Kifa ¯z. ˙ ˙ ˘

4 5 6 7

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these taqa¯rı¯z the starting point for a new book called Sagˇ al-Mutawwaq.8 In his ˙ ˙ ˇ ina¯n al-G ˇ ina¯s and proudly mentions thirties as-Safadı¯ finished his G several ˙ ˙ taqa¯rı¯z he had received for this book. It may well be another case of debut˙ taqa¯rı¯z.9 Badraddı¯n Ibn Habı¯b was already praised by the two greatest living ˙ ˙ poets when he was only about 18 years old. This is probably not a real case of debut-taqa¯rı¯z and Ibn Habı¯b himself strove to receive more taqa¯rı¯z for later ˙ ˙ ˙ works.10 At the age of 33 Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ gathered the same amount of taqa¯rı¯z ˙ as Ibn Nuba¯ta did. This case of debut-taqa¯rı¯z has been analysed in detail by ˙ ¯ ta¯rı¯’s debut-taqa¯rı¯z, Franz Rosenthal.11 It proves of primary significance for al-A ¯ ˙ as we will see. Rosenthal’s study from 1981 was the first ever study of the taqrı¯z. ˙ He had, however, not enough material to recognize the institution of the debuttaqrı¯z. And, contrary to Rosenthal, I do not believe that taqa¯rı¯z were “solicited ˙ ˙ for the promotion of a newly published work,”12 but rather to create or fasten network-relations. It is for this reason that I feel uncomfortable with his translation of taqa¯rı¯z as “blurbs”. Perhaps the expression “commendations” ˙ would fit better.13 In the meanwhile, several studies have established the importance of taqa¯rı¯z among Mamluk scholars and hommes de lettres. In 2003 ˙ Rudolf Vesely´ reported that he had come across about 59 taqa¯rı¯z.14 Fifteen of ˙ them can be found in his 2005 edition of Ibn Higˇgˇa’s Qahwat al-Insˇa¯’.15 I myself ˙ edited and translated the two texts dedicated to Ibn Habı¯b by Ibn Nuba¯ta and ˙ Safiyyaddı¯n al-Hillı¯ and gave an overview of Ibn Nuba¯ta’s Sagˇ al-Mutawwaq in ˙ ˙ ˙ 16 2008 and 2013 respectively. ˘

4.

Structure and style of taqa¯rı¯z ˙

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The length of a taqrı¯z may vary between a few words and a number of pages. A ˙ taqrı¯z of the average length of about a page or two consists of several clearly ˙ discernible parts. The average taqrı¯z would fit the following pattern: ˙ (1) Hamdala: The author may confine himself to two words or elaborate this ˙ part to greater length. In Magˇdaddı¯n Isma¯ ¯ıl al-Bilbaysı¯’s (Q5)17 taqrı¯z the ˙ 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

Bauer, Mamluk Literature as a Means of Communication, 46 – 50. Bauer, Ibn Habı¯b im Spiegel seiner Zeitgenossen, 38. ˙ abı¯b im Spiegel seiner Zeitgenossen, 37 – 55. Bauer, Ibn H ˙ Rosenthal, Blurbs. Rosenthal, Blurbs, 178. I owe this suggestion to Adam Talib. Vesely´, Das Taqrı¯z. ˙ al-Insˇa¯’, nos. 34a, 34c, 67a, 112a, 112b, 121c. Ibn Higˇgˇa, Qahwat ˙ Bauer, Ibn Habı¯b im Spiegel seiner Zeitgenossen and idem, Mamluk Literature as a Means of ˙ Communication, 44 – 50. ¯ ta¯rı¯’s muqarrizu¯n below. They consist of a letter or 17 The abbreviations refer to the list of al-A ¯ ˙

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hamdala amounts to half of the whole text. Longer hamdalas are regularly ˙ ˙ connected with the following part by the formula wa-ba du. Introduction: The introduction, in which the title of the book and its author are presented, starts with an introductory formula, most commonly waqaftu ala¯ “I read…”, followed by the title of the book and its author. Summary : Syntactically connected to waqaftu ala¯ is the formula that introduces the summary, which may be fa-wagˇadtuha¯, wa-ra’aytuha¯, fa-ida¯ ¯ hiya “and I found it to be …”, whereupon the author says that he found it to be good. – (5) Development I and II: Longer taqa¯rı¯z go on to elaborate the praise of ˙ the work and the praise of its author. After the appraisal of the work, the muqarriz (= the commender) may lead to the praise of the author with a ˙ formula like wa-kayfa la¯ wa – “(a great work) and how could it be different, since its author is so-and-so.” It is mostly here, where we find what I call the superiority passages, a feature rather indispensable for a longer taqa¯rı¯z. In a ˙ superiority passage, the muqarriz says that the author is superior or at least ˙ equal to famous poets or scholars from past times, that they would admire his work, it would render them speechless, it would make them disdain their own creations, they would wish to have written it themselves, etc. Blessing: A blessing, in which the muqarriz expresses his hopes for the ˙ author and thereby adds the future dimension to the dimension of the present (in the praise of the work) and the dimension of the past (in the superiority passages). Signature: At the end, the muqarriz mentions his name, continues with a ˙ formula of devotion and may add the date of his taqrı¯z. A typical example ˙ would be: “This has been written by X with his own hands, ha¯midan wa˙ musalliyan wa-musalliman ‘praising (God) and sending prayers and ˙ greetings to the Prophet’, at day/month/year.”

(2)

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Parts 4 and 5 (Development I and II), sometimes also part 6 (the Blessing), may be omitted. Some taqa¯rı¯z are short and show little ambition; others are carefully ˙ devised, beautiful and original works of literature. Al-G˙uma¯rı¯’s taqrı¯z, with ¯ ta¯rı¯ starts, is clearly one˙ of the which the series of the taqa¯rı¯z dedicated to al-A ¯ ˙ more ambitious. Here is the beginning of his hamdala:18 ˙

two letters for the city (Q = Cairo, D = Damascus, Hl = Aleppo, Mk = Mecca, Md = Medina) ˙ same city, his number in the original and, if there is more than one muqarriz from the ˙ sequence of taqa¯rı¯z. ˇ amı¯l, 13. In my translation | separates colons, k separates rhyme ¯ ta¯rı¯, al-Wagˇh ˙al-G 18 al-A ¯ groups.

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“Having praised God, whose benefits are persistent, | whose favors are spread out, | and who generously grants his creature’s subsistence in each single case and on the whole, k and having evoked God’s blessing upon our Lord Muhammad, whose attributes are ˙ abundant, | whose essence is perfect, k who was plucked from a highborn lineage | and cut from sublime roots, k …”

˘

The passage, which continues in this manner for quite a while, is a nice example of an elevated insˇa¯’ style. The first three colons form a rhyme group, the last colon being longer than the first two. The resulting rhythm seems to have had most appeal. Two rhyme groups, each consisting of two rather short colons, continue the text. The most conspicuous stylistic device in these lines is the use of tawgˇ¯ıh, i. e. technical terminology that is used in its non-technical meaning. In this case it involves using the ordinary meanings of seven nouns, which otherwise serve to designate certain metres of Arabic poetry (tawı¯l, madı¯d, bası¯t, ˙ ˙ wa¯fir, ka¯mil, mugˇtatt, muqtadab). This indirect reference to the terminology of ¯¯ ˙ metrics is not only fitting for the subject of the urgˇu¯za being praised, it is also a ¯ ta¯rı¯ makes use of the same stylistic direct intertextual reference to it since al-A ¯ device in his introduction to his work. These few lines are already sufficient to show that a good taqrı¯z is not something that is left for a lazy afternoon, but that ˙ it is hard work and therefore a precious gift for the recipient. Very characteristic for the Textsorte19 taqrı¯z is the superiority passage, in ˙ which the commender states that the author of the work is superior or at least equal to his predecessors in the same field. Superiority passages constitute the very core of many taqa¯rı¯z and may reach considerable length. I will give short ˙ examples from two superiority passages. It is no coincidence that both contain an allusion to al-Halı¯l ibn Ahmad, who, besides writing on metre, is also famous ˙ ˘ for conceiving of the first Arabic dictionary, the Kita¯b al- Ayn.20 Both texts allude

19 I use the theoretically well established German term ‘Textsorte’ (text type) in order to avoid the term ‘genre,’ which would be too broad. 20 See GAS, 8:52 – 56.

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to this title, taking ayn in the sense of ‘eye,’ not as name of the letter ayn, which is its meaning in al-Halı¯l’s title. Sibt Ibn at-Tanası¯ (Q3) writes:21 ˙ ˘

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“By God, how excellent is this poetry and this poet who makes the people of this age adorn themselves with beauty | and is inventive in what he says. If al-Halı¯l had seen him, ˘ he would have given his eye (or : his Kita¯b al- Ayn) as ransom for his accurate verses! k”

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In his corresponding passage, Magˇdaddı¯n Isma¯ ¯ıl al-Bilbaysı¯ (Q5) escalates from ‘seeing’ to ‘hearing’ to personal encounter :22

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“If an-Na¯sˇi’23 had seen its author, he would have confirmed his rank; | if al-Halı¯l had ˘ heard him, he would have kissed him between his eyes; | and if as-Sa¯hib Ibn Abba¯d24 ˙ ˙ ˙ had lived long enough to meet him, he would have taken seat in front of him. k”

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As usual in insˇa¯’ texts, lines of poetry are interspersed among the colons of rhymed prose. These verses may be of the author’s own making, but more often are anonymous quotations from older poetry. In the following example, the line ˇ ahm, a poet who died in 249/863.25 This excerpt is also quoted is by Alı¯ ibn G interesting because it incorporates the subject of transregionality. Here it is the praised work itself that transcends borders, a topos used by several muqarrizu¯n. ˙ This example is from al-Qalqasˇandı¯ (Q7):26

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ˇ amı¯l, 16. ¯ ta¯rı¯, al-Wagˇh al-G 21 al-A ˇ amı¯l, 17. ¯ ¯ta¯rı¯, al-Wagˇh al-G 22 al-A ¯ 23 an-Na¯sˇi’ al-Akbar (d. 293/906), philosopher, Mu tazilı¯ theologian and poet, interested also in grammar and metrics, see EI2, 7:975 (J. van Ess); GAS, 2:564 – 566. 24 as-Sa¯hib Ibn Abba¯d (326 – 385/938 – 995), one of the greatest litt¦rateurs of his time, see EI2, ˙ ˙ ˙– 673 (Cl. Cahen and Ch. Pellat); GAS, 2:636 – 637; he was also the author of a work on 3:671 prosody (al-Iqna¯ fı¯ l- Aru¯d wa-Tahrı¯gˇ al-Qawa¯fı¯), see GAL, S I 199 (no. 5). ˙ ˘ 25 See GAS, 2:580 – 581. ˇ ¯ ta¯rı¯, al-Wagˇh al-Gamı¯l, 20. 26 al-A ¯ ˘

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“Many a rider has spread news about this urgˇu¯za; | in every country reverberates the noise of students memorizing it; | sheikhs study it well and boys rush to learn it. k ‘So it travelled, like the sun, in every place / and moved, like the wind, around in land and sea.’”

5.

Al-A¯ta¯rı¯’s muqarrizu¯n ¯ ˙

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¯ ta¯rı¯ managed to persuade fifteen scholars and hommes de lettres to write Al-A ¯ taqa¯rı¯z for him, more than Ibn Nuba¯ta and Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ had gathered. ˙ Among them are luminaries still famous today like Ibn Haldu¯n and al-Qalqa˘ sˇandı¯, as well as those like Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ and Ibn Hat¯ıb Da¯rayya¯, who are ˘ ˙ familiar to people interested in adab and poetry. Others are less famous, but it is quite significant that all of them can be found in the biographical dictionaries such as al-Maqrı¯zı¯’s Durar al- Uqu¯d, in which all fifteen are treated. In the order of their taqa¯rı¯z they are:27 ˙ Q1: Sˇamsaddı¯n al-G˙uma¯rı¯, Muhammad ibn Muhammad ibn Alı¯ (720 – 802/ ˙ ˙ 1320 – 1400) studied in the Maghrib with Abu¯ Hayya¯n al-G˙arna¯t¯ı and met ˙ ˙ Ibn Nuba¯ta in Cairo. He transmitted Hadı¯t and became one of the leading ˙ 28 ¯ scholars of grammar and lexicography. Q2: Waliyyaddı¯n Ibn Haldu¯n, Abdarrahma¯n ibn Muhammad (732 – 808/ ˙ ˙ ˘ 1332 – 1406), the famous historian, came to Egypt in 784/1382 and became 29 Ma¯likı¯ chief qa¯d¯ı in 786/1384. ˙ Q3: Na¯siraddı¯n Ahmad ibn Muhammad, known as at-Tanası¯ or Sibt Ibn at˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Tanası¯ (740 – 801/1339 or 1340 – 1399) was a scholar with a wide range of interests, author of commentaries on works of grammar. After he had been ˘

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ˇ amı¯l, 12 – 29. ¯ ta¯rı¯, al-Wagˇh al-G 27 The taqa¯rı¯z are published in Hila¯l Nagˇ¯ı’s edition of al-A ¯ 28 al-Maqrı¯zı¯˙, Durar al- Uqu¯d, 3:76 – 77; Ibn Hagˇar, Dayl ad-Durar, no. 88; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, ¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ 9:149 – 150; Rosenthal, Blurbs, 186. 29 al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Durar al- Uqu¯d, 2:383 – 410; Ibn Hagˇar, Dayl ad-Durar, no. 258; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad¯ ˙ ˘ Daw’, 4:145 – 149; Rosenthal, Blurbs, 185; EI2,˙ 3:825 – 831 (M. Talbi). ˙ ˘

How to Create a Network: Zaynaddı¯n al-A¯ta¯rı¯ and his Muqarrizu¯n ¯ ˙

Q4:

qa¯d¯ı in his native town Alexandria, he held the office of chief Ma¯likı¯ judge ˙ in Cairo from 794/1392 until his death.30 Badraddı¯n (Ibn) ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯, Muhammad ibn Abı¯ Bakr (763 – 827/ ˙ 1362 – 1424), son in law of the preceding, was a famous poet and author of adab works, a number of which still exist.31 He would play a decisive role in ¯ ta¯rı¯’s network, as we will see. the creation of al-A ¯ Magˇdaddı¯n Isma¯ ¯ıl ibn Ibra¯hı¯m ibn Muhammad al-Kina¯nı¯ al-Bilbaysı¯ ˙ (729 – 802/1329 – 1399) was a Hadı¯t scholar and jurist, and was also in˙ ¯ terested in mathematics and the law of inheritance. He held the office of Hanafı¯ chief judge for less than a year until he was deposed in Sˇa ba¯n 793/ ˙ July 1391 on the pretext that he was too corpulent.32 Sadraddı¯n al-Absˇ¯ıt¯ı, Sulayma¯n ibn Abdanna¯sir (c. 730 – 811/c. 1329 – 1408 ˙ ˙ ˙ or 1409) was a scholar proficient in law and many other fields, as well as a su¯fı¯ and gifted preacher.33 ˙ˇ Siha¯baddı¯n al-Qalqasˇandı¯, Ahmad ibn Alı¯ (756 – 821/1355 – 1418), jurist ˙ and secretary in the Cairene chancellery, author of several books of which Subh al-A ˇsa¯ is the most famous.34 ˙ ˙ Badraddı¯n al-Basˇtakı¯, Muhammad ibn Ibra¯hı¯m (748 – 830/1347 – 1427) ˙ earned his living as a copyist. Perhaps his best selling products were manuscripts of his teacher Ibn Nuba¯ta’s Dı¯wa¯n, of which he produced several recensions. He was also a prolific poet in his own right.35 Sˇiha¯baddı¯n Ibn al-Ha¯’im al-Qara¯fı¯, Ahmad ibn Muhammad (756 – 815/ ˙ ˙ 1355 – 1412) was especially interested in mathematics and the law of inheritance. A number of his publications have been preserved.36 Sˇamsaddı¯n al-G˙arra¯qı¯, Muhammad ibn Ahmad (d. 816/1413), Hadı¯t ˙ ˙ ˙ ¯ scholar and faqı¯h who held several teaching posts in Mecca and Cairo.37 ˘

Q5:

213

˘

˘

Q7:

˘

Q6:

˘

Q8:

Q9:

Q10:

˘

30 al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Durar al- Uqu¯d, 1:161 – 162 and 352 – 353; Ibn Hagˇar, Dayl ad-Durar, no. 7; as¯ ˙ Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 2:192 – 193. ˘ 31 al-Maqrı ¯zı˙¯, ˙Durar al- Uqu¯d, 3:103 – 104; Ibn Hagˇar, Dayl ad-Durar, no. 599; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad˙ II 26 ¯f., S II 21. He is often referred ˘to as ‘ad˙ Daw’, 7:184 – 187; Rosenthal, Blurbs, 180; GAL, ˙ Dama ¯ mı¯nı¯’ though the correct form is with ‘Ibn’. 32 al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Durar al- Uqu¯d, 1:408 – 413; Ibn Hagˇar, Dayl ad-Durar, no. 63; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad¯ ˙ ˙ ˘ Daw’, 2:286 – 288, GAL, S II 69. ˙ 33 al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Durar al- Uqu¯d, 2:107 – 108; Ibn Hagˇar, Dayl ad-Durar, no. 319; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad¯ ˙ ˙ ˘ Daw’, 3:265 – 267. ˙ ˇ ˇ 34 al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Durar al- Uqu¯d, 1:312 – 313 (as Ahmad ibn Abdalla¯h al-Qarqasandı¯); Ibn Hagar, ˙ 2, 4:509 – 511 (C.E. Bosworth). ˙ Inba¯’, 7:330 – 331; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 2:8; EI ˙ ˙ ˘ ˇ 35 al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Durar al- Uqu¯d, 3:81 – 82; Ibn Hagar, Dayl ad-Durar no. 608; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’ ¯ ˙ ˙ ˘ 6:277 – 279; Rosenthal, Blurbs, 186 – 187 ˙ 36 al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Durar al- Uqu¯d, 1:295; Ibn Hagˇar, Dayl ad-Durar no. 398; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’ ¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ 2:157 – 158; GAL, II 125 – 126, S II 154 – 155. 37 al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Durar al- Uqu¯d, 3:394; Ibn Hagˇar, Dayl ad-Durar no. 425; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, ¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ 6:307 – 308. ˘

˘

˘

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˘

˘

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˘

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Mk: Nagˇmaddı¯n al-Margˇa¯nı¯, Muhammad ibn Abı¯ Bakr (760 – 827/1359 – 1424) ˙ was born and died in Mecca. He became renowned for his expertise in the field of language.38 Md: Abu¯ Abdalla¯h al-Wa¯nnu¯g˙¯ı al-Mag˙ribı¯ at-Tu¯nisı¯, Muhammad ibn Ahmad ˙ ˙ (759 – 819/1358 – 1416), was a scholar interested in many fields. He was 39 born in Tu¯nis and spent many years in Mecca and Medina. ˇ ala¯laddı¯n Ibn Hat¯ıb Da¯rayya¯, Muhammad ibn Ahmad (745 – 810/1344 – D1: G ˙ ˙ ˘ ˙ 1407), the “most outstanding Syrian poet of his day”. Besides his poetry, for which he was famous, he also wrote books on lexicography and other fields.40 D2: Burha¯naddı¯n al-Ba¯ u¯nı¯, Ibra¯hı¯m ibn Ahmad (777 – 870/1375 – 1465), a ˙ prominent member of the famous al-Ba¯ u¯nı¯ family, was especially known for his poetry and prose.41 Hl: Abu¯ l-Walı¯d Muhibbaddı¯n Ibn asˇ-Sˇihna, Muhammad ibn Muhammad ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ (749 – 815/1348 – 1412), kinsman of a dynasty of Aleppan scholars. He was ¯ ta¯rı¯ did), of an adı¯b and wrote a number of didactic poems (just as al-A ¯ which many have been preserved. He held the position of judge in Aleppo several times. In 793/1391 he was arrested and brought to Cairo, where he ¯ ta¯rı¯ from prison.42 wrote his taqrı¯z on al-A ¯ ˙ ˘

˘

The following chart presents an overview of the fifteen muqarrizu¯n. In addition ˙ to their name, it also shows their madhab affiliation, their age (according to the ¯ higˇ ra-calendar) in the year 796, and the length of their taqrı¯z in lines based on ˙ Hila¯l Na¯gˇ¯ı’s edition: Q1 Q2 Q3

Age 77

Length 44

Waliyyaddı¯n Ibn Haldu¯n ˘ Na¯siraddı¯n (Sibt Ibn) at-Tanası¯ ˙ ˙ Badraddı¯n Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ Magˇdaddı¯n Isma¯ ¯ıl al-Bilbaysı¯ Sadraddı¯n al-Absˇ¯ıt¯ı ˙ ˙

Ma¯likı¯ Ma¯likı¯

65 57

25 17

Ma¯likı¯ Hanafı¯ ˙ Sˇa¯fi ¯ı

34 68

29 14

67

31

˘

Q6

Madhab ¯ Ma¯likı¯

˘

Q4 Q5

Name Sˇamsaddı¯n al-G˙uma¯rı¯

˘

38 al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Durar al- Uqu¯d, 3:124 – 125; Ibn Hagˇar, Inba¯’ 8:59 – 60; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ 7:182 – 183. ˇ 39 al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Durar al- Uqu¯d, 3:206 – 207; Ibn Hagar, Dayl ad-Durar, no. 466; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad¯ ˙ ˙ ˘ Daw’, 7:3 – 4. ˙ ˇ 40 al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Durar al- Uqu¯d, 3:138 – 144; Ibn Hagar, Inba¯’, 6:80 – 81; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ 6:310 – 312; GAL, II 15, S II 7. 41 al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Durar al- Uqu¯d, 1:67 – 68; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 1:26 – 29; EI2, 1:1109 – 1110 ˙ ˙ ˘ (W.A.S. Halidi). 42 al-Maqrı¯˘zı¯, Durar al- Uqu¯d, 3:110 – 115; Ibn Hagˇar, Dayl ad-Durar, no. 409; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad¯ ˙ ˘ Daw’, 9:3 – 6; Rosenthal, Blurbs, 186; GAL, II ˙141 – 142, S II 176 – 177. ˙ ˘

˘

˘

˘

How to Create a Network: Zaynaddı¯n al-A¯ta¯rı¯ and his Muqarrizu¯n ¯ ˙

˘

Abu¯ Abdalla¯h al-Wa¯nnu¯g˙¯ı ˇ ala¯laddı¯n Ibn Hat¯ıb Da¯rayya¯ G ˘ ˙ Burha¯naddı¯n al-Ba¯ u¯nı¯ Muhibbaddı¯n Ibn asˇ-Sˇihna ˙ ˙

Ma¯likı¯ Sˇa¯fi ¯ı Sˇa¯fi ¯ı

˘ ˘ ˘ ˘

Hl ˙

Sˇa¯fi ¯ı Sˇa¯fi ¯ı

˘

D1 D2

Sˇamsaddı¯n al-G˙arra¯qı¯ Nagˇmaddı¯n al-Margˇa¯nı¯ ˘

Mk Md

˘

Q10

Madhab ¯ Sˇa¯fi ¯ı Sˇa¯fi ¯ı Sˇa¯fi ¯ı ˘

(Continued) Name Q7 Sˇiha¯baddı¯n al-Qalqasˇandı¯ Q8 Badraddı¯n al-Basˇtakı¯ Q9 Sˇiha¯baddı¯n Ibn al-Ha¯’im

Hanafı¯ ˙

215

Age 41 49

Length 47 25

41 ?

6 10

37 38

4 9

52 20

109 51

48

33

Apparently not only did al-Ata¯rı¯ carefully select the persons whom he asked for a ¯ taqrı¯z, he also arranged the list deliberately. In the following, I will try to detect ˙ the motifs for the sequence in which the commendations are arranged, thereby gaining more insight into the motives for collecting and offering taqa¯rı¯z. First, it ˙ is not difficult to find a reason for the starting point: Sˇamsaddı¯n al-G˙uma¯rı¯ was ¯ ta¯rı¯’s teacher in the field of prosody and he is mentioned as the first link in an al-A ¯ ¯ ta¯rı¯ traces back his knowledge of the discipline to al-Halı¯l.43 isna¯d in which al-A ¯ ˘ Since he was kind of a ‘Doktorvater,’ it was only appropriate to start with him (otherwise he would have come probably as no. 6, as we will see). It is obvious, however, that no such reason is behind the arrangement of the rest of the taqa¯rı¯z. ˙ They are not ordered according to the importance of the scholar or his closeness ¯ ta¯rı¯. Instead, the main organizing principle is geography : the taqa¯rı¯z are to al-A ¯ ˙ explicitly ordered according to location. The first group is constituted by ten 44 taqa¯rı¯z from Cairo, the second by five taqa¯rı¯z from other places. These “other ˙ ˙ places” are Mecca, Medina, Damascus and Aleppo. Damascus is represented by two taqa¯rı¯z, the others by one each. The geographical sequence is self-evident. ˙ ¯ ta¯rı¯ lived, had studied and Cairo is the center of the empire, the place where al-A ¯ intended to pursue his career. The two Holy Cities follow Cairo, followed in turn by the two largest towns in Syria in order of their importance. In this way, al¯ ta¯rı¯’s muqarrizu¯n represent the five most important places in the Mamluk A ¯ ˙ Empire. Transregionality was obviously a major concern for our author. In this respect he was not the first; he had a predecessor in Ibn Nuba¯ta, who had also applied this criterion, albeit to a much more limited extent. Ibn Nuba¯ta al-Misrı¯ ˙ had intended to establish himself in Syria and therefore not only asked nine scholars from Damascus for a taqrı¯z, but also one each from Hama¯h and Tar˙ ˙ ˙ a¯bulus. Both are unknown figures who neither made their way into the biblioˇ amı¯l, 147 (line 1042). ¯ ta¯rı¯, al-Wagˇh al-G 43 al-A ˇ amı¯l, 13 and 22. ¯ ¯ta¯rı¯, al-Wagˇh al-G 44 al-A ¯

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graphical dictionaries nor did they play any role in Ibn Nuba¯ta’s later life. Their ¯ ta¯rı¯ was more only function seems to be to represent Syria’s smaller towns.45 Al-A ¯ ambitious and covered more or less the whole of the empire. Previous debut¯ ta¯rı¯ had a taqa¯rı¯z did not reflect a similar tendency. It is my impression that al-A ¯ ˙ strong desire to cover entire fields, be it intellectually, as we have seen, or geographically. Transregionality is obviously the main principle of organization and it explains completely the sequence of all muqarrizu¯n who represent towns other ˙ than Cairo. As for Cairo itself, the organizing principle for the second degree is madhab. The list starts with four Ma¯likı¯s, followed by a Hanafı¯. The Sˇafı¯ ¯ıs, al˙ ¯ ta¯¯rı¯’s own madhab, constitute the large final group. This A was not a sign of ¯ ¯ ¯ ta¯rı¯ was not particularly known), politeness and humility (traits for which al-A ¯ but rather a consequence of his decision to start with his teacher al-G˙uma¯rı¯, who was a Ma¯likı¯. This leads us to the third organizing principle, the student – teacher relationship. In general, the relationship between a student and a teacher is not at the forefront of the taqa¯rı¯z since their main purpose is to establish a network ˙ which reaches beyond the already established connections between a student ¯ ta¯rı¯’s debut-taqa¯rı¯z, in and his teachers. This is obviously also the case with al-A ¯ ˙ which only a few of his teachers are represented; those who are represented are ¯ ta¯rı¯ himself gives a list of his most imgiven a place of honor, however. Al-A ¯ 46 portant teachers; it intersects with the list of his muqarrizu¯n at only three ˙ points, but these are telling. As we have already seen, al-G˙uma¯rı¯ heads the list, ¯ ta¯rı¯’s second teacher, Magˇfollowed by the rest of the Ma¯likı¯s; the next is al-A ¯ daddı¯n Ibra¯hı¯m al-Bilbaysı¯, proudly introduced as qa¯d¯ı l-quda¯h al-Hanafı¯, al˙ ˙ ˙ though he had held this office for less than a year and had already been deposed at the time he gave his taqrı¯z. The group of the Sˇa¯fi ¯ıs is again headed by another ˙ ¯ ta¯rı¯ had to start with the Ma¯likı¯s as a conteacher, al-Absˇ¯ıt¯ı. As we see, al-A ¯ ˙ sequence of the prominent position of al-G˙uma¯rı¯, and he had to place the only Hanafı¯ in front of the Sˇa¯fi ¯ıs because otherwise Magˇdaddı¯n al-Bilbaysı¯ would ˙ have come at the very end of the Cairenes. Obviously, the three parameters transregionality, madhab and teacher-student relationship explain a lot, but still ¯ not everything. Therefore other possible criteria have to be tested. Seven of the taqa¯rı¯z are dated. Most of them were presented in 796 or in the ˙ following year. The first taqrı¯z – unsurprisingly that of al-G˙uma¯rı¯ – was issued ˙ exactly three years after the completion of the urgˇu¯za. Only one taqrı¯z sticks out: ˙ this one is again by a teacher, the ex-chief Hanafı¯ judge al-Absˇ¯ıt¯ı, who did not ˙ ˙ deliver his text until 801. The retired qa¯d¯ı is also one of the eldest contributors, as ˙ the chart above shows. Not unsurprisingly, the three teachers, Q1, Q5 and Q6, are ˘

˘

45 Bauer, Mamluk Literature as a Means of Communication, 47 – 48. ¯ ta¯rı¯, al-Manhagˇ al-Masˇhu¯r, 600. 46 See the introduction to al-A ¯

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also the three eldest muqarrizu¯n. Most of the others are in their fifties or are a few ˙ years younger. Two are in their thirties and it is hardly a coincidence that they are ¯ ta¯rı¯ the ones representing Mecca and Medina. It seems quite probable that al-A ¯ had no contact with established scholars in these places and was therefore happy to be able to mobilize two of his peers in these towns. Most peculiar is the case of the 20-year old Burha¯naddı¯n al-Ba¯ u¯nı¯ [D2]. At the age of 20, one would have not even be considered worthy of getting a taqrı¯z, let alone giving one. But there are ˙ exceptions to this rule. There are also two persons in their twenties among those who wrote commendations for Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯: Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯ and ˙ Ibn Maka¯nis. For at least the last of these, Rosenthal gives a good reason for his inclusion. The Ibn Maka¯nis who praises Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ is not the famous poet Fahraddı¯n Ibn Maka¯nis, but his son Magˇdaddı¯n. Rosenthal assumes that ˘ Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ did not get a taqrı¯z from the senior and by then more famous ˙ Ibn Maka¯nis, so he therefore contented himself with the son who stepped in after ¯ ta¯rı¯’s case, a similar motivation may have been behind his father’s death.47 In al-A ¯ his choice of the young al-Ba¯ u¯nı¯ since he was the offspring of an already famous ¯ ta¯rı¯, the prospect of securing his ties with family of ulama¯’ and udaba¯’. For al-A ¯ this family may have seemed attractive and for the young Ibra¯hı¯m, who wrote the second longest taqrı¯z of all, it might have been an early opportunity to display ˙ his skill in insˇa¯’. We have to keep in mind that taqa¯rı¯z were not a one-sided affair ; ˙ they may have been more important for the recipient, but they could also be a means of distinction for the writers. This brings us to the next point: length. The range is enormous. It is perhaps not too daring to assume a rather close mutual interest in the case of the three longest taqa¯rı¯z, which were written by al-Qalqasˇandı¯ and the two Damascenes, ˙ followed closely by al-G˙uma¯rı¯. Equally interesting are the shortest taqa¯rı¯z. I have ˙ little to say about Q9 and Q10, who were perhaps included only to complete the number of ten representatives from Cairo. The extraordinary brevity of the taqa¯rı¯z from Mecca and Medina, however, corroborates the assumption that ˙ they were included only in order to represent the two Holy Cities. ˘

˘

˘

6.

From Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ to al-A¯ta¯rı¯ ¯

So far we have only considered relationships between individuals; but every individual is in turn part of a network. This leads us to the fourth and final organizing principle: the network of Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯. Badraddı¯n Ibn ad-Dam¯ ta¯rı¯ and life had granted him a better position a¯mı¯nı¯ was two years older than al-A ¯ to launch a career. He was the offspring of an old and influential family of scholars 47 Rosenthal, Blurbs, 184.

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and a relative of the chief Ma¯likı¯ judge. Therefore, building a network was prob¯ ta¯rı¯. Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ and al-A ¯ ta¯rı¯ knew ably easier for him than it was for al-A ¯ ¯ each other, as is proven by Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯’s taqrı¯z for him and they must have ˙ been friends at the time of the taqa¯rı¯z, as the following will show. Ibn ad-Dam˙ ¯ a¯mı¯nı¯ had almost simultaneously to al-Ata¯rı¯ collected eleven taqa¯rı¯z in 795. It is ¯ ˙ interesting to see that both groups of commendations greatly overlap, as the following chart shows. It presents the eleven muqarrizu¯n of Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯.48 ˙ ¯ ta¯rı¯: The right column indicates whether they also wrote a taqrı¯z for al-A ¯ ˙ Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯’s taqa¯rı¯z 795 ˙ 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

˘

10 11

Ibn Maka¯nis the younger al-Basˇtakı¯ Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯ ˙ Ibn al- Agˇamı¯ az-Zarkasˇ¯ı ˘

8 9

Ibn Haldu¯n ˘ (Sibt Ibn) at-Tanası¯ ˙ ˇ azarı¯ al-G Ibn asˇ-Sˇihna ˙ Magˇdaddı¯n al-Bilbaysı¯ Sˇamsaddı¯n al-G˙uma¯rı¯

= Q2 = Q3 = Hl ˙ = Q5 = Q1 = Q8 -

As we see from the chart, six scholars contributed both to the taqa¯rı¯z for Ibn ad¯ ta¯rı¯ benefited from˙the network ¯ ta¯rı¯. Thus, it is clear that al-A Dama¯mı¯nı¯ and al-A ¯ ¯ of his peer. As a matter of fact, Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯’s taqa¯rı¯z-network is the very ˙ ¯ ta¯rı¯’s as shall be demonstrated. First, let us take basis of al-A another look at the ¯ ¯ ta¯rı¯ (Q9, Q10, Mk, Md): none was issued by a four shortest taqa¯rı¯z for al-A ¯ ˙ contributor to Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯. The same is true for the three longest commendations (Q7, D1, D2). Instead, all Dama¯mı¯nı¯-contributors wrote taqa¯rı¯z for ˙ ¯ ta¯rı¯ that were 14 to 33 lines long, the only exception being the teacher al-A al¯ ˙Guma¯rı¯. On the other hand, the only person who was not among those who praised Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ to write a taqrı¯z of similar length is al-Absˇ¯ıt¯ı (Q6), ˙ ˙ another teacher, who – as we have seen – is an outlier in several respects. The same picture evolves when we consider the age of the muqarrizu¯n. All con˙ tributors aged 41 or younger (Q7, Q9, Mk, Md, D2) are non-Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ praisers (with the obvious exception of Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ himself). On the other ¯ ta¯rı¯ older than 55 were also muqarrizu¯n of Ibn adhand, all commenders of al-A ¯ ˙ Dama¯mı¯nı¯. The only exception again was al-Absˇ¯ıt¯ı. Obviously, the taqa¯rı¯z-net˙ ˙ 48 See Rosenthal, Blurbs.

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¯ ta¯rı¯’s, to which he added his own work of Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ was the basis for al-A ¯ ¯ ta¯rı¯’s “special cases”. Having gleaned this, we can reconstruct the genesis of al-A ¯ taqa¯rı¯z-network in detail. By applying the following eight transformations to Ibn ˙ ¯ ta¯rı¯’s: ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯’s taqa¯rı¯z group, we arrive at al-A ¯ ˙ (1) Take Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯’s network as starting point and cancel no. 3, 7, 9, 10 ¯ ta¯rı¯ asked for his and 11. No. 10, Ibn al- Agˇamı¯, was already dead when al-A ¯ ˇ taqa¯rı¯z. Ibn Maka¯nis junior and Ibn Hagar were still too young. The reasons ˙ ˙ why Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ asked them for a taqrı¯z have been discussed by ¯ ta¯rı¯ did not share them. We can ˙only speculate whether alRosenthal; al-A ˇ¯azarı¯ and az-Zarkasˇ¯ı and, if so, why they did not contribute. Ata¯rı¯ asked al-G ¯ (2) Place Ibn asˇ-Sˇihna (Hl) at the end of the list in order to arrange it according ˙ ˙ to the principle of geography in which Aleppo comes last. (3) Put al-G˙uma¯rı¯ at the top of the Ma¯likı¯s and add Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯’s name at ¯ ta¯rı¯’s principal teacher and thus, has to the end of them. Al-G˙uma¯rı¯ was al-A ¯ lead the list; Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ was the youngest of the Cairenes and a newcomer to the list so he is included at the end of the group of Ma¯likı¯s. The Hanafı¯ Magˇdaddı¯n Isma¯ ¯ıl al-Bilbaysı¯ is already in the right place at no. 5. ˙ (4) Add the teacher al-Absˇ¯ıt¯ı and let him lead the Sˇa¯fi ¯ıs. ˙ (5) Add al-Qalqasˇandı¯ and give him preference over al-Basˇtakı¯, who consequently remains at his place in the list. (6) Add the two contributors from Damascus. (7) Add two more Cairenes (Q9, Q10) to yield ten contributors from the capital in total, even if their contributions are short and insignificant. (8) Add a representative from each of the two Holy Cities, again with very short contributions. ˘

˘

¯ ta¯rı¯’s taqa¯rı¯z. The The result of these transformations is exactly the list of al-A ¯ ˙ names of those included and the order in which they come can be thoroughly explained by the parameters (1) geography, (2) madhab, (3) teacher-student ¯ relationship, and (4) transformation of al-Ata¯rı¯’s friend Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯’s ¯ group of muqarrizu¯n. ˙

7.

Conclusion

¯ ta¯rı¯ In order to create a network at the beginning of his scholarly career, al-A ¯ collected taqa¯rı¯z for one of his early works. In order to do so, he began by asking ˙ those scholars who had already provided a taqrı¯z for his friend Ibn ad-Dam˙ a¯mı¯nı¯. In addition, he asked scholars from Damascus, Mecca and Medina in order to have the main cities of the Mamluk Empire represented. It can be shown with ample detail how he transformed Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯’s group of muqarrizu¯n ˙

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¯ ta¯rı¯ was into his own. With fifteen scholars, most of them of high renown, al-A ¯ able to boast an influential network from which he could have benefited a lot. He did so only for a short time, however. When he attained the post of muhtasib in ˙ 799/1397, only three years after the first taqa¯rı¯z were written, it was less thanks ˙ to his network than to the large sum of money he paid. Unable to pay back his debts, he was forced to flee Cairo in 801/1398 – 9. From then on, he led an uneven life and probably never met his erstwhile muqarrizu¯n. The main stations in his ˙ life of ‘transregionality’, as one could say, were the court of the Rasu¯lids in Yemen, from which he was forced to flee once more, this time to Thana in India, from which he returned to the Arabian Peninsula, trading in foodstuffs from the Wa¯dı¯ Qanu¯na¯49 and settling in Mecca for most of the period between 808 and 820 / 1405 – 6 and 1417. He spent the last years of his life in Damascus and Cairo, ˇ uma¯da¯ II 828 / 6 May 1425. One year before his death in where he died on 17 G ¯ ta¯rı¯’s youth, Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ died in Gulbarga, 827/1424, the friend of al-A ¯ ¯ ta¯rı¯ owed him for India. Al-A his assistance in helping to create a network. ¯ Though the two men may have never met again after their youthful networking ¯ ta¯rı¯ efforts, their fates had remarkable parallels. Both Ibn ad-Dama¯mı¯nı¯ and al-A ¯ had to flee from their creditors, both earned money by trading, both lived a life of ‘transregionality’ that led them to India (obviously not too exotic a choice for a scholar from the Mamluk empire in those times), and both died rich, despite earlier bankruptcy. Their efforts as aspiring young scholars to get taqa¯rı¯z from ˙ influential scholars have a lot to teach us about the creation of scholarly networks. It is an irony of history that neither of them seems to have profited very much from it.

Bibliography Primary Sources ˘

˘

˘ ˘

¯ ta¯rı¯, ed. Hila¯l Na¯gˇ¯ı, Bag˙dad 1397/1977. ¯ ta¯rı¯, Zaynaddı¯n Sˇa ba¯n, Badı¯ iyya¯t al-A Al-A ¯ ¯ta¯rı¯, Zaynaddı¯n Sˇa ba¯n, al-Hayr al-Kat¯¯ır fı¯ s-Sala¯t ala¯ l-Basˇ¯ır an-Nad¯ır, ed. Ahmad Al-A ¯ ¯ ¯ ˙ ˙˙ ˘ Sa daddı¯n Awwa¯ma, Riya¯d 1418/1998. ˙ ˇ ˇ ¯ Al-Ata¯rı¯, Zaynaddı¯n Sa ba¯n, al- Ina¯ya ar-Rabba¯niyya fı¯ t-Tarı¯qa ˇs-Sa ba¯niyya, ed. Hila¯l ¯ ˙˙ Na¯gˇ¯ı, al-Mawrid 8/2 (1979), pp. 221 – 84. ˙ ula¯m fı¯ I ra¯b al-Kala¯m, ed. Hila¯l Na¯gˇ¯ı and Zuhayr ¯ ta¯rı¯, Zaynaddı¯n Sˇa ba¯n, Kifa¯yat al-G Al-A ¯ Za¯hid, Beirut 1407/1987. ¯ ta¯rı¯, Zaynaddı¯n Sˇa ba¯n, Magˇma al-Arab fı¯ Ulu¯m al-Adab, MS Istanbul Laleli 3701, fol. Al-A ¯ 94a – 124b. ˘

˘

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49 Ibn Fahd, Dayl al- Iqd at-Tamı¯n, 768. ¯ ¯¯

How to Create a Network: Zaynaddı¯n al-A¯ta¯rı¯ and his Muqarrizu¯n ¯ ˙

221

˘

˘ ˘ ˘

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¯ ta¯rı¯, Zaynaddı¯n Sˇa ba¯n, al-Manhagˇ al-Masˇhu¯r fı¯ Taqallub al-Ayya¯m wa-sˇ-Sˇuhu¯r, ed. Al-A ¯ Muhammad Alı¯ al- Adwa¯nı¯, al-Mawrid 9/4 (1981), pp. 599 – 608. ˙ ˇ amı¯l fı¯ Ilm al-Halı¯l, ed. Hila¯l Na¯gˇ¯ı, Beirut 1418/ ¯ Al-Ata¯rı¯, Zaynaddı¯n Sˇa ba¯n, al-Wagˇh al-G ¯ ˘ 1998. Ibn Fahd al-Ha¯sˇimı¯ al-Makkı¯, Umar, ad-Durr al-Kamı¯n bi-Dayl al- Iqd at-Tamı¯n fı¯ Ta’rı¯h ¯ ¯¯ ˘ al-Balad al-Amı¯n, ed. Abdalmalik ibn Abdalla¯h ibn Duhaysˇ, 3 vols., Makka 1421/2000. ˙ umr bi-Abna¯’ al- Umr, ed. M. Abd Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯, Sˇiha¯baddı¯n Ahmad, Inba¯’ al-G ˙ ˙ al-Mu ¯ıd Ha¯n et al., 9 vols., Haydara¯ba¯d 1387 – 1396/1967 – 1976. ˙ ˘ Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯, Sˇiha¯baddı¯n Ahmad, Dayl ad-Durar al-Ka¯mina, ed. Adna¯n Darwı¯ˇs, ¯ ˙ ˙ Cairo 1412/1992. Ibn Higˇgˇa al-Hamawı¯, Taqiyyaddı¯n Abu¯ Bakr, Qahwat al-Insˇa¯’, ed. Rudolf Vesely´, Beirut ˙ ˙ 1426/2005. Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Taqiyyaddı¯n Ahmad, Durar al- Uqu¯d al-Farı¯da fı¯ Tara¯gˇ im al-A ya¯n al-Mufı¯da, ˇ alı¯lı¯, 4˙vols., Beirut 1423/2002. ed. Mahmu¯d al-G ˙ ˇ As-Saha¯wı¯, Samsaddı¯n Muhammad, ad-Daw’ al-La¯mi li-Ahl al-Qarn at-Ta¯si , 12 vols., ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ Cairo 1934 – 1936. ˘

˘

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Secondary Sources Bauer, Thomas, “‘Was kann aus dem Jungen noch werden!’ Das poetische Erstlingswerk des Historikers Ibn Habı¯b im Spiegel seiner Zeitgenossen,” in: Studien zur Semitistik ˙ und Arabistik. Festschrift für Hartmut Bobzin zum 60. Geburtstag, eds. Otto Jastrow, Shabo Talay, Herta Hafenrichter, Wiesbaden 2008, pp. 15 – 56. ¯ tha¯rı¯,” in: EI Three, 2009 – 2, pp. 119 – 120. Bauer, Thomas, “al-A Bauer, Thomas, “Mamluk Literature as a Means of Communication,” in: Ubi sumus? Quo vademus? Mamluk Studies – State of the Art, ed. Stephan Conermann, Göttingen 2013, pp. 23 – 56.” EI2: The Encyclopedia of Islam. Second Edition, 11 vols. and a supplementary volume, Leiden 1954 – 2004. GAL = Carl Brockelmann, Geschichte der arabischen Litteratur, 2 vols. and 3 supplementary volumes, Leiden 1937 – 1949. GAS = Fuad Sezgin, Geschichte des arabischen Schrifttums, vol. 2, Leiden 1975, vol. 8, Leiden 1982. Rosenthal, Franz, “‘Blurbs’ (Taqrı¯z) from Fourteenth-Century Egypt,” Oriens 27 – 28 ˙ (1981), pp. 177 – 196. Vesely´, Rudolf, “Das Taqrı¯z in der arabischen Literatur,” in: Die Mamluken. Studien zu ˙ ihrer Geschichte und Kultur. Zum Gedenken an Ulrich Haarmann (1942 – 1999), eds. Stephan Conermann, Anja Pistor-Hatam, Hamburg 2003, pp. 379 – 385.

Mohammad Gharaibeh (Bonn)

˘

Brokerage and Interpersonal Relationships in Scholarly Networks. Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯ and His Early Academic ˙ Career1

1.

