Javanmardi: The Ethics and Practice of Persianate Perfection 1909942154, 9781909942158

Table of contents :
Contents
Introduction: The Felon, the Faithful and the Fighter: The Protean Face of the Chivalric Man (Javanmard) in the Medieval Persianate and Modern Iranian Worlds • Lloyd Ridgeon
1 La Fata illa ʿAli wa la Sayf illa Dhu’l-Faqar: Epigraphic Ceramic Platters from Medieval Nishapur Documenting Esteem for ʿAli ebn AbiTaleb as the Ideal Fata • Raya Y. Shani
2 From Naserian Courtly-Fotovvat to Akhi-Fotovvat: Transformation of the Fotovvat Doctrine and Communality in Late Medieval Anatolia • Rıza Yıldırım
3 Akhi lodge, Akhi architecture or Akhi patronage? Architecture of Fotovvat-Based Associations in Medieval Anatolia • Maxime Durocher
4 The Notion of Erenler in the Divan-ı Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi (Hızırname) • Sibel Kocaer
5 Fotovvat in Bosnia • Ines Aščerić-Todd
6 Late Medieval Armenian Texts on Fotovvat: Translations in Context • Rachel Goshgarian
7 Adab in the Workshop: Concepts of Fotovvat, Proper Conduct and Moral Economy in Central Asian Craftsmanship • Jeanine Elif Dağyeli
8 Zurkhaneh, Sufism, Fotovvat/Javanmardi and Modernity: Considerations about Historical Interpretations of a Traditional Athletic Institution • Philippe Rochard and Denis Jallat
9 Representation of the Hero Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi: Sociological Reflections on Javanmardi • Olmo Gölz
10 Digital Javanmardi: Chivalric Ethics and Imagined Iran on the Internet • Babak Rahimi
11 Constructing Masculinities through the Javanmards in Pre-Revolutionary Iranian Cinema • Nacim Pak-Shiraz
12 Masculinity Crisis and the Javanmard Icon in Iranian Cinema • Farshad Zahedi
13 Princes, Thieves and Death: The Making of Heroes amongst the Yezidis of Armenia • Christine Allison and Estelle Amy de la Bretèque
14 A Tale of Two Concepts: Civanmertlik and Fütüvvet in Modern Turkey • David Barchard
The Contributors

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British Institute of Persian Studies Series published by Gingko Library Series Editor: Professor Charles Melville Editorial Board: Professor Charles Melville, Professor Houchang Chehabi, and Dr Paul Losensky The Persian Studies series, published by the Gingko Library, are scholarly works in the social sciences and humanities on Iran. Such works include: original research monographs, including biographies and suitably revised theses, specially planned books deriving from conferences, specially commissioned multi-authored research books, academic readers and translation.

Javanmardi The Ethics and Practice of Persianate Perfection

Edited by Lloyd Ridgeon

First published in 2018 by Gingko Library 4 Molasses Row London SW11 3UX Copyright © Lloyd Ridgeon 2018 Copyright © 2018 individual chapters, the contributors The rights of the contributors to be identified as the authors of this work have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988. Cover Copyright © Freer Gallery of Art and Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C.: Purchase – Charles Lang Freer Endowment, F1952.11 All rights reserved. Except for brief quotation in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher. A CIP catalogue record for the book is available from the British Library. ISBN 978-1-909942-15-8 eISBN 978-1-909942-31-8 Typeset in Times by MacGuru Ltd Printed in Spain www.gingko.org.uk @GingkoLibrary

Contents Introduction The Felon, the Faithful and the Fighter: The Protean Face of the Chivalric Man (Javanmard) in the Medieval Persianate and Modern Iranian Worlds Lloyd Ridgeon1 1 La Fata illa ʿAli wa la Sayf illa Dhu’l-Faqar: Epigraphic Ceramic Platters from Medieval Nishapur Documenting Esteem for ʿAli ebn Abi Taleb as the Ideal Fata Raya Y. Shani28 2 From Naserian Courtly-Fotovvat to Akhi-Fotovvat: Transformation of the Fotovvat Doctrine and Communality in Late Medieval Anatolia Rıza Yıldırım66 3 Akhi lodge, Akhi architecture or Akhi patronage? Architecture of Fotovvat-Based Associations in Medieval Anatolia Maxime Durocher98 4 The Notion of Erenler in the Divan-ı Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi (Hızırname) Sibel Kocaer133 5 Fotovvat in Bosnia Ines Aščerić-Todd163 6 Late Medieval Armenian Texts on Fotovvat: Translations in Context Rachel Goshgarian182

7 Adab in the Workshop: Concepts of Fotovvat, Proper Conduct and Moral Economy in Central Asian Craftsmanship Jeanine Elif Dağyeli215 8 Zurkhaneh, Sufism, Fotovvat/Javanmardi and Modernity: Considerations about Historical Interpretations of a Traditional Athletic Institution Philippe Rochard and Denis Jallat232 9 Representation of the Hero Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi: Sociological Reflections on Javanmardi Olmo Gölz263 10 Digital Javanmardi: Chivalric Ethics and Imagined Iran on the Internet Babak Rahimi281 11 Constructing Masculinities through the Javanmards in Pre-Revolutionary Iranian Cinema Nacim Pak-Shiraz297 12 Masculinity Crisis and the Javanmard Icon in Iranian Cinema Farshad Zahedi319 13 Princes, Thieves and Death: The Making of Heroes amongst the Yezidis of Armenia Christine Allison and Estelle Amy de la Bretèque338 14 A Tale of Two Concepts: Civanmertlik and Fütüvvet in Modern Turkey David Barchard371

Preface This collection of articles is the product of a three-year project, financed by the British Institute of Persian Studies, on the theme of ‘Javanmardi in the Persianate World’. Javanmardi is one of those Persian terms that is heard frequently in discussions associated with Persian identity, and yet its precise meaning, conveying all the nuances inherent within it, is so difficult to comprehend. A number of equivalents have been offered, including ‘chivalry’ and ‘manliness’, and while these terms are not incorrect, javanmardi transcends them. The concept encompasses character traits of generosity, selflessness, hospitality, bravery, courage, honesty, truthfulness and justice – and yet there are occasions when the exact opposite of these attributes is required for one to be a javanmard. At times it would seem that being a javanmard is about knowing and doing the right thing, although this is not an adequate definition at all. The complexity of javanmardi was made clear to me at the very beginning of my academic career when I attended a gathering of scholars at a conference on Iranian Studies in the UK. At one point during the conference, after all those assembled had discussed their own research interests, a senior Iranian academic came up to me and remarked that it would take a lifetime’s study to know anything about javanmardi, and even after a lifetime the researcher would just be at the beginning of their journey. At the time, I understood this remark to be something of a ‘put-down’, or a warning to a young scholar against the arrogance of academic youth. Some fifteen years later, I realise that these were indeed words of wisdom. The articles in this volume represent the sheer range, influence and importance that the concept has had in contributing and creating Persianate identities over the past one thousand years and more. In an attempt to comprehend a fuller panorama of javanmardi, I was able to secure the interest of the British Institute of Persian Studies to finance three one-day conferences on the topic. Two conferences were held at the British Academy in London in 2012 and 2013, and the third took place in Ankara at İPEK University

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in March 2014. (I am grateful for the financial assistance of the Iranian Heritage Foundation during the conference in 2012, and likewise to İPEK University for its substantial financial contribution to the 2014 conference, and also to Dr Yıldırım who hosted the event). A conscious decision was taken to make the contributions to the three one-day conferences as wide-ranging as possible. Rather than focus, for example, on medieval Sufi manifestations of javanmardi, both medieval and modern studies were encouraged, as were literary, artistic, archaeological and sociological studies among others. For a number of reasons, not all of the papers presented at these conferences are included in this volume; however, I would like to thank the following for their help and encouragement during the life of the project: Fariba Adelkhah, Mihran Afshari, Ali Ansari, Saïd Amir Arjomand, Firuza Melville, Sara Nur Yıldız and Mohsen Zakeri. Finally I should say a word about the system of transliteration, always a problem in a volume that covers a long range of time and a variety of languages in both arabographic and romanised scripts. A decision was taken by Gingko and by Professor Charles Melville (the current editor of BIPS’ ‘Special Series’) and myself to keep to a single transliteration system as much as possible. A ‘modern’, phonetic system has been adopted to reflect modern Persian. Of course, this may be unpalatable to medievalists who are more accustomed to seeing futuwwa, rather than fotowweh or fotovvat. It is impossible to please everyone, and it is as unsatisfactory to see Persian transliterated as though it were Arabic, as the reverse. However, it has been deemed more coherent for the reader that a single method of transliteration appears in this book rather than dual medieval/Arabic and modern/ Persian systems. Non-Persian languages, such as Turkish and Armenian, have been transcribed in their more familiar way. Lloyd Ridgeon

Introduction

The Felon, the Faithful and the Fighter: The Protean Face of the Chivalric Man (Javanmard) in the Medieval Persianate and Modern Iranian Worlds Lloyd Ridgeon Abstract Javanmardi is one of the most significant components in the identity of Persians and those who have lived and live in areas where Persianate culture has been and remains strong. This essay argues that the ethic of javanmardi demonstrates a high level of cultural continuity. The difficulty of defining this concept is partly resolved by relying on seminal texts from the medieval period and referring to important historical figures from early Iranian history. A taxonomy of types, the felon, the faithful and the fighter, are utilised in this article to provide a bricolage of characters who demonstrate that javanmardi is just as important in modern Iran as it was in medieval Persia.

Introduction In many nations, societies and communities there exists an idealised depiction of ethical perfection which reveals much about religious, national, trans-national, gender and class sentiments. A British tradition, typifying such an ideal, is the chivalrous English gentleman; in Japan it is possible to point to the Bushido ethic of the Samurai noble; and the Shaolin way of life in China may also be

2 Javanmardi

considered as an ethical worldview oriented towards human perfection. In premodern Persianate territories (which includes Iran, Central Asia, Anatolia and Mesopotamia) the ethic of javanmardi played a pivotal role in the way people behaved and perceived their own identity. And yet, defining the term javanmardi is problematic: on asking a cross section of modern Iranians about the term, for example, it is highly likely that the question would elicit a multitude of answers about their personal beliefs and their perception of society, and it is probable that they would provide many examples of celebrated javanmards to illustrate their responses. A literal understanding of the term offers no genuine insight into its semantic meaning. The word javanmard is a compound noun made up of the terms javan, or ‘young’, and mard, or ‘man’. Thus, a literal meaning of javanmardi is young-manliness. The vague literal meaning of the word adds to the confusion and complexity of the topic, as inevitably Iranian understandings reflect the political, religious, social and economic situations of individuals. Perhaps one of the best entry points into javanmardi is found in one of the very earliest definitions of the term, contained in the Qabus-nameh, written in 1083. The following anecdote concerns a group of ʿayyaran, or gangs of Robin Hoodtype figures generally associated with javanmardi: They say that one day in the mountains, a group of ʿayyaran were sitting together when a man passed by and greeted them. He said, ‘I am a messenger from the ʿayyaran of Marv. They send their greetings to you and they say, “Listen to our three questions. If you answer [well] we accept your superiority, but if you do not answer satisfactorily you will have shown our superiority.”’ The [ʿayyaran] said, ‘Speak on.’ He said, [1] ‘What is javanmardi? [2] And what is the difference between javanmardi and non-javanmardi? [3] And if a man passes an ʿayyar sitting at a crossroads, and a while later [another] man brandishing a sword comes hot on his tail intending to kill him, and he asks the ʿayyar, “Has so-and-so passed here?” what should this ʿayyar answer? If he says, “[No-one] has passed here,” then he has told a lie. And if he says, “He has passed here,” he has grassed on the man. Both of these [answers] are inappropriate with the ʿayyari way.’ When the ʿayyaran from the mountains heard these questions, they looked at each other. Among them was a man called Fozayl Hamadani, and he said, ‘I [can] answer.’ They said, ‘Go ahead.’ He said, ‘Javanmardi is doing what you say [you will do]. The difference between javanmardi and



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non-javanmardi is fortitude (sabr). And the answer that the ʿayyar [gives to the man wielding the sword] is that he shifts himself a short distance from where he has been sitting and says, “For as long as I have been sitting here no-one has passed by.” And in this way he tells the truth.’1

For the author of Qabus-nameh then javanmardi involved being a ‘man of your word’, courage and resilience (encompassed in the term sabr), refraining from slander and telling tales, and at the same time having the sagacity and know-how of extricating oneself from difficult situations. While the anecdotes from Qabusnameh describe an 11th-century ideal and are associated with a particular kind of javanmard, the same standards have been applied to javanmardi subsequently, whether in the form of treatises on the topic that proliferated in the 13th century, or in the composition of Timurid polymath, Hosayn Vaʿez-e Kashefi (d. 1504), whose treatise on the pre-Islamic hero, Hatem-e Taʾi, depicts the latter’s generosity towards the misfortunate and was written explicitly to explain to the royal court the reality of javanmardi.2 The same concerns are still paramount in the lives of popularly acclaimed javanmards of the 20th century, such as GholamReza Takhti (to be discussed later). Bearing these ideas of javanmardi in mind, I propose to examine manifestations of the concept firstly in the medieval period by dividing it into three categories: the felon, the faithful and the fighter. Then I will examine these three categories in the modern period with reference to examples from literature, cinema, popular culture and sport, and in this manner I hope to demonstrate just how all-embracing the concept is. The categories of felon, faithful and fighter provide an heuristic tool, and as such these categories are not mentioned together explicitly in Qabusnameh, nor in any of the Persian literature that discusses the term. They provide a convenient construct, however, by which to capture the disparate individuals who have been associated with javanmardi.

The medieval felon Military connotations of javanmardi are in part due to its close association with the ʿayyar, mentioned previously. There are descriptions of groups of ʿayyaran in 1  Kay-Kavus ebn Eskandar, Qabus-nameh, ed. Gholam Hosayn Yusofi (Tehran, 1373/1994– 95), 247–48. 2 Translated into English in Lloyd Ridgeon, Jawanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh, 2011), 175–214.

4 Javanmardi

Iran and surrounding territories from the 9th century onwards that depict these individuals with the usual attributes that are commonly associated with soldiers. It is recognised that they also served as spies, and were an irregular and unpaid force that operated both on the territorial borders of the Islamic world and also in major cities such as Baghdad and Nishapur, where denominational strife existed (illustrated in chapter one by Raya Y. Shani). It is interesting that around the time that Qabus-nameh was composed, an era in which there was a confidence and a bourgeoning literature written in New Persian, there are a number of works that portray the ʿayyar and his attributes of javanmardi. One of these, Tarikh-e Sistan (composed towards the end of the 11th century), describes the attributes of Yaʿqub ebn al-Lays (9th-century ruler of Sistan), who, in addition to the kind of qualities mentioned in Qabus-nameh, is said to have possessed sagacity and skill in spying.3 This latter aspect of military javanmardi becomes all too apparent in the portrayal of heroes in Persian epic and romantic literature. For example, Ferdawsi’s Shahnameh (completed in 1010) glorifies Rostam, the celebrated mythical champion and defender of ancient Iran, yet there are many passages in which he is shown in a less sympathetic light. ‘He can be overbearing towards inferiors… grossly disrespectful to his superiors and he does not hide his contempt for those whom he despises, [and] he gets drunk.’4 In fact his name, Rostam-e dastan actually means ‘Rostam the trickster’, and ‘he is given to deceit at crucial moments… he pushes the limits of the codes [of javanmardi] … in a word, he changes the rules when it suits him’.5 Likewise, the stories of Samak-e ʿAyyar, which were probably written down in the 12th century, portray this particular ʿayyar with commendable attributes counterbalanced by episodes where he resorts to cunning and trickery, the use of drugs and disguises.6 These attributes testify to the ʿayyar’s ingenuity and cleverness which may be understood as ‘deviousness’. Jettisoning the deviousness of the ʿayyar, the Sufis of the time were rather concerned with the selflessness and pursuit of truth and honesty and integrity which they believed was the kernel of javanmardi. Be that as it may, it is clear that by the 11th century some ʿayyars associated with Sufis, and no doubt this was a 3 Anonymous, Tarikh-e Sistan, ed. T. Bahar (Tehran, 1381/2002–3). On skill and sagacity in the work, see Lloyd Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism: A History of Sufifutuwwat in Iran (London, 2010), 14. 4 Dick Davis, ‘Rustam-i Dastan’, Iranian Studies 32/2 (1999), 231. 5 Ibid., 232. 6 Anonymous, Samak-e ʿAyyar, ed. Parviz Naʾel Khanlari (Tehran, 1964). For a discussion of these themes see Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 20–21.



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relationship that was symbiotic. For example, Hojwiri (d.c. 1076) cites the words of an ʿayyar who was engaged in a conversation with a Malamati Sufi, clearly showing that some of these brigands had lofty, spiritual ideals: [Nuh the ʿayyar said,] My javanmardi is that I cast aside this robe of mine and I wear the patched [Sufi] gown (moraqqaʿ) and act in a way that accords with it so that I may become a Sufi, and in that garment I refrain from committing sin out of shame before the people. Your javanmardi (i.e. that of the Malamati) is that you cast aside that patched gown so that you will not be deceived by people and they will not be deceived by you. So my javanmardi is the preservation of the shariʿa by making something clear and your javanmardi is the preservation of the truth by keeping secrets.7

The medieval faithful ( faqir) Strange as it may seem then, the felon or outcast could also strive to be among the faithful, united in manifesting the appropriate character traits. While javanmardi had long been a concern for Sufis, as masters such as Solami (d. 1021) and Abu’l-Hasan Kharraqani (d. 1034) among others had shown a keen regard for the tradition, it is with Abu Hafs ʿOmar Sohravardi (d. 1234) that javanmardi emerged as a social institution with a distinct Sufi colouring.8 Sohravardi’s interest in javanmardi should be understood in the context of the Caliph’s ban on all javanmardi groups (also known as fotovvat associations) in 1207, except the one where he declared himself head. A number of reasons have been posited for this move, but it seems that they all concern security, an issue with which Sohravardi, the Caliph’s spiritual advisor and Shaykh al-shoyukh in Baghdad, does not seem to have been concerned. Sohravardi’s two Persian treatises on javanmardi indicate that he was intent to seize the moment from the renewed interest in javanmardi in order to promote his own form of Sufism. Sufism in this late Seljuk period has been characterised by its increasing association with the masses, including tradesmen, soldiers and merchants, in fact anyone who desired some benefit from mixing with the Sufis, while not devoting a hundred percent of their time to spiritual activity. It is possible that Sohravardi adopted 7 Hojwiri, Kashf al-mahjub, ed. M. ‘Abedi (Tehran, 1386/2007), 267–68. 8 For Solami and Abu’l-Hasan Kharraqani on javanmardi or fotovvat, see Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 28–60.

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the fotovvat social organisations that existed in urban areas prior to the 13th century (although the function and nature of these associations during this period remains rather opaque). He established a spiritual basis for these groups, utilising the heritage and symbols that were familiar to the warrior ethos of the ʿayyaran and javanmardi. It is intriguing that during this period of early Sufi history of the 9th-12th centuries, when Sufis began to include the theme of javanmardi in their works, the role of the warrior par excellence of Islam, ʿAli ebn Abi Taleb, is not at all pronounced. It may be the case that these early Sufis were more inspired by the ethical message of the Qurʾan and its inclusion of the word fata (young man), from which fotovvat is derived. Only at a later stage of history from the 13th century did Sufis more frequently connect ʿAli with javanmardi. It may well be the case that by the 12th and 13th centuries, when the social manifestations of Sufi javanmardi flourished, the warriorship heritage of the ʿayyars dovetailed neatly and conveniently with the heroic myths and legends of ʿAli. It is rather fascinating to note that in this period of the 12th-13th centuries Persian authors conflate the figure of ʿAli with national heroes. For example, the 12th-century court poet Rashidi observes javanmardi in the following fashion: One would say that [the javanmard] has borrowed in banquet and fighting and decision and intention The hand of Hatem, the intelligence of Rostam, the physique of Bizhan and the heart of Haydar.9

The linkage between ʿAli and Rostam is also evident in the poetry of Rumi, who remarks that he is tired of his weak natured companions and seeks a lion of God (ʿAli) or Rostam the trickster. Rumi also contrasts the two kinds of warfare: ‘[Seclusion] is the greater warfare, and [fighting] is the lesser warfare / Both are tasks for Rostam and Haydar.’10 The very first treatises on fotovvat as a social organisation, that were written at the beginning of the 13th century, include many references to ʿAli, suggesting that the earlier ʿayyari tradition may have adopted him as a kind of patron saint. When and why this occurred is unclear, although there are associations between ʿAli

9 Annemarie Schimmel, A Two Coloured Brocade (North Carolina, 1992), 361 n. 16. Note that Haydar (‘lion’ in Arabic) is an epithet given to ʿAli. 10 Mathnawi, V, 3802.



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and javanmardi in the 12th century when Maybodi11 and Qaneʿi Tusi composed their works.12 Earlier connections cannot be discounted, especially as the Shiʿi influence of the Fatimids was present in the 12th-century works of Ebn Rasuli that popularised fotovvat.13 Sohravardi also promoted ʿAli’s significance in javanmardi; in his Persian work with the Arabic title Resaleh fi’l-fotowweh he states that, ‘The Verifiers of the Truth have said that if there had been another prophet after Mohammad it would have been ʿAli.’14 ʿAli, the great patron saint of fotovvat groups, the perfect military hero, now the ethically minded, all-merciful advocate of clemency, was thus utilised by Sohravardi to popularise his own promotion of the associations, wishing to turn them into ‘second-class’ Sufi organisations.15 Interestingly, treatises on javanmardi subsequent to Sohravardi do not shy away from presenting ʿAli as the warrior-hero of Islam, suggesting perhaps that the contexts in which such texts were written embraced not so much the Sufi aims of Sohravardi, but rather the security desired by successive members of these groups in both the various Beyliks in post-Seljuk Anatolia and urban areas in the region of northwest Iran.

The medieval fighter Sohravardi appears to have written his works specifically as ‘second-class’ 11 Mohammad Jaʿfar Mahjub, ‘Chivalry and early Persian Sufism’, in Classical Persian Sufism: from its Origins to Rumi, ed. Leonard Lewisohn (London, 1993), 554. 12 Ibid., 556. 13 Ibid., 578. 14 Sohravardi, Resaleh fi’l-fotowweh, trans. Lloyd Ridgeon as an appendix to ‘Javanmardi: Origins and development until the 13th century and its connection to Sufism,’ Annals of Japan Association for Middle East Studies 21/2 (2006), 65–74. 15 The prominence of ʿAli in Sohravardi’s treatises is remarkable because prior to Sohravardi he had not been allocated such a distinct role. The works of Solami, Hojwiri and Qoshayri include ʿAli as a representative in the tradition, however, he is only given limited space, a few lines, and at best a couple of paragraphs. Sohravardi’s Ketab fi’lfotowweh, however, includes ʿAli in no less than six consecutive episodes to illustrate the reality of javanmardi, more than any other exemplar of the fotovvat tradition. (Sohravardi, Ketab fi’l-fotowweh, trans. Lloyd Ridgeon, Javanmardi: A Sufi code of honour (Edinburgh, 2011), 42–86). For the significance of ʿAli in the traditional medieval fotovvat (from the time of Sohravardi until Kashefi in the 16th century) see Lloyd Ridgeon, ‘ʿAli ibn Abi Talib in medieval Persian Sufi-futuwwat treatises’, in M.A. Moezzi, ed. L’Ésotérisme Shi’ite: Ses racines et ses prolongements (Turnhout, Belgium, 2016), 665–85. This article refutes the idea of the ‘Shiʾitisation’ of fotovvat but argues for a more nuanced perspective that advances the ‘ʿAlidisation’ of fotovvat.

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manuals of Sufism for groups of javanmardan or akhis (another synonym for the term used in both Persian and Turkish, see chapter two by Rıza Yıldırım). There is mention of akhis in Konya in 1221,16 and subsequent reports of akhis in 13th-century Anatolia increase, some giving a positive spin on their activities, others negative. What is clear, however, regardless of whether they were chivalrous or revolting, is that they were certainly a force with which any ruler had to reckon. A valuable source for historians is Shams al-Din Ahmad Aflaki’s hagiographical work composed in 1318, in which he described virtues of the Sufi masters associated with the Mawlavi (pronounced Mevlevi in Turkish) order.17 In his work Aflaki mentions the names of 22 different akhis who lived in Anatolia in the 13th and early 14th centuries. While many of these 22 are presented in a positive fashion, there are also reports in which the akhis are described as rogues and scoundrels. One of the most interesting characters is Akhi Ahmad. Aflaki says that he was nicknamed ‘the untouchable’, and that he was ‘foremost among the fearsome rogues (rendan)’. It seems that Akhi Ahmad was one of those akhis who was more than prepared to use violence, as Aflaki recounts in an episode in which the Sultan gave a royal patent to Hosam al-Din Chalabi (himself the son a well-known akhi) to succeed to a khanaqah (or convent). Akhi Ahmad came to the inauguration with ‘extreme spite, partisan zeal and the innate envy he possessed’. After having made his opposition clear, Aflaki mentioned that the ‘akhis of good repute… took hold of their swords and their knives, and the commanders who were disciples attempted to kill the rebellious rogues’.18 16 Akhis appear in Konya during a visit by ʿOmar Sohravardi who was acting as an ambassador of Caliph al-Naser in 1221. Ebn Bibi (d. c. 1284) records that the akhis were among the notables of Konya to salute him, and that later they came to his residence to kiss his cloak and receive his blessing. 17 Shams al-Din Ahmad-e Aflaki, Manaqeb al-ʿarefin, trans. John O’Kane, The Feats of the Knowers of God (Leiden, 2002). 18 Another criticism of akhis is made clear by Aflaki in an episode about one Shaykh Naser al-Din, who describes Rumiʼs path as ‘puny’ and adds, ‘I donʼt think there is any light in him’. In his response, Rumi labelled him a catamite, which in the tradition of javanmardi was one of the worst sins imaginable. Yet improper sexual relations was one of the issues that was raised against the akhis and the fotovvat tradition by their critics. (Aflaki, Manaqeb al-ʿarefin, 130–31). Mention should also be made of Aflakiʼs depiction of some akhis who failed to live up to Sohravardiyan ideals in an incident in Sivas when ‘a great riot broke out’ and swords and knives were drawn by one group of akhis and opposing akhis and Sufi followers of Chalabi Amir ʿAref (d. 1319), (Aflaki, Manaqeb al-ʿarefin, 597). That relations were not always amicable between Sufis and akhis is also evident in Aflakiʼs reports about a certain Akhi Mostafa, who argued against the Sufis when he remarked that the Sufis should stick to their own affairs. The relations between Akhi Mostafa and Soltan Valad deteriorated further following a samaʿ (spiritual music and listening to Sufi poetry) session in which the



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And yet Aflaki considered some akhis in a positive fashion, and these were usually disciples of one of the Mawlavi shaykhs. Perhaps the most well-known of all akhis associated with Rumi is the aforementioned Hosam al-Din Chalabi, also known as Ebn Akhi Turk, who was one of Rumiʼs spiritual companions. Frequently the akhis who had the stamp of approval from Aflaki were dignitaries, possessed wealth, and arranged samaʿ parties. Indeed, some were among the most influential members of society, such as Akhi Ahmad Shah, who spent his wealth in Konya on recruiting several thousand soldiers and toughs (ronud).19 The importance of Akhi Ahmad Shah as a significant and respected figure in Konyan society is also evident in the anonymous History of the Seljuqs in Anatolia (Tarikh-e Al-e Saljuq dar Anatoli),20 where he is recognised as one of the leaders of the city (sarvaran-e shahr) and is accused by the Ilkhanid vizier of fermenting trouble in Konya. The same work alludes to Akhi Ahmad Shahʼs good character, as it recounts how he forgave Akhi Amir Ahmad a debt of 12,000 ʿadad-i soltani (clearly a significant amount). The following episode in the text, entitled ‘The Death of Akhi Ahmad Shahʼs Brother’ is another indication of the akhiʼs social standing, as we learn ‘nearly 15,000 people followed his funeral cortège. No-one has seen such a period of mourning’.21 In the generation after Aflaki, Ebn Battuteh glorified the akhis of Anatolia, yet remarked that they carried swords with them. He was deeply impressed with their generosity and hospitality, which at times amounted to rivalry among groups to bestow the greatest degree of hospitality upon travellers. Yet he was not oblivious to the social function that these spiritual soldiers offered, for he stated, ‘… in any part [of this land, i.e. Anatolia] where there is no ruler, it is the akhi who acts as governor; it is he who gives horses and robes to the visitor and shows hospitality to him… and his manner of command and prohibition and riding out [with a retinue] is the same as that of princes.’22 The picture that emerges of the akhis from Ebn Battuteh’s writings is that they adopted a social form of Sufism, such as the performance of samaʿ and communal meals, along with the idealised character

dervishes displayed ‘extreme behaviour’, causing the akhi to observe, ‘After this we must not invite the Mowlavis to our samaʿ’. Chalabi Amir ʿAref was furious when he heard this, and took revenge by rampaging through the akhiʼs lodge (Aflaki, Manaqeb al-ʿarefin, 586–87). 19 Aflaki, Manaqeb al-ʿarefin, 419–20. 20 Anonymous, Tarikh-e Al-e Saljuq dar Anatoli, ed. Nadira Jalali (Tehran, 1377/1999). 21 Ibid., 131. 22 Ebn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, trans. H.A.R. Gibb, II (Delhi, 1999), 434.

10 Javanmardi

traits associated with soldiers, including courage, bravery and self-sacrifice.23 The full importance of the akhis can be appreciated in reference to the assumption of power in Ankara by these groups, which took place shortly after Ebn Battuteh’s visit to Anatolia. G.G. Anarkis has claimed that the akhis ‘had organised a self-sufficient town life; and they had imposed a paternalistic despotism, with themselves as ruling caste’.24 In resisting the attempts by the early Ottomans to impose their rule over Ankara, the akhis revolted and Anarkis views this as ‘a republic with socialistic tendencies… and it struggled on for almost a decade’.25 In any case, it is clear how powerful the akhis could be in Anatolia. It is surprising, however, that Ebn Battuteh’s references to the akhis occur only in the Anatolian context; he does not mention akhis once when he describes his travels in Iran. However, he does speak of groups of young men in Esfahan who have more than passing similarity to the akhi groups in Anatolia, without labelling them with such a technical term.26 The members of each craft elect one person from their own ranks as a headman, and the various organisations attempt to out-do one another in hospitality, although it is not clear the extent to which there was any Sufi activity involved, which is so conspicuous within the accounts of the Anatolian akhis. In addition, mention should be made of the connection in Iran between the ideals of javanmardi and those of the strong hero, the pahlavan, who is typified by a great wrestling champion and Sufi, Purya-ye Vali, who lived in the 14th century. A composer of verse steeped in Sufi themes, Purya-ye Vali is also mentioned by 15th-century Sufi hagiographers who foregrounded his skill at wrestling, and in particular his compassion for his opponents. The pahlavan is also mentioned by Ebn Battuteh in the Iranian context, in Shiraz to be precise, in an anecdote during which one pahlavan motivates a group of young men to rise up with weapons to settle a local dispute during which they kill many soldiers and seize money that is being taken away to a ruler in Iraq.27 The connection between tradespeople, javanmardi and Sufism in the Iranian context has also been witnessed during the episode of the Sarbardar rule (1335–80 in Khorasan), which was supported by a number of Shiʿa Sufis and was messianic 23 See the discussion in Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 61–91. 24 G. G. Anarkis, ‘Futuwwa traditions in the Ottoman Empire’, Journal of Near-Eastern Studies 12/4 (1953) 236. 25 Ibid. It is to be wondered, however, if his views reflect the larger context of the movement of Shaykh Bedreddin, who took advantage of the loss of the Ottomans to Timur in advancing less centralised power and a relief from high taxes. 26 Ebn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, 295. 27 Ibid., 307–8.