Introduction

˘

From the Ayyubid period on, students of hadı¯t were looking for elevation ˙ ¯ ( ulu¯w), i. e. the isna¯d with the fewest intermediaries.2 To achieve this goal, the practice of granting permissions to narrate hadı¯t (igˇa¯zat ar-riwa¯ya) were ˙ ¯ granted to children, new-borns (igˇa¯zat at-tifl) and in some cases even to unborn ˙˙ (igˇa¯zat li-l-ma du¯m) became common; a practice that requires the help of a third person – a broker – to establish the contact between the one who grants the igˇa¯za and the child who should receive the igˇa¯za. In this study, by applying the network analysis, the role of the brokerage in the early years of a scholar will be examined. In a second step, the educational network and the networking of a scholar during his study will be considered till the point he received the permission to teach and to issue legal opinions (igˇa¯zat at-tadrı¯s wa-igˇa¯zat al-ifta¯’), wich is regarded as the completion of his study.The study focuses on the case of Ibn Hagˇar. While he ˙ suffered from a lack of brockerage in his early childhood, he put much effort during his study to establish useful educational ties that let him become one of the most established and recognized scholar of his time. His case will be conˇ ala¯l Abd trasted with the cases of two other scholars, al-Walı¯ Alı¯ al- Ira¯qı¯ and al-G ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯. Contrary to Ibn Hagˇar, they enjoyed successful brokerage ˙ ˙ by their fathers that led to valuable igˇa¯za¯t. This study will argue that a successful brokerage in the early childhood of a scholar could decide about his position and status in his later career. However, an unsuccessful brokerage did not automatically lead to an unsuccessful career within the hadı¯t studies. Missed child˙ ¯ igˇa¯za¯t could be compensate – to a certain degree – through strategical net˘

˘

˘

˘

1 I am grateful to my friend and colleague Henning Sievert for his helpful suggestions, as well as Stephan Conermann, Bethany Walker, Amalia Levanoni, Konrad Hirschler and Thomas Eich for their valuable remarks. 2 See for this Dickinson 2002 in general and in particular p. 181. See also Leder 1994, 57 – 58. Both with reference to Ibn as-Sala¯h asˇ-Sˇahrazu¯rı¯ and his “muqaddima.” ˙ ˙ ˙

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working during the years of basic and advanced studies, as will be shown for the case of Ibn Hagˇar. ˙ Since this study uses the methods of the network analysis, the second chapter deals with the network analysis and its application in historical studies in general, the social structure of educational networks in 15th century Cairo and the possibility of application of network analysis. It will be explained why this study focuses on the case of Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯ and why it was necessary to ˙ compare his case with other cases. One of the most challenging points within the attempt to apply network analysis in a historical study is the problem of sources. Hence, in one subsection of the second chapter, the sources used for this study and their limitations are discussed. In the last subsection, the types of relations are explained that were regarded in this study. The third chapter deals with the three case studies. It presents three examples of the role of brokerage in the life of scholars. The three case studies, on the one hand, highlight different aspects of brokerage, while, on the other hand, present a common aspect that permits a comparison between the cases. The netwoks of each scholar with their brokeraged ties are depicted in figures. After speaking of the importance of brokerage in the early childhood of scholars, the fourth chapter focuses on the interpersonal relations and the networking of scholars during their study. Different aspects such as the constant accompaniment (mula¯zama), the sevice of tahrı¯gˇ, ˘ the teacher’s advice (nas¯ıha), writing blurbs (taqrı¯z) and granting igˇa¯za¯t will be ˙˙ ˙ considered and regarded as means to network.The study ends with a summery of the main findings of the analysis and some concluding notes.

2.

Theoretical and methodological considerations

2.1.

Network analysis and historical studies

With a more or less provocative question, Al-Bagdadi points to a general problem when it comes to the applicability of social science theories and methods for historical studies, especially when they were developed and used in the field of sociology : What epistemological benefit or historical insight does the conceptualized network analysis offer? Or, what does the conceptualized network analysis offer what other approaches do not provide?3 In a way, she might be right with her question. Some researches in the field of Islamic studies, that attempt to apply the network analysis, face the problem of a prober application of this approach and their reference to the network analysis seems artificial rather than giving the feeling that it is essential for the purpose of their study. 3 Al-Bagdadi, 2000, 182.

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225

These studies are mostly to a large extent a descriptive narration of a scholar’s life with the focus on some crucial events and turning points in his life.4 Therefore, the impression rises that the network analysis approach is not really necessary for this kind of study. Or, with the words of al-Bagdadi, it is not always clear what epistemological benefit or historical profit the conceptualized network analysis does offer in these studies. A limping application of the network analysis on historical studies however, is not entirely the fault of the author. Rather, the character of the network analysis itself leads the scholar to a more descriptive manner of presenting his research and often, the impression remains that network analysis just describes the “how” and does not give an answer to the “why.”5 But before judging prematurely about network analysis and its use in historical studies, it might be the right place to answer another important question, i. e. what exactly is network analysis all about? First, a network is defined as “a specific set of linkages among a defined set of persons, with the additional property that characteristics of theses linkages as a whole may be used to interpret the social behavior of the persons involved.”6 Therefore, network analysis attempts to examine the interaction of persons and the manner of the relationships between them and tries to understand how theses linkages as a whole determine or at least influence their behavior. In sociological studies, network analysis is used interdisciplinarily to explore social, economical, political and communicational interrelations. It provides procedures and hypotheses to describe and explain complex social relationships, so that it has become an often used approach in sociology and social anthropology since the nineties.7 Supported by empirical data, social network analysis examines various perspectives of the social life and practice, such as group formation, group boundaries, and group behavior, the quality of ties, the density of the network, roles and positions in a network, clustering in social networks, the action of an actor within a certain social group, material transaction, flow of resources or support, behavioral interaction – to name but a few.8 What, in sociology, has been proved to be a fruitful approach,9 reaches its 4 See for example the studies of Preckel (2000) who describes the rise and fall of the Wahha¯bı¯/ Salafı¯ scholar, Muhammad Siddı¯q Hasan Ha¯n. Or Kogelmann (2000) about the neo-Salafite ˙ al-Makkı ˙ ¯ sirı¯. Both ˙ ¯ an-Na ˘ scholar, Muhammad studies provide important information for a ˙ ˙ better understanding of the social context of the scholars in question and in some cases they provide fundamental information about so far unknown scholars. 5 Al-Bagdadi 2000, 189. 6 Mitchell 1969, 2. 7 Schweizer 1996, 13. 8 For a good overview about the theory, concepts and findings of social network analysis see Kadushian, Understanding. Wasserman and Faust (1994) name some studies, 6 – 8. 9 A short glimpse into relevant sociological journals such as the American Journal of Sociology, the American Sociological Review, the Annual Review of Sociology, the Social Network, the

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limits when applied in historical studies. Historians of various disciplines almost always face the same problem when they attempt to apply network analysis in their fields of studies, i. e. the problem of the limitation of the source and the limited information withing the sources: lacking the ability and possibility in conducting surveys, historians are forced to limit their research on selected aspects and pre-assumptions of the social network analysis rather than approaching a complete social network analysis, as done in sociological studies.10 Historians then ask for ways and possibilities of actions of individual or collective actors in their particular circumstances and backgrounds.11 Instead of a mere depiction, network analysis goes a step further and studies the impact of this structure on the functioning of the group and/or the influence of this structure on individuals within the group.12 This qualitative rather than quantitative approach of the network analysis enlarges the benefit of the network perspective. It makes it possible to analyze certain phenomena in an ego-network, from a group perspective, or global migration patterns, for example.13On the field of Islamic Studeis, one of the most successful attempts to apply the network analysis has been undertaken by Reichmuth and Loimeier, who also more or less introduced the Network analysis into the fields of Islamic Studies. They emphasize that the strength of the network analysis is that it shows the interaction of human action and social structure at best.14 Following the example of Loimeier, Reichmuth and others, the present study will look at one scholar’s professional life from the network perspective, attempting to depict and study the close link between human action and social structure. In other words, the study tries to investigate how the social structure of academic life looks like, and whether and how this structure influence the behavior of a scholar.

10 11

12 13 14

Social forces etc. reveals a huge number of interesting and fundamental studies applying the network analysis mostly with the support of empirical data. Reitmayer, Marx 2010, 869. Reitmayer, Marx 2010, 870, 874. See for the differentiation between an empirical and a qualitative approach of network analysis Harders 2000, 19 – 20. She also gives an overview of a successful application of the qualitative approach in the fields of ethnographic, sociological, political and oriental studies (p. 20 – 21). Wasserman, Faust 1994, 9. Harders 2000, 18. Loimeier, Reichmuth, 1996, 152. A series of successful studies followed after their approach. See for example the contributions in the collective volume of Loimeier 2000; Eich 2003; Agai 2004; Sievert 2008 to name just a few.

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Brokerage and Interpersonal Relationships in Scholarly Networks

2.2.

Social structure, interpersonal relations and status

˘

It is well known among scholars of Islamic Studies that Sunni Islam lacks any official Muslim institution in general, that could creat any hierarchy or that could decide about the status of a scholar within this hierarchy. Therefore it if often stated that only “few formal distinctions of status existed in Medieval Muslim societies.”15 However, this does not mean that there were no rankings, hierarchies or status differences among the Muslim scholars. Rather, ranking of scholars among each other took place through informal structure and interpersonal relationships.16 Hierarchies were “created based on lineage, marriage ties and intellectual genealogy, but more on scholarly acumen skills such as lecturing, debate and even everyday experience.”17 Status and the rank within the hierarchy of ulama¯’ were constantly renegotiated among themselves. On the basis of “their learning in a wide variety of fields, and on their skills in practices such as teaching, and writing fatwa¯s,” the ulama¯’ sorted out hierarchies, as Chamberlain argued with regard to the a ya¯n (chiefs, notables) of Damascus.18 He describes the pursuit of status and academic recognition as “prize won through competitive struggle.”19 It is this characterization of the hierarchy of the ulama¯’ that justifies the application of the network perspective. Since the question of status is a question of interpersonal relationships and interplay of the actor’s action and the social structure, the network perspective is a useful approach for both depicting and studying the impact of this structure on the functioning of the group and/ or the influence of this structure on individuals within the group.20 As critical aspects of the status of a scholar within the hierarchy of the ulama¯’, the present study takes into consideration the system of tabaqa¯t with a focus on ˙ the principle of elevation and the interpersonal relationship between the student 21 and the teacher. By focusing on the tabaqa¯t system, this present study can be ˙ regarded as an extension of the studies of Chamberlain (2002), Berkey (1992) and Dickinson (2002). Chamberlain and Berkey emphasized the importance of ˘

˘

˘

˘

15 16 17 18 19 20

Levanoni 2012, 2. For Damascus in the period of 1190 – 1350 see Chamberlain 2002, 154. See for this in general Berkey 1992, 3 – 42. Levanoni 2012, 2. Chamberlain 2002, 154. Chamberlain 2002, 153. Wasserman, Faust 1994, 9; Harders 2000, 18; Loimeier, Reichmuth 1996, 154. See also the study of Mottahedeh on loyalty and leadership (1980), which “describes Islamic-Buyid concepts of obligation, authority, solidarity and belonging, which defines the social order of Buyid Iraq and Iran in the tenth and eleventh centuries,” Lapidus 1982, 211. 21 Other important aspects are a scholar’s “publications”, the teaching positions as well as official positions such as the judicial offices etc. and – to a certain degree – relations to the ruling elite.

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the informal educational practice and the student-teacher relationship but did not show how the quality of the relationship can influence the later standing and reputation of a scholar. Dickinson highlited the importance of the principle of elevation since the Ayyu¯bid period but did not go so far to illustrate how the pursuit of elevation influenced the behavior of scholars within the group of ulama¯’. Both aspects, the tabaqa¯t system and the interpersonal relations, will be ˙ seen as a type of relational ties which can be seen as “channels for transfer or ‘flow’ of resources (either material or non-material)”22 and therefore regulated and controled social capital and the resource “knowledge.” The concept of “tabaqa¯t” in this context refers to the different “generation” within the system of ˙ transmission of knowledge, i. e. mostly the narration of hadı¯t but basically in˙ ¯ cluded every other discipline of the Islamic sciences. In the chain of transmitters (isna¯d) of a certain hadı¯t, book or any other kind of knowledge, each transmitter ˙ ¯ represented one generation, without reference to the age of the transmitter An isna¯d consisted at least of three generations of which the first and the third did not connect directly with each other mostly due to age differences (but can also be because of regional distances etc.), the intermediate generation functioned as a mediator which establisheed a “mental” connection to the past. In terms of the value of an isna¯d it is to say that the shorter an isna¯d was, the higher it was perceived. Thus, a high chain (isna¯d a¯lı¯) of a hadı¯t brings the transmitter of ˙ ¯ hadı¯t closer to the Prophet – and his spiritual power – in terms of generations ˙ ¯ 23 (tabaqa¯t), despite of the historical distance. One of the highest chains (isna¯d ˙ a¯lı¯) in the 15th century, for example, consisted of ten transmitters. That means that only ten narrators bridged a period of nearly seven hundred years to the Prophet. For instance, Burha¯n ad-Dı¯n Ibra¯hı¯m at-Tanu¯h¯ı (709 – 800/1309 – ˘ 1897)24 was holding several of such high isna¯ds and received high status and 25 recognition for this. Thus, in the pursuit of high status, scholars searched for elevation, i. e. the highest isna¯d possible in their time. With regard to the prestige of a scholar in his later life, the interpersonal relationship between him and his teacher in his early years did not achieve much interest in the studies of modern scholars. However, the relationships to famous teachers often influenced the later status of scholars greatly. The more famous the teacher was, the higher the status of the scholar seems to have been after the end of his educational training.26 Hence, the present paper perceives the density ˘

˘

˘

22 Wasserman, Faust 1994, 4; and Harders 2000, 23. 23 Dickinson 2002, 481; Leder 1994, 57 – 58. 24 His full name is Burha¯n ad-Dı¯n Abu¯ Isha¯q Ibra¯hı¯m b. Ahmad b. Abd al-Wa¯hid at-Tanu¯h¯ı. He ˙ that focuses ˘ on was born in 709 in Damascus and died˙ 800 in Cairo. See˙ his short biography the educational relations between him and Ibn Hagˇar in idem, al-Mugˇma , 1:79 – 201 ˇ awa¯hir, 1:128. For his biography˙ see below. 25 As-Saha¯wı¯, al-G ˘ 26 As Berkey (1992) has intended, 20 – 42. ˘

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of such a relationship as a crucial aspect for the later status within the hierarchy. Further, density is seen to be expressed through various services a student offer to the teacher and the distribution of “knowledge resources” by the teacher in return. For both aspects, the pursuit of elevation and the interpersonal relations, another phenomenon within Islamic education was of high importance, i. e. the igˇa¯za. Due to the various types of igˇa¯za¯t that had been granted in the history of Islamic education, it is not that easy to find a single definition or translation for the igˇa¯za.27 For the aim of the present paper, two types of igˇa¯za will be considered, the igˇa¯zat ar-riwa¯ya and the igˇa¯zat at-tadrı¯s wa-igˇa¯zat al-ifta¯’. In the tabaqa¯t system, the igˇa¯zat ar-riwa¯ya marks the starting point that enables a ˙ scholar to be part of the isna¯d. It seems appropriate to follow the common translation as the permission to narrate a hadı¯t. In order to gain the highest isna¯d ˙ ¯ possible, an igˇa¯zat ar-riwa¯ya was often permitted by very old scholars to young children or even new-born. Since these igˇa¯za¯t, known as igˇa¯za¯t at-tifl,28 was ˙˙ given to new-born or young children who at the time of granting could not transmit nor even understand what they have been initiated for, it is difficult to speak of a permission to narrate. Although the actual knowledge transfer usually took place during their education, children who were granted such an igˇa¯za¯t become narrators within the chain of transmission. So that it can be concluded that the igˇa¯za¯t at-tifl were not just a ceremonial grant to achieve any baraka ˙˙ (blessings). This practice, that was very common during the Ayyubid and 29 Mamluk period, aimed at guaranteeing the transmission of knowledge through very short and thus high isna¯ds.30 In addition, the igˇa¯zat at-tifl also aimed at ˙˙

˘

27 For an overview of the different types and various ways of categorizing them, see the introductory notes of some case studies such as Sobieroj 2011, 23 – 24 who speaks of the igˇa¯za at-tadrı¯s; Lohlker 2011, 37 – 44 who introduces the igˇa¯za ilmiyya, the igˇa¯za taqdı¯riyya, the igˇa¯za takrı¯miyya, and the igˇa¯za a¯mma; Schmidtke 2006, 95 – 101 who gives an insight in the igˇa¯za ar-riwa¯ya in the context of an 18th century-Iranian Imami scholar. 28 This type of igˇa¯za has been mentioned in the introduction of hadı¯t science entitled “ Ulu¯m al˙ ¯This book was a reference hadı¯t” of the Ayyubid scholar Ibn Sala¯h (577 – 643/1181 – 1245). ˙work¯ for Mamluk scholars. Both, az-Zayn ˙ ˙ al- Ira¯qı¯ and his student Ibn Hagˇar, for instance, ˙ igˇa¯zat at-tifl has commented on this book in a “nukat”. However, Ibn Sala¯h indicates that ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ in his been practiced by the later generations (qaum min al-muta’ahhirı¯n) – probably ˘ Sala¯h, Ulu¯m al-hadı¯t, generation – and that there was disagreement of its validity. See˘Ibn ˙ ¯ ˙ ˙ 158 – 162; and Dickinson 2002, 498 – 499. 29 Sayeed 2002, 76 and n. 23; Dickinson 2002, 489 – 499. This impression is also confirmed by biographical dictionaries of that period and by the examples mention below. 30 See for example the case of Zaynab bt. al-Kama¯l (646 – 740) who received an igˇa¯za from Abd al-Ha¯liq an-Nisˇtibrı¯ (537 – 649) at the age of one. Since an-Nisˇtibrı¯ was about 110 years old ˘ he granted an igˇa¯za to Zaynab and she herself became 94 years old, a period of almost when two hundred years were bridged with just two generations. See Sayeed 2002, 77, 83, 86 – 87. Another interesting practice is documented by Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯ in his masˇyaha. Ru˘ an qayya bt. asˇ-Sˇayh Sˇaraf ad-Dı¯n Muhammad at-Ta labı¯˙ ad-Dimasˇqı¯ (b. 741) narrated with ¯ ¯ ˙ That means ˘ rı¯, who died in 736. igˇa¯za by Ibn al-Mas that either Ruqayya lied about her igˇa¯za ˙ ˘

˘

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providing the scholar’s children with best possible conditions for a later successful academic career. In the case of the interpersonal relationship between the student and the teacher, the igˇa¯zat at-tadrı¯s wa-igˇa¯zat al-ifta¯’ marked the end of a long road of interaction and exchanging of gifts, services and non-material goods, mainly knowledge. Hence, the igˇa¯zat at-tadrı¯s wa-igˇa¯zat al-ifta¯’ can be perceived as kind of an academic certification. As Steward, Fernandes, Berkey, and others pointed out, the igˇa¯zat at-tadrı¯s wa-igˇa¯zat al-ifta¯’ can be defined “as a credential that established qualification for employment in judicial and teaching posts.”31 The igˇa¯za was a means of formal authorization and differs from today’s certification, in that it emphasizes the personal relationship between the teacher and the student. It is a testimony of the teacher’s trust in the student’s capability. Its importance has been emphasized also by Berkey, who stated that as-Suyu¯t¯ı (d. ˙ 1505) – despite his academic achievements in the field of Quranic studies – did not teach this knowledge, because he had not received an igˇa¯za that permited him to do so.32 Since the present study focuses on the interpersonal relations, the igˇa¯za will be seen as the end of a long road of interaction and exchange. Lights shall be shed on the interactions between teacher and student before an igˇaza is issued. Social practices such as the student’s mula¯zama, the teacher’s advice and the practice of writing taqa¯rı¯z will be studied from the network perspective and ˙ are seen as possibilities for the student to call the attention of the teachers and as means to gain status among the ulama¯’.

The example of Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯ ˙ ˘

2.3.

˘

Due to the fact that most historical studies cannot solve the problem of the limitation of sources, the present study shall focus on the life of mainly one scholar within the framework of the academic scene of 15th century Cairo. For two main reasons, focus will be put on Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯.33 Firstly, due to as˙ ˘

of Ibn al-Masrı¯ or that Ibn al-Masrı¯ granted a so called igˇa¯zat al-ma du¯m, i. e. a permission to ˙ ˙ her father and grandfather were highly ranked scholars, narrate for unborn children. Since this finding could suggest that they used their influence to collect igˇa¯za¯t for their unborn child. This kind of igˇa¯za, however, seems to have been very rare, although Ibn Sala¯h listed it in his introduction of the hadı¯t-science, Ibn Sala¯h, Ulu¯m al-hadı¯t, 158 – 162.˙ See˙ for the ¯ ˙ ¯1:593 – 595. ˙ gˇ˙am al-mufahras, example of Ruqayya b. asˇ-Sˇ˙araf Ibn Hagˇar, al-Mu ˙ 31 Stewart 2004, 63; Fernandes 2002, 96 – 97; Berkey 1992, 21. See also Lev 2009, 9. 32 Berkey 1992, 26. 33 His full name is al-Ha¯fiz Ahmad b. Alı¯ Ibn Hagˇar al-Kina¯nı¯ al- Asqala¯nı¯ (773 – 852/1372 – ˙ ˙ ˙ 1449). There are two˙ comprehensive contributions on Ibn Hagˇar’s life and work in English: ˙ entiteld “Ibn Hajar al-Asqala¯nı¯ an unpublished PhD thesis by Sabri Khalid Kawash from 1970 ¯ lim in Egypt, (1372 – 1449 A.D.): A Study of the Background, Education, and Career of a˙ A ˘

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Saha¯wı¯ there are enough sufficient sources and comprehensive information ˘ about Ibn Hagˇar’s private and academic life. Not only did as-Saha¯wı¯ dedicate ˙ ˘ entries for Ibn Hagˇar in his biographical dictionaries, i. e. ad-Daw’ al-la¯mi li-ahl ˙ ˙ ˙ al-qarn at-ta¯si 34 and ad-Dayl ala¯ raf al-isr aw bug˙ yat al- ulama¯’ wa-r-ruwa¯t,35 ¯ ¯ ˙ ˇ awa¯hir he also wrote an extensive biography of his principle teacher entitled al-G wa-d-durar fı¯ targˇamat ˇsayh al-isla¯m Ibn Hagˇar that provides rich information ˙ ˘ about his person. In addition, Ibn Hagˇar’s masˇyaha, i. e. the list of his teachers ˙ ˘ with a short biography of each of them and the mentioning of fields of studies, is available too. Secondly, the life of Ibn Hagˇar’s career combines both aspects very ˙ well – the importance of brokerage in the early childhood of a scholar to achieve a elevation within the tabaqa¯t-system, on the one hand, and the importance of ˙ the teacher-student relationship, on the other hand. Due to the early death of his father, he could not achieve the highest isna¯d possible for his generation, since nobody cared of introducing him to scholars in his early childhood. However, through his own intellectual achievements he managed to become one of the most prominent hadı¯t scholars of his time. Since a broader contextualization is ˙ ¯ the most important aspect of a successful network analysis and it’s most convincing strength, Ibn Hagˇar’s career has to be perceived within the group of ˙ ulama¯’ of the 8th-9th/14th-15th century Cairo with whom Ibn Hagˇar interacted. ˙ This is why this study will firstly undertake a comparison between Ibn Hagˇar ˙ ˇ ala¯l Abd ar-Rahma¯n b. Umar b. Rasla¯n al-Bulqı (773 – 852/1372 – 1449), al-G ¯nı¯ ˙ al-Kina¯nı¯ al- Asqala¯nı¯ (762 – 824/1361 – 1421), and al-Walı¯ Abu¯ Zur a Ahmad b. ˙ Abd ar-Rah¯ım al- Ira¯qı¯ (762 – 826/1360 – 1422). Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯ and ˙ ˙ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ has been chosen, because both received important igˇa¯za¯t ˙ through the brokerage of their fathers and achieved a high position in the ta˙ baqa¯t-system. Although Ibn Hagˇar was ten years younger, he could have received ˙ igˇa¯za¯t from the same persons Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯ and Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ ˙ ˙ had had received igˇa¯za¯t if someone had established for him these important ties. However, though his diligence and close ties to his teacher, he managed to achieve similar status in the hierarchy of the scholars in Cairo. ˘

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that was submitted in Princeton University ; and another PhD thesis that was published in a series of articles in the journal Islamic Culture written by Aftab Ahmad Rahmani entitled “The Life and Works of Ibn Hajar al-‘Asqala¯nı¯. Both studies, however, are in a more des˙ extent on the biography written by as-Saha¯wı¯. See also Fazil criptive style and rely to a large ˘ 1958, and Bauer 2005 and 2011. 34 See as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 2:36 – 40. ˙ ayl, 75 – 89. ˙ -D 35 See as-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, ad ¯ ¯ ˘

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Sources

It must be mentioned, that as a quantitative approach, social network analysis produces findings which do not claim generality,36 although some of them will certainly be found in other areas and biographies as well. But this is precisely where the difficulties and limits lie. To a large extent, the sources used in this study are biographical dictionaries. These sources have a strong anecdotal character and are highly dependent on the scope the author has.37 That means that we will find more information on a particular scholar than on another ; what does not mean that the unmentioned details have not existed for the other scholar too. Additionally, not every scholar seems to have written down a maˇsyaha of his and not every masˇyaha that has been written is available today. The ˘ ˘ masˇyahas give important information about the interaction between the teacher ˘ and the student that biographical dictionaries cannot offer. Hence, one has to be careful to give general statements about the academic life without having enough masˇyahas that can support the general conclusions. Therefore, the results of the ˘ present study can only say something about Ibn Hagˇar’s status within the ˙ mentioned group and the persons compared to him.38

2.5.

Types of relations ˘

As for the interpersonal relationships between the ulama¯’, four kinds of ties will be taken into consideration and be illustrated in the figures below. These are kinship, friendship, patronage and educational ties. The various kinds of ties are often overlapping with each other and occur rarely separated from each other. Multiplex relationships among members of a group are typical in tribal and premodern societies39 and show how dense the social network of ulama¯’ in 15th century Cairo were.40 The four types of ties will be understood as follows: ˘

Kinship ties Kinship relations are those that describe the relation between the parents and their children and other relatives or those which are established by marriage. 36 Alexander, Danowski 1990, 313 – 314. 37 For a deeper discussion of the genre and a comparison of the ad-Daw’ by as-Saha¯wı¯ and the ˙ ˙ of the biographical ˘ Manhal by Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ see Petry 1981, 7 – 14. For a discussion dictionaries of as-Safadı¯ and al-Maqrı¯zı¯ see Mauder 2012, 39 – 64. ˙ ˙ 38 For a list of sources used for the present study see the list of sources at the end of the paper. 39 Barnes 1969, 75. 40 For the concept of multiplexity and overlap of relationships see Kadushin 2012, 15.

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With the focus on scholarship and with regard to the scope of this study, these relationships are seen as institutions through which scholars benefited from in their later academic career. Therefore, it is one of the most important factor in the life of a scholar. In the figures below, kinship ties will be depicted in red. Guardianship (wila¯ya) will also exceptionally be marked as kinship ties, as well, because they usually were established through friendship ties between the father and the guardian of a child. Friendship ties

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Although the term friendship seems clear for everyone and is usually used in a taken-for-granted manner, sociological studies show that even in modern societies different understandings of the concept exist.41 Lacking the possibility of conducting empirical studies in pre-modern societies, it might never be possible to know how people of pre-modern societies really understood the concept of friendship. In the present study friendship is understood as close non-kinship ties between two or more persons. In the sources, friendship ties were expressed as “ka¯na bihi ihtisa¯s,” “min asha¯bihi,” “rafı¯q,” “ka¯n ma ahu kat¯ıran,” “suhba,” ¯ ˙˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ ˙ ˙ “ka¯na yuhibbuhu wa-yu zzimuhu.”42 In the figures below, friendship ties will be ˙ ˙˙ depicted in green. ˘

Patronage ties Patronage is “[…] an acquired, asymmetrical and purpose-oriented relationship that entails mutual obligations, mainly loyalty and service (hidma) on the cli˘ ent’s part and protection and favor the part of the patron.”43 In the below examples, patronage ties mark the relationships between scholars and the Mamluk elite; as long as they are not connected through other types of relationships such as kinship or educational ties. In the figures below, patronage ties are depicted in black. Educational ties Every educational interaction between two or more scholars shall be regarded as educational ties. That includes the igˇa¯za¯t, the student’s mula¯zama, the teacher’s advices, the offering of educational services such as a tahrı¯gˇ and the writing of ˘ 41 Fischer 1982, 287 ff. 42 See for a discussion of the term suhba also Berkey 1992. He defines it as a long and close ˙ personal relationship that can represent patronage, friendship or discipleship ties. Ibid, 34. 43 See for a comprehensive discussion Sievert in this volume.

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blurbs (taqrı¯z).44 In the first five figures, educational ties are depicted in blue. In ˙ the sixth figures, however, the different kinds of education interaction are depicted each with its own color to demonstrate the multiplexity in this field.45

3.

Igˇa¯zat at-tifl and the power of brokerage ˙˙

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Usually, the parents play a decisive role in the career of a scholar. They decide whether the son or the daughter should receive a religious education or not. In most cases, the father or the mother are also religious scholars and use their connections and their own professional network to arrange a good education for their child. In Ayyubid and Mamluk times, the practice of issuing igˇa¯za¯t for young children has become very common.46 The purpose was to guarantee the shortest possible isna¯d for the scholars in their later life.47 Sayeed gives the example of case studies on two female hadı¯t scholars, Zaynab bt. al-Kama¯l (646 – ˙ ¯ ¯ ’isˇa bt. Muhammad 740/1248 – 1339) and A b. Abd al-Ha¯dı¯ (723 – 816/1323 – ˙ 1413). Both women received plenty of igˇa¯za¯t in their childhood beginning in the age of one year. In the source such procedures were expressed with the verbs “uhdira/uhdirat ala¯” or “agˇa¯za lahu¯/laha¯,” even the phrase “sami a/sami at ˙˙ ˙˙ min” was used, in case the scholar read the book or hadı¯t out loud.48 While ˙¯ ¯ Zaynab’s uncle introduced her to many scholars, in A ’isˇa’s case, who later granted some igˇa¯za¯t for Ibn Hagˇar, it was her father who took care of that.49 ˙ However, it must be stressed that the children in this age cannot be seen as the actual actors. Instead their parents or relatives established these ties. From the perspective of the network analysis, this fact marks an important point, since a relation between two actors has only been established through the mediation of a third actor. Hence, it is necessary to take the broker into consideration, too, when the status and the interpersonal relations of a scholar is examined. Since there are several concepts of brokerage in the studies of network analysis, in the next section, a short glimpse in these concepts is granted. Then, the examples of ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯ and the importance of al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯, Ibn Hagˇar and al-G ˙ ˙ brokerage in their academic life follow. Each example, on the one hand, will show diffent aspects of the role of brokerage in the scholar’s life. On the other hand, one common aspect in the three examples will be compared. ˘

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44 All of these forms will be discussed below. 45 See the legend of the figure six. 46 See for the Ayyubid period Dickinson 2002, 490 – 499. He also names some examples from the Mamluk period. 47 See for this also Bulliet 1983, 108; and Sayeed 2002, 88 – 89. 48 Sayeed 2002, 76 and n.23. 49 Sayeed 2002, 77, 83, 86 – 87.

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3.1.

235

Brokerage

The classical concept of brokerage (e. g., Gould and Fernandez) describes a relation involving three actors; two of whom are the actual parties to the transaction and one of whom is the intermediary of broker.50 This concept emphasizes the “classic structural element of the incomplete (or ‘open’) twopath (that is, a structural configuration in which one actor can reach another through an intermediary, but not via a direct tie) their mechanisms of mediation, preconditions and effects are nonetheless distinct.”51 Since it focuses only on a two-path structure, the classical concept is unable to distinguish between competing processes or to evaluate their empirical consequences and gives a very static picture of the process of brokerage.52 A newer approach of brokerage presented by Spiro et al. perceives the process of brokerage in a more dynamic way by considering two additional elements. Firstly, Spiro et al. emphasize that brokerage opportunity is highly depending on the temporal factor and the order of contact.53 If, for example, A wants to establish contact to B or would like to exchange resources etc., he only needs a broker as long as the direct contact to B is not possible. Hence, the powerful position of the mediator, in which he also can exclude the third, gain power by charging “commission” or control resources is temporarily. Because, if A and B find themselves able to transact without the brokerage of the mediator it seems reasonable that they will do so.54 Secondly, the effect of the act of brokerage on the evolving network itself differs. Three cases are introduced by the authors. The “transfer brokerage, in which the broker (ego) conducts information or other resources from one alter to another who cannot be directly reached; matchmaking brokerage, in which ego introduces or otherwise makes possible a tie from one alter to another ; and coordination brokerage, in which ego directs alters’ actions so as to resolve their dependencies without the need of direct contact.”55 Although, both the transfer brokerage and the coordination brokerage can occur within professional networks of scholars, the matchmaking brokerage is from greater importance for the present study. Herein the “brokers serve to create ties, bringing together third parties not currently tied to one another” and therefore, “the bridging position of the broker is only temporary, and gains accrue from the creation of a new relationship between the brokered parties (rather than the activity of the

50 51 52 53 54 55

Gould, Fernadez 1989, 91. Spiro et al. 2013, 131. Ibid., 132. Ibid., 132. Ibid., 130, 132. Ibid., 131.

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broker as conduit for information or resources).”56 Especially important will this kind of brokerage be in the case of children igˇa¯za¯t discussed below. Since it is important to achieve a position in an isna¯d in his youth that makes the scholar an attractive link in his old age, it depends hardly on the broker, mostly the parents or the guardians, to bring him in contact with other scholars during his early childhood in which he himself is not able to connect to others.

Al-Walı¯ Ahmad Ibn al- Ira¯qı¯: a successful matchmaking brokerage ˙ ˘

3.2.

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Walı¯ d-Dı¯n Ahmad b. Abd ar-Rah¯ım al- Ira¯qı¯ (b. 762/1360) for example received ˙ ˙ igˇa¯za¯t from Abu¯ l-Haram al-Qala¯nisı¯, al-Muhibb Abu¯ l- Abba¯s al-Hala¯t¯ı, Na¯sir ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ ˙ ad-Dı¯n at-Tu¯nisı¯, asˇ-Sˇiha¯b Ahmad b. Muhammad b. Abı¯ Bakr al- Asqala¯nı¯ Ibn al˙ ˙ 57 ˇ ama¯ a and al-G ˇ ama¯l Ibn Nuba¯ta, the famous poet. These Atta¯r, al- Izz Ibn G ˙˙ connections were established due to the brokerage of his father, az-Zayn Abd arRah¯ım al- Ira¯qı¯, in Cairo when Ahmad was about one or two years old (bakkara ˙ ˙ bihı¯ abu¯hu fa-ahdarahu¯ l-kat¯ıra).58 Besides the local igˇa¯za¯t-connections that ¯ ˙˙ have been established, his father, who himself was one of the most prominent hadı¯t scholars in Cairo and who hold the highest isna¯ds possible for his gen˙ ¯ eration (tabaqa), used his own professional network to establish connections in ˙ other cities. He travelled with his son Ahmad to Damascus in the year 765/1364 ˙ and established additional igˇa¯za¯t-connections to leading scholars such as alHa¯fiz asˇ-Sˇams al-Husaynı¯ and al-Ha¯fiz at-Taqı¯ b. Ra¯fi , in addition to the hadı¯t ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ¯ transmitters (muhaddit) Abu¯ t-Tana¯’ al-Manbagˇ¯ı, Abu¯ Hafs asˇ-Sˇahtabı¯, asˇ-Sˇaraf ¯ ¯ ¯ ˙ ˙ ˙˙ ˙ Ya qu¯b al-Harı¯rı¯, al- Ima¯d Muhammad b. Mu¯sa¯ b. as-Sayragˇ¯ı, Ibn Umayla, Ibn ˙ ˙ an-Nagˇm, Ibn al-Hubal, Ibn as-Su¯qı¯, Sitt al- Arab, the granddaughter of al-Fahr ˘ b. al-Buha¯rı¯.59 This group is also known as the students of al-Fahr al-Buha¯rı¯, a ˘ ˘ ˘ high ranked hadı¯t-scholar and will play a vital role in the latter. In Jerusalem, his ˙ ¯ father established igˇa¯za¯t-connections by introducing him to az-Zayta¯wı¯. Despite his young age (he was three years old at that time), Ahmad received igˇa¯za¯t ˙ through the brokerage of his father. The Arabic term “ahdarahu¯”, which is used ˙˙ in the sources, indicates that Ahmad was actually present at the meetings and ˙ probably heard some knowledge transfer even though he could not understand the content due to his youth. Another type of igˇa¯za¯t-connections is indicated in the sourceses with the term “istagˇa¯za lahu¯.” It indicates that Ahmad either was ˙ not present at the meeting or that he did not hear any knowledge transfer. ˘

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Ibid., 131. Ibn Hagˇar, Raf , 60; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 1:337. ˙ a¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 1:337. ˙ ˙ ˘ As-Sah ˙ ˙ ˘ As-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 1:337. ˙ ˙ ˘ ˘

56 57 58 59

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Instead, his father requested an igˇa¯za for his son from scholars. Those conˇ u¯h¯ı, Abu¯ Hafs nections were additionally established with al- Urd¯ı, Ibn al-G ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ ˇ Umar b. Alı¯ b. Sayh ad-Dawla as-Suyu¯t¯ı, the last who narrates from al- Izz al˙ ˘ Harra¯nı¯.60 (Fig. 1) ˙ ˘

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Figure 1. The ig˘a¯za-network of al-Walı¯ Ahmad b. Abd ar-Rah¯ım al- Ira¯qı¯ in the age of three ˙ of his father. ˙ established by the “machmaking” brokerage

Later, Ahmad travelled to Damascus in the company of his father’s friend ˙ (rafı¯q) after the year 780/1378 for the second time. Ahmad was at the age of 18, ˙ 60 As-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 1:337. ˙ ˙ ˘

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ˇ ala¯l Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯ – kinship relations and the power of Al-G ˙ patronage ˘

3.3.

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an age in which scholars usually travelled in pursuit of knowledge, so that it can be concluded, that he was actually on the trip for in order to learn and to receive knowledge. However, during this trip he could not meet the scholars he achieved an igˇa¯za from, since they were already dead.61 This means on the one hand, that, although he got igˇa¯za¯t for certain knowledge, the actual learning and knowledge transfer took place by other scholars in the years after the issuing of these igˇa¯za¯t. On the other hand, it highlights the importance of his early trip, the temporal factor of brokerage and the narrow time window in which igˇa¯za¯t at-tifl could be ˙˙ established to achieve high isna¯ds. Figure 1 shows the mediated igˇa¯za network of al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ established by his father, az-Zayn al- Ira¯qı¯. The arrow ˙ indicates that al-Walı¯ Ahmad did not put any effort in these connections and that ˙ all the work, motivation, engagement and efforts came from his father. Hence, the arrows point from the actor to the person with whom the contact was to be established. Since this figure focuses on the al-Walı¯ Ahmad’s igˇa¯za¯t at-tifl, the ˙ ˙˙ educational ties between the scholars and az-Zayn, which are probably reciprocal, are ignored here. Certainly, the groups are connected to each other through trans-regional ties. Furthermore, it can be assumed that the scholars in each local group are connected to each other by educational ties and possibly by kinship ties, too. This is at least certain for the group of Damascus scholars who all were students of al-Fahr Ibn al-Buha¯rı¯62 (595 – 690/ 1198/9 – 1291) who was ˘ ˘ one of the most famous and high ranked narrators of his time (musnid ad-dunya¯ fı¯ zama¯nihı¯).

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Beside the mediation of igˇa¯za¯t in the youth of a scholar, the basic education was also usually provided by the parents, if they themselves were scholars. The son of one of the highest ranked scholars in Cairo at the end of the 14th and beginning of the 15th century, Sira¯gˇ ad-Dı¯n Umar b. Rasla¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯63, is a good example to illustrate how important the process of brokerage in the life of a scholar was. It shows that brokerage not only could lead to a successful educational career but was also important to establish important patronage ties to the ruling elite. As˘

61 As-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 1:337. See for a summarized description of Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯’s youth also ˙ – 121. ˙ Berkey˘ 1992,˙120 62 His full name is Fahr ad-Dı¯n Abu¯ l-Hasan Alı¯ b. Ahmad b. Abd al-Wa¯hid b. Ahmad al˙ ˙ of the ˇ ama¯ ¯ılı¯˘ than ad-Dimasˇqı¯˙ as-Sa¯lih¯ı al-H˙anbalı¯. Al-Fahr achieved one Maqdisı¯ al-G ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ highest ranks of narrators during this time. Cf. ad-Dahabı¯, Siyar, 2:2733. ¯ ¯ 63 He was born at 12 Sˇa ba¯n 724/8 August 1324. See for his biography Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, al-Manhal, 8:285 – 288; Ibn Hagˇar, Dayl ad-Durar, 132 – 134; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 6:85 – 90. ¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ ˘

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ˇ ala¯l ad-Dı¯n Abd arSira¯gˇ al-Bulqı¯nı¯ took over the basic education of his sons G Rahma¯n (762 – 824/1361 – 1421) and Alam ad-Dı¯n Sa¯lih (791 – 868/1389 – ˙ ˙ ˙ 1463 – 4). He taught them the Quran by heart, let them lead the tarawı¯h-prayer in ˙ the month of Ramada¯n and instructed them in the various fields of the Islamic ˙ sciences. However, with regard to children igˇa¯za¯t as-Saha¯wı¯ reports that as-Sira¯gˇ ˘ al-Bulqı¯nı¯ did not care a lot about establishing igˇa¯za¯t from high ranked scholars 64 ˇ ala¯l Abd ar-Rahma¯n. The reason for this might be the fact that as-Sira¯gˇ for al-G ˙ himself was a well recognized and high ranked scholar who possessed some high isna¯ds. However, in 769/1367 things changed a little, when as-Sira¯gˇ al-Bulqı¯nı¯ became the judge of Damascus. During this time, he established educational ties ˇ ala¯l who was about six years old. Among the scholars who granted for his son al-G him igˇa¯za¯t – as-Saha¯wı¯ reports that they were more than one hundred in number ˘ –also the students of al-Fahr Ibn al-Buha¯rı¯ were named.65 These connections ˘ ˘ made him belong to the same tabaqa as al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯. Besides the ˙ ˙ basic education and the introduction into the parents’ professional networks, children of well established scholars profited from their parents in a very practical and economic perspective. Often, the children inherited well paid or highly prestigious teaching positions from their parents or they benefited from their parent’s relations to the Mamluk elite. In the case of the al-Bulqı¯nı¯ family, this fact becomes clear with the regard to the position of na¯zir (supervisor) and ˙ that of the teacher of Sˇa¯fi ite fiqh in the al-Harra¯biyya school. The al-Harra¯biyya ˘ ˘ school was one of the most important schools of Sˇa¯fi ¯ı fiqh in Cairo; it was also called the school of Sˇa¯fi ¯ı. For almost a century, the very prestigious teaching positions in this school were held by a group of scholars related with each other through kinship ties. The first to hold both the position of teaching and of the na¯zir of this group, was the well known chief judge al-Baha¯’ Abd Alla¯h b. Abd ar¯ midı¯ asˇ-Sˇa¯fi ¯ı an-Nahawı¯ (700 – 769/1300/1 – 1367).66 He Rahma¯n Ibn Aqı¯l al-A ˙ ˙ held the positions for several years until he died in 769/1367.67 Instead of passing them down to one of his sons, as-Sira¯gˇ Umar al-Bulqı¯nı¯ received them from him. Umar himself was not only a close student of Ibn Aqı¯l but also, and probably more important, his son-in-law. As-Sira¯gˇ Umar alBulqı¯nı¯ was married to one of Ibn Aqı¯l’s daughters.68 Two of his sons, al-Badr ˇ ala¯l Abd ar-Rahma¯n, Muhammad b. Umar al-Bulqı¯nı¯69 who died early and al-G ˙ ˙ ˘

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As-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 4:107. ˙ aw’, 4:107. ˙ -D As-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, ad ˙ Ibn Hagˇar, Raf al-isr, 190. ˙ ˘ For his biography ˙ as-Saha¯wı¯, ad ˙ -Dayl ala¯ raf , 162. Unfortunately, Ibn Hagˇar did not Ibn Hagˇar, Raf al-isr, 190; ¯ ¯ ˙ ˙ mention when Ibn˙ Aqı¯l started ˘to teach in the al-Hasˇsˇa¯biyya. ˘ 68 Another daughter of Ibn Aqı¯l was married to Ibn al-Qatta¯n the guardian of Ibn Hagˇgˇar. As˙ ˙˙ ˇ awa¯hir, 1:121. Saha¯wı¯, al-G ˘ 69 Badr ad-Dı¯n Abu¯ l-Yaman Muhammad b. Umar b. Rasla¯n, who was born 756/1355, became a ˙ ˘

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were born from this marriage. After as-Sira¯gˇ held the positions for about forty ˇ ala¯l Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯, years till his death in 805/1403,70 his son, al-G ˙ received the positions next. He held the positions until his death in 824/1421, so that he held it for a duration of almost twenty years.71 Instead of passing them down to his son, his half-brother from another mother, al- Alam Sa¯lih al-Bulqı¯nı¯, ˙ ˙ took over the positions. He is reported to have held the positions for about twenty five years, so that the entire duration that this group held the position was about 100 years.72 Another benefit the al-Bulqı¯nı¯ family enjoyed was their excellent relations to the Mamluk elite. As-Sira¯gˇ Umar al-Bulqı¯nı¯ is reported to have established outstanding relations to the Sultan al-Malik az-Za¯hir Barqu¯q (r. ˙ ˙ 1382 – 1389, 1390 – 1399). Not only did he accompany him on a journey to Halab ˙ in 793 in which he began to teach the Sultan’s Mamluks, the Sultan even let him sit in his magˇlis above the four chief judges.73 It was during the reign of Baqru¯q’s ˇ ala¯l Abd arson an-Na¯sir Faragˇ (reg. 1399 – 1412), that as-Sira¯gˇ Umar’s son al-G ˙ Rahma¯n was appointed as chief judge in 804/1401. However, the appointment ˙ was not without the brokerage of some members of the Mamluk elite. Abd arRahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯ was ready to pay an amount of money for receiving this ˙ position. It is reported that the amir a¯hu¯r (officer of horses) Su¯du¯n Ta¯z helped ˙ ˘ him to receive this position. However, since the Su¯du¯n Ta¯z acted without informing the dawa¯da¯r kabı¯r ˙ ˇ akm, the latter became (secretary) G angry and refused to ride with him in the procession to the as-Sa¯lihiyya. Abd ar-Rahma¯n and his father went to his house ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ to apologize to him. Although the practice of taking academic and official reˇ akm has seen in it a means to ligious posts by paying money was common,74 G sabotage the appointment of Abd ar-Rahma¯n by pointing out that the practice of ˙ taking the position for offering money would not be legal according to the ˇsarı¯ a. It was as-Sira¯gˇ Umar al-Bulqı¯nı¯, who issued a fatwa¯ that legalized this practice ˇ akm, stating that taking the position of chief judge in exchange for infront of G money is legal as long as the person is qualified for the position.75 After alMu’ayyad Sˇayh took over the rule and became sultan he confirmed Abd ar˘ ˇ ala¯l Abd Rahma¯n as chief judge, so that it can be concluded, that, although al-G ˙ ar-Rahma¯n was qualified enough to receive this position, his appointment was ˙ ˘

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military judge through the brokerage of his father as-Sira¯gˇ. After his death in 791/1388, his brother Abd ar-Rahma¯n took over his position. As-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 4:108. For a short ˙ ˙ – 7. ˘ 3:336 biography of al-Badr˙ see Ibn Hagˇar, al-Magˇma al-mufahhris, ˙ ˇ Ibn Hagar, Raf al-isr, 190. ˙ a¯wı¯, ad-Dayl˙ ala¯ raf , 162. As-Sah ¯ ¯ As-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, ad-Dayl ala¯ raf , 162. ¯ ¯ ˘ Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, al-Manhal as-sa¯fı¯, 8:286. See for this Berkey 1992, 97.˙ ˙ As-Saha¯wı¯, Daw’, 4:108. ˙ ˘ ˘

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the result of his father’s brokerage: his father also had excellent connections to al-Mu’ayyad Sˇayh, that were existent since al-Mu’ayyad lead a rebellion against ˘ the ruling sultan an-Na¯sir Faragˇ during the first decade of the 15th century.76 Ibn ˙ Hagˇar narrated that as-Sira¯gˇ Umar al-Bulqı¯nı¯ was nominated several times for a ˙ judgeship in Cairo, but never was appointed.77 Certainly, these experiences made him acknowledge the importance of good patronage ties that he was eager to ˇ ala¯l Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯ himself establish for his son. In addition, al-G ˙ was married into the Mamluk elite. He married the daughters of Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, the father of the famous historian Yu¯suf b. Tag˙rı¯birdı¯.78 Certainly his and his father’s connection were a great help for him to achieve the position of the qad¯ı l-quda¯t. ˙ ˙ Figure 2 shows the educational and patronage network of the al-Bulqı¯nı¯s. All four types of relations are represented in the figure. Wherever multiplex relations existed, two lines with different colors are used according to the type of the relations. The relations between Ibn Aqı¯l and as-Sira¯gˇ Umar al-Bulqı¯nı¯, for example, were multiplex relations and are indicated with two lines – blue for the educational relation and red for the kinship relation. The same thing applies to ˇ ala¯l the relations between as-Sira¯gˇ and his two sons or the relations between al-G Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯ and al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯, who had friendship ˙ ˙ relations besides their educational relations. Ties of marriage are colored red, since they are perceived as kinship relations. However, it can be assumed that they were mostly mediated, so that they are depicted as dashed lines. By contrast, kinship ties between father and son etc. are illustrated in normal lines. The red circles represent mothers, wives and daughters of the particular person. For the same reason, the third son of as-Sira¯gˇ from his marriage to Ibn Aqı¯l’s daughter, is not mentioned in the figure. As in the previous figures, arrows indicate some kind of action and point in the direction in which the action is directed. For example, as-Sira¯gˇ requested child-igˇa¯za¯t from the students of al-Fahr al-Buha¯rı¯ ˘ ˘ ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯, which they granted him. Hence, the arrows for his son al-G point first in the direction of the students of al-Fahr al-Buha¯rı¯ in a blue colored line and ˘ ˘ ˇ ala¯l with another blue from there another arrow points in the direction of al-G colored but dashed line. Similar can be said about the black patronage ties and the direction of arrows. The larger circle around the scholars indicates the different spheres or social strata – those of the Mamluk elite and those of inter-scholar relations. While the dotted line represents the difficult relation between the great dawa¯da¯r and the al˘

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76 Levanoni 2012, 9. 77 Ibn Hagˇar, Dayl ad-durar, 133. Unfortunately, Ibn Hagˇar did not mention the reason why as¯ Sira¯gˇ˙ Umar al-Bulqı¯nı¯ was not appointed as judge˙ eventually. 78 Abd ar-Rahma¯n who was married to Huwand Bayram bt. Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, cared also for the ˙ Yusuf b. Tag˙rı¯birdı¯ after his ˘ father died. See Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, an-Nugˇu¯m azeducation of ¯ za¯hira, 14:74. ˘

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Bulqı¯nı¯s, the interrupted black line represents the fact that Su¯du¯n excluded him ˇ ala¯l’s appointment. The black lines indicate during the decision making of al-G the patronage ties that can also be direct or due to a brokerage and hence is dashed. Another interesting aspect of the interaction shown in figure 2, is that actions overcome borders of social strata for purpose-orientated actions. As long as both actors profit from transactional they perceive each other as equal. In this case, horizontal borders of society (such as class, etc.), in which transaction normally takes place among members of the same social strata, are not perceived ˇ ala¯l Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯’s connections as barriers. In the example of al-G ˇ ala¯˙ l Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯ to the Mamluk elite, it can be said that al-G ˙ profited from this transaction with regard of his appointment as chief judge. It can also be assumed that the Mamluk elite profited from the transaction with the ulama¯’ for the religious legitimization of their politics.79 ˘

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Ibn Hagˇar and the asymmetric threat of excluding the third ˙ ˘

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ˇ ala¯l Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯, By contrast to al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ and al-G ˙ ˙ 80 Ahmad Ibn Hagˇar’s father Alı¯ Ibn Hagˇar died before he could take care of Ibn ˙ ˙ ˙ Hagˇar’s education, making him an orphan before he turned four. The circum˙ stances of his death are unclear. It might be that he fell ill, since he got to appoint two guardians (was¯ı) before he died in 777/1375, Zakı¯ d-Dı¯n al-Hurru¯bı¯ and ˙ ˘ Sˇams ad-Dı¯n Ibn al-Qatta¯n.81 The first of them, who took care of his education, ˙˙ was the merchant Zakı¯ d-Dı¯n Abu¯ Bakr b. Nu¯r ad-Dı¯n Alı¯ al-Hurru¯bı¯ (d. 787/ ˘ 1385). He sent Ibn Hagˇar (b. 773/1372)82 to the al-maktab (“primary schools”)83 ˙ at the age of five in 778/1376. It is not mentioned by as-Saha¯wı¯ that Ibn Hagˇar ˙ ˘ received any education or child-igˇa¯za¯t in the years before he entered the al84 maktab, neither by his father nor by al-Hurru¯bı¯. In 784 – 5/1382, al-Hurru¯bı¯ ˘ ˘ travelled with Ibn Hagˇar to Mecca where Ibn Hagˇar made his first hagˇgˇ. More˙ ˙ ˙ ˘

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79 For the relations between the ulama¯’ and the Mamluk elites see Lev 2009. For the challenged and changing relation between both in the Circassian period see Levanoni 2012. For the transactional perspective of network analysis see the interesting remarks of Streck 1985 and 2000. Transaction is understood in the definition of Boissevain: “By transaction I mean an interaction between two actors that is governed by the principle that the value gained from the interaction must be equal to or greater than the cost (value lost).” Boissevain 1978, 25. 80 He was born around 720/around 1320, became a known scholar and specialized in literature and poetry. He also had friendship relations to Ibn Aqı¯l (suhba, ka¯na Ibn Aqı¯l yuhibbuhu ˙ He died 13th of Rag˙ˇ ab 777/ wa-yu zzimuhu) under whom he was deputy qa¯d¯ı for some˙ time. ˙ ˙ Hagˇar, Inba¯’ al-g˙umr, 1:116 – 117. 1375. See for his biography Ibn 12th of˙December ˙ 81 See Rahma¯nı¯ 1972, 79. th nd ˇ 82 He was born on 22 of Sa ba¯n 773/29 February 1372. Fazil 1958, 28. 83 Translation used by Berkey 1992, 28. ˇ awa¯hir, 1:121. 84 As-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Dayl ala¯ raf al-isr, 76; ibid, al-G ¯ ¯ ˙ ˘ ˘

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Figure 2 shows the network of the al-Bulqı¯nı¯ family, their marital and kinship connections among each other, the positions of the al-Hasˇsˇa¯biyya and their connections to the Mamluk elite. ˘

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over, al-Hurru¯bı¯ introduced him to Abd Alla¯h b. Muhammad b. Muhammad b. ˙ ˙ ˘ Sulayma¯n an-Nı¯sa¯bu¯rı¯ an-Nasˇa¯warı¯ (d. 790/1388), who was a famous hadı¯t ˙ ¯ scholar in Mecca, and the last one who was narrating from ar-Rad¯ı at-Tabarı¯, ˙ ˙ ˙ who was an important hadı¯t scholar from an earlier generation (tabaqa). In his ˙ ¯ ˙ sessions, Ibn Hagˇar heard the “Sah¯ıh al-Buha¯rı¯” with an-Nasˇa¯warı¯, which was his ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ first isna¯d for this hadı¯t collection. The sessions were held at a place that was ˙ ¯ very close to the place where al-Hurru¯bı¯ used to stay in Mecca. ˘ As-Saha¯wı¯ emphasizes that when Ibn Hagˇar reached the age of twelve years, ˙ ˘ he did not put much effort to attend (bi-g˙ayr qasd wa-la¯ talab). Rather, it can be ˙ ˙ assumed that Ibn Hagˇar’s participation in these sessions was motivated by his ˙

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guardian al-Hurru¯bı¯.85 In these sessions, the aha¯dı¯t were read (bi-qira¯’a) by ˙ ¯ ˘ Sˇiha¯b ad-Dı¯n Ahmad b. Muhammad b. Ahmad b. Muhammad ad-Dimasˇqı¯ al˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Harı¯rı¯ who was also known as as-Sala¯wı¯. Later Ibn Hagˇar often accompanied him ˙ ˙ and praised him for his high isna¯d, from which Ibn Hagˇar profited a lot.86 In ˙ Mecca during the same year, Ibn Hagˇar prayed the tara¯wı¯h which was regarded ˙ ˙ as a normal practice after one finished memorizing the Quran.87 With regard to the scope of this paper it should be concluded, that these important contacts were established for the twelve year old Ibn Hagˇar by the matchmaking bro˙ kerage of his guardian, al-Hurru¯bı¯.After the death of al-Hurru¯bı¯ in 787/1385, ˘ ˘ Sˇams ad-Dı¯n Muhammad b. Alı¯ Ibn al-Qatta¯n88 became his guardian. He was ˙ ˙˙ already Ibn Hagˇar’s teacher in fiqh and a close friend of his father (ka¯na bihı¯ ˙ ihtisa¯s). Ibn Hagˇar must have been fourteen or fifteen years old then. Although ˙ ˘ ˙ ˙ as-Saha¯wı¯ listed Ibn al-Qatta¯n as one of Ibn Hagˇar’s teacher,89 the relationship ˙ ˙˙ ˘ between the two seems not to have been very good. According to as-Saha¯wı¯, Ibn ˘ Hagˇar composed a poem in which he accused Ibn al-Qatta¯n of embezzling his ˙ ˙˙ 90 inheritance and wishes for him to burn in hell. Al-Biqa¯ ¯ı narrates that Ibn alQatta¯n did not care much about Ibn Hagˇar. Apparently, he neither gave him good ˙ ˙˙ advices for learning certain books (lam yansah lahu)91 nor introduced him to ˙ ˙ famous scholars (irsˇa¯duhu ila¯ l-masˇa¯yih), while he was sending his own children ˘ to scholars without even informing Ibn Hagˇar about it.92 ˙ It is worth mentioning that Ibn Hagˇar was very familiar with at least one of ˙ Ibn al-Qatta¯n’s children. His son Muhammad used to visit the same al-maktab ˙ ˙˙ like Ibn Hagˇar.93 It can also be concluded that Ibn al-Qatta¯n taught Ibn Hagˇar in ˙ ˙ ˙˙ his early childhood, i. e. before he became his guardian. Taking into consideration that Ibn al-Qatta¯n introduced his own children to famous scholars in ˙˙ their early childhood, makes clear that it was a conscious decision not to do the same for Ibn Hagˇar. Hence, it can be said that Ibn al-Qatta¯n excluded Ibn Hagˇar ˙ ˙ ˙˙ from mediated educational ties he established for his children or – to put it in other words – Ibn Hagˇar experienced the asymmetric thread of exclusion in a ˙ brokerage process. The absence of a mediator and a matchmaking brokerage is expressed by as-Saha¯wı¯ explicitly : “If he [Ibn Hagˇar] had found someone who ˙ ˘ feels responsible for his education, he would have been connected to people, the ˘

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ˇ awa¯hir, 1:122. As-Saha¯wı¯, al-G ˇ awa¯hir, 1:122. As-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, al-G ˇ awa¯hir, 1:122. As-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, al-G Short ˘biography of Ibn Qatta¯n in Kawash 1970, 85. As-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Dayl ala¯ raf˙˙ al-isr, 77. ¯ ˇ¯ ˙ As-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, al-G awa¯hir, 1:125, “akala bnu l-qatta¯ni ma¯liya zulman ya¯ ila¯ha l-wara¯ fa-slihı¯ ˙˙ wa-gˇ al lahu ˙ l-gˇah¯ıma has¯ıran“ ˙ sa ¯ıran˘ rabbi wa-bsut lahu l- ada¯ba basa¯tan rabbi ¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 91 For the importance of giving advices see below “isˇa¯ra” 92 Al-Biqa¯ ¯ı, Inwa¯n az-zama¯n, 1:117. ˇ awa¯hir, 1:121 – 2. 93 As-Saha¯wı¯, al-G ˘

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students of which he was later connected to. It would have been possible [for him] to hear from the students (asha¯b) of al-Fahr Ibn al-Buha¯rı¯, the students of ˙˙ ˘ ˘ al-Wa¯sit¯ı and Ibn Mu’min, the students of Ibn Ta¯gˇ al-Umana¯’ and al-Abraqu¯hı¯, ˙ and the students of ad-Dimya¯t¯ı, or at least it would have been possible to receive ˙ an igˇa¯za from them. But none of that happened, since he had no relative or friend who felt responsible for his education in this time.”94 For the argument of the present paper, the fact that Ibn Hagˇar could have been connected to the students ˙ of al-Fahr Ibn al-Buha¯rı¯ (asha¯b), needs to be emphasized. As-Saha¯wı¯ explicitly ˙ ˙ ˘ ˘ ˘ stated that it would have been possible for Ibn Hagˇar to achieve igˇa¯za¯t from ˙ them. He also underlined the necessity of a mediator to establish these igˇa¯za¯t. Taking into consideration the fact, that in 780/1378 the students of al-Fahr Ibn al˘ Buha¯rı¯ were already dead, it would have been the duty of either Ibn Hagˇar’s ˙ ˘ father until he died or that of Ibn Hagˇar’s two guardians to request igˇa¯za¯t at-tifl ˙ ˙˙ for Ibn Hagˇar. Hence, if they had established any mediated educational ties for ˙ Ibn Hagˇar (b. 773/1372), he would have been regarded in the same tabaqa as the ˙ ˙ eleven years older al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ (b. 762/1360). Ibn Hagˇar profited at ˙ ˙ least from one brokerage relationship, i. e. Ibn al-Qatta¯n arranged the first ˙˙ marriage of Ibn Hagˇar with Uns Ha¯tu¯n in 798/1395.95 However, Ibn Hagˇar ap˙ ˙ ˘ parently did not fully recognize the service his guardian rendered for him. Uns Ha¯tu¯n was the daughter of the judge and na¯zir al-gˇaysˇ (military officer), Karı¯m ˙ ˘ ad-Dı¯n b. Ahmad b. Abd al- Azı¯z al-Lahmı¯ and her mother was Sara¯h bt. Mu˙ ˘ hammad b. Uns who was a daughter of Manku¯tmu¯r, na¯’ib as-Sulta¯n (viceroy).96 ˙ ˙ Both directions could have been an opportunity for Ibn Hagˇar to great benefit, ˙ that he did not take. Although, Ibn Hagˇar profited from his wife in a material ˙ sense, since he lived in the house of the Manku¯tmu¯riyya madrasa which was founded by the great-great-grand-father Manku¯tmu¯r for a long time, Ibn Hagˇar ˙ did not use the potential ties he had to the Mamluk elite sufficiently.97 As for her ˇ ala¯l Ibn Nuba¯ta and Ibn paternal side, her father had some valued isna¯d from al-G al-Bu¯rı¯, while her uncle al-Badr Hasan b. Abd al- Azı¯z heard from al-Hagˇgˇa¯r and ˇ ˙ama¯ a, who were also taught by two˙ very high Abd ar-Rahma¯n b. Mahlu¯f b. G ˙ ˘ ranked narrators such as al-Fahr Ibn al-Buha¯rı¯. But Ibn Hagˇar did not use these ˙ ˘ ˘ opportunities either, as as-Saha¯wı¯ reports.98 ˘ ˘

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ˇ awa¯hir, 1:125 – 126. “wa-law wugˇida man ya tanı¯ bihı¯ fı¯ sig˙arihı¯ la-adraka 94 As-Saha¯wı¯, al-G ˙ ri bni l-buha¯rı¯ halqan˘ mimman ahada an asha¯bihim id ka¯na s-sama¯ u min asha¯bi l-fah ¯ ¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ ˘tumma min asha¯bi˘l-wa ˇ ¯ sit¯ı wa-bni mu’minin tumma min asha¯bi bni ta¯gi ˘l-umana¯’i wa-l¯ ¯ ˙ ˙ min ash˙a¯bi d-dimya¯t¯ı mumkinan ˙˙ abraqu¯hı¯ tumma wa-l-igˇazatu minhum la¯kinnahu¯ lam ¯ ˙ ˙ ya tanı¯ bi-ha ˙¯ da l-fanni min-a l-a¯li wa-l-asha¯bi fı¯ ha¯da z-zama¯ni yattafiq da¯lika li-faqdi man ¯ ¯ ¯ ˙˙ l-ah¯ıri.” ˘ a¯wı¯, al-G ˇ awa¯hir, 3:1208. 95 As-Sah ˇ awa¯hir, 3:1207. 96 As-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, al-G ˇ awa¯hir, 3:1208. 97 As-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, al-G ˇ awa¯hir, 3:1208. 98 As-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, al-G ˘ ˘

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Figure 3a shows the educational network of Ibn Hagˇar in his youth until he ˙ reached the age of eighteen. The arrows should indicate that none of the established ties go back on the initiative of Ibn Hagˇar. Instead he was rather passive ˙ than active – at least in his youth – until he was around eighteen years old. All four different types of ties are included, i. e. green for friendship, red for kinship, blue for educational, and black for patronage ties. Normal lines illustrate a dyadic relationship; for example, the friendship relation between Ibn Hagˇar’s ˙ father and al-Hurru¯bı¯, al-Ibna¯sı¯ and Ibn al-Qatta¯n. Dashed lines refer to the ˙ ˙ ˘ relationships that were established through brokerage. Multiplex relations are expressed with more lines; one line for each type of relation, as illustrated by the examples of Ibn Hagˇar’s guardians. On the one hand, they were friends of Ibn ˙ Hagˇar’s father, while, on the other hand, they were his teachers. (Since they took ˙ care of him due to their relationship to his father, they are colored red and marked as kinship ties, while their educational relations to Ibn Hagˇar are marked ˙ blue.) Whenever an arrow is included, that means that there has been a dynamic relation and an action involved. Figure 3b shows the potential ties to the highest musnids (the students of alFahr al-Buha¯rı¯) that have not been established. The interrupted dashed blue ˘ ˘ lines represent these possible educational ties and illustrate the exclusions of Ibn Hagˇar by his father and his two guardians. In addition to that, the other inter˙ rupted blue dashed line illustrates the potential educational ties that Ibn Hagˇar ˙ could have established himself though the brokerage of his father-in-law. The same is to say about the interrupted black dashed line: Ibn Hagˇar could have ˙ established patronage ties to the ruling Mamluk elite through the brokerage of his mother-in-law but did not do so. ˇ ala¯l alFor a better understanding al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ as well as al-G ˙ Bulqı¯nı¯ and their mediated relations to the students of al-Fahr al-Buha¯rı¯, and ˘ ˘ Muhammad b. Muhammad b. Alı¯ Ibn al-Qatta¯n with his mediated relations to ˙ ˙ ˙˙ his father’s educational network are included. This way, the asymmetric thread of exclusion within the process of brokerage that Ibn Hagˇar experienced be˙ comes clearer. ˘

3.5.

ˇ ala¯l and Ibn Hagˇar depending on their The tabaqa¯t-status of al-Walı¯, al-G ˙ ˙ child-igˇa¯za¯t

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In this subsequence, the results of the analysis above are compared with each other. Lights are shed on the igˇa¯za¯t-connections in the early years of al-Walı¯ ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯ as well as the not established connections Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ and al-G ˙ of al-Ha¯fiz Ibn Hagˇar. Particularly, the igˇa¯za¯t of al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ and al˙ ˇ ala¯l ˙were˙ such˙that could not have been established without G the brokerage of ˘

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Figure 3a. Ibn Hagˇar’s educational network in his youth ˙ agˇar’s failed brokerage ties Figure 3b. Ibn H ˙

their fathers. This also means that no actual knowledge transfer had taken place. Both scholars were too young to understand the reading of knowledge that mostly took place during the official ceremony of issuing the igˇa¯za. Instead, they received their basic education and their advanced studies from their fathers and

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other scholars in Cairo. The tabaqa-status of the three scholars is illustrated in ˙ figure 4. To set their standing in a larger context some other scholars and their status are included. They are divided and categorized in different tabaqa¯t ˙ (generations in the technical sence of the word). The tabaqa¯t must be generally ˙ understood as overlapping relations rather than clear cut ones. Usually, one scholar can belong to different generations (tabaqa) depending on his place ˙ within a certain isna¯d. He might hold an high isna¯d that let him belong to the first tabaqa, for example, and might hold another low isna¯d that him belong to the ˙ second or even third tabaqa. For the purpose of this paper, though, the depiction ˙ of the tabaqa¯t-status is simplified – and to a certain extent constructed – so that ˙ every scholar is located in only one tabaqa. ˙ The first layer is defined as the first tabaqa. This tabaqa is just indicated; but ˙ ˙ it is clear, that the third tabaqa, i. e. as-Sira¯gˇ al-Bulqı¯nı¯, az-Zayn al- Ira¯qı¯, al˙ Ibna¯sı¯ and Ibn Qatta¯n were connected to them. Al-Fahr Ibn al-Buha¯rı¯ must have ˙˙ ˘ ˘ belonged to it. The students of al-Fahr Ibn al-Buha¯rı¯ and Ibn Aqı¯l (father-in-law ˘ ˘ of as-Sira¯gˇ Umar al-Bulqı¯nı¯ and of Sˇams ad-Dı¯n Ibn al-Qatta¯n – the guardian of ˙˙ Ibn Hagˇgˇar) belong to the second tabaqa. The third tabaqa is represented by as˙ ˙ ˇ ˙ Sira¯gˇ Umar al-Bulqı¯nı¯ (father of al-Gala¯l Abd ar-Rahma¯n and al- Alam Sa¯lih al˙ ˙ ˙ Bulqı¯nı¯), Sˇams ad-Dı¯n Ibn al-Qatta¯n (guardian of Ibn Hagˇar), Burha¯n ad-Dı¯n ˙ ˙˙ Ibra¯hı¯m b. Mu¯sa¯ al-Ibna¯sı¯ (a close friend of Ibn Hagˇar’s father)99 and az-Zayn ˙ Abd ar-Rah¯ım al- Ira¯qı¯ (father of al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯). The three scholars of ˙ ˙ the case studies above belong to the fourth and fifth tabaqa, although they ˙ belomg to the same generation in the common sense of the word. Al- Alam Sa¯lih ˙ ˙ ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı al-Bulqı¯nı¯ (son of as-Sira¯gˇ al-Bulqı¯nı¯ and half-brother of al-G ¯) is ˇ ala¯l Abd ar-Rahma¯n aladded to Ibn Hagˇar, al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ and al-G ˙ ˇ ˙ ˙ Bulqı¯nı¯. The sixth tabaqa is represented by the sons of Ibn Hagˇar and al-G ala¯l ˙ ˙ Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯.Figure 4 shows clearly the multiplexity of of relations ˙ among this group of ulama¯’. Most of the mentioned scholars are not only connected to each other by educational ties, but also through kinship and friendship ties. For example, Ibn Aqı¯l is not only the father-in-law of as-Sira¯gˇ alBulqı¯nı¯ and Ibn al-Qatta¯n, he also was their teacher. One of the main findigs of ˙˙ ˇ alal al-Bulqı¯nı¯ and al-Walı¯ Ahmad the analysis above is that the affiliation of al-G ˙ al- Ira¯qı¯ to the fourth and of Ibn Hagˇar to the fifth tabaqa depends on the ˙ ˙ successful or failed brokerage. All three scholars shared the same teachers (third ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯ and al-Walı¯ al- Ira¯qı¯ received child tabaqa). However, only al-G ˙ igˇa¯za¯t from scholars of the second tabaqa by the brokerage of their fathers. Ibn ˙ Hagˇar could also have belonged to the fourth tabaqa. However – as mentioned ˙ ˙ above – due to a lack of brokerage, he could not establish connections to the students of al-Fahr Ibn al-Buha¯rı¯ so that he is regarded one tabaqa below al-Walı¯ ˙ ˘ ˘ ˘

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ˇ awa¯hir, 1:128. The relation is described with the Arabic term “min asha¯bihı¯.” 99 As-Saha¯wı¯, al-G ˙˙ ˘

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ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯. The same can be said in the case of alAhmad al- Ira¯qı¯ and al-G ˙ ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯). He received his edAlam Sa¯lih al-Bulqı¯nı¯ (half-brother of al-G ˙ ˙ ucation from the scholars of the third tabaqa. But since he was born after the ˙ students of al-Fahr Ibn al-Buha¯rı¯ were already dead, he did not have the chance ˘ ˘ to elevate to the fourth tabaqa. ˙ As a consequence, the tabaqa affiliation becomes important too, when it ˙ comes to knowledge transfer. While knowledge exchange (a flow in both directions) within the same tabaqa seemed to be common, a cross-tabaqa transfer ˙ ˙ of knowledge is by nature unilateral. However, scholars belonging to a lower tabaqa can – in rare cases – transfer knowledge to scholars belonging to an ˙ upper tabaqa. In this case, the tabaqa affiliation for the certain knowledge is ˙ ˙ ˇ ala¯l reversed. Such a situation is found between Ibn Hagˇar (fifth tabaqa) and al-G ˙ ˙ al-Bulqı¯nı¯ (fourth tabaqa) as well as Ibn Hagˇar and Ibn al-Qatta¯n (third tabaqa). ˙ ˙ ˙˙ ˙ The knowledge exchange between them went both ways – which is indicated with the arrows that represent the knowledge flow direction. Ibn Hagˇar was reported ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯ a lot (mula¯zama kat˙¯ıra), while al-G ˇ ala¯l to have accompanied al-G ¯ al-Bulqı¯nı¯ profited from Ibn Hagˇar’s writings, namely his introduction to the ˙ “Sah¯ıh al-Buha¯rı¯.”100 It was also reported that Ibn al-Qatta¯n profited from Ibn ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙˙ ˘ Hagˇar’s outstanding hadı¯t knowledge and that he heard from Ibn Hagˇar the ¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ biography of al-Buha¯rı¯.101 By contrast, the knowledge exchange between Ibn ˘ Hagˇar (fifth tabaqa) and al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ (fourth tabaqa) was just one˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ directional. Ibn Hagˇar listed al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ in his masˇyaha, but did not ˙ ˙ ˘ mention that al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ took any knowledge from him.102 Hence, it ˙ ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯ can be concluded that although al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ and al-G ˙ basically presented the same tabaqa, al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ might be regarded ˙ ˙ ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı slightly above al-G ¯nı¯. This has of course something to do with their ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯ was described as not taking much inknowledge expertise. Al-G terest in the hadı¯t science, although his father established some high isna¯ds for ˙ ¯ him. But one disadvantage he suffered from was indeed the fact that his father ˇ ala¯l Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯ rewas already a well established scholar. Al-G ˙ 103 ceived most of his sama a¯t from his father. But this fact obviously makes the ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯. In terms of difference between al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ and al-G ˙ the status of a scholar not only his position in the tabaqa-system is important, ˙ his knowledge expertise plays also a crucial role, as will be further argued below. The relation between Ibn Hagˇar (fifth tabaqa) and al- Alam Sa¯lih al-Bulqı¯nı¯ (fifth ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ tabaqa) can be regarded from a similar perspective. Although both were re˙

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Ibn Hagˇar, al-Magˇma al-mufahris, 3:155. ˙ a¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 9:10. As-Sah Ibn H˘agˇar, al-Magˇma al-mufahris, 3:42 – 50. ˙ a¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 4:107. As-Sah ˙ ˙ ˘ ˘ ˘

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garded as representatives of the same tabaqa, al- Alam was taught by Ibn Hagˇar ˙ ˙ in affairs of hadı¯t science,104 while Ibn Hagˇar did not receive any knowledge from ˙ ˙ ¯ him. Hence, he did not list him up in his masˇyaha. Colors and styles of the lines ˘ are equal to that of the previous figures. The interrupted dashed blue line again illustrates the possible connection between Ibn Hagˇar and the students of al˙ Fahr Ibn al-Buha¯rı¯ that was not established. ˘ ˘

Figure 4 shows all four scholars, their connections and relations to each other as well as to their teachers. Also indicated, the tabaqa¯t overlap and the direction of kowledge transfer. ˙

3.6.

Concluding notes

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In the three examples, the importance of brokerage in a scholar’s life was illustrated. Al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ experienced a successful matchmaking bro˙ kerage approached by his father. It resulted in a couple of child igˇa¯za¯t from narrators of high isna¯d from Damascus and Cairo. Due to his fathers’s brokerage, al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ maintained a highe isna¯d and established ties to the ˙ students of al-Fahr Ibn al-Buha¯rı¯. Since his father az-Zayn al- Ira¯qı¯ himself was a ˘ ˘ specialist in hadı¯t studies and possessed highe isna¯ds he knew about the value of ˙ ¯ the temporal factor for the child igˇa¯za¯t and the impact it could have on the later ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯ rendered a similar academic life of his son. The father of al-G service for his son. Not only did as-Sira¯gˇ al-Bulqı¯nı¯ establish some important educational ties in Damascus and connected him to the students of al-Fahr Ibn ˘ al-Buha¯rı¯; he also established important patronage ties, using his own con˘ ˘

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104 As-Saha¯wı¯, Dayl raf , 157. ¯ ˘

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nections to the Mamluk elite. It was his connections to the Mamluk elite that ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯ being appointed chief judge and thus established finally led al-G successful patronage ties to the two sultans an-Na¯sir Faragˇ and al-Mu’ayyad ˙ Sˇayh. In addition, the teaching position and the position of the na¯zir of the ˙ ˘ prestigious al-Harra¯biyya school remained in “family property.” In this case, ˘ brokerage was used to build important educational and patronage ties as well as to control valuable resources. By contrast to the two examples above, the childhood of Ibn Hagˇar al- Asqala¯nı¯ with regard to his academic career was not ˙ that lucky. Neither his father nor his two guardians really took care of establishing possible educational ties to the students of al-Fahr Ibn al-Buha¯rı¯. These ˘ ˘ ties would have made Ibn Hagˇar belong to the same tabaqa as his elder ac˙ ˙ ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯. Acknowledging the quaintances al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ and al-G ˙ age difference between them, Ibn Hagˇar would probably maintained a higher ˙ level within this tabaqa. With regard to the role of brokerage in the life of the ˙ young Ibn Hagˇar, it is to say that he suffered from an unsuccessful brokerage. In ˙ the case of his guardian Ibn al-Qatta¯n, it can even be said that he experienced the ˙˙ asymmetric threat of being excluded as well as the power of the broker to control resources, since Ibn al-Qatta¯n introduced his own son to his educational net˙˙ work while not taking Ibn Hagˇar with him nor even inform him about. ˙ ˘

4.

Interpersonal relations between teachers and students

In this section, a closer look at the interpersonal relations between the scholars in terms of their status and hierarchy is taken. The focus will thereby be the “scholarly acumen skills”, as Levanoni describes them. Going beyond the often discussed topics such as lecturing and academic debates (muna¯zara¯t),105 a ˙ deeper insight in the scholarly interpersonal relationships and the creation of scholarly hierarchies will be granted. The interpersonal relationships will be seen as “channels for transfer or ‘flow’ of resources (either material or nonmaterial)”106, that regulate and control social capital and the resource “knowledge”. Besides the tabaqa¯t-status, the hierarchical status of the scholars depend ˙ on their professional skill that is usually certificated and confirmed by the igˇa¯za¯t at-tadrı¯s wa-igˇa¯zat al-ifta¯’ that can be defined “as a credential that established qualification for employment in judicial and teaching posts.”107 However, students usually have to prove their own capability through relations and actions such as constant accompaniment (mula¯zama), the collection of high isna¯ds from 105 See for example Chamberlain 2002, 153 – 167 and Berkey 1992, 20 – 42. 106 Wasserman, Faust 1994, 4; and Harders 2000, 23. 107 Stewart 2004, 63; Fernandes 2002, 96 – 97; Berkey 1992, 21. See also Lev 2009, 9.

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the teacher’s marwiyya¯t (tahrı¯gˇ), writing blurbs (taqrı¯z). If the student’s service ˙ ˘ is accepted by the teachers, students then achieve advices (nas¯ıha/isˇa¯ra) from ˙˙ their teachers, blurbs (taqrı¯z) for their own writings, praises for their capability ˙ (al-madh wa-sˇ-sˇaha¯da) or permissions to teach and to give fata¯wa¯ (igˇa¯za at˙ tadrı¯s wa-l-ifta¯’). This present study argues that Ibn Hagˇar managed to become ˙ one of the most prestigious and acknowledged hadı¯t scholars, because he un˙ ¯ derstood the “academic rules” of interpersonal relations between the teacher and the student. His academic networking ultimately compensated the lack of the high children-igˇa¯za¯t he could have achieved though brokerage.

4.1.

Status and knowledge expertise

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The relationship between the teacher and his student can be regarded as the most crucial factor for the later prestige of a student. During the years of the primary education and advanced study, the student received many opportunites to prove his ability to pursue a career scholar and to gain more attention from his teacher. Due to the high amount of students who had to learn from a single teacher, students had to show high engagement and motivation as well as the willingness to take over additional duties and services. In this paper, this interpersonal type of relationship is regarded as kind of system of resource administration and distribution. A student’s effort and the resulting teacher’s attention are seen as an exchange relationship in which especially the teacher’s advice is a reaction to the student’s effort. However, it should be mentioned that it seems that there is no definite structure or ranking in this exchange relation. Although it is likely that the student initiated the relation with showing engagement and motivation, it is possible that a teacher grants favor without a foregoing effort of the student. In the following, the different levels of the teacher-student exchange relation will ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯, as well be explored in more detailed with regard to Ibn Hagˇar, al-G ˙ as al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ and their teachers. However, due to the problem of ˙ sources discussed above, the focus will lie on the relations between Ibn Hagˇar ˙ and his teachers. Information is taken mostly from as-Saha¯wı¯’s biography of Ibn ˘ Hagˇar and the latter’s masˇyaha. Both contain a detailed insight in the educa˙ ˘ tional structure of his career. By contrast, information about the other two scholars is preserved in the entries of the biographical dictionaries that are limited in scope and extent. However, the lack of information implies by no means that the different levels of the exchange relation with their teachers have not existed.

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Student’s mula¯zama

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Normally, the first step that shaped the relationship between a student and his teacher began in the student’s childhood years. Introduced by one of the parents, the young student learned the basics of the Islamic disciplines. As shown in the ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯, the examples of al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯, Ibn Hagˇar and al-G ˙ ˙ young student has little effort to put in this educational stage, since their parents care for the education, arrange meetings and introduce them to other scholars. However, at a certain age or class the student was expected to show interest and engagement. As-Saha¯wı¯ mentioned in the biography of Ibn Hagˇar that he started ˙ ˘ to study seriously at the age of eighteen when he frequently accompanied (la¯zamahu¯ kat¯ıran) his guardian, Ibn al-Qatta¯n.108 Showing motivation, engagement ¯ ˙˙ and frequent companionship as well as the volition to take over some duties within a learning session, were very likely considered as a first step in deepening the teacher – student relationship. Ibn Hagˇar is reported of being in frequent ˙ companionship (mula¯zama) for all his more influential teachers, az-Zayn Abd ar-Rah¯ım al- Ira¯qı¯, as-Sira¯gˇ Umar al-Bulqı¯nı¯, Sˇams ad-Dı¯n Ibn al-Qatta¯n, and ˙ ˙˙ Burha¯n ad-Dı¯n Ibra¯hı¯m b. Mu¯sa¯ al-Ibna¯sı¯, in addition to al-Burha¯n Ibra¯hı¯m at109 ¯ damı¯. Furthermore, Ibn Hagˇar took over the task of Tanu¯h¯ı and an-Nu¯r al-A ˙ ˘ reading (istimla¯’) in the imla¯’-session of az-Zayn Abd ar-Rah¯ım al- Ira¯qı¯.110 In ˙ addition he took over the duty of reading in the fiqh session of as-Sira¯gˇ al-Buqı¯nı¯ and also recorded the attendants’ names.111 Another scholar Ibn Hagˇar fre˙ ˇ ala¯l Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯, which is an additional quently visited, was al-G ˙ ˇ ala¯l should be regarded as representative of a hint for the assumption that al-G higher tabaqa (see fig. 4).112 This engagement should not be regarded as granted: ˙ On the one hand, it demonstrated the teacher that the student is highly motivated and eager to learn, on the other hand, these extra duties can be interpreted as the teachers trust in the student to fulfill these tasks even at a young age. ˘

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ˇ awa¯hir, 1:124. As-Saha¯wı¯, al-G ˇ awa¯hir, 1:127 – 128; and idem, ad-Dayl, 77 – 79. As-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, al-G ¯ ¯ Ibn H˘agˇar, al-Magˇma , 2:187. ˙ 1970, 117; Ibn Hagˇar, al-Magˇma , 2:187. Kawash ˙ Ibn Hagˇar, al-Magˇma , 3:155. ˙ ˘

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Service of tAhrı¯gˇ ˘ A good way to prove the own ability and educational maturity was to receive a scientific task by the teacher. Already reached a certain level of education, the teacher az-Zayn Abd ar-Rah¯ım al- Ira¯qı¯, as-Sira¯gˇ Umar al-Bulqı¯nı¯, and al˙ Burha¯n Ibra¯hı¯m at-Tanu¯h¯ı granted Ibn Hagˇar access to their marwiyya¯t, i. e. ˙ ˘ their personal chains of transmission of aha¯dı¯t and books etc. they collected ˙ ¯

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during their scientific career. Ibn Hagˇar, then, demonstrated his scholarly ca˙ pability by working with these marwiyya¯t. He analyzed the different chains of transmissions of the aha¯dı¯t and collected those aha¯dı¯t for his teachers that had ˙ ¯ ˙ ¯ the shortest isna¯d possible for their time and tabaqa. The first tahrı¯gˇ he collected ˙ ˘ was that of al-Burha¯n Ibra¯hı¯m at-Tanu¯h¯ı in 796, who was regarded as the scholar ˘ with the highest isna¯d in Cairo shortly before he passed away. He collected one hundred aha¯dı¯t each hadı¯t of which just ten narrators between him and the ˙ ¯ ˙ ¯ Prophet consisted.113 It is reported that at-Tanu¯h¯ı was very happy about this ˘ tahrı¯gˇ.114 Not only must this tahrı¯gˇ be regarded as a gift from a student to his ˘ ˘ teacher, but also as kind of a final examination work. The completion of the tahrı¯gˇ was celebrated in a ceremony. Al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ read it in a formal ˙ ˘ session a year after Ibn Hagˇar composed the tahrı¯gˇ in 797 that, in addition to al˙ ˘ Burha¯n Ibra¯hı¯m at-Tanu¯h¯ı, many other scholars attended. This session could ˘ hence be seen as an official ceremony in which students submit or present there “examination work” and get recognized as scholars rather than students.115 This tahrı¯gˇ was copied and read to at-Tanu¯h¯ı by some other scholars, such as Sˇiha¯b ˘ ˘ ad-Dı¯n al-Husaynı¯ and Sˇams ad-Dı¯n al-Busayrı¯. As-Saha¯wı¯ mentioned that also a ˙ ˙ ˘ group of the leading scholars of that time wrote a blurb (taqrı¯z) and testified Ibn ˙ Hagˇar’s scholarly capability.116 Later he collected an additional collection of ˙ forty aha¯dı¯t for at-Tanu¯h¯ı that he entitled “al- Awa¯lı¯ t-ta¯liya li-l-mi’a al- a¯liya.”117 ˙ ¯ ˘ The tahrı¯gˇ that Ibn Hagˇar composed for az-Zayn Abd ar-Rah¯ım al- Ira¯qı¯ is ˙ ˙ ˘ also worth mentioning. Az-Zayn al- Ira¯qı¯, who had prepared a collection of aha¯dı¯t that contained nine narrators for one of his highest teachers al˙ ¯ Mı¯du¯mı¯118, collected forty aha¯dı¯t usˇa¯riyya. Ibn Hagˇar completed them by col˙ ˙ ¯ lecting another sixty aha¯dı¯t to make the one hundred. Similar to the tahrı¯gˇ of at˙ ¯ ˘ Tanu¯h¯ı, he published these collections under the title “al- Usˇa¯riyya as-sittı¯n li˘ 119 takmilat mi’a bi-l-arba ¯ın”. Another collection was prepared by Ibn Hagˇar for ˙ his teacher as-Sira¯gˇ al-Bulqı¯nı¯. It also contained forty hadı¯t usˇa¯riyya (a hadı¯t ˙ ¯ ˙ ¯ with only ten narrators in the isna¯d). From these forty twenty were directly heard by the scholar, whereas the other twenty were transmitted by an igˇa¯za.120 ˇ ala¯l Abd arNot a real tahrı¯gˇ but a similar service, Ibn Hagˇar dedicated to al-G ˙ ˘ Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯. He analyzed his marwiyya¯t and made an overview of all ˙ ˇ ala¯l received in his early youth in Damascus when narrators and narrations al-G ˘

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ˇ awa¯hir, 1:128. As-Saha¯wı¯, al-G Ibn H˘agˇar, al-Magˇma , 1:83 ˙ a¯wı¯, al-G ˇ awa¯hir, 1:128. As-Sah ˇ awa¯hir, 1:128. As-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, al-G ˇ awa¯hir, 2:670; al-Biqa¯ ¯ı, Unwa¯n az-zama¯n, 1:119. As-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, al-G As-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, Daw’, 4:173. ˙ ˇ awa¯hir, 2:671. As-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, al-G ˘ Ibn Hagˇar, al-Magˇma , 2:306. ˙ ˘

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his father established these igˇa¯za¯t for him.121In addition to the mentioned tahrı¯gˇa¯t Ibn Hagˇar prepared, as-Saha¯wı¯ named twenty tahrı¯gˇa¯t he issued for ˙ ˘ ˘ ˘ other teachers or his acquaintances.122 Ibn Hagˇar was not the only one, who ˙ collected aha¯dı¯t from his teacher’s marwiyya¯t. Al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ offered a ˙ ˙ ¯ similar service for as-Sira¯gˇ al-Bulqı¯nı¯. He collected a part of as-Sira¯gˇ’s highest 123 marwiyya¯t.