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in tenor. The connection of the Sarbardars with fotovvat is suggested by comments made by Hafez Abru (d. 1430) who remarked that most followers had a trade (saheb-e herfa) – that these were tradespeople, not full-time Sufis, and perhaps they were among the ahl-e fotovvat. He also uses the term akhi to describe some of the movement’s followers.28 *** Having addressed the theme of javanmardi in the Persianate world during the medieval period it is now possible to observe the extent of cultural continuity in the modern period. While the survey of the medieval period investigated texts that were influential over a very broad territorial range that included Anatolia, Iran, the Caucasus, Khorasan and Mesopotamia, to name a salient few, it is not possible in the confines of this article to survey the same breadth of territory in the modern world. Instead, the modern period will be investigated through concentrating on Iran alone. It remains to be seen if the three-fold categorisation of javanmardi to felon, faithful and fighter, is applicable to regions beyond Iran’s borders, but that is a task for other scholars.

The modern felon The term javanmardi, despite the noble and idealistic perceptions that many Iranians have of the concept, is also related to the phenomenon of the street tough, or the luti. With its strong connection to masculinity, bravery and courage, the ideal of javanmardi is often compromised in urban and lower-class settings, and it is here that the javanmard may slip from the demands of the ideal, and rather than protect, guard, assist, and act selflessly, he may transgress and commit crimes, extort, plunder, exploit and carry out self-serving acts. Although the origins of the luti manifestation may be traced to ʿayyari roots, from the early 19th century and throughout the 20th century the phenomenon of the luti became more common, identifiable through particular forms of street fashion and verbal expression.29 28 John Mason Smith, Jr, The History of the Sarbardar Dynasty 1336–1381 A.D. and its Sources (The Hague, 1970), 56–57. 29 On the lutis, see Reza Arasteh, ‘The character, organization and social role of the “Lutis (Javan-Mardan)” in the traditional Iranian society of the nineteenth century’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 4 (January 1961), 47–52; Willem Floor, ‘The political role of the Lutis in Iran’, in Michael E. Bonnie and Nikki Keddie, eds. Modern Iran: The Dialectics of Continuity and Change (Albany, 1981), 83–95; idem, ‘The Lutis-A social

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While the luti may adhere to the ideals of javanmardi, he may deviate from this path and become a hoodlum, a thug and a felon, or to use the Persian term: a lat. Exemplifying the lat is the well-known figure of Shaʿban Jaʿfari (otherwise known as Shaʿban Bimokh, or Shaʿban the Brainless) who is associated in the popular imagination with the downfall of Mosaddeq (the democratically elected prime minister) in 1953 and the emergence of Mohammad Reza Pahlavi to the exercise of genuine political power as the second Pahlavi monarch. For most, Shaʿban Jaʿfari’s life manifests the worst trappings of the luti. A more positive image of the luti is found in Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi, who was the head of Tehran’s fruit and vegetable markets, and found fame for supposedly commanding riots against the Shah in 1963. Aside from his bravery, Tayyeb is known for his generosity (paying the bills of all customers in a restaurant) and for distributing meals to the deprived and poor.30 In reality, many lutis straddled the dividing line between the chivalry of the javanmard and the thuggery of the lat. As Babak Rahimi has observed, the luti is ‘a Robin Hood and a street tough, he can be both, paradoxically, admired and hated, honoured and despised for crossing boundaries of accepted norms of behaviour, even at times transgressing the law’.31 The ideal of javanmardi in manifestations of lutigari (practising the luti mode of existence) in the 20th century extended to popular culture. As one observer has discussed, the 1970s pop diva, Googoosh, represented the positive elements of the luti, a term that was a ‘broadly used adjective that combined arak and prayer, violence and charity, homosexual behavior and devotion to family’. Googoosh flaunted her sexuality, according to this perspective, not in a demeaning fashion, rather ‘in [the] crossing of gender lines in her behavior [suggesting that] the luti/ woman singer was above the written and unwritten law of female behavior’.32 In a case of life imitating art, Googoosh married Behrouz Vossoughi, the actor of many luti roles in Persian cinema (to be discussed later). The significant point, however, is that the luti adopted a somewhat liminal position in society in relation to the law, and yet it was often this liminality that promoted a sense of javanmardi, with acts of generosity and bravery, and also the ability to put things right. phenomenon in Qajar Persia’, Die Welt des Islams 13 (1971), 103–21. 30 See the article by Olmo Gölz, in this volume. 31 Babak Rahimi, ‘Digital Javanmardi: Chivalric ethics and Imagined Iran on the internet’, in this volume, 15. 32 Setareh Sabety, ‘Googoosh on Tour: Decoding a popular Iranian myth’, The Journal of the International Institute 8/2 (2001), [accessed 19 May 2016].



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It often seemed that although the luti and the javanmard abided by the shariʿa, there was another code of law which could take precedence, an un-written code that provided a degree of flexibility to ensure that correct outcomes could prevail, even if this was achieved through devious or unorthodox means.

The modern faithful The luti achieved his status by adhering to a number of conditions, such as manifesting generosity and kindness, and in addition to these essential virtues he was frequently expected to engage in acts of charity, which dovetailed neatly with the duties expected of a believer in Shiʿa Islam. Moreover, it should not be assumed that lutis were anti-Islamic; indeed, many lutis were devout Muslims who performed pious acts, such as engaging on pilgrimage to the shrines of the Imams. The connection between Shiʿa piety and lutigari should not be surprising if only because, as mentioned earlier, Imam ʿAli has long been considered a kind of patron saint within the javanmardi tradition. Javanmardi, and the influence of Imam ʿAli, has been witnessed in a variety of locations and situations in the modern period. In his Esfahan is Half the World,33 the father of the modern Persian short-story, Mohammad-Ali Jamalzadeh, recalls his youth during the first decade of the 20th century. A chapter of this book is devoted to his visit to a zurkhaneh (a traditional Persian gymnasium, the subject of a chapter in the present volume by Philippe Rochard and Denis Jallat), typically considered the bastion of the lutis and javanmards, where he witnesses the same manner of salutations and veneration for ʿAli that continue to this day. Such an association continues in the present age; a good example of which was provided by GholamHosayn Karbaschi, mayor of Tehran between 1989 and 1998, who was accused of corruption, arrested and put on trial. Karbaschi himself has been viewed as a model for modern javanmardi. 34 Be that as it may, what is of interest here is his appropriation of Shiʿa Islam to defend his honour. While exercising in Evin Prison’s zurkhaneh, Karbaschi observed, ‘In [ʿAli] it is possible to find the crystallisation of javanmardi and also the aspiration of a prisoner, perhaps innocent, that looks for the unique justice of ʿAli.’35 The association of ʿAli with javanmardi may in part be a result of a famous 33 Sayyed Mohammed-Ali Jamalzadeh, Esfahan is Half the Word, trans. W. L. Heston (Princeton, 1983). 34 For a discussion on Karbaschi see Fariba Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, trans. Jonathan Derrick (London, [1988], 1999), 14–29. 35 Cited in Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 167.

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hadith that states, la fata illa ʿAli wa la sayf illa Dhu’l-faqar (‘there is no youth but ʿAli and no sword but [his sword] Dhu’l-faqar’).36 The Arabic fata is an equivalent of javan in Persian, making the application of the term to the Imam all the easier. It is reasonable to assume that what held true in the zurkhaneh during the late Qajar period, when Jamalzadeh visited the institution, was also the case for decades and centuries prior, perhaps originating in the zurkhanehs of the Safavid period when the public praising of ʿAli commenced.37 It is of interest, however, that the term is never applied to a clerical figure; the association between javanmardi and a leading ayatollah, for example, is not made in the imagination of the general public. In terms of specific and more contemporary representatives of the faithful javanmard, the Islamic Republic of Iran has promoted Mohammad-Hosayn Fahmideh, a youth of thirteen years of age who threw himself under an enemy tank during the Iran-Iraq War and exploded a grenade belt that he had around his waist. The Islamic Republic commemorates his example through the issue of stamps, murals, and a well-maintained zurkhaneh in Tehran (used for displays to foreign visitors) named after him.38

The modern fighter Neither felon, nor specifically a recognised faithful figure of religion, GholamReza Takhti (d. 1968) was one of the greatest popular heroes of 20th-century Iran as the Olympic gold-medallist for wrestling in 1956. He was celebrated as a champion of javanmardi, not only for his physical prowess but also for his upright character. During my fieldwork In Iran in the first decade of the new century, the story that was repeatedly told me by the athletes of the traditional Iranian zurkhaneh was an anecdote concerning Takhti’s wrestling match with an opponent from Russia who had injured his right knee. Takhti would only attack and hold his opponent by the left leg; here, the specific qualities appear to be correct courtesy, fairness and sportsmanship. The perception of Takhti as a great javanmard was no doubt assisted by his sympathies for the popular anti-imperialist National Front, and his apparent opposition to the shah’s increasingly dictatorial regime during the 1960s. Subsequent to his death, the memory of Takhti and his javanmardi has been celebrated by Iranians, prior to and after the revolution. At 36 On this hadith, see Chapter One by Raya Y. Shani. 37 Rosemary Stanfield Johnson, ‘The Tabarraʾiyan and the early Safavids’, Iranian Studies 37/1 ( 2004), 47–71. 38 For the life and significance of Mohammad-Hosayn Fahmideh, see Mohammad ʿAzizi, Khab-e Khun, Sargozasht-e Mohammad-Hosayn Fahmideh (Tehran, 1390/2011).



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present, there are streets named after him, films made about him, stamps commemorating him, statues of him erected in prominent locations in Tehran,39 and even exhibitions devoted to him in locations outside Iran.40 *** As a heuristic device, classification of javanmardi into the felon, the faithful, and the fighter provides a pedagogical tool that allows for simplification of an extremely complex phenomenon. The three categories have been selected because they appear in both modern and medieval ages, and suggest a considerable degree of cultural continuity. At this point it is necessary to consider the work of Fariba Adelkhah. Her Being Modern in Iran has utilised the concept of javanmardi to demonstrate in a Weberian style (of increasing rationalisation, bureaucratisation, individualisation and commercialisation) how Iranians enjoy their own form of modernity. One of her first examples of the new modern javanmard is the aforementioned Gholam-Hosayn Karbaschi, who encouraged citizens to pay taxes to finance his ‘green’ policy of opening up public spaces for people in Tehran to enjoy a great variety of individualised forms of entertainment and relaxation. However, this approach has not been approved by all observers; indeed, Soraya Tremayne retorted that ‘it is doubtful if anyone in Iran would consider Karbashchi as a javanmard. The essence of being a javanmard is that of a man who, in order to help others, takes risks and makes sacrifices at his own expense and not that of the people.’41 If the yardstick of being a javanmard depends on public opinion, there are many individuals whom Adelkhah classifies as a javanmard who would probably raise a few eyebrows. It is interesting that she implies that the popularity of Ayatollah Khomeini is attributable to his javanmard values which included ‘lonely courage, the most extreme determination, the simplicity of habits suited to a mystic’. Moreover, his ‘style of government did not involve any breach with the fotowwat style’.42 In addition to Karbaschi and Khomeini, Adelkhah also promotes Mehdi Bazargan as a javanmard, which again is a rather unusual choice 39 Houchang Chehabi, ‘Sport and politics in Iran: The legend of Gholamreza Takhi’, International Journal of the History of Sport 12/3 (1995), 48–60. 40 This includes the small exhibition devoted to Takhti at the British Museum, London in 2009. ‘Takhti: a modern Iranian hero,’ [accessed 10 December 2015]. 41 Soraya Tremayne; review of Fariba Adelkhah, ‘Being Modern in Iran’, The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 6/4 (2000), 743. 42 Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, 47–48.

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for many Iranians, but not so surprising given her understanding of the four vital elements that compose javanmardi.43 These are giving and receiving, being supported by the public, practical ability involving a skill, and purifying acts. The degree to which Karbaschi, Khomeini and Bazargan were successful in fulfilling all of these four elements is of course open to question. I would suggest that Adelkhah’s analysis, interesting as it is, especially as it permits the individual to strive after his or her own perfection and javanmardi, is lacking if it is to be assessed on the basis of popular perception. Javanmardi also includes important concepts such as justice and compassion, which assume significance when considering the examples set by Takhti and Tayyeb. Of course it is dangerous to discuss popular perceptions which are fickle, subject to rapid alteration and manipulation by political actors even before speaking of how popular perceptions are measured or ascertained. Nevertheless, there are enduring associations made by the public between javanmardi and figures such as Rostam, ʿAli, Purya-ye Vali, and Takhti. Arguably these individuals will be associated with the tradition long after those set up by the Islamic Republic, such as Mohammad-Hosayn Fahmideh, or those discussed by Adelkhah. Despite this, Adelkhah’s work, if nothing else, reminds us to be wary of making essentialist assumptions about the nature of javanmardi. Indeed, the three categories of felon, faithful and fighter must also be viewed with some caution. These are certainly not hermetically sealed or mutually exclusive registers, as in reality javanmards shift from one category to another. The felon that was Shaʿban Jaʿfari was also known as a fighter for a cause that some believed to be just: the ideal of a modern, nationalist Iran. The faithful turn to the religious figure of Imam ʿAli who is also praised as one of the greatest fighters of early Islamic history,44 and likewise the case of Mohammad-Hosayn Fahmideh combines both categories of faithful and fighter. And Takhti is also an intriguing figure; as Houchang Chehabi has noted, ‘he was a pious man who was an observant Muslim and regularly went on pilgrimages, yet he was a loyal supporter to the end of Mosaddegh’s secular movement.’45 This Iranian nationalist/Shiʿa

43 One review claimed that Adelkhah brought ‘far-fetched examples of people who are socially and culturally very different from each other, thus leaving the reader totally bewildered’. Farideh Pourgiv, review of Adelkhah, ‘Being Modern in Iran’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 32/1 (2005), 119. While Pourgiv’s complaint is understandable, she seems to have missed Adelkhah’s argument concerning the ‘democratisation’ of javanmardi. Whether the general public view these individuals as ‘real’ and ‘good’ examples of javanmards and whether it accepts her definition of javanmardi is another matter. 44 See how Rumi portrays ʿAli as the great military hero, in his Mathnawi, I, 3790–3938. 45 Chehabi, ‘Sport and politics in Iran’, 57.



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transnationalist theme is also evident in Jamalzadeh’s Esfahan is Half the World. The author presents the institution of the zurkhaneh in a rather idealised fashion that oscillated between glorifying the Iranian nation, and the ethical perfection that came about through reflection on the actions of the Twelve Shiʿa Imams. But perhaps one of the most interesting manifestations of javanmardi that demonstrates the complexity of the subject is to be found in the fictional character of Qaysar in Maʿsoud Kimiaʾi’s 1969 film, Qaysar. Hamid Naficy describes Qaysar as a representative ‘of the heroic and masculine character’, possessing ‘values of manliness and generosity’.46 He manifests bravery and courage, and appeals to a romantic nostalgia for an ideal of ‘lost’ masculine chivalric values. The film depicts Qaysar’s desire to uphold the family honour in avenging the rape of his sister and the murder of his brother. He takes the law into his own hands and succumbs to the thuggery, brutality and violence of the luti in the revenge killing of six of those associated with the crime. At the same time, Qaysar’s complex situation is rendered even more complicated by his faith in Islam, depicted in his promise to pay a pilgrimage to Mashhad, which contrasts with his penchant for vodka and intimacy with cabaret girls. So, is Qaysar a felon, a fighter for the truth, or one of the faithful? The answer, of course, depends upon ‘the gate we use to enter his life’.47 The pronounced popularity of the film during the 1970s may be explained as the identification of Iranians with Qaysar’s javanmardi. In a time when, according to Naficy, ‘compassion toward the poor, the weak, and women are replaced by unbridled thuggery, which the police are either unable or unwilling to contain’,48 Qaysar showed how individuals could resist forces of the regime that permitted such circumstances. In effect, the javanmardi of Qaysar, despite its excesses, argued for access to public space, and the correct balance between justice and mercy. However, in the subsequent generation of the Islamic Republic, the film was criticised not only by Islamicists (such as Ayatollah Khalkhali who banned the film in Tehran in June 1980),49 but also by feminist observers such as Shahla Lahiji who protested at how Kimiaʾi’s conceptualisation of javanmardi denied any agency to women.50 The adaptability of the javanmardi concept and the human condition of all 46 Hamid Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema, II (North Carolina, 2011), 299. 47 Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, 37. 48 Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema, 295. 49 Ali Reza Haghighi, ‘Politics and cinema in post-revolutionary Iran’, in The New Iranian Cinema, ed. Richard Tapper (London, 2002), 112. 50 Shahla Lahiji, ‘Chaste dolls and unchaste dolls: Women in Iranian cinema,’ in The New Iranian Cinema, ed. Richard Tapper (London, 2002), 219–21.

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of these heroes in the tradition is all too often airbrushed away. While Shaʿban Jaʿfari’s brutality and violence is frequently remarked upon, especially within the Islamic Republic, ‘real’ javanmards are accorded esteem and are exempted from criticism. The whisper of Takhti’s suicide is barely audible over the clamour that SAVAK and the Shah’s regime had him assassinated,51 and in the Islamic Republic Imam ʿAli’s sixteen concubines are never discussed,52 while his misogynistic words in Nahj al-balagheh have only recently attracted critical appraisal.53 This willingness to overlook human fallibilities reflect the need for the creation of heroes, role-models and idealised exemplars. The creation of javanmards and their longevity then is determined by individual perspectives which are influenced by the ever-changing socio-political persuasions of each particular generation. Needless to say, Iran has experienced tectonic upheavals in its political sphere in recent times, and it is to be expected that this would also be reflected in shifts in the way javanamardi is perceived. Certainly the promotion of Mohammad-Hosayn Fahmideh and a generation of young war volunteers as contemporary javanmardan reflects this. If MohammadHosayn Fahmideh is a great ‘Islamic war hero’, it is worthwhile to consider too that some have posited less ‘Islamic’ javanmards as alternative war-heroes. The Iranian artist Khosrow Hassanzadeh associated his 2009 exhibition on Takhti with the war dead, as he placed the central image of Takhti in a structure that, in his words, ‘echoes the hejleh, temporary shrines that are put up to commemorate the dead’. Himself a war veteran, Hassanzadeh reflects that ‘Takhti represents a time that has passed in Iran, a time that I miss, a time destroyed by war, economics and politics.’54 And the idea of the war veteran as a javanmard has been taken up recently by the controversial film-maker Masoud Dehnamaki, although his attempts to glorify the Iranian basij have been strongly criticised, even by war veterans.55 It is clear that a variety of javanmardan exist, or rather there are perceptions of 51 See Chehabi, ‘Sport and politics in Iran’, 55–56. 52 See Sohravardi, Awarif al-maʿarif (Cairo, 1427/2006), 187–88. 53 The criticism of this dimension of ʿAli among Iranian feminists is articulated most forcefully by Ziba Mir-Hosseini, see her Islam and Gender: The religious debate in contemporary Iran (London, 2000), 219–26. Moreover, his physical abuse of his wife Fatima is not discussed in Shiʿa circles. See Manuela Marin, ‘Disciplining wives: A historical reading of Qurān 4:34’, Studia Islamica 97 (2003), 12–13. 54 ‘Takhti: a modern Iranian hero’. 55 Narges Bajoghli, ‘Debating the Iran-Iraq war on film’, Middle East Report (Summer 2014), 42.



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great heroes who are ‘projected as a range of ideal virtues which the collectivity [of society] attributes as paradigmatic to its own ideal state’.56 But as argued previously, this does not mean that these individuals are trapped within the categories of felon, faithful and fighter. They are not mutually exclusive, and there is no an essentialised structure which inheres within every manifestation of javanmardi. Perceptions of javanmardi are contingent upon a host of social, economic and political factors, which are in a permanent state of flux. For some, the idea of javanmardi is simply survival in the struggles of day-to-day existence, typified in a response given by a man from Tehran to Fariba Adelkhah’s question about the characteristics of a javanmard: ‘Today you are a javanmard if you succeed in bringing home a kilo of meat.’57 Here we risk falling into the relativism of so many modern studies whereby concepts such as javanmardi are deconstructed to the point of becoming absolutely meaningless. While it is true that identities are simply human constructs that are flexible and whose forms are constantly altering in a protean dance, they feed from and are nurtured by a collective memory that brings with it suppositions, myths, political ideologies and spin, and a host of other forms of baggage. It is at this point that tradition becomes crucial to an understanding of javanmardi. According to the German philosopher Hans-Georg Gadamer, tradition has a positive connotation, even if it contains all the prejudices and biases of its readers or audience. Through tradition, the intention of the author is transcended, while the past and history come into dialogue with us in the present. In effect Gadamer’s understanding of tradition rejects essentialised understandings, and yet it does not slip into incoherent relativism. The authority of tradition ensures that the basic parameters of the subject are preserved.58 The foundation of this specific tradition emerges from the 10th century in the Persianate world in texts, histories, biographies, hagiographies and other genres of medieval writing which suggest that the selection of these three categories of felon, faithful and fighter is not arbitrary. The existence of the same categories in both the medieval Persianate world and modern Iran is indicative of cultural continuity through hundreds of years, and may indeed assist in appreciating the concept of Iraniyat, or Iranianness.

56 Olmo Gölz, in the present volume. 57 Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, 31. 58 See Terry Eagleton, Literary Theory (London, 2002), 60–62.

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Conclusion From its earliest times exponents of javanmardi have described the concept in such a way that reveals a flexibility which ensures adherents can adapt to prevailing circumstances. The general elements of courage, selflessness and generosity are sufficiently broad in meaning that they need not obstruct any change in orientation. This flexibility may be a simple case of shifting the place where one sits; it may consist of adopting a more lenient interpretation of the shariʿa, foregrounding a more merciful and forgiving understanding of Islamic Holy Law,59 in the meanwhile allowing felons, faithful and fighters to adjust their identities to suit the requirements of the age. The flexibility in perceptions of javanmardi and the very broadness of the category itself means that these three categories of felon, faithful and fighter have frequently become blurred and a javanmard may occupy two or even three of these territories. This elasticity also means that the concept is not tied to any particular ideology; it transcends the ‘isms’ of modernity, the exclusivism of religious denomination and, perhaps, even gender distinctions. These characteristics account for the lasting appeal of javanmardi, and its history and tradition root the concept in the Iranian mind, providing a model of perfection and ideal behaviour. To understand javanamardi is to comprehend Iranian history, and what it means to be Iranian. Of course, just like Benedict Anderson’s Imagined Communities, it is a powerful construct of the human mind, and one that has continued to manifest new exemplars in the course of the 20th century. What challenges Adelkhah’s Weberian transformations bring to javanmardi remain to be seen. The javanmardi categories of felon, faithful and fighter permit a view of modern Iranians that seems to correspond to the more popular articulation of the concept, although it is by no means the only one available.60 From the examples investigated in this introduction one of the themes that deserves further investigation is the javanmard as a tragic hero. So many of these heroes have tragic fates and histories. Imam ʿAli’s ‘right’ to leadership of the community was disputed, and he was eventually assassinated by an opponent. Rostam killed Sohrab, his adversary, who unbeknown to him, was his own son. 59 This is the argument of Sohravardi, see Ridgeon, Jawanmardi, 42–51. 60 Worthy of note is the PhD thesis by Arley Loewen, The Concept of Jawānmardī (manliness) in Persian Literature and Society (PhD submitted to the Department of Near and Middle Eastern Civilizations of the University of Toronto, 2001). In this work, Loewen presents three models of javanmardi: the heroic warrior (whose main aim is to gain a good reputation); the spiritual champion (whose focus is on correct courtesies (adab)); and the wrestler (who fuses the two together). There are similarities with Loewen’s categorisation with that presented here, although the differences should be obvious.



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Tayyeb was executed for his ‘involvement’ in the 1963 uprising against the Shah, and Takhti’s death has been enveloped in conspiracy theories. But it is not always the case that to be a javanmard it is necessary to offer the ultimate sacrifice of one’s life (although it certainly assists in the process in popular imagination). Performing exemplary deeds, such as those undertaken by our wrestling champions, Purya-ye Vali and Takhti, typify this, as do the kinds of merciful acts attributed by Sohravardi to ʿAli. The combination of performing exemplary acts, possessing compassion and mercy, fighting for the deprived and the dispossessed and the weak in the face of harsh, brutal and unfair tyrants and fate helps in the process of identifying the javanmard as opposed to other kinds of heroes or popularly acclaimed individuals in Iran. Many of the themes in this introduction re-appear in the chapters of this book. The first chapter by Raya Y. Shani illustrates the multivocality of javanmardi, as it discusses groups of young men in 10th- and 11th-century Nishapur, who may have been inspired by the Sufi and/or Shiʿi ethical perspectives of the concept, as well as the more militaristic dimension which was centred on the figure of ʿAli ebn Abi Taleb. All of these perspectives are illustrated by the plates and pottery that were used at the time, and which were decorated with the motto: ‘No youth but ʿAli and no sword but Dhu’l-faqar’. Certainly javanmardi was an integral element of the identity of these communities, whatever their denomination or spiritual proclivity, but it was far more than just one of the elements of the ideology of the time. Its demands on brothers (members of fraternities) in the various locations of Nishapur were determinants of action, illustrated in the strife that blighted Khorasan in this period. This feature of javanmardi seems to have been recognised by political authorities, who understood the necessity to control or utilise the strength and popularity of javanmardi organisations (which were also known as fotovvat associations). In chapter two, Rıza Yıldırım suggests that social organisations in the Middle East centred on the shariʿa and tariqeh (commonly understood as the Sufi path). The former represented the state while the latter stood for non-governmental means of social stratification and authority schema. When the central authority began to crumble in the beginning of the 13th century, the Caliph appropriated the tariqeh in the form of javanmardi or fotovvat associations that had assimilated much from the Sufi forms of structure and devotional activity. The significance of the Anatolian variant of javanmardi (ahilik) from 13th century onwards is taken up in chapter three by Maxime Durocher through an analysis of the akhi lodges. In addition to reviewing medieval sources that reveal the functions of these institutions, such as hospitality and security, important questions are raised concerning the architecture of such institutions, detailing the kinds

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of activities performed by these fraternal communities. Rather than simply envisaging an urban space for communal meals and certain ritual activity such as the samaʿ, Durocher points to rural structures, and other buildings which included, for example, a shrine and a bath-house, and he suggests that by investigating the patronage of the akhi lodges recorded in vaqf-namehs future scholarship may uncover more details about the akhi phenomenon. The Anatolian dimension of javanmardi is further investigated in chapter four by Sibel Kocaer, who analyses the relationship between Sufism and javanmardi within a text known as Hızırname. The two main themes in this work reflect the same forces at play in Nishapur during the 10th-12th centuries which were discussed in chapter one. That is, Hızırname foregrounds javanmardi through certain Sufi themes, such as an ascent to the presence of God, and the search for the water of life, and association with warrior dervishes in Anatolia; thus outlining the combination of ethical perfection on the one hand, and bravery and courage in defending the values and identity of the local community on the other. Chapter five stretches the territorial boundaries of the influence of Persianate javanmardi to the limits. The focus by Ines Aščerić-Todd is on javanmardi in Bosnia, and she demonstrates the continuity of the Persianate tradition in the Bosnian milieu of the 15th century and beyond by examining the initiation rituals, the prevalence of Sufi-flavoured fotovvat and also the intertwining of fotovvat with trade guilds. Rachel Goshgarian’s contribution in chapter six shows how javanmardi transcends religious categories. Although the chapters thus far have assumed that practitioners of javanmardi would be Muslim, the Persianate territories included non-Muslim communities. This included Christian Armenian communities which borrowed heavily from the tradition of javanmardi in the establishment of Armenian fotovvat associations in Anatolia. Goshgarian’s chapter examines the context for the production of these 13th-century Christian fotovvat-namehs, which by and large parallel the contents of the Islamic treatises on the topic. Goshgarian states that the two texts penned by the author of Armenian treatises ‘will seem familiar to anyone who has read any constitution on fotovvat in any other language’.61 Included in the chapter are translations which enable researchers to test her claim. In chapter seven, Jeanine Elif Dağyeli investigates the guilds that were mentioned in chapter five. However, Dağyeli’s analysis demonstrates that the guilds have existed in Central Asia (among other places) for hundreds of years, and were still influential in the 19th century. Thus we begin to witness the influence of javanmardi in the modern period. The guild treatises embody the ideal ethics to be 61 Goshgarian, Chapter Six in the present volume.



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manifested by workers: they were ‘the materialisation of a “permanent possibility” to reach the ideal, an imagination of how craftsmanship should and could be’. Such literature continued to be passed down well into the 20th century. Chapter eight, by Philippe Rochard and Denis Jallat, discusses the relationship between javanmardi and the zurkhaneh in modern Iran. Whilst negating any essentialist orientation of javanmardi within the zurkhaneh, the authors point to ways in which associations have been and continue to be made between the two. Moreover, the chapter also highlights specific connections between the zurkhaneh and Sufism. Rochard and Jallat are keen to emphasise the fluidity of spiritual and ideological dimensions of the zurkhaneh. The changing contexts in which the zurkhaneh found itself equally applies to interpretations of javanmardi, which is reflected in discussions about the origin of the ethic and its significance. The chapter suggests that changes in Iranian society will affect perceptions of both the zurkhaneh and javanmardi. Rochard and Jallat touch on the figure of Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi as one of the manifestations of modern javanmardi, and he is also the subject of chapter nine. Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi is commonly understood to have opposed the Shah and was subsequently executed for his beliefs. The life of Tayyeb presents a number of complications for those who wish to portray him as a javanmard, yet Olmo Gölz illustrates how and why he has become ‘a hero of the Islamic Republic of Iran and the first martyr of the Islamic movement … not only … represent[ing] ideality, but rather … defin[ing] the ideal virtues of a hegemonic Iranian-Shiʿa collective identity’.62 The ambiguity of Tayyeb’s life dovetails into the ambiguity of javanmardi itself. One of the other great heroes of modern Iran, Gholamreza Takhti is among the subjects of chapter ten by Babak Rahimi. In his analysis of the changes that may be witnessed to the javanmardi concept during the digital revolution, Rahimi points to conflicting interpretations on the ‘blogestan’ about how to understand the legacy of javanmardi as it pertains to Takhti. The increasing space that the IT transformation yields is also apparent in how javanmardi is appropriated by women, especially during the so-called ‘green revolution’. Simply put, these developments indicate that javanmardi is certainly not a static concept, but it reflects the desires and aspirations of modern Iranians, helping to express what Iraniyat actually is. The subsequent two chapters focus on how javanmardi is reflected in modern Persian film. Nacim Pak-Shiraz concentrates on the pre-revolutionary period and illustrates how javanmardi became a tool to express cultural goals. Hence, in the 62 Gölz, Chapter Nine in the present volume.

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beginning of Iran’s cinematic industry, ‘heroism and javanmardi were to be found in this new man, whereas tribal men were now mocked as backward rebels detrimental to a strong, unified nation’. During the 1950s cinematic heroes resembled their Western counterparts, or at least those manifested in Hollywood. Yet PakShiraz demonstrates that there were some films that portrayed the luti in such a way that he emerged as a hero over the Western male, although he did not challenge the hegemonic masculinities. She also argues that the ‘alternative’ cinema produced several films that break gender roles, and thus the codes of traditional javanmardi. Even so, these movies do not reflect a crisis of masculinity’s inability to assert its authority but rather ‘social instability and inability to form relationships’. Chapter twelve continues to examine Iranian cinema, as Farshad Zahedi analyses javanmardi in the context of changing gender roles in the modern period, bringing the reader up to date with a discussion of films such as the award winning 2011 movie, A Separation. The final two chapters investigate the nature of javanmardi outside Iran in the modern period. Christine Allison and Estelle Amy de la Bretèque examine javanmardi within the Yezidi Armenian community, and delineate the modern shifts in perceptions of ‘ciwanmêrî’. Whereas Cihanger Agha is mainly appreciated as a hero because of his courageous struggles against Turkish forces at the Battle of Sardarabad in 1918, more contemporary versions of ciwanmêrî foreground the family and clan and feelings of heroism that are linked to a tragic and heroic death. (Interestingly, Rochard and Jallet observe that javanmardi is attributed to an individual very often after his death, or when an overall interpretation of the individual’s life is possible.) This helps to explain the perception that some mafioz leaders, such as Çekoê Xidir, gunned down at the age of 26, are personifications of ciwanmêrî. The authors conclude that ‘heroic figures are not created just by values but by the enactment of heroic feelings’63 (such as anti-state ideology). Finally, the volume is completed by David Barchard, who investigates javanmardi in modern Turkey, and observes that there is general ignorance about the concept, although the legacy of the tradition in best represented in the emergence of recent attempts to live out the fotovvat tradition of the akhis. Barchard observes that this phenomenon represents ‘an attempt to transcend the legacy of the entire period since 1839 and the Tanzimat, Westernisation, and Kemalism, and return to an entirely Islamic social and cultural order’.

63 Allison, in the present volume.



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Bibliography Adelkhah, F. Being Modern in Iran, trans. Jonathan Derrick (London, 1999). Aflaki, Shams al-Din Ahmad. Manaqeb al-ʿarefin, trans. John O’Kane, The Feats of the Knowers of God (Leiden, 2002). Anarkis, G.G. ‘Futuwwa traditions in the Ottoman Empire’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 12/4 (1953), 232–47. Anonymous. Samak-e ʿAyyar, ed. Parviz Na’el Khanlari (Tehran, 1964). Anonymous. Tarikh-e Al-e Saljuq dar Anatuli, ed. Nadira Jalali (Tehran, 1377/1999). Anonymous. Tarikh-e Sistan, ed. T. Bahar (Tehran, 1381/2002–3). Arasteh, R. ‘The character, organization and social role of the “Lutis (JavanMardan)” in the traditional Iranian society of the nineteenth century’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 4 (January 1961), 47–52. ʿAzizi, M. Khab-e Khun, Sargozasht-e Mohammad-Hosayn Fahmideh (Tehran, 1390/2011). Bajoghli, N. ‘Debating the Iran-Iraq war on film’, Middle East Report (Summer 2014), 42. Chehabi, H. ‘Sport and politics in Iran: the legend of Gholamreza Takhi’, International Journal of the History of Sport 12/3 (1995), 48–60. Davis, D. ‘Rustam-i Dastan’, Iranian Studies 32/2 (1999), 231–41. Eagleton, T. Literary Theory (London, 2002). Ebn Battuta. The Travels of Ibn Battuta, trans. H.A.R. Gibb, II (Delhi, 1999). Floor, Willem. ‘The political role of the lutis in Iran’, in Modern Iran: The Dialectics of Continuity and Change, ed. Michael E. Bonnie and Nikki Keddie (Albany, 1981), 83–95. Floor, W. ‘The Lutis – A social phenomenon in Qajar Persia,’ Die Welt des Islams 13 (1971), 103–21. Haghighi, Ali Reza. ‘Politics and cinema in post-revolutionary Iran’, in The New Iranian Cinema, ed. Richard Tapper (London, 2002), 109–116. Hojwiri. Kashf al-mahjub, ed. M. ʿAbedi (Tehran, 1386/2007). Jamalzadeh, S. M. A. Esfahan is Half the Word, trans. W. L. Heston (Princeton, 1983). Kay-Kavus ebn Eskandar. Qabus-nameh, ed. Gholam Hosayn Yusofi (Tehran, 1373/1994–95). Lahiji, Shahla. ‘Chaste dolls and unchaste dolls: Women in Iranian cinema’, in The New Iranian Cinema, ed. Richard Tapper (London, 2002), 219–21.

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Loewen, Arley. The Concept of Jawanmardi (manliness) in Persian Literature and Society (PhD submitted to the Department of Near and Middle Eastern Civilizations of the University of Toronto, 2001). Mahjub, M.J. ‘Chivalry and early Persian Sufism’, in Classical Persian Sufism: from its Origins to Rumi, ed. Leonard Lewisohn (London, 1993), 549–81. Marin, M. ‘Disciplining wives: A historical reading of Qurān 4:34’, Studia Islamica 97 (2003), 5–40. Mir-Hosseini, Z. Islam and Gender: The Religious Debate in Contemporary Iran (London, 2000). Naficy, H. A Social History of Iranian Cinema, II (North Carolina, 2011). Pourgiv, F. Review of Adelkhah, ‘Being Modern in Iran’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 32/1 (2005), 119. Ridgeon, L. Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism: A History of Sufifutuwwat in Iran (London, 2010). ———. Jawanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh, 2011). ———. ‘ʿAli ibn Abi Talib in medieval Persian Sufi-futuwwat treatises’, in L’Ésotérisme Shi’ite: Ses Racines et Ses Prolongements, ed. M.A. Moezzi (Turnhout, Belgium, 2016), 665–85. Rumi, Jalal al-Din. Mathnawi, trans. R. A. Nicholson (London, 1925–40). Schimmel, A. A Two Coloured Brocade (North Carolina, 1992). Smith, J. M. Jr. The History of the Sarbardar Dynasty 1336–1381 A.D. and its Sources (The Hague, 1970). Sohravardi, ʿO. Awaref al-maʿaref (Cairo, 1427/2006). ———. Resaleh fi’l-fotowweh, trans. Lloyd Ridgeon as an appendix to ‘Javanmardi: Origins and development until the 13th century and its connection to Sufism’, Annals of Japan Association for Middle East Studies 21/2 (2006), 65–74. ———. Ketab fi’l fotowweh, trans. Lloyd Ridgeon, Javanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh, 2011). Stanfield Johnson, R. ‘The Tabarraʾiyan and the early Safavids’, Iranian Studies 37/1 (2004), 47–71. Tremayne, S. Review of Fariba Adelkhah, ‘Being Modern in Iran’, The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 6/4 (2000), 743.



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Online resources British Museum: ‘Takhti: a modern Iranian hero’, [accessed 10 October 2015]. Setareh Sabety, ‘Googoosh on Tour: Decoding a Popular Iranian Myth’, The Journal of the International Institute 8/2 (2001), [accessed 7 July 2016].

1

La Fata illa ʿAli wa la Sayf illa Dhu’lFaqar: Epigraphic Ceramic Platters from Medieval Nishapur Documenting Esteem for ʿAli ebn Abi Taleb as the Ideal Fata Raya Y. Shani Abstract The essay means to unveil the enigmatic depiction of the la-fata-illa-ʿAli-wala-sayf-illa-Dhu’l-faqar saying on two, still extant, ceramic platters produced in medieval Nishapur. Primarily decorative artefacts, their textual commendation of ʿAli as the ultimate fata demands our explanation regarding the raison d’être behind their existence: for what purpose and for which kind of customers they may have been produced? The discussion will hence start with analysing, in the first section, the association of ʿAli with spiritual chivalry (fotovvat) and, in the second section, it will focus on Sufi-oriented fotovvat-centred tendencies evident in other epigraphic vessels made in Nishapur. The third section will be about the mass-production of fotovvat-oriented Nishapuri epigraphic vessels and their probable use in day-to-day life. I shall also concentrate on the insistently militant aspect of the la-sayf-illa-Dhu’l-faqar part of the ʿAlicentred epigraph which emphasises the martial aspect of ʿAli’s personality and as such may reflect the prevailing combative atmosphere and factional struggle between Nishapuri Shafeʿi-Ashʿaris and Hanafi-Moʿtazilis. Ultimately, based on the historical circumstances during the last decades of the city’s existence



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described in section four, the chapter identifies potential consumers for the Jerusalem and Tehran platters carrying the double ʿAli slogan.

Introduction The saying la fata illa ʿAli, wa la sayf illa Dhu’l-faqar (‘there is no fata except ʿAli and no sword but Dhu’l-faqar’) is traditionally ascribed to Prophet Mohammad in reference to ʿAli’s courageous exploits during the battle of Uhud. In Balʿami’s history,1 as in Shiʿi and pro-Shiʿi Zaydi and Moʿtazili sources,2 these words were pronounced by Mohammad after ʿAli slew and put to flight many Qoraysh warriors. According to Tabari, the pronouncement came rather from heaven, following Gabriel’s words that ʿAli’s disposal of the Qoraysh warriors was indeed ‘for consolation’ in the tragic context of the battle.3 However this may be, the description of ʿAli as fata probably derives from a pre-Islamic Arabic term implying a noble youth who displays all the necessary honourable characteristics,4 that is, a young man possessed of the laudable chivalrous qualities of generosity and hospitality, as well as valour and courage in battle and raids.5 In ancient Arab society, the semi-legendary models for the fata were the prince Hatim-e Taʾi6 and the poet ʿAntar Ebn Shaddad,7 while in Islamic 1 M. Hermann Zotenberg (trans.), Chronique de Tabari traduite sur la version persane d’Abu ʿAli Muhammad Bel‘ami (Paris, 1958), III, 27. 2 Al-Noʿman, al-Qadi, Sharh al-akhbar (Beirut, 1404/1984), II, 381: al-Kufi, Mohammad b. Solayman, Manaqeb al-imam amir al-moʾminin, ed. Mohammad Baqer al-Mahmudi (Qumm, 1412/1991), I, 495, II, 536; Furat b. Ebrahim al-Kufi, Tafsir Furat, ed. Mohammad al-Kazem (Beirut, 1412/1992), I, 95 (to Qurʾan 3:143–4); al-Eskafi, Abu Jaʿfar, al-Meʿyar wa’l-mowazana, ed. Mohammad Baqer al-Mahmudi, (1402/1981, n. pl.), 148. My thanks to Professor Etan Kohlberg for referring me to these sources. 3 Montgomery Watt and M. V. McDonald (trans.), The History of al-Tabari, VII (New York, 1988), 119–20. According to another tradition, the saying was pronounced from heaven by an angel on the day of Badr: Mohebb al-Din al-Tabari, al-Riyad al-nadera, II, 190, quoted in C. van Arendonk, ‘Futūwa’, EI1, II (Leiden, 1927), 123–24. 4 C. van Arendonk, ibid. 5 Claude Cahen, ‘Futuwwa’, EI1, II (Leiden, 1965), 961–65. According to Cahen, the fata archetype is linked to Arab tribal society and its combats, but not necessarily associated with any collective activity or explicit religious belief. 6 Cahen, ‘Futuwwa’, EI2; C. van Arendonk, ‘Hatim al-Taʾi’, EI2, III (1971), 274; R. A. Nicholson, A Literary History of the Arabs (Cambridge, 1941), 85–87. Hatim-e Taʾi was a Christian from Yemen who lived in the second half of the 6th century; his semi-legendary model of generosity and hospitality continued to be celebrated in the time of Mohammad and beyond; he also served as an exemplar for victory in all his undertakings and for magnanimity towards the conquered. 7 Harry Thirlwall Norris, ed., The Adventures of Antar (England, 1980); Peter Heath, ‘Lord and Parry, Sirat ʿAntar, Lions’, Edebiyat 2 (1988), 149–66.

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Pl. A: La fata illa ʿAli wa la sayf illa Dhu’l-faq[ar] Slip-painted, black-on-white glazed earthenware platter (diameter 38cm, height 3.5 cm), Medieval Nishapur, L. A. Meir Jerusalem, Museum of Islamic Art, C47. Top: after Rachel Hason, The Art of the Arabic Script (catalogue), L. A. Meir Museum of Islamic Art, Jerusalem, 1995, pl. 11. Bottom: author’s photograph.



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Fig. 1: La fata illa ʿAli wa la sayf illa Dhu’l-faq[ar] L. A. Meir Museum of Islamic Art in Jerusalem. Schematic transcriptions here and elsewhere by Armine Antreasian.

historical works ʿAli is regarded as the fata par excellence.8 As I shall go on to discuss, the commendation of ʿAli as the ultimate fata has inspired the choice by Muslim artists to place the la-fata-illa-ʿAli-wa-la-sayfilla- Dhu’l-faqar saying on decorative artefacts, the earliest extant examples being produced in medieval Nishapur. These objects are two almost identical slip-painted glazed platters; one in the L. A. Mayer Museum of Islamic Art in Jerusalem, C47 (Pl. A and Fig. 1),9 and the other in the Reza Abbasi Museum

8 See above, notes 1–3. Though in the Qurʾan the term fata (plural fetyan) appears repeatedly in reference to a youth (e.g. 21:60 and 18:13), in the traditional Qurʾanic exegesis (tafsir), reference to chivalry is made only in association with Abraham, Joseph and the story of the Seven Sleepers: Muhammad Jaʿfar Mahjub, ‘Chivalry and early Persian Sufism’, in Classical Persian Sufism: from its origins to Rumi, ed. Leonard Lewisohn (London, 1993), 553. ʿAli’s name does not occur in this context. 9 Rachel Hason, The Art of the Arabic Script (catalogue), L. A. Mayer Museum of Islamic Art (Jerusalem, 1995), pl. 11. I am grateful to Rachel Hason, curator of the L. A. Mayer Museum of Islamic Art in Jerusalem, for permitting me to publish this photo.

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in Tehran, no. 53–41 (Pl. B and Fig. 2);10 They carry the la-fata-illa-ʿAli-wala-sayf-illa-Dhu’l-faqar saying along the sloping rim. Both platters belong to a large ceramic family produced in Nishapur under the Samanids and the following Ghaznavid and Seljuk rulers, and probably continued to be produced until the fall of the city to the Ghuzz invaders in 548/1153.11 Generally defined as underglaze black-on-white slip-painted epigraphic earthenware, this ceramic family presents epigraphs, all in Arabic, rendered in various styles of Kufi script; some are strictly unadorned, the rhythm relying entirely on the form and spacing of the letters, while others, like the Jerusalem and the Tehran plates, show an evident interest in replacing the traditional, strictly unornate, scripts with elaborate decorative effect. Thus in its horizontals, themselves adapted to the circular outline of the platter by elongating the horizontal baseline of the low letters and their ligatures, the lettering in the Jerusalem and Tehran platters is enriched with occasional decorative devices, known as mashq, some attached to the ligatures and letters, others sprouting out of them in leafy forms, knots, and hook-like humps drawn in an undulating line. The verticals, in their turn, produce structure and well-spaced rhythmic succession emphasised in particular by the tall shafts of the lam-alef units. The tall strokes of the latter interlace from bottom to top; half-way up the interlaced shaft they are woven into an intricate ‘double-heart’ knot, and their upper tips are neatly bifurcated into a pair of simple double-lobed foils symmetrically bent to right and left, their opposed, sharply pointed forms thus delineating the upper line of the frieze (e.g. Figs. 1/1 and 1/6). The well-spaced rhythmic succession is further sustained by the rising tails and flourishing tips added to the ʿayn (e.g. Fig. 1/4 right), final fa (e.g. Fig. 1/7 left), and dal (e.g. Fig. 1/9), where the tips show forked foliate motifs composed of curled tendrils and winged half-palmettes turned downwards; the latter are sometimes repeated along the horizontal baseline as in a mirror-image. The balance, thus achieved between the top and the bottom of the lettering, produces a rotating wheel effect corresponding to the shape of the vessel. The visual complexity and ingenious design of the letters often sacrifice legibility for the sake of achieving decorative harmony between the short and tall characters. Deciphering the text in both platters is further made difficult by the 10 Illustrated in the catalogue of a collection of Iranian Islamic Art exhibited in September 1977, in the Reza Abbasi Culture and Arts Centre in Tehran. Cf. Abdallah Ghouchani, Inscriptions on Nishabur Pottery (Katibaha-ye sufal-e Niyshabur) (Tehran, 1364/1986), no. 82, where the author presents a different reading of the epigraph. 11 For a detailed discussion on Nishapur’s history, see Richard W. Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur: A Study in Medieval Islamic Social History (Cambridge, Mass, 1972), passim.



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Pl. B: La fata illa ʿAli wa la sayf illa Dhu’l-faqar Slip-painted, black-on-white glazed earthenware platter (diameter 52cm) Medieval Nishapur, Iran Bastan Museum in Tehran, no. 53–41. After catalogue of Iranian Islamic Art exhibited in September 1977, at the Reza Abbasi Cultural and Arts Centre in Tehran. Cf. A. Ghouchani, Inscriptions on Nishabur Pottery (Tehran, 1986), no. 82.

general omission of diacritical signs, with a concomitant increase in the number of possible readings of those characters, fourteen altogether, which are identical in their basic form.12 This is most evident in the case of the Tehran platter (Pl. 12 Al-Biruni (363–440/973–1048) remarked that ‘Arabic writing has a great drawback. It contains letters identical in their forms. They are easily confused, and there results the need

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Fig. 2: La fata illa ʿAli wa la sayf illa Dhu’l-faqar. Iran Bastan Museum, Tehran, no. 53–41.

B and Fig. 2), where the scribe seems to have had a real difficulty in adjusting the formula to the given length of the rim, which is much longer than that of the Jerusalem platter (the diameter of the Jerusalem platter is 38cm, while that of the Tehran platter is 52cm.). The scribe seems to have tried to extend the original phrase by adding horizontally stretched ligatures between the words and letters of the formula (Fig. 2/1–11), and by filling the space left along the circular frieze with meaningless extra lettering displaying the same decorative devices as those used to embellish the characters of the actual words (Fig. 2/11–1).13 for diacritical marks to distinguish those letters from each other’: quoted in F. Rosenthal, ‘Significant uses of Arabic writing’, Ars Orientalis 4 (1961), 22. 13 Between the la and the fata, the first two words of the formula, the horizontal baseline is considerably prolonged (Fig. 2/between 1 and 2) and includes a cluster of meaningless letters and ligatures sprouting wavy hook-like protrusions and plaited forms. Apart from the hook-like forms like those in the Jerusalem script, in a few cases the Tehran scribe seems to have been testing his skills through further elaboration; thus in sections 3, 4, and 10 right



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Pl. C: Glazed platter fragment (diameter 36 cm), Nishapur, Sabz Pushan. The Metropolitan of Art Museum, 40.170.576. After Charles K. Wilkinson, Nishapur: Pottery of the Early Islamic Period (New York, 1973), 122, pl. 53.

That being said, the mere appearance of the same phrase in the Jerusalem and Tehran platters demonstrates a formulaic nature, which in fact characterises all the epigraphic vessels made in Nishapur. The fact that the Tehran epigraph contains the last two letters of the word faqar, the alef and the ra14 (Fig. 2/11), lacking in the Jerusalem platter, makes it doubtful that the Jerusalem platter was the Tehran artist’s model. Indeed, the final letters missing in the text of the Jerusalem platter show how in production of multiple copies, some in different sizes, the text may become increasingly erroneous to the point of obscurity. In fact, there were probably other platters, now unknown, which had the full la-fata formula properly inscribed and copied more than once in the workshop. The supposition that vessels carrying the la-fata formula were produced in multiple copies may be tentatively supported by the two platter fragments in the

(Fig. 2/3, 4, 10), the vertical shafts of the alef and lam are embellished by wavy humps as well as by intricate double-heart knots suspended in mid-air. In other cases, such as the rising tail of fa in section 7 left, the alef in section 11 middle, and the space-filler rising tail between sections 11 and 1 (Fig. 2/7,11,11–1) the vertical shafts are adorned with single heart-shaped knots. As in the Jerusalem platter, the stretched-out baseline is balanced by space-filling spiraling stems resembling the rising tail device, and by winged half-palmettes bent to right and left along the upper-line. 14 Here the final ra consists of a rising tail which seems to be added for the sake of marking a beat along the flow of the frieze.

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Metropolitan Museum of Art which seem to have originally carried the same phrase; one, no. 40.170.576, was found during the excavations of the Museum’s expedition in Nishapur in the so-called Sabz Pushan (Pl. C), and the other, no. 40.170.480, in the so-called Qanat Tepe in Nishapur (Pl. D). As in the Jerusalem platter, the fragment on Pl. C shows the motif of a hook-like double-looped wavy protrusion half-way up the vertical shafts, and in the alef and lam making up the word al the shaping is absolutely identical to the last section of the Jerusalem platter (Fig. 1/10). Resemblance between the two is also apparent in the winged half-palmette motif turning upward along the horizontal ligature preceding the alef, and in the repetition of the winged half-palmettes as a symmetrical pair along the upper tips of the inscription, where they turn downward. All these devices are used in the Tehran platter (Pl. B), where they are rendered more elaborately. The similarity between the two platters and the Metropolitan fragment from Sabz Pushan (Pl. C) is further attested by the pair of winged half-palmettes at the top of what seems to be the rising tail of a letter that preceded the al to the right. In fact, it is so similar to the treatment of the tail added in the Jerusalem and Tehran platters to the letter dal of the word dhu (Figs. 1/9 and 2/9), that it was perhaps part of the same phrase, namely Dhu al-faq[ar]. A likewise conclusion can be proposed with regard to the other fragment in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, found in Nishapur in Qanat Tepe (Pl. D); this proposal is based on the strong stylistic resemblance between the word sayf in the Jerusalem and Tehran platters (Figs. 1/7 and 2/7) and the lettering of sin and ya along the rim of the fragment. It would seem, then, that the la fata phrase may have been replicated on other vessels as well, perhaps produced in the same workshop specialising in highly ornate Kufi inscriptions based on a standardised code of calligraphic and ornamental forms. Be that as it may, the Jerusalem and Tehran platters are enough evidence that the la fata formula was in use in medieval Nishapur. At face value, such textual content would suit a follower of the Shiʿi belief in medieval Nishapur. A distinguished Shiʿi community, whose ancestors had been exiled to Khorasan in the 8th century,15 in fact existed in the Nishapur of the period. Consisting of declared descendants of ʿAli and other Imams, as well as of various Shiʿi dignitaries, it formed an upper-class component of Nishapur,16 hence, a possible consumer 15 For the influx of Shiʿis into Khorasan following the Zaydi uprisings, see Andrew J. Newman, The Formative Period of Twelver Shiʿism (Richmond, 2000), 36. 16 Corroboration can be found, for example, in al-Hakim al-Nisaburi’s Taʾrikh Nishapur and in subsequent works based on it. See Richard Frye, The Histories of Nishapur (The Hague, 1965). In the chapter on the tombs and shrines of Nishapur which had become sites of pilgrimage (mazarat), we find for example that in the cemetery of the Amir ʿAbdallah



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Pl. D: Glazed platter fragment (width 14cm), Nishapur, Qanat Tepe. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 40.170.480. After Charles K. Wilkinson, Nishapur: Pottery of the Early Islamic Period (New York, 1973), 119, pl. 31.

of the platters. A young Shiʿi from the city is in fact mentioned in Taʾrikh Nishapur as a javanmard, the Persian equivalent of fata.17 The description of ʿAli as a fata is also found in medieval Sufi writings on chivalry, or fotovvat, which were profusely available in medieval Nishapur. Some of those Nishapuri fotovvat-oriented Sufi writings will hence be used as a starting point for clarifying the evident possibility that ʿAli’s fata epithet in the Nishapuri platters may have rather derived from Sufi writings on chivalry. More specifically, I shall analyse historical data that may throw light on certain individuals who belonged to fotovvat groups active in the city and for whom these vessels were probably made. My ultimate argument is, in short, that these vessels were in fact made for non-Shiʿi, Sufi-oriented, fotovvat-centred, Nishapuri individuals adhering to the Shafeʿi madhhab of the Sunna and to the Ashʿari kalam. The discussion starts with exploring, in the first section, the association of ʿAli with spiritual chivalry (fotovvat), and, in the second section, I will concentrate on the insistently militant aspect of the la-sayf-illa-Dhu’l-faqar part of the ʿAlicentred epigraph which emphasises the martial aspect of ʿAli’s personality and ebn Taher there was an enclosure (hazira) dedicated to the tombs of ahl al-bayt: ‘here, in a sacred garden (rawda muqaddasa) was the tomb of the martyred imam Mohammad ebn Jaʿfar ebn al-Hasan ebn ʿAli ebn ʿOmar ebn al-Husayn ebn ʿAli ebn Abi Taleb, Amir al-Moʾminin.’ In the same text, an account of Imam Reza, the eighth imam, tells that he came to Nishapur in the year 200/815–16 and that in 203/818–19 al-Maʾmun summoned him to Marv and he was martyred in Sanabad near Tus. The Taʾrikh goes on to cite a saying concerning a soteriological promise made by al-Reza to anyone who visited his tomb. 17 The young Shiʿi javanmard was Mohammad ebn Mohammad ebn Zayd ebn ʿAli ebn al-Hosayn ebn ʿAli ebn Abi Taleb, known as Abu Shakhtawaih, whose tomb was a shrine where prayers were answered: Sara Sviri, ‘The early mystical schools of Baghdad and Nishapur: In search of Ibn Munazil’, JSAI 30 (2005), 461. This information appears in the talkhis of al-Hakim’s Taʾrikh, in a chapter devoted to the tombs and shrines of Nishapur.

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as such may reflect the prevailing combative atmosphere and factional struggle between Nishapuri Shafeʿi-Ashʿaris and Hanafi-Moʿtazilis. Based on historical circumstances during the last decades of the city’s existence described in section two, the third section will identify potential consumers for the Jerusalem and Tehran platters carrying the double ʿAli slogan.

Association of ʿAli with spiritual chivalry ( fotovvat) ʿAli’s association with fotovvat is mentioned in the Arabic Ketab al-fotowweh by Abu ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Solami (d. 412/1021),18 a prominent Sufi scholar living in Nishapur, who adhered to the Shafeʿi madhhab of the Sunna and to the Ashʿari kalam. In the first chapter of his treatise, the author gives a list of prophets and other examples of ‘God’s pure ones’, who, says Solami, ‘were the first to follow God’s path of fotovvat, embodying it through their supremely noble conduct’. Among these, Adam is named first, Mohammad last, while ʿAli, described as Mohammad’s brother and cousin, comes at the end of the list as the guardian, or amin, of Mohammad’s victory.19 True, in the English translation by Tosun al-Jerrahi Bayrak the name of ʿAli in this paragraph is preceded by those of Abu Bakr and ʿOmar, and a saying by Moʿawiya ebn Abi Sofyan is quoted in the fourth chapter of the work.20 However, even if these names in fact appeared in the Solami original,21 the implication that the author may have respected ʿAli’s ‘usurpers’ is of no importance here, since Solami was not a Shiʿi,22 and in his Ketab al-fotowweh the identification of ʿAli as the guardian of Mohammad’s fotovvat was derived from a Sufi perspective, presented with reference to the mythical origins of fotovvat.23 18 In this work Solami was deeply concerned to define some of the basic concepts adhering to the term fotovvat from the Sufi perspective. 19 Tosun al-Jerrahi Bayrak (trans.), The Way of Sufi Chivalry, Ibn al-Husayn al-Sulami (Rochester, 1991), 33–34. 20 Bayrak, The Way of Sufi Chivalry, 80. 21 One should keep in mind that this and other translations of Solami’s works are based on later copies of the original writing. 22 Needless to say, in any Shiʿi circles the mere positive reference to Abu Bakr, ʿOmar, and Moʿawiya ebn Abi Sofyan could have set off deep anger; they were considered ʿAli’s usurpers who deceitfully secured the office of caliph when ʿAli and his descendants should have inherited it. 23 Both Abu Bakr and ʿOmar are similarly mentioned in a positive way in Honerkamp’s translation of Solami’s Darajat al-sadeqin, a work on Islamic mystical theology, based on faqr and the degrees of maʿrefa, that is, on the relation between man and God rather than between man and other human-beings. For the sections referring to Abu Bakr and ʿOmar,



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That Solami considered ʿAli a fata par excellence is further shown in the same first chapter of the Ketab al-fotowweh, dealing with those moral codes in human conduct which are pre-conditional characteristics in the fotovvat context. These are essentially based on a group of twenty-eight prophetic hadiths cited to illustrate the various aspects of fotovvat maintained by the Prophet himself;24 an anecdote referring to ʿAli is included in the same group. This anecdote concerns ʿAli’s piety and his loyalty to God’s followers, both of which are prerequisite characteristics in the context of fotovvat. They are illustrated here by an episode in which ʿAli rejects his wife’s worldly requirement for help in the household, on the pretext that this may cause him to abandon ‘those who have given up everything for Allah so that their bellies might contract from hunger while I get you a servant’.25 ʿAli’s response to his wife emphasises two other parameters of fotovvat which he strictly observed: belittlement of the self and total altruism (ithar), that is, a selfless generosity to the other, a matter to be discussed in depth later. Those two references to ʿAli in the first chapter of Solami’s Ketab al-fotowweh are the only ones in which his name appears, which seems odd in view of later Sufi works where ʿAli was to become the ultimate model of fotovvat.26 However, one should take into account circumstances in Nishapur at the time when Solami’s works were written: a period in which citizens bearing any apparent pro-Shiʿi tendencies, as displayed by Esmaʿilis or other alleged heretics, were persecuted by the strongly-placed fundamentalist Karramis. Those persecuted included some leaders of the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari faction to which Solami belonged.27 Once the Karrami persecution of alleged heretics was under way, Ebn Furak (the leader of the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari faction) was summoned to Ghazna to defend himself against a charge of heresy brought by the Karrami leader. He defended himself successfully, but on his way home in 406/1015 he was poisoned, presumably by Karrami agents.28 That period, which continued until Seljuk Turks first occupied Nishapur see Kenneth Honerkamp, ‘A Sufi itinerary of tenth century Nishapur based on a treatise by Abu ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Sulami’, Journal of Islamic Studies 17/1 (2006), 58, 61, 64, and Kenneth Honerkamp (intro. and trans.), ‘Stations of the righteous (Darajat al-sadiqin)’, ‘The humble submission of those aspiring (Ketab bayan tadhallul al-fuqara)’, in Three Early Sufi Texts (Louisville, 2009), 128, 130, 133. 24 Bayrak, The Way of Sufi Chivalry, 37–43. 25 Ibid., 40. 26 Lloyd Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism (Abingdon, 2010), 66–70; Mahjub, ‘Chivalry and early Persian Sufism’, 555–56. 27 Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 159–60. 28 Idem, 159–60, 203–4. For the prominent position of Abu Bakr Mohammad ebn Hasan ebn Furak in Nishapur, see Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 159, 188/28, referring to

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in 428/1036, was indeed a reign of terror, bringing with it extortion, intimidation, and assassinations. Any emphasis on ʿAli’s role as the ultimate model of fotovvat might have incurred criticism, or even persecution, of Solami and his kind. As Etan Kohlberg observes, one of Solami’s distinct aims in his writings was to defend Sufism against its many critics.29 Another prominent member of the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari Sufi faction in whose writings the name of ʿAli appears is the celebrated Abu’l-Qasem ʿAbd al-Karim alQoshayri (d. 465/1072), a recognised pillar of the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari leadership, who achieved great eminence as a Sufi and religious scholar.30 A disciple of Solami, Abu’l-Qasem followed his master in some sections of his Resaleh by referring to fotovvat. Unlike Solami, though, in Qoshayri’s Resaleh the notion of fotovvat appears only in a short chapter, where ʿAli does not figure. He is mentioned, nonetheless, in other sections of Qoshayri’s Resaleh, where his sayings and actions are always associated with good conduct, exemplifying what is required from a true fata.31 In both Solami and Qoshayri, ʿAli appears as one of the forefathers of Sufism, whose sayings and conduct represent basic concepts of fotovvat. This approach toward ʿAli, which can be defined as fundamentally ‘conservative’, seems to have changed gradually after 455/1063, when Alp Arslan, nephew of the former Seljuk Sultan, Tughril Beg (d. 450/1058), became Sultan with Ebn Furak’s arrival in Nishapur sometime before 372/983, when the independent Simjurid governor of the city, Abu al-Hasan Mohammad ebn Ebrahim al-Simjuri, invited him to the city. On the Karramiyya episode under the Ghaznavids in Nishapur, and the persecution of many prominent figures accused of being heretical Esmaʿilis, see C.E. Bosworth, ‘The rise of the Karamiyyah in Khurasan’, Muslim World 50 (1960), 5–14. 29 Etan Kohlberg (trans. and intro.), al-Sulami: Jawameʿadab al-sufiyya wa-ʿoyub al-nafs wa-modawatuha (Jerusalem, 1976), 8–9. 30 Abu’l-Qasem al-Qoshayri, descended from the Arab Qoshayr tribe, was a wealthy landholder (dehqan), who joined the Sufi assembly of his father-in-law, Abu ʿAli al-Hasan ebn ʿAli al-Daqqaq (d. 406/1016), and later the Sufi assembly of Abu ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Solami. After the death of his father-in-law in 406/1015, he inherited the headship of the latter’s madraseh, teaching there until his death in 465/1073. For Qoshayri, see Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 150–53, 175/3 (referring to Faresi I, fols. 49a-51a, II, fol. 97a, and Sobki V, 153–62). Cf. Jawid A. Mojaddedi, The Biographical Tradition in Sufism: The Tabaqat Genre from al-Sulami to Jami (Richmond, 2001), 99–124. 31 E.g. Alexander D. Knysh (trans.), Al-Qushayri’s Epistle on Sufism: al-Risala al-qushayriyya fi ʿilm al-tasawwuf (Reading, 2007), 254, in the context of kholuq, or moral character; ibid., 263, in the context of jud and sakha, or munificence and generosity; p. 354, in the context of samaʿ, or listening to music, where ʿAli perceives the music of the church bell as a praise to God; and on 396, in the context of ruʾyat al-qawm, or vision of the Sufis, where ʿAli appears in a dream of Beshr ebn al-Hareth, advising him about generosity as a means to winning eternity in paradise.