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Teacher’s advice (nas¯ıha, isˇa¯ra) ˙ ˙ After the teacher has recognized the motivation and capability of the student, the student received advices (nas¯ıha, isˇa¯ra) from the teacher. The teacher’s rec˙˙ ommendations could have instructed the student to visit certain scholars to request a short isna¯d or could have informed the student about good books to read and to copy. In some cases the teacher provided the student with valuable information about a discipline that can be studied or published or about a book that can be commented etc. Such an advice, for example, was documented for azZayn Abd ar-Rah¯ım al- Ira¯qı¯. Az-Zayn had already shown a lot of interest in ˙ studying hadı¯t. He proved his talent by the tahrı¯gˇ of the aha¯dı¯t of the book “Ihya¯’ ˙ ¯ ˙ ¯ ˙ ˘ ˇ ama ulu¯m ad-dı¯n” by al-G˙azza¯lı¯, thus making his his teacher al- Izz b. al-G ¯a recognize his talent in this field of science. While he saw that his student spent much time, effort and troubles in the study of the qira¯’a¯t (ra’a¯hu mutawag˙g˙ ilan fı¯ l-qira¯’a¯t), he gave him the advice to specialize in the science of hadı¯t (asˇa¯ra ˙ ¯ alayhi bi-talab al-hadı¯t) and showed him how do so (wa- arrafahu¯ t-tarı¯qa fı¯ ˙ ˙ ¯ ˙˙ da¯lika), since he said to have been more gifted with hadı¯t science.124 Similar to ¯ ˙ ¯ Ibn Hagˇar, az-Zayn turned toward the hadı¯t studies in his later life. According to ˙ ˙ ¯ ˇ ama¯ a gave him Ibn Hagˇar, az-Zayn specialized in hadı¯t studies, after al- Izz Ibn G ˙ ˙ ¯ the advice when he was twenty years old (after 750/1349). Ibn Hagˇar believed ˙ that his late decision to specialize in hadı¯t as one of the reasons why az-Zayn al˙ ¯ Ira¯qı¯ had not achieved the highest isna¯d that would have been possible for him, if he had turned toward hadı¯t studies earlier in his life.125 As-Saha¯wı¯ also argued ˙ ¯ ˘ the inexperience of az-Zayn’s father as a reason for the lack of early child igˇa¯126 za¯t. Similar to Ibn Hagˇar, az-Zayn al- Ira¯qı¯ discovered his passion towards the ˙ ˘

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121 Ibn Hagˇar, al-Magˇma , 3:154. ˙ a¯wı¯, al-G ˇ awa¯hir, 2:670 – 673. 122 As-Sah 123 As-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, Dayl ala¯ raf , 1:337. As-Saha¯wı¯ mentioned that al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯ collected ¯ ˙ not name them. ˘ ˘ other for four teachers of his high narrations, but unfortunately did 124 Ibn Hagˇar, Dayl ad-Durar, 143; as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 4:172. ¯ ˙ agˇar, D ˙ ˙ ˘ 125 Ibn H ayl ad-Durar, 143. ¯ ˙ 126 “If his father had been concerned [about the early child igˇa¯za¯] that he could have established very high sama¯ from Yahya¯ b. al-Masrı¯, who was the last person who narrated the ˙ a¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 4:171. hadı¯t from as-Salafı¯ with a high ˙igˇa¯za.” As-Sah ˙ ¯ ˙ ˙ ˘ ˘

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hadı¯t during his primary education, but had nobody who explained to him how ˙ ¯ to specialize in this science.127 This is good example for how important the teacher’s advice was and that a good teacher was one who recognized the talent of his students and pushed him into the proper direction. At the same time, this fact can explain why az-Zayn al- Ira¯qı¯ was eager to request early child igˇa¯za¯t for his son al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯: he obviously wanted his son to have a better start ˙ in his academic career. After Ibn Hagˇar experienced the exclusion of brokerage (see subsection 3.4.) ˙ as well as the missing of advice by his teacher and guardian Ibn al-Qatta¯n, he ˙˙ certainly learned about the importance of the teachers advice. Putting much effort in the mula¯zama of his later teachers to prove his eager to learn, Ibn Hagˇar ˙ did not want to make the same experiences again. His teacher az-Zayn Abd arRah¯ım al- Ira¯qı¯ rewarded his volition and dilligence with some valuable advices; ˙ for example, az-Zayn informed Ibn Hagˇar about the narrator with the shortest ˙ isna¯d of a certain hadı¯t so that Ibn Hagˇar could here the hadı¯t from the narrator ˙ ˙ ¯ ˙ ¯ with the highest isna¯d. It is said that az-Zayn, for example, refused to narrate a hadı¯t that Ibn Hagˇar could hear from al-Burha¯n at-Tanu¯h¯ı, since the latter had a ˙ ˙ ¯ ˘ higher isna¯d than az-Zayn. In some cases, Ibn Hagˇar achieved the same isna¯d˙ level as his teacher az-Zayn for some hadı¯t, due to his teachers’s own advice.128 A ˙ ¯ second important example was that az-Zayn al- Ira¯qı¯ instructed his student to meet with Taqı¯ d-Dı¯n Ibn Mu¯sa¯ asˇ-Sˇa¯fi ¯ı in al-Iskandariyya during Ibn Hagˇar’s ˙ study trip in 797/1395. Taqı¯ d-Dı¯n Ibn Mu¯sa¯ was the musnid of al-Iskandariyya at that time.129 Most importantantly was the fact that he also was a teacher (sˇayh) of ˘ az-Zayn Abd ar-Rah¯ım al- Ira¯qı¯. This means that Ibn Hagˇar got the opportunity ˙ ˙ to catch up with his teacher with regard to some narrations and to maintain the same high isna¯d as az-Zayn al- Ira¯qı¯.130 The exceptional effort Ibn Hagˇar put into the taha¯rı¯gˇ for his teachers, did not ˙ ˘ go unnoticed. With this service Ibn Hagˇar proved his qualification as well as his ˙ ability to work with the material his teachers gave him and his talent in the hadı¯t ˙ ¯ science. Hence, he proved himself worthy to receive some important advices from his teachers. In the field of studying the Sah¯ıh al-Buha¯rı¯, some research ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ gaps still had to be closed by comprehensive studies. One of these topics were the ta lı¯qa¯t of al-Buha¯rı¯. The ta lı¯qa¯t were those aha¯dı¯t that al-Buha¯rı¯ mentioned in ˙ ¯ ˘ ˘ ˘

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127 Ibn Hagˇar, al-Magˇma , 2:177. ˙ agˇar, al-Magˇma , 1:84. Ibn Hagˇar collected ten aha¯dı¯t of his own marwiyya¯t that 128 Ibn H ¯ ˙ belong to the same˙ tabaqa ˙ consisted of ten narrators. That let him as his teachers such as az˙ Zayn Abd ar-Rah¯ım al- Ira¯qı¯ and al-Burha¯n Ibra¯hı¯m at-Tanu¯h¯ı. See Ibn Hagˇar, al- Asˇara al˙ ˙ ˘ usˇa¯riyya al-ihtiya¯riyya. ˘ 129 He the last who narrated from Umar b. Yahya¯ al- Utabı¯ and Wagˇ¯ıha bint Alı¯ as-Sa ¯ıdı¯, two ˙ important and high-ranked hadı¯t scholars.˙ See al-Maqrı¯zı¯, al- Uqu¯d al-farı¯da,˙1:256. ¯ ˙ 130 Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, al- Uqu¯d al-farı¯da, 1:256. ˘

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his Sah¯ıh without mentioning the isna¯d. The need for this work to be done was ˙ ˙ ˙ already expressed by former scholars. Al-Ha¯fiz Abu¯ Abd al-Barr Ibn Rasˇ¯ıd as˙ ˙ Subtı¯ (657 – 721/1285/6 – 1321), a student of Ibn Daqı¯q al- ¯Id, wrote in his book “Targˇuma¯n at-tara¯gˇ im”: “It is necessary to write a book about the ta a¯lı¯q that are mentioned in the Sah¯ıh al-Buha¯rı¯. They need to be written out and organized ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ according to their raf or waqf, their grade of sihha and husn. I do not know ˙ ˙˙ ˙ anyone who have done this work before. However, it is an important work to do especially for those who are studying the Sah¯ıh al-Buha¯rı¯.”131 Although it is not ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ explicitly expressed in the sources, it can be assumed that Ibn Hagˇar received ˙ advice or at least suggestions by his teachers to close that research gap and to 132 write his book “Tag˙lı¯q at-ta lı¯qa¯t.” A hint that Ibn Hagˇar gained high prestige ˘ and reputation among his teachers and acquintances is found in the fact that he was asked for advices by his acquaintances and even by some of his teachers. While giving advices to students was a common phenomon, being asked by acquaintances and teachers was no doupt a sign of the high standing of Ibn Hagˇar and an expression of his outstanding capability in the fields of hadı¯t ˙ ˙ ¯ science. For example, Ibn Hagˇar regularly attended the reading sessions of al˙ ˇ ala¯l Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯ attended the Buha¯rı¯ at the citadel. After al-G ˙ ˘ session as well, he became interested in the mubhama¯t of the al-Buha¯rı¯, i. e. the ˘ narrators whose names al-Buha¯rı¯ was not mentioning in his Sah¯ıh collection. It ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ was the duru¯s and lectures by Ibn Hagˇar which increased Abd ar-Rahma¯n’s ˙ ˙ interest in the mubhama¯t of the al-Buha¯rı¯; hence, it can be concluded that Ibn ˘ Hagˇar gave him the advice to do further research in this field. This becomes even ˙ clearer if we take into consideration the fact that Ibn Hagˇar himself worked in the ˙ field of al-mubhama¯t. His work, however, dealt with the mubhama¯t in the Qur’a¯n.133 And Ibn Hagˇar probably pointed to the research gap in the field of ˙ ˇ hadı¯t science. Thus, al-G ala¯l Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Bulqı¯nı¯ compiled a book based ˙ ˙ ¯ on the basis of Ibn Hagˇar’s lectures on the mubhama¯t in which he works out the ˙ names of the nameless persons.134 ˘

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131 Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, al- Uqu¯d al-farı¯da, 1:259 ˇ awa¯hir, 2:665 – 666. 132 For some information about the “at-Tag˙lı¯q at-ta lı¯q” as-Saha¯wı¯, al-G ˘ about the mubhama¯t. It is ˇ awa¯hir, 2:678 – 679. Actually he wrote two books 133 As-Saha¯wı¯, al-G ˘ however whether his second book dealt with mubhama¯t in the field of Quran or not clear hadı¯t. The title of the first is “al-Ika¯m li-baya¯n ma¯ fı¯ l-qur’a¯n min al-ibha¯m” and the title of ¯ ˙ second ˙¯ t ala¯ l-abwa¯b”. However, the second book seems to be a the is “Tartı¯b al-mubhama sort of register of the first book. 134 Ibn Hagˇar, Raf al-isr, 228. ˙ ˙ ˘

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Taqrı¯z (blurbs) ˙ Another form of an established system of academic recognition is the taqa¯rı¯z.135 ˙ Translated by Rosenthal as blurbs, it is a “comparatively brief statement of praise solicited for the promotion of a newly published work and, incidentally, its author” that can be compared with letters of recommendation or skilful advertising texts.136 Mostly used to praise a certain scholarly written work of high quality, taqa¯rı¯z were often requested by the author himself from established ˙ scholars.137 However, the original meaning of the term taqrı¯z is not restricted to ˙ 138 that. Levanoni gives an interesting example of how taqa¯rı¯z were used to mock ˙ a scholar of low or middle rank. Such as the case of Ibn Na¯hid, a low-ranked ˙ scholar, who wrote a rather unsophisticated panegyric biography for alMu’ayyad Sˇayh entitled “as-Sı¯ra al-mu’ayyadiyya.”139 Ibn Na¯hid requested ta˙ ˘ qa¯rı¯z from some established scholars, amongst them Ibn Hagˇar to advertize his ˙ ˙ book. But instead of praising his work, the scholars they used double-edged language to show their disrespect to him and his lack of sagacity to grasp it.140 On a first level, blurbs (taqa¯rı¯z) can be a way for a young scholar to profile himself ˙ before writing any other significant publication. Ibn Hagˇar, for example, wrote a ˙ taqrı¯z for “Nuzu¯l al-g˙ayt” by Ibn ad-Damma¯mı¯nı¯ – one one of the most pres¯ ˙ tigious scholars of that time – in 795/1393 when he was twenty.141 Due to Ibn Hagˇar’s youth, it is conceivable that an older scholar recommended Ibn Hagˇar to ˙ ˙ write a taqrı¯z or an established scholar might have called attention to the bright ˙ young man, giving him the opportunity to prove his capacity.142 The assumption that Ibn Hagˇar took the opportunity to demonstrate his skills is supported by as˙ Saha¯wı¯’s report on the taqrı¯z of the “Nuzu¯l”, that was his first published work.143 ˙ ˘ A list of the nine taqa¯rı¯z Ibn Hagˇar wrote is provided by as-Saha¯wı¯.144 On a ˙ ˙ ˘ second level, the taqrı¯z functioned as an acknowledgment of scholarly acumen. ˙ The case of Ibn ad-Damma¯mı¯nı¯ is a clear example of how taqa¯rı¯z were used to ˙ 135 An exellent example of how scholars can create networks just with the taqa¯rı¯z is given by ˙ rather the Thomas Bauer in this volume. He also argues that the term “commendation,” more common term “blurb,” is a better translation. See Bauer, in this volume. 136 Rosenthal 1981, 178 – 9. 137 Vesely´ 2003, 380. He also pointed out that new “publications” were discussed by scholars and poets in sessions or at the court, where they were praised or criticized. Ibid., 384. 138 Rosenthal 1981, 178. 139 For further information about the sı¯ra see Vesely´ 1999. 140 See Levanoni 2012, especially 5 – 6; and idem 2010. 141 His full name is Badr ad-Dı¯n Muhammad b. Abı¯ Bakr al-Qurasˇ¯ı al-Mahzu¯mı¯ al-Iskandarı¯ al˘ Ma¯likı¯ (763 – 827/1361/2 – 1424).˙ See Rosenthal 1981, 180 note 2. 142 Rosenthal 1981, 183 – 4. 143 Rosenthal 1981, 184. Rosenthal also provides a translation of taqrı¯z of both Ibn Hagˇar and ˙ ˙ Ibn Haldu¯n. Ibid., 190 – 196. ˘ ˇ 144 As-Saha¯wı¯, al-Gawa¯hir, 2:719 – 745. ˘

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test scholarly skills. Ibn Hagˇar, who apparently chose the taqrı¯z as his first means ˙ ˙ to enter the world of scholarly publication, at some point received taqa¯rı¯z ˙ himself for plenty of his works. It seems that the taqa¯rı¯z he received after fin˙ ishing the tahrı¯gˇ of al-Burha¯n at-Tanu¯h¯ı was a testimony for his academic ca˘ ˘ papbility. As-Saha¯wı¯ mentioned that also a group of the leading scholars wrote a ˘ blurb (taqrı¯z) and testified Ibn Hagˇar’s scholarly capability.145 More taqa¯rı¯z ˙ ˙ ˙ followed for his later writings, among them his “k. Tag˙lı¯q at-ta lı¯q”. In this book Ibn Hagˇar provided the missing links to some of the traditions incorporated in ˙ the Sah¯ıh of al-Buha¯rı¯. Upon completion in 803/1400 – 1401, Tag˙lı¯q at-ta lı¯q was ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ well received by the scholarly community and hailed as a most original and much needed book.”146 His teachers as-Sira¯gˇ al-Bulqı¯nı¯, az-Zayn al- Ira¯qı¯ and others wrote a taqrı¯z for this book praising its high academic quality and the ˙ service he had rendered for all who turn to devote himself to study the Sah¯ıh al˙ ˙ ˙ Buha¯rı¯.147 ˘ ˘

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The permission to teach and to give fatwa¯ (igˇa¯zat at-tadrı¯s wa-igˇa¯zat al-ifta¯’) and the praise of the teacher (al-madh wa-sˇ-sˇaha¯da) ˙ Accreditation and certification of education and scientific capability is not only a problem in modern academic circles. While the question of certification and the equivalence of academic degrees today fall into the responsibility of learning institutions as well as international bodies, in pre-modern Islamic societies established professors granted “academic certificates.”148 The igˇa¯za was a means of formal authorization and differs from today’s certification in the fact that it emphasized the personal relationship between teacher and student: it was a testimony of the teacher’s trust in the student’s capability. Hence, by contrast to the igˇa¯zat at-tifl that had to be established by the brokerage of mediator as ˙˙ mentioned above, the igˇa¯za¯t at-tadrı¯s wa-igˇa¯zat al-ifta¯’ was an object of personal effort and diligence and an accreditation and certification of education and scientific capability.149 After Ibn Hagˇar finished the tahrı¯gˇ for at-Tanu¯h¯ı in 796, ˙ ˘ ˘ his principal teacher az-Zayn al- Ira¯qı¯ Ibn Hagˇar’s allowed him to teach and to ˙ 150 give legal opinions (igˇa¯zat tadrı¯s wa-ifta¯’). Almost simutaneously, he also received a permission to teach and to give fatwa¯s from as-Sira¯gˇ. Other scholars ˇ ama¯ a, from atsuch as Ibn al-Qatta¯n, an-Nu¯r al-Adamı¯, al-Ibna¯sı¯, al- Izz Ibn al-G ˙˙ ˘

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ˇ awa¯hir, 1:128. 145 As-Saha¯wı¯, al-G ˘ 1970, 118 – 9. 146 Kawash ˇ awa¯hir, 2:665 – 147 Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, al- Uqu¯d al-farı¯da, 1:259; Kawash 1970, 118 – 9; as-Saha¯wı¯, al-G ˘ 666; Ibn Hagˇar, Dayl ad-durar, 134. ¯ ˙ 148 Nashabi 1985, 8. 149 Stewart 2004, 63; Fernandes 2002, 96 – 97; Berkey 1992, 21. See also Lev 2009, 9. ˇ awa¯hir, 1:127. 150 As-Saha¯wı¯, al-G ˘

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Tanu¯h¯ı followed them by giving by granting him further igˇa¯za¯t:151 “Since these ˘ ija¯zahs were a formal recognition by Ibn Hajar’s teachers of his ability to teach ˙ and practice giving legal advice, they also might be considered as a sign of graduation and termination of his formal studies.”152 Another formal or more informal kind of testimony of the teacher’s trust in the student’s capability was the teacher’s praise to the student (al-madh wa-sˇ-sˇahada). The sources suggest ˙ that the praise can be described as a kind of an additional award granted to the student. The teacher could use the praise to indicate a ranking among his students, for example, or to express the closeness of the teacher-student relation. As for Ibn Hagˇar, his main teacher and others praised him for his extraordinary ˙ knowledge and capability in the field of hadı¯t studies. Az-Zayn al- Ira¯qı¯ said that ˙ ¯ Ibn Hagˇar had been his most knowledgable student in the fields of hadı¯t (a lamu ˙ ˙ ¯ asha¯bihı¯ bi-l-hadı¯t), since he had certain qualities that nobody else had at that ˙˙ ˙ ¯ time (hisa¯luhu lam tagˇtami li-ahadin min ahl asrihı¯). At-Taqı¯ al-Fa¯sı¯ and al˙ ˙ ˘˙ Burha¯n al-Halabı¯ are reported to have said that they haven’t seen somebody like ˙ 153 him (ma¯ ra’ayna¯ mitlahu¯). Finally, as-Saha¯wı¯ himself was proud to say that ¯ ˘ Ibn Hagˇar praised him as there was nobody like him (as-Saha¯wı¯) (laysa fı¯ gˇama¯tı¯ ˙ 154 ˘ mitlihı¯). ¯ Figure 5 shows the educational network of Ibn Hagˇar. The different services ˙ that he provided for his teachers and acquaintances are depicted. The reactions to theses services by his teachers are also depicted. The arrows point from the ˇ ala¯l alactor to the object of the act. Besides Ibn Hagˇar, al-Walı¯ al- Ira¯qı¯, al-G ˙ Bulqı¯nı¯ and al- Alam al-Bulqı¯nı¯ are included to contrast them to Ibn Hagˇar. It ˙ should become clear, that Ibn Hagˇar was by far more active than his collegues. ˙ However, it must be stated that this figure is a simplification of the relations between scholars and teachers. It must also be considered that limited number of ˇ ala¯l and al- Alam might return to the problem services provided by al-Walı¯, al-G of the limitation of the sources itself. However, the argument of this study, that Ibn Hagˇar compensated much of the missed brokerage ties in his childhood with ˙ his intensive networking during his study is still valid. ˘

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151 As-Saha¯wı¯, Dayl ala¯ raf , 80 and ibid, ad-Daw’, 2:38. Unfortunately, it is not mentioned ¯ ˙ ¯ t˙ from those teachers. when ˘exactly Ibn Hagˇar received the igˇa¯za ˙ 152 Kawash 1970, 82. 153 As-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 2:39. ˙ aw’, 2:40. ˙ -D 154 As-Sah˘ a¯wı¯, ad ˙ ˙ ˘

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Figure 5 shows the efforts of Ibn Hagˇar undertaken to gain attention and advices from his ˙ teachers.

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Results and conclusion

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In this study, the network perspective has been proven to to be very useful tool for analyzing the social structure and practice in an educational and academic network of the 15th century Cairo. The network approach revealed the importance of brokerage in the early career of a scholar and the significance of a successful networking in his later career. While various studies have emphasized the important role of the igˇa¯za¯t and the interpersonal relations between teacher and student in general, the network perspective shed new light on both topics. Regarding every relationship or relational tie (linkages) between actors as channels for transfer of ‘flow’ of resources (either material or nonmaterial) helped to show the social structures that stood behind the igˇa¯za and its link to the actor’s behavior in achieving the igˇa¯za, especially when ties of friendship, kinship and patronage were added. As a result, the phenomenon of brokerage turned out to be the most crucial factor when it comes to early child igˇa¯za¯t. This kind of igˇa¯za, that determines the later position of a scholar within the tabaqa ˙ system, highly depended on the good will of the broker. Hence, the broker’s motivations, social background and own academic network are important to study when looking at another scholar’s academic career. In the case of al-Walı¯ Ahmad al- Ira¯qı¯, a successful matchmaking brokerage was approached by his ˙ father that led to some high isna¯ds as well as igˇa¯za¯t from the students of al-Fahr ˘ Ibn al-Buha¯rı¯ and thus he maintained a high status within the academic scene of ˘ ˇ Cairo in his time. The same is to say for the case of al-Gala¯l Abd ar-Rahma¯n al˙ ˘

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Bulqı¯nı¯. His father established important relations to the students of al-Fahr Ibn ˘ al-Buha¯rı¯ and patronage ties to two sultans for his son. ˘ By contrast, neither high child-igˇa¯za¯t nor important patronage ties were established by Ibn Hagˇar’s father or his later guardians in his youth. Rather he ˙ experienced the power of the broker in the process of brokerage and the asymmetric threat of being excluded. Although he has had the possibility of achieving igˇa¯za¯t of the students of al-Fahr Ibn al-Buha¯rı¯, nobody established ˘ ˘ them for him. And while his guardian Ibn al-Qatta¯n introduced his son Mu˙˙ hammad to important scholars, he deprived Ibn Hagˇar of these connections. It ˙ ˙ might be his inexperience that let him misjudges the possibilities he had through his marriage. His wife’s mother had good connections to the Mamluk elite and his wife’s father was an established scholar with important educational connections. Ibn Hagˇar did not use or did not know how to use these connections. ˙ His behavior, however, changed dramatically when he started to study seriously in the age of about seventeen years. It seems that he understood well the social structure of giving and receiving services as well as the exchange and administration of sources within the educational system. A close mula¯zama is reported for all of his important teachers, as well as additional services that turn the teacher’s attention to the young capable student. He knew how to use the marwiyya¯t of his teachers to prepare taha¯rı¯gˇ and how to write taqa¯rı¯z early to show ˙ ˘ his diligence and academic capability. While certainly his mates have received also permissions to teach and to issue fatwa¯s, his teachers testify his outstanding knowledge in the fields of hadı¯t sciences though extraordinary praise and tes˙ ¯ timonies. His high position among his colleagues became clear if we take into ˇ ala¯l al-Bulqı¯nı¯ – who maintained a higher consideration the fat that even al-G position in the tabaqa system due to the mediated relations – and his former ˙ guardian Ibn al-Qatta¯n155 profited from his knowledge of hadı¯t. One important ˙˙ ˙ ¯ result of the application of the network perspective, is that a successful matchmaking brokerage in the early childhood of a scholar could decide about his position and status in his later career. By contrast, a failed or a lack of brokerage had to be compensated with other achievements, if the scholar wanted to achieve a higher status within the group. The scholar reached these achievements through interpersonal relations to his teacher and completing various duties for him. However, it is necessary to mention that the status of a scholar within the ulama¯’ hierarchy did not exclusively depend on the interpersonal relation between the student and his professor. At least as important as the interpersonal relations were the writings a scholar produces that. This aspect though could not be taken into consideration in this study, but can be a future research question.

155 He heard the biography of al-Buha¯rı¯ from Ibn Hagˇar. As-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 9:10. ˙ ˘ ˘

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Bibliography Primary sources ˘

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Ibn Hagˇar, Ahmad b. Alı¯ al- Asqala¯nı¯ (773 – 852/1372 – 1449), al- Asˇara al- usˇa¯riyya al˙ ˙ ihtiya¯riyya, ed. Fira¯s Muhammad Walı¯d Ways, Beirut: Da¯r al-Basˇa¯’ir al-Isla¯miyya 2003. ˙ ˘ ˇ Ibn Hagar, Ahmad b. Alı¯ al- Asqala¯nı¯ (773 – 852/1372 – 1449), al-Mugˇma al-mu’assis li-l˙ ˙ mu gˇam al-mufahris, ed. Yu¯suf Abd ar-Rahma¯n al-Mar asˇlı¯, 5 vols., Beirut: Da¯r al˙ Ma rifa 1992. Ibn Hagˇar, Ahmad b. Alı¯ al- Asqala¯nı¯ (773 – 852/1372 – 1449), ad-Durar al-ka¯mina fı¯ a ya¯n ˙ ˙ ˇ ¯ıl 1993. al-mi’a at-ta¯mina, 4 vols., Beirut: Da¯r al-G ¯¯ Ibn Hagˇar, Ahmad b. Alı¯ al- Asqala¯nı¯ (773 – 852/1372 – 1449), Inba¯’ al-g˙umr bi-abna¯’ al˙ ˙ umr, ed. Hasan Habasˇ¯ı, 4 vols., Cairo 1969. ˙ ˙ Ibn Hagˇar, Ahmad b. Alı¯ al- Asqala¯nı¯ (773 – 852/1372 – 1449), Dayl ad-durar al-ka¯mina, ed. ¯ ˙ ˙ Adna¯n Darwı¯sˇ, Cairo: Ma had al-Mahtu¯ta¯t al- Arabiyya 1992. ˘˙ ˙ Ibn Tag˙rı¯birdı¯, Abu¯ l-Maha¯sin Yu¯suf (813 – 874), an-Nugˇu¯m az-Za¯hira fı¯ mulu¯k misr wa-l˙ ˙ qa¯hira, ed. Muhammad Husayn Sˇams ad-Dı¯n, 16 vols., Beirut: Da¯r al-Kutub al- Ilmiyya ˙ ˙ 1992. Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Ahmad b. Alı¯ (764 – 845/1356 – 1441), Durar al- uqu¯d al-farı¯da fı¯ tara¯gˇ im al˙ a ya¯n al-mufı¯da, ed. Adna¯n Darwı¯ˇs and Muhammad al-Masrı¯, 2 vols., Damascus: ˙ ˙ Mansˇu¯ra¯t Wiza¯rat at-Taqa¯fa 1995. ¯ ¯ ˇ awa¯hir wa-dAs-Saha¯wı¯, Muhammad b. Abd ar-Rahma¯n (839 – 902/1428 – 1497), al-G ˙ ˙ ˘ durar fı¯ targˇamat ˇsayh al-isla¯m Ibn Hagˇar, ed. Ibra¯hı¯m Ba¯gˇis Abd al-Magˇ¯ıd, 3 vols., ˙ ˘ Beirut: Da¯r Ibn Hazm 1999. ˙ As-Saha¯wı¯, Muhammad b. Abd ar-Rahma¯n (839 – 902/1428 – 1497), ad-Dayl ala¯ raf al-isr ¯ ¯ ˙ ˇ ˙ ˙ ˘ awda Hila¯l and Muhammad Mahmu¯d Subh, n.d. au bug˙ yat al- ulama¯’ wa-r-ruwa¯t, ed. G ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ n.p. As-Saha¯wı¯, Muhammad b. Abd ar-Rahma¯n (839 – 902/1428 – 1497), ad-Daw’ al-la¯mi li-ahl ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ ˇ ¯ıl n.d. al-qarn at-ta¯si , 10 vols., Beirut: Da¯r al-G Al-Biqa¯ ¯ı, Ibra¯hı¯m b. Hasan (809 – 885/1406 – 1480), Inwa¯n az-zama¯n bi-tara¯gˇ im asˇ-sˇuyu¯h ˙ ˘ wa-l-aqra¯n, 5 vols., ed. Hasan Habasˇ¯ı, Cairo 2001. ˙ ˙ Ad-Dahabı¯, Muhammad b. Ahmad b. Utma¯n b. Qa¯yma¯z (673 – 748/1274 – 1347), Siyar ¯ ¯ ¯ ˙ ˙ a la¯m an-nubala¯’, ed. Hassa¯n Abd al-Manna¯n, 3 vols., Amman/Riyadh/Bairut: Da¯r al˙ Afka¯r ad-Duwaliyya 2004. ˘

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Personal Communication and the Study of Social Structure in a Past Society,” Social Networks 12, pp. 313 – 335. Barnes, J.A. (1969), “Networks and Political Process,” in: Social Networks in Urban Settings, ed. J.C. Mitchell, Manchester : Menchester University Press, pp. 51 – 76. Bauer, Thomas (2005), “Ibn Hajar and the Arabic ghazal of the Mamluk age,” in: Ghazal as world literature 1: Transformations of a literary genre, ed. Thomas Bauer and Angelika Neuwirth, Beirut: Ergon Verlag Würzburg in Kommission, 35 – 55. Bauer, Thomas (2011), Kultur der Ambiguität. Eine andere Geschichte des Islams, Berlin: Verlag der Weltreligionen. Berkey, Jonathan (1992), The Transmission of Knowledge in Medieval Cairo. A Social History of Islamic Education, Princteon/New Jersey. Boissevain, Jeremy (1978), Friends of Friends. Networks, Manipulators, and Coalitions, Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Bulliet, Richard W. (1970), “A Quantitative Approach to Medieval Muslim Biographical Dictionaries,” in: Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 13, pp. 195 – 211. Bulliet, Richard W. (1983), “The Age structure of Medieval Islamic Education,” Studia Islamica 57, 105 – 117. Chamberlain, Michael (2002), Knowledge and Social Practice in Medieval Damascus, 1190 – 1350, 2nd ed., Cambridge. Dickinson, Eerik (2002), Ibn Sala¯h al-Shahrazu¯rı¯ and the Isna¯d,” Journal of the Americal ˙ ˙ Oriental Society 122/3, 481 – 505. Eich, Thomas (2003), Abu¯ l-Huda¯ as-Sayya¯dı¯. Eine Studie zur Instrumentalisierung su˙ ˙ fischer Netzwerke und genealogischer Kontroverse im spätosmanischen Reich, Berlin: K. Schwarz. Fazil, Sayyid Abul (1958), “Ibn Hajar ; His Times and His Life,” Islamic Culture 32, 28 – 45. Fernandes, Leonor (2002), “Between Qadis and Muftis: To Whom does the Mamluk Sultan Listen?” Mamluk Studies Review 6, pp. 95 – 108. Fischer, Claude S. (1982), “What do We Mean by ‘Friend’,” Social Network 3, 287 – 306. Gould, Roger V. and Fernadez, Roberto M. (1989), “Structures of Mediation. A Formal Approach to Brokerage in Transaction Networks”, Sociological Methodology 19, pp.89 – 126. Harders, Cilja (2000), “Dimensionen des Netzwerkansatzes. Einführung theoretischer Überlegungen,” in: Die Islamische Welt als Netzwerk, ed. Roman Loimeier, Würzburg: Ergon, 17 – 51. Kadushin, Charles (2012), Understanding Social Networks. Theories, Concepts and Findings, Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press. Kawash, Sabri K. (1970), Ibn Hajar al-Asqala¯nı¯ (1372 – 1449). A Study of the Background, ˙ Education, and Career of a Alim in Egypt, PhD thesis, Prinston University, Prinston: UMI. Kogelmann, Franz (2000), “Muhammad al-Makkı¯ an-Na¯sirı¯ alias Sindbad der Seefahrer. ˙ ˙ Networking eines marokkanischen Nationalisten in den dreißiger Jahren des 20. Jahrhunderts,” in: Die Islamische Welt als Netwerk, ed. Roman Loimeier, Würzburg: Ergon, 267 – 286. Lapidus, Ira M. (1982), Review, “Loyalty and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society by Roy P. Mottahedeh,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 102/1, pp. 210 – 211.

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Leder, Stefan (1994), Dokumente zum Hadı¯t in Schriftum und Unterricht aus Damaskus ˙ ¯ im 6./12. Jhdt.,” Oriens 34, 57 – 75. Lev, Yaacov (2009), “Symbiotic Relations: Ulama and the Mamluk Sultans” Mamluk Studies Review 13/1, pp. 1 – 26. Levanoni, Amalia (2010), “Who Were the “Salt of the Earth” in Fifteenth-Century Egypt,” Mamluk Studies Review 14/1, 1 – 22. Levanoni, Amalia (2012), “A Supplementary Source for the Study of Mamluk Social History : The Taqa¯rı¯z,” Arabica 59, pp. 1 – 32. ˙ Lohlker, Rüdiger (2011), “Igˇa¯za als ein Prozess der Akkumulation sozialen Kapitals,” in: Manuscript Notes as Documentary Sources, ed. Konrad Hirschler and Andreas Görke, Beirut, pp. 37 – 44. Loimeier, Roman/Reichmuth, Stefan (1996), “Zur Dynamik religiös-politischer Netzwerke in muslimischen Gesellschaften“, in: Die Welt des Islams 36,2, 145 – 185. Loimeier, Roman (ed.) (2000), Die Islamische Welt als Netzwerk, Würzburg: Ergon. Lutfi, Huda (1981), “al-Sakha¯wı¯‘s Kita¯b al-Nisa¯’ as a Source for the Social and Economic History of Muslim Women during the Fifteenth Century A.D.,“ in: The Muslim World 21, pp. 104 – 124. Mauder, Christian (2012), Gelehrte Krieger. Die Mamluken als Träger arabischsprachiger Bildung nach al-Safadı¯, al-Maqrı¯zı¯ und weiteren Quellen, Hildesheim. ˙ McPherson, Miller, Lynn Smith-Lovin, James M. Cook (2001), „Birds of a Feather : Homophily in Social Networks,“ Annual Review of Sociology 27, 415 – 444. Mitchell, James Clyde (1969), “The concept and use of social networks,” in Social Networks in Urban Settings, eds. J.C. Mitchell, Manchester : Manchester U.P., pp. 1 – 50. Mottahedeh, Roy P. (1980), Loyalty and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society, Princeton. Nashabi, Hisham (1985), “The Ijaza: Academic Certificate in Muslim Education,” in Hamdard Islamicus 8, pp. 7 – 20. Petry, Carl F. (1981), The Civilian Elite of Cairo in the Later Middle Ages, Princeton. Preckel, Claudia (2000), “Islamische Reform im Indien des 19. Jahrhunderts. Aufstieg und Fall von Muhammad Siddı¯q Hasan Ha¯n, Nawwa¯b von Bhopal,” in: Die Islamische Welt ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ als Netwerk, ed. Roman Loimeier, Würzburg: Ergon, 239 – 256. Rahma¯nı¯, Aftab Ahmad, “The Life and Works of Ibn Hajar al-‘Asqala¯nı¯,” Islamic Culture ˙ ˙ 45 (1971), 203 – 212, 275 – 293; 46 (1972), 75 – 81, 171 – 178, 265 – 272, 353 – 362; 47 (1973), 57 – 74, 159 – 174, 257 – 273. Reitmeyer, Morten and Christian Marx (2010), “Neztwerkansätze in der Geschichtswissenschaft,” in: Handbuch Netzwerkforschung, ed. Christian Stegbauer and Roger Häßling, Wiesbaden, pp. 869 – 880. Roded, Ruth (1994), Women in Biographical Dictionaries. From Ibn Sa d to Who’s Who, Boulder. Rosenthal, Franz (1981), “‘Blurbs’ (taqrı¯z) from Fourteenth-Century Egypt,” Oriens 27/28, ˙ 177 – 196. Salibi, Kamal S. (1958), “The Banu¯ Jama¯~a: A Dynasty of Sha¯fi~ite jurists in the Mamluk Period,” Studia Islamica 9, pp. 97 – 109. Sayeed, Asma (2002), “Women and Hadı¯th Transmission. Two Case Studies from mamluk ˙ Damascus”, in: Studia Islamica 95, 71 – 94. Schmidtke Sabine (2006), “Forms and Functions of ‘Licences of Transmit’ (Ija¯zas) in 18thCentury-Iran: Abd Alla¯h al-Mu¯sawı¯ al-Jaza¯’irı¯ al-Tustarı¯’s (1112 – 73/1701 – 59),” in: ˘

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Speaking for Islam. Religioius Authorities in Muslim Societies, Leiden/Boston, pp.95 – 127. Schweizer, Thomas (1996), Muster sozialer Ordnung. Netzwerkanalyse als Fundament der Sozialethnologie, Berlin: D. Reimer. Sievert, Henning (2008), Zwischen arabischer Provinz und Hoher Pforte. Beziehungen, Bildung und Politik des osmanischen Bürokraten Ra¯g˙ ib Mehmed Pas¸a (st. 1763), ˙ Würzburg: Ergon. Sobieroj, Florian (2011), “Einheitlichkeit und Vielfalt in islamischen Überliefererzeugnissen und Lehrbefugnissen aus 1000 Jahren,” in: Manuscript Notes as Documentary Sources, ed. Konrad Hirschler and Andreas Görke, Beirut, pp. 23 – 36. Spiro, Emma S., Ryan M. Acton, Carter T. Butts (2013), “Extended Structures of Mediation: Re-examining Brokerage in Dynamic Networks,” Social Networks 35, pp. 130 – 143. Stewart, Devin (2004), “The Doctorate of Islamic Law in Mamlu¯k Egypt and Syria,” in: Law and Education in Medieval Islam: Studies in Memory of Professor George Makdisi, ed. Joseph E. Lowry, Devin J. Stewart, and Shawkat M. Toorawa, London, pp. 45 – 90. Streck, Bernhard (1985), “Netzwerk: Der transaktionale Einspruch gegen das Paradigma der structural-funktionalen Ethnologie,” Anthropos 80, 569 – 586. Streck, Bernhard (2000), “Grenzen im Netzwerk. Für eine multiperspektivische Betrachtung gesellschaftlicher Verhältnisse,” in: Die islamische Welt als Netzwerk. Möglichkeiten und Grenzen des Netzwerkansatzes im islamischen Kontext, ed. Roman Loimeier, Würzburg: Ergon, 87 – 100. Vesely´, Rudolf (1999), “Ibn Na¯hid‘s as-Sı¯ra asˇ-Sˇayh¯ıya (EinLebensgeschichte des Sultans ˙ ˘ al-Mu’ayyad Sˇayh). Ein Beitrag zur Sı¯ra-Literatur,“ Archiv Orient‚ln† 67, pp. 149 – 220. ˘ Vesely´, Rudolf (2003), “Der Taqrı¯z,” in: Die Mamluken. Studien zur ihrer Geschichte und ˙ Kultur. Zum Gedenken an Ulrich Haarmann (1942 – 1999), ed. Stephan Conermann and Anja Pistor-Hatam, Schenenfeld, pp. 379 – 385. Wasserman, Staanley/Faust, Kathrine (1994), Social Network Analysis: Methods and Applications. New York und Cambridge.

Mental Networks: Travelling Concepts – Actor-Network-Theory

Albrecht Fuess (Marburg)

ˇ iha¯d. Ottoman G˙azwah – Mamluk G Two Arms on the Same Body?

Introduction In the sixteenth century collection of diplomatic letters of the head of the Ottoman chancery Ferı¯du¯n Beg (d. 1583), a diplomatic exchange of the Mamluk Sultan Barqu¯q (r. 1382 – 1389/ 1390 – 1399) and the Ottoman Sultan Ba¯yezı¯d I (r. 1389 – 1402) can be found. In these letters from 1391 Barqu¯q informs his Ottoman counterpart that he has asked for the release of Muslim merchants captured by the Genoese. Ba¯yezı¯d welcomes this initiative for the Muslim merchants and asks in turn for mercy for Ottoman merchants in Mamluk custody, because they had allegedly breached Mamluk custom legislation. Both rulers thereby stress the unity in Islam, culminating in the phrase that their lands are to be regarded as “two arms on the same body”.1This expression might be perceived as a diplomatic flowery phrase. However, there was certainly a shared feeling of the Ottoman and Mamluk sultans to belong to the same Sunni sphere of Islam. This resulted in a friendly mutual approach as long as common interests did not overlap too much. Until 1453 and the conquest of Constantinople by the Ottomans, both powers managed to stay out of each other’s way for most of the time. But with the splendid victory in hand, the Ottomans would after 1453 openly challenge the Mamluk’s role as prime Sunni power of the region. Afterwards relations started to turn hostile especially about the question of hegemony over Eastern Anatolia. However, this was not yet the case prior to the fall of Constantinople when concepts of Holy War were shaped in the Mamluk and Ottoman Empires. But, as will be discussed in this contribution, the concepts of Holy War of both Empires were quite distinct and they will be presented in the following as Mamluk gˇ iha¯d and as Ottoman g˙azwa. Of course, I can’t take the credit to be the first one to 1 Ferı¯du¯n Beg, Müns¸eat al-Salatin, vol. 1: 118, I˙stanbul: 1274 – 1275/1857 – 1859. Here cited after : Cihan Yuksel Muslu, The Ottomans and the Mamluks: Imperial Diplomacy and Warfare in the Islamic World, London: I.B. Tauris 2014, 78.

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˙ a¯zı¯ state of the Ottomans, this goes back to Paul Wittek and the late speak of a G 1930s and a lecture series held at the School of Oriental and African Studies in London: “(…) in the struggle with this extraordinary resistance [of the Byzantines] the Gh–z„ state of Osman developed its extraordinary strength. The grave sternness and tenacious courage that distinguish this state in its later history were deeply imprinted upon its soul during these years of its early youth.”2 For Wittek the Holy War in its Ottoman form, the g˙azwa was vital for the formation of the Ottoman state and was upheld until later periods. However, this thesis has been challenged, revised, revisited quite often in later years, but as I˙lker Evrim Binbas¸ has put it “seventy years on, Wittek’s scholarship is still with us. Cemal Kafadar explained its persistence by its flexibility. It is a form of ideology, or a metaphor, and it could be incorporated into various other explanatory frameworks even though Wittek did not foresee such combinations.”3 Therefore Wittek’s g˙a¯zı¯ thesis can still be useful regarding Ottoman studies and in the following it shall be combined with the approach that the Mamluk gˇ iha¯d concept is as well something peculiar, which developed at the very beginning of the Mamluk Empire and shaped the mental framework of the Mamluk Empire right to its downfall. However, Ottoman g˙azwa and Mamluk gˇ iha¯d do overlap, especially as they target identical foes, i. e. Christians and non-Sunni Muslims, but their respective ideological grounding and their military approach is quite distinct. Still, one could ask how the present contribution is linked with the overarching theme of this book, i. e. “The Mamluk Empire as node in (trans) regional Networks.” Henning Sievert shows in his contribution to this volume how “networkstudies” can be very effective looking at social networks on the basis of individual or groups within the Mamluk period.4 When I was thinking about preparing my contribution, I thought that it might also be worthwhile to look at nodes and networks in the context of ideas and mentality. In this context, I would be inclined to see Ottoman g˙azwa and Mamluk gˇ iha¯d as mental nodes within a larger ideological network of Holy War within the Muslim sphere. I then found out that the term “mental nodes” plays an important role in Cognitive Psychology. Donald G. MacKay argues that within mental nodes of humans there is a clear relation between perception and action: “In the case of 2 Paul Wittek, The Rise of the Ottoman Empire. Studies in the history of Turkey, thirteenth – fifteenth centuries, With translations into English by Colin Heywood, Rudi Paul Lindner and Oliver Welsh. With a Preface by I˙lker Evrim Binbas¸. Edited by Colin Heywood (With an Introduction and Afterword), London: Routledge 2012, 62. 3 I˙lker Evrim Binbas¸. “Preface”, in: Wittek, The Rise, xiv. Cf., Cemal Kafadar, Between Two worlds. The Construction of the Ottoman State, Berkeley : University of California Press 1958, 58. For critics of the Wittek Thesis, see: Colin Heywood, “Introduction”, in: Wittek, The Rise, 3 – 4. 4 See Henning Sievert’s contribution in this volume.

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mental nodes, perception is synonymous to respond. When a mental node becomes activated during perception, all of its associated higher level (e. g., proposition) nodes and lower level (e. g., phonological) nodes become strongly primed or readied for activation under the most-primed-wins principle.”5 Without pushing any analogy to my present topic, which must be limping, too far, I would argue that in my case the Muslim Holy war could be perceived as main “Mental Node” and Ottoman g˙azwa and Mamluk gˇ iha¯d represent sub mental nodes within a specific historical, regional and cultural context. Once the Muslim Holy War node is activated through exterior threats it sends the message to the sub nodes who then prepare the (re)-action. As we will see in the following it has been the Ottoman g˙azwa concept which managed to be better prepared for the sixteenth century and who prevailed under the above mentioned “mostprimed-wins principle.”

Mamluk gˇiha¯d The Mamluk military prestige was very much shaped in the military encounters with the Crusaders and Mongols in the second part of the thirteenth century. The Damascene scholar Ibn Taymiyya (d. 1328) praises the Mamluks for their victories against these great enemies and the defence of the community of believers, the umma, with the following words: “In respect to the group which governs Egypt and Syria in the moment, one has to acknowledge that it is them who fight for the religion of Islam and they are the people who merit to be described by the authentic saying of the prophet – God shall pray for him and grant him peace – when he said: ‘A group of my community will not cease to fight for the triumph of the almighty. Nothing can harm them, not the one who fights them nor the one who betrays them, until the hour comes’ (…). Their power is the power of Islam and their degradation is the degradation of Islam. If the Tatars [Mongols] would become their masters, there would be no more power in Islam.”6 However, if we look closely how the gˇ iha¯d-concept developed through Ayyubid and Mamluk times it was mainly an intellectual reaction towards the crusaders, who had come, in stark contrast to the Mongols, with a religious ideology which challenged Islam supremacy. As early as 1105, six years after the fall of Jerusalem, the Syrian author as-Sulamı¯ (d. 1106/07) talked about the negligence of religious duties among contemporary Muslims. Therefore God had sent the Christians in 5 Donald G. Mackay, The organization of perception and action: A theory for language and other cognitive skills, Berlin: Springer 1987, 128. See especially Chapter 7: “The functions of mental nodes and mirror neurons” (pp. 126 – 140). 6 Yahya Michot, “Textes spirituels d’Ibn Taymiyya. Mongols et Mamlu¯ks, XIII,” in: Le Musulman, 26 (1995), 26, 28.