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Nezam al-Molk (456–485/1062–1092) as his vizier. In the years following Alp Arslan’s accession one may indeed read about ʿAli as an ideal fata, which is how he is described in the Merʿat al-morowweh by ʿAli ebn Hasan ebn Jaʿdawayhi from Qazvin, who dedicated his work to Nezam al-Molk. Ebn Jaʿdawayhi treats fotovvat in a single chapter, the fortieth, which consists of a collection of sayings and definitions some of which are attributed to ʿAli. According to Ebn Jaʿdawayhi, ʿAli declared that fotovvat has five stipulations: to be humble in times of success; to show forgiveness when one is powerful (or in a position to take revenge); to give freely without the recipient being obliged to reciprocity; to offer good advice despite animosity; and finally, to be generous even in one’s own need.32 Ebn Jaʿdawayhi concludes that fotovvat is expressed through four means: the mouth, the hand, the eye, and the heart, each represented by an ideal fata. It is the way of the hand, says Ebn Jaʿdawayhi, that is represented by ʿAli, whose name follows that of the Prophet, the latter representing fotovvat through his heart.33 The reference to ʿAli is further expanded in Ebn Jaʿdawayhi’s text in an episode in the battlefield where ʿAli was asked by an opponent to hand over his sword, which he did. When asked why he had surrendered his sword, he answered that no fata would ever refuse giving anything when it was asked of him.34 Of interest in this respect is Rashid al-Din Maybodi’s Kashf al-asrar wa ʿoddat al-abrar, a ten-volume Qurʾanic exegesis, completed in 520/1126; as a significantly expanded version of an earlier work by Khwaja ʿAbdullah Ansari (396–448/1006–1056),35 it exhibits a similar Sufi or mystical bent. In treating the subject of fotovvat, the author cites a tradition in which the Prophet defines for ʿAli’s benefit the general characteristics of the javanmard, and goes on to tell a story about ʿAli’s chivalrous conduct toward a beggar imploring assistance, on which occasion the Prophet is said to have declared la fata illa ʿAli.36 Finally, in a long section of the Persian poetic rendering of Kalileh va Dimneh 32 Ann D. Breebaart, The Development and Structure of the Futuwwah Guilds, Doctoral Dissertation, Princeton University (1961) 14–15; Cahen, ‘Futuwwa’, EI2. 33 Breebaart, The Development and Structure of the Futuwwah Guilds, 15–16. According to Ebn Jaʿdawayhi, a certain Yusof al-ʿArabi showed his fotovvat with his words, and Makhul al-Shami (d. 112/730) with his eyes. 34 Idem, loc. cit. Cf. Franz Taeschner, ‘Das Futuwwa-Kapitel in Ibn Gaʿdawaihis Mirʿat al-Muruwwat’, Documenta Islamica Inedita, ed. Johann Fück (Berlin, 1952), 107–20. 35 On Maybodi Kashf al-asrar (Unveiling of Mysteries), see A.G. Revan Farhadi, ‘The Hundred Grounds of ʿAbdullah Ansari (d. 448/1056) of Herat: The earliest mnemonic Sufi manual in Persian’, in Lewisohn, ed., Classical Persian Sufism: From its Origins to Rumi, 383. 36 Mahjub, ‘Chivalry and early Persian Sufism’, 553–54.

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by Qaneʿi Tusi, composed during the reign of Bahram-Shah of Ghazna (512– 544/1118–1153), the poet speaks about fotovvat and its principles, noting that ‘Chivalry comes to you as the legacy of ʿAli, who was a “Friend of God” (wali) endowed with wisdom and chivalrous character… ʿAli, in whose shadow the sun itself reposed, held chivalry (javanmardi) to be his supreme fortune.’37 ʿAli is here revered, moreover, as the leader of the path of chivalry; without his mediation, says the poet, one can make little progress in divine matters (haqiqat).38 Thus, even if he is not specifically defined by Solami and Qoshayri as an ideal fata, ʿAli’s status in fotovvat appears unquestionable already prior to his establishment as the ultimate fata under Sohravardi and al-Naser the caliph.39 The evident popularity of fotovvat principles among Sufis of Khorasan, Nishapur in particular,40 is significant in the present study. Indeed, some leading Sufis from Khorasan were famous for their fotovvat or javanmardi, based on the spiritual and etiquette-determining or adab aspects of the term. In examples from Solami’s Tabaqat al-sufiyya, some of which are also included in his Ketab al-fotowweh, the total number of 103 biographies of Sufis is divided into five generations,41 among which the tally of Khorasani members is conspicuous.42 Most of the Khorasani Sufis whom Solami associates with fotovvat also figure in Resaleh of Qoshayri who, as recalled, was a prominent member of the ShafeʿiAshʿari Sufi faction and a disciple of Solami; in the Resaleh’s second tabaqat section which is a collection of Sufi biographies, 80 out of the 103 entries from Solami’s Tabaqat al-sufiyyeh are listed.43 The la-fata-illa-ʿAli epigraph decorating the Nishapuri vessels could hence be considered as a natural response to the Sufi-oriented, fotovvat-centred trends apparent in the city at the time of their production. Also notable is that, like Solami and Qoshayri, the local fotovvat-centred Khorasani Sufis adhered to the Shafeʿi madhhab of the Sunna and to the Ashʿari 37 Ibid., 556–57. 38 Ibid., 556, note 16. 39 On the two latter, see Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 61–91. 40 Apart from Solami’s Ketab al-fotowweh and other works, Sufis associated with fotovvat are also mentioned, as recalled, in the chapter on the subject in the resaleh by Qoshayri, in the Mirʿat al-moruwweh by ʿAli ebn Hasan ebn Jaʿdawayhi, and in Rashid al-Din Maybodi’s Kashf al-asrar wa ʿoddat al-abrar. 41 Mojaddedi, The Biographical Tradition in Sufism, 9–39 and Fig. 1 (ibid., 214). The generations extend from the late 4th/10th century to the late 2nd/8th century, while the last of the fifth generation lived in the late 10th century. 42 For the Khorasani members, see Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 32–33. 43 Mojaddedi, The Biographical Tradition in Sufism, 99–124.



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kalam,44 rather than to the Hanafi madhhab and Moʿtazili kalam.45 This may indicate that the first part of the epigraph decorating the Nishapuri vessels, the la-fata-illa-ʿAli phrase, may have appealed in particular to Sufi-oriented Nishapuri individuals, adhering to the Shafeʿi madhhab of the Sunna and the Ashʿari kalam, who were acquainted with fotovvat principles of contemporary Sufi writings. The Arabic language used on these vessels may further suggest that they were made for the Arabic speaking or Arabic-conscious aristocratic elite in the city,46 comprising estate owners or dehqans, upper-class merchants, and religious leaders, whom Richard Bulliet characterises as the wealthy patricians of the city.47 The available information may indicate that at least some of the upper-class Nishapur citizens who followed Shafeʿi madhhab of the Sunna and the Ashʿari kalam were Sufi-oriented, exhibiting what Bulliet calls: ‘The Shafeʿi-Ashʿari-Sufi syndrome.’48 This information may be found, for example, in the relatively full accounts offered by the contemporary local historian ʿAbd al-Ghafer al-Faresi (d. 529/1134), who wrote the Ketab al-siyaq li-taʾrikh Nishapur and the Montakhab men ketab al-siyaq li-taʾrikh Nishapur.49 Typical of this class is a certain Abu ʿAli Hasan al-Maniʿi, a prominent figure 44 Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 93: ‘The wedding of Shafiʿi law and Ashʿari doctrine was being accomplished in the city during the tenth century.’ ‘Many of the foremost Sufis in the city were’ (ibid. 43), ‘unquestionably Ashʿari in theology. Notable examples are Abu ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Sulami, author of the first Sufi biographical dictionary, and Abu’l-Qasim al-Qushayri, who wrote in addition to his famous Risala on Sufism a treatise in defense of the Ashʿaris against the charges leveled at them by ʿAmid al-Mulk al-Kunduri’ [discussed later]. 45 Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 37, ‘by and large, those people to whom the Ashʿari theology appealed were Shafiʿi, while those who adhered to the Muʿtazili dogma were Hanafis,’ among whom ‘the practice of mysticism was almost non-existent’ (ibid. 41). 46 On the Arabic component in Khorasan, see Amikam Elad, ‘Mawali in the composition of al-Maʾmun’s army: a non-Arab takeover?’ in Patrons and Patronage in Early and Classical Islam, ed. Monique Bernards and John Nawas (Leiden, 2005), 278–325; Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 16–17. 47 Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur. 48 Ibid., 137–38. 49 Taken together, these works contain more than 1700 biographies of citizens living in the city since the conquest by Islam and until the author’s own time. Another contemporary local history is the Ketab ahval-i Nishapur by Hakim al-Naisaburi. See Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 72, note 1, referring to manuscripts of these histories reproduced in facsimile in Frye (1965). See also Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 21–27. For Nishapuri Sufis from the Samanid, Simjurid, and Ghaznavid periods, see ibid., 95, 105/25; ibid., 98, 105/41; ibid., 115, 132/1; ibid., 150, note 1 and 227, note 2; and ibid., 152. For Sufis active during the Seljuk period, see ibid., 121, 132/14; 137–38, 143/7; 67 and note 25; ibid, 155, 175/10; 156, 188/3; 157, 188/16; 160, 189/33; 172–73, 191/74; 173, 191/75.

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in Nishapur society and a Sufi follower of the Shafeʿi madhhab and the Ashʿari kalam. Al-Maniʿi was a non-Nishapuri resident who came from Marv al-Rud to Nishapur after Alp Arslan became the Sultan. It was the latter’s vizier, Nezam al-Molk, who invited al-Maniʿi, appointing him raʾis50 of Nishapur and its Shaykh al-Islam,51 and later commanding him to build at his own expense a new congregational mosque for Shafeʿi-Ashʿari citizens, to counter-balance the old congregational mosque which was still under Hanafi control.52 According to al-Faresi, al-Maniʿi’s rise to prominence in the city was achieved thanks to the prestige of his family’s lineage as landholders, or dehqans, in their town of origin, Marv al-Rud.53 It was also due to his own reputation as one who follows the codes of chivalry, that is, fotovvat mannerisms, that he became a source of inspiration to others in the city.54 Both these aspects, lineage and adherence to the Shafeʿi madhhab and the Ashʿari kalam, together with Sufi-oriented, fotovvat-centred tendencies, were thus combined in the person of al-Maniʿi,55 a 50 By appointing an outsider as raʾis, Nezam al-Molk probably intended to make Abu ʿAli Hasan al-Maniʿi an intermediary between the state and the patriciate of the city, and thus secure his own control. Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 68. 51 Faresi I, fol. 15b-17b; II, 61b-62a (Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 65, note 16). The office of Shaykh al-Islam was customarily the preserve of the Nishapuri patriciate, yet Nezam al-Molk chose to appoint to this office the non-Nishapuri Abu ʿAli Hasan al-Maniʿi. Cf. Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 74, who writes that after the death of al-Maniʿi, in 478/1085, the position of Shaykh al-Islam of Nishapur went back to the patriciate, in fact, back to the local Hanafi Abu Nasr Ahmad al-Saʿidi, the leader of the earlier persecution of the Shafeʿis. 52 On al-Maniʿi and his new congregational mosque, see Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 170, note 32 (referring to Faresi I, fol. 15a-17b; II, fol. 61b). 53 Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 45, note 33, quoting from Faresi I, fols. 15a-17b. 54 Faresi I, fol. 15a in Frye’s edition, but wrongly translated by Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 45. 55 Al-Maniʿi thus represents a distinct phenomenon of contemporary Nishapur, where inclinations toward fotovvat appear to have been confined to Shafeʿi citizens who were Ashʿari in their theological leanings. Cf. Bulliet. 36–37: ‘The Hanafis and their Muʿtazili theology were strong until the arrival of the Ashʿari theology adopted by the [local] Shafiʿi school, which became increasingly centered in Nishapur from the second half of the tenth century… This theology came as a dynamic new doctrine promulgated by some of the most outstanding brilliant and dynamic thinkers and writers who happened to belong to the Shafiʿi law school.’ Such was the case with the ‘newcomer Ashʿari’ theologian Abu Sahl Mohammad al-Soʿluki (d. 369/980), who was also a Sufi (ibid., 115–17, 132/1). After a fifteen-year absence, he returned to Nishapur in 337/949, and soon became the city’s preeminent scholar of Shafeʿi law, supplying a strong backing for the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari faction in the city. ‘Another Shafiʿi scholar who introduced the Ashʿari dogma to the city was Abu Bakr Muhammad b. Hasan Ibn Furak, invited to Nishapur sometime before 372/998, having had the difficulties in the Buyid capital at Rayy because of his Ashʿari ideas. … Within



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phenomenon that may help to portray the kind of people who might have been potential consumers for the aforementioned ceramic platters; that is, ShafeʿiAshʿari landholders inspired by fotovvat principles described in the Sufi-oriented, fotovvat-centred writings of contemporary religious scholars active in the city. According to local annals, the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari faction also included rich Nishapuri merchants.56 Nishapur’s topography made the city a natural junction for trade routes from many places, and as the trade economy’s focus increased on Nishapur, so did the respect and prominence of its merchants. If they aspired to be truly part of the city’s gentry, they had to trade part of their wealth in exchange for the desired measure of respect; they would thus either buy land in emulation of the dehqans, whose dominance remained relatively stable over a period of many generations, or endow religious foundations and subsidise scholars in order to induce the acceptance of the religious branch of the city. Through distributing their entire fortune for religious ends, their aim was to trade commercial status for status of a higher kind, gaining the great respect which could be passed on to their children.57 The devotion of these merchants to fotovvat principles would have certainly increased their interest in the ceramic plates. And indeed, as Bulliet remarks, at times when urban Islamic societies enjoyed social security and a flourishing economy, tracts and treatises dedicated to fotovvat allocated more attention to the merchant classes.58 To sum up, any member of the Nishapuri Shafeʿi-Ashʿari faction belonging to the moneyed, upper class aristocracy could have been a potential consumer of the Nishapur ceramic vessels shown on Pls. A-B, where ʿAli’s status as a fata is proclaimed in rich and sophisticated lettering. Based on the maintenance of ethical codes of chivalry by the fotovvat-oriented Shafeʿi-Ashʿari citizens in medieval Nishapur, not to mention the respect accorded to ʿAli as a fata in some early Sufi texts, the la-fata-illa-ʿAli declaration in the first part of the epigraph of the Jerusalem and Tehran vessels can be seen as a natural corollary to the Sufi, fotovvat-oriented, trends. Such trends are in fact apparent also in other adabcentred epigraphs inscribed on further vessels made in Nishapur, to which space limitations do not allow me to devote further analysis. a generation, the newcomers had become an integral part of the top echelon of Shafiʿi patricians and in the process had spread their Ashʿari doctrines among the older patrician families’ (ibid., 37). 56 For examples, see Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 91, 94–95, 102–4; 134–35, 143/9; 165–67, 190/48–53; and 162, 179–80. 57 For methods used by the merchants to achieve the status of patricians, see Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 23, 25–27. 58 Ibid., 21–27.

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What remains to be explained, however, is the second part of the epigraph, la sayf illa Dhu’l-faqar. In this declaration, unknown in contemporary Sufi writings, ʿAli is associated with his military status, symbolised by the celebrated doubleedged sword traditionally given to him by Mohammad during the battle of Uhud, with which he was able to oppose his enemies.59 The phrasing on the Jerusalem and Tehran platters, which is decidedly unusual in its uncompromising reference to ʿAli’s military proficiency, will hence be examined in the specific context of contemporary historical events occurring in medieval Nishapur.

La sayf illa Dhu’l-faqar – the militant aspect of ʿAli’s personality and its reflection on the local combative atmosphere The insistently militant aspect of the second part of the ʿAli-centred epigraph may perhaps reflect the prevailing hostile atmosphere and factional struggles between Nishapuri Shafeʿi-Ashʿaris and Hanafi-Moʿtazilis. Although there was no perceptible difference between Hanafis and Shafeʿis,60 neither in legal interpretation nor in economic status, class, race, or language, the two schools of law were engaged at that time in violent conflict,61 stimulated, so it would seem, by the introduction of the Ashʿari theology during the latter part of the 4th/10th century.62 This school of thought was warmly received by the Shafeʿis, as opposed to the Hanafis who remained loyal to the Moʿtazili theology that had become widespread in Khorasan at an earlier date. As observed by Bulliet, ‘The migration of the Ashʿari school to Nishapur in the late 4th/10th century introduced into the city a number of brilliant and dynamic individuals who happened to belong 59 See above, notes 1–3. 60 The Shafeʿi school was first introduced into the city by Abu ʿAbd Allah Mohammad ebn Ahmad ebn Hafs al-Harashi (d. 263/877), who had never personally met Mohammad al-Shafeʿi (d. 208/830); he became the Khorasan authority on Shafeʿi law. 61 Bulliet The Patricians of Nishapur, 30–31: Nishapur was fairly typical of the general situation in eastern Iran and Transoxiana, where the two law schools had expanded during the early years of the Abbasid caliphate. 62 The Ashʿari school, initiated in Iraq by Abu al-Hasan al-Ashʿari’s first important disciples and maintained in later generations, became increasingly centred in Nishapur since the second half of the 4th/10th century, ‘occurring through the immigration of scholars from the west’, or, ‘through Khurasanian scholars travelling to Iraq and becoming indoctrinated in the new theology and returning home to teach – whatever the method, the result was that in comparison to the Muʿtazili theology which had become common in Khurasan at an earlier date, Ashʿari theology came as a dynamic new doctrine promulgated by some of the most outstanding thinkers and writers, men like Ibn Furak and al-Suʾluki’. Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 36–37.



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to the Shafeʿi law school.’63 An early ‘newcomer Ashʿari’, who also adhered to contemporary Sufism, was Abu Sahl Mohammad al-Soluki (d. 369/980); after a fifteen-year absence, he returned to Nishapur in 337/949, and soon became a preeminent scholar of Shafeʿi law, providing a strong central base for the ShafeʿiAshʿari faction in the city.64 Another ‘newcomer Ashʿari’ was the theologian of the Shafeʿi school, Abu Bakr Mohammad ebn Hasan ebn Furak,65 who came to Nishapur before 372/983, following his difficulties in the Buyid capital at Rayy due to his Ashʿari beliefs.66 Ebn Furak moved to the city at the invitation of the governor of Nishapur, Abu al-Hasan Mohammad ebn Ebrahim al-Simjuri, who, after achieving independence from the Samanid rulers during the 370s/980s, had become a patron of the Shafeʿis to counteract the earlier Samanid preference for Hanafis.67 Al-Simjuri appointed to the post of chief qadi the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari scholar Abu Bakr Ahmad al-Harashi al-Hiri,68 one of the last two Shafeʿi qadis appointed in the city until the mid-6th/12th century, since this post was traditionally given to a member the Saʿidi family of the Hanafi sect.69 The other Shafeʿi qadi was Abu ʿAmr Mohammad al-Bastami,70 who came to be considered the leader of the Shafe‘i faction in Nishapur; al-Bastami was appointed to the qadi post around 388/998, presumably again under the pro-Shafeʿi-Ashʿari Simjurid family during their brief return to the city.71 63 Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 37. 64 Ibid., 115–17, and 132/1, citing historical sources. 65 For more on Abu Bakr Mohammad b. Hasan Ebn Furak, see Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 159, 188/28. 66 Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 37, ‘Within a generation the newcomers had become an integral part of the top echelon of Shafiʿi patricians and had in the process spread their Ashʿari doctrines among the older patricians: Ibn Furak became linked to the Sufi families of Abu’l-Qasim al-Qoshayri and Abu ʿAli al-Daqqaq. Al-Suʾluki made alliance with the aristocratic ʿAlids and with the Bastami family which soon acquired hereditary leadership of the Shafiʿi law school and later combined through marriage with the family of one of the greatest Ashʿaris, Imam al-Haramain al-Juwaini.’ 67 For the Simjurids, who in 350–371/961–981 served the Samanids as their Turkish mamluks, but in the later 370s/980s became governors of Nishapur without Samanid authorisation, see Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 18. 68 On Abu Bakr Ahmad al-Harashi al-Hiri and his nomination as qadi, see ibid., 93, 99/19. 69 For the office of qadi held by the Saʿidi family and its specific social/educational functions in Nishapur, see Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 205–6, 209–11, 213–14, 64, 93–94. 70 About Abu ʿAmr Mohammad al-Bastami, son-in-law of Abu al-Tayyeb Sahl al-Soluki, see ibid., 117, 132/5 71 Ibid., 118, note 5 (referring to al-Faresi II, fol. 108b).

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Most interesting is the Simjurid support of the Shafeʿi leader Abu Nasr ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Sabuni (d. 382/992), formerly a Hanafi preacher who, according to Sobki’s biographies of Shafeʿi-Ashʿari leaders, had been converted from the Hanafi to the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari faction by Abu Sahl Mohammad al-Soluki, who was recognised and respected by Shafeʿis and Hanafis alike.72 ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Sabuni made an important convert to the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari faction, an event that naturally exacerbated the animosity of Hanafis toward Shafeʿis.73 This animosity finally burst into fierce factional rivalry, leading to the murder in 382/992 of the convert ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Sabuni. As Sobki describes, al-Sabuni was murdered ‘on account of fanaticism (taʿassob) and factionalism (madhhab)’.74 The term ʿasabiya evidently meant factional strife to Sobki and other writers of the eastern Islamic world of the fourth/tenth and fifth/eleventh centuries.75 The level of violence was maintained under Ghaznavids, who became openly defiant of Samanid authority in 388/998, and captured the city of Nishapur in 391/1001. Although Mahmud of Ghazna was pro-Hanafi to begin with – to the extent of stamping a Moʿtazili slogan on his coins,76 and ordering the governor of the city, his brother Nasr, to build a madraseh for the Hanafi leader Abu al-ʿAlaʾ Saʿid – he soon suspected the Hanafi leader of political unreliability (by appearing to favour his original patrons, the Samanids), and consequently switched to the Karrami sect.77 In 400/1010, Mahmud of Ghazna appointed the head of 72 About the above information, see Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 135, note 1 (referring to Sobki, III, 170). Also ibid., 31–32 and 134–35 for more on Abu Nasr ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Sabuni (d. 382/992), who died twelve years after Abu Sahl Mohammad al-Soluki. On the latter, see above, note 65. 73 Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 32, 38–39: Rivalries between the two legal factions were based on a struggle for power and monopoly in the legal, religious, and educational systems in the city. ‘Key posts in the city were awarded to the faction favouring the dynasty temporarily in power.’ Thus the Samanids, who ruled over the city until sometime before 372/983, played the patron to the Hanafi faction, in the hope that the latter would promote Samanid interests in the city. The Simjurids, who in the later years of the 370s/980s became governors of Nishapur without Samanid authorisation, instead patronised the Shafeʿis; ibid., 18. 74 For more on the murder incident, see Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 135, note 2 (referring to Old Sobki, IV, 274). 75 Ibid., 135. According to Bulliet, the ‘fanaticism (taʿassub) and factionalism (madhhab)’, were probably exacerbated by political manoeuvring between the Simjurid, Samanids, and Ghaznavids, between the end of the first period of Simjurid domination (concluding in 371/981), and that of the Ghaznavids (which began, still under Samanid control, in 384/994). 76 Bulliet, ‘A Muʿtazilite coin of Mahmud of Ghazna’, American Numismatic Society Museum Notes 15 (1969), 119–29, Cf. Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 70–71, 202–3. 77 Bosworth, ‘The rise of the Karamiyyah in Khurasan’, 203–4.



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Karramiyya, Abu Bakr Mohammad ebn Mohmashad, to the office of raʾis. Sometime after 400/1010 and throughout the time of Karrami domination of Nishapur (until 428/1036), Abu Bakr Mohammad led a witch-hunt against many prominent figures accused of belonging to the allegedly heretical Esmaʿili faction.78 That period, which lasted until the Seljuk Turks first occupied Nishapur in 428/1036, has been considered a reign of terror, led by the non-patrician power of the Karramis who subverted the authority of both Shafeʿis and Hanafis, rightful and natural leaders of the city. The threat posed by Karramis affected the common interest of the entire patriciate, both Shafeʿis and Hanafis, transcending their factional conflict; the two sects joined forces to present a solid front.79 However, with the Seljuk occupation of the city in 428/1036, animosity broke out again between the two factions. In the early years of Seljuk rule, the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari faction was led by several prominent personalities.80 The leaders of the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari faction soon became objects of jealousy and antagonism by leaders of the Hanafi faction. The Hanafi raʾis, Abu Nasr Ahmad, who also

78 Cf. notes 27, 28. For more on the Karramiyya episode under the Ghaznavids in Nishapur and their persecution of many prominent figures as heretical Esmaʿilis, see Bulliet, Patricians, 159–60. Then (ibid., 203–4), the Karrami leader, Abu Bakr Mohammad ebn Mohmashad, indicted the Hanafi leader Abu al-ʿAlaʾ Saʿid on the charge of being a Moʿtazili. The latter triumphed in court with no difficulty, and Karrami power in the city went into eclipse soon afterwards. 79 On this opposition to the Karrami persecution, see Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 46, 71, 159–60. The same unity is observed in 489/1096, when a great uprising of the Karramiyya broke out in Nishapur and was put down by combined Shafeʿi and Hanafi efforts; seeing a common interest, they joined forces in a violent riot against the revived Karrami: Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 213, note 18 (referring to Ebn Athir X, 87 and Ebn Fondoq, 268). Cf. Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 126. 80 They were Imam al-Mowaffaq al-Bastami, who succeeded his father, Abu ʿAmr Mohammad al-Bastami, in the position of formal head of the Shafeʿi madhhab, acting as top advisor to the Sultan Toghrel (ibid, 118–119, 132/9); al-Mowaffaq’s twin brother, al-Moʿayyad al-Bastami, who sat on the state mazalem court which gave the Shafeʿis a voice in the judicial field (ibid., 132/10); Abu ʿOthman Esmaʿil al-Sabuni, whose converted father had been murdered in 382/992, installed in his father’s old preaching post (khatib) in the Shafeʿi mosque, and in that of the Shaykh al-Islam (ibid., 52–53, 117, 119–20, 134–36); al-Fazl Ahmad al-Furati (d. 446/1054), who was married to one of Abu ʿOthman Esmaʿil al-Sabuni’s daughters, thus completing the family nexus of Shafeʿi power (ibid. 137, 143/3); Abu Mohammad ʿAbd Allah al-Jovayni (d. 438/1047), whose career after settling in Nishapur in 407/1016 was tremendously successful (ibid., 121, 132/15); and Abu’l-Qasem ʿAbd al-Karim al-Qoshayri, a recognised pillar of the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari leadership, who reached great eminence as a Sufi and religious scholar (see note 30).

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held the office of qadi,81 joined forces with ʿAmid al-Molk Mansur al-Kondori,82 the pro-Hanafi vizier of Tughril Beg (d. 450/1058), and in 440/1048 they jointly launched the persecution of Shafeʿi-Ashʿari leaders in Nishapur – Ashʿaris, in particular. ʿAmid al-Molk al-Kondori, in his capacity as vizier, promulgated a governmental decree forbidding the Ashʿaris to teach or hold any official religious or educational posts. He ordered the khatibs in lands under Seljuk domination to anathematise all believers in the theological doctrines of al-Ashʿari in their khotbehs (sermons); this decree was evidently designed to undermine the ShafeʿiAshʿari party in Nishapur, the heart of the Ashʿari movement.83 In his position as raʾis, Abu Nasr Ahmad took various anti-Shafeʿi steps. He and al-Kondori recruited a third ally, a learned and fanatical Hanafi preacher named Abu’l-Hasan ʿAli al-Sandali (d. 484/1091), whom al-Kondori appointed to the office of khatib in the Old Congregational Mosque. As the mosque’s khatib, al-Sandali supplemented al-Kondori’s and Abu Nasr Ahmad’s official decrees with the force of collective action by the common people; his fanatical preaching gained him a popular following84 which grew until it developed into a full-scale persecution of Shafeʿis and Ashʿaris. The trio intended to place Nishapur under unquestioned Hanafi dominion. Subsequently, by mid 5th/11th century, when leadership of the Shafeʿi law school consisted of predominantly Ashʿari disciples, the school became vulnerable to a trumped-up charge of heresy. Every means of eliminating Shafeʿi-Ashʿari influence was used; mass mobilisation through khatibs, exclusion from positions of authority, arrests, and forced exile. Consequently, prominent representatives such as Abu’l-Qasem al-Qoshayri and Abu’l-Fazl Ahmad al-Furati, the former raʾis, were arrested and imprisoned in the citadel, while Abu’l-Maʿali ʿAbd al-Malek al-Jovayni escaped from the city in secret and lived in exile in Arabia (where he received his honorific title of Imam al-Haramayn). At the same time, Abu Sahl Mohammad al-Bastami, the son of Imam alMovaffaq and the head of the Shafeʿi madhhab, preferred to resist and free his 81 On Abu Nasr Ahmad Saʿidi (d. 482/1084), whose post of qadi continued to be held by his offspring, see Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 209. 82 For the complex biography of al-Kondori, who began his career as a protégé of the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari leader Imam al-Mowaffaq al-Bastami, and only later turned to the Hanafi faction, see Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 72, note 36 (referring to Faresi, I, fols. 88a-b; II, fol. 129b), and ibid., 38, 74, 120, 209–10. 83 Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 66, 72, 122. 84 On Abu’l-Hasan ʿAli al-Sandali, see ibid., 236–37.



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imprisoned colleagues; he mobilised his personal armed retainers and summoned the persecutors to fight in the market place. The struggle between Shafeʿis and Hanafis assumed a militant form, driving the enmity of these rival factions within the patriciate to shift from rivalry to open bloodshed.85 However, there is no written evidence regarding the use of swords by Abu Sahl Mohammad al-Bastami’s personal militia,86 nor are there any specific references identifying them as fetyan (plural of fata). Both swords and fetyan abound nonetheless in descriptions of the post-persecution generation whose young men returned to Nishapur with the suspension of the oppression and the manhunt when Nezam al-Molk took office as the Seljuk vizier, succeeding al-Kondori as ‘an even more ambitious and astute politician’.87 It was during that period, when the Hanafi political monopoly transferred to Shafeʿis,88 that some of the younger descendants of the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari leaders are specifically identified as fetyan, often displaying, according to the sources, certain militant tendencies. Encouraged by the restored power of their elders, these young people probably wished to take some revenge on the Hanafis, in view of the sufferings experienced by their families during al-Kondori’s persecution. The combative tendencies of those young men are evident, for example, in Imam al-Haramayn’s son, Abu’l-Qasem al-Mozaffar al-Jovayni, who was born in Rayy at the beginning of his father’s exile, around 445/1053, and came to Nishapur with the lifting of the persecution. Al-Faresi observes that Abu’l-Qasem differed from his celebrated father by showing ‘a special inclination toward the use of the javelin, the bow, and the sword’,89 while a biography of a contemporary, little-known militant Shafeʿi, referred to by Sobki, tells of a ‘violent set-to [occurring in the year 484/1091] between Abu’l-Qasim al-Muzaffar al-Juwaini and the ʿAmid of Khorasan’, because the latter had opposed Abu’l-Qasem’s claims to his 85 For more on the persecution and the battle, which at a certain point was stopped, resulting in the prisoners being freed but forced into exile in Arabia, see Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 121–23, 153. 86 In fact, the only weapons mentioned in this battle are arrows. Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 122: the battle ‘was waxing so fierce that the combatants began to run out of arrows’. 87 Ibid., 72. 88 Thus in 450/1058 the Nezamiyya madraseh was established as a Shafeʿi institution by the vizier, who appointed Imam al-Haramayn al-Jovayni as first director, and, at the vizier’s behest, a New Congregational Mosque was built by al-Maniʿi at his own expense to counterbalance the old Congregational Mosque which was still under Hanafi control: above, notes 51–56 and Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 73–74, 124–25, 170, note 32 (referring to Faresi, I, fol. 15a-17b; II, fol. 61b). 89 Ibid. 125, and 133/27 (referring to Faresi I, fol. 89b-90a; II, fol. 132b).

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deceased father’s position as the head of the Nezamiyya and chief of the Shafeʿi faction.90 Abu’l-Qasem’s combative leanings are also indicated by his activities as leader of the Shafeʿi forces in the fighting against a great uprising of the Karramiyya, which broke out in 489/1096,91 and in a battle opposing a usurper who took command of Nishapur.92 Similar confrontational tendencies are typical to other Shafeʿi-Ashʿari young men of the same generation, often specifically identified in the sources as ShafeʿiAshʿari fetyan. One example is Abu Bakr al-Rahman al-Sabuni (d. 500/1107), a descendant of the above-mentioned Abu Nasr ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Sabuni, described as ‘an attractive and gracious young man of worldly tastes to things such as hunting and possibly the futuwwa’.93 Another example, from Nishapur of the 460s/1060s, is Abu Bakr Ahmad al-Furaki (d. 478/1085), grandson of Ebn Furak by the latter’s daughter and her husband, Abu Mansur Mohammad ebn alHosayn ebn Abi Ayyub; according to his own son’s biography, Abu Bakr Ahmad al-Furaki was ‘one of the most contentious, ostentatious, and noisy of the Ashʿari fetyan’.94 Also according to al-Faresi, he [Abu Bakr Ahmad al-Furaki] was a fata ‘according to the Ashʿari doctrine’.95 Taking into account how his grandfather, Abu Bakr Mohammad ebn Hasan ebn Furak, was an Ashʿari theologian, invited to Nishapur sometime before 372/983 because of his difficulties in the Buyid capital at Rayy,96 may allow one to infer that the fata activities of his grandson, Abu Bakr Ahmad al-Furaki, may have been an expression of filial defence toward his grandfather’s Ashʿari theology. His ‘contentious, ostentatious, and noisy’ propaganda for Ashʿari theology figures in other events of his life outside Nishapur: in 461/1067, ‘he appears in Baghdad where he is involved in some trouble with the Caliph’s court because of his Ashʿari views,’ and a few years later, in 469/1077, he joined his brother-in-law, Abu Nasr ʿAbd al-Rahim al-Qoshayri, when the latter ‘touched off a riot in Baghdad by his Ashʿari preachings’.97 Although Abu Nasr ʿAbd al-Rahim al-Qoshayri, brother-in-law of Abu Bakr 90 Ibid. 126, note 17 (referring to Sobki IV, 113). 91 Ibid. 126, note 19 (referring to Ebn Athir, X, 87). 92 During this battle, in 493/1100, Abu’l-Qasem al-Mozaffar al-Jovayni was assassinated, being tricked into taking poison: ibid. 126. 93 Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 138–39, 143/9. 94 Ibid., 160–61, 189/34 (referring to Faresi, II, fol. 124a). 95 Ibid., 45 (referring to Faresi, II, fol. 33a). Cf. ibid., 189/34. 96 See notes 66, 67. 97 Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 161, 89 (referring to Faresi, II, fol. 124a), and 175–79 (citing historical sources for biographical details on the life and character of Abu Nasr ʿAbd al-Rahim al-Qoshayri).



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Ahmad al-Furaki, is not described in the above text as a fata, his activities in Baghdad, where he ‘touched off a riot by his Ashʿari preachings’, may suggest that he too, like his brother-in-law, was a member of ‘the Ashʿari fetyan’ fighting for their beliefs. This notion may be strengthened in view of the fact that Abu Nasr ʿAbd al-Rahim al-Qoshayri (d. 514/1120) was a son of the celebrated ShafeʿiAshʿari Sufi scholar Abu’l-Qasem al-Qoshayri who had composed a treatise in defence of the Ashʿaris and had been persecuted by ʿAmid al-Molk al-Kondori.98 Therefore, when a class was convened in Baghdad in 469/1077 for Abu Nasr ʿAbd al-Rahim al-Qoshayri, he ‘expounded his Ashʿari beliefs in such a way that the feelings of the Hanbali faction became enflamed and a great riot broke out [in which] lives were lost on both sides’.99 The result was that he was summoned to Esfahan by Nezam al-Molk, who admonished him to such an effect that when Abu Nasr returned to Nishapur he spent the remainder of his life quietly in study and teaching.100 This conclusion to the life of Abu Nasr al-Rahim al-Qoshayri may explain why, when his son Abu’l-Qasem Fazl Allah al-Qoshayri expressed his desire to join the fotovvat, his father ‘afforded this son whatever education he had a taste for with the exception that he forbade him to join the futuwa’.101 According to al-Faresi, despite his father’s objection ‘Abu’l-Qasim shunned scholarship and the life laid open to him by his high birth’.102 He rather seems to have been another young man of the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari Sufi faction who joined fotovvat as an active fata, presumably devoted to expounding his own beliefs against potential opponents, the Hanbalis in Baghdad and the Hanafis in Nishapur. Another young Shafeʿi-Ashʿari man who may have devoted his fata activities to expounding the Qoshayri teaching was one of Abu’l-Qasem al-Qoshayri’s direct disciples, whom al-Faresi in fact names a fata.103 He may have participated in the unrest of the post-persecution generation of Qoshayri’s followers, consisting of Abu Bakr Ahmad al-Furaki (d. 478/1085); Abu’l-Qasem al-Qoshayri’s son and 98 See above, note 84. 99 Faresi, I, fol. 45b-46a; II, fol. 93b-94a; Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur 158, 175/9. 100 Ibid., 155. Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 74, 155: Nezam al-Molk’s policy at the time was to patronise the Shafeʿis, yet because of the overheated climate of patrician politics ‘the price of his [Nezam al-Molk’s] patronage was relaxation on their part of factional political tension… [Hence], when the Shafeʿis clashed with Hanafis, Nezam al-Molk refused to support them and tried to defuse the situation’. 101 Faresi, I, fol. 76a; II, fol. 166b; Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 45, 158, 188/22. Abu’l-Qasem Fazl Allah al-Qoshayri died in 518/1124. 102 Ibid., loc. cit. 103 Faresi, II, fol. 82a. See Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 45, note 31.

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grandson, Abu Nasr ʿAbd al-Rahim al-Qoshayri (d. 514/1120); and Abu’l-Qasem Fazl Allah al-Qoshayri (d. 518/1124). The confrontational activities of these three may have begun at the same time, probably in joining the fotovvat group of ‘Ashʿari fetyan’ who fought the Hanafis if only to honour their formerly oppressed elders. To the same group also belongs a member of the Bastami branch, named Abu’l-Hasan Mohammad al-Esfaraʾini (d. 487/1094), raʾis of Esfaraʾin, north of Nishapur, who frequently visited Nishapur and is said to have acted there as a fata.104 All seven, then, Abu’l-Qasem al-Mozaffar al-Jovayni (d. 493/1100), Abu Bakr al-Rahman al-Sabuni (d. 500/1107), Abu Bakr Ahmad al-Furaki (d. 478/1085), Abu Nasr ‘Abd al-Rahim al-Qoshayri (d. 514/1120), Abu’l-Qasem Fazl Allah al-Qoshayri (d. 518/1124), Abu’l-Qasem al-Qoshayri’s direct disciple, and Abu’lHasan Mohammad al-Esfaraʾini (d. 487/1094), are representatives of javanmardi within the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari nexus sponsored by Nezam al-Molk at the time of his accession to power. The concept of a young man adept at fighting evidently disagrees with the fotovvat principles of spiritual chivalry practised by the previous generations, and with those of a disciple following his master on the mystic path. Rather, they may have drawn on the notion of ʿAli’s martial propensity as it is expressed in the Jerusalem and Tehran platters in the second part of the inscription, la sayf illa Dhu’l-faqar. The fata-like military activities of the Shafeʿi fetyan did not come to an end during Nezam al-Molk’s vizierate (450/1058 to 485/1092) despite the latter’s policy of moderating factional tension. In fact, Hanafi-Shafeʿi factional riots and animosity went on long after Nezam al-Molk’s death in 485/1092;105 after the fall of the last Seljuk sultan of Khorasan, Sanjar;106 and even after the disastrous 104 Ibid., 123, 133/22, p. 205. Abu al-Hasan Mohammad al-Esfaraʾini was also a poet, once received by Nezam al-Molk whom he eulogised in an ode. 105 After the turn of the century animosity between the two factions broke into open warfare; a serious riot, according to al-Hosayni’s Akhbar, took place during the reign of Sanjar: al-Hosayni, Akhbar ʾud-Dawlat ʾis-Saljuqiyya, ed. by M. Iqbal (Lahore 1913), quoted in Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 164, note 17. A probable Shafeʿi-Ashʿari victim of the affair was Abu Bakr al-Qasem al-Saffar, the great grandson of Abu ʿAli al-Qasem b. Habib b. ʿAbdu al-Saffar al-Faryabadi, the head of the Saffar family, which ‘by the time the Saffar family appears in history’ (ibid., 162), ‘it had attained great wealth and through land purchases had come to be classed as a dihqan family’. According to al-Faresi (II, fol. 124a; Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, n. 44 at 189), Abu Bakr al-Qasem al-Saffar was murdered at noon on a Friday in 516/1122, and Bulliet, 164 has: ‘the singular timing of the deed suggests that factional rivalry [indeed] was the cause.’ 106 Ibid., 214, ‘by 527/1133, the two parties were at daggers’ point with the sharper dagger, it seems, in the hands of the Hanafis’. However, the sources do not mention any fetyan in these riots.



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plunder of Nishapur by the Ghuzz in 548/1153, which left behind an almost totally destroyed and devastated city. Following the Ghuzz attack, the city suffered from repeated looting and depredations, as well as famine, economic inflation, and low production.107 This may indicate a time-limit for ceramic production, which probably came to a halt when the city was sacked in 548/1153. In such chaotic times it is indeed hard to believe that a ceramic workshop could continue to produce ornamental artefacts; this would mean that the Jerusalem and Tehran platters carrying the two parts of the ʿAli slogan must have been made before the sack of Nishapur.

Potential consumers for the Jerusalem and Tehran platters carrying the double ʿAli slogan The Jerusalem and Tehran platters were probably made for young Shafeʿi-Ashʿari fetyan during the early post-persecution period. Following the return of ShafeʿiAshʿari leaders to Nishapur, the young Shafeʿi-Ashʿari fetyan were involved, as I argued, in extensive factional riots. As the descendants of these leaders, they were apparently encouraged by their elders’ regained power to become actively involved in the inner politics of the city, which naturally implied antagonising the Hanafis, presumably to avenge their families’ sufferings during almost ten years of persecution under al-Kondori. As we saw, certain militant tendencies among those young men have been documented; some among them are described, moreover, as being interested in weaponry, particularly swords, and these young men are often specifically described in the sources as fetyan. In view of the popularity of fotovvat principles with Sufis of Khorasan, Nishapur in particular, we may assume that those among the Nishapuri fetyan who belonged to the upper class Shafeʿi-Ashʿari aristocracy continued adhering, like their elders, to the Sufi-oriented, fotovvat-centred ethical codes of generosity, hospitality and open-handedness.108 At the same time, these fetyan may have had 107 On this period, ibid., 77–81. 108 As for on the way in which Solami and his colleagues may have influenced the young Nishapuri fetyan in practice, one should take into account the fact that in this period Sufism became integrated into the social and communal life of Shafeʿi-Ashʿari citizens in Nishapur. As shown by Malamud, it even penetrated the teaching curriculum in their madrasehs. The Shafeʿi school where the great Sufi scholar Abu al-Qasem al-Qoshayri taught was known as a Sufi institution rather than as a madraseh: Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 152, 250; Richard Frye, The Histories of Nishapur (The Hague, 1965), 1:5b, 82b, 2:123a, 36a, 106a-b, 69a, 135b, 121b. There was an institutional framework in which Qoshayri’s ideas on mysticism could be transmitted and practiced. Another example is Abu ʿAbd al-Rahman

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Fig. 3: Slip-painted, black-on-white glazed earthenware platter (diameter 46.8cm, height 6cm), Medieval Nishapur, source: Freer Gallery of Art and Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C.: Purchase – Charles Lang Freer Endowment, F1952.11. After Richard Ettinghausen, Medieval Near Eastern Ceramics in the Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Institute (Washington D.C., 1960), 29, fig. 8.

Outer band: man ayqana bi-’l-khalafi jada, wa-kaifamā ʿuwidat al-nafsu taʿtadu, barakatun li-saḥibihi ‘He who is confident about what comes after him acts generously, and to whatever you accustom your soul, to this it grows accustomed – blessing to the owner.’

Inner band: man ayqana bi-’l-khalafi jāda, wa-kaifamā ʿuwidat al-nafsu taʿtadu ‘He who is confident about what comes after him acts generously, and to whatever you accustom your soul, to this it grows accustomed.’

al-Solami, who taught Sufi texts in his own place; these texts, which included the Arbaʿun hadithan fi al-tasawwof and his compilation Resaleh fi kalam al-Shafeʿi fi al-tasawwof, were later taught by Qoshayri in al-Daqqaq’s madraseh, and then transmitted after his death by his pupils, to whom he gave a license to teach (sanad or ejazeh): See Margaret Malamud, ‘Sufi organizations and structures of authority in medieval Nishapur’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 26 (1994), 427–42. Scholars such as Qoshayri and Solami thus maintained, and to a considerable extent controlled, the educational system, which, although focused primarily on the study of the Qurʾan, hadith, feqh, and kalam, also included Sufism as an elective educational option. Hadith collections, specifically Sufi in nature, integrated Shiʿi notions as well. Also relevant is the information given in al-Faresi’s first book on Nishapur history; it relates that Qoshayri established a distinct policy regarding the shaykh-disciple, or the morshed-morid, relationship. Evidence of this dimension in the master-disciple relationship can be found in the life of Qoshayri himself; while teaching in the madraseh he also directed the spiritual training of novices, thus combining the two functions in his daily activities. In his own writings, Qoshayri reiterated the disciple’s need



La Fata illa ʿAli wa la Sayf illa Dhu’l-Faqar

Fig. 4a: Slip-painted, black-on-white glazed earthenware bowl (diameter 28.3 cm, height 8.8cm) Medieval Nishapur. The Nasser D. Khalili Collection POT159 After Ernst Grube, Cobalt and Lustre, The Nasser D. Khalili Collection of Islamic Art, vol. IX (London, 1994), 78, no. 67.

Fig. 4b: Slip-painted, black-on-white glazed earthenware platter (diameter 26.5cm). Medieval Nishapur. The Iran Bastan Museum, Tehran, no. 3761. After A. Ghouchani, Inscriptions on Nishabur Pottery (Tehran, 1986) no. 1.

Inner band: al-ḥirṣu ʿ alāmatu ’l-faqri ‘Greed is a sign of poverty’

( ) Outer band: al-ḥurru ḥurrun wa-ʾin massahu ’l-ḍurru (al-yumnu) ‘The free man is still free even if affected by harm (or good fortune)’

57

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Fig. 5: Slip-painted dark-brown-on-white glazed earthenware bowl (diameter 35.5cm), Medieval Nishapur, Gluck Collection, Japan. After A. Ghouchani, Inscriptions on Nishabur Pottery (Tehran, 1986), no. 103.

al-mulku lillāh Bottom: Kul (?)

their own meeting places, perhaps variants of the zurkhaneh, in which they might have exercised and prepared for combat – such places indeed could appropriately include an installation of the epigraphic militant slogan of the kind inscribed on for guidance on the spiritual path, declaring that it was impossible for the Sufi aspirant to achieve success without a master. In his Resaleh (p. 735), Qoshayri quotes the wellknown saying of Abu Yazid Bastami (d. 261/874): ‘The one who has no master has Satan as his imam.’ In this context one of Qoshayri’s direct disciples was indeed a fata: Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 45, note 31, quoting from Faresi II, fol. 82a. In the case of Qoshayri and the kind of relationship that he established between himself and his disciples, there seems to have been a clear connection between contemporary Sufi scholars and the fetyan in Nishapur. A contemporary history, on Qoshayri’s teacher and father-in-law, Abu ʿAli al-Daqqaq gives a similar information: Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur, 150–51): ‘even after he had begun to preach in the Motarrez Mosque, an important Shafeʿi-Ashʿari institution, he continued to preach as well in the commercial warehouses as was customary in an earlier day when, presumably, religion and business activity went hand in hand.’ It was through these kinds of connections, apart from the frequent family ties, that contemporary Sufi writings on fotovvat codes of ethics may have penetrated the active life of the young fetyan in the city.



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Fig. 6: Lead-glazed earthenware painted bowl with purplish-black slip (diameter 21cm, height 7.4cm) Medieval Nishapur. After Robert J., Charleston, Masterpieces of Western and Near Eastern Ceramics, IV, Islamic Pottery (Tokyo, 1979), 237, fig. 12.

the Jerusalem and Tehran platters. Notable, in this respect, is the extremely flat shape of the Jerusalem platter, which indicates that it may have been intended as a wall decoration. This is strongly suggested by the shape of the vessel; its extreme flatness is very much unlike all the other epigraphic vessels of Nishapur whose depth hardly makes them suitable for hanging on a wall, hence were probably used for serving food during fotovvat community dinners. To illustrate this point, we only need to compare the bowls or platters of average depth (e.g. Figs. 3–6) with a side view of the Jerusalem platter (Pl. A). Provided so, the Jerusalem platter, installed on the walls of those meeting places, was probably intended to encourage the fetyan to perform their physical exercises; after all, the formula ‘la fata illa ʿAli wa la sayf illa Dhu’l-faqar’ was uttered by the Prophet in connection with ʿAli’s military exploits.

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Concluding remarks This essay meant to unveil the mystery behind the enigmatic depiction of the la-fata-illa-ʿAli-wa-la-sayf-illa-Dhu’l-faqar saying on two, still extant, ceramic platters produced in medieval Nishapur. As decorative artefacts, their promotion of ʿAli as the ultimate fata demands an explanation with regard to the reason behind their existence; for what purpose, and for what kind of customers could they have been produced? Based on ethical codes of chivalry followed by the fotovvat-oriented ShafeʿiAshʿari citizens in medieval Nishapur, and the respect accorded to ʿAli as a fata in early Sufi texts, the la-fata-illa-ʿAli declaration in the first part of the epigraph of the Jerusalem and Tehran vessels was explained to be a natural corollary to the Sufi fotovvat-oriented trend followed by Shafeʿi-Ashʿari citizens in medieval Nishapur, also apparent in other adab-centred epigraphs in related epigraphic vessels made in Nishapur. As for the manifestly militant aspect of the second part of the ʿAli-centred epigraph, la sayf illa Dhu’l-faqar, which is unknown in contemporary Sufi writings, I explored its provenance by analysing the prevailing combative atmosphere and factional struggles between Nishapuri Shafeʿi-Ashʿaris and Hanafi-Moʿtazilis, continuously occurring in medieval Nishapur from the end of the 10th century until the fall of the city.109 By examining the specific historical context of such events, the fierce factional rivalry occurring in the city after 450/1058 was suggested to best fit the second part of the epigraph. It was only in that era that both swords and fetyan abound in historical texts, referring in particular to the representatives of javanmardi within the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari circle whose patron was Nezam al-Molk. The intense violence levelled against Hanafis was driven by a preoccupation to revenge the years of full-scale persecution and man-hunt activated against Shafeʿi-Ashʿari elders by the pro-Hanafi vizier of Tughril Beg, al-Kondori, in cooperation with the Hanafi raʾis, Abu Nasr Ahmad, who also held the office of qadi, and the fanatical Hanafi preacher al-Sandali, whom al-Kondori nominated to the office of khatib in the Old Congregational Mosque. 109 As we saw, these riots occurred continuously from the end of the 10th century, when Nasr ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Sabuni was murdered (in 382/992) ‘on account of fanaticism (taʿssub) and factionalism (madhhab)’, and through the second half of the 11th century, first when Abu Sahl Mohammad al-Bastami, with the intention of freeing his colleagues imprisoned by ʿAmid al-Molk Mansur al-Kondori and the Hanafi leaders, recruited his retainers to fight against the persecution of the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari faction launched by al-Kondori in 440/1048, and then by the post-persecution Shafeʿi-Ashʿari young generation of fighters, some of whom are described in the sources as fetyan.



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This was also a period in which Nishapur was governed by Alp Arslan and his vizier, Nezam al-Molk, who not only sponsored representatives of javanmardi within the Shafeʿi-Ashʿari nexus but also took a very active interest in the city, helping it flourish, a fact which surely had a favourable impact on the mass production of ceramics in local workshops. Our two next conjectures were: a) that these post-persecution Shafeʿi-Ashʿari fetyan may have acted as an urban militant group with its own meeting place where they might have exercised and prepared for combat, and b) that at least the Jerusalem platter was installed on the walls of such a meeting place, probably intended to encourage the fetyan in the performance of their military exercises.110 If the Jerusalem and Tehran platters were indeed made for a meeting place of post-persecution fetyans, the latter would quite naturally wish to have an epigraphic militant slogan inscribed on the platters, one which referred to ʿAli, the foremost model for chivalrous behaviour, not only in his adab but also in his ‘brave and manly’ conduct, particularly in the troubled conditions which were part of day-to-day life in medieval Nishapur.

Bibliography Allan, James. ‘Islamic ceramics’, in Eastern Ceramics and Other Works of Art from the Collection of Gerald Reitlinger, Catalogue of the Memorial Exhibition, Ashmolean Museum (Oxford, 1981), 99–134. Arendonk, C. van. ‘Ḥātim al-Ṭā’ī’, EI2, III (1971), 274. Atil, Esin. Freer Gallery of Art, Fiftieth Anniversary Exhibition, III. Ceramics from the World of Islam (Smithsonian Institution, Washington D.C., 1973). Bagherzadeh, A. The World’s Great Collection of Oriental Ceramics, vol. 4: Iran Bastan Museum, Tehran (Tokyo, New York and San Francisco, 1981). Bayrak, Tosun al-Jerrahi (trans.). The Way of Sufi Chivalry, Ibn al-Husayn al-Sulami, (Rochester, Vermont, 1991). Birge, John Kingsley. The Bektashi Order of Dervishes (London, 1937). 110 Interesting in this respect is the Qabus-nameh, written in 1082 by Kay Kavus, the Ziyarid ruler of Gorgan, where the term javanmard refers to any young man possessing qualities similar to those praised by the Arabs. Kay Kavus’ text reads: It behoves him to be brave and manly; he must never desire another man’s loss for his benefit; he must regard as proper the incurrence of loss for himself in order to benefit his friends; let him never oppress the weak or let his hand be stretched out extortionately against captives of war; he must grant aid to them who are deprived of means and must repel harm from anyone who suffers wrong.

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Bosworth, C. E. ‘The rise of the Karāmiyyah in Khurasan’, Muslim World 50 (1960), 5–14. Böwering, Gerhard. ‘The Qur’ān commentary of al-Sulamī’, in Islamic Studies Presented to Charles J. Adams, ed. W.B. Hallaq and D.P. Little (Leiden, 1991), 41–56. ———. ‘The major sources of Sulamī’s minor Qur’ān commentary’, Oriens 35 (1996), 35–56. Breebaart, Ann D. The Development and Structure of the Futuwwah Guilds, Doctoral Dissertation, Princeton University (1961). Bulliet, Richard. ‘A Mu‘tazilite Coin of Maḥmūd of Ghazna’, American Numismatic Society Museum Notes 15 (1969), 119–29. ———. The Patricians of Nishapur: A Study in Medieval Islamic Social History (Cambridge, Mass., 1972). ———. ‘Nishapur in the eleventh century’, in Islamic Civilization 950–1150, ed. D. S. Richards (Oxford, 1973), 71–91. ———. ‘Pottery styles and social status in medieval Khurasan’, Archaeology, Annales, and Ethnohistory, ed. A.B. Knapp (Cambridge, 1992), 75–82. Cahen, Claude. ‘Futuwwa’, EI2, IV (1965), 961–69. Charleston, J. Robert. Masterpieces of Western and Near Eastern Ceramics, IV, Islamic Pottery (Tokyo, 1979). Cohn-Wiener, Ernst. ‘Ruin sites in Turkistan’, Asia (1941), 102–8. David Collection in Copenhagen (catalogue). Islamisk Kunst (Copenhagen, 1975). Diamand, S. Maurice. ‘Early Muhammedan pottery in the Metropolitan Museum’, Burlington Magazine 49 (1926), 217–22. Djebli, M. ‘Nahdj al-Balāgha’, EI2, VII (Leiden, 1993), 903–4. Elad, Amikam. ‘Mawālī in the composition of al-Ma’mūn’s army: a non-Arab takeover?’, in Patronate and Patronage in Early and Classical Islam, ed. Monique Bernards and John Nawas (Leiden, 2005), 278–325. al-Eskafi, Abu Jaʿfar. al-Meʿyar wa’l-mowazaneh, ed. Mohammad Baqer al-Mahmudi (Tehran, 1402/1981). Ettinghausen, Richard. Medieval Near Eastern Ceramics in the Freer Gallery of Art, (Washington D.C., 1960). Farhadi, A.G. Revan. ‘The Hundred Grounds of ʿAbdulla Ansari (d. 448/1056) of Herat: The earliest mnemonic Sufi manual in Persian’, in Classical Persian Sufism: from its origins to Rumi, ed. Leonard Lewisohn (London, 1993), 381–99. Fehérvári, Géza. Pottery of the Islamic World (Kuwait, 1998).



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———. Ceramics of the Islamic World in the Tareq Rajab Museum, London, 2000. Folsach, von Kjeld. Art from the World of Islam in The David Collection (Copenhagen, 2001). Frye, Richard. The Histories of Nīshāpūr (The Hague, 1965). Furat ebn Ebrahim al-Kufi. Tafsir Furat, ed. Muhammad al-Kazim (Beirut, 1412/1992). Ghouchani, Abdallah. Inscriptions on Nishabur Pottery (Tehran, 1364/1986). Graham, Terry. ‘Abu Sa‘id ibn Abi’l-Khayr and the School of Khurasan’, in Classical Persian Sufism: from its origins to Rumi, ed. Leonard Lewisohn (London, 1993), 83–135. Grube, Ernst. Islamic Pottery of the Eighth to the Fifteenth Century in the Keir Collection (London, 1976). ———. Cobalt and Lustre (London, 1994). Harris, Rabia (trans). The Risalah; Principles of Sufism, by Abu-l-Qasim ʿAbd al-Karim bin Hawazin al-Qushayri (Chicago, 2002). Hason, Rachel. The Art of the Arabic Script (Jerusalem, 1995). Heath, Peter. ‘Lord and Parry, Sirat ʿAntar, Lions’, Edebiyât 2 (1988), 149–66. Honerkamp, Kenneth. ‘A Sufi itinerary of tenth century Nishapur based on a treatise by Abu ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Sulami’, Journal of Islamic Studies 17/1 (2006), 43–67. Honerkamp, Kenneth (intro. and trans.). ‘Stations of the Righteous (Darajat al-sadiqin), The Humble Submission of those Aspiring (Ketab bayan tadhallul al-fuqara)’, in Three Early Sufi Texts (Louisville, 2009), 91–110. Huart, Clement Imbault. ‘Futuwa’, EI1, II (Leiden, 1927), 123–24. Jenkins, Merilyn. Islamic Pottery (New York, 1983). Keeler, Annabel. Persian Sufism and Exegesis: Maybudi’s commentary on the Qurʾān (PhD. Dissertation, University of Cambridge, 2001). Knysh, Alexander D. (trans). Al-Qushayri’s Epistle on Sufism: al-Risala al-qushayriyya fi ʿilm al-tasawwuf (Reading, 2007). al-Kufi, Mohammad ebn Solayman. Manaqeb al-imam amir al-moʾmenin, ed. Mohammad Baqer al-Mahmudi (Qumm, 1412/1991). Levy, Reuben (trans.). Qabus-nama of Kaykavus ibn Iskandar (New York, 1951). Kohlberg, Etan (trans. and intro). al-Sulami: Jawami adab al-sufiyya wa-ʿoyub al-nafs wa-mudawatuha (Jerusalem, 1976).

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Mahjub, Muhammad Jaʿfar. ‘Chivalry and early Persian Sufism’, in Classical Persian Sufism: from its Origins to Rumi, ed. Leonard Lewisohn (London, 1993), 549–81. Malamud, Margaret. ‘Sufi organizations and structures of authority in medieval Nishapur’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 26 (1994), 427–42. al-Maybodi, Rashid al-Din. Kashf al-asrar wa ʿoddat al-abrar, ed. A. A. Hekmat (Tehran, 1982–83). Meir, Fritz. Essays on Islamic Piety and Mysticism (Leiden, 1999). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Arts of Islam, Masterpieces from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York (Berlin, 1981). Mojaddedi, Jawid A. The Biographical Tradition in Sufism: The tabaqat Genre from al-Sulami to Jami (England, Richmond, 2001). Newman, J. Andrew. The Formative Period of Twelver Shiʿism (Abingdon, 2000). Nicholson, R.A. A Literary History of the Arabs (Cambridge, 1941). Norris, Harry Thirlwall, ed. The Adventures of Antar (England, 1980). al-Noʿman, al-Qazi. Sharh al-akhbar (Beirut, 1404/1984). Reza Abbasi Cultural and Arts Centre. A Collection of Iranian Islamic Art: the 9th through the 19th Century A.D. (Tehran, September 1977). Sayed Ali Reza (trans.). Nahjul Balagha: Peak of Eloquence, Sermons, Letters, and Sayings of Imam Ali ibn Abu Talib (New York, 2002). Richard, Yann. Shiʿite Islam (Oxford, 1991). Ridgeon, Lloyd. Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism (Abingdon, 2010). ———. Jawanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh, 2011). Rosenthal, F. ‘Significant uses of Arabic writing’, Ars Orientalis 4 (1961), 15–23. Sands, Kristin Zahra. Sufi Commentaries on the Qurʾan in Classical Islam (London, 2006). al-Sobki, Abu Nasr ʿAbd al-Wahhab, Tabaqat al-Shafeʿiya al-Kobra, ed. Al-Tanahi and ʿAbd al-Fatah al-Halu (Cairo, 196). Sviri, Sara. ‘Hakim Tirmidhi and the Malamati movement’, in Classical Persian Sufism: from its Origins to Rumi, ed. Leonard Lewisohn (London, 1993), 583–613. ———. ‘The early mystical schools of Baghdad and Nishapur: In search of Ibn Munazil’, JSAI 30 (2005) 450–82. al-Tabar, Mohebb al-Din. al-Riyadh al-nadereh (Cairo, 1327/1909).



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Taeschner, Franz. ‘Das Futuwwa-Kapitel in Ibn Gaʿdawaihis Mirʿat al-Muruwwat’, Documenta Islamica Inedita, ed. Johann Fück (Berlin, 1952), 107–19. Von Schlegell, Barbara (trans.). Principles of Sufism by Al-Qushairi (Berkeley, 1990). Watt, Montgomery W. and McDonald, M. V. (trans.). The History of al-Tabari, VII (New York, 1988). Wilkinson, K. Charles. ‘Fashion and technique in Persian pottery’, The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 6 (1947), 99–104. ———. ‘The glazed pottery of Nishapur and Samarkand’, The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 20/2 (1961), 102–16. ———, Iranian Ceramics (New York, 1963). ———. ‘Ceramic relationships between Nishapur, Merv and Samarkand’, in Vth International Congress of Iranian Art & Archaeology, Tehran-Isfahan-Shiraz, 11th-18th April 1968, II (Tehran, 1972), 242–45. Wilkinson, Charles K. Nishapur: Pottery of the Early Islamic Period (New York, 1973). Zotenberg, M. Hermann (trans.). Chronique de Tabari traduite sur la version persane d’Abu ʿAli Muhammad Belʿami, III (Paris, 1958).

2

From Naserian Courtly-Fotovvat to Akhi-Fotovvat: Transformation of the Fotovvat Doctrine and Communality in Late Medieval Anatolia Rıza Yıldırım Abstract This chapter argues that the akhi tradition which was so prevalent in medieval Anatolian towns was essentially an offspring of Naserian courtly fotovvat. The fotovvat ethic of the earlier era was mostly inherited by Anatolian akhis, who were increasingly influenced by the Sufi movement, and whose doctrine underwent significant transformations in terms of social and communal structuring in the process of attuning to fotovvat associations. These transformations were brought about by the akhis’ adjusting their principals to the political and religious circumstances of medieval Anatolia. This chapter aims to scrutinise and discuss the contours of this transformational process which lead to the formation of the akhi tradition.