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order to punish and purify them: “and they did not cease to strive on their gˇ iha¯d against the Muslims, while the latter were sluggish, allying against fighting the enemy and were proud of being in peaceful contact with them.”7 In this citation the rendering of gˇ iha¯d as “holy war of the Christians” is quite remarkable, as in later periods it would be used quite exclusively in a Muslim context beginning with the active re-conquest of the coast under Nu¯r ad-Dı¯n Zangı¯ (r. 1146 – 1174), the Atabeg of Mossul. His counselor Ibn Munı¯r encouraged him to fight the Christian crusaders by apparently saying that he should not give up, until “he would see Jesus himself fleeing Jerusalem.”8 Jerusalem became subsequently a main brick of the gˇ iha¯d concepts of Zangı¯ds and their successors the Ayyubids. When Jerusalem was finally taken by the Ayyubid Sultan Salah ad˙ ˙ Dı¯n (Saladin) (r. 1171 – 93) in 1187 Abu¯ Sˇa¯ma (d. 1203) wrote, putting the victory in a larger Islamic context: “The Ka ba rejoices in the liberation of its brother alAqsa¯” and “the faith which was banned from its sanctuary, finds today back to its ˙ birthplace.“9 The re-capture of Jerusalem, however, completely changed the situation. Now Muslim armies had not to re-conquer Jerusalem from the Franks, but to defend it against them. Muslim rulers over bila¯d asˇ-Sˇa¯m had now to come up with a working defense strategy. It was then, that gˇ iha¯d in the Syrian context obtained a specific defensive notion of defending the da¯r al-isla¯m against outer foes. The switch of gˇ iha¯d strategy came when the Ayyubids realized after their victory of the battle of Hatt¯ın in 1187 that they were not able to expel the ˙ ˙˙ Crusaders from the coast in an overhasty manner but that they needed patience. Saladin had taken Acre from the crusaders in 1187, but he could not hold it against the naval supremacy of the Franks. His emirs had initially asked him to destroy Acre, but he did not follow their advice.10 However, afterwards Saladin altered is tactics and in the same year he let the coastal town of Ascalon destroy, when King Richard Lionheart approached it with his troops. The reason for the destruction was that he assumed that he could not hold the town against the combination of Frankish sea and land forces.11 When the Mamluks came to ˘

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7 As-Sulamı¯, Alı¯ b. Ta¯hir, “Kita¯b al-gˇiha¯d,” in: Arba a kutub fı¯ l-gˇ iha¯d min asr al-huru¯b as˙ ˙ “Sunni ˙ salı¯biyya, ed. by Suhayl Zakka¯r, Damascus 2007, 45; here cited after : Stefan˙ Leder, ˙Resurgence, Jiha¯d Discourse and the Frankish Presence,” in: Crossroads between Latin Europe and the Near East: Corollaries of the Frankish Presence in the Eastern Mediterranean (12th-14th centuries), ed. by Stefan Leder, Würzburg: Ergon 2011, 90. 8 Abu¯ Sˇa¯ma, k. ar-Rawdatayn fı¯ ahba¯r ad-dawlatayn, vol. 1, Cairo: Matba a wa¯dı¯ an-Nı¯l 1870, ˙ XIIe – XIIIe siÀcles,” ˘ sacr¦ de Jerusalem dans l’Islam aux 57; Emmanuel Sivan,˙“Le caractÀre in: Studia Islamica, 27/1967, 155. 9 Abu¯ Sˇa¯ma, k. ar-Rawdatayn, vol. 2 (1871), 98, 110; Emmanuel Sivan, “Le caractÀre sacr¦,” ˙ 163. 10 Hans Eberhard Mayer, Geschichte der Kreuzzüge, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer 19897, 130. 11 Ibid., 131 – 34; al-Maqrı¯zı¯, k. as-Sulu¯k li-ma rifat duwal al-mulu¯k, ed. by Muhammad Mu˙ 1, 104 – 05; stafa¯ Ziya¯da, Cairo: Lagˇnat at-Ta’lı¯f wa-t-Targˇama wa-n-Nasˇr, 1934, vol. l, part ˙˙ ˘

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power in 1250, they copied this strategy : all coastal towns in the vicinity of Jerusalem were razed out of fear that the crusaders might use a fortified town at the coast as a bridgehead for further attacks on the Holy Land as they could supply coastal towns easily with the help of their superior fleets. On the coast only rudiments of former settlements were to remain, whose harbours could exchange goods, but were not able to defend themselves. Only when the threat of the crusaders ceased in the course of the following centuries, some fortifications were renewed.12 When talking about gˇ iha¯d in Mamluk times, contemporary Mamluk authors link it mainly to the defense of the coast. In Mamluk times, several works were written which praise the merits of gˇ iha¯d (fada¯’il al-gˇ iha¯d) ˙ and the merits of Syria (fada¯’il asˇ-Sˇa¯m) in order to ideologically bolster the fight ˙ 13 against Crusaders in Syria. Ibn Taymiyya wrote a treatise in the fourteenth century with the title al-Mura¯bata bi-t-tug˙u¯r afdal am al-mugˇa¯wara bi-makka ¯¯ ˙ ˙ ˇsarafaha¯ Alla¯h ta a¯la¯ ? (“Is it better to guard the coastal towns than to live and serve in the vicinity of God Blessed Mecca?”), which underlines the merits of coastal war and guardianship against the Christians.14 In this context, it is also quite remarkable what Ibn Battu¯ta had to say about Jerusalem when he passed by ˙˙ ˙ it in 1326; according to him, Sultan Baybars (r. 1260 – 1277) completed the demolition of the entirety of the wall fortifications “out of fear, that the ru¯m (Christians) might retake it and could not be thrown out again.“15 Jerusalem, the target of the Christians, appears here as an Islamic border fortification (riba¯t) or ˙ even a coastal town (tag˙ r). It is the only town so far inland which was stripped off ¯ its fortifications. Since then, this defensive gˇ iha¯d concept was upheld throughout Mamluk times. Especially the attack of King Peter I of Cyprus (r. 1358 – 1369) on Alexandria in 1365 and subsequent attacks by him on the Syro-Palestinian coast, let

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idem, A History of the Ayyu¯bid Sultans of Egypt, translation with introduction and notes by R. J. C. Broadhurst, Boston: Twayne Publishers 1980, 90 – 93. See: Albrecht Fuess, Verbranntes Ufer. Auswirkungen mamlukischer Seepolitik auf Beirut und die syro-palästinensische Küste (1250 – 1517), Leiden: Brill 2001. See for the special case of Tripoli (in Lebanon): Albrecht Fuess, “D¦placer une ville au temps des Mamlouks: Le cas de Tripoli,” in: Chronos (Revue d’histoire de l’Universit¦ de Balamand, Liban), 19 (2009), 157 – 172. See therefore: Yehoshua Frenkel, “Jiha¯d in the Medieval Mediterranean Sea,” in: Crossroads between Latin Europe and the Near East: Corollaries of the Frankish Presence in the Eastern Mediterranean (12th-14th centuries, ed. by Stefan Leder, Würzburg: Ergon 2011, 103 – 125. Albrecht Fuess, Muslime und Piraterie im Mittelmeer (7 – 16. Jahrhundert),” in: Gefährdete Konnektivität- Piraterie im Mittelmeerraum in Antike, Mittelalter und Neuzeit, ed. by Sebastian Kolditz and Nikolaus Jaspert, Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh 2013, 175 – 198. Ibn Taymiyya, al-Mura¯bata bi-t-tug˙u¯r afdal am al-mugˇa¯wara bi-makka ˇsarrafaha¯ Alla¯h ¯ ¯ˇ ˙ ˙ al-Maqsu¯d, Riad: Adwa¯’ as-Salaf 2002. Asraf b. Abd ta a¯la¯ ?, ed. by Abu¯ Muhammad ˙ tu¯ta, Beirut: at-Tiba¯ a wa-n-Nasˇr 1964, 57; ˙ H.A.R Gibb, The Travels Ibn Battu¯ta, Rihlat ibn Bat ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ of Ibn Battu¯ta. A.D. 1325 – 1354, London: Hakluyt Society 1958, 77. ˙˙ ˙

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the Mamluk viceroy of Syria Manjaq ask the Damascene scholar Ibn Kat¯ır (d. ¯ 1373) to write a treatise on gˇ iha¯d in 1368. Ibn Kat¯ır then named it: “k. al-Igˇtiha¯d ¯ fı¯ talab al-gˇ iha¯d” (The Book of effort in the quest of al-gˇ iha¯d). “(Manjak or˙ dered) that I write down, what can be found in the book, and the sunna and literary works about the beauty of guarding (al-mura¯bata) the blessed Muslim ˙ coastal towns in order to let the wish grow among the inhabitants to obtain the merits God has foreseen for them for guarding the Islamic coastal towns”.16 A classic Mamluk gˇ iha¯d-hadı¯t found in the gˇ iha¯d-book of as-Suyu¯t¯ı (d. 1505) ˙ ¯ ˙ would read even as late as the end of the fifteenth century as: Guarding the (coastal)fortress for a Day and a night is better than to fast a whole month.“17 However, as Yehoshua Frenkel has pointed out recently, as-Suyu¯t¯ı’s gˇ iha¯d col˙ lection is very interestingly dedicated to the Ottoman sultan Mehmed II (r. 1451 – 1481) “the conqueror” and not to contemporary Mamluk sultans. In this case, one can assume a subversive act of as-Suyu¯t¯ı towards the Mamluk authorities ˙ who were not able to live up to his gˇ iha¯d expectations.18 Whatever the economic disadvantages of the Mamluk defence strategy were, one has to admit that it worked. Al-Qalqasandı¯ (d. 1418) commented this as follows: “The conquest [of ˙ Acre in 1291] was followed by the fall of Sidon, Beirut, and Atlı¯t in the same year. ¯ ¯ With this conquest the whole coast was liberated, and when these towns were captured they were totally razed out of fear that the Franks could re-conquer them. They have stayed in Muslim hands until now.”19 In order to complete the picture of the Mamluk gˇ iha¯d concept, which aimed at guarding the Empire against outer foes like Crusaders and Mongols rather than expanding it, one has to look as well at is second component which was directed towards alleged inner foes like Christians and Shiites. Ibn Taymı¯ya regarded them as fifth column of the outer enemies. “The doctrine of the Ra¯fidites [Shiites] is worse than that of the Kha¯rijite renegades. The Ra¯fidites have the concept of helping the unbelievers against the Muslims, something which the Kha¯rijites would never do. It means that the Ra¯fidites love the Tatars and their Empire.”20 “They the Ra¯fidites are auxiliaries (of the enemy) like Jews and Nazarenes in their fight against Muslims.”21 This kind of argumentation led Mamluk officials to clamp down on religious minorities at several occasions especially after the Black Death of the

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16 Ibn Kat¯ır, k. al-igˇtiha¯d fı¯ talab al-gˇ iha¯d, ed. by Abd Alla¯h Abd ar-Rah¯ım Usayla¯n, Beirut: ¯ ˙ Da¯r al-Liwa¯’ 1981, 61. ˙ ˇ ala¯l ad-Dı¯n as-Suyu¯t¯ı, Arba u¯n hadı¯tan fı¯ fadl al- gˇ iha¯d, ed. by Marzu¯q Alı¯ Ibra¯hı¯m, Cairo: 17 G ˙ ¯ ˙ ˙ (Hadı¯t 31) Da¯r al-I tisa¯m, 1988, 86. ˙ ˙ 18 As-Suyu¯t¯ı (gest. 1505), Arba u¯n hadı¯tan, 50; Cf., Yehoshua Frenkel, “Jiha¯d,” 111. ˙ˇandı¯, Subh al-a ˇsa¯ fı¯ s˙ina ¯at al-insˇa¯’, ed. by Muhammad Husayn Sˇams ad-Dı¯n, 19 Al-Qalqas ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙¯ r al-Kutub ˙ 2000, 185. vol. 4, Beirut: Da al- ilmiyya 20 Michot, “Textes spirituels d’Ibn Taymiyya XII,” in: Le Musulman, 25 (1995), 30. 21 Michot, “Textes spirituels d’Ibn Taymiyya XIII,” in: Le Musulman, 26 (1995), 25. ˘

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mid-fourteenth century. In 755/1354 local Christian and Jewish leaders had to consent to the reinforcement to discriminatory laws against minorities like the wearing of specific clothes. However this did even more incite the populace and Christians were chased through Cairo during the next days and many were perished.22 Humphreys has, hinting at the general defensive attitude of the Mamluks, described their Empire as a “fortress-state” that “had been constructed in and for the world of the late thirteenth century”23 While there might be something to this line of reasoning, I would like to add that the Empire still functioned rather long after its founding, so it was able to maintain at least a certain level of flexibility, especially in the military sector, but the overall defensive gˇ iha¯d ideology as guardianship of the Empire suited the Mamluk military class rather well. In order to expand, they would have needed to import more costly military slaves, for which they did not have the funds, or open up the army for non Military slave troops on a large scale, which might have led to their marginalisation within the army and that was certainly not in their interest either.

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˙ azw was originally a short military expedition of limited scope in order to gain G plunder. In its noun of unity, g˙azwa was especially in use to designate the raids of the Prophet against the infidels.24 A g˙a¯zı¯ is an active participant in these expeditions. Early on in Islamic history g˙a¯zı¯s were to be found in border regions like the Arab-Byzantine frontier. There, the Turkish element in the military became the main constituent in the days of caliph al-Mu tasim (r. 833 – 42). This ˙ led to the fact that it became increasingly a Turco Byzantine border zone as even on the Byzantine side the so-called akritai, guardians of the frontier, were recruited quite often among Turkish mercenaries.25 When the Seljuqs invaded Anatolia after the battle of Manzikert in 1071, the g˙a¯zı¯ concept passed on to the 22 Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, k. as-Sulu¯k, vol 2, part 3, 922 – 925. 23 Stephen R. Humphreys, “Egypt in the World System of the later Middle Ages”, in: The Cambridge History of Egypt, Vol. I: Islamic Egypt, 640 – 1517, ed. by Carl Petry, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1998, 460 – 461. 24 T.M. Johnstone, “Ghazw,” in: Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Brill Online, 2012. Reference. UNIVERSITATSBIBLIOTHEK MARBURG. 03 September 2013. Http://refenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/ encyclopaedia-of-islam-2/ghazw-SIM_2499. 25 M¦likoff, I.. “Gha¯zı¯,” Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Brill Online, 2012. Reference. UNIVERSITATSBIBLIOTHEK MARBURG. 03 September 2013. Http://refenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/ encyclopaedia-of-islam-2/ghazi-SIM_2489.

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incoming Turkish tribes who tried to extend their regencies at the detriment of the Byzantines, thereby combining their Turkishness with a Muslim component in order to create their concept of Holy War, as can be seen in the following story : “According to [a] legend, after Osman’s first local victories over neighboring Byzantine lords, he had a dream the meaning of which was obscure to him. In his dream, a moon rose from the breast of a widely revered dervish sheikh, Edebali, and entered Osman’s own breast. From Osman’s navel sprang a great tree, which grew to shade the entire world. Under the branches of the tree were mountains, from which flowing water served to quench the thirst of some and to irrigate the fields of others. When Osman sought Edebali to learn the meaning of the dream, the sheikh told him that it signified God’s grant of sovereignty to him and his descendents. The moon, explained Edebali, represented his own daughter, to whom Osman was forthwith united in marriage …. In most versions, the historical narrative continues by noting two direct outcomes of the event: Osman’s solemn dedication to ghaza, holy war against the infidel, and the birth of Orhan, the second ruler, from the union of Osman and Edebali’s daughter.”26 The following Ottomans are therefore clearly the sons of a warrior and grandsons of a religious man.27 But even in the Turkish context it was clear that gˇ iha¯d constituted – compared to g˙azwa – the higher religious obligation. It was considered a religious duty (fard) whereas g˙azwa was of course commendable but a lesser category. Cemal ˙ Kafadar has shown that this argumentation line is also to be found in Ottoman sources of the fourteenth century.28 But how come then, that in the Anatolian context fighting the Christians is mainly connected with g˙azwa instead of gˇ iha¯d? My personal reasoning would be, that it was already the prevailing concept at the Muslim-Byzantine border since Early Islamic times and that its aggressive expansive side appealed to Turkish tribesman even more so as the gˇ iha¯d became increasingly connected to Syria and the fight for the liberation of Jerusalem in the time of the crusades. In order to substantiate his already above mentioned thesis that the Ottoman Empire was from its beginning a g˙a¯zı¯-state, Paul Wittek uses literary evidence. He cites the famous Ottoman poet of the fourteenth century Ahmadı¯ (d. 1413) who questioned “why have the Gh–z„s appeared at the ˙ last?” and Ahmadı¯ answered to himself “because the best always comes at the ˙ end. Just as the definitive prophet Mohammad came after the others, just as the Koran came down from heaven after the Torah, the psalms and the gospels, so 26 Leslie P. Pierce, The Imperial Harem. Women and Sovereignty in the Ottoman Empire Oxford: Oxford University Press 1993, 16; Friedrich Giese, Die altosmanischen anonymen Chroniken. Edited and translated by Friedrich Giese, part I: Ottoman text, Breslau: Selbstverlag 1922, 6 – 7; part II: German translation, Leipzig: F.A. Brockhaus 1925, 12 – 13. 27 Pierce, Imperial Harem, 18. 28 Kafadar, Between two Worlds, 80.

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also the Gh–z„s appeared in the world at last.”29 He sees in this story, which is subsequently embellished by Ahmadı¯ in the following pages when describing the ˙ g˙a¯zı¯s, a clear hint for the general acceptance of the g˙a¯zı¯ theme in the fourteenth century. Wittek argues against critics of his thesis, who say that his proofs were only literary evidence by one author, that a stunning inscription from 1337 from Bursa confirms his view. On this mosque inscription the Ottoman ruler already bears the title “Sult–n, son of the Sult–n of the Gh–zis, Gh–z„, son of Gh–z„, marquis of the horizons, hero of the world.”30 However, it has been argued after Wittek that this inscription was not original but part of later restoration works of the mosque.31 Other critics like Paul Linder have asked that if the g˙a¯zı¯ spirit was at the core of Ottoman success than how come that other g˙a¯zı¯ principalities like the Danishmendis in Central Anatolia failed whereas the Ottomans prevailed?32 And of course there has been certainly more to Ottoman success than just the g˙a¯zı¯ spirit. To a certain extent, the early image of g˙a¯zı¯ warriors might also “simply” have been “an ideological creation of later Ottoman historiography,”33 as Cemal Kafadar put it, but it proved a prevailing flexible concept that well reflects the attitude of early Ottomans. Their goal was to expand; and once the process of expansion accelerated, it became a self-runner, accompanied ideologically by the g˙a¯zı¯ concept. However, the g˙a¯zı¯ concept did not hinder the Ottomans to attack Muslim Sunni neighbors when they were in the way, but it was more difficult to justify such wars religiously. In these cases, Ottoman sultans like Sultan Murad I (r. 1360 – 1389) obtained legal documents by his ulama¯’ that he had to fight Muslim neighbors in the East, because they were hindering him from his real goal, i. e. the Holy War against the Christians on the Balkan.34The word gˇ iha¯d is rarely used in the frontier narratives of early Ottoman chronicles. According to a recently discovered codebook of fourteenth century Anatolia it is quite clear that gˇ iha¯d is classified as defensive, whereas g˙azwa is seen as more expansive.35 Other works of this genre make that clear as well: “These works make a distinction between ghaz– and jih–d: In them jih–d, a duty incumbent upon all Muslims, refers to defense of Muslim cities against invasion by ‘infidel’ armies, while ghaz–, a duty that may be discharged by a sufficient portion of the 29 Wittek, The Rise, 44. 30 Ibid. 31 Linda T. Darling, “Contested Territory : Ottoman Holy War in Comparative Context,” in: Studia Islamica, 91 (2000), 160. 32 Rudi Paul Lindner, “Stimulus and Justification in Early Ottoman History,” in: The Greek Orthodox Theological Review, 27/2 (1982), 219. 33 Kafadar, Between two Worlds, 57. 34 Colin Imber, The Ottoman Empire, 1300 – 1650, New York: Plagrave Macmillan 2002, 121. 35 Kafadar, Between two Worlds, 79 – 80.

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Muslim community, refers to invasion of ‘infidel’ lands by Muslims authorized by the caliph or to defense of far-distant parts of Muslim territory.”36 The Ottoman regency increased considerably in Europe and on the Balkans in the thirteenth and fourteenth century. The Ottomans increasingly saw themselves as g˙a¯zı¯s who had to permanently increase the territory of the house of Islam. Their immense successes resulted in the fact that their g˙a¯zı¯ concept ˙ azwa obtained therefore a clear Ottoman became a self-fulfilling prophecy. G connotation until the fifteenth century. Colin Imber remarks in this context: “By the late fifteenth century, in the words of the chronicler, Neshri, the Ottoman sultans had become ‘the pre-eminent ghazis … after the Apostle of God [Muhammad] and the Four Rightly Guided Caliphs’.”37 The climax of Ottoman ˙ g˙azwas was constituted undoubtedly by the conquest of Constantinople, the old Byzantine capital in 1453. With this enormous victory against Christendom the Ottoman g˙a¯zı¯s could now challenge in the following effectively militarily and ideologically the Mamluk mugˇa¯hids as leading Sunni power.

The use of g˙azwa and gˇiha¯d in a joint Mamluk and Ottoman perspective The fifteenth century then witnessed the preparation for the great apparently inevitable Mamluk-Ottoman clash and in this context the gˇ iha¯d of the Mamluks and the g˙azwa of the Ottomans came closer, especially when looking at it from a diplomatic perspective. However, now that I have constructed my argument about concepts of Mamluk gˇ iha¯d and Ottoman g˙azwa and how they are distinct, I have partially to deconstruct it again at least on the basis of literary sources, as Ottoman and Mamluk texts are full of references to g˙azwa and gˇ iha¯d and use them quite often in an intertwined manner, without a clear separation of both.38 This holds especially true after the Ottoman victory against the Crusader forces at the battle of Nicopolis in 1396. This victory provided the Ottomans now as well with an ideological grip on the term gˇ iha¯d and the Mamluks thereafter lost their monopoly in fighting the crusaders.39 Al-Qalqasˇandı¯ acknowledges the Ottoman military contributions in the frontier zones and their efforts to conquer Constantinople.40 Letters from the Mamluk chancery to Ottoman sultans were among plenty other titles addressed to the g˙a¯zı¯, the mugˇa¯hid and the “helper of

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Darling, “Contested Territory,” 140. Imber, The Ottoman Empire, 1300 – 1650, 120. Muslu, The Ottomans and the Mamluks, 74. Muslu, The Ottomans and the Mamluks, 145. Al-Qalqashandı¯, Subh, vol. 5, 349, vol. 8, 15 – 16; Muslu, The Ottomans and the Mamluks, 145. ˙ ˙

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g˙a¯zı¯s and mugˇa¯hidı¯n” (Na¯sir al-g˙uza¯t wa-mugˇa¯hidı¯n) and “God may strengthen ˙ his gˇ iha¯d”.41 And for some Mamluk victories sultans are hailed as g˙a¯zı¯s as well. When speaking about the conquest of Acre by Sultan al-Asˇraf Halı¯l (r. 1291 – 93) al˘ Qalqasˇandı¯ uses the phrase that the Sultan had embarked on a g˙azwa (ahada fı¯ ˘ ¯ g˙azw). Maybe this usage of the term g˙azwa has to do with the fact that al-Asˇraf Halı¯l had in this case actually successfully conquered a coastal town and was not ˘ praised for a defensive action.42 However, one can notice that g˙azwa and gˇ iha¯d are used in the context of both ruling dynasties. Still, the claim to the term of gˇ iha¯d was more pronounced on the Mamluk side at the beginning of the fifteenth century as they were the older dynasty and the guardians of the Holy Cities. Moreover, Timurlenk’s Western expedition at the beginning of the fourteenth century had shaken the Mamluks but left the Ottomans in tatters. Together with the following wars, the outcome of Timur’s expedition kept the Ottomans from challenging the Mamluks sooner. Moreover, on the Mamluk side the early fifteenth century was the time of the last successful anti-crusader expeditions against Cyprus from 1424 to 1426. Envoys of the Ottomans were especially invited to witness the victory procession in Cairo and see the Cypriot King Janus (r. 1398 – 1432) paraded through the streets.43 This restored the Mamluk reputation for a while, but then came the conquest of Constantinople by the Ottomans in 1453. Afterwards the situation changed ideologically as well. In a letter, which Sultan Mehmed II the conqueror (r. 1444 – 46, 1451 – 1481) sent allegedly on this occasion to the Mamluk Sultan ¯Ina¯l, it states that after a period where mutual relations had turned silent: “Now this is the time to reconnect between the person who shouldered the responsibility of enabling the pilgrimage for the pilgrims and pious people and the person who shouldered the responsibility of preparing and equipping the people of ghaza and jihad, as he inherited this task from his fathers and descendants[…]”44. This contains several insults as it depicts the Mamluk sultan as a pure manager of the pilgrimage, while the Ottoman sultan is really pushing g˙azwa and gˇ iha¯d further. Moreover it is stated in the letter that the Ottoman sultans had inherited their tasks from their fathers who were already sultans. This is a subtle critique to the fact that the Mamluk sultans were raised as slaves and did not have such noble ancestries. However, there are two versions of the letter, one which contains the insults and can be found in the 41 Al-Qalqashandı¯, Subh, vol. 8, 225. 42 Ibid., vol. 3, 499.˙ ˙ 43 Muslu, The Ottomans and the Mamluks, 174 – 177. See for Mamluk Cyprus as well: Albrecht Fuess, “Was Cyprus a Mamluk Protectorate? Mamluk Influence on Cyprus between 1426 and 1517,” in: Journal of Cyprus Studies, 11 (2005), [28/29], 11 – 28. 44 Feridun, 1274, 1:235 – 8, here cited after : Muslu, The Ottomans and the Mamluks, 210.

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document gathering of Feridun Beg, the head of the Ottoman chancery, and the second version is to be found in the work of the Mamluk scholar al-Biqa¯ ¯ı (d. 1480) which omits these insulting expressions.45 One can only guess if they were deleted in Cairo or added later in Istanbul. Be it as it may, the end of the story is well known: the Ottomans conquered the Mamluk Empire in 1516/17, but they felt they had to justify the attack on a fellow Sunni Muslim power. Their propaganda told the story that the Mamluks had plotted with the Shii Safavids against the Mamluks.46 The Ottoman chronicler Saadedin said: “When the Circassians support the Qizilbash, we shall draw our sword also against them.”47 A Hanafi ˙ qa¯d¯ı of Damiette wrote in his chronicle in the mid sixteenth century, that the ˙ Ottoman and Mamluk Sultans had a friendly master – slave type relationship at the beginning.48 But in the noble fight against the Safavids the Mamluks had taken the wrong position. Sultan Selı¯m (r. 1512 – 1520) had been the only one who helped the suppressed Sunnis in Iraq; but the Mamluks had plotted with Safavids against the Ottomans. Therefore the war was justified.49 However while one has obviously to acknowledge that the terms gˇ iha¯d and g˙azwa are used sometimes interchangeable to denote Mamluk and Ottoman military activities towards Christians, I would uphold the point of view that the underlying state concepts which I describe as Mamluk gˇ iha¯d and Ottoman g˙azwa are very different in their outward approach representing a defensive outline on the Mamluk side and an offensive on the Ottoman side. Outlook: Ottoman G˙a¯zı¯ concept after the Mamluks So what happened after the great victories of the Ottomans against Mamluks and Safavids in the sixteenth century? One gets the impression that now at the nadir of their empire the g˙a¯zı¯ concept was no longer sufficient on its own for the Ottomans to legitimate their rule. They moved beyond and expanded their legacies. Sultan Suleiman (r. 1520 – 1566) increasingly used epithets such as “Caesars of Caesars” or in the Persian context against the Safavides “Choesroes of Choesroes”. The Ottoman sultans from the mid-sixteenth century were ˘

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45 Al-Biqa¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯h al-Biqa¯ ¯ı, ed. by Muhammad Sa¯lim b. Sˇadı¯d al- Awfı¯, Riad 1992, 425 – 431. ˙ ˘ 46 Jean-Louis Bacqu¦-Grammont, Les Ottomans, les Safavides et leurs voisins. Contribution — l’histoire des relations internationales dans l’Orient Islamiques de 1514 — 1524, Istanbul: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut te Istanbul 1987, 191 – 192. 47 Saadedin, Tac üt-Tevarih, vol. 2, Istanbul: 1863, 328. 48 Diya¯rbekrı¯, Tercüme en-nüzhe es-seniyye fı¯ zikri l-hulefa¯ ve-l-mülu¯ki l-misriyyen British ¯ ˘ Lellouch, Ottomans ˙en Êgypte. HiLibrary, Add. 7846, 102 r ; Here cited after : Benjamin storiens et conqu¦rants au XVIe siÀcle, Leuven Peters 2006, 217. 49 Diya¯rbekrı¯, Tercüme, 109 v – 110 r ; Here cited after : Benjamin Lellouch, Ottomans en Êgypte, 219.

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“Sultan of Arabs, Persian and Romans”.50 Other evidence of the weakening of ˙ a¯zı¯ state is the fact that several reforms took place in the course of the Wittek’s G th 16 century in the Ottoman Empire which hint at a change of governmental attitude: sultans married again, whereas before they had only concubines; princes are kept in the harem instead of being sent to govern provinces; etc.. In the wake of the locking of princes in the harem, Ottoman fratricide among princes would first be highly criticized and finally ended at the beginning of the seventeenth century. The Ottoman Empire had apparently less need for free g˙a¯zı¯s anymore but needed instead civil and military bureaucrats. A parallel development is that the religious frontier of Crusader times disappeared from the beginning of the sixteenth century onwards. Realpolitik took its place, especially after the fall of the last upholders of Crusader or gˇ iha¯d ideology on both sides, i. e. the Mamluks in 1517 and the Knights of St. John of Rhodes in 1522. Both, who had been present as principalities in crusading times, were defeated by the Ottomans.51 The big religious struggles of the sixteenth century were fought within the realms of Christianity and Islam – i. e. Protestants vs. Catholics and Ottoman Sunnis against Safavid Shiis. This process can also be shown by the fact that a mutual French-Ottoman fleet attacked the Christian town of Nice in 1543, which belonged then to the Dukes of Savoy. This Christian-Muslim mutual alliance was undertaken against their common foe, the Habsburg Empire. Such an alliance would have been unthinkable had the Mamluk Empire still persisted.

Conclusion What to make out of the mental nodes of Ottoman g˙azwa and Mamluk gˇ iha¯d? As stated above, these two terminologies describe very different concepts about how to govern and improve a state with an ideological bolstering. It is clear though that there can’t be a clear cut separation of the two concepts and that there is a larger mental network connecting them and binding them to the superior node of Islamic Holy War. The Ottoman sub-node of g˙azwa seemed to be better prepared for action in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and hence the Mamluk sub-node of defensive gˇ ihad was less active for a certain period of time until the rise of Imperialism, which revived this concept again and the ideology of Ottoman g˙azwa was deactivated in the Modern period. But let’s come back to the initial question about the two arms on the same body. In this respect 50 Imber, Ottoman Empire, 125. 51 Albrecht Fuess, “Braudel and the Sea. What to make today out of Braudel’s M¦diterran¦e for the Study of the Greater Mediterranean Region in the 15th and 16th Centuries,” in: La frontiÀre m¦diterran¦enne (15e – 17e siÀcles). Êchanges, circulations, et affrontements, ed. by Albrecht Fuess and Bernard Heyberger Turnhout: Brepols. (Forthcoming in 2014)

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Mamluk gˇ iha¯d and Ottoman g˙azwa are clearly different but they are two arms of the same body within the greater framework of pre-modern Islamic ideologies, only that the Ottomans controlled apparently the stronger arm.

Torsten Wollina (Beirut)

News and Rumor – local sources of knowledge about the world You can believe me, I’m telling you no lie it’s not long before he’s laying claim to his proper glory, his own construction put up on plain fact, and launched on a likely story to exercise his chins Rumour is Rumour once again. (Charles Tomlison)1

Often enough, historians read their sources to obtain a sense of ‘what really happened.’ We question the texts in our hands for whether they are right or wrong with regards to depictions of specific events, chronologies of connected events or names of the historical figures involved. Even after the literary turn has gained wide acceptance in the historical sciences, we still cannot let go of ‘objective facts’ completely. Nor can this article neglect them since it approaches a ‘genre’ which is defined by the questionable truth of its content and the obscurity of the sources this content originated from. This ‘genre’ of oral communication is the rumor which constitutes a social practice that can be found in every human society throughout human history. They form a different channel for transmitting information which can supplement or contradict official news and were described as the oldest mass media in the world by one French economist.2 As such, they make up an “important element of public discourse.”3 This might be even more true for pre-modern societies, where all information contained some degree of uncertainty and the vast majority of communication was in one way or another an oral affair. This particularly holds for societies in the Middle East in which oral transmissions played decisive roles in written correspondence, courtly ceremonies as well as in (religious) sciences. Rumors are said 1 Tomlison 1967, 73 f. 2 See Kapferer 1996, 228. 3 Gelfert, Coverage-Reliability, 1.

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to affect public debates as well as political decisions up to the highest level of the state. Studies of this phenomenon can help us to better understand how common people – in particular – perceived the society they lived in or the state they were governed by. By analyzing rumors, one can provide tentatively answers to questions such as: How did people learn about the grand mechanisms of politics? Where did they learn about the state of affairs and how they affected their own lives? Still, rumors constitute a field that has so far been neglected in Mamluk Studies. There is not a single study which addresses rumor as a distinctive phenomenon deserving the attention of researchers as such. There are a number of studies from other disciplines which have demonstrated ways in which research on rumors can be made fruitful. The anthropologist Luise White deconstructed stories about vampires from several African countries which earlier generations of anthropologists rejected as hearsay to unearth the underlying connections between the content of these accounts and the specific social contexts in which they were created and spread: In White’s subtle and imaginative analysis the stories turn out to convey very different messages. In Nairobi they are about women defending their rights to live by themselves in their own house. In North Rhodesia they seem to be about colonial labour recruitment, particularly about the ways in which White Fathers tried to maintain their access to cheap labour; but they seem to relate also to colonial measures to contain sleeping sickness.4

In one study on court documents from Early Modern England, Adam Fox concentrated on networks of communication and the role patronage, boundaries of proper social conduct, or the relationship between oral, manuscript and other media played in this regard. Fox could prove that common people were quite informed about the state of the nation. They gained most of their knowledge through the “oral exchange born of interpersonal contact“ which included rumors shared by professional letter carriers, chapmen or traveling tradespeople in roadside inns or on fairs and markets, and he could show that “it is more certain that most people would have at least a general knowledge of the issues when it came to take sides in conflict.”5 However, not only common people relied on rumors to understand current events but also rulers suffered from the uncertainties of pre-modern communication channels and founded their decisions on information which was far from complete, or – as Bruce Gibson states with regard to the Roman Empire – “uncertainties and false perceptions could affect even the emperor.”6 The present article addresses the phenomenon of the rumor in Mamluk so4 Geschiere 2002, 499. 5 Fox 1997, 620. 6 Gibson 1998, 126.

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ciety. As Fox established for Stuart England, it is safe to assume that in the Mamluk realm as well people could not rely only on official statements, but rather turned to other sources of information to supplement their knowledge about the world. The article starts out with a short definition of rumor in comparison to official news. Following that, I will give a brief summary of how news were delivered by the Mamluk state and at which points rumors might have played a role for the contemporaries, in explaining events taking place both in faraway places and in their immediate vicinity – sometimes even in events that they witnessed themselves. Then, the interrelations between formal and informal communication shall be illustrated by two case studies. Finally, in the conclusion, I will present some suggestions for future research. The case studies in this article are collected from a text, which differs in important aspects from the mainstream chronicles of that time: The journal of the Damascene court clerk (sˇa¯hid/ka¯tib) Ahmad b. Tawq (1434 – 1509) which I ˙ ˙ have described elsewhere as a diary, is a chronologically arranged text that covers the years 1480 to 1501 and, most importantly, was written on a day-to-day basis.7 The entries were written during a time when the author was still under the influence of his recorded events and could not assess which events would become important or not; therefore, he could not afford not to record any information he received through hearsay. As a notary, Ibn Tawq himself was an ˙ important news source: his position brought him into contact with some of the most influential figures in Damascus as well as with members from most other strata of society. Situated at the intersection between legal and administrative hierarchies, on the one side, and the ‘common man’, on the other side, knowledge about the respective other constituted to a great part his cultural capital. Since he never traveled more than 60 kilometers from Damascus, most of his knowledge about other places depended on what other people told him. At the same time, Ibn Tawq’s cultural capital depended on his credibility and thus, on ˙ him checking his sources and the truth value of the reports they gave him. The methods he used to establish a true version of events bears strong similarities with the ones developed in the studies of the prophetic traditions (hadı¯t). Fur˙ ¯ thermore, the tradition of hadı¯t was one way for people who were no full-fledged ˙ ¯ 8 scholars to gain some prestige in the academic field. In the two entries in biographical dictionaries dedicated to Ibn Tawq, he is indeed remembered as a ˙ trustful traditionalist (muhaddit).9 The author’s occupation as a notary and his ¯ ˙ ˘

7 The manuscript used to be stored in the Syrian national library in Damascus (Ms. 4533). For ˇ a far al-Muha¯gˇir in four volumes and this article, I relied mostly on the edition prepared by G published by the IFPO in Damascus (2000 – 2007). See also Wollina 2013; idem, Zwanzig Jahre Alltag. 8 Berkey 1992, 28, 200 – 1. 9 See al-G˙azzı¯, al-Kawa¯kib as-sa¯’ira, 1:126; Ibn al- Ima- d al-H . anbali, Sˇadara¯t ad-dahab, 87. ¯ ¯ ¯ ˘

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involvement in the tradition of hadı¯t may both have been motivations for Ibn ˙ ¯ Tawq to diligently distinguish between ‘fact’ and ‘fiction’ in his journal which ˙ was all the more difficult since it did not share the gift of hindsight with other historiographical accounts. Therefore, the journal is an obvious choice as for a starting point for a “historical anthropology of gossip and rumor” of the Mamluk ruled territories which may provide us with “several insights into the nature of […] social life and political controversy”.10

What is a rumor? Charles Tomlison’s poem which was quoted at the beginning of this article, offers a good starting point for a definition of rumor. According to Tomlison, a rumor is “laying claim to […] his own construction,” meaning that it uses “plain fact” to fabricate “a likely story.” Once such a story is accepted as credible by enough people, the rumor goes around: “Rumour had it and Rumour spread it.”11 The Oxford dictionary uses a more profane language and defines it as “a currently circulating story or report of uncertain or doubtful truth.”12 It is important to note, that the truth value of such a story is debatable, questionable and doubtful, but not that its content is necessarily untrue. Rumors do not have to be based on a lie and should not be understood as “public error” or “typically untrue information.”13 Rather, recent research emphasizes its psychological and communicative aspects. Psychologically speaking, rumors have been described as a response to individual or collective problems or as a communicative defense mechanism. Communicative studies understand them as a way of gaining supplementary information which enables people to make sense of a situation (‘improvised news’) and then, act accordingly.14 Of course, as any kind of communication, rumors can also be manipulated. As part of a political strategy it may serve to improve or undermine someone’s position in society, either at the expense of the rumor’s victim or through the status generated by knowledge about current events. To a large part, Ibn Tawq’s reputation as notary relied on his knowledge of ˙ current events. The uncertainty of the information transmitted through rumors results from the obscurity of (part of) its chain of transmission. This is the major distinction between rumors and official news. Kay Kirchmann describes rumors 10 11 12 13

Both quotes are taken from Kelly 2006, 762. Tomlison, 1967, 73. oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/rumour (07. 05. 2013). Quotes of Michel de Montaigne and Arindam Chakrabarti respectively, taken from Gelfert, Coverage-Reliabilty, 1 – 2. 14 See Merten 2009, 20 – 21; Bruhn, 2004, 26 – 36.

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and news as antipodes of medial information.15 As a medium, news convinces the believer that they convey the verified truth. This is not to say that official news always speak or know the truth, but that they (implicitly) state that they do. The truth value of news is further supported by the reliance on authorities of knowledge (e. g. eyewitnesses, public figures of good repute, documents) as well as on rituals for delivering information in public. I will address such preferred rituals preferred by the Mamluks in the following section. Rumors, on the other hand, do not have such credentials. They rarely reveal any specific source of information (“I heard…,” “it is said…,” “people say…”); at best they exhibit a friend-to-friend structure of transmission (“I heard from the aunt of my friend…”) which gives them additional credibility without enabling the recipient to countercheck the information.16 As a medium, rumor is of a purely transitory nature: Any information loses the status of rumor as soon as its truth value has been examined. Henceforth, it is not “of uncertain or doubtful truth” anymore, but is either exposed as a misinformation, a lie or even slander, or it is validated as real news. Three deductions can be made from this definition. Firstly, the same report can only be considered as rumor or as news, but never be both at the same time. Secondly, the same report may be considered a rumor at one time and news at another. As stated above, a rumor might become news when its content is confirmed. The other way around, official statements may be found out to rely on unconfirmed information, whereas they lose their status as news. For instance, in the year 886 (1481 – 1482), Ibn Tawq relates that a message arrived of a ˙ Frankish attack on Beirut. Only a few lines later, however, he corrects himself: “The news about Beirut have turned out not to be true, thank God!”17 Thirdly, a report may be considered as news by one recipient and as mere rumor by another at the same time, depending on their knowledge of an affair. For these reasons, rumor is a category only applicable from a subjective perspective, since it entails no final statement as to the truth of any given statement. It depends on an individual’s level of knowledge from other sources if a “currently circulating story” is indeed of “uncertain or doubtful truth” to them, to use the vocabulary of the Oxford dictionary. The transitory existence of a rumor can be separated into three phases: its emergence, its dispersion and finally, its demise.18 The beginning of a rumor is difficult to pinpoint, since researchers usually become aware of it after it has reached the second phase and has become widely known.

In the following, I depend on Kirchmann 2004, 74 – 76. See Bruhn 2004, 17. Ibn Tawq, Ta lı¯q, 1:63. ˙ 2004, 22 – 26. Bruhn ˘

15 16 17 18

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The reason for its emergence is a problem that we also face everyday. For most of our knowledge, we rely on others: We all depend, to some degree or another, on our social environment for keeping us abreast with important developments and general knowledge of the changing world around us. […] Even if we cannot expect completeness from one source of information alone, we may (and do) rely on other sources – formal and informal – to fill us in on any important news we might have missed.19

Once it is established, a rumor may live on as long as it is still interesting enough for its recipients and its truth value has not been examined. In this phase, the story is changed with every new telling, emphasizing different aspects, leaving out some details and fabricating some others, so that every new version is different from the one before.20 The range of its circulation distinguishes rumors from gossip, which is restricted to a small circle of people, who all know the victim as well as the source of the accusations. Werner Wunderlich defines gossip (German: Klatsch) as “an everyday chatterly version of the rumor and as a specific type of banal everyday story, usually conveying a negative perspective on [absent] acquaintances or friends.”21 Rumor does not rely on such specific social constellations but can also be exchanged among complete strangers who happen to meet by chance.22 Therefore, a rumor can be much more long-living and only comes to an end when it ceases to find people to listen and repeat it. This may happen if everyone who might take an interest in it has heard it, if its truth value has been examined, or if a new rumor supersedes it.23 The second phase of a rumor’s development has been studied most intensively. Definitions, interpretations and explanations of the how and why of rumor spreading have come from disciplines as diverse as psychology, communication studies, sociology, economy, folklore studies, anthropology, literary studies, information science and mathematics.24 As to be seen in the case study, Ibn Tawq’s journal does not provide us with the complete story of any specific ˙ rumor from its emergence through its end. However, it offers glimpses of different rumors at different points of their development. The most material can be found on the second phase. While there are also some examples for how and 19 20 21 22 23 24

Gelfert, Coverage-Reliablity, 3. Merten, 2009, 34 – 38. Wunderlich 2004, 57. Bruhn 2004, 16 – 17. Ibid., 25 f. A concise overview of the historical development of rumor studies is given in Merten 2009. For contributions from communication studies and economics, see also Bruhn, Wunderlich 2004. For mathematical approaches to the dispersion of rumor, see Osei, Thompson 1977. In literary studies, the works of the Roman historian Tacitus seems to have received special attention to rumors: Gibson 1998; Ries 1969.

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when a rumor might have emerged, the end of a rumor is usually neglected by Ibn Tawq. In some cases, he states that it had been either confirmed or rejected in ˙ a later entry. In general, however, the author just stops to write about it. In the following section, I will present examples for the first two phases. First, however, a quick look at the ways in which official news was transmitted and delivered in the Mamluk Empire is necessary. Only then can we assess the role of rumor in spreading information in this specific historical setting.

Mamluk news and Mamluk rumor

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The Mamluks established a number of communication channels with the populace they ruled. They received information about public opinion both directly through petitions and in courts (maza¯lim) as well as indirectly through net˙ works of patronage which were structured around their households. Offices like that of the muhtasib (inspector of public places) also should not be under˙ estimated in this respect.25 More than their predecessors, the Mamluks made the deliverance of information a public matter and thus, even the official news channels relied heavily on oral means of communication. Moreover, the Mamluks employed visual means to communicate with the populace they ruled. Official letters about the installation or the removal of office holders, the introduction of taxes, fixing of prices and other official measures, even about the course of a military conflict were usually read out loud before an audience consisting of members of all social strata. The maza¯lim courts in which the ˙ sultan or his appointees decided law cases were also held in public. The reading of a letter or proclamation or the holding of law courts were all meant to show people that the ruler followed his duty to defend his dominion both from external threats by military struggle and from internal threats by commanding right and forbidding wrong. The Mamluks derived part of their legitimacy from the image they created of themselves as tangible rulers. The idea of public display was most prevalent in the investment ceremonies of office holders (labbasa hil a), celebrations of religious holidays, and rites of passage in the ruling ˘ households or the meals sultan Qa¯ytba¯y consumed in public.26 They all required an audience to be present, as did the parading through the streets of delinquents or prisoners of war or the public exhibition of heads of slain enemy soldiers or criminals. The rulers’ display before and interaction with the populace went the furthest in the processions of sultans, emirs and ulama¯’, as well as other social ˘

25 See Stilt 2011. 26 Levanoni 2005, 218.

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groups, which were held for various reasons.27 These processions could be read by the audience like a text.28 The size of the procession, the quality of dress, armor and weapons carried, who had the greatest entourage, which groups were allowed to take part, how large was the audience, the general grandeur of the procession – all these aspects were witnessed, interpreted and understood by the contemporaries and they drew their conclusions about the state of affairs. However, the messages conveyed through such public displays could be ambiguous. They could be misinterpreted. Even more so, since the audience was not just watching passively, but might use this opportunity for its own ends: At times [the people] would salute the riding sultan, and women would utter shrill cries (zag˙a-rit). At other times they would consider the procession an appropriate occasion to approach the ruler, express their concerns to him, and ask for redress.29

In an effort to make sense of the event witnessed, people would probably have turned to the person standing next to them, talking among themselves and exchanging ideas about the implications of what had happened. Some explanations were more plausible or their sources more credible than others and whichever found a large number of followers might then spread through the city and beyond, creating a rumor about the state of the Empire or one specific figure of the ruling elite. The process of explaining an event was not only restricted to one’s inner circle but was more complex, with the information transcending social boundaries and crossing large distances. People turned to public authority figures for their opinion on a certain matter. Concerning events outside of town, people had to rely on letters or eyewitness accounts from family members, friends, business associates, acquaintances or simply travelers they met by chance in the markets, the mosque or in one of the guest houses in the city. As the processions themselves, these places can be assumed to have been the “gossip factories” or “rumor mills” of the day.30 Since during his writing process Ibn Tawq was still under the impression of the experienced events, he offers us ˙ unique glimpses into where rumors would evolve because people tried to grasp the meaning of a certain event. Ibn Tawq was present at such a public display in ˙ 892 (1497 – 1498):

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“Shortly before the afternoon prayer I saw a group of travelers (arriving) from Aleppo. Among them were two riders. One was a Mamluk, the other a Turcoman in chains. It was said that the first one was the Mamluk Iya¯s b. az-Zama¯n who had traveled to the lands of the Ottomans (ibn utma¯n) but that proved wrong. Then, it was rumored that ¯ 27 In Cairo, the most important public festivals were the “procession of the palanquin” (dawara¯n al-mahmil) and the “plentitude of the Nile” (wafa¯’ an-nı¯l). ˙ 75. 28 Shoshan 1993, 29 Ibid. 30 Wunderlich 2004, 62.

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he was the governor (wa¯lı¯) of Qitna¯ who had fled to Aleppo and was captured (there). ˙ That was assumed because of the chains. Then again, he was said to have been a 31 Mamluk of the sultan.”