Introduction It is generally accepted since Marshall G.S. Hodgson’s ground breaking volume, The Venture of Islam, that from the symbolic termination of High Caliphal period, caused by the Buyid accession to power in the mid-10th century, to the rise of ‘the gunpowder empires’ in the early 16th century there was an era of transition



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in the Islamic world.1 This half a millennium witnessed a reconfiguration of civilisation and the emergence of new foundation for social order. It was also a period of political uncertainty that heightened a sense of crisis, and resulted in a reshuffling of socio-religious allegiances. Increasing decentralisation across the Islamic world promoted the formation of local social and religious bonds with the purpose of perpetuating peace and order. As Erik S. Ohlander has argued, the decreasing efficiency of central political powers gave way to the widespread acculturation of certain ‘inner worldly modes of religiosity’ across the central and eastern Islamic lands. By creating a sense of authority and group belonging, growing religious bonds laid the ground for self-assertive communities whom Ohlander calls ‘charismatic communities’; communities that conceived of themselves as intentional groupings comprised of individual affiliates who were tied together through allegiance to authoritative masters standing at the top of the group hierarchy, and through mutual allegiance to each other as a community of brethren. According to Ohlander, Sufi and fotovvat associations, which became increasingly ubiquitous following the Mongol invasions, stand for this model of charismatic community rested upon inner-worldly religiosity.2 According to most existing definitions, fotovvat is a set of qualities that can be acquired through participation in particular communal practices in hierarchically organised confraternities, constituted as communal initiatory groups. As a guideline for a set of ethical principles in urban environments, fotovvat provided a blueprint for social organisations and a register for non-governmental associations in Islamic societies. As a social organisation in the Islamic context, fotovvat seems to have first appeared in the 8th century.3 Claude Cahen regards fotovvat as a kind of urban ʿasabiyya, ‘a general and fundamental structural element of urban society in the medieval East’.4 From the 8th century onwards, fotovvat appears to have been formulated as a code of moral behaviour according to which urban associations of young people (fetyan) were organised. One of the most crucial turning points in the entire fotovvat history was no doubt the ʿAbbasid caliph al-Naser’s

1 This era is the subject of the second volume of Hodgson’s three-volume oeuvre. Marshall G. S. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Religion. Volume 2: The Expansion of Islam in the Middle Periods (Chicago, 1974). 2 Erik S. Ohlander, ‘Inner-worldly religiosity, social structuring and fraternal incorporation in a time of uncertainity: The futuwwat-nāma of Najm al-Dīn Zarkūb of Tabriz’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40/1 (2013),15. 3 Muhammad Jaʿfar Mahjub, ‘Chivalry and early Persian Sufism’, in Classical Persian Sufism: From its Origins to Rumi, ed. Leonard Lewisohn (London, 1993), 64–66. 4 Claude Cahen, ‘Futuwwa’, EI2, II (Leiden, 1991), 962–63.

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incorporation of fotovvat and fetyan groups into the greater caliphal administrativespecies system. Al-Naser’s intervention and reformations eventually created a ly created a courtly of fotovvat, which lasted nonetheless only 5lasted nonetheless only for a few decades before courtly types of fotovvat, which ore the Mongol invasion dealt it a severe blow. It is only natural to the Mongol invasion dealt it a severe blow.5 It is only natural to suggest that in ermath of the breakdown of the caliphate, the fotovvat tradition did not the aftermath of the breakdown of the caliphate, the fotovvat tradition did not from the Islamic world. It is true that the ecumenical fotovvat immediately vanish from the Islamic world. It is true that the universal fotovvat iph met its end; nevertheless, codemet of ethics werenevertheless, reincarnated fotovvat code of ethics were propounded byfotovvat the caliph its end; ous urban associations encountered in medieval Islamicurban cities. associations It has reincarnated as guidelines for various encountered in medi6 Islamic cities. ItAnatolia, has beenakhism arguedorthat as an offshoot of fotovvat in medieval n offshoot ofeval fotovvat in medieval akhi-fotovvat 6 akhi-fotovvat was one of those reincarnations.7 Although Anatolia,these akhism carnations.7 Although akhi or brotherhoods organised themselves these akhi brotherhoods organised themselves around fotovvat principles, hence iples, hence were unquestionably a continuation of an earlier fotovvat were unquestionably a continuation of an earlier fotovvat tradition, there occurred ed certain alterations during the transmigration of fotovvat throughout certain alterations during the transmigration of fotovvat throughout Anatolia. These alterations were a result of the adaptation of fotovvat doctrines to the ons were a result of the adaptation of fotovvat doctrines Anatolia. to the sociosocio-political conditions of medieval Presuming that there is a deep medieval Anatolia. Presuming that there is a deep connectionstructures between and the ideas they articulate connection between particular community in their socio-political context, I argue in this chapter that the main factor leading structures and the ideas they articulate in their socio-political context, to the whole process transition was the political decenr that the main factor leading to the of whole process(or of reconfiguration) transition (or tralisation and a subsequent heightened sense of uncertainty. The general climate the political decentralisation and a subsequent heightened sense of of crisis inflicted by the Mongol invasion amplified local group loyalties vis-àral climate of crisis inflicted by the Mongol invasion amplified local vis the individual-state relations. As a result, non-governmental socio-religious vis the individual-state relations. As awere result,capable non-governmental socio-collective identity and group organisations which of generating solidarity acquired an unprecedented popularity. These fraternal associations also became the locus of socialisation, where new meanings were articulated and

reading, see Cahen, ‘Futuwwa’; Lloyd Ridgeon, ‘futuwwa (in Sufism)’,

Three, online edition; Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, ‘Fütüvvet, Tarih’, Diyânet İslâm 5 For an introductory reading, see Cahen, ‘Futuwwa’; Lloyd Ridgeon, ‘futuwwa (in Sufism)’, nbul, 1996), 261-63; Gerard Salinger, theonline Futūwaedition; an Oriental form of Ocak, ‘Fütüvvet, Tarih’, Encyclopaedia of Islam,‘Was Three, Ahmet Yaşar Gerard Salinger, ‘Was the Diyânet İslâm Ansiklopedisi, XIII (İstanbul, 1996), 261–63; of the American Philosophical Society 94/5 (1959), 481-93. Futūwa an Oriental form of chivalry?’ Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society ed the term the same as the Arabic akhi, meaning ‘my brother’. It has also 94/5 (1959), 481–93. mology of the word back toconsidered the Turkishthe akhi or aqi 6 Ebngoes Battuteh term themeaning same as‘chivalrous’ the Arabic akhi, meaning ‘my brother’. It has also been argued the etymology of the word goes back to the Turkish akhi or Deny, ‘Fütüwwet-name et romans dethat chevalerie turcs’, Journal Asiatique aqi meaning ‘chivalrous’ or ‘generous’. See Jean Deny, ‘Fütüwwet-name et romans de Claude Cahen,chevalerie ‘Sur les turcs’, traces Journal des premiers akhīs’, 60. Doğum Asiatique XVIin(1920), 182–83;Yılı Claude Cahen, ‘Sur les traces des premiers akhīs’,Fuad in 60.Köprülü, Doğum Yılı Fuad Köprülü Armağanı. Mélanges Fuad öprülü Armağanı. Mélanges ed. Münasebetiyle Osman Turan (Istanbul, Köprülü, ed. Osman Turan (Istanbul, 1953), 82; Franz Taeschner, ‘Akhī’, EI2, I (Leiden: hner, ‘Akhī’, EI2, I (Leiden: Brill, 1986), 321. Whatever the etymology of Brill, 1986), 321. Whatever the etymology of the word, we should note that it is written e that the wordinisthe written in thesources available sources almost invariably with the pronoun of the first person available almost invariably with the possessive he first personsingular singular as ‫اخی‬.. 7 Taeschner, ‘Akhī’, 321–23; Idem, ‘Futuwwa-Studien die Futuwwabünde in er Turkei und 21-23; Idem, ‘Futuwwa-Studien die Futuwwabünde in er Turkei und ihre ihre Literatur’, Islamica 5 (1931–32), 285–333. 931-32), 285-333.



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new socio-religious allegiances were acculturated; hence new bonds of fidelity cutting across former religious, ethnical, professional, and political fault lines were engendered. As far as Islamic civilisation is concerned, the most efficient and longstanding models for non-state social organisation were Sufi communalities and fotovvat associations, which were faith-based, master-bound, behaviour-oriented, and innately non-state (albeit not necessarily anti-state). It is this model of authority and community that arguably laid the ground for the emergence of Sufi orders in both theory and practice.8 Indeed the very distinct feature of Sufism after the 10th century, which Fazlur Rahman had described as ‘an absolutely unquestioning submission to the spiritual dictatorship of the shaykh or the master’9, is its close connection to social organisation. In a recent article, Ovamir Anjum has perceptively noted the potential of governance and social control that Sufism articulated through internalisation of stratification and authority. In the post-Abbasid Islamic society, states Anjum, ‘[Sufism] increasingly played a crucial role in Muslim societies as not only a spiritual discourse but a means of social cohesion and organisation. In a social arena in which political (discursive or coercive) means of ordering and distribution were lacking, society came to rely on authoritarian relationships grounded in esoteric doctrines to discipline and control the desires of its subjects.’10 By the same token, the political vacuum created by the Mongol intervention in Anatolia was filled by Sufi brotherhoods and akhi fraternities. We know that courtly-fotovvat, the antecedent of akhism, was entwined with the caliphal state apparatus, hence it had partly lost its former ideological and institutional instruments which would have otherwise enabled it to develop a socio-politically self-assertive communality. It was for this reason that fotovvat and Sufism converged to an unprecedented extent in late medieval Anatolia; more precisely, they merged so that akhi-fotovvat could be revitalised as a quasi-tariqeh structure. As an unprecedented development in the history of fotovvat, we observe the topoi typically associated with Sufism occupied by fotovvat groups. It is the aim of this chapter to scrutinise the ground-breaking transformation that fotovvat underwent within the particularities of medieval Anatolia. I attempt to examine the dynamics and the major parameters that governed the transition from a courtly code of 8 Ohlander, ‘Inner-worldly religiosity’, 17. 9 Fazlur Rahman, Islam (Chicago, 2002), 137. 10 Ovamir Anjum, ‘Mystical authority and governmentality in medieval Islam’, in Sufism and Society: Arrangements of the Mystical in the Muslim world, 1200–1800, ed. John Curry and Erik S. Ohlander (New York, 2011), 86.

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ethics and means of royal control to a quasi-tariqeh organisation and a vehicle for urban-based political autonomy and stability.

Naserian courtly-fotovvat It is now common knowledge that the ʿAbbasid caliph’s initiation marked a watershed in the whole history of fotovvat. Al-Naser reorganised fotovvat communities, and to a certain extent their doctrines and teachings.11 It is not possible to clarify details of al-Naser’s reform since we have meagre sources pertaining to pre-Naserian fotovvat. In the aftermath of its elevation to a caliphal level, however, a number of treatises were composed describing the principles and rituals of fotovvat, no doubt in a format supported by ruling elites.12 Unfortunately, only two of these treatises have survived. A careful reading of these fotovvat-namehs may permit us to determine the basic structure of courtly fotovvat. Among them, Ahmad ebn Elyas al-Khartaberti’s (d. 622/1225) Tohfat alwasaya is helpful in shedding light on the basic tenets of fotovvat teachings and, more importantly for our purpose, the organisational structure of the fetyan community.13 Tohfat al-wasaya must have been written between 1207 and 1215. The author dedicates the work to Naser’s favourite son, Abi al-Hasan ʿAli, who predeceased his father in 1215. In his dedication, al-Khartaberti prays for his master, saying, ‘May God make his rule everlasting, exalt the fotovvat by the permanence of his dawlat, and enlighten pulpits by his khotbeh!’14 It is clear from these words that at the time of the treatise’s publication Abi al-Hasan was alive and was the heir apparent to the caliphate. Furthermore, Khartaberti states that his work is an abridgment of the ʿOmdat al-wasila penned by his master. Khartaberti’s description is complemented by Ebn Meʿmar’s (d. 642/1244) Ketab al-fotowweh.15 The 11 Paul Kahle, ‘Die futuwwa-bündnisse des Kalifen en-Nasir’, Festschrift für Georg Jacob zum Siebzigsten Geburtstag (Leipzig, 1932), 112–27; Angelika Hartmann, ‘al-Nasir li-Din Allah’, EI2, VII (Leiden, 1993), 998–1001. 12 Claude Cahen, ‘Mouvements populaires et autonomisme urbain dans l’Asie musulmane du moyen âge, III’, Arabica 6/3 (1959), 237. 13 A Turkish translation of this text is published by Abdülbâki Gölpınarlı in ‘İslam ve Türk İllerinde Fütüvvet Teşkilatı’, İstanbul Üniversitesi İktisat Fakültesi Mecmuası 11 (1949–50), 205–31. I have used this Turkish translation. 14 Khartaberti, 207. 15 This book is edited and published by Mustafa Jawad and Muhammad Taqi al-Din al-Hilali (Baghdad, 1958). It was extensively studied by Deodaat Anne Breebaart in her doctoral dissertation (The Development and Structure of the Turkish Futūwah Guilds, PhD Dissertation (Princeton University, 1961)). Since the Arabic edition is out of my reach, I could not consult the Arabic text, but have referred to Breebaart’s expansive summaries and extractions in this study.



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latter’s sixth chapter, which provides a unique description of the terminology of fotovvat, is of particular importance in mapping social organisation and hierarchy. At this point, the reader should be reminded of two facts. First, both treatises are prescriptive rather than descriptive. So, they tell us what should have been rather than what really was. The second fact is the difficulty of distinguishing between elements from pre-Naserian and Naserian fotovvat in these texts.

Universal fotovvat Ebn Meʿmar expresses his contempt for the factionalism and controversies that existed among fetyan groups just before al-Naser’s initiation.16 In a similar vein, Khartaberti refers to discord, perversion, degeneration, ignorance, and corruption among fetyan groups. He states that caliph al-Naser rehabilitated and reorganised the already degenerated fotovvat, which was on the verge of annihilation, and rejuvenated it in a new form. In doing so he re-enforced the pillars of fotovvat and exalted its status amongst people.17 In line with these prescriptive texts, the historian Ebn al-Athir (d. 1233) records, ‘He gave his most careful attention to … the futuwa trousers (sarawilat al-futuwa). So he abolished the futuwa in the whole country except for those who donned the trousers bestowed by him and referred to him. And many kings put on the futuwa trousers bestowed by him.’18 Al-Naser’s main concern in reforming fotovvat was to control a hitherto turbulent militia and to hone their aggressive potential in the service of caliphal objectives.19 It seems that on the eve of al-Naser’s initiation, each bayt, or fotovvat house, constituted an independent – both doctrinally and administratively – fotovvat community. They bore distinctive names such as Bayt al-Khaliliya, Bayt al-Rahhashiya, Bayt al-Shuhayniya, and Bayt al-Noboviya, and there existed probably around eleven distinct fotovvat groups. As reported by Ebn Meʿmar, Khartaberti, and other contemporary sources, the relationship between different fotovvat houses was governed by rivalry and animosity. Al-Naser himself was initiated into Bayt al-Rahhashiya, receiving fotovvat from Shaykh ʿAbd al-Jabbar, the head of this bayt.20 16 See Breebaart, The Development and Structure of the Turkish Futūwah Guilds, 75. 17 Khartaberti, 206. 18 Cited and quoted in Salinger, ‘Was futuwa an Oriental form of chivalry?’, 484. 19 Cahen, ‘Mouvements populaires et autonomisme’, 235; Hartmann, ‘al-Nasir li-Din Allah’; Mohsen Zakeri, ‘The futuwwa-“houses” at the time of Caliph al-Nasir’, Hallesche Beiträge zur Orientwissenschaft 25 (1998), 222. 20 Kahle, ‘Die futuwwa-bündnisse des Kalifen en-Nasir’, 113–14; Salinger, ‘Was futuwa an

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One of the major elements of al-Naser’s reformation was that he united fotovvat houses, which until then acted independently, within a single hierarchical pyramid, at the top of which he stood. Before al-Naser’s intervention there was no recognised authority to regulate the relationships between fotovvat houses, hence no central organisation and hierarchy comprising all fotovvat corporations. Khartaberti writes that the caliph united fotovvat groups, which were dispersed, and showed them the true way of fotovvat. Those fotovvat houses which he strengthened prevailed while those of which he did not approve were doomed to perish.21 The 1207 edict22 marks the turning point of this process.23 As part of this project, he invented a new office called naqib al-fetyan, whose duty was to preside over the affairs of fetyan, regulating relationships between different fotovvat houses and preaching on the rules of fotovvat. Abu ʿAli ebn al-Dawami, a pigeon-player, became the first holder of the office.24 The centralisation of all fotovvat organisations as a united body under al-Naser’s patronage and leadership had significant consequences in the short run.25 As a result of Naserian reforms, fotovvat gained a heretofore unprecedented universal character, transforming into what Cahen calls ‘pan-Islamic futuwwa’.26 As indicated above, al-Naser united all fotovvat houses under his administration. Furthermore, the newly created ‘fotovvat houses’ in courts of princes and sultans, and presumably in their territories, provided an international dimension to fotovvat. Unfortunately, we do not know much about the universal organisation of fotovvat at this time. It is safe to argue, however, that the whole body of fotovvat across the Islamic world was organised according to a centralised hierarchical structure, at the top of which the caliph imposed himself – and his successors – as grand master. The efficacy and strength of this structure is open to discussion. Oriental form of chivalry?’ 488–89; Claude Cahen, ‘Note sur les debuts de la futuwwa d’anNasir’, Oriens 6/1 (1953), 18. 21 Khartaberti, 206. See also Ebn al-Athir’s above-quoted testimony. 22 The only copy of this edict is in Ebn Sa’i’s al-Jameʿ al-Mokhtasar and has been published in Paul Kahle, ‘Ein futuwwa-erlass des Kalifen Naser aus dem Jahre 604 (1207)’, in Aus fünf Jahrtausenden morgenländischer Kultur, Festschrift für Max Freiherrn von Oppenheim zum 70. Geburtstage, gewidmet von Freunden und Mitarbeitern (Berlin, 1933), 52–58; Franz Taeschner, Zünfte und Buruderschaften im Islam, Texte zur Geschichte der Futuwwa (Zürich, 1979), 74–75. 23 As Zakeri notes, ‘It is reported that the edict was presented to chiefs of all parties (ru’asa al-ahzab) to be read, verified and signed by them’ (Zakeri, 225). 24 Zakeri, ‘The futuwwa-“houses” at the time of Caliph al-Nasir’, 223. 25 Taeschner argues that al-Naser dissolved these fotovvat houses. Zünfte, 63. See also Zakeri, ‘The futuwwa-“houses”’, 225. 26 Cahen, ‘Futuwwa’, 964.



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What we know for certain is that this arrangement lasted only half a century; and in terms of doctrine and organisational structure it did not leave an everlasting imprint on the fotovvat tradition in longue durée.

Aristocratic/courtly members Another significant change resulting from al-Naser’s initiation into fotovvat was a remarkable shift in the member portfolio. By the time al-Naser joined fotovvat (allegedly in 1182), traditional members of fotovvat corporations were urban brigands (ʿayyar), who engaged in street fighting, tyranny, and highway robbery. To what extent they involved themselves in artisanship, craftsmanship and trade is not clear. What is certain is that their primary occupation was fighting for the benefit of their companions. They had the capacity to build autonomous political zones when central authority was weak and turmoil prevailed. ʿAyyars’ acts were usually neither sanctioned by governmental and religious authorities, nor by common wisdom. Hence they emerged from shadowy zones of society and had difficulty finding legitimacy for their existence. The very fata who initiated alNaser with the fotovvat trousers himself had been such a valiant and gallant man in his youth, and whom fetyan revered and people feared.27 Al-Naser’s initiation both intentionally and naturally encouraged the elites of urban society to develop an interest in fotovvat. Indeed, the caliph’s example immediately persuaded many prominent personas from the higher echelons of the military, administrative, and religious circles of Baghdad to don fotovvat trousers. The 13th-century Baghdadi historian Ebn Saʾi writes: And he [al-Naser] had honoured ʿAbd al-Jabbar by accepting the futuwa from him and the latter was an ascetic shaykh. Then all the people entered, nobles and commoners, and the kings of the remote countries asked for the futuwa. So he sent to them messengers and men who were to invest them with the futuwa trousers by way of delegation [of the caliph]. And this spread through Baghdad and their younger ones received the futuwa from the elder ones. It happened that the ʿAlide al-Fakhir was a rafiq of the Vizier Naser ebn Mahdi, and he himself also had rafiqs.28

27 Zakeri, ‘The Futuwwa-“houses”’, 229. 28 Quoted in Salinger, ‘Was Futūwa an Oriental form of chivalry?’, 486.

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As Ebn Saʾi and other contemporary sources have reported, many statesmen and dignitaries in Baghdad rushed to fotovvat houses. Moreover, al-Naser used fotovvat as a diplomatic tool to consolidate his caliphal authority over Islamic sultans and princes. To this end, he dispatched envoys who were commissioned to invest them with fotovvat trousers in his own name. We have records of caliphal envoys sent to Ayyubid and Zangid princes, Anatolian Seljuk sultans, Khwarazmian rulers, and various governors.29 By doing so, in addition to fortifying the relationship between caliph and the Muslim populace, another bond was established, that is, between al-Naser and Islamic rulers, which constituted a master-trainee bond within fotovvat confines. As a result of the elites’ incorporation, the new fotovvat acquired a thorough aristocratic character. Instead of concealed places in Baghdad’s quarters, fotovvat gatherings were now held in rulers’ courts. We do not know whether those rulers copied al-Naser’s structure in their own realm and created a hierarchical fotovvat body within their governmental system. What we know, however, is that under alNaser and his immediate successors, the foremost actors of fotovvat were princes, high ranking bureaucrats, clergy, soldiers, and the noblemen of cities. Still, it is difficult to establish whether they constituted the majority of fetyan, even in the heyday of Naserian fotovvat.

Legitimisation and convergence to ordinary townspeople Leaving aside al-Naser’s aim, which has been discussed by numerous scholars, I would like to focus on the inner structure of fotovvat itself. Such a dramatic change in the member profile not only granted an absolute legitimacy to fotovvat but also made it enormously popular and prestigious.30 Ebn Meʿmar writes in the introduction of his book that fotovvat was the main topic of conversation in his time and all kinds of people were seeking knowledge about it.31 Sohravardi’s testimony too shows that members boasted about being one of the people of fotovvat.32 The existence of passages in early fotovvat-namehs dedicated to proving 29 Cahen, ‘Mouvements populaires’, 239; Breebaart, 54, 64; Zakeri, ‘The Futuwwa“houses”’, 223. 30 As caliph of God and guardian of Divine Law, the question of how al-Naser’s initiation legitimised fotovvat and provided it with moral rearmament is beyond the discussion presented here. See Cahen, ‘Notes sur les débuts’. 31 Breebaart, 71. 32 Shehab al-Din Abu Hafs ʿOmar Sohravardi, Ketab fi’l-fotowweh, translated in Lloyd Ridgeon, Jawanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh, 2011), 51, 54.



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that fotovvat was truly compatible with the shariʿa must be regarded as residues of the image of ʿayyari-fotovvat.33 Deborah Tor has argued that proponents of ʿayyari-fotovvat, or members of fotovvat-based associations in general, engaged in physical fights and armed conflicts.34 Its proclivity to violence naturally hampered ʿayyari-fotovvat’s appeal to those in urban areas who were busy earning their livelihoods.35 Hence, when fotovvat was ushered from the twilight-zone into broad daylight and the ʿayyar’s turbulent-belligerent potential was taken under control, ordinary urban dwellers and fotovvat corporations became more compatible. After the famous 1207 decree that imposed strict regulations against the fetyan’s violent acts, it seems likely that there arose an interest in fotovvat amongst craftsmen, artisans, and tradesmen. One could argue that in half a century, old fashioned ʿayyari type members – i.e. jobless and rootless brigands – were balanced in number by ‘good citizens’ in fotovvat lodges. As early as the time of al-Naser, an understanding of the lifeearning fata seems to have been established. For example, Sohravardi, underlines the character of a proper fotovvat member thus: If the master of fotovvat has a profession (pisha-kar), he should earn whatever is legal from his hard work. At the end of the week, on Friday or on another day [although Friday is best], it is forbidden to engage in work before the communal prayers, so [the master] stops work. He keeps Friday for resting from work and worldly business. He gives an invitation for that day, and [offers] whatever he has produced in that week, having no claim [over that produce]. This is the way of fotovvat.36

This shift in the social basis of fotovvat from ʿayyari groups to ordinary urban dwellers can be considered a landmark since it led to the development of the akhi form of fotovvat. One would immediately notice how Sohravardi’s description agrees with Ebn Battuteh’s observations a century later, as I shall examine shortly.

33 See, for example, Sohravardi, Ketab fi’l-fotowweh, 43; Khartaberti, 209; Breebaart, 71. 34 Deborah G. Tor, Violent Order: Religious Warfare, Chivalry and the ʿAyyar Phenomenon in the Medieval Islamic World (Wurzberg, 2007), 245–48. 35 It is no coincidence that various names used for the groups who attached themselves to fotovvat principles such as ʿayyar, awbash, and rend all carry the same connotations: outlaw, vagrant, scamp, etc. 36 Sohravardi, Ketab fi’l-fotowweh, 59.

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Introducing courtly-fotovvat to Anatolia One of the Islamic regions into which courtly fotovvat effectively made inroads was Seljuk Anatolia. The earliest testimony to the existence of fetyan groups in Anatolia as influential urban actors seems to be Ebn Bibi’s account on the events of the year 1196. When Rokn al-Din Solaymanshah (r. 1196–1204) challenged his brother’s suzerainty and sieged the city of Konya, ‘the akhis of Konya and the leaders of fetyan came together’ and reconfirmed their allegiance to Ghiyas al-Din Kaykhosraw (r. 1192–1196, 1205–1211), having sworn an oath to defend the city against Rokn al-Din. Nonetheless, after defending the city for four months, the notables of Konya became convinced that Rokn al-Din’s power surpassed that of his brother. Eventually a diplomatic agreement was signed between the brothers, according to which Rokn al-Din ascended the throne and Ghiyas al-Din received safe passage through Seljuk lands to a foreign region. Akhis (along with amirs, notables, and officials) were among those prominent figures who discussed the articles of this agreement and acted as witnesses to signing it.37 Ebn Bibi’s account is important as it demonstrates that as early as the late 12th century fetyan groups had become one of the major constituents of urban society in Konya, attaining such an influential status as to mediate in disputes over succession. If we remember that Caliph al-Naser had recently been initiated into fotovvat and did not officially complete his reformation until the 1207 decree (by which time courtly-universal fotovvat was not yet well-established), those fetyan groups to which Ebn Bibi refers reflect an ʿayyar species of fotovvat. The frequent use of the word rend (vagrant) by Ahmad Aflaki, and occasionally by Ebn Bibi himself, in reference to especially low-level members of akhi associations in the 13th century, further verifies this assumption.38 Equally important is to note that on this specific occasion the Seljuk court chronicler uses the epithet ikhwan (plural form of akhi ) along with ‘the leaders of fetyan’ for these people, a nuance which suggests that in Anatolia the naming of the fotovvat-abiding groups as akhi goes 37 Ebn Bibi, El-Evâmirü’l-Alâ’iyye fi’l-umûri’l-Alâ’iyye (Selçuknâme), II: Tercüme, trans. Mürsel Öztürk (Ankara, 2014), 61–62. 38 Nevertheless, this term never appears in official documents on akhi urban confraternities (treatises, endowment deeds). Ebn Battuteh does not use this epithet, which is indeed an Anatolian correspondent to ‘ʿayyar’ and has certain negative connotations. Speros Vryonis suggests that they were unmarried young men from the artisan classes as well as idle youth. (The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamisation from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century (Berkeley, CA, 1971), 398.) Cahen follows a similar line of argument by stating that this calling connoted tramp adherents, ‘va-nu-pieds’, whereas the term akhi was used in reference to respectable high-level associates of fotovvat organisations (‘Sur les traces des premiers akhīs’, 90).



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further back, to a time before al-Naser’s distribution of courtly-fotovvat throughout the land. The question of whether this specific appellation, as well as that of other Anatolian fotovvat groups, had any relation to the Azerbayjani Sufi shaykh Akhi Faraj Zanjani (d. 1065) is far from clear, since available sources do not attest the idea.39 The fact that fetyan corporations, generally referred to as akhi, had already established themselves as influential interest groups by the late 12th century in Konya is further attested by Ebn Bibi’s description of ʿEzz al-Din Kaykawus’s entrance to the city in 1211. Having defeated his brother, ʿEzz al-Din headed to Konya to assume the Seljuk throne. On this occasion leaders of various social groups assembled at the entrance of the city to welcome the new sultan. Among leading representatives of the city, we see akhis along with members of the educated class (khwajagan), honourable people (moʿtabaran), notables (aʿyan), musicians (motreban), and military bandsmen (nawbatiyan).40 In a similar vein, when ʿAlaʾ al-Din Kayqobad (r. 1220–1237) succeeded his brother nine years later, akhis were among the leading representatives of the inhabitants of Konya who welcomed the sultan outside the city.41 These accounts reflecting the akhis’ prominent status within the high echelons of society are supported by sporadic archival documents. For example, a vaqf-deed (vaqfiyyeh) issued sometime between 1216 and 1224 in Antalya by Mobarez al-Din Artokosh, a slave-origin amir serving under Ghiyas al-Din Kaykhosraw, ʿEzz al-Din Kaykawus (r. 1211– 1220), and ʿAlaʾ al-Din Kayqobad, names a certain Akhi Amin al-Din Mahmud ebn Yusof among the witnesses.42 As far as Naserian courtly-fotovvat is concerned, its formal entrance into Anatolia arguably dates to 1214, when the Seljuk sultan ʿEzz al-Din Kaykawus, upon capturing Sinop, dispatched Majd al-Din Eshaq ebn Yusof (d. c. 1215–20) with 39 Ohlander describes Akhi Faraj Zanjani as ‘the patron saint of Anatolian akhīlik’. See Erik S. Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition: ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī and the Rise of the Islamic Mystical Brotherhoods (Leiden, 2008), 279. Nevertheless, this argument needs further elaboration since: 1) the sources do not permit us to assert that the title attached to Zanjani’s name referred to a communal body organised around fotovvat principles, and 2) there is no evidence showing a connection between the shaykh and the later Anatolian akhis. 40 Ebn Bibi, El-Evâmirü’l-Alâ’iyye fi’l-umûri’l-Alâ’iyye, 148. 41 Ibid, 237–38. 42 According to Osman Turan who studied the vaqfiyyeh, the document was actually issued in 669/1270–1. Nevertheless, the text was drawn up according to the testimony of those people who witnessed the benefactor’s endowment, and whose names are recorded in the document. Osman Turan, ‘Selçuk devri vakfiyeleri II: Mübârizeddin Er-tokuş ve vakfiyesi’, Belleten 11/43 (1947), 423, 427.