˘

In another entry, Ibn Tawq describes the arrival of the governor (ka-fil) of ˙ Damascus in the city “without a marching band (…) or riders to protect him, and before only a few people.” Ibn Tawq considered this to be a “strange and ˙ uncommon” procession ( agˇ¯ıb wa-g˙arı¯b) which did not comply with “the custom of the governors.”32 As is demonstrated by these examples, the public display of power left plenty of room for interpretation and speculation on the part of spectators and could apparently only be understood by making use of informal communication. The two accounts of processions presented here might pinpoint the emergence of a rumor. The uncertain identity of the rider in chains made the audience of the spectacle wonder if his capture was an internal Mamluk affair or an external matter. The message in the second example is more obvious. The author was clearly disturbed by the meek display during the governor’s arrival. What did it say about the state of the Empire, if even the supposedly most powerful man of Damascus failed in inspiring awe and authority? If Ibn Tawq had diffi˙ culties interpreting what he saw with his own eyes, he must have had even greater problems distinguishing between what was authorized news and what was added or left out by his informant(s), since when he was not present at an event, he received information only through secondhand accounts. Among them are all those entries which include the sentence “I did not go to town” (lam adhul al˘ madı¯na). Admittedly, a great share of his journal treats events where he was absent (and often states so) as objective facts, often without naming the source. The lists of officials, given at the beginning of every year are perhaps the most visible of such ‘objective’ items. They might be considered as common knowledge that reached the author through his extensive social networks of neighbors, colleagues and other people he regarded reliable, often without giving their names. However, a concern over secondhand accounts is noticeable in Ibn Tawq’s journal. A great number of information given to him seems to have been ˙ constituted by trusted members of his social environment. His sources were his household and family, colleagues, neighbors, his business partner Zayn ad-Dı¯n Hidr, the ˇsayh al-isla¯m Ibn Qa¯d¯ı Agˇlu¯n and other members of the author’s study ˙ ˘ ˙ ˘ group.33 In other cases a story is validated by stating that the information had come from a dignitary or a messenger, a decree or an official letter. If the official channels were ambiguous or silent about important matters, ˘

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31 Ibn Tawq, Ta lı¯q, 2:696. 32 Ibid.,˙ Ta lı¯q, 4:1896. 33 For more information about those people, see Wollina, Zwanzig Jahre Alltag. ˘

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people would turn to other means of receiving information. News from outside Damascus were at the same time highly valued and regarded as problematic. Besides his own network, Ibn Tawq had to rely on other sources – he mentions a ˙ number traveling scholars, pilgrims, merchants, even artisans and peasants, for some of whom he did not even know the name – whose credibility he could (or would) not vouch for. As the account on the two riders arriving from Aleppo illustrates, some information was not attributable to anyone. Ibn Tawq did not ˙ treat such accounts as established facts. Instead, he used a variety of terms to make clear that such accounts reached him only through hearsay : “I heard” (sami tu), “it is said” (dukira, qı¯la) or “word in the streets is” (qa¯la wa-qı¯la, min ¯ qa¯’il bi/an). All these terms refer to informal communication, not all of which the author might have been cautious about. If he had doubts that a certain story was fabricated, he usually added “it has not been confirmed” (lam yasihh). ˙ ˙˙ One of the most beautiful examples for a rumor is Ibn Tawq’s entry for the 5th ˙ of Muharram 906 (1500) in which he relates a (false) rumor that the sultan had ˙ been captured by Bedouins. Its importance can be deducted from the fact that it appears in the text. Moreover, it features two elements which make it interesting and plausible: not only is it a story about the head of the state in faraway Cairo, but it also features the Bedouin which were often under suspicion of revolting against the state and the public order.34 The account is still seen as problematic by the author which is why – most intriguing of all – he tells us in detail where it came from. Ibn Tawq heard it from someone who had heard it from yet another ˙ person who had “heard the letter read out loud or a report about it.”35 So, even the person who shared the story with the author presented him with at best a secondhand account of the secondhand account of the event itself. However, it seems to give the account some credibility that the transmission chain went back to an official letter. It is not the aim of this article to find proof if such a letter indeed existed, but instead aims at stressing that a person’s presence at the reading of the letter was valued almost as much as their presence at the event itself. This observation also strengthens Konrad Hirschler’s recent argument about the growing importance of writing during the Mamluk period.36 Whereas the two examples in which Ibn Tawq was present depict the emer˙ gence of a rumor, the story about the sultan’s capture shows in much detail how rumors would spread – or at least would have claimed to have spread. The following two case studies below, in contrast, treat rumor complexes, each

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34 For instance a Bedouin was questioned who allegedly was a spy for the Ottoman sultan. Ibn Tawq, Ta lı¯q, 2:529. ˙ 35 Ibid., 4:1850. 36 See Hirschler 2012.

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centered on one event or chain of events which were covered by Ibn Tawq more ˙ extensively than the ones presented so far.

Case Studies In the following two cases studies I will illustrate how rumors worked as a source of information for common people as well as a significant method influencing decisions on a greater scale. In this effort, I compare Ibn Tawq’s accounts with ˙ what the Damascene historians Muhammad b. Tu¯lu¯n (d. 1546) and Ahmad b. al˙ ˙ ˙ Hims¯ı (d. 1527) had to say about the same events. Both historians compiled their ˙ ˙ chronicles at a later point and relied on a number of written and oral sources as well as on the gift of hindsight. Writing later, gave them the advantage over Ibn Tawq to discover which rumor turned out to be true or false. Hence, they treated the events differently than Ibn Tawq – and other contemporaries having expe˙ rienced these events: Whereas the historian can respond to such reports by using them (and any other evidence fortuitously available) to write the history of a period, historical persons would sometimes respond to such reports with action. The argument that only the politically unimportant were affected by rumours will not stand; uncertainties and false perceptions could affect even the emperor […].37

The following case studies are arranged by topic: one deals with the fate of the Ottoman prince Cem between his first flight from Ottoman territories and his second withdrawal to the knights of St. John on Rhodes (1481 – 1482), while the other discusses the expedition against the erstwhile secretary (dawa¯da¯r) of the ¯ qbirdı¯ (1499), which was believed by many Damascenes to be a resultan, A sponse to renewed Ottoman threat, respectively. These cases offer good entry points for a rumor analysis in the Mamluk Empire. Both focus on chains of events that unfolded far away from Damascus; albeit – as will be shown – they had indirect or even immediate consequences for the city’s population. Both cases are concerned with the Ottomans whose rise to hegemony in the region seems to have been acknowledged (and feared) by the contemporary Damascenes. To this attests the high number of reports Ibn Tawq provides for the ˙ Ottoman Empire – indeed, his coverage on Ottoman affairs outranges that on all other foreign countries combined by far. This might be attributed to the city’s location on the route between the Mamluk capital Cairo and the empire’s northern border as well as on the overland route from the Ottoman territories to the Higˇa¯z. Damascus was a major center in both respects, besides being the ˙ 37 Gibson 1998, 125 f.

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political capital of Bila¯d asˇ-Sˇa¯m. Thus, information about the Ottomans reached the city quite regularly and was regarded as very important both by the Mamluks as well as by other Damascenes. Moreover, these cases created different news situations. The first case is an example of information disparity between the rulers and the ruled. Recently, Ralph Hattox has pointed out to the political dilemma Cem’s refuge created for the Mamluks:38 not only might they have restricted him to a leisurely pace in his travels to Cairo, but they also did not advertise his arrival to their subjects. As will be shown, the latter were still quite informed about Cem’s approach, but this policy also inspired the spread of rumor about his plans and intentions. In contrast, the second case deals with a situation in which the Mamluk rulers were apparently as badly informed as their subjects. Military conflicts usually cause an increase in demand for reliable information about places far away and, at the same time, cause a decrease in reliable information from these regions, because they disrupt the communication networks established in peaceful times.39 This held true for internal strife as it is for wars between states. After the murder of the ruling sultan an-Na¯sir ˙ Muhammad b. Qa¯ytba¯y (1498), internal strife broke out between the different ˙ factions, supporting or opposing the new sultan Qa¯nsu¯h al-Asˇrafı¯ (reg. 1498 – ˙ 1500). This apparently led to a breakdown of long-distance communication as ¯ qbirdı¯’s well as of reliable reconnaissance along the northern border, where A forces had found a last resort. During the stay of Mamluk troops in Damascus, a rumor broke out about an Ottoman invasion force being already on the way. As will be shown, the Mamluk leaders did not discard these stories as rumor, but their decisions were influenced by the imminent danger of a potential Ottoman involvement in the affair. The two case studies below show how great a force rumor could become and that it should not be neglected, if we want to understand how historical events were perceived and conceived of by the people experiencing them.

Case 1: The flight of the Ottoman prince Cem Following the death of their father Mehmed the conqueror (May 3rd, 1481), Bayezid was faster in securing the throne than his brother Cem. The latter, who was governor of Karaman in Southern Anatolia during the time, chose to challenge him. However, his troops lost the decisive battle at Yenis¸ehir and he had to flee from Ottoman territory, taking refuge with the Mamluks. He then made his way through Bila¯d asˇ-Sˇa¯m to Cairo to plead for the sultan’s assistance. 38 Hattox 2002. 39 This seems to be true for wars in general; see Merten 2009, 39; Bruhn 2004, 26 – 32.

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After one or several inconclusive audiences with sultan Qa¯itba¯y, he embarked on the ha¯gˇgˇ, before attempting to seize power a second time in 1482. Again he failed ˙ and sought the help of the knights of St. John on Rhodes, in the end becoming a pawn of several European rulers in their dealings with the Ottomans. Undoubtedly, the fate of the Ottoman prince Cem (gˇumgˇumah) can be considered as one of the most intriguing ‘international’ affairs in the 15th-century Mediterranean. Not only has it gained considerable attention by modern as well as contemporary historians, but ordinary people as well seem to have followed Cem’s journeys with keen interest. Informal communication functioned as a substitute channel for information to meet their need. Ibn Tawq’s notes attest to at least a general knowledge of the episode which ˙ could be considered as common knowledge among the subjects of the Mamluks. Furthermore, it testifies to rumors Cem’s fate inspired among them in the face of lacking official information. Ibn Tawq started taking an interest in the matter ˙ quite early, but ceased to write about it once Cem had embarked on his journey to Rhodes. I cannot say whether the fact that he did not follow up this issue was based on the story line vanishing or a lack of interest after Cem’s departure from the Mamluk territory or due to a lack of information. Until that moment, however, Ibn Tawq took rather great interest in the fate of the Ottoman prince. ˙ First, he mentioned that the death of Sultan Mehmed and Bayezid’s accession became known in Damascus in the same month as they occurred (May 1481).40 He is silent on the battle of Yenis¸ehir, but relates that upon Mehmet’s death “ruled his son who was in the city of Tokat (tu¯qa¯t)”. Ibn Tawq returns to the ˙ ˙ matter of Cem on July 19th telling us that Cem had arrived in Aleppo with a hundred men. There is only one other entry about the Ottoman’s journey to the ˇ aru¯d two Mamluk sultan which describes his visit of Ibn Tawq’s hometown G ˙ th months later (September 6 , 1481), when he continued his journey to Cairo.41 After Cem’s departure, Ibn Tawq remains silent about his fate for a couple of ˙ months. Then, on the 4th of Du¯ l-Qa da 886 (25/12/1481) he mentions “uncon¯ firmed reports” on Cem leaving Egypt in direction of “the land of [Ya qu¯b] Ibn Hasan”, who was the ruler of the Aqqoyunlu- . It was only half a year later ˙ (27.7.887/13. 8. 1482) that Ibn Tawq learns that, Cem had mounted his second ˙ attempt to wrest for the Ottoman throne. His troops were routed and Ibn Tawq ˙ continues, “after his second or third capture” he fled to the sea alone, taking a “Frankish ship” to Rhodes.42 As can be seen from this summary, Ibn Tawq’s knowledge about the affair was ˙ ˘

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40 Ibn Tawq refers to the Ottoman sultan’s death in two different entries (Rabı¯ II, 4th and 8th). ˙ second entry which is quoted here he states that this news had arrived in Damascus In the already the month before. Ta lı¯q, 1:59, 60. 41 Ibid., 69, 78. 42 Ibid., 103, 172. ˘

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patchy and – at least in one instance – unfounded. Cem did not leave Egypt in direction of Iraq and Iran, but was undertaking the pilgrimage at the time.43 This strongly backs Hattox’s assertion that the Mamluks found themselves in a predicament situation by Cem’s arrival and were anything but eager to advertise their controversial guest. Indeed, most information about the Ottoman pretender did not reach Ibn Tawq through official channels but from other sources. ˙ Besides this unconfirmed report, he learned of Cem’s arrival in Aleppo through ˇ aru¯d Ibn Tawq learned via hearsay, since talk on the street and about his visit to G ˙ it happened “in my absence”. Two questions arise from these observations: Firstly, were the unconfirmed reports about Cem’s departure for the east really unfounded or did a plan exist to go to the Aqqoyunlu¯, although it is not mentioned in other sources? And secondly, does this uncertain – and in the end false – report invalidate the other reports reaching Ibn Tawq through the grapevine, as ˙ well? For the first question, there is no definite answer. However, is it not possible that Cem had the inclination to apply for the Aqqoyunlu¯’s aid after being turned down by the Mamluks? After his second failed attempt to defeat Bayezid, Cem had planned to go to Iran before turning westwards after all.44 It is probable that this plan had already presented itself as an alternative during Cem’s stay in Cairo. In any case, this must have been a logical conclusion for most of his contemporaries. After all, the Aqqoyunlu¯ were the remaining major Muslim power in the region. The second question can be addressed more thoroughly than the first one, since there are a number of sources which allow us to validate or invalidate Ibn Tawq’s other reports. In this effort, I rely to a great part on Hattox’s article and ˙ will comment on his chronology of events. As mentioned earlier, Ibn Tawq ˙ learned about the death of Mehmet II rather early. It can be assumed that this news arrived in Damascus through official channels, since the predicament of Cem’s flight had not presented itself, yet. However – as I have indicated earlier – such news did often not explain the situation at large. One point in case is that it is unclear to whom Ibn Tawq refers as the sultan’s son in Tokat. At the time, Tokat ˙ belonged to the elayet of Sivas, over which Bayezid held the governorship.45 Although Ottoman sources position him in Amasya, the capital city of this elayet, it is not improbable that Bayezid resided there when his father died.46 However, Ibn Tu¯lu¯n attributes the governorship of Tokat to Cem: “[Cem] entered ˙ the ha¯gˇ ib’s bath house in Sa¯lihiyya in my presence, and I was told that he used to ˙ ˙ ˙ 43 Cem left Cairo for the Higˇa¯z around the end of November 1481 and returned in February of March 1482; see Hattox˙ 2002, 183 f. 44 Inalcık 1960, 529. 45 Hattox 2002, 179. 46 Ibid.

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be governor of Tokat.”47 Ibn Tu¯lu¯n points out that this information was hearsay ; ˙ but did Damascenes believe that Cem had indeed held the Ottoman throne and was only later dethroned by its brother? Having been an acknowledged Ottoman sultan even for a short while, would have improved Cem’s standing considerably. Whether Ibn Tawq shared this belief, I cannot say, albeit both he and Ibn Tu¯lu¯n ˙ ˙ frequently refer to Cem as “Cem Sultan” or “Sultan Cem”.48 Ibn Tawq’s knowledge about the situation increased once Cem had crossed ˙ into Syria. His dating of Cem’s waypoints is corroborated by Ibn Iya¯s and by the Ottoman Vaki at-i Sultan Cem which was written by one of Cem’s close companions.49 The former states that Cem’s arrival in Mamluk lands was unknown in Cairo before July 28th, 148150 while the former dates the prince’s arrival in Aleppo on July 19th, the same day on which Ibn Tawq mentions it. But how could these ˙ news have reached Damascus on the same day and took several days to get there from Aleppo? A possible explanation might be that the Mamluks restricted Cem at a leisurely pace since he had reached their territory and – at the same time – informed the governor and Aleppo notables of his approach, whence the word spread throughout their personal networks and beyond, until it reached Ibn Tawq on the same day as Cem arrived in Aleppo. Hence, the same persons who ˙ rejected to give any public statements about the affair, did not restrict themselves from communicating it to their peers informally. The second waypoint Ibn Tawq ˙ ˇ aru¯d which was part of the adminmentions was the backwater village of G ˇ ubba, which he visited almost every year as a istrative district he calls Bila¯d al-G 51 tax collector. This account underlines Hattox’s assessment of Cem’s tarrying progress to Cairo: “Everywhere he went the local officials greeted him warmly ˇ aru¯d, it went also and honored him in various ceremonies.”52 If this was true for G for a number of other villages west of it, since Ibn Tawq mentions explicitly that ˙ Cem was not bound from Damascus directly, but from the direction of the Beqaa valley. It seems that the Mamluks did not only keep Cem in a leisurely pace but also provided detours to slow him down. However, Ibn Tawq’s dating is debatable in this case. According to him, Cem’s ˙

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47 Ibn Tu¯lu¯n, Mufa¯kahat, 1:43. 48 Only˙ Ibn Tu¯lu¯n’s first entry on the matter seems that the author was confused about Cem’s ˙ as about his lineage: “On Friday the 22nd [of Jum. I 886] the amir Muhammad status as well ˙ ¯ n, the Jam known as gˇumgˇumah, son of sultan Mura¯d b. Muhammad b. Muhammad b. Uthma ˙ ˙ brother of Abu¯ Yazı¯d (Bayezid), the erstwhile sultan of Ru¯m for his father [was sultan before him], after the death of his father in this year he was ousted by his brother and entered Aleppo with 100 people and asked the sultan al-Ashraf Qa¯ytba¯y for refuge. […];” Ibn Tu¯lu¯n, ˙ Mufa¯kahat, 1:43. 49 Hattox 2002, 188. 50 Ibid., 180 f. 51 See Wollina, Zwanzig Jahre Alltag, 155. 52 Hattox 2002, 182.

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ˇ aru¯d at the beginning of September 1481. At first sight, entourage arrived in G this date seems false. Cem had arrived in Damascus not before August 21st and stayed until the 28th, before continuing his journey, reaching Jerusalem on ˇ aru¯d was not situated on the September 7th (Ragˇab 13th 886).53 Furthermore, G road between Damascus and Jerusalem, but about 50 kilometers north-east of ˇ aru¯d on Ragˇab 12th the former. Although Ibn Tawq mentions Cem’s visit to G ˙ th (Sept. 6 ) – one mere day before he allegedly arrived at Jerusalem – one should not reject his report. As his journal proves, he had business contacts and family ties there, which provided him with an intimate knowledge of the village.54 Ibn Tawq begins the relevant entry by stating that “the Ottoman Cem (jumjumah), ˙ ˇ aru¯d in our who came to this country fleeing from his brother, arrived at G absence.”55 After being greeted by the people and the soldiers, he remained there for two days “in a qasr” before continuing his journey. The important point here ˙ is that these events transpired in the author’s absence. Ibn Tawq had left the ˙ village on Ragˇab 7th after having worked on the yearly allotment of the land tax nd ˇ uma¯da¯ II (apparently unaware of Cem’s arrival).56 Also, the since the 22 of G lack of entries on Ragˇab 2nd till 4th indicate that he had work elsewhere in the area ˇ aru¯d could where he did not take his writing materials.57 Cem’s two-day stay in G nd have fallen into one of these time spans, either between the 2 and the 4th (August 29th-31st) or from the 7th (Sept. 1st) onwards. If Cem’s entourage had left on Ragˇab 9th by the latest, they would have had only four days to reach Jerusalem, but more than three weeks to reach Cairo according to Ibn Iya¯s.58 While the former was rather a short time to travel this distance, the latter was very probable. Once Cem had left the region of Damascus due south, Ibn Tawq had not much ˙ to say about him apart from the rumor mentioned above. It riddles me that Ibn Tawq also neglected Cem’s second visit to Damascus. Cem seems to have tra˙ velled much faster this time. According to Ibn Tu¯lu¯n, he arrived in Damascus ˙ already on Muharram 18th, 887 (March 9th, 1482), despite his return from the ˙ hagˇgˇ to Cairo in the same month.59 Although this time Ibn Tawq was neither out ˙ ˙ Ibid., 182. Wollina 2013, 343; idem, Zwanzig Jahre Alltag, 48. Ibn Tawq, Ta lı¯q, 1:78. ˙ is no entry for Ragˇab 7th. In the one for the 8th, Ibn Tawq describes the way his party There took back to Damascus, arriving there during the morning˙ hours. Since he could not write while riding or walking, I presume that the arrival occurred on the 8th, while their departure happened on the 7th. Ibid., 77. 57 Ibid., 76 f. 58 Hattox 2002, 182. Ibn Tawq says nothing of Jerusalem, but refers only to Cairo as Cem’s ˙ destination. 59 Ibn Tu¯lu¯n, Mufa¯kahat, 1:53; Hattox 2002, 184, 187. ˙ ˘

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of town nor sick, I could not find any word on Cem’s presence.60 The last report on Cem again is about events in the north. It concludes the Mamluk period of his travels and is the most detailed account Ibn Tawq writes about him: ˙ The Ottoman Cem was captured by his brother’s troops and all his companions were slain; he was captured for the second or third time and he alone fled to the sea. He asked Frankish ships for help in exchange for all the property in his possession. They brought him to Rhodes and he appealed to the lord of the island to help him.61

It is unclear whence Ibn Tawq received this information, but it underlines a ˙ current in his reporting on the affairs of Cem. Ibn Tawq’s depiction of the events ˙ can be separated into two parts which correlate directly with the geographical reach of his information networks. While Cem was traveling through northern and central Bila¯d asˇ-Sˇa¯m, Ibn Tawq kept track of at least some of the events. One ˙ must however point out the fact that it seems to have been more difficult or less desirable for him to obtain information, as soon as the Ottoman moved further south. Within a certain geographical reach, informal communication was sufficient in providing him with quite reliable information despite a lack of official news during that time. Once the original source was beyond that reach, the trustworthiness of the information usually diminished rapidly. The events surrounding Cem’s wrest for the Ottoman throne and his subsequent flight caused curiosity among the inhabitants of the Mamluk realm far beyond the scholarly circles and were a rich source of hearsay and rumor. Regardless of their respective truth value, all these accounts attest to how people tried to stay abreast with current events and managed to stay informed in the face of lacking official statements. They also show lines of inquiry for contrafactual approaches to Mamluk history. What if Cem had gone to Iran instead of Rhodes or travelled there directly from Egypt? Would the Aqqoyunlu¯ have provided him greater assistance than the Mamluks? The Ottoman Empire continued to occupy the attention of contemporary Damascenes after Cem’s departure from the Mamluk realm. If they knew how far this episode had tainted Ottoman-Mamluk relations, Mamluks soon found out that the Ottomans were not to be meddled with, when the first Ottoman-Mamluk war broke out in 1485 which ended six years later. Although this war ended inconclusive on the battlefield, its economic consequences affected the Mamluks much more severely and prepared the final Ottoman victory over them some thirty years later. However, since the scope of this article does not allow for a concise analysis of events surpassing six years and since some serious studies have been devoted to this war, I have chosen to address the question of rumor in ˘

60 For Muharram 887, see Ibn Tawq, Ta lı¯q, 1:123 – 139. ˙ ˙ 61 Ibid., 172.

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war times with regard to a different instance of Ottoman-Mamluk rivalry which may be not so widely recognized in the second case study : the crisis that ensued following the murder of Qa¯itba¯y’s son an-Na¯sir Muhammad in 904/1498 – 1499. ˙ ˙

Case study 2: A cold war in 904?

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Long after Cem’s dispossession by European monarchs and even his death, he still played a role in Ottoman-Mamluk diplomatics and stirred rumors among Damascenes, as is testified by Ibn Tu¯lu¯n even in Ragˇab 904 (Febr.-March 1499).62 ˙ On the 17th (Febr. 28th) Damascus was in turmoil because of rumors that Bayezid intended to move against the Mamluks again. Ibn Tu¯lu¯n states that Bayezid had ˙ been incited by the murder of the Mamluk sultan an-Na¯sir Muhammad b. ˙ ˙ Qa¯itba¯y (in 1498), demanding disclosure of the perpetrators and even planning to seize the Mamluk throne. The reason for Bayezid’s involvement in seemingly internal Mamluk affairs was – as Ibn Tu¯lu¯n had heard (qı¯la) – “that he was ˙ related to him by marriage and wanted his daughter to marry him, [or] it was said, to the daughter of his brother Cem who had been in Egypt for two years.” However, Ibn Tu¯lu¯n concludes his entry by deeming the story not reliable: “I do ˙ not believe this rumor (sˇuyu¯ ) to be true – there is no power but in God!” So why did Ibn Tu¯lu¯n decide to write all this several decades after the events transpired ˙ and with the gift of hindsight? What Ibn Tu¯lu¯n refutes as a rumor and beats down to only one account, ˙ appears in Ibn Tawq’s text as one of the major political concerns for Damascenes ˙ in 904. Rumor of a new invasion by the Ottomans persisted throughout the first half of the year and were so pervasive that they forced the Mamluk amı¯rs to react. Ibn Tawq however does not establish any connection between the Ottoman ˙ advance and the Mamluk succession of rule. The news of an-Na¯sir Muhammad’s ˙ ˙ murder on the 4th of Rabı¯ I (20/10/1498) had reached Damascus at the end of the 63 same month. Only more than a month later, Ibn Tawq spoke of an Ottoman ˙ attack “coming both on land and over sea.”64 These reports coincide with the arrival of the first troops from Egypt pouring into Damascus over the following ˇ uma¯da¯ I – 6 G ˇ uma¯da¯ II/21. 12. 1498 – 19. 1. 1499).65 This seemed as if month (7 G these troops brought with them the information that they were going to fight the Ottomans. They stayed in Damascus for more than one and half months (until 27 Ragˇab), frightening the people by drinking in public, harassing men and women ˘

For this episode, see Ibn Tu¯lu¯n, Mufa¯kahat, 1:211. ˙ Ibn Tawq, Ta lı¯q, 4:1664. Ibid., 205 (date of murder); ˙ Ibid., 1673. Ibid., 1673, 1675, 1677 – 80, 1682. ˘

62 63 64 65

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alike, rioting and robbing.66 Finally, the army amassed in Damascus on Ragˇab 7th, but it took until the end of this month for all troops to depart.67 Around this time, Ibn Tawq becomes more specific in his assessment of the ˙ Ottoman threat: among other stories about the size of the enemy forces, the Ottoman sultan was said to have sent six hundred ships. Furthermore, the fighting on the border had already ensued with dead on both sides and forces of the Aleppinian governor were already in retreat.68 Only six days later it was corroborated by a letter from the said governor that the Ottomans were indeed on the border.69 Only in the second half of Sˇawwa¯l did the tension in Damascus ease. The army returned from the front and new rumors spread that the Ottomans had not attacked and instead had conquered Rhodes.70 However, apart from Ibn Tu¯lu¯n’s rumor story any information on a military conflict with the ˙ Ottomans is absent from all other historiographical accounts of the year 904. Indeed, the army had not marched into Damascus as a response to a threat by the Ottomans, but as an expedition force to crush the combined forces of the amir ¯ qbirdı¯ and the Turkmen leader Alı¯ Dawla (usually called Ala¯’ Dawla) in the A ¯ qbirdı¯ had laid siege to Damascus without north of Syria. In the previous year, A success and finally had to withdraw, due to the approach of an Egyptian army.71 ˇ uma¯da¯ I, 903), attacking and pillaging other Syrian He withdrew to Aynta¯b (G 72 cities along his way. The sultan’s army followed him and defeated his troops, killing one of Alı¯ Dawla’s sons and capturing another. The arrival of the culprits’ cut-off heads in Cairo was celebrated for seven days.73 This victory was apparently decisive enough to make the rebels offer a truce early in 904, but after Qa¯nsu¯h had become sultan, his first decision was to wage war on them again and ˙ ˇ uma¯da¯ I. In order to strengthen their position, A ¯ qbirdı¯ the army left Cairo in G and Alı¯ Dawla moved to besiege Aleppo before the Egyptian reinforcements arrived.74 Ibn al-Hims¯ı as well mentions the army’s long halt at Damascus, while ˙ ˙ – at the same time – urgent reports arrived on the siege of Aleppo.75 According to him, the fighting ceased only in Du¯ l-Qa da after the leaders of the enemy forces ¯ were killed.76 ˘

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66 There are numerous reports on their misdeeds during that period; ibid., 1683 – 1685, 1687 – 1689, 1692, 1699. 67 Ibid., 1693, 1699. 68 Ibid., 1699. 69 Ibid., 1701. 70 Ibid., 1722. 71 See Toru 2006, 176 f. 72 Ibn al-Hims¯ı, Hawa¯dit, pp. 319 f. ¯ ˙ f.˙ ˙ 73 Ibid., 329 74 Ibid., 338, 348, 349 f. 75 Ibid., 351. 76 Ibid., 359 f.

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Although Ibn Tu¯lu¯n negates any Ottoman involvement as rumor and Ibn al˙ Hims¯ı is silent about them altogether, Ibn Tawq’s version should not be dis˙ ˙ ˙ carded lightly. Why did the Mamluk army sojourn in Damascus in the face of a major threat to Aleppo? Why did the Mamluks hesitate to bring their major force down on their enemies? Was it the threat of Ottoman troops seizing the moment to attack Syria again? The Mamluks had learned to fear their northern neighbor during the first Mamluk-Ottoman war (1485 – 1491). It is my assumption that they tried everything not to provoke them again by marching into the territory of Alı¯ Dawla who was an albeit, – “rather fickle and half-hearted” – Ottoman ally and it turned out only later that in this instance “he did not collude with the Ottomans against them”.77 Ibn Tawq was not as involved with the military de˙ cision makers as the two historians who moved in the vicinity of the sultan’s court (Ibn al-Hims¯ı stayed in Cairo at the time as the deputy of the Sˇa¯fi ¯ı chief ˙ ˙ qa¯d¯ı).78 Still, his journal testifies to the anxiety with which the Mamluks re˙ sponded to the (perceived?) threat. At the same time as the main army tarried in Damascus, the Mamluks had sent envoys north to receive information about the Ottomans’ intentions and to avoid a military conflict.79 When some Ottoman pilgrims arrived in Damascus, Ibn Tawq tells us that virtually everyone rushed to ˙ question them for any substantial information on the situation.80 Furthermore, after rumor spread about an attack on the seashore, the Mamluks moved troops to the Beqaa valley and the governor of Damascus traveled to Beirut to inspect fortifications (burgˇ), on which the construction had begun earlier. In parallel, the city’s garrison was also increased, so that the city’s population suffered heavily from the resulting costs.81 From the historical perspective, it becomes clear that the Ottomans probably had no intention to fight the Mamluks at that point since they were involved in a war of their own. From January 1499 until 1502, they fought Venice for hegemony in the Eastern Mediterranean. From a contemporary perspective, however, things were not so clear-cut. The Ottomans were indeed mobilizing their armies and they must have been anxious as well when the Mamluks brought theirs close to their common border. Both sides treaded with great care not to begin an unwanted war. Since memories of the last war were very much alive, Damascenes were wary of any Ottoman military operations near the borders. As the letter from the governor of Aleppo illustrates, even the Mamluks officers shared this sentiment. The danger posed by the Ottoman navy should be seen in the same ˘

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77 Venzke 2000, 431 f. 78 Behrens-Abouseif 2004, 280. 79 An emissary returned to Damascus on Ragˇab 1st and left for Cairo on the 18th; Ibn Tawq, ˙ Ta lı¯q, 4:1691, 1697. 80 Ibid., 1708. 81 Ibid., 1712, 1714, 1716, 1735.

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light. Of course, Ibn Tawq’s assessment of the size of the Ottoman fleet was ˙ greatly exaggerated; but the increased sightings of warships before the Syrian coast showed their vulnerability. Since Rhodes was allied with Venice during this war, even Ibn Tawq’s report on a successful Ottoman attack on the island (which ˙ did not occur) would have made sense.82 It did not come to a second MamlukOttoman war in 904. However, as has been demonstrated, rumors of it were not just believed by the Mamluks‘ subjects, but could gain power to influence the decisions of the state itself.

Conclusions Rumors are a subject which is elusive as well as a powerful tool. If we want to understand the history of the Mamluks on its own terms, we should not neglect the roles rumor played in disseminating information, stabilizing or destabilizing networks or even in the creation of the historiographical or literary sources on which much of our research relies. The case studies presented here did illustrate how much people relied on informal communication for their knowledge on the greater world and to which extent rumor might have influenced the course of history. It should not be neglected in the “turn from a synchronic, normative, macro-sociological structure perspective to a diachronic, materialistic, microsocial, and post-structural view of Mamluk society” which has been witnessed in the last twenty years.83 On the remaining pages, I will point out how rumor studies can add new perspectives to a number of research areas. First, it should be the subject of historical-anthropological studies concerned with “the study of human beings in time and space.”84 If we want to understand how individuals in Mamluk society saw the world they lived in, we should accept that rumor was a big part of it. Regardless if someone believed it to be true or knew it to be false, everyone had to position themselves to it. Studying rumors and people’s reactions to them would add to the histories of mentalities and of emotions. One topic that comes to mind are the plague waves and other recurrent epidemics hitting Syria and Egypt from the middle of the 14th century onwards. As the folklorist Sona Rosa Burstein has demonstrated, rumors are closely linked to prejudice and the scapegoating of minorities: It happens so easily, so quickly – the ungenerous remark based on an old prejudice or a current jealousy, the repetition of a half-understood remark or action, the critical 82 Brummett 1993, 518. 83 Herzog 2013, 137. 84 Hees 2013, 119.

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opinion repeated as fact, the starting on their way of the rumour and the whispering campaign. Thus swiftly does new folklore grow, drawing new life from old belief.85

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Studies of rumors might help to unearth such attitudes among 15th century Damascenes with regard to their Christian, Jewish, Samaritan or Sˇi ¯ıte neighbors, to foreigners from Christian or Muslim lands, to ethnic groups such as Kurds or Turkmens, to rural communities of peasants or Bedouins – and to the Mamluks themselves. They tell us about people’s ideas of justice, of good social conduct, of gender relations, and the distinction between public, semi-public and domestic spaces in Mamluk society. Of course, this touches also upon the question of privacy.86 Rumor studies might also be incorporated into the history of space, of news networks, the history of knowledge or social history in general. Where were rumors shared? How far were rumors circulating? Who took part in this process? How were gossip and rumor used for one’s own social advancement? In Ibn Tawq’s case, the rumors and the sources they relied on offer ˙ glimpses to a different side of the networks and social circles in which he was moving. They insinuated a much greater involvement with people from other social strata than the ulama¯’ who usually take the center stage in his journal. Second, rumor studies might also prove fruitful for the economic history of the Mamluks. Boaz Shoshan has pointed out that grain suppliers “benefited from spreading false rumors about difficulties in the shipping of grain from Upper Egypt” to raise their prices.87 In the year 899 (1493 – 1494), Ibn Tawq suspected ˙ that the meat price had increased because the governor collected an extra tax 88 from the butchers. These correlations should be analyzed for the changes in value of the circulating gold, silver and copper coins and the acceptance of new coinage. Third, rumors are a phenomenon of popular culture, not the least because they build on or might be turned into popular epics whose readings often drew a large audience. In this context, some of the sources Thomas Herzog suggests for further studies on culture should be taken into account for rumor studies: treatises on economic, religious or political matters may contain (normative) references to consequences of and advice how to prevent or to handle hearsay, fatwa¯ collections should provide a sufficient number of ‘test cases’. Furthermore, common attitudes toward rumors might be derived from a creative reading of the different genres of poetry, prose as well as from collections of jokes and proverbs (amta¯l).89 Following Michael Chamberlain’s call to ¯ “exploit in a new way those written materials that were preserved in large ˘

Burstein 1959, 380. Alshech 2004. Shoshan 1980, 469. Ibn Tawq, Ta lı¯q, 3:1297. ˙ See Herzog 2013, 135. ˘

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numbers” might be applied also in this case to unearth new findings about Mamuk society.90 In this context, a reassessment of the information provided by historiographical sources seems promising. I assume that rumors found their way only sporadically into the writings of the scholars, for they collided with the historians’ methods and ideals of establishing a true version of history. More importantly, the published works were usually edited with hindsight at a later point. Rumors would often be eradicated from the published works or be inserted as a literary device in order to explain the unfolding of certain events.91 In Ibn Tu¯lu¯n’s chronicle this seems to be the case. As shown at the beginning of the ˙ second case study, he summarized the reason for tension in Damascus which turned out to be unfounded in the end in one entry and presented it as a false story from the start. An in-depth study of the way he and other Mamluk historians applied rumors in their works would lead to their appreciation as literature.92 Finally, I want to link rumor studies to the issues addressed at the conference “Everything is on the Move” held in Bonn in December 2012, which forms the basis of this volume. The conference’s aim was to challenge “the narrowness of culture-specific histories” by taking recourse to the concepts of network theory and global history.93 Ibn Tawq’s reports are not restricted to the Mamluk Empire, ˙ but reach out to the territories of the Ottomans, the Aqqoyunlu¯, Rhodes or even 94 Andalusia. Although these are outranged in number by reports on his immediate Lebenswelt, the few reports about faraway places attest to his involvement in trans-regional networks and to an interest about other places. This was not so much determined by political borders but rather by the geographical distance of a certain place from and its connectedness to Damascus as well as by the problem posed by foreign languages. While his reports on other parts of the Mamluk Empire usually sound more certain, he also tries to make sense of reports coming from the Ottoman Empire: “in these days it is said that there has been an earthquake (hasaf) in three or five cities or villages in the territory of the ˙ Ottomans. May God forgive and make it well and prevent us from (our) indif95 ference!”

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90 Chamberlain 1994, 3. 91 Rumor as a literary technique has been extensively studied with regard to the roman historian Tacitus; see Hausmann 2009; Gibson 1998; Ries 1969. 92 For other literary techniques and plot devices, see Hirschler 2006. 93 Conermann., in this volume. 94 Ibn Tawq mentions the conquest of Andalusia by “the unbelievers (kuffa¯r) when the Christian˙ servant of a group of andalucian ulama¯’ which had fled to Damascus was forced to convert to Islam. Ibn Tawq, Ta lı¯q, 2:1092. ˙ 95 Ibn Tawq, Ta lı¯q I, p. 46. ˙ ˘

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Furthermore, the recourse to news or rumor in Ibn Tawq’s journal directly ˙ correlates with the density and range of his ego-network(s). Judging from the quantity of his reports, the major part of these networks were concentrated in Bila¯d asˇ-Sˇa¯m, obviously with Damascus at the center. However, neither was it completely constricted to this area nor to the urban centers of the region. Regardless of their range, rumors were also distributed through (loose) networks which were apparently not confined within political or administrative borders. Ibn Tawq received information not only from his Muslim compatriots of the ˙ Mamluk Empire but also from Ottoman and Venetian or local Christian and Jewish sources, not only from city dwellers but also from the rural population.96 Henning Sievert has pointed out that it is “moments of crisis that allow us to uncover the dynamics at work.”97 Along these lines, I would say that rumors also help us to uncover dynamics in Mamluk society. I would argue that Ibn Tawq ˙ took recourse to a rumor usually as a result of a crisis (gap, shortage) in (more reliable) coverage. This was the case for events that occurred faraway, but applies for some events in Damascus as well, as the following example illustrates. After the Mamluks started a massacre among the followers of the popular Sufi ˇsayh ˘ - “Muba- rak b. Abd Alla- h al-H . abasˇ¯ı ad-Dimasˇqı¯ al-Qabunı¯” in Ramad. an 899 (July 1494), Damascus was experiencing a warlike situation for a couple of days.98 As the ˇsayh himself could not be found anywhere, rumors spread throughout the ˘ city and the Mamluks acted accordingly. The situation escalated quickly over the course of only three days. First, the governor assumed that Muba¯rak was hiding at the house of the Sˇa¯fi ¯ıte chief qa¯d¯ı Ibn al-Farfu¯r or the ˇsayh al-isla¯m Ibn Qa¯d¯ı ˙ ˙ ˘ Agˇlu¯n. Then, the Mamluks indiscriminately attacked everyone wearing mı¯zar turbans, both in the city and in surrounding villages. Finally, when it became obvious that Muba¯rak had left Damascus, they feared that he would return leading an army of peasants, Bedouins and bandits against them. Ibn Tawq ˙ describes in detail that the whole city was in unrest and even the markets were closed, although nobody knew what was going on. The Mamluks wore full armor and even the amirs seemed fickle.99 The effect of misinformation and rumor in this incident was so overwhelming that Ibn Tawq could only explain it in reli˙ gious categories: “Satan commands his armies of devils, jinn and humans.”100 ˘

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96 For instance, he mentions that information about the Ottoman attack which began the first Mamluk-Ottoman war through “letters from the Venetians to the Venetians in Damascus“. Ibid., p. 490. 97 Sievert, in this volume. 98 For the full name, see Ibn al-Hims¯ı, hawa¯dit, p. 252, footnote 1. For descriptions of the ˙ T˙ulu˙n, Mufa¯¯ kahat I, p.158; Ibn Tawq, Ta lı¯q III, pp. 1287 – event, see ibid., pp. 252 – 256; Ibn ¯¯ ˙ ˙ 1292. 99 Ibid., p. 1289 f. 100 Ibid., p. 1289.

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News and Rumor – local sources of knowledge about the world

Perhaps the events presented and the decisions the Mamluks and others made as a response did not make a difference to history in the long run. However, if we understand history as the present of a different generation, the study of rumors offers new and different paths to a (cultural) history of the Mamluks.

Bibliography Primary Sources ˘

˘

ˇ ibra¯’ı¯l SuAl-G˙azzı¯, Nagˇm ad-Dı¯n, al-Kawa¯kib as-sa¯’ira bi-a ya¯n al-mi’a al- a¯ˇsira, ed. G ˇ laima¯n Gabdu¯d, 2 vol., Beirut 1989. Al-Hanbalı¯, Ibn Ima- d Abd al-H. ayy b. Ah. mad b. Muh. ammad, Sˇad-ara¯t ad-d-ahab fı¯ ahba-r ¯ ˙ ˘ man dahab, Beirut 1985. ¯ Ibn al-Hims¯ı, Ahmad, Hawa¯dit az-zama¯n. wa-wafaya¯t asˇ-sˇuyu¯h wa-l-aqra¯n, Beirut: Da¯r ¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘ an-Nafa¯’is 2000. ˇ ˇ Ibn Tawq, Siha¯b ad-Dı¯n Ahmad, at-Ta lı¯q, ed. Ga far al-Muha¯gˇir, 4 vol., Damascus 2000 – ˙ ˙ 2007. ˇ Ibn Tu¯lu¯n, Sams ad-Din Muh. ammad, Mufa-kahat al-hilla-n fi h. awa-dit- az-zama-n [ta’rih ˙ ˘ ˘ mis. r wa-sˇ-sˇa-m], ed. Muh. ammad Mus. t.afa- , 2 vol., Cairo 1962. ˘

˘

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Secondary Sources Alshech, Eli (2004): “‘Do Not Enter Houses Other than Your Own.’ The Evolution of the Notion of a Private Domestic Sphere in Early Sunnı¯ Islamic Thought,” Islamic Law and Society 11, pp. 291 – 332. Behrens-Abouseif, Doris (2004): “The Fire of 884/1479 at the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus and an Account of Its Restoration,” Mamluk Studies Review 8/1, pp. 279 – 297. Berkey, Jonathan (1992), The Transmission of Knowledge in Medieval Cairo, Princeton. Berkey, Jonathan (2001), Preaching and Religious Authority, Washington. Bruhn, Manfred (2004), “Gerüchte als Gegenstand der theoretischen und empirischen Forschung,” in: Bruhn, Manfred and Werner Wunderlich (2004), Medium Gerücht. Studien zu Theorie und Praxis einer kollektiven Kommunikationsform, Bern/Stuttgart/Wien, pp. 12 – 39. Brummett, Palmira (1993), “The Overrated Adversary. Rhodes and Ottoman Naval Power,” The Historical Journal 36/3, pp. 517 – 541. Burstein, Sona Rosa (1959), “Folklore, Rumour and Prejudice,” Folklore 70/2, pp. 361 – 381. Chamberlain, Michael (1994), Knowledge and social practice in medieval Damascus, 1190 – 1350, Cambridge. Fox, Adam (1997): “Rumour, News and Popular Public Opinion in Elizabethan and Early Stuart England,” The Historical Journal 40/3, pp. 597 – 620. Gelfert, Axel, “Coverage-Reliability, Epistemic Dependence, and the Problem of Rumor-

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Based Belief,” penultimate version of a paper published in Philosophia: Philosophical Quarterly of Israel (DOI: 10.1007/s11406 – 012 – 9408-z). Geschiere, Peter (2002), “Gruesome Rumors, the Reality Question and Writing History. Madumo: A Man Bewitched by Adam Ashforth; Speaking with Vampires: Rumors and History in Colonial Africa by Luise White (Review),” The Journal of African History 43/ 3, pp. 499 – 501. Gibson, Bruce J. (1998), “Rumours as Causes of Events in Tacitus,” Materiali e discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici 40, pp. 111 – 129. Hattox, Ralph (2002), “Qa¯ytba¯y’s Diplomatic Dilemma Concerning the Flight of Cem Sultan (1481 – 82),” Mamluk Studies Review 6, pp. 177 – 190. Hausmann, Michael (2009), Die Leserlenkung durch Tacitus in den Tiberius- und ClaudiusBüchern der “Annalen”, Berlin. Hees, Syrinx von (2013), “Mamlukology as Historical Anthropology,” in: Conermann, Stephan (ed.): Ubi Sumus? Quo Vademus? Mamluk Studies – State of the Art, Bonn, pp. 119 – 130. Herzog, Thomas (2013), “Mamluk (Popular) Culture,” in: Conermann, Stephan (ed.): Ubi Sumus? Quo Vademus? Mamluk Studies – State of the Art, Bonn, pp. 131 – 158. Hirschler, Konrad (2006), Medieval Arabic Historiography, London. Hirschler, Konrad (2012), The Written Word in the Medieval Arabic Lands. A Social and Cultural History of Reading Practices, Edinburgh. Inalcik, Halil (1960), “Djem,” EI2, 2:529. Kapferer, Jean-Noel (1996), Gerüchte. Das älteste Massenmedium der Welt, Leipzig. Kelly, Jason M. (2006), “Riots, Revelries, and Rumor. Libertinism and Masculine Association in Enlightenment London,” Journal of British Studies 45/4, pp. 759 – 795. Kirchmann, Kay (2004), “Das Gerücht und die Medien. Medientheoretische Annäherungen an einen Sondertypus der informellen Kommunikation,” in: Bruhn, Manfred and Werner Wunderlich, Medium Gerücht. Studien zu Theorie und Praxis einer kollektiven Kommunikationsform, Bern/Stuttgart/Wien, pp. 67 – 83. Levanoni, Amalia (2005), “Food and Cooking during the Mamluk Era. Social and Political Implications,” Mamlu-k Studies Review 9/2, pp. 201 – 222. Merten, Klaus (2009), “Zur Theorie des Gerüchts,” Publizistik 54, pp. 15 – 42. Osei, G. K. and J.W. Thompson (1977), “The Supersession of One Rumour by Another,” Journal of Applied Probability 14/1, pp. 127 – 134. Ries, Wolfgang (1969), Gerücht, Gerede, öffentliche Meinung. Interpretationen zur Psychologie und Darstellungskunst des Tacitus, Inaugural-Dissertation zur Erlangung der Doktorwürde der Philosophischen Fakultät der Ruprecht-Karl-Universität in Heidelberg. Shoshan, Boaz (1980), “Grain Riots and the ‘Moral Economy’: Cairo 1350 – 1517,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 10/3, pp. 459 – 478. Shoshan, Boaz (1993), Popular Culture in Medieval Cairo, Cambridge. Stilt, Karen (2011), Islamic Law in Practice. Authority, Discretion and Everyday Experience in Mamluk Egypt, Oxford. Tomlison, Charles (1967), “Rumour,” Poetry 111/2, pp. 73 – 74. Toru, Miura (2006), “Urban Society in Damascus as the Mamluk Era Was Ending,” Mamlu-k Studies Review 10/1, pp. 157 – 193. Venzke, Margaret L. (2000), “The Case of a Dulgadir-Mamluk Iqta¯ . A Re-Assessment of the ˙

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Dulgadir Principality and its Position within the Ottoman-Mamluk Rivalry,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 43/3, pp. 399 – 474. White, Luise (2000), Speaking with Vampires: Rumor and History in Colonial Africa, Berkeley. Wollina, Torsten (2012), Zwanzig Jahre Alltag. Das Journal des Ahmad Ibn Tawq als ˙ ˙ Selbstzeugnis (unpubl. PhD diss.), Freie Universität Berlin. Wollina, Torsten (2013), “Ibn Tawq’s Ta lı¯q. An Ego-Document for Mamlu¯k Studies,” in: ˙ Conermann, Stephan (ed.), Ubi Sumus? Quo Vademus? Mamluk Studies – State of the Art, Bonn, pp. 337 – 362. Wunderlich, Werner (2004), “Gerücht – Figuren, Prozesse, Begriffe,“ in: Bruhn, Manfred and Werner Wunderlich, Medium Gerücht. Studien zu Theorie und Praxis einer kollektiven Kommunikationsform, Bern/Stuttgart/Wien, pp. 41 – 65.

Richard McGregor (Vanderbilt University, Nashville, Tennessee)

Networks, Processions, and the Disruptive Display of Religion

What would it mean to hold a parade, and for no one to show up to see it? The cavalry, the archers, the drummers, the princes, jurists, Quran reciters and the Sufis, might all be perfectly ordered in their ranks, but without a gathering of onlookers it would not be a real parade. An essential component would be missing: an audience for the performance, with real eyes to see the banners, and ears to hear the music. Sultan Muhammad b. Qala¯wu¯n knew this very well, when ˙ on one occasion he entered Cairo’s main square in procession only to find it empty. He knew this was a problem for his public image, but he also knew how to fix it. He promptly sent criers out into the city “calling people to the spectacle in the square.” We are told that this rally saved the day. People gathered, and “attended the event in their usual way.”1 Such a minor episode would not usually warrant much attention from historians, but its precariousness as a performance – one that almost failed – forces us to reconsider some of our assumptions around public rituals and processions. I propose to explore the anatomy of parading in the pages that follow, but Maqrı¯zı¯’s vignette just quoted should not be passed over in haste. Most concisely, in the following discussion I would like to claim that in an important way, with respect to parading, there is really no such thing as a “usual way.” In the many examples of parading to be encountered below, we will see that no two parades were identical; parading techniques and forms not only changed over time, but the mechanics of each event of viewing and display were unique in each case. On the one hand these changes reflected wider shifting realities in the politics of public display practices, but at the same time, as an aesthetic phenomenon – i. e. with an internal structure, a wider social and political context surrounding it, and the visual practices responding to it in each instance – parades by necessity were singular occurrences. There really is no “usual way” then, except in the most abstract conception. This uniqueness, a

1 Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, as-Sulu¯k, 2:228 and Ibn Tag˙rı¯ Birdı¯, an-Nugˇu¯m, 9:72. These sources attribute their initial reticence to the population’s fear of the sultan and his harsh treatment of them.

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historical and phenomenological particularity, will be a key to the wider picture of networks, society, and religion that I will sketch below. Over the last few decades much has been written about Network theory, particularly among sociologists and social historians. John Law and Bruno Latour, two of the most prominent theorists of Actor-network theory, have developed vast and sophisticated systems intended to chart the flows, gaps, and end points, of the web of relations connecting actors, objects, and even ideas.2 These maps are not simply static records of relations. The most recent versions of Actor-network theory (ANT) have made great efforts to go beyond the horizons of structuralism, for example highlighting the performativity, heterogeneity, and tensions that are essential to such relationships. It is not my intention here to survey the state of the field of ANT, nor will I be able to chart out new ways forward for it, but I will claim that recent discussions of network theory and the material study of religion can offer new insights into some of the problems ANT theorists such as Bruno Latour have identified. More specifically, I will argue that key insights from the aesthetics of religion – the representation/ presentation divide, and the unique specificity of every event – can clear new pathways. In order to make this explicit, I shall base my theoretical contribution on a case study of parading in the Mamluk era. And just as importantly, if successful, this discussion will shed new light on the complexity of the historical phenomena themselves. Parading in Mamluk Cairo and Damascus was by our modern standards a very common sight. We shall discuss the many occasions below, but first let us locate these events on the urban landscape. We should note first that there were never strict rules established for parade routes. Of course there were important rules of etiquette to be followed in relation to the authority and persons of sultans, as well as religious, military, and bureaucratic elites, but the specifics of their parade routes were always open to change. Al-Maqrı¯zı¯ chronicles many of these in Cairo, with the most common path for regal parades beginning at the Citadel, moving north through the Qara¯fa cemetery, turning west and passing through the monumental city gates of Ba¯b an-Nasr or Ba¯b al-Futu¯h. Both gates ˙ ˙ opened onto the main artery of medieval Cairo, Bayn al-Qasrayn, which ran past ˙ several prominent mosques, markets, and the densest areas of economic activity in the city. Further southward the street runs through the third of the great gates, Ba¯b Zuwayla. From this point, there are two options for returning to the Citadel: veering left onto Darb al-Ahmar or continuing straight on to the madrasa of ˙ Sultan Hasan, through the Gate of the Chain, and finally up into the Citadel.3 This 2 Law, Hassard, Actor Network Theory, 1 – 7. 3 Bresc, “Les entr¦es royales des Mamluks,” 88. My thanks to Yasser Daoudi for bringing this article to my attention. Chapoutot-Remadi, Liens et relations, 85, 94.

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path, which we might call the ‘victory route’, was perhaps most famously used by Qala¯wu¯n and his son Muhammad b. Qala¯wu¯n in 680/1281 and 702/1302, when ˙ returning from successful military ventures.4 We shall see below that this route between the northern cemetery and the Citadel running through Darb al-Ahmar ˙ was adopted by religious and civilian elites for their own parades. In Damascus, at this period reduced to a regional capital under Mamluk rule, the practices were similar in that clear itineraries were known for regal parading. Again, the Citadel was the starting point, with passage through the densest parts of the city, flanked by prominent religious institutions, served as the model for both military and religious parades.5 The options for paraders however, were many. Another choice for the sultans was to ride out and back rather abruptly. Asˇraf Halı¯l (d. 693/1293) rode out of the ˘ Citadel on Friday the twelfth of Du¯ l-Qa da, after the noon prayer and sermon, ¯ processed around the main square, and was back home before the mid-afternoon prayer.6 Quick outings could also be made from the Citadel out to the hippodrome a bit further to the south. Chapoutot-Remadi notes an increased use of the hippodrome as a destination after 698/1299, although she finds no clear reason for the shift.7 Parading out of the Citadel was of course the prerogative of the Sultan, but in an interesting inversion, processions also went in the reverse, up to the Citadel. Impromptu and less organized, these were typically performances of political resistance or expressions of communal anger.8 One example is that of the most famous Sufi of his day, Ibn Ata¯’ Alla¯h al˙ Iskandarı¯, who joined with the shaykh of the Sa ¯ıd as-Su ada¯’ ha¯nqah and more ˘ than five-hundred supporters in a march up to the Citadel to denounce the troublesome preacher Ibn Taymiyya.9 Clearly, parade routes operated as twoway streets. These passages through the cityscape, across the urban landscape, at once ordered and infinitely variable, constitute networks and maps within the human and the built environment. With what he calls “religion in motion” Manuel Vasquez has recently begun to theorize these embodied, multi perspectival, formations and experiences of religion. This approach, while avoiding rigid a priori definitions of religion, maintains an open-ended expectation toward the ˘

˘

˘

4 5 6 7 8

Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, as-Sulu¯k, 1:377 – 9. Tresse, Le pÀlerinage syrien, 163. Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, as-Sulu¯k, 1:643 and 756. Chapoutot-Remadi, Liens et relations, 86. Shoshan, Popular Culture, 16. These apparently spontaneous outbursts were of course carefully orchestrated, and bore all the markers required to identify them and their aims. Such protests had to make it clear that they were not revolts or simply riotous mobs. 9 Northrup, “The Bahrı¯ Mamlu¯k sultanate,” 267. ˙

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evolving and infinitely various “material” aspects of religion.10 Vasquez identifies three prominent metaphors in the current study of religion that have emerged in parallel to Actor Network Theory.11 The first is spatial, consisting of objects such as maps, fields, boundaries, and crossing points. In the study of religion, discussions and criticisms of mapping (tied up with notions of ‘origin’ and ‘comparison’) were formative. The work of Mircea Eliade and J.Z. Smith drove this issue to the forefront of debates on method and theory. The second group of metaphors Vasquez identifies with water imagery : flows, flux, and currents. In a recent book Thomas Tweed combines this category with the former, describing the traces left behind by religious flows as they transform peoples, societies, and natural terrains.12 Vasquez constitutes a third group under the model of connectivity, which includes networks, webs, and pathways. His treatment of networks is brief, and his objections to “network theory” rest on two basic criticisms: neglecting the symbolic and affective dimensions of religious life, and a tendency to attribute agency to networks rather than to individuals operating within those networks. I shall return to these criticisms at the conclusion of this paper. Tweed adopted the flow/flux imagery, which he sees doing the important work of channeling cultural currents, circulating beliefs, values, and rituals throughout a culture.13 As a corrective, and trying to avoid the collapse of all boundaries and borders, Vasquez proposes a modified version of network modeling, one that is more open and evolving over time and across space. He wants to be able to recognize as networks the great variety of structures and junctures; some are flexible while others are not, some are multi-directional, contested, and dynamic while others are simple and direct.14 Among these many metaphors and models, with their seemingly endless revisions and qualifications, I am inclined – in the spirit of playful experimentation – to propose a hybrid of these models, which we might call the ‘electric grid’. Tweed’s flow and Vasquez’s flexible channels might both be represented in such a metaphor. Extrapolating from Latour’s claim that society is not the passive matrix but rather “what travels through everything, calibrating connections and offering every entity it reaches some possibility of commensurability,”15 we might propose that the ‘electrical flow’ (that is religion) animates objects and empowers people; but importantly, it doesn’t have to do this all the time. It isn’t always ‘on’, being at times barely observable, and yet when fully in force, it operates in clear 10 11 12 13 14 15

Vasquez, “Studying Religion in Motion,” 156. Ibid, 165. Tweed, Crossing and Dwelling, 61 – 3. Ibid., 210. Vasquez, “Studying Religion in Motion,” 168. Latour, Reassembling the Social, 241.

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and predictable ways. The flowing electrons are always different from the ones that went before, and also the ones that follow, but the ‘grid’ provides structure and continuity. In this analogy, the historical particularity of religious phenomena can be preserved, while the patterns and structures that allow us to recognize the ‘religious’ among other phenomena may be accounted for. But perhaps more pointedly I would like to turn our attention to the uniqueness of the event; and in so doing complicate my “electrical flow” model. The strength of this model, and other versions of ANT, surely lies in its ability to balance both the predictability of structures with the uniqueness of the individual or specific event.16 Thus the grid and the electrons are brought into focus. Historians of culture will tend towards one side of this equation; they will lean toward the grid, the wider narratives, the elucidations, which help them to make sense of the particulars. At its best, ANT makes room for both, but in the final analysis, in order to make sense within the disciplinary language of history, the overarching structures and explanations will be found not in the particular examples, but in the way they can be seen to fit together to tell a larger story. It is here that I would like to suggest a corrective turn toward the particular. This is not to suggest that we abandon the wider structures in which they sit. I would like instead to find models that make room for the particularity and uniqueness of these individuals and events. In the case of religious history then, we must conceive of our network – i. e. religion – in ways that embrace the non sequitur, the surprising, and the dissonant. Academic surveys of regal parading have tentatively identified some historical trends, but conclusive narratives continue to elude us. One account sees a shift in style and organization of parades taking place in the early Mamluk period. The claim is made that the presence of the Abbasid caliphs from the year 659/1261 onwards, marked a forgoing of Turkish styles of parading in favor of Iraqi/Persian influences.17 Some general observations have also been made about the foci of regal processions. Behrens-Abouseif underlines the Fatimid concern with keeping the caliph’s person the central point around which all ceremonies were organized, and contrasts this with the topographical orientations of the Mamluks. The earlier Bahrı¯s celebrated the two great feasts of al˙ Adha¯ and al-Fitr at their court in the citadel, to which the later Burgˇ¯ı Mamluks ˙˙ ˙ added that of the Prophet’s birthday. Mamluk courtly rituals, marking both religious and political occasions, took place variously at the citadel mosque, the ¯Iwa¯n of an-Na¯sir Muhammad, or the hippodrome at the foot of the citadel ˙ ˙ 16 Latour takes this up, among other places, specifically in Reassembling the Social, 220. 17 Bresc, “Les entr¦es royales des Mamluks,” 83. Bresc sees the disappreance of the official bow and quiver of arrows as a displacing of the Turkic symbols of power. In an act of purely symbolic deference to the caliph, sultan Baybars processed longside them a with a gold chain on his feet.

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walls.18 Van Steenbergen has noted the waning of the Bayn al-Qasrayn as the ˙ stage for ascension rituals after 784/1382.19 The history of such ceremonials, along with their parading practices, is indeed complex and rich. The more data one collects, the more opaque the historical picture becomes. Even the most heroic of such surveys seems to be at a loss in finding the overarching patterns in which to locate the many expressions of parading.20 The emerging story of these phenomena seems to be one of endemic diversity, or a story with a non-linear history. This is not however, a cause for despair. The commitment within ANT to balance over-arching structure with examples of the particular should be recalled here. As Latour has pointed out, this state of affairs actually works against reductive analyses of linear causality, or narratives of evolution, which constantly threaten to reduce the particular phenomena to components within a story centered elsewhere. He claims there is no story to uncover, one that will account for all the variables we have collected; the laws of social history don’t explain anything, but rather themselves need to be explained.21 From this perspective then, what seems to be an universal structure, in the end is contingent and historically generated. A procession thus can be interpreted usefully as a break in history. In punctuating the historical narrative each time in its unique way, such celebrations announce a new order, a new regime, a new era. One procession, not unusual in its scope and structure, was that of the newly appointed chief judge (qa¯d¯ı al-quda¯t) Abu¯ Zakariyya al-Ansa¯rı¯.22 We read of a large crowd gathering, ˙ ˙ ˙ including Mamluk notables, judges, scholars and students, which left from the Citadel, processed to the Sa¯lihiyya madrasa, winding up at al-Ansa¯rı¯’s home.23 ˙ ˙ ˙ This event, perhaps not monumental in scale when compared with some others, is nevertheless singular and can be taken as undetermined by circumstances other than its own. Al-Ansa¯rı¯’s appointment, his persona as high profile scholar, ˙ alongside his lineage and teaching functions as a Sufi shaykh within the Sˇa¯diliyya ¯ order of the day, together begin to articulate the significance of this parade in its unique historicity. This perspective on al-Ansa¯rı¯’s parade illuminates it as a ˙ departure or as an opening upon new historical trajectories. If we may borrow a phrase from Mark Taylor, our turn to the particularity of this example illuminates its function as an “anticipatory wake” of progress or differential play.24 For Taylor the edge of religious phenomena is then is not to be found in their static 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

Behrens-Abouseif, “The Citadel of Cairo,” 30, 40, 41, 49. Van Steenbergen, J. “Ritual,” 233, 265. See Chapoutot-Remadi, Liens et relations, 504 ff. Latour, Reassembling the Social, 246. See McGreggor, al-Ansa¯rı¯, Zakariyya¯’.” ˙ As-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’, 3:238. ˙ ˙ ˘ Taylor, After God, 342.

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experience, but rather in their cutting against the narratives of history, and in their troubling of boundary lines. This same disruptive “wake” is also visually represented in the paraphernalia of quite different parades, those of Mongol prisoners. According to al-Maqrı¯zı¯ such displays were first organized during the rule of Sultan Aybak following his successful military venture of 648/1250, which yielded booty and many captives. Prisoners are described as moving in procession with their flags reversed and their battle drums broken. In similar parades held in 680/1281 and 702/1302 passing along the well-trodden route of Ba¯b an-Nasr to Ba¯b Zuwayla and up to ˙ the Citadel, the Mongol prisoners were forced to carry their broken standards.25 These latter processions are significant not only because of their lavishness – we are told fabrics were hung along the route and rugs placed on the ground – but because of the forty-two wooden castles constructed and brightly painted, which lined the street between the two great gates. Little is made of them in the chronicles, but they seem to be functioning here as map-like redrawings of the cityscape. The castles that were fought over, defended and stormed during the campaigns in the Levant, are made present through these models, which in turn define and contextualize the parading. They bring back the very site of defeat of the Mongol armies. The disruptive edge so clearly at play in the reversed flags and broken drums, is put into greater relief by the recreation of those circumstances, and the immediate presence – if only in miniature – of the fortifications lost and gained in the fighting. In their intentionally broken equipment, the prisoners are thus forced to display their origins and past, through their identifiably Mongolian paraphernalia, along with the disruption of those symbols, and the calamitous present and future that lies before them. The cityscape was also carefully chosen for the parading practices of the Shia minority of Cairo. The movement of pious bodies in formation among chosen hubs of Shia identity sites made for compelling, if at times contested, religious performance. The architecture along the central avenue of Darb al-Ahmar, and ˙ more specifically the Fatimid buildings such as al-Aqmar mosque, served as the ¯ sˇu¯ra¯’ processions.26 Al-Maqrı¯zı¯ describes some of these rituals, which stage for A would normally include animated mourning for the death of the Prophet’s grandson Husayn, along with self-flagellation by the processors, centered ˙ around Shia identified locations. Details are lacking, but it seems the typical parading route ran from the south of the city, beginning at either the shrine of Umm Katu¯m or Sayyida Nafı¯sa, and ended near al-Azhar at the shrine of Husayn. ¯ ˙ We are told that while parading across the city the mourners would also insult 25 Al-Maqrı¯zı¯’s, as-Sulu¯k quoted in Chapoutot-Remadi, Liens et relations, p. 94. 26 Sanders, Ritual Politics, chs 2, 3, and Behrens-Abouseif, “The FaÅade of the Aqmar Mosque,” 29 – 38.

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those they held responsible for the death of Husayn.27 This cursing went beyond ˙ the figure of Yazı¯d, Husayn’s immediate opponent on the battlefield at Karbala, ˙ and was often extended to the caliphs Abu¯ Bakr, Umar, and Utma¯n, who from ¯ the Shia perspective were unjust usurpers of the caliphate. This ritual cursing could easily provoke tensions with the surrounding Sunni majority, which alMaqrı¯zı¯ indeed notes. These processions evolved from their earliest instantiation as official Fatimid observances up into the late twelfth century. The identity of Shia mourners under the subsequent Sunni regimes awaits further ¯ sˇu¯ra¯’ parades continued in significant force research, but we do know that the A 28 in Cairo until World War I. The disruptive “wake” of religious parading also made an impact in the thirteenth century with the rise of the Sufi orders and the novel public displays they introduced into the public sphere. These developments changed the human landscape not only in the individual instances, as we argued above with alAnsa¯rı¯, but historically and culturally, by introducing procession practices that ˙ had not been seen before. The rise of veneration for the great shaykhs of the early late Ayyubid and early Mamluk era engendered the formalization and institutionalization of the Sufi order. A key component of such veneration became the observance of mawlids or saint-days, and it was out of one such celebration that the first large scale Sufi parades seem to have arisen.29 This form of Sufism centered on saints became the focus for a new form of religious practice, making the evolution of Sufi parading a story of creative disruption. In addition to the mawlid, Sufi orders processed on other occasions. For the medieval period these public practices are rarely described in detail, however a rough picture may be gleaned from the sources. The Sufi leaders of one order, an independent branch of the Sˇa¯diliyya known as the Wafa¯’iyya, are described as ¯ dramatic paraders. Al-Maqrı¯zı¯ tells us of a ritual of investiture that began with the seclusion of the new shaykh in the family oratory (za¯wiya-riba¯t) in the ˙ Hurunfusˇ quarter, followed by his public presentation and parading through the ˘ Darb al-Ahmar quarter, across the city and out to the shrine of their Sufi fore˙ father in the southern Qara¯fa cemetery.30 A seventeenth-century account of this tradition of Sufi parading identifies the participants as Mamluk princes and religious scholars, in addition to the new shaykh. We are told that, “This procession consisted of an initial group of scholars and jurists on foot, followed by the shaykh on horseback surrounded by princes and a second group of religious ˘

27 28 29 30

Al-Maqrı¯zı¯ as quoted in De Smet, “Les fÞtes chiites en Êgypte,” 192. McPherson, The Moulids of Egypt, p. 223 Mayeur-Jaouen, “Les processions pÀlerines en Êgypte,” 28. Al-Maqrı¯zı¯ as quoted in al-Bakrı¯, Bayt as-sa¯da¯t al-wafa¯’iyya, 59. Chelebi, Siyahatname Misr, 405, confirms the continuing Wafa¯’ practice of secluding its leaders. For more details, see McGregor, “Sufis and Soldiers in Mamluk Cairo.”

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scholars.” Our hagiographer describes the tone of the event, saying, “They proceeded in great pageantry and solemnity, as was the custom.”31 Asˇ-Sˇawbarı¯ presents a narrative that characterizes this display of bodies, objects, and movement, as “custom.” But of course no shaykh was ever instated twice, no two parades consisted of the same princes and scholars. This practice – unknown before the twelfth century – changed the landscape of performed and public religion, while simultaneously finding itself within the narratives of precedence and custom. In this way, and in line with the Taylor’s insights above, religion in embodied and historical ways is constantly remaking itself and its world. The Sufi parades, the newly appointed chief judge, and the pious Shia, are at odds with the world around them and yet that is where they negotiate meaning, are understood and insert themselves. In those same self-assertions they become what asˇ-Sˇawbarı¯ means by “custom”, i. e. the particular instances of the network that binds them into a meaningful world. This particularity also serves to overturn the established world it finds, and to make new space for the ongoing story that is the history of religion. Further on this particularity, we may turn to the textuality that is often employed in processions. More specifically, this textuality appeared as writing on banners, on flags, or in books and documents that were carried by paraders. In the instances of script on flags and banners, we see that such writing first served as part of the self-identification of the paraders; in effect it labeled the ritual and its participants, either explicitly or implicitly. Examples of such textuality go back to the earliest history of the community. The opponents of the nascent Medinan umma were reported to have entered the battle of Uhud ˙ bearing the standard of the central Meccan shrine, which was a symbolic reference to an identity centered on that polis.32 War banners were a common sight on both sides of the lines, regardless of the belligerents’ identity. Muhammad’s ˙ own flag was called “the eagle” and likely resembled the many tribal flags that reportedly displayed images of the moon, a pair of eyes, or the tribe’s name explicitly.33 The famous Standards of Praise (liwa¯h al-hamd) were put on public ˙ ˙ display by the Fatimid caliphs. These were apparently striking objects: twentyone banners of white silk, about 130 cm by 100 cm, with the Quranic phrase (61:13) “Help from God, and a speedy victory” hung from golden lances.34 In the closing years of Mamluk rule, Sultan al-G˙awrı¯ produced and publicly displayed ornate tiraz inscribed tomb coverings (sutu¯r) for seven prophets interred in his lands. In the case of Abraham’s grave at Hebron, the covering “made its way Asˇ-Sˇawbarı¯, at-Targˇama al-wafa¯’iyya, fol. 11a. Serjeant, “Haram and hawtah,” 54. Hinds, “The Banners,” 106 – 108. Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, al-Mawa¯ iz, 2:470. ˙ ˘

31 32 33 34

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through the countryside with pomp, accompanied by drummers and dancers.”35 I have not been able to establish the content of these embroidered texts, but it seems likely that Quranic passages referring to the prophet, along with general divine supplicatory phrases would have been used. These practices of text display included banners, paraded along with standards, carried by the most promising of the young Mamluks identifying them as future amirs.36 We do not know the content of these texts, but the message they are communicating – that of labeling the procession – is quite clear. A study of Ottoman military banners confirms this general function of banner texts. Although very few from before the seventeenth century have come down to us today, typical passages include the names of caliphs, the ˇsaha¯da, invocations to the Prophet, and most significantly passages from the Quran enjoining holy war and the righteousness of the cause of the Muslim believers.37 The function that banner texts had in labeling the processions that carried them is only part of the story of this kind of textual practice. Beyond naming participants, tribes, or dynasties, and providing scriptural quotations alluding to intentions and goals, a performative dimension is also at play. Beyond reading the words and symbols displayed, the very gesture of such display itself constituted the identities and relations of religion and society. The circulation and display of such banner texts forges networks. Or as Bourdieu puts it, this form of “intentionality” isn’t simply circulating within wider networks of signification (e. g. tribal and genealogical lore, Quranic revelation) but through their praxis they “are constitutive of the networks themselves.”38 The connection between text and parade could also take a rather different form. Rather than reading the calligraphy and symbols on banners, the viewing crowds could encounter displays of documents, that is, texts that were not intended to be read but rather only seen in display. The examples of such display are surprisingly numerous, and included the scriptures of various religious communities. In 659/1261 the caliph Mustansir was welcomed to Cairo by the ˙ Sultan accompanied by various religious functionaries, and a contingent of Christians bearing a copy of the Gospels. In 792/1390 Barqu¯q was met in the town of Raydaniyya by the local Sˇarı¯fs, Sufi orders, and “the Jews with a Torah, and the Christians with a copy of their Book.”39 These episodes were part of the negotiation of inter-communal religious boundaries and relations. The Jewish ˘

35 Ibn Iya¯s, Bada¯’i az-zuhu¯r, 4:337. 36 Chapoutot-Remadi, Liens et relations, 529. For more on princely investitures see Van Steenbergen, “Ritual,” 233, 285. 37 Denny, “Ottoman Turkish Textiles,” 63. 38 Bourdieu, Outline, 96. 39 These reports are both from Ibn Tag˙rı¯ Birdı¯. See Bresc, “Les entr¦es royales des Mamluks,” 89.

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˘

˘

communities, along with their Christian neighbors, built bridges with the ruling Islamic polity and defined those relationships through the carefully orchestrated display of their scriptures. In this dynamic we see what Catharine Bell has pointed to as the fullest meaning of a text, which includes its materiality, dissemination, and its role as an “actor” in its times.40 The lives of holy books, seen but not read by their audiences, played out in a variety of contexts. For example, the efficacy of scripture in protecting from the plague was a concept that spanned the traditional boundaries dividing religious communities. Ibn Battu¯ta describes a procession in Damascus aimed at warding ˙˙ ˙ off the plague, in which Jews, Christians, and Muslims, together paraded their 41 holy books. The Sufi hospice of Sa ¯ıd as-Su ada¯’ was the backdrop for the weekly procession that also involved the display of scripture. During the reign of Sala¯h ˙ ˙ ad-Dı¯n, on Fridays the shaykh of the hospice would lead the resident Sufis in procession to the mosque of al-Ha¯kim. The Quranic text would be carried in an ˙ ornamental box on the head of the tallest of the Sufi processors, with crowds gathered along the route hoping to benefit from the baraka of the ritual.42 The Quranic text was also paraded by Sultan al-G˙awrı¯ in a rather different context. In preparation for a battle that he would lose to the Ottomans, the Sultan processed out from Aleppo accompanied the by the Caliph and local notables, along with representatives of the various Sufi orders. The Syrian contingent carried copies of the Quran wrapped in yellow silk. Among these was a copy of the Quran attributed to the hand Utma¯n, which of course carried an abundance of baraka. ¯ The chronicler Ibn Iya¯s make a point to describe the trampling of the Qurans, along with the Sufi and military banners, to emotively communicate the tragic nature of the defeat.43 Beyond these examples of the paraded text as relic and bearer of blessing, the Quran could also be displayed in simple acts of social regulation. One example, which surely could be multiplied with further research, is described in 742/1341 where conservatives in protest of the judiciary’s apparent tolerance of hashish sellers, paraded with copies of the Quran, evoking the constraints of religious law, and physically asserting themselves and this ritual object into public space, to contest the prevailing ethos of moral laxity.44 In light of this wide diversity of parading practices, let us recall the objections raised earlier by Vasquez. His concerns were that ANT analyses neglect the symbolic and affective dimensions of religious life, and that they tended to ˘

˘

40 Bell, Ritualization,” 368. 41 Bresc, “Les entr¦es royales des Mamluks,” 89, quoting from Ibn Battu¯ta. ˙˙ ˙ in thirty parts, to 42 Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, al-Mawa¯ iz, 2:727. The procession box carried the Quran ˙ were distributed to the Sufis as part of their Friday ritual worship facilitate recitation, which at the mosque. 43 Ibn Iya¯s, Journal, 2:65 – 67. 44 Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, as-Sulu¯k 2:592.

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attribute agency to networks over individual actors. Rather than revisit the validity of these criticisms in light of the various statements by Latour and Bourdieu made above, we can turn to our case studies in parading to explore the implications of these phenomena for ANT. In his metaphors and models for the practice of religion, Vasquez wants to make room within networks for the ‘meaning making’ and sensory experiences that inform religious life. In this concern he would find an ally in the picture that has emerged in the pages above, where both the wider representations at play with objects are embraced alongside their immediate materiality, i. e. their physical presence getting things done. Whether it is politics, religious doctrine, or cultural discourse, the parading practices we have encountered symbolize, evoke, and allude to the world around them; parading takes place on carefully chosen stages. Concomitantly, we have seen that paraders, along with the objects they bare, push themselves directly into the visual field, the physical space, and the topography of the city they share with their assembled crowds of viewers. The affective impact both displayed by paraders and elicited in viewers was a central concern for every procession. These purposeful constructions – even in their smallest and the most ad hoc instances – fully embraced what earlier I called the representation/presentation dynamic at play in all aesthetic formations. This insight is also the response our parading examples have to make to Vasquez’s recovery of individual agency against the mechanical automaton that is the Network. Our insistence above on the specificity of each parading event, its unique historical configuration, and its endemic diversity, all speak to this concern. The essential contributions of the embodied processors, and the sensorially stimulated crowds, are repeatable in form (i. e. we always recognize a parade when we see, or are in, one) but each instantiation is unique to that point in time and to those involved. To be a successful parade, the procession depends on the formulation of a constellation of bodies, objects, and senses that has never taken place in the past, nor will it ever repeat in the future.

Bibliography A

Sources

˘

Al-Bakrı¯, M., k. Bayt as-sa¯da¯t al-wafa¯’iyya, Cairo n.d. Ibn Iya¯s, Bada¯’i az-zuhu¯r, 4 vols., Cairo 1984. Ibn Iya¯s, Journal d’un bourgeois du Caire, trans. G. Wiet, 2 vols., Paris 1955 – 60. Ibn Tag˙rı¯ Birdı¯, an-Nugˇu¯m az-za¯hira fı¯ mulu¯k misr wa-l-qa¯hira, 16 vols., Cairo 1963 – 72. ˙ Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, k. as-Sulu¯k li-ma rifat duwal al-mulu¯k, 4 vols., Cairo 1941. Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, al-Mawa¯ iz wa-l-i tiba¯r fı¯ dikr al-hitat wa-l-a¯ta¯r, 4 vols., London 2003 ¯ ¯ ˙ ˘˙ ˙ ˘ ˘

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As-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’ al-la¯mi fı¯ a ya¯n al-qarn at-ta¯si , 12 vols., Beirut n.d. ˙ ˙ ˘ Asˇ-Sˇawbarı¯, at-Targˇama al-wafa¯’iyya, MS Leiden University, Or. 14.437.

Studies

Behrens-Abouseif, D., “The Citadel of Cairo: Stage for Mamluk ceremonial,” Annales Islamologiques 24 (1988), pp. 25 – 79. Behrens-Abouseif, D., “The FaÅade of the Aqmar Mosque in the Context of Fatimid Ceremonial,” Muqarnas 9 (1992) pp. 29 – 38. Bell, C., “Ritualization of Texts and Textualization of Rituals in the Codification of Taoist Liturgy,” History of Religions 27/ 4 (1988), pp. 366 – 392. Bourdieu, P., Outline of a Theory of Practice, Cambridge UK 1977. Bresc, H., “Les entr¦es royales des Mamluks. Essai d’approche comparative,“ in: GenÀse de l’Êtat morderne en M¦diterran¦e. Approches historique et anthropologique des pratiques et des representations, Rome: E´cole franc¸ aise de Rome 1993, pp. 81 – 96. Chapoutot-Remadi, R., Liens et relations au sein de l’¦lite mamluke sous les premiers sultans bahrides, Ph.D. dissertation, Universit¦ de Provence 1993. Chelebi, E., Siyahatname Misr, Cairo 2003. De Smet, D., “Les fÞtes chiites en Êgypte fatimide,” Acta Orientalia Belgica 10 (1995 – 96), pp. 187 – 196. Denny, W., “A Group of Silk Islamic Banners,”, Textile Museum Journal 4/1 (1974), pp. 67 – 81. Denny, W., “Ottoman Turkish Textiles” Textile Museum Journal 3,3 (1972) pp. 55 – 66. Hinds, M., “The Banners and Battle cries of the Arabs at Siffin (AD 657),” in: Studies in Early Islamic History, ed. J. Bacharach, Princeton, N.J. 1996, pp. 97 – 142. Latour, B., Reassembling the Social: an Introduction to Actor-Network Theory, Oxford 2005. Law, J. and J. Hassard (eds.), Actor Network Theory and After, Oxford: Blackwell 1999. Mayeur-Jaouen, C., “Les processions pÀlerines en Êgypte: pratiques carnavalesques et itin¦raires politiques, les inventions successives d’une tradition,” in: Les pÀlerinages au Maghreb et au Moyen-Orient, ed. S. Chiffoleau and A. Madœuf, Damascus 2005, pp. 217 – 233. McGregor, R., “Sufis and Soldiers in Mamluk Cairo; Parading the Aesthetics of Agency” to appear in The Exercise of Power in the Age of the Sultanates, ed. I. Bierman and S. Denoix. McGregor, R., “al-Ansa¯rı¯, Zakariyya¯’,” in EI3, online edition (http://referenceworks.bril ˙ lonline.com/entries/encyclopaedia-of-islam-3/al-ansari-zakariyya-COM_23956?s. num=339& s.start=300) McPherson, J.W., The Moulids of Egypt (Egyptian Saints-days), London 1941. Northrup, L.S., “The Bahrı¯ Mamlu¯k sultanate, 1250 – 1390,” in: Cambridge History of ˙ Egypt, ed. C. Petry, 3 vols., Cambridge UK 2008, vol. 1, pp. 242 – 289. Sanders, P., Ritual Politics and the City in Fatimid Cairo, Albany 1994. Serjeant, R.B., “Haram and hawtah, the Sacred Enclave in Arabia,” in: M¦langes Taha Husain, publi¦s par Abdurrahman Badawi, Cairo 1962, pp. 41 – 58.

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Shoshan, B., Popular Culture in Medieval Cairo, Cambridge UK 1993. Taylor, M.C. After God, Chicago 2007. Tresse, R. Le pÀlerinage syrien aux villes siantes de l’Islam, Paris 1937. Tweed, T., Crossing and Dwelling: a Theory of Religion, Cambridge Mass. 2006. Van Steenbergen, J. “Ritual, Politics and the City in Mamluk Cairo: the Bayna l-Qasrayn as a dynamic ‘lieu de m¦moire’ (1250 – 1382),” in: Court Ceremonies and Rituals of Power in Byzantium and the Medieval Mediterranean, ed. A. Beihammer, S. Constantinou, M. Parani, Leiden 2013, pp. 227 – 276. Vasquez, M., “Studying Religion in Motion: a Networks Approach,” Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 20 (2008), pp. 151 – 184.

Bethany J. Walker (Bonn)

Mobility and Migration in Mamluk Syria: The Dynamism of Villagers ‘on the Move’

Introduction Network analysis, – of any form – conjures up images of fluidity, change, and motion. That is not to say that in analyzing the “Mamluk Empire” with the tools of network theory we imagine the Mamluk state apparatus (the form and policies of governance) as unstructured and necessarily volatile, current debates aside over whether a “classical” system of succession ever really existed. On the contrary, “the state” had a certain form and logic that gave it a great flexibility, creativity and ability to adapt. In the same system, it was possible to have both coherence and malleability. The focus of analysis for this paper, however, is rural society, comprised of communities, that may or may not be coterminous with “the village” and that were – in many respects the underpinning of the Mamluk socio-political system. This essay follows the traces that individuals and communities left behind, in the textual and archaeological record, when they moved on to another place. It also considers what the patterns of mobility we extract from their movement ultimately tell us about the character of Mamluk governance on the local level. Specifically, what do the travel of peasants – and the complex web of relations that bound them to social groups, institutions, and places – tell us about the Mamluk social order?

On “liquid landscapes” and normative patterns of migration Underneath the veneer of state power, the deeper currents of village life flowed through channels intersecting the bodies more formally, and perhaps artificially, defined as the “state” and the “economy”. The rural networks that emerged from these gave Syrian society a remarkable coherence and resilience, as they both operated autonomously from and were interwoven with urban and imperial life. I am less concerned here with the structure of those networks than with identifying the patterns of rural mobility that energized them in times of imperial

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stagnation, empowered local society in times of political weakness and transition and punctuated daily life outside the urban centers. Peasant society, which is the focus of this study, was never stagnant. It was in constant motion, physically as well as metaphorically. Traditional forms of peasant mobility – seasonal migration for planting and harvest, travel to regional markets, pilgrimage, the social rituals of visitation, the professional mobility of village intelligentsia and their physical relocation to the cities – structured rural life.1 One cannot speak of the “isolated village” of the Mamluk period – peasants lived in a world of connectedness and movement. New peoples, ideas and goods came in and out of local communities with regularity. The borders between villages – determining where the lands of one village ended and the next began – were even in flux, particularly during the late decades of Mamluk rule, as peasants responded to emerging opportunities in land tenure.2 Tribal migrations further transformed the human landscape of the region. The government restructured its Syrian administration, moving administrative centers and adjusting district borders, perhaps in response to the demographic changes that resulted from these trends.3 Archaeologists specializing in Ottoman Greece have coined the term “liquid landscapes” to describe the kind of social environment that developed in the countryside as a result.4 We need, however, to differentiate between two distinctly different forms of population movement: “mobility” is not the same thing as “migration”. Migration leaves its trace in the archaeological record as the permanent abandonment of a settlement. Peasants left their homes for good for a variety of reasons; but most of them were political: the violence of a state official who continued to abuse them, insupportable taxes, lack of security and justice. From the perspective of the state, migration of this sort was a financial and political disaster and in the eyes of contemporary historians heralded a society in crisis. For the migrants, it was an act of political will or one made when 1 This phenomenon has perhaps been best studied for Ottoman Palestine (Singer, “Peasant Migration; Singer, Palestinian Peasants and Ottoman Officials, 99 – 101), Ottoman Cyprus (Given, “Agriculture, Settlement, and Landscape”; Gibson, “The Archaeology of Movement”), and Early Modern Spain (Vassberg, The Village and the Outside World). 2 The village histories of Hubra¯s and at-Turrah in northern Jordan, which have been the object ˙ ˙ documentary study, exemplify well these trends for other of integrated archaeological and periods. Hubra¯s subsumed the lands of nearby villages in the Abbasid and late Ottoman ˙ discussed ˙ periods, as below (see also Lucke et al, Questioning Transjordan’s Historic Desertification”). The “grain boom” of 1854 and a volatile real estate market during the British Mandate, during which time lands in northern Jordan exchanged hands frequently, created confusion in land claims and property borders. Village borders there were a fluid concept in land registers until the 1930s (Wetzstein, Reisebericht, 84 – 85; Walker et al, “Northern Jordan Project 2010”, 511 – 517). For the ways in which the privatization of state lands had a similar effect in the late Mamluk period, see Walker, Jordan in the Late Middle Ages, 211 – 232). 3 Walker, “Mamluk Investment in Southern Bilad al-Sham” and “A ‘Boom and ‘Bust Economy”. 4 Sutton, “Liquid Landscapes”; Forbes, “Liquid Landscapes and Fluid Populations”.

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there were no other options. Permanent and whole-scale migration of this form had a mixed impact on social networks, dissolving old communities but potentially creating new ones in the process.

A network analysis of migration in Mamluk Syria – a demographic and geographical approach Communal activity produces material traces; migration leaves behind a retrievable trail. That human interaction and movement from the past can be retrieved physically is the foundation of archaeological theory, as well as an underlying principle of ANT (Actor-Network Theory). The application of ANT to the interpretation of archaeological data offers promise in understanding changes in patterns of human mobility in the Late Mamluk period by focusing on the forces that collectively created, maintained and ultimately dissolved communities. A community is not necessarily coterminous with a village or any other kind of settlement. In some periods of its history the community could be spatially defined by territory that goes well beyond that of the single settlement. Rather than the emphasis in earlier scholarship on clusters of households, which were represented in the archaeological record by domestic architecture, sociologically-inclined archaeologists today tend to define communities in terms of the social, political, ideological, and economic organization of people. They are the product of shared identities and frequent interactions.5 A community is “not so much a thing, as something that you do”, a notion that echoes Bourdieu’s theory of practice, in which routine activities are characteristic of social groups.6 In other words, activity, movement and interaction define the community, not a particular place; rather social networks create communities.7 That is not to say that communities are not grounded geographically in some sense, as they do constitute social organizations across space. They are of a space, if not of a specific place. The term “socialized landscapes” conveniently denotes the identification of a community with a geographical region and its particular landscape and topography ; they are the spatial dimension of communities. Members of a community can feel connected to some general notion of homeland based on a landscape that is meaningful to them for various cultural reasons – such as a plateau, a river basin, a mountain – and might move freely within this 5 Yeager and Canuto, Archaeology of Communities. 6 Van Dommelen et al, “Common Places,” 56; Bourdieu, Theory of Practice. 7 “Community exists in the mind of its members, and should not be confused with geographic …. assertions of ‘fact’… the reality of their boundaries, similarly, lies in the mind” (Cohen, Symbolic Construction of Community, 98).

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area, feeling “at home” at any physical point in that larger space. The community exists apart from a particular village but identifies with the landscape to which that village belongs; perhaps this is the key to understanding the evocative power of nisbas. Landscapes, like communities, are social and mental constructs, are interpreted, recreated and experienced through group activity and interaction. Both can be recognized in material form: communities, defined in this way, can be retrieved textually, for example through nisbas, and socialized landscapes archaeologically, as clusters of sites/settlements, agricultural installations and field boundaries, place names, landscape character (such as a particular topography and natural assets) and transport routes. Roads and paths are particular meaningful markers of community and the networks that comprise them; they are physical evidence in the landscape of a repeated activity, the travel back and forth between places for visitation, pilgrimage, commerce (Fig. 1). They are traces of the ties the bind people together and – as such – directly reflect the networks that give communities life. A community, as defined archaeologically, is an organization in motion. Traditional mobility is one factor that has given communities cohesion and maintained them. It can be transformative, recreating old communities in new locations or restructuring them on different foundations and on different terms.8 Movement – whether through routine activities or traditional migration – is a necessary component to communal life. Performance, interaction and change are key components in the maintenance of groups. As an “entanglement of interactions”, that is constantly in flux, the social world in which these groups participate is by its nature in motion: that world is regularly displaced, transformed, and given new meaning.9 In an ANT perspective, a community is a kind of actor-network or a web of attachments in which actors are made to act by other forces. Such a web exists because of these attachments, through which there is active exchange and interaction.10 All of this movement and activity produces “traces” during times of stress, when new associations/attachments are being formed: their visibility bears witness to the vitality of the attachments and the reality of the group, or network, that the attachments comprise.11 A community, as network, survives because the ties between and among members are reinforced through regular exchanges, the members remain attached to multiple others and the attachments are constantly renegotiated. The form or structure of the network matters less than its internal function and the ties that 8 A community survives because its members perceive that it does, regardless of whether the group remains in the same place or the community’s “structural boundaries remain intact” (Cohen, Symbolic Construction of Community, 118). 9 Latour, Reassembling the Social, 64 – 65. 10 Ibid., 46, 217. 11 Ibid., 8, 31.

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Fig. 1 – Foot and goat path leading into a tributary of the Wa¯dı¯ Sˇalla¯la from the village of Hargˇa ˘ (courtesy Prof. Bernhard Lucke, University of Erlangen)

bind the actors to one another.The village then becomes a convenient unit of analysis for us, as a physical proxy for rural communities, if we define the term very loosely and acknowledge that villages can “move” (to other locations). Villages were the single constant reference point for rural communal identity in

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the period of interest to us and functioned as nodes in multiple networks: transportation, social, economic, political, agrarian and so forth. Ultimately, a meaningful network analysis of migration, which integrates a systems approach to rural history, would address a range of issues related to place and meaning, interconnections and attachments, action and movement and agency. In the spirit of Braudel, the most relevant issues could be summarized as follows: village as a “node” in multiple networks local social, economic, political networks that thrived on regular movement of people rural mobility as mechanism for transfer of goods and knowledge and exercise of local power socially acceptable patterns of mobility vs. aberrations circumstances under which mobility reinforced or threatened communal life agents of movement vs. agents of stability change of mobile patterns over the course of Mamluk rule

Rural mobility and the state – three case studies If we focus on those issues directly related to migration and its impact on the community, three distinctly different patterns of rural mobility emerge from a combined reading of textual and archaeological sources: 1. normative mobility (maintained by personal networks), 2. limited migration imposed by the state (for financial or strategic objectives), and 3. whole scale migration (its impact on local society tempered by the natural environment). The following illustrates each of these patterns, drawing from my own archaeological fieldwork in Jordan.12 Constituting the Mamluk frontier, Jordan was the transit corridor par excellence of the Mamluk “Empire” and provides us with an ideal context for studying the networks and mobility of rural society.