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many gifts to the Caliph al-Naser, both to deliver the good news and to request the trousers of fotovvat. Majd al-Din Eshaq, father of Sadr al-Din Qunawi and a friend of Ebn al-ʿArabi, returned from this diplomatic mission with a ‘waist of morovvat’, ‘trousers of truth’, which the caliph himself had put on before delivering to the shaykh, and a ‘letter of fotovvat’, all addressed to the Seljuk sultan. This letter of fotovvat, which is recorded in Ebn Bibi’s chronicle under the title fotovvat-nameh, is particularly important for it stands unique as a document of fotovvat investiture, what we may call a ‘fotovvat ejazat-nameh’; hence it deserves closer treatment here. The letter is dictated by al-Naser and verifies Kaykawus’s initiation into fotovvat. Its content and structure look quite similar to documents of Sufi investiture for spiritual authority, i.e. ejazat-nameh or diploma of qualification. The document starts with the invocation of God, the Prophet, ʿAbbas ebn ʿAbd al-Mottaleb, and ʿAli ebn Abi Taleb, who was distinguished from all people for being the Prophet’s chosen brother, given fotovvat, and honoured by Gabriel with the adage discussed in the previous chapter by Raya Shani: ‘There is no fata but ʿAli and no sword but Dhu’l-faqar.’ Subsequently, al-Naser is introduced as the Amir al-Moʾmenin who restored and rejuvenated fotovvat when it was about to disintegrate. The following paragraph constitutes the crux of the document; it says that Kaykawus is invested with the trousers of fotovvat (sent to him together with this document), which is a blessed and auspicious instrument for accomplishing the conditions of worship (ʿebadat) and submission, and for fulfilling the requirements of leadership (emamat). It is also stated that in approval of the sultan’s virtuous deeds, a mantle (khelʿat) and a robe of honour (khaftan) are also sent together with the trousers. The next paragraph declares that Shaykh Eshaq ebn Yusof has been authorised as the deputy of al-Naser in this particular matter, i.e. investing the sultan with the trousers of fotovvat. The fotovvat-nameh also praises the garment of fotovvat as it honours those who wear it, saves people from the torments of hell, brings news from the secret of the unknown (ghayb), is a vehicle of belief and a symbol of faith. The letter summarises the requirements for one’s membership in fotovvat as follows: the first step is accomplishing religious obligations such as the five daily prayers and fasting; second, observing the stipulations of the shariʿa; third, obeying Qurʾanic stipulations; fourth, fulfilling fotovvat conditions, such as keeping one’s heart clean. Immediately after this passage, Ebn Bibi states that this fotovvat-nameh was written in Ramadan of the year 608 (February-March 1212)43 and entrusted to Majd al-Din Eshaq who was 43 This should be a mistake, for Ebn Bibi relates that the event occurred after the conquest of Sinop which took place in 1214. (See Andrew C. S. Peacock, ‘Sinop: A frontier city



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to deliver it to the sultan. Ebn Bibi writes, ‘by means of it [fotovvat-nameh] ʿEzz al-Din the king of kings became a member of that honourable organisation. Naser al-Din, God bestow His consent upon him, designated the son of ʿEzz al-Din the king of kings as his vicegerent [in fotovvat] after the latter’s death.’44 The rejuvenation and perhaps reorientation of fotovvat in Anatolia occurred following the visit of celebrated Sufi master, ʿOmar Sohravardi, to Konya as the ambassador of Caliph al-Naser in 1221. The sole record of the event by Ebn Bibi provides only tacit indications about whether this diplomatic mission had any relevance to fotovvat; the whole account rather suggests that the Caliph dispatched al-Sohravardi to authorise the rule of the new sultan, ʿAlaʾ al-Din Kayqubad. The symbolic objects sent to the Seljuk sultan are listed as a caliphal decree legitimising the sultan’s rule (manshur-e saltanat), a diploma of regency for the government of the country of Rum (niyabat-e hokumat-e mamalek-e Rum), a caliphal robe of honour (khelʿat-e khelafat), a sword, a signet ring, and an ornamented turban (emameh). According to Ebn Bibi’s description, the ceremony of investiture, which took place under Sohravardi’s auspices, was composed of five symbolic acts: first, the sultan wore the distinctively wrapped turban; second, forty blows were struck on the sultan’s back with a baton; third, the sultan kissed the hoofs of the horse sent by the caliph; fourth, they set the table for the banquet; fifth, professional singers performed samaʿ. It is also reported that the sultan and other amirs wilfully carried out the ritual shaving (meqra-kari) to become the shaykh’s disciples (not as a part of the investiture but as a result of the shaykh’s mystical influence).45 All the symbolic acts and objects in this ceremony, except the ritual shaving, are typical of legitimising the sultan’s temporal rule on behalf of the in Seljuq and Mongol Anatolia’, Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 16 (2010), 105). Osman Turan solves this problem by reordering the sequence of events; he claims that the Seljuk embassy was dispatched right after the sultan’s ascension to the throne in 1212. (Osman Turan, Selçuklular Zamanında Türkiye: Siyasi tarih Alp Arslan’dan Osman Gazi’ye 1071–1318 (Istanbul, 1971), 297–99.) Sara Nur Yıldız and Haşim Şahin raise another possibility: the sultan might have intended to send his envoy in 1212, hence the fotovvatnameh had been drawn up in this year; however, the succession struggle with his brother ʿAlaʾ al-Din Kayqobad, which came to an end only in 1214 a few months before the conquest of Sinop, delayed the dispatch of this envoy. See Sara Nur Yıldız and Haşim Şahin, ‘In the proximity of sultans: Majd al-Din Ishaq, Ibn ʿArabi and the Seljuk court’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and society in the medieval Middle East, ed. A.C.S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız (London, 2013), 182–83. 44 Ebn Bibi, 183–86. Apart from the garments of fotovvat and the fotovvat ejazat-nameh, the caliph dispatched an ornamented hat (emameh), an intricately sewn dervish robe, and a caliphal verdict legitimising the rule of Kaykawus in Anatolia. 45 Ebn Bibi, El-Evâmirü’l-Alâ’iyye fi’l-umûri’l-Alâ’iyye 253–56.

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caliph or of investiture with the authority of the caliph’s regency. As Ohlander has suggested, it is not entirely clear in this report if Sohravardi initiated ʿAlaʾ al-Din into the Naserian fotovvat, for the most important token of initiation, the trousers, is not mentioned at all.46 When we think of the report on Kaykawus’s initiation just seven years previously, Ebn Bibi’s silence about the insignia of fotovvat in this particular occasion seems unusual if Sohravardi’s diplomatic mission involved the sultan’s initiation into the Naserian fotovvat. On the other hand, we know that the shaykh had undertaken a number of diplomatic missions as the caliph’s special envoy to invest Ayyubid princes with fotovvat: to al-Malek al-Zaher in Aleppo, to al-Malek al-ʿAdel in Damascus, and to al-Malek al-Kamel in Cairo.47 Whatever the case with Sultan ʿAlaʾ al-Din’s initiation into fotovvat, the shaykh’s visit in Konya was still important as he got in contact with the akhis of the city and seemingly created fresh momentum for the advance of Anatolian fotovvat or akhism. The information that Ebn Bibi recorded in regard to Sohravardi’s interaction with the akhis of Konya is scant but of great interest. He refers to akhis on two occasions. When the shaykh approached the city walls akhis were among the notables of Konya who assembled in the Zencirli district to salute him, just as when they greeted Kaykawus and Kayqobad.48 This welcome procession, which was indeed a common practice for high-standing guests, seems to have had no particular relevance to the relationship between the shaykh and akhi leaders, for Ebn Bibi also identifies qadis, imams, shaykhs, Sufis, and notables in the group. In effect, it is a list of the elite of the city. Ebn Bibi also reports that during his stay in Konya not only the citizens of Konya but also prominent people of Rum poured into the shaykh’s residence to kiss his cloak and benefit from his blessing. It was during this time period that akhis frequented Sohravardi’s banquets.49 Unfortunately, the Seljuk court historian does not provide details of the conversations between those akhi leaders and Sohravardi. And no other historical record provides further information about this specific relationship. A close examination of Sohravardi’s two treatises on fotovvat suggests that he developed a particular interest in fotovvat groups in Konya and perhaps in Anatolia during his visit. Ohlander, who has studied Sohravardi’s literary works extensively, advances the theory that the shaykh’s two fotovvat-namehs, called Ketab fi’l-fotowweh and Resaleh al-fotowweh, were written in Konya during this visit, with the primary 46 Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, 277. 47 Angelika Hartmann, ‘al-Suhrawardi’, EI2 (Leiden, 1997), 779. 48 Ebn Bibi, El-Evâmirü’l-Alâ’iyye fi’l-umûri’l-Alâ’iyye, 254. 49 Ibid, 257.



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purpose of disseminating the message in Anatolia. According to Ohlander, the shaykh pursued a double agenda during this voyage:50 one was accomplishing the caliphal mission at the Seljuk court, and the other was his personal programme of disseminating a rebat-based Sufi system in Anatolia. For his own purpose, he seems to have developed contacts with two principal groups in Anatolia: first, fetyan or akhis, and second, rebat-based Sufis populating the flourishing cities like Konya, Malatya and Kayseri. As a matter of fact, an analysis of his two handbooks on fotovvat convincingly demonstrates, as Ohlander has suggested, that they were addressed to akhi-fetyan who, according to Ebn Bibi, paid visits in great numbers to the shaykh during his stay.51 Likewise, later akhi fotovvat-namehs such as those written by Naseri and Borgazi bear clear traits of Sohravardi’s conceptualisation as explicated in his two fotovvat guidebooks. It seems thus that the shaykh’s teaching in such a short period of time laid the principal ground for the akhi-fotovvat synthesis at least on a doctrinal level, which was to become fully-fledged in the course of the 13th and 14th centuries.52 As I shall examine next, Sohravardi’s lasting contribution to Anatolian fotovvat was the introduction of Sufi templates of thought and organisation to the fotovvat framework, which might well be perceived as part of his overarching project, that is, ‘disseminating ribat-based Sufi system’.53

Akhi-fotovvat Whether the particular akhi synthesis of fotovvat was an Anatolia-specific phenomenon or if it existed in other parts of Islamic lands still remains a question. Cahen has suggested that there were akhis in Iran even before al-Naser’s renowned reformations.54 In the same line, Ahmet Yaşar Ocak argues that akhi associations existed in Iran and Central Asia from at least the 11th century.55 50 Franz Taeschner and Angelika Hartmann have suggested that, once dispatched to Anatolia, Sohravardi pursued his own programme which was partly distinct from the fotovvat espoused by the caliph. Angelika Hartmann, ‘Al-Suhrawardi’, EI2, 778–82; Franz Taeschner, ‘Eine schrift des Sihabaddin Suhrawardī über die futuwwa’, Oriens XV (1962), 277–80. 51 Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, 289–81. 52 For a summary discussion of Sohravardi’s writings on fotovvat, see Lloyd Ridgeon, Jawanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh, 2011), 25–40. 53 Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, 281. Lloyd Ridgeon calls attention to the definitive contribution of Sohravardi to the synthesis of what he calls ‘Sufi-futuwwa’. See Lloyd Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism (London, 2010), 63–74. 54 Cahen, ‘Sur les traces des premiers akhīs’, 81–83. 55 Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, ‘Ahi’, EI3.

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However, the only two non-Anatolian persons bearing akhi epithet, namely Akhi Faraj Zanjani (d. 1065) and Akhi Ebrahim (d. 10th century?), that Cahen has brought to our attention, seem unlikely to have been leaders of fotovvat-based, organised associations. Indeed, in his later studies on Anatolian cities, Cahen has confirmed this important point by stating: ‘What is certainly known is that these first akhis were Sufis and had nothing to do with any kind of futuwwa.’56 Therefore, although the epithet akhi had been used in Iran and probably in other regions, akhism as a concept referring to a particular form of fotovvat – in the sense of a set of moral codes, architectural infrastructure, socio-religious organisation, and ethics of brotherhood – was an Anatolian phenomenon. According to F. Taeschner, the sporadic occurrence of the designation akhi outside Turkey does not allow us to reach any definite conclusions; therefore, ‘Akhism is the specific form assumed by the futuwwa organization in late- and post-Saldjuk Anatolia.’57 Likewise, Ebn Battuteh mentions akhi associations only in Anatolia and not in any other lands during his long voyage.58 Akhi confraternities were not only a peculiar manifestation of fotovvat within the social, political, religious, and cultural particularities of Anatolia but also permeated medieval Anatolian society. Ebn Battuteh, who traversed the peninsula in 1333 and 1334, recorded that ‘they exist[ed] in all the lands of the Turkmens of al-Rum, in every district, city, and village’.59 Indeed, contemporary sources leave no doubt that akhi confraternities were the most effective actors in Anatolian towns in the period between mid-13th and mid-14th centuries.

Dissolution of universal fotovvat The point has already been made that the destruction of Baghdad in 1258 not only put an end to the ʿAbbasid caliphate but also dealt a deadly blow to Naserian courtly-fotovvat.60 Once the central leadership that clung closely to the caliphate was gone, the whole administrative infrastructure of the universal fotovvat organisation, which was not at any rate well-developed, quickly collapsed. We 56 Claude Cahen, Osmanlılardan Önce Anadolu, çev. Erol Üyepazarcı (Istanbul, 2000), 154. 57 Taeschner, ‘Akhi’, 322. 58 One should abstain from drawing a strictly exclusive line, however, as we have an account in Manaqeb al-ʿarefin which relates ʿAref Chalabi’s visit to an akhi in Tabriz, Akhi Kazzaz Ahmad Shah, who was among notables of the city, where the author too was present. See Eflaki, Ariflerin Menkıbeleri, 657. 59 Gibb, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, 419. 60 Franz Taeschner, ‘Futuwwa: Post-Mongol period’, EI2, II (Leiden, 1991), 966.



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know that after the fall of the caliphate, courtly fotovvat survived for a while in Egypt and Syria under Mamluk protection, in a manner similar to the survival of a puppet caliphate. In 1261, Sultan al-Malek al-Zaher Baybars (r. 1260–1277) himself received the garment of fotovvat from the nominal caliph al-Mostanser Billah. Two years later, Sultan Baybars in his turn invested the second of the Cairo caliphs, as well as some of his amirs and officials, with fotovvat. Nevertheless, by the end of the century fotovvat lost its popularity in the courts of Islamic rulers, including the Mamluks.61 Moreover, as Robert Irwin maintains, from the late 13th century onwards fotovvat groups became perceived as rabble and riff-raff in Egypt and Syria. As we understand from al-Turkomani’s treatise on fotovvat, they organised themselves into militias, became handy with knives, and were quick to organise actions to protect their confreres even from the government’s agents. Al-Turkomani attacks fotovvat from an Islamic perspective, accusing it of being the worst innovation (bedʿa) of the age. He severely criticises their propensity to violence and disobedience, their practices such as initiation rites and communal gatherings, and inappropriate acts such as wine drinking, fornication, singing, and gazing at undressed and beardless boys.62 In two separate treatises, the notorious Damascene Hanbali scholar Ebn Taymiyyeh (d. 1328) and his pupil Safi al-Din Edris ebn Bedqin both rejected the validity of fotovvat more or less on the same grounds.63 In a similar vein, Zayn ʿOmar al-Din ebn al-Vardi of Aleppo (d. 1349) penned a fatwa against fotovvat, denouncing the wrong-doings of fetyan.64 According to Irwin, as a result of the Mamluk state’s suppressive measures backed by the ʿolama’s denunciation, popular fotovvat almost disappeared in Mamluk lands by the mid-14th century.65 In a couple of decades following the fall of Baghdad, fotovvat lost its universal character. As discussed above, the most prominent innovations that al-Naser brought into fotovvat were: first, reorganising fotovvat groups around a central hierarchy, and second, making it popular amongst high echelons of Islamic society, and third, opening fotovvat lodges up to ordinary urban dwellers. As an immediate consequence of the collapse of the caliphate, the first two characteristics 61 Taeschner, ‘Futuwwa: Post-Mongol period’, 966; Robert Irwin, ‘“Futuwwa”: Chivalry and gangsterism in medieval Cairo’, Muqarnas 21 (2004), 162; Breebaart, 65 62 The treatise is summarised and discussed in Irwin, 164–65. 63 The content of these two fatwas is discussed in Breebaart, 102–8. 64 Ignaz Goldziher, ‘Eine fetwa gegen die futuwwa’, Zeitschrift der Detschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 73 (1919), 127–28. 65 Irwin, ‘Futuwwa’, 165.

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rapidly unravelled, whereas the last persisted. The disappearance of central forces resulted in the disentanglement of communal fotovvat and governmental bodies, a process which was underway soon after the fall of Baghdad. A contingent consequence was the localisation of fotovvat, its acquisition of indigenous flavours and its assumption of new structural and doctrinal elements in response to local environments. As a result, the socio-political and religious functions of fotovvat drastically changed, which in turn had consequences in its inner structure.

Popularisation Besides these ruptures from Naserian fotovvat, elements of continuity and adjustment are detectible. For example, the process of incorporating ordinary urban population (craftsmen, artisans, traders, scholars) into fotovvat increased further in Anatolia. Indeed, considering the absence of ʿayyars in Anatolian towns and the ebbing of courtly interest in fotovvat, the urban population remained the sole social source for the Anatolian form of fotovvat. In the course of the 13th and 14th centuries fotovvat became increasingly rooted amongst all fragments of the population, particularly the craftsmen and artisans of Anatolian towns.66 The overwhelming urban character of akhi-fotovvat is well reflected in Borgazi’s fotovvat-nameh. For example, a comparatively long section in this work explicates good conduct in several parts of life. The proper manner of activities prescribed here bears a predominantly urban character. He speaks, for example, about the etiquettes of walking in the quarter (mahalleh) and the market, purchasing, being a guest, visiting courts of rulers, using the public bath, and so on.67 Another important source written in the early 14th century, Manteq al-tayr of Gülşehri, also describes the akhi as a man with an urban lifestyle.68 66 The question of whether akhism was exclusively an urban phenomenon needs a little clarification. We know that the 14th-century traveller Ebn Battuteh visited akhi lodges in townships in the north-western Anatolia such as Geyve, Yenice, and Mudurnu (Gibb, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, 454–57). This might indicate that in some regions akhi organisations expanded to small settlements in the countryside. It is safe to argue, however, that akhi organisations emerged exclusively amongst settled populations. We do not have any sources indicating the existence of akhis amongst nomadic-tribal Turkmen. It is of interest from this standpoint that Ebn Battuteh refers to nomadic Turkmen only once in his whole account of Anatolia, where they are depicted as elements contributing to insecurity and instability (Gibb, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, 448). Elsewhere (456) he mentions a Turkmen village and a guide from there who is also depicted in negative terms. 67 Borgazi, 138–42. 68 The Latin transliteration and German translation of the corresponding part of this mathnawi, which is a liberal translation of Farid al-Din ʿAttar’s famous work with the same



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Akhi sources put an unprecedented stress on the importance of holding a profession. The following passage from Borgazi’s fotovvat-nameh clearly demonstrates this point: It is compulsory for an akhi to earn his livelihood lawfully. He must have skill in a craft with which he should be occupied. Those who do not have a profession cannot be accepted into fotovvat. Fotovvat is lawful only for those people who have the ability to earn through legitimate means so that he may afford to offer food to others. The one who does not have income cannot feed people. [And the one who cannot offer food cannot be an akhi.] A jobless person does not have income. This humble one, Yahya, saw that in one place an akhi must have eighteen dirham silver as capital, but no more.69 Truly people of fotovvat must have a profession for jobless people are indolent.70

This is not to say, however, that akhis were organised on occupational lines, i.e. as guilds.71 There is convincing evidence that akhi lodges were not exclusively reserved for craftsmen and artisans, but open to all segments of urban society. Our sources mention akhis as land-owners, affiliated to the ʿolama class, members of urban administration, craftsmen, merchants, and people associated with dervish orders. For instance, we know from Ebn Battuteh that the qadi of Konya was an akhi leader. Likewise, we have archival proof that Murat I of the Ottoman Empire was a member.72 Furthermore, there is no evidence to suggest that a given akhi

title, is published in Taeschner, Gülschehris Mesnevi auf Achi Evran, den Heiligen von Kırschehir und Patron der türkischen Zünfte (Wiesbaden, 1955), 52–67. The whole text is later published by Agâh Sırrı Levend, ed. Gülşehri, Mantiku’l-Tayr (Ankara, 1957). 69 Borgazi’s negative attitude toward extreme wealth should be taken as an aspiration for piety. We know from other contemporary sources that akhis could accumulate remarkable fortunes. Aflaki mentions rich and powerful akhis. For example, Akhi Ahmad Shah, who bears the title of sultan of fotovvat and morovvat and who was the head of the people of fotovvat ( fütüvvetdār), possessed remarkable wealth; he had the command of thousands of soldiers and rends (akhis). When the Mongol ruler Gaykhatu came to Konya, Akhi Ahmed was among the notables of Konya to welcome him. In this meeting, Gaykhatu paid remarkable respect to Akhi Ahmad calling him ‘Akhi Ata (father)’. See Eflaki, Ariflerin Menkıbeleri, trans. Tahsin Yazıcı (Istanbul, 2006), 464. 70 Borgazi, 125–26. 71 Cahen, ‘Mouvements populaires’, 238, 244; Idem, ‘Futuwwa’, 963; Idem, Osmanlılardan Önce Anadolu, 155; Fuat Köprülü, The Origins of the Ottoman Empire, trans., ed. Gary Leiser (Albany: 1992), 93–98. 72 Franz Taeschner, ‘War Murad I. Grossmeister oder Mitglied des Achibundes?’, Oriens 6/1 (1953), 23–31.

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lodge recruited its members from exclusively one occupation, which was the basic tenet of a guild. Hence akhi communities cannot be deemed guilds, though their members were overwhelmingly, but not exclusively, craftsmen and artisans. One should note that the spread of fotovvat among urban classes enhanced its popular character while reducing any courtly chivalric flavour. In other words, its doctrinal and practical aspects were modified to appeal to popular taste.

Political decentralisation and autonomous enclaves One of the overriding arguments propounded in this chapter is that the akhi-fotovvat phenomenon is a result of the decentralisation and localisation process that took place in the cultural environment of a politically fragmented Anatolia. The lack of a powerful central authority paved the way for akhis to cultivate autonomous spheres of political and military influence. Contemporary sources such as Ebn Battuteh and Aflaki leave no doubt that the akhis had enough military capacity to take control of streets.73 They could even assume governmental functions when central authorities were weakened. During the Mongol siege of Kayseri, for instance, akhis defended the city for a period of 15 days.74 The case of Ankara akhis who ruled the city for a short while in the mid-14th century is another example demonstrating akhi associations’ affluence and political efficacy.75 Commanding such political and military power, akhis seem to have developed a degree of self-confidence vis-à-vis begs. Their inclination to keep a safe distance from political authorities is well expressed in akhi sources such as Borgazi’s fotovvat-nameh and Gülşehri’s alleged short hagiography Karamat-e Akhi Evran.76 These sources consider akhis as somehow superior to temporal rulers for their piety and possession of spiritual qualities. For example, Borgazi records 73 The following anecdote from Aflaki is rather illuminating: Akhi Mostafa and his father Akhi Siddik were friends of the House of Mawlana. Akhi Mostafa was born on the same day as Aref Chelebi and his name was given to him by Mawlana. However, as time went by, Akhi Mostafa made numerous associates and started to oppress the people of Konya. He attained full control of Konya’s streets. Although Sultan Valad warned him a couple of times, his response was that ‘the control of streets can only be achieved through tyranny, please do not interfere in our business, your realm of Gnosticism is different from ours’. See Eflaki, 622. 74 Mikail Bayram, Ahi Evren ve Ahi Teşkilatı’nın Kuruluşu (Istanbul: 1998), 174. 75 Mehmet Ali Hacıgökmen, ‘Ankara’da Ahi Hakimiyeti (1330?-1361)’, Türkler VI, ed. H. C. Güzel (Ankara, 2002), 830–36. 76 Gülşehri’s authorship of this work has been disputed. Opposing Taeschner’s view, Agah Sırrı Levend has argued that some stylistic points call the work’s authenticity into question. See Gülşehri, Mantiku’l-Tayr, 13–14.



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seven essential qualities that every akhi must retain. As an example of one of them, he states that it is forbidden for an akhi to frequent the courts of begs. On the contrary, begs and temporal rulers should pay respect to akhis; when an akhi or shaykh arranges a banquette, begs and sultans are expected to visit.77 In a similar manner, Gülşehri depicts Akhi Evran as God’s operative, at whose court begs were pleasured to serve.78 One should note that the unravelling of fotovvat from political organisations was not a dramatic occurrence, but rather took place during a process of moderate distancing. Both sides kept an affectionate attitude towards each other and deve­ loped a symbiotic relationship. In addition to Ebn Battuteh’s eye witness account, some archival evidence from the Ottoman principality shows that begs and akhis developed quite a warm relationship which was based upon mutual interests and benefits. In response to the akhis’ public services, such as regulating the market, contributing to the security of streets and so forth, begs bestowed tax exemption and lands for the establishment of lodges.79 The case of the Ottoman sultan Murat I (d. 1389) shows that sometimes even sultans themselves could be initiated into akhi-fotovvat.80 It was only with the growth and centralisation of the Ottoman government that this cordial relationship began to deteriorate, simply because the central administration forced the reduction of akhis’ autonomous space. Therefore, it is safe to conclude that decentralisation and autonomy vis-àvis the political authorities were two distinctive features of akhi-fotovvat. I use ‘decentralisation’ with a two-fold meaning: first, the lack of a central hierarchy and leadership within the whole akhi communities, and second, the absence of a powerful political authority in the surrounding world. I argue that these two underlying characteristics were definitive in shaping the doctrinal and communal dimensions of akhi synthesis. To these two factors, one should add the incorporation of typically Sufi topoi into the fotovvat system, to which I will return shortly.

Esprit de corps As indicated above, the akhis were economically productive and ordinary urban dwellers in contrast to ʿayyar communities, which were economic parasites and 77 Borgazi, 126. Nonetheless, elsewhere he writes about the protocols of visiting the courts of begs. Borgazi, 141. 78 Taeschner, Gülschehrīs Mesnevi, 12. 79 Halime Doğru, XVI. Yüzyılda Sultanönü Sancağında Ahiler ve Ahi Zaviyeleri (Ankara, 1991). 80 Franz Taeschner, ‘War Murad I. Grossmeister’.

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elements of trouble living in the margins of the society. Such a fundamental shift in the social foundation (from parasite-illegal to productive-legal) had major consequences in the doctrinal orientation and inner structure of the communal body. Above all, the esprit de corps of the communal existence and, contingently, the sense of legitimacy underwent serious alteration. In ʿayyari-fotovvat, esprit de corps was chiefly based on common interest shrouded in solidarity, companionship, and altruism within a cohesive group structure. In the spirit of ʿayyar ethos there had always been a willingness to fight tyranny, oppression and to redress wrong-doings by violence. Therefore, the foremost qualities of an ʿayyar-fata were honour, generosity, courage, and solidarity with his confreres. Since they were bands of gangs living on the exploitation or pillage of ordinary people, their sense of legitimacy and mutual responsibility was limited within the companion group. Under al-Naser and his followers, fotovvat developed a radically different esprit de corps. Its rationale was to strengthen the loyalties of military officials and civil servants, as well as local Muslim rulers, to the caliphal government. By the mid-13th century in Anatolia, however, these dimensions of esprit de corps did not function in the new socio-political setting. The fotovvat-abiding people of Anatolia were neither outlandish rabble nor governmental instruments of higher political authorities; they were but local representatives with politico-military capability who derived their power from socio-religious and political institutions operating for the sake of social cohesion. The second half of the 13th century not only witnessed the dissolution of the Islamic caliphate but also a decrease in Anatolian Seljuk power, thus giving way to the emergence of a political vacuum. The political landscape of Anatolia in the late 13th and the 14th centuries, marked with fragmented small-scale states, left copious space for the emergence of non-governmental enterprises. Since the efficacy of the Seljuk state’s military and financial support diminished drastically, local dynamics and relations gained prominence for the sake of promoting peace and stability. In such a political atmosphere, initiatory communal structures that were buttressed by mystical-religious aspirations and well-defined codes of ethics proved to be the most effective institutions to preserve the social organism of urban areas. It was within these conditions that akhi-fotovvat evolved out of Naserian fotovvat. Having inherited a strong sense of solidarity and a tradition of coherence, and resting upon a well-developed institutional infrastructure, akhis emerged as the most powerful organised groups in urban space, filling the gap left by political authorities. A vital difference between akhis and ʿayyars of the preNaserian period was that unlike their predecessors akhis were at the very centre of the society. Therefore, they could not regard ordinary people as a source to be



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exploited or pillaged. On the contrary, they were in a position to assume public responsibilities and duties such as regulating and securing economic production, trade and business, providing the security of towns, etc. In other words, as a result of the lack of governmental efficiency, akhi-fotovvat arose as an alternative social organisation to maintain the pace of life in urban spaces. In addition to engaging in a wide range of urban activities such as education, trade and craftsmanship, building construction, running hospices and diplomatic missions, akhis also kept a tight hold on streets especially when the governmental authority became weak. It is because of these intrinsic social functions that Anatolian akhism always retained a political tinge. From these functions grew the esprit de corps of akhi-fotovvat, which can be summarised as securing the public order of the urban life in the absence of efficient state organisation, or, to use Rachel Goshgarian’s expression, the ‘preservation of a stable urban environment’.81 In this respect, akhi confraternities, along with dervish brotherhoods, functioned as major elements of continuity and stability in a time of political uncertainty, economic stagnation, and religious and cultural transformation. During the 13th and 14th centuries, when cities were vulnerable to attacks and frequently changed ruling hands, services provided by akhi organisations for local populations seemed more stable than the efforts of state-like formations.82 Therefore, akhi associations should be considered as one of the major constituents of the backbone of urban social fabric, especially between 1240 and 1360 when political fragmentation prevailed in Anatolia.83 It is abundantly clear in contemporary sources that along with amirs, qadis, shaykhs, imams, and ʿolama, akhi leaders (akhi-shaykhs) constituted the highest tier of urban society. For the purpose of this chapter, it suffices to look at the example of Konya. As I already discussed above, when the Seljuk Sultan ʿEzz al-Din Kaykawus I and ʿAlaʾ al-Din Kaykhosraw assumed the throne in 1211 and in 1220 respectively, akhis were among the representatives of Konya who welcomed the new sultan at the gates of the city. And Akhi Ahmad Shah of Konya

81 Rachel Goshgarian, Beyond the Social and the Spiritual: Redefining the Urban Confraternities of Late Medieval Anatolia, PhD dissertation, Harvard University (2007), 174. 82 Goshgarian, Beyond the Social and the Spiritual, 192. 83 The politically fragmented landscape of Anatolia is very well documented by Ebn Battuteh. He describes all the western towns of Anatolia (except Aksaray, Niğde, Kayseri, Sivas, Erzincan, and Erzurum, which were ruled by Ilkhanid deputy governor Eretna) as independent political entities with their own rulers bearing the titles ‘beg’, ‘sultan’, or ‘khan’. See Gibb, The Travels, 413–73.

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seems to have been acting as a leading representative of the city in 1290. When the newly appointed minister Fakhr al-Din Qazvini promulgated new taxes, Akhi Ahmad Shah and his youths, together with other leaders of the city, went to the minister to convey the people’s displeasure.84 The same person – whom Aflaki refers to as a chief of the people of fotovvat of Konya, who possessed great wealth and controlled thousands of soldiers and scoundrels (ronud)85 – spoke to the Mongol ruler Gaykhatu as the representative of the people of Konya and dissuaded him from sacking the city.86 When he visited the city, Ebn Battuteh stayed in the hospice of Akhi Ebn Qalam Shah, which was, the traveller recounts, very large and accommodated a great body of disciples. What is even more interesting about this akhi is that he was also the city’s qadi.87 Ebn Battuteh’s numerous records from a number of cities across the peninsula leave no doubt that the akhis’ position was not different in other parts of medieval Anatolia. His summary evinces not only the eminent social status they possessed but also the political potency they commanded: It is one of the customs in this land that in any part of it where there is not a sultan, it is the akhi who acts as governor; it is he who gives horses and robes to the visitor and shows hospitality to him in the measure of his means, and his manner of command and prohibition and riding out [with a retinue] is the same as that of the princes.88

Indeed, he mentions specific akhis who were at the same time governing cities. For instance, a certain Sharif Hosayn, a descendent of the Prophet as well as an akhi-shaykh of numerous fetyan, was the deputy governor of Aqsaray on behalf of Amir Eretna.89 Likewise, the governor of Niğde, which was also under the Ilkhanid rule, was Akhi Jaruq who was the akhi-shaykh of a hospice.90 Akhi Amir ʿAli of Qaysar was both a great amir and the akhi-shaykh of a powerful and wealthy lodge-based brotherhood that had members from amongst the notables of 84 Feridun Nafiz Uzluk, trans. and ed., Anadou Selçukluları Devleti Tarihi (Anonim Selçuknāme) (Ankara, 1952), 178. 85 To show the enormity of the social influence this man claimed in Konya, it is enough to mention that when his brother died in 1295 around 15,000 men are reported to have shaved their heads as a sign of mourning. Uzluk, 91. 86 Eflaki, 463–64. 87 Gibb, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, 430. 88 Ibid., 434. 89 Ibid., 433. 90 Ibid., 433.