12 The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan was established after the First World War. The term “Jordan,” while anachronistic for this paper, is used simply for convenience to refer to the geographical Transjordan, which in the Mamluk period consisted of two administrative units: the Province (mamlaka) of Karak and the southernmost district (wila¯ya) of the Province of Damascus. The archaeological case studies cited here come primarily from the Tall Hisba¯n excavations and the Northern Jordan Project, both directed by the author. ˙

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I

Normative mobility – personal networks

Normative mobility is of the kind that is traditional, repetitive, socially acceptable and reinforces the community. When individuals or small groups leave their villages, they do so either temporarily or for the long-term, but always maintain contact with “home”. The obituaries found in biographical dictionaries of the period make use a variety of terms to clarify these mobile patterns in the lives of scholars, in particular : this person was born” (wulida) in this place “settled” (nusˇi’a) somewhere else, and “came” (qadima) to yet another place. The use of nisbas, however, is perhaps the most obvious textual expression of this form of mobility. Although often dismissed as a distant memory of family origin, the “brand name” of academic pedigree or an artisan’s guild, in a rural setting they might have had a more meaningful social function.13 A nisba in a biographical entry helped to identify a person that no longer lived in his place of origin. He was a migrant, even if his family left “home” generations ago. A string of nisbas (al-Hisba¯nı¯, ad-Dimashqı¯) trailing a personal name could possibly ˙ have reflected an itinerary or a Lebenslauf of places lived and through which one had traveled before finally “arriving”.14 Regardless of the specific meaning (and that attribution may have held multiple meanings simultaneously), in a larger sense, it denoted movement. It also reflected identity, or more properly, selfidentification: it was the way people chose to identify themselves and described the kind of community in which they belonged and in which they participated. More than religion, tribal affiliation, ethnicity or regional home, the village was the central point of reference for non-Bedouin rural peoples. There is a spike in the frequency of nisbas of Jordanian origin – and specifically of village names – in biographical dictionaries and chronicles in the Circassian period, which might be related to the increased movement of peoples from villages and small towns to the larger urban centers.15 For Damascus, the nisbas of “Hisba¯nı¯s” and ˙

˘

˘

13 Ayalon’s caution about attributing birthplace or origin to a nisba is duly noted (see his critique in his “Names, Titles, and ‘Nisbas’”). The success of Ottomanists in reconstructing more elusive social meaning from such family names (note Forbes, “Liquid Landscape and Fluid Populations”, 114 – 123), however, has encouraged this author to explore the potential correlates in communal identity, contemporary or constructed, for the Mamluk era. For the relationship between nisbas, artists’ signatures, and guilds, see Walker, “Ceramic Evidence for Political Transformations”, 45 – 54. 14 To cite one colorful example, according to al-Busra¯wı¯’s biographical entry for the Chief Qadi ˇ ama¯l ad-Dı¯n ˙“al-Qudsı¯, an-Na¯sirı¯, ad-Dimasˇqı¯” was born in Damascus, who died in 880 H, G in 805 H in Jerusalem, lived at one point in an-Na¯sir (a village near˙ Safad), died in Damascus, ˙ outside Agˇlu¯˙n (al-Busra¯wı¯, Ta¯rı¯h, 73). but was known as “al-Ba u¯nı¯”, referring to a village ˘ 15 The place names of small villages in Jordan, as obscure then as now, become˙ textually visible to us in the family names of scholars migrating at this time. One general observation that can be made in comparing references to Jordanian place names in chronicles and biographical dictionaries of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries is that there was a marked shift in

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“ Agˇlu¯nı¯s” stand out for their textual visibility in this period and their extensive and intertwined personal networks that went well beyond the Syrian capital. Hisba¯n in central Jordan – the archaeological ruins of which I have been ˙ excavating for the last fifteen years – was a town with a court – a madrasah – and marketplace and a very mobile population. It was actually more of a “megavillage”, the kind that grew rather quickly on the Mamluk frontier and frequently flourished as administrative centers in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.16 The “Hisba¯nı¯” nisba is omnipresent in Syrian texts and is largely associated with ˙ traveling scholars, businessmen, and litigants in court. One of the most prominent traveling scholars of the turn of the fifteenth century was the Damascusborn historian Ibn Higˇgˇ¯ı “al-Hisba¯nı¯” (d. 816/1413).17 Ibn Higˇgˇ¯ı had a strong ˙ ˙ ˙ sense of “home” – his chronicle is full of references to letters he exchanged with family and colleagues in Hisba¯n and other Transjordanian villages and his many ˙ trips to his family home.18 This regular movement between Damascus and these villages made possible a lively exchange of information about prices, people, and “small town” events. His brief, but all too frequent, references to village agriculture and weather reads a bit like a farmer’s almanac and reflects a preoccupation with village affairs that goes beyond an urban concern for endowment revenues. In a similar vein, Agˇlu¯n experienced a steady in- and out-migration during the last century of Mamluk rule. The court and madrasah of this castle town, both established during the Ayyubid period, attracted scholars and cultivated them for careers in other cities.19 “ Agˇlu¯nı¯s” demonstrated a considerable mobility in the Circassian period, appearing with regularity in the sources as scholars and businessmen. The general history of the family of Sˇa¯fi ¯ı scholars in Damascus known as “Ibn Qa¯d¯ı Agˇlu¯n” is a case in point. As-Saha¯wı¯ faithfully ˙ ˘ records the biographies of the many members of this family in his biographical dictionary and highlights from their careers are traced in the chronicles of al˘

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settlement over the one hundred-year period. Larger towns were either less frequently referenced over time in the texts, or they disappeared entirely, as small villages came to occupy a more prominent position in the historical narrative. This idea will be developed further in my forthcoming Human Migration in Late Medieval Syria. On the spurt of imperial investment in such villages, see Walker, “Imperial Conceptions of Authority and Space” and “Mamluk Investment in Southern Bilad asˇ-Sˇa¯m”. For an analytical biography of the historian, see Massoud, Chronicles and Annalistic Sources, 180 ff. His chronicle has been edited and published by al-Kundarı¯ (Ta¯rı¯h Ibn Higˇgˇ¯ı) and edited by al˘ One˙ of the two surviving Sha¯mı¯ in his 1999 M.A. thesis (“ad-Dayl ala¯ Ta¯rı¯h Ibn Kat¯ır”). ¯ ¯ ¯ ˘ manuscripts of the work can be found in Berlin (manuscript #9458, Arabischen Handschriften, Staatsbibliothek). G˙awanma, Ima¯rat al-Karak, 346 – 353.

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Busra¯wı¯ and Ibn Tawq.20 Without charting the details of the personal networks ˙ ˙ they cultivated, certain general patterns do emerge from these sources that are relevant to the topic of rural mobility. At least two different branches of a family known as “Ibn Qa¯d¯ı Agˇlu¯n” ultimately settled in Damascus. One side of the ˙ family had settled in Damascus as early as the late fourteenth century.21 The other branch – and as-Saha¯wı¯ is quite explicit about this – moved directly to ˘ Damascus from Agˇlu¯n in the early fifteenth century.22 They moved as a family, and the patriarch – Abd ar-Rahma¯n – established a family dynasty of scholars ˙ that included his grandson Taqı¯ d-Dı¯n (d. 928/1522), the Sˇa¯fi ¯ı scholar who figures so prominently in Ibn Tawq’s narrative. The nomenclature, moreover, ˙ does not appear to reflect a bygone of travel: family members continued to move as individuals to the city. By the end of the ninth AH/fifteenth CE century, the family cemetery at Ba¯b as-Sag˙¯ır had grown to some size.23 ˙ ˙ The urban migration reflected in these narratives does not appear to have negatively impacted the communities “back home”; if anything, individual outmigration of this kind may have reinforced them. The personal networks that flourished in Hisba¯n and Agˇlu¯n were recreated in Damascus, as the city ab˙ sorbed immigrants individually and as smaller family units. Relations, moreover, between the two emigree communities in Damascus were restructured on new foundations, the urban scholarly network subsuming the more traditional ties between them. Ibn Higˇgˇ¯ı – to briefly cite one example – was a mentor to Ibn ˙ Qa¯d¯ı Sˇuhba, whose Ta¯rı¯h is a dayl to his teacher’s chronicle and is one of the most ¯ ˙ ˘ detailed sources on village life in Syria in the fifteenth century.24 Abd Alla¯h Ibn Qa¯d¯ı Agˇlu¯n, the father of Taqı¯ d-Dı¯n, was one of Ibn Qa¯d¯ı Sˇuhba’s students. The ˙ ˙ ties went beyond professional life: the burial plots of both families – Ibn Qa¯d¯ı ˙ Agˇlu¯n and Ibn Qa¯d¯ı Sˇuhba – were located in close proximity to one another at ˙ 25 Ba¯b as-Sag˙¯ır. In these cases, moving to Damascus was a professional choice. ˙ ˙ ˘

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20 as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’ al-la¯mi , 1:64 (Ibra¯hı¯m, d. 872), 1:335 (Ahmad, d. 861), 5:24 – 25 ( Abd ˙ d. 891); al-Busra¯wı¯, Ta¯rı¯h, ˙ – 39 (Taqı¯ d-Dı¯n, d. 928 H), 6:254 (Muhammad, Alla¯h,˘d. 865),˙ 6:38 ˙ ˙ ˘ 31, 46, 50 – 52, 58, 77, 87, 92, 99, 111, 226; Ibn Tawq, at-Ta lı¯q, throughout. On the relationship between Ibn Tawq and Taqı¯ d-Dı¯n Ibn Qa¯d˙¯ı Agˇlu¯n, see Shoshan, “Mini-Dramas by the ˙ ˙ Water”, 236 – 237. 21 as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’ al-la¯mi , 1:64. Agˇlu¯nı¯s remained a mainstay of Damscene court life ˙ ˙ Ottoman period, and migration to Damascus from Agˇlu¯n continued for ˘ throughout the many centuries (Tamari, “An intellectual biography of a religious scholar in Ottoman Damascus”). On the relationship between the courts of Agˇlu¯n and Damascus, see Walker, Jordan in the Late Middle Ages, 182 – 183. 22 Taqı¯ d-Dı¯n’s father, Abd Alla¯h, was born in Agˇlu¯n in 805 H and came to Damascus as a child with his family, growing up in the Sa¯lihiyya district (as-Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’ al-la¯mi , 5:24). ˙ ¯ hı¯m’s son Muhammad ˙ Ibra ˙ ˙ buried there (as˘ were 23 Abd Alla¯h, his brother Ibra¯hı¯m, and ˙ Saha¯wı¯, ad-Daw’ al-la¯mi , 1:72, 5:25, 6:254; al-Busra¯wı¯, Ta¯rı¯h, 28). ˙ ˙ ˘ 24 Ibn˘ Qa¯d¯ı ˙Sˇuhba, Ta¯rı¯h, 114. ˙ ˘ 25 See note 16 above and al-Busra¯wı¯, Ta¯rı¯h, 44. The chroniclers and biographers of the period ˙ ˘ ˘

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Leaving home was not always a voluntary action. Short-term migration was also one of the few outlets, in which peasants in traditional societies could escape man-made and natural disasters. In the Mamluk period, Jordanian peasants availed themselves of this option during times of armed conflict, drought and flood. In most cases, movement was almost always short-term , as migrants usually returned home after the danger had passed and rebuilt their lives. These short-term, in some cases quite desperate, moves bear witness to the resilience of communities and their collective ability to weather the storms of war and “acts of God”. During the Mongol advance deep into Syria in 658/1260, Damascenes fled south and found refuge in Karak. They had been displaced for a period of 35 days and eventually returned to their city.26 During Timur’s descent upon northern Jordan in 803/1400, Irbid was one destination for refugees from Damascus, in as much as it was “well protected”. The people of Adri a¯t, modern ¯ Dar a¯ located near the Syrian/Jordanian border, relocated to fortified Agˇlu¯n further south and turned home when the invading forces withdrew. Upon their return to Adri a¯t, they found nothing left, as the Timurid army had taken all their ¯ grain, supplies, and personal effects.27 Nonetheless, the village survived, and not a single life along them was lost. It was not only peasants that abandoned their land in panic during this crisis: during the same crisis Awla¯d al-G˙aza¯wı¯, whose homeland was the Agˇlu¯n region,28 fled for the Hawra¯n steppe land to the north.29 All of these patterns of mobility speak to the resilience of village society. The scramble for resources, such as food and water, drove mobility of a different form. The Syrian roads, pathways, and caravan routes were busy thoroughfares during droughts. While the Mamluk government proved quite capable of responding to grain scarcity in the cities (when sufficiently motivated), it did little to relieve suffering in the countryside. Local communities generally fended for themselves in times of need. Among the most important traces of such travel in the archaeological record are “strangers’ epitaphs” and desert inscriptions. Functioning as both artifact and text, these largely unpublished records attest to the steady flow of human traffic through the Syrian countryside. The first are tombstones of travelers who ˘

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use a range of phrases to denote family plots, as the deceased is described in his biographical entry as buried “among his ancestors” ( ind asla¯fihi), “in the cemetery of his family” ( ind maqbarat ahlihi), “with his father and the members ‘of his house’” (ma a wa¯lidihi wagˇama¯ at baytihim), or “behind [the graves of] his cousins” (half bana¯t wa-banı¯ ammihi). ˘ al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dayl, 1:358. ¯ ˇ Ibn Qa¯d¯ı Suhba, Ta¯rı¯h, 4:181. The sources do not, unfortunately, describe what must have ˙ Herculean efforts ˘ been the of Agˇlu¯nı¯s and the governors of the Citadel and city to accommodate all of these refugees, while securing the local defenses against the approaching Timurid forces. an-Nu aymı¯, Ta¯rı¯h al-mada¯ris, 1:198 – 199. al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Sulu¯k,˘ 3:1041. ˘

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died en route, away from home and family. They may have been soldiers, pilgrims, businessmen, or villagers pushed to more distant markets to buy badly needed staples.30 The second category consists of ad hoc inscriptions, often written by semi-literate individuals, at places where they stopped for the night. They are the closest we get to the voices of peasants and Bedouin and are in their own right indigenous travelers’ accounts. As texts, they generally fall into two categories: pilgrims’ graffiti (with generic supplications and often accompanied by Quranic verses) and “caravan texts”, notable for their longer inscriptions recording contemporary prices, prayers for rain, and miscellaneous information useful to fellow travelers of the day.31 Many of the latter are dated with clear Higˇrı¯ formulae. One series, discovered in the Jordanian Ba¯diya (the eastern desert) and collectively dated to the second half of the fourteenth century, are signed by ˇ ama¯ a Ragˇab al-G ˇ asˇamı¯ and one Yu¯suf b. Surural officials (the local hatı¯bs G ˘ 32 layman al- Atı¯qı¯). They were placed in visually prominent locations – in the manner of public bulletin boards – and note, in a semi-official manner, the price of wheat in years of severe drought, where the wheat was eventually purchased, and when the price finally went down. One inscription begins with the phrase “Do not despair”!33 Such inscriptions were public and meant to be read by other passers-by. ˘

II

Limited mobility – economic networks

Not all patterns of rural mobility were normative, however. Mamluk officials occasionally imposed themselves into local networks in a way to force communal migration, for even short periods of time. Though population transfer (sürgün in Turkish) is a practice we normally associate with the Ottomans, there is some evidence that the Mamluks engaged in it as well and for overtly financial reasons.34 The forced transfer of the population of the old administrative capital

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30 For a catalogue of such inscriptions in Palestine, see Sharon, Corpus inscriptionum. 31 For the few published pilgrims’ inscriptions of Mamluk Jordan, both Muslim and Christian, see al-Jbour, “Êtudes des inscriptions arabes”; al-Salameen and al-Falahat, “Jabal Haroun During the Islamic Period”; and al-Salameen et al, “New Arabic-Christian Inscriptions from Udruh, Southern Jordan”. For contemporary caravan texts, see Baramkı¯, “an-Nuqu¯sˇ al˙ arabiyya” and al-Jbour, “Baya¯n as a¯r al-hinta.” ˙ ˙ 32 al-Jbour, “Baya¯n as a¯r al-hinta.” ˙ ˙ opens with a Quranic reference (Q: 39.53), which eloquently 33 The earliest of these inscriptions evokes the desperation of the time: “Do not despair of God’s mercy” (la¯ taqnatu¯ min rahmati ˙ lla¯hi ta a¯la¯) 34 The Balkans were demographically transformed in this manner, during the Ottoman conquests there of the fifteenth century. Entire communities were relocated, by state fiat, to Anatolia, in part as a security measure, and nomads from Anatolia resettled in Rumelia. Security and financial considerations drove such population transfers in sixteenth century ˘

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of Hisba¯n to the new capital of Amma¯n in 757/1357 is one particularly striking ˙ example of migration forced by the state. Amir Sarghatmish purchased the madı¯na of Amma¯n from the Bayt al-Ma¯l in 757/1357, one imagines initially for the benefit of his madrasa complex in Cairo, built the same year, although this is not specified by the textual sources. He subsequently moved all important public services – and much of the local population – from Hisba¯n to Amma¯n and ˙ invested in new constructions in the latter, making Amma¯n the new district capital. In the following forty years, the town was later transferred (intaqalat) to an agent (wakı¯l), from whom the Governor of Syria bought it. It was again transferred to the Governor of Egypt, Amir Sudu¯n. Sudu¯n’s agent then sold it, because, after some effort to develop its real estate ( ima¯ratuh) to the point that it “was in Sarghatmish’s day,” it became clear that the town as a whole was a losing investment.35 A similar action was taken earlier in Agˇlu¯n by Amir Tankiz after the great flood of 728/1328, in order to repopulate the city and help it recover the extensive losses to its marketplace and residential quarters. Six different chroniclers, pulling on the same flood report, collectively describe property losses of some 270,000 to 500,000 dirhams; destruction of or considerable damage to commercial and industrial buildings, important public structures, and private property ; and extensive loss of life.36 Tankiz acted quickly : he restored a large portion of the commercial buildings and mills destroyed by the flood; cleaned out and renovated the Great Mosque; built a new mosque in the city ; and – most important to this discussion – moved people from neighboring villages to the city to help resettle and rebuild. Tankiz’s action, like that of Sarghatmish later, was clearly financially motivated. State-imposed in-migration may have also played a role in the maintenance of the largest of the landed estates, such as the sugar cane fields of the Jordan Valley, which came under sultanic control over the course of the fourteenth century. Sugar production is notoriously hard on both land and people: it drains soils of nutrients, demands diversion of water from other crops and fields and is labor-intensive.37 Contemporary chronicles make reference to the corv¦e labor required, then, of local peasants and the call for migrant workers to augment their efforts during the harvest of the sugar cane ˘

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Jordan. The village of Sa sa was established by the Ottomans in 989/1581 and 200 households settled there as a bulwark against Bedouin attacks. The Ottoman state gave the settlers tax exemptions and also financed a market there, as at Ha¯n at-Tugˇgˇa¯r, to increase revenues (Heyd, Ottoman Documents on Palestine, 101, 114 – ˘115; al-Bah¯ıt, Ottoman Province of ˘ Damascus, 220 – 221). The chroniclers of the Mamluk era occasionally make reference to similar acts, used strategically and punitively (see, for instance, the actions of an officer of the Syrian Governor al-Qagˇma¯sı¯ in Damascus and Sarkhad – al-Busra¯wı¯, Ta¯rı¯h, 227 – 228). ˙ ˘ 35 Ibn Qa¯d¯ı Sˇuhba, Ta¯rı¯h, 1:99, 174, 550. ˘ 36 Kenney,˙ “‘Reconstructing’ Mamluk Ajlun.” 37 Sato, State and Rural Society, 216; Kareem, Settlement Patterns in the Jordan Valley, 13. ˘

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and the multi-stage processing of the syrup and crystals.38 It is likely that slave labor was used, as well. The debate over the origins of the so-called G˙awarnah in the African slave trade still rages, particularly in sociology. Slaves from Somalia and Abyssinia came to the G˙u¯r periodically, and through different routes, since the sixteenth century CE.39 Though it has yet to be demonstrated textually, one still reads of the introduction of African slaves to the region during the Mamluk period – it is a trope of Orientalist literature from the nineteenth century that still has currency and begs further investigation.40 Although it is not clear how frequently population transfer was used by the Mamluk government to achieve its economic objectives, it is clear that it was one option. This raises the question about the nature of Mamluk rule – did it exhibit any of the tendencies that we would today call “colonial”? Plantation-style agriculture, forced labor, stateorchestrated settlement of peoples, and coercive rule by a foreign power through violent means – these are, at least superficially, colonial mechanisms of control. A network analysis of traditional and state-imposed patterns of migration in this sense could be informative about the ways the Mamluks exercised power on the local level. This, however, belongs to another study.41

III

Whole-scale mobility (migration) – networks of landscape

Permanent migration – the abandonment of a village for good – represents an entirely different demographic phenomenon. The large-scale of abandonment of villages across Jordan in the late Mamluk period (from the fifteenth century CE), which is suggested by archaeological surveys and excavations, appears to have been a complicated process – the result of a culmination of multiple factors related to environmental change (years of drought), political and military decline (with the withdrawal of Mamluk forces from the frontier and tribal rebellions) and economic developments (the waqfization of rural lands made possible by the sale of state lands from the Bayt al-Ma¯l).42 The degree of settle-

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38 Sato, State and Rural Society, 185; Kareem, Settlement Patterns in the Jordan Valley, 11, 35; Walker, Jordan in the Late Middle Ages, 200 – 201. 39 Curtis, The Ghawarna of Jordan”, 3. 40 Heninger, Aufsätze zur Kulturgeschichte Arabien; Clayton et al, “The Dead Sea to Aqaba”, 157. 41 Walker, Jordan in the Late Middle Ages. 42 The following section summarizes my recent survey of the results of forty years’ archaeological work in Jordan (Walker, Jordan in the Late Middle Ages, 211 – 232). On the waqfization of Egypt in the late Mamluk period, see Petry, Protectors or Praetorians?, 196 – 210; Petry, “Fractionalized Estates”, 95 – 117; Petry, “Waqf as an Instrument of Investment”; and Abu¯ G˙a¯zı¯, Tatawwur al-hiya¯za. For the same process in Jordan, see Walker, Jordan in the ˙ 253 – 268.˙ Late Middle Ages,

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ment change differed significantly from one region of Jordan to another. The more arid regions of southern Jordan, though comparatively lightly settled through the Middle Islamic (Ayyubid-Mamluk) period, appear to have lost population by the early Ottoman era. In the southern G˙u¯r (Jordan River Valley) and Northeast Araba, archaeological surveys have documented twelve Mamluk sites, while Ottoman sites consist of only a few sherd scatters (associated with campsites and cemeteries). The walled villages of the highland plateau (such as at Tafı¯la and Busayra) were abandoned, and settlement shifted to the wadis. In ˙ ˙ the Wa¯dı¯ Hasa, of the seventy-three Ottoman sites identified, only five were ˙ occupied in the Ayyubid/Mamluk period. The remaining sites were temporal and small (described in the survey reports as animal pens, caves, tombs, road stops, and campsites). Changes in settlement intensity and distribution are most marked in the highland plateaus of central Jordan, where annual rainfall was sufficient for market-scale grain production. On the Karak Plateau an estimated 87.5 % of all Mamluk-era sites were abandoned; these were once substantial villages. 23 % of the Ottoman sites identified were newly occupied and consisted of isolated structures (such as watch towers) and relatively isolated farmsteads. As in the southern plains, there was a general shift in settlement from the open plateaus for the wadis. Further north, on the Madaba Plains, 35 % of all sites surveyed by the Madaba Plains Project were occupied in the Ayyubid/Mamluk period; by comparison only 7 % were identified as Ottoman in date. The agriculturally rich central G˙u¯r was, ironically, impacted the most heavily by these settlement shifts, with an estimated 78 – 86 % decrease in the number of sites in the post-Mamluk period. The collapse of the local sugar industry here in the fifteenth century was an important factor in the settlement decline of this river valley.The settlement of the well-watered northern highlands presents a stark contrast. The larger villages of Northern Jordan generally continued to be occupied after the transition to Ottoman rule, albeit on a smaller scale. Recent regional surveys have documented a more or less continuous “carpet” of Late Islamic sherd scatters among these villages and between them and sites of undetermined function.43 Although some degree of population decline may be implied from the survey evidence, the overall changes in settlement are more suggestive of dispersal of settlement, rather than significant population decline, and a more extensive form of land use. These new settlement configurations represent a general dispersal of pop43 The Northern Jordan Project, launched in 2003, was designed from the start to investigate irregularities in settlement history in a comparative fashion with other regions of Bila¯d asˇSˇa¯m. A list of project publications to date can be found in Walker et al, “Northern Jordan Project 2010”.

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ulation, with the abandonment of the largest villages for smaller and more dispersed settlements, and relocation from the highland plateaus to river systems. They also suggest a preference for particular environmental zones, with a move away from areas traditionally dependent on raid-fed agriculture for lands best suited to irrigated regimes. The reasons for these demographic changes are not readily apparent from the archaeological record alone. A combined reading of late Mamluk waqfiyya¯t and early Ottoman tax registers (daftars), suggests a close relationship between the abandonment of certain kinds of settlements from the fifteenth century and the greater availability of land for rural elites through the quasi-legal sale of state lands to them by Mamluk authorities. With the collapse of the Mamluk state and the industries and infrastructure that it supported, agriculture reverted to a more diversified and subsistence (or local market-oriented) production and populations left large settlements for smaller ones, dispersed throughout the countryside. This latter phenomenon appears to have been most marked in those regions of Jordan where rainfall was just enough or below the threshold for dry-farming of grains. The generally lower rainfall and repeated years of drought in the fifteenth century made this kind of agriculture unfeasible for most communities, which appear to have shifted to smallscale agriculture in irrigated plots, now increasingly held in tenure by local entrepreneurs.44 Migration was one response to both political and environmental pressures and economic opportunities. Although “place” does not determine social identity, communal life is experienced spatially. The physical landscape naturally molds networks of humanmaking. Without falling into the pitfalls of environmental determinism, one cannot deny that the topography and climatic character of plateaus, mountains, and watersheds (created by springs and rivers) differ enough to create their own patterns of communication and travel, settlement structures, and land use. They also embody different micro-climatic and agricultural zones, each of which experienced different patterns of migration from the fifteenth century on.45 These three mobile trends – those following naturally from social networks, those temporarily imposed by political or natural events, and crisis-induced and permanent abandonment of settlements – creates distinctive patterns in the archaeological record. On an abstract level these histories of migration shed light on the ways in which social networks were dissolved, reconfigured, reinforced, and reimagined in the volatile period of late Mamluk rule. We will cite examples of each of these three patterns from recent archaeological research in Jordan. 44 Walker, Jordan in the Late Middle Ages, 231 – 232. 45 Jordan is ideally suited to this kind of study, as it is one of the most ecologically diverse countries in the region. Microenvironments created by different soils and soil conditions, water systems, topography, and rainfall heighten the distinctive historical and cultural regionalisms that have always existed in the country.

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Migration pattern #1 – population dispersal from the “mega-villages” From an agro-environmental perspective, the post-Barqu¯qı¯ era is notable for the gradual dissolution of the large grain fields and “mega-villages” of much of Syria’s highland plains and dispersal of the local populations to smaller villages based on more traditional agro-regimes. Hisba¯n in the Madaba Plains of central ˙ Jordan was one of these mega-villages, growing quickly in the fourteenth century CE under imperial investment and administrative restructuring, and returning a century later to more traditional and modest patterns of settlement and land use when the strong hand of the state withdrew financial, political, and military support (Fig. 2).46

Fig. 2 – Panorama of modern village of Hisba¯n – note the archaeological site on the top of the tell ˙ University) (courtesy Prof. David Sherwin, Andrews

After centuries of obscurity, the village of Hisba¯n becomes textually visible for ˙ us in the first half of the fourteenth century CE. Its rise seems to be connected with the Mamluks’ administrative restructuring of the Balqa¯, a district of the southernmost section of Mamlakat Dimashq. During his third reign, Sultan alNa¯sir Muhammad transferred the administrative capital of the Balqa¯ to Hisba¯n, ˙ ˙ ˙ and a small garrison was housed inside the renovated Citadel on the summit of the current archaeological site (Tall Hisba¯n). This act injected life and money ˙ into the village below the tell, as it grew in scale and stature and housed the public institutions of a proper “town” (madı¯na): a market, madrasa (an Ayyubid construction which grew in importance under the Mamluks), and court. The town came to dominate the wheat fields of the Balqa¯, making Hisba¯n a bread˙ basket for the Mamluk state. The city’s/town’s strategic location on roads leading to the Jordan Valley and on the King’s Highway facilitated the storage of cane sugar and sugar by-products for redistribution to markets further afield. It quickly became the largest settlement in the district, dominating at one point three hundred subsidiary villages. The hand of the state in the local economy can 46 Excavations, under the Directorship of the author, began in 1968 by Andrews University and continue to this day. A comprehensive list of archaeological and historical publications related to the site can be found at the project website: www.madabaplains.org/hisban/.

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be identified in material investments in the town’s water systems and intervention in agriculture: recent micro-botanical analysis has identified irrigation signals in the wheat phytoliths (silicified plant remains) from the archaeological site in fourteenth century contexts, suggesting that wheat fields, which were traditionally rain-fed in this region, were irrigated to increase and guarantee yields.47 The civilian settlement began to decline after a mid-century earthquake, at which point the Mamluks moved the district capital – with the garrison and the court – to Amman; the Citadel was abandoned and the town contracted.48 The slow migration from the town continued through the fifteenth century CE; archaeological surveys suggest that the population moved to smaller settlements (which we could identify as villages and hamlets) across the Madaba Plains. Textually, however, Hisba¯n appears more frequently than ever before in this ˙ period, with Hisba¯nı¯ nisbas abundant in fifteenth century biographical dic˙ tionaries. Hisba¯nı¯ scholars had established themselves in Damascus, Jerusalem, ˙ and Cairo, creating communities of “ex-pats” in those cities.

Migration pattern #2 – change of place within a space

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The migration pattern behind the village of Hubra¯s, located in the gently un˙ ˙ dulating highlands of northern central Jordan, could be called a case of “change of place within a space” (Fig. 3). Excavations here in 2006 revealed an excellent example of occupational continuity through the Islamic periods.49 While there is evidence of Byzantine construction elsewhere in modern Hubra¯s, the core of the ˙ ˙ historic village appears to have not been founded until the construction of the mosque (still standing today) in the Early Islamic period. It is possible that most of the population may have migrated there during the Abbasid period from nearby Abı¯la, the Decapolis and early Christian town. Environmental studies suggest that the local water supply, Ayn Quwaylbah, went dry at that point, and the residents migrated to the nearest available water source, Ayn Hubra¯s. The ˙ ˙ borders among villages in this region have long been blurred: in the Tanzimat era, the lands of Harta¯, the village adjacent to the site of Abı¯la, were subsumed by ˙ ¯ that of Hubra¯s (Walker et al 2007; Lucke et al 2012). It is a pattern rather common ˙ ˙ in Syria: entire communities leave one settlement for another or relocate to a new location, while maintaining their old lands.50 ˘

47 Communication with project phytolith specialist, Ms. Sofia Laparidou, University of TexasAustin, and presented at recent conferences: Laparidou, “Identifying Changing Agricultural Economies.” 48 For the possible impact of land sales on the decline of Hisba¯n, see above. ˙ 49 Walker et al, “The Northern Jordan Project 2006.” 50 The latter may represent the land form known by Mamluk historians and Ottoman tax

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Fig. 3 – Medieval and British Mandate-era ruins of the village of Hubra¯s and its fields (photo by ˙ ˙ author)

Hubra¯s thrived in the Mamluk period. The village mosque doubled in size in ˙ ˙ the mid-thirteenth century and Sultan Qalawun added a minaret to the structure. Pollen analysis has suggested that extended dry conditions may have played a role in the reduction of cultivated land and a very gradual emigration of some of the population from the sixteenth century, attested archaeologically and in contemporary tax registers. However, the pollen evidence attests to a more diverse and robust agricultural regime, less dependent on grain production and the registers to economically viable markets (from the tax collector’s perspective) in this period.51 Fieldwork, then, in the Ba¯nu¯ Kina¯na District, to which Abı¯la and Hubra¯s belong, suggests continuity of settlement on the regional level, ˙ ˙ with shifts of settlement locally and marked changes in population density overall. Northern Jordan can be characterized demographically by settlement dispersal, but not population decline, from the late Mamluk period.

˘

collectors as maza¯ri . For a similar process in late Ottoman at-Turrah, a village surveyed by the author in 2010, see Walker et al, “Northern Jordan Project 2010.” 51 Walker, “Boom and Bust,” 129 – 130.

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343

Migration pattern #3 – leaving “home” for good The 2012 survey of the modern villages of al-Hargˇa and asˇ-Sˇagˇra and their ˘ hinterlands, in a region east of Hubra¯s, revealed an interesting variant on this ˙ 52 ˙ pattern of settlement dispersal. The villages face one another on opposite sides of the upper Wa¯dı¯ Sˇalla¯la, the deeply dissected Grand Canyon of northern Jordan (Fig. 4). A section of the western watershed, which was heavily settled in the Bronze Age through early Islamic period, appears to have been abandoned for the opposite side of the wadi by Abbasid times, in a shift of settlement possibly related to the differences in the drainage systems and soil qualities of the two watersheds and changes in land use.53 Settlement on the east bank of the wadi clustered in villages occupied since the Late Antiquity. Most notable in this regard is the large Byzantine cemetery of Khirbat Ma¯jid, which was one target of investigation during the 2012 season. Hirbat Ma¯jid occupies a saddle in lime˘ stone shelf overlooking the Wa¯dı¯ Sˇalla¯la, in the agricultural lands to the immediate north of asˇ-Sˇagˇra. Surface collection of ceramics attested to a continuous occupation in the area from Byzantine through Mamluk times, with peaks of occupation in the Umayyad and Mamluk periods. We do not know the name of the medieval Islamic settlement: it is thus far textually invisible to us, making difficult any attempt to reconstruct the conditions behind its history of settlement. The site was subsequently abandoned, quite suddenly and completely ; this was a sudden emigration, not the slow dispersal identified for Hisba¯n. Nothing architecturally remains from what must have been a sizeable ˙ village in the fourteenth century. The only traces of anything architectural are limestone debris and a calcium carbonate flow that covers much of the shelf above the Byzantine cemetery.54 The archaeological survey recovered Ottomanera pottery from lands further afield, suggesting again a tendency towards abandonment of large villages for smaller, more dispersed settlements. The communal patterns and social networks that survived (or were recreated by) these migrations cannot be reconstructed by the archaeological or textual evidence to date. What the settlement cycles do suggest, however, are ruptures, discontinuities.

52 Ibid. 53 Personal communication, project geomorphologist Prof. Dr. Bernhard Lucke, University of Erlangen, during the 2012 field season. The drainage system of the east bank is ideally suited to dry-farming of grains. For reasons not entirely clear at this time, the irrigated regime of the west bank (where water harvesting systems were abundant) was abandoned for the rain-fed agriculture of the east bank. 54 I am grateful for Prof. Lucke for suggesting this interpretation of the surface remains.

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Fig. 4 – Lands in the Wa¯dı¯ Sˇalla¯la watershed shared by the villages of asˇ-Sˇagˇra and al-Hargˇa ˘

Conclusions What do rural networks, and the patterns of demographic mobility that gave them life, ultimately tell us about the Mamluk body politic? Mamluk policy-

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makers must have understood the professional, economic, and political networks of rural society to some degree, as they were able to capitalize on them, at times, and occasionally used them to advantage. Mamluk investment in rural networks early on – from the development of infrastructure to the cultivation of ties with local elites – facilitated a kind of mobility that reinforced the community. It was safer to travel and do business; investment in urban institutions (such as madrasas) and in agriculture provided new opportunities for some enterprising Syrians. Moreover, the governing elite came to control local resources – human and material – to a greater degree in the process. In the Circassian period, withdrawal of material support from the region and the privatization of land – though the details of these processes could not be explored in this paper – contributed to conditions that led to migration, dissolving old, established communities in some cases, and recreating them in new locales, in others. Imperial fiat did not technically create or destroy communities on its own, but it did at times facilitate or exacerbate trends in rural society that put people “on the road again”. As patterns of rural mobility changed during the Circassian period, so did the relationship between Mamluk and local networks. The fifteenth century was certainly a turning point, but how the movements and connections described in this paper converged, then, to transform the social order is complex and worthy of further investigation.

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Authors

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Thomas Bauer, Dr. phil., Dr. phil. habil. (Erlangen 1989 and 1997), has been Professor of Arabic and Islamic Studies at the University of Münster since 2000. His main research areas are Arabic literature, rhetoric and cultural history from early Arab times (Altarabische Dichtkunst, 1992) and the Abbasid period (Liebe und Liebesdichtung in der arabischen Welt des 9. und 10. Jahrhunderts, 1998) to the Ottoman era. His recent studies have focused on Arabic literature of the Mamluk period, in particular the works of Ibn Nuba¯ta al-Misrı¯ and the popular ˙ poet al-Mi ma¯r. In the field of cultural anthropology of the pre-modern Arabic world Bauer has treated subjects ranging from love and sexuality to death, strangeness, and tolerance of ambiguity (Die Kultur der Ambiguität, 2011). Bauer was appointed a member of the North Rhine-Westphalian Academy of Sciences, Humanities and the Arts in 2012 and was awarded the Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz Prize in 2013. Georg Christ is a lecturer in Late Medieval and Early Modern History at the University of Manchester after having worked as a military observer for the UN in the Middle East and as a Research group Leader at Universität Heidelberg. His current work focuses on trade embargoes in the Eastern Mediterranean and the Hanseatic realm, knowledge management and the Venetian diaspora in the Mamluk empire. He published on the history of Venetian trade and navigation, Alexandria, wine trade, and the Swiss reformation including the book Trading Conflicts. Venetian Merchants and Mamluk Officials in Late Medieval Alexandria (Leiden: Brill, 2012). Stephan Conermann was born in 1964 in Kiel, Germany. Professor of Islamic Studies at the University of Bonn since 2003, he has served as Vice Dean of Research and International Relations of the Faculty of Humanities at Bonn University (2008 – 2010), and Speaker of the Bonn Asia Center (since 2008), the Bonn Center for Transcultural Narratology (BZTN, since 2009), and the Bonn International Graduate School of Oriental and Asian Studies (BIGS-OAS, since

350

Authors

2010). He studied Ancient, Early Modern, Modern and Asian History, as well as Slavic and Oriental Philology, at the University of Kiel, and took multiple language courses and did study visits in Beirut, Damascus, Moscow, and Poznan. He did his doctoral studies at the Department of Oriental Studies at Kiel University from 1992 till 1996, and was afterwards a Research Assistant and Assistant Professor until 2003. Among his recent publications are Das Mogulreich. Geschichte und Kultur des muslimischen Indien (Munich, 2006), Mamlukica – Studies on the History and Society during the Mamluk Era/Studien zu Geschichte und Gesellschaft der Mamlukenzeit (Göttingen, 2013), the edited Ubi sumus? Quo vademus? Mamluk Studies – State of the Art (Göttingen, 2013), Narrative Pattern and Genre in Hagiographic Life Writing: Comparative Perspectives from Asia to Europe (Berlin 2014, edited with Jim Rheingans), and the edited History and Society during the Mamluk Period (1250 – 1517), Studies of the Annemarie Schimmel-Kolleg I (Göttingen, 2014). Yehoshua Frenkel, Ph.D. in History of the Middle East (Hebrew University), is Senior Lecturer in the Faculty of Humanities, University of Haifa. His research interests and teaching fields include the social and legal history of the premodern Arab-Muslim lands. Recent publications are “Animals and Otherness in Mamluk Egypt and Syria”, in Francisco de As†s Garc†a Garc†a/Mûnica Ann Walker Vadillo/Mar†a Victoria Chico Picazabar (eds.), Animals and Otherness in the Middle Ages: Perspectives across Disciplines (Oxford, 2013), 49 – 62; “Pilgrimages: Spaces of Peace and Conflict”, in Antûn M. Pazos (ed.), Pilgrims and Pilgrimages as Peacemakers in Christianity, Judaism and Islam (Farnham, 2013), 63 – 83; and “Alexandria in the Ninth/Fifteenth Century : A Mediterranean Port City and a Mamlu¯k Prison City”, al-Masaq 26.1 (2014): 78 – 92. Albrecht Fuess studied History and Islamic Studies at the University of Cologne and Cairo University. He obtained his PhD in Cologne in 2000 with a dissertation on the history of the Syro-Palestinian coast in the Mamluk era (1250 – 1517). In 2002 he became Assistant Professor for Islamic Studies at the University of Erfurt. From 2007 to 2009 he was a ‘Studium-Fellow’ at the Institute of Advanced Studies of the University of Tours (France), where he worked on a project comparing the systems of governance of the Mamluks, Safavids, and Ottomans in the 15th and 16th centuries. Since 2010 he has been Professor of Islamic Studies at the Center for Near and Middle Eastern Studies (CNMS) at Philipps-University Marburg. Among his recent publications Court Cultures in the Muslim World (7th -19th Centuries) (London: Routledge 2011, edited with Jan-Peter Hartung).

351

Authors

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Mohammad Gharaibeh is Scientific Coordinator at the Annemarie SchimmelKolleg in Bonn. He wrote his dissertation at the University of Bonn on the question of anthropomorphism in contemporary Wahha¯bı¯ thought, with a focus on Ibn Utaymı¯n (d. 2001). Currently, his work focuses on hadı¯t sciences in the ¯ ˙ ¯ Mamluk era, emphasizing the interdependence of social structure and intellectual activity. His research interests include Islamic history and historiography, Islamic theological and legal thought, social and intellectual history of Islam, modern Islamic movements, interreligious studies, and the history and society of Saudi Arabia.

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Miriam Kühn is an employee of the Museum of Islamic Art in Berlin. She received her M.A. in History of Islamic Art at the University of Bonn and is currently writing her Ph.D. thesis on Mamluk minbars and their cultural context at the University of Munich. Kühn, Miriam, “Museums and Their Formation”, in: Junod, Beno„t – Khalil, George – Weber, Stefan (eds.), Islamic Art and the Museum. Approaches to Art and Archaeology of the Muslim World in the Twenty-First Century, London 2012, 215 – 221. Among her recent publications are “Die Atta¯r-Moschee und ihr städtisches Umfeld”, in: Müller-Wiener, Martina/Frenger, Marion (eds.), Von Gibraltar bis zum Ganges. Studien zur Islamischen Kunstgeschichte in memoriam Christian Ewert, Hamburg 2010, 157 – 172; “The Attar-Mosque in Tripoli”, in: Mamluk Studies Review 12,2 (2008), 159 – 196. Richard McGregor (Ph.D. McGill, 2001) is Associate Professor of Islamic Studies and Religious Studies at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee (USA). His research interests cover intellectual history and philosophy in medieval Islam, as well as the history of Sufism, Islamic aesthetics, and religious visual culture. He has co-edited two collected volumes: The Development of Sufism in Mamluk Egypt (IFAO 2006), and Sufism in the Ottoman Era (16th-18th C) (IFAO 2010), and a translation and critical Arabic edition of the Brethren of Purity’s The Case of the Animals versus Man before the King of the Jinn (OUP 2009). His first book explored the evolution of mysticism and religious authority in the Mamluk period, and was entitled Sanctity and Mysticism in Medieval Egypt (SUNY 2004). He is currently at work on a monograph study of religious objects and visual practice in pre-modern Egypt. Johannes Pahlitzsch is Professor for Byzantine Studies at the Johannes Gutenberg-Universität Mainz, Germany. He published a monograph on the history of the Greek Orthodox patriarchate of Jerusalem in the crusader period, is coeditor of Christian-Muslim Relations. A Historical Bibliography, and has published numerous articles on the situation of oriental Christians under Muslim

352

Authors

rule in the Middle Ages and the relations between Byzantium and the Islamic world. He was awarded fellowships at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, the Institute for Advanced Studies of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, the Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collections in Washington DC, and the Annemarie Schimmel Kolleg at the University of Bonn. He is Member of the Board of the Leibniz ScienceCampus Mainz project “Byzantium between Orient and Occident”. Carl F. Petry, C. D. McCormick Professor of Teaching Excellence; Hamad ibn Khalifa Al Thani Professor of Middle East Studies, Northwestern University. Research has focused on pre-modern Egypt, with an emphasis on political economy. His monographs include The Civilian Elite of Cairo in the Later Middle Ages (Princeton, 1982); Twilight of Majesty : the Reigns of the Mamluk Sultans alAshraf Qaytbay and Qansuh al-Ghawri in Egypt (U. Washington, 1993); Protectors or Praetorians? The Last Mamluk Sultans and Egypt’s Waning as a Great Power (S.U.N.Y., 1994); and The Criminal Underworld in a Medieval Islamic Society : Narratives from Cairo under the Mamluks (Middle East Documentation Center, U. Chicago, 2012). He was editor of and contributor to Volume I of The Cambridge History of Egypt, 640 – 1517 C.E. (Cambridge University Press, 1998). Petry ‘s other teaching interests range from gender relations in the Middle Ages to Revolutionary Egypt under Nasser and Sadat. Henning Sievert is Lecturer at the Department of Middle Eastern Studies (Islamwissenschaft) at Zürich University. After receiving his MA in Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies at the University of Kiel and his Ph.D. at Bochum University, he worked as lecturer at the universities of Zürich and Bonn. His general field of research is the cultural and social history of the Arab World and the Ottoman Empire (15th-20th centuries), with particular interest in social networks, micropolitics, historical semantics, and political and literary culture. Bethany Walker is Research Professor of Mamluk Studies at the Annemarie Schimmel Kolleg of the University of Bonn. She received her Ph.D. in Middle Eastern Studies from the University of Toronto. A historically trained archaeologist, Walker directs two long-term field projects in Jordan and consults on Crusader and Islamic ceramics in the eastern Mediterranean. She is founding editor of the Journal of Islamic Archaeology, editor of the forthcoming Oxford Handbook of Islamic Archaeology, and serves on numerous American and French editorial boards, including Mamluk Studies Review. Walker’s current research centers on rural society and migration in the Mamluk period and environmental and agricultural history. Among her recent publications are Jordan in the Late Middle Ages: Transformation of the Mamluk Frontier (Chi-

Authors

353

cago, 2011) and the edited Reflections of Empire: Archaeological and Ethnographic Studies on the Pottery of the Ottoman Levant (Boston, 2009). Michael Winter is Professor Emeritus of the History of the Middle East at Tel Aviv University. He earned his Ph.D. in Islamic Studies at the University of California, Los Angeles (1972). His research focuses on social, cultural and religious subjects (‘ulama¯’, Sufism, qa¯d¯ıs, sa¯da/ ashra¯f, education, the Jews in ˙ Ottoman Egypt, and political thought in Islam) in Egypt and Syria under the Mamluks and Ottomans. His studies are based on the Turkish archives and Arabic and Turkish literary sources. Winter’s scholarship has paid particular attention to the period of transition between Mamluk and Ottoman rule. He has published Society and Religion in Early Ottoman Egypt: Studies in the Writings of ‘Abd al-Wahha¯b al-Sha‘ra¯nı¯ (Transaction, 1982, 2007), and Egyptian Society under Ottoman Rule, 1517 – 1792 (Routledge, 1992; Arabic translation, 2001). Winter has co-edited four books, and published numerous articles and chapters. In 2014 Torsten Wollina joined the Orient-Institut Beirut, where he is engaged in research on the cultural, social and literary history of the period of transition between Mamluk and Ottoman rule over Egypt and Syria. There he also manages the institute’s book series Beiruter Texte und Studien (BTS). Before coming to Lebanon he worked for the project EurViews at the Georg Eckert Institute for International Textbook Research (Braunschweig, Germany), analyzing images of Europe in textbooks from different Arab countries. In 2012, Wollina submitted his Ph.D. thesis titled Zwanzig Jahre Alltag. Lebens-, Welt- und Selbstbild im Journal des Ahmad Ibn Tawq on a text from late Mamluk Damascus, which he ˙ ˙ wrote at the Berlin Graduate School of Muslim Cultures and Societies (Free University Berlin) and the Annemarie Schimmel Kolleg “History and Society during the Mamluk Era (1250 – 1517)”. He received his MA in Islamic Studies, history and intercultural communications from the University of Jena.