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the city.91 A gravestone in Aqsaray dated 699/1300 concurs with Ebn Battuteh’s description. It is understood from the epitaph that the grave belonged to Akhi Mohammad ebn Amir Hajj ebn Bulad, who is qualified as ‘malek al-qurraʾ’.92 One can deduce from this epitaph that both Akhi Mohammad and his father Amir Hajj were governors in Aqsaray. In short, between the mid-13th and mid-14th centuries, akhi associations assumed many socio-political functions traditionally attributed to the state; they shared the suzerainty with agents of the state. Their role in providing security (both to defend towns against outsider invaders and to keep public security against bandits), in regulating the market, in constructing infrastructure (endowing various buildings such as zaviyeh, public baths, mosques, madrasehs), in arranging social relations and bonds, in cultivating urban culture and local identity, and in re-adjusting socio-political hierarchy in Anatolian towns cannot be overestimated.

Fusion with Sufism To sum up, akhi-fotovvat was the result of a combination of processes including decentralisation, popularisation, and politicisation (in the sense of acquiring political autonomy and assuming public responsibilities). Naturally, the abovementioned major changes in the surrounding milieu had repercussions on the inner structure and doctrine of fotovvat. The most concrete consequence was that assumption of public responsibilities and duties, hence acquiring somewhat a quasi-state character, urged akhis to develop means of organisation independent from governments. This necessarily meant that fotovvat had to assimilate tariqeh-Sufism since the latter had already developed an efficient model of nongovernmental social organisation centred on the khanaqah or rebat. Indeed, the liaison between Sufism and fotovvat goes back to the 9th century at least. We know that great Sufis in the late 9th century developed an interest in fotovvat principles such as altruism, chastity, benevolence, strength, mercy, and forgiveness. The earliest Sufi writings on fotovvat, such as the well-known books of Solami, Haravi, and Qoshayri, show how those mystics incorporated fotovvat ideas into their own system of thinking and epistemology. However, this initial phase in the fotovvat-Sufism relationship was only at the level of 91 Ibid., 434. 92 İbrahim Hakkı Konyalı, Abideleri ve Kitabeleri ile Niğde Aksaray Tarihi, cilt II (Istanbul, 1974), 1519.

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idea-interchange; it by no means corresponded to a convergence between Sufi communities and fotovvat folk; each was forming and sustaining its own distinct communality.93 As far as akhi-fotovvat is concerned, however, association of fotovvat and Sufism transcends far beyond the mere interchange of ideas. In the course of the 13th century, both the corporeal and principal aspects of fotovvat confraternities attained an unmistakable Sufi hint, a process initiated most probably by ­Sohravardi’s abovementioned visit to Konya. Lloyd Ridgeon, who has observed a similar development in the Persian-speaking world, suggests that the merging of fotovvat with Sufism can be observed through changes in certain identity holders such as the lineage of succession, clothing, gathering place, structure of associations, and doctrine.94 As a matter of fact, both fotovvat internal sources such as fotovvat-namehs and external sources (travelogues, vaqf deeds, architectural evidence, chronicles, etc.) show clearly enough how fotovvat and Sufism intermingled to such an extent that in most cases it is difficult to draw a line of demarcation between the two. Ethel Sara Wolper, who has studied dervish and akhi lodges in late-medieval Anatolia, observes that in terms of architecture and functioning there was virtually no difference between Sufi and akhi lodges. Wolper even argues that there existed no differentiated groups such as akhis and Sufis; but that akhi was just an epithet used in Sufi groups under certain circumstances.95 Wolper’s assertion needs to be reconsidered, however. A rather comprehensive view of medieval Anatolia makes clear that there were well-organised, faith-based akhi fraternities that were plainly distinct from dervish brotherhoods. Yet Wolper’s studies are important for they evince through architectural analysis the heretofore unprecedented rapprochement between khanaqah-based tariqeh-Sufism and zaviyeh-based akhi-fotovvat. Indeed, our sources are congruous in showing that within the particularities of medieval Anatolia, fotovvat acquired a quasi-tariqeh structure, both in terms of organisational basis and doctrinal discourse.96

93 The relationship between Sufism and fotovvat has been debated by many scholars. For a good summary of these debates presented from a fresh perspective, see Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 28–60. 94 Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 74–85. 95 Wolper, Cities and Saints, 78. 96 We have a good deal of sources including fotovvat-namehs, Sufi treatises, hagiographies, vaqf deeds, ejazat-namehs, genealogical charts, and architectural evidence to examine the process of the entwinement of fotovvat and Sufism in a medieval Anatolian context. Nonetheless, a further detailed analysis exceeds the scope of this chapter.



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Conclusion As a general assessment, one may postulate two kinds of political authoritative structures in medieval Islamic societies which were identifiably different albeit inseparably interrelated. One was the higher political authority identified with a bureaucratised state apparatus which also wielded a coercive force qua proper military. The other one was the local, politically autonomous, enclave that emerged out of the traditional indigenous web of relations and bonds of loyalties – the latter was economically supported by waqf institutions, ideologically buttressed by religious-mystical ideals, and guided by traditionally established codes of behaviour. In medieval Anatolia, the first type of authoritative structure was represented by amirs, khans, or sultans who derived power from their tribal kinsfolk and/or institutionalised armies formed through routinised conscription and training. Within the state form of authority, the ‘olama class, as guardians and interpreters of religion, had always formed the second inextricable constituent of the ruling caste. It is because of this that the spatial manifestation of this structure came into being in great mosques and madrasehs. As a venue for the articulation of orthodox Islam, madrasehs fostered homogeneity of practice and attitude among the Islamic elite, regardless of their ethnic and regional background, through the promotion of a relatively standardised version of religion and codes of behaviour. The more Islamicised and universally homogenised the elite, however, the more they were distanced from low-level population still bearing vernacular cultural traits of culture. On the other hand, Sufi brotherhoods and akhi confraternities represented the second form of authoritative structure. Deprived of legitimised power supported by institutionalised bureaucracy and tax collection – and this was their major difference with the state form – these autonomous associations received their strength from loyalties developed from immediate social relations, charisma based on mystical interpretations of the religion, and regulation of indigenous social interdependencies through traditional institutions and deep-rooted ethical codes. These non-state structures realised and stabilised themselves principally within the institution of zaviyeh, usually accompanied by a small masjed. Consequently, the zaviyeh became the foremost spatial manifestation of Sufi or akhi authority. Therefore, against the elitist, state-oriented, and universally-homogenised characteristics of the madraseh and the mosque, zaviyeh and masjed were inherently popular, non-governmental, and vernacular. Zaviyehs mostly appealed to ordinary populace including recent converts and even non-Muslims. In times of political upheaval and mass movements they even functioned as a locus of political dissent for local magnates against central governments, as

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many Sufi lodges in Anatolia did during and after the Babai revolt of 1240.97 The interaction between these two structures of authority was mutually affirmative or unfavourable depending upon circumstances. But at the bottom line, there existed an intrinsic tension between them. As state authority increased, the autonomous enclave of the non-state authority structure decreased. By the same token, as state authority decreased, local power magnates bourgeoned. If central authority became weak enough, non-governmental authority structures could easily assume some privileges and functions of the state such as regulating the market, controlling violence, and exercising political authority over the city’s population. In the absence of a physical coercive force, religious and moral precepts provided the best instruments to organise worldly affairs. The political fragmentation that was induced by the Mongol incursion created favourable circumstances (political, economic, and religious) for the growth of non-state, local authority structures, i.e. Sufi and akhi associations. The transformation of Naserian fotovvat into akhifotovvat operated within the parameters and perimeters of these political dialectics in the backdrop of Anatolia’s peculiar conditions. There were at the time two modes of social organisations that Islamic tradition engendered: shariʿa and tariqeh. Shariʿa represented the state order while tariqeh stood for non-governmental means of social stratification and authority schema. It is no coincidence that the very concept of tariqeh emerged during the period of political crisis in the Islamic world when overarching political authority collapsed.98 Similarly, when the political order crumbled in medieval Anatolia, as principal fraternal incorporations upholding the fabric of urban society, fotovvat associations inched closer to Sufism, both in terms of doctrine and organisational infrastructure. In that respect, it is not surprising that as Ottoman power grew into a bureaucratised empire, akhi associations increasingly lost their eminence in Anatolian towns and eventually faded away by the late 15th century, in the process passing a number of fotovvat principles over to guilds and Sufi traditions such as Refaʾi, Bektashi, and Qizilbash.99

97 Wolper, Cities and Saints, 11. 98 Ahmet Karamustafa, Sufism: The Formative Period (Berkeley-Los Angeles, 2007), 114–42. 99 Taeschner, ‘Akhī’, 323; George G. Arnakis, ‘Futuwwa traditions in the Ottoman Empire: Akhis, Bektashi traditions, and craftsmen’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 12/4 (1953), 232–47; Gölpınarlı, ‘İslam ve Türk İllerinde Fütüvvet Teşkilatı’, 66–73; Rıza Yıldırım, ‘Inventing a Sufi tradition: The use of the futuwwa ritual gathering as a model for the Qizilbash Djem’, in Sufism and Society: Arrangements of the Mystical in the Muslim World, 1200–1800, ed. John Curry and Erik S. Ohlander (New York, 2011), 164–82.



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Bibliography Anjum, O, ‘Mystical authority and governmentality in medieval Islam’, in Sufism and Society: Arrangements of the Mystical in the Muslim World, 1200–1800, ed. John Curry and Erik S. Ohlander (New York, 2011), 71–92. Arnakis, G. G. ‘Futuwwa traditions in the Ottoman Empire: Akhis, Bektashi traditions, and craftsmen’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 12/4 (1953), 232–47. Bayram, M. Ahi Evren ve Ahi Teşkilatı’nın Kuruluşu (Istanbul, 1998). Breebaar, Deodaat Anne. The Development and Structure of the Turkish Futuwah Guilds, PhD Dissertation (Princeton University, 1961). Cahen, Cl. ‘Futuwwa’, EI2, II (Leiden, 1991), 962–63. ———. ‘Mouvements populaires et autonomisme urbain dans l’Asie musulmane du moyen âge, III’, Arabica 6.3 (1959), 233–65. ———. ‘Note sur les debuts de la futuwwa d’an-Nasir’, Oriens 6/1 (1953), 18–22. ———. ‘Sur les traces des premiers akhis’, in 60. Doğum Yılı Münasebetiyle Fuad Köprülü Armağanı. Mélanges Fuad Köprülü, ed. Osman Turan (Istanbul, 1953), 81–91. ———. Osmanlılardan Önce Anadolu, çev. Erol Üyepazarcı (Istanbul, 2000). Deny, J. ‘Fütüwwet-name et romans de chevalerie turcs’, Journal Asiatique 16 (1920),182–83. Doğru, H. Yüzyılda Sultanönü Sancağında Ahiler ve Ahi Zaviyeleri (Ankara, 1991). Eflaki, A. Ariflerin Menkıbeleri, trans. Tahsin Yazıcı (Istanbul, 2006). Goldziher, I. ‘Eine fetwa gegen die futuwwa’, Zeitschrift der Detschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 73 (1919), 127–28. Gölpınarlı Abdülbâki. ‘İslam ve Türk İllerinde Fütüvvet Teşkilatı’, İstanbul Üniversitesi İktisat Fakültesi Mecmuası XI (1949–50), 205–31. Goshgarian, Rachel. Beyond the Social and the Spiritual: Redefining the Urban Confraternities of Late Medieval Anatolia, PhD dissertation, Harvard University (2007). Gülşehri. Mantiku’l-Tayr, ed. Agâh Sırrı Levend (Ankara, 1957). Hacıgökmen. M. A. ‘Ankara’da Ahi Hakimiyeti (1330?-1361)’, Türkler VI, ed. H. C. Güzel (Ankara, 2002), 830–36. Hartmann, A. ‘Al-Suhrawardi, Shihab al-Din Abu Laf ʿUmar’, EI2, IX (Leiden, 1997), 778–82. ———. ‘al-Nasir li-Din Allah’, EI2, VII (Leiden, 1993), 998–1001.

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Hodgson, M. The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Religion. Volume 2: The Expansion of Islam in the Middle Periods (Chicago, 1974). Ebn Bibi, El-Evâmirü’l-Alâ’iyye fi’l-umûri’l-Alâ’iyye (Selçuknâme), II: Tercüme, trans. Mürsel Öztürk (Ankara, 2014). Irwin, R. ‘“Futuwwa”: Chivalry and gangsterism in medieval Cairo’, Muqarnas 21 (2004), 161–70. Kahle, P. ‘Die futuwwa-bündnisse des Kalifen en-Nasir’, Festschrift für Georg Jacob zum Siebzigsten Geburtstag (Leipzig, 1932), 112–27. ———. ‘Ein futuwwa-erlass des Kalifen Nasir aus dem Jahre 604 (1207)’, in Aus fünf Jahrtausenden morgenländischer Kultur, Festschrift für Max Freiherrn von Oppenheim zum 70. Geburtstage, gewidmet von Freunden und Mitarbeitern (Berlin, 1933), 52–58. Karamustafa, A. Sufism: The Formative Period (Berkeley, 2007). Konyalı, İbrahim Hakkı. Abideleri ve Kitabeleri ile Niğde Aksaray Tarihi, cilt II (Istanbul, 1974). Köprülü, F. The Origins of the Ottoman Empire, trans., ed. Gary Leiser (Albany, 1992). Mahjub, M.J. ‘Chivalry and early Persian Sufism’, in Classical Persian Sufism: From its origins to Rumi, ed. Leonard Lewisohn (London, 1993), 549–81. Ocak, A. Y. ‘Ahi’, in EI3, [accessed 1 March 2016]. ———. ‘Fütüvvet, Tarih’, Diyânet İslâm Ansiklopedisi, XIII (Istanbul, 1996), 261–63. Ohlander, E. S. ‘Inner-worldly religiosity, social structuring and fraternal incorporation in a time of uncertainty: The futuwwat-nama of Najm al-Din Zarkub of Tabriz’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40.1 (2013), 14–35. ———. Sufism in an Age of Transition: ʿUmar al-Suhrawardi and the Rise of the Islamic Mystical Brotherhoods (Leiden, 2008). Rahman, F. Islam (Chicago, 2002). Ridgeon, L. ‘Futuwwa (in Sufism)’, in EI3 (Leiden, 2012), 143–48. ———. Jawanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh, 2011). ———. Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism: A History of Sufi-futuwwat in Iran (London, 2010). Salinger, G. ‘Was the futuwa an Oriental form of chivalry?’, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 94.5 (1959), 481–93. Taeschner, F. ‘Akhi’, EI2, I (Leiden, 1986), 321–23.



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———. ‘Eine schrift des Sihabaddin Suhrawardi über die futuwwa’, Oriens 15 (1962), 277–80. ———. ‘Futuwwa: Post-Mongol period’, EI2, II (Leiden, 1991), 961–69. ———. ‘War Murad I. Grossmeister oder Mitglied des Achibundes?’, Oriens 6/1 (1953), 23–31 ———. Gülschehris Mesnevi auf Achi Evran, den Heiligen von Kırschehir und Patron der türkischen Zünfte (Wiesbaden, 1955). ———. Zünfte und Buruderschaften im Islam, Texte zur Geschichte der Futuwwa (Zürich, 1979). Tor, D. Violent Order: Religious Warfare, Chivalry and the ‘Ayyar Phenomenon in the Medieval Islamic World (Wurzberg, 2007). Turan, O. ‘Selçuk Devri Vakfiyeleri II: Mübârizeddin Er-tokuş ve Vakfiyesi’, Bulleten 11/43 (1947), 23–42. ———. Selçuklular Zamanında Türkiye: Siyasi Tarih Alp Arslan’dan Osman Gazi’ye 1071–1318 (Istanbul, 1971). Uzluk, Feridun Nafiz. trans. and ed., Anadou Selçukluları Devleti Tarihi (Anonim Selçuk-name) (Ankara, 1952). Vryonis, S. The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamisation from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century (Berkeley, 1971). Wolper, E. W. Cities and Saints: Sufism and the Transformation of Urban Space in Medieval Anatolia (University Park, Pa, 2003). Yıldırım, R. ‘Inventing a Sufi tradition: The use of the futuwwa ritual gathering as a model for the Qizilbash djem’, in Sufism and Society: Arrangements of the Mystical in the Muslim World, 1200–1800, ed. John Curry and Erik S. Ohlander (New York, 2011), 164–82. Yıldız, Sara Nur and Haşim Şahin. ‘In the proximity of Sultans: Majd al-Din Ishaq, Ibn ‘Arabi and the Seljuk Court’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East, ed. A.C.S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız (London, 2013), 173–205. Zakeri, M. ‘The futuwwa-“houses” at the time of Caliph al-Nasir’, Hallesche Beiträge zur Orientwissenschaft 25 (1998), 222–37.

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Akhi lodge, Akhi architecture or Akhi patronage? Architecture of FotovvatBased Associations in Medieval Anatolia Maxime Durocher Abstract Focusing on textual sources and concrete evidence, this chapter proposes a historical assessment of fotovvat-based associations’ architecture in late medieval Anatolia. Firstly, I present different types of medieval narratives ( fotovvat-namehs, hagiographies, and travel writings) and information about the akhi lodge, its architecture and furnishing. Historiographical considerations complement this study, revealing the peripheral nature of akhi architecture in modern scholarship. Finally, an analysis of architectural remains shows that in order to understand the social role of fotovvat-based associations, one must expand the scope of their study to include akhi patronage. This approach incorporates not only the akhi lodge but also other various buildings commissioned by these confraternities – such as tombs, public baths, etc. and the financial support of their pious foundations, i.e. the vaqf and its documentation (vaqfiyeh). An emphasis on architectural activity reveals how fotovvat-based communities operated within the urban fabric. It also offers a perspective on rural settlement and the agrarian supporters of these groups which challenges the idea that akhis were an only urban-centred phenomenon.



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The importance of fotovvat brotherhoods and their involvement in religious, politi­cal and socio-economical life in the medieval Islamic world has been increasingly highlighted in scholarship. Fetyans or akhis, as they are more specifically known in medieval Anatolia, formed associations of men who were involved in the secular life essentially as craftsmen and tradesmen, while sharing ethical, moral and religious values and rallied around the figure of a shaykh. Like the Sufis, with whom they maintain significant similarities, akhis contributed to the urban fabric as patrons and congregated in a particular kind of building: the zaviyeh (lodge). Akhis have been described thus by Erik S. Ohlander: As a form of social organization, ahilik was an urban phenomenon, an intentional community of like-minded, usually unmarried, young men linked to certain collectivities of urban artisans and neighbourhood militias who adhered to the ideals of the futuwwa and pursued a communal way of life centered around a lodge (zawiya/astana).1

In a recent paper, Rachel Goshgarian goes on to further stress the importance of the akhi lodge, underlining its specificity in Anatolia compared with other parts of the medieval Islamic world: One of the most unique things about the Anatolian futuwwa-based associations in the context of other futuwwa-based associations is the construction of an institutional identity centred in a physical structure, i.e., the akhi lodge.2

Nevertheless, if the importance of the lodge as the central institution in the development of fotovvat-based associations3 in medieval Anatolia has been already studied, its architectural and physical aspects seem to have been neglected. The definition of a dervish lodge is quite variable. This particular building, shared by different religious communities or associations like Sufis and akhis, is known by a variety of terms in textual sources and epigraphy: most common being zaviyeh 1 Erik S. Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition: ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī and the Rise of the Islamic Mystical Brotherhoods (Leiden, 2008), 275. 2 Rachel Goshgarian, ‘Opening and closing: Coexistence and competition in associations based on futuwwa in late medieval Anatolian cities’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40/1 (2014), 42. 3 I use this expression, following Goshagarian in ‘Opening and Closing’, to avoid the problematic concept of brotherhood.

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(a term meaning literally the corner of a building) and khanaqah (composed of the Persian word, khaneh, or house). One may also encounter the term fotovvat-khaneh in medieval narratives on the subject of fotovvat-based associations. Although Raymond Lifchez has stressed the polysemy of the English word ‘lodge’, which is usually chosen to name this particular institution,4 it is for our purposes the least problematic term, especially when referring to the building’s most important function, i.e. hospitality. Unlike other medieval Anatolian pious foundations, like the mosque or the madraseh, the zaviyeh seems to appear as the ‘poor cousin’ in secondary literature. The ideological framework within which the field of ‘Turkish art’ was founded in the beginning of the 20th century, including the footprint of the Vienna school and the necessity of censing the national patrimony of the new Turkish Republic, contributed to the setting of a typologist and formalist approach.5 While the dervish lodge was neglected in part due to poor interest and lack of concrete evidence, this neglect is even more evident for the central institution of fotovvat-based associations. Despite the numerous mentions and descriptions of akhi zaviyehs that one comes across in the Rehla of Ebn Battuteh,6 the famous Maghrebi traveller who passed through Anatolia in the 1330s, few of these buildings have survived and those which do remain are generally in a poor state of conservation. On the other hand, the primary literature concerning akhi communities in medieval Anatolia gives us parsimonious insight to the material and architectural context, instead focusing much more intensely on the religious and ethical aspects of fotovvat. In focusing my research on the architectural framework according to which such communities developed, I encountered several obstacles due to scarce documentation. How can absent architecture be studied, more specifically when textual sources show limited interest in the secular aspects of fotovvat-based associations? Our knowledge of the akhi lodge seems to reach a sort of dead-end because of this lack of material evidence. Instead of just focusing on the central institution, this chapter aims to propose a broader insight concerning akhi architecture, including different buildings and commodities associated with the akhi lodge. In order to encompass a larger institutional scope, the question of the patronage enjoyed by fotovvat-based associations should be addressed. By choosing a geographical and archaeological approach, the modality of settlement and development of 4 Raymond Lifchez, The Dervish Lodge: Architecture, Art and Sufism in Ottoman Turkey (Berkeley, 1992), 1–2. 5 On this topic, see Oya Pancaroğlu, ‘Formalism and the academic foundation of Turkish art in the early twentieth century’, Muqarnas 24 (2004), 67–78. 6 Ebn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, trans. H.A.R. Gibb, vol. 2 (Cambridge, 1962).



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akhi groups – both in an urban and rural context – can be evaluated in order to illuminate their impact on the transformation of architectural ‘paysage’. Although Ebn Bibi has stressed the importance of akhi communities in his description of the welcome ceremony held by the Seljuk Sultan ʿAlaʾ al-Din Kayqobad for Sohravardi in Aksaray in 618/1221,7 the first epigraphic documentation of akhi patronage is dated from the late 1260’s.8 Despite their scattered character, existing documentation (of the architecture and its inscriptions) shows the growth of these communities between the second half of the 13th century and the end of the 14th century. The valleys of Yeşilırmak and its tributaries in modern Turkey, otherwise known as the Inner Pontic region, present a remarkable concentration of textual sources and hold part of the few architectural remains related to these communities. In an attempt to answer some of these questions, this chapter firstly proposes to present the different medieval sources that provide information about the akhi lodge and its architecture: fotovvat-namehs, medieval travel narratives, and hagiographical texts. Then, turning to secondary literature, I aim to demonstrate the peripheral character of the issue of akhi architecture in the field of fotovvat studies. Finally, I broaden my scope of investigation to include not only the akhi lodge but also other buildings related to fotovvat-based confraternities, in order to approach other dimensions of these communities’ architectural activity as well as their settlement in urban and rural backgrounds.

The akhi lodge and fotovvat-khaneh in medieval narratives Due to the complete absence or near complete absence of physical evidence, scholars have had to turn to literary sources in order to understand the architectural structure of fotovvat-based associations. The various approaches and conceptual schedules that shape the study of the akhi lodge, and on a larger scale of other types of buildings related to these communities, will be discussed later 7 Ebn Bibi, al-Avāmirü’l-‘Alā’iyye fi‘l-umūri’l-‘Alā’iyye, quoted and translated by Erik S. Ohlander in Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, 274–77. 8 The first inscription in medieval Asia Minor related to fotovvat is a funerary stele dated 647/1249, but it does not mention the name of the patron. This inscription mentions the foundation of a mosque. R. Riefstahl identifies the patron as Akhi Yusof because of the mosque’s vicinity to his tomb. See Rudolf M. Riefstahl, Turkish Architecture in Southwestern Anatolia (Cambridge, 1931), 79. The oldest mention of an akhi as a patron I could find is in a funerary text, mentioning ʿAbd al-Rahman Akhi, founded in Tevriçik or Tebrizcik near Erzurum and dated 661/1263, Répertoire Chronologique d’Epigraphie Arabe, XII (Cairo, 1943), 4506.

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in the chapter. Before that, it is pertinent to examine any mentions of this topic in medieval texts. While our knowledge of fotovvat before the caliphate of al-Naser (r. 575– 622/1180–1225) is scarce and fragmented, three main sources written in the 13th and the 14th centuries provide deeper insight into the social organisation of fotovvat-based associations and the architectural structure of the akhi lodge. Two sources from this triad qualify as inner-fotovvat literature since they are treatises written by authors who were themselves involved in fotovvat associations to different degrees. The nature of the third source is, however, quite unique as it is the travel narrative of Ebn Battuteh, written in the course of the 14th century. The role of the Naserian reform in the transformation of fotovvat was the subject of the previous chapter by Riza Yıldırım, so it is unnecessary for me to comment on this subject any further. Suffice to say that the Caliph’s emissary, ʿOmar Sohravardi, was not merely an emissary of al-Naser’s reform, but he also contributed to the definition of fotovvat at this crucial time by writing two treatises in Persian: a Resaleh al-fotowweh9 and a Ketab fi’l-fotowweh.10 Sohravardi’s vision of fotovvat is closely linked to the variety of Sufism whose ideology he developed in other texts.11 Ohlander has demonstrated how, as an institution, the fotovvat-khaneh played a central role in the model of fotovvat proposed by Sohravardi. Comparing its organisation and hierarchical system with the Sufi rebat (lodge), Ohlander concludes that Sohravardi’s fotovvat is closely related to rebat-based tariqeh (Sufi path or brotherhood).12 In Sohravardi’s second fotovvat-nameh, the Ketab fi’l-fotowweh, two passages are directly related to the fotovvat-khaneh and its architecture. First, Sohravardi relates an interesting anecdote that reveals the significance of the fotovvat-khaneh: a great javanmard once built a khanaqah and surrounded it with tall walls. At nightfall a traveller came to this direction. When he did not find any place where 9 Edited in Morteza Sarraf, Traités des compagnons-chevaliers, Rasa’il-i javanmardan. Recueil de sept Fotowwat-Nâmeh (Tehran, Paris, 1973), 88–102. English translation in Lloyd Ridgeon, ‘Javanmardi: origins and development until the 13th century and its connection to Sufism’, Annals of Japan, Association for Middle Eastern Studies 21/2 (2006), 65–74. 10 Sarraf, Traités des compagnons-chevaliers, 103–166. English translation and critical edition in Lloyd Ridgeon, Jawanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh, 2011), 25–95. 11  Angelika Hartmann, ‘al-Suhrawardī’, in EI2; [accessed 22 August 2016]. On the topic of Sufism in Sohravardi’s fotovvat, see Ridgeon, Jawanmardi, 26–32. 12 Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, 286–288.



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he could stay, he spent the night out in the open without any provisions. The next morning, he saw that a khanaqah was just a little further away. When the javanmard, a great shaykh of this khanaqah, was informed of the situation, he decided to raise a flag on the roof of the khanaqah so that travellers could notice its presence from a long distance.13 This anecdote should be read with circumspection if we are looking for elements concerning the architecture of akhi lodges. Indeed, it does not offer a description of fotovvat-khaneh, nor a prescription for its construction. However, what Sohravardi stresses here is the main function of the akhi lodge in medieval Islamic societies: hospitality. Moreover, while Sohravardi chiefly uses the expression fotovvat-khaneh, meaning literally the ‘house of fotovvat’, he also has recourse to more polysemic words like zaviyeh or khanaqah, a terminology which is shared with Sufi communities for the appellation of their own institutions. Later in the Ketab fi’l-fotowweh, Sohravardi provides a more substantial insight into the construction of the akhi lodge, describing it as follows: The futuwwat lodge ( futuwwat khana) is similar to the khanaqah although the master of futuwwat builds [his futuwwat lodge through his own] toil, whereas the khanaqah has been established by someone else. Kings and princes have built most [of them]. The wealth [of the khanaqah] comes from them, and it is speculated whether it is forbidden or not. Futuwwat has renounced anything that is forbidden. The master of futuwwat is the builder of [his own] khanaqah, but the shaykh and others are all children (tufayl). Anyone who comes [to the futuwwat lodge] receives a share [of the food] there and derives some advantage, such as food, drink, clothing, slippers, a stipend, knowledge, discernment, wisdom, gnosis and courtesy. What difference is there between the futuwwat lodge or the khanaqah and ruins, when the door of the futuwwat lodge is locked, and the travellers, strangers, the poor and seekers of knowledge come to the khanaqah and see that it is locked and so they remain destitute and comfortless? So when someone derives no comfort there is neither a futuwwat lodge nor a khanaqah, but the house of a worldly person.14

Given the common terminology, Sohravardi clearly established the khanaqah 13 ʿOmar al-Sohravardi, Ketab fi’l-fotowweh, edited in Sarraf, Traités des compagnonschevaliers, 109–10; French trans. by Henry Corbin in Sarraf, Traités des compagnonschevaliers, 52; English trans. in Ridgeon, Jawanmardi, 46. 14 Sohravardi, Ketab fi’l-fotowweh, trans. Ridgeon, Jawanmardi, 58. This passage corresponds to Sarraf, Traités des compagnons-chevaliers, 125–26.

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as a model for fotovvat-khaneh.15 This passage also illuminates the different modality of patronage between akhis and Sufis, as underscored by Lloyd Ridgeon in his introduction to the Ketab fi’l-fotowweh. Ridgeon, drawing on Ohlander’s work, demonstrates that the claim for independence professed by fotovvat-based confraternities in their foundation of the khanaqah should be linked again to Sohravardi’s vision of rebat-based Sufism, rejecting somehow the prince’s interference in opposition to an existing tradition in the Seljuk domain.16 Finally, Ohlander suggests that the two Persian treatises of Sohravardi are more directly addressed to Anatolian akhis than connected to adherents of Naserian fotovvat.17 The second source, a fotovvat-nameh written by al-Naseri in 1290, most likely in Tokat,18 provides a clearer and a more tangible definition of the architecture of the akhi lodge. Franz Taeschner edited Naseri’s fotovvat-nameh in 194419, and the description of the lodge given by the author was further explored in Deodaat Anne Breebaart’s unpublished dissertation.20 As Rachel Goshgarian recently argues, Naseri’s conception of fotovvat duplicates some elements present in Sohravardi’s treatises like, for instance, the attention paid to the akhi lodge21: [it is] a place for rest where a group of companions come together / some of them with candles and oil lamps It is called astaneh / raising from the threshold (astaneh) to the heavens The house must be square (charsu) / similar to the Kaʿba A basin should be present / and ewers and jugs should be filled with water Its walls should be painted in white / so that it (astaneh) shines, like the Moon Every water carrier is necessary / this way, everyone finds his right place Furthermore, its doors should be guarded / so that nobody ties livestock [there]. 15 Fotovvat-khaneh ham bar masal-e khanaqah ast, in Sarraf, Traités des compagnonschevaliers, 125, lines 18–19. 16 Ridgeon, Jawanmardi, 27. This example participates in a larger discussion about the distance taken by Sohravardi with the Naserian fotovvat in the Ketab fi’l-fotowweh, see Hartmann, ‘al-Suhrawardi’, EI2; Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, 279. 17 Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, 279. 18 Goshgarian, ‘Opening and closing’, 50. 19 Franz Taeschner, Der anatolische Dichter Nasiri (um 1300) und sein Futuvvetnāme (Leipzig, 1944). 20  Deodaat Anne Breebaart, The Development and Structure of the Turkish Futūwah Guilds, unpublished PhD dissertation, Princeton University (Princeton, 1961), 128–29. 21 Goshgarian, ‘Opening and closing’, 51.



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If a carpet is spread out / or a kilim, or both, it is how it should be.22

In this passage, often quoted by scholars but never translated,23 Naseri describes both the exterior aspect of the akhi lodge (a square building painted in white) and its furniture (water basin, lamps and rugs). The importance of furniture is also visible in a passage of the Manaqeb al-ʿarefin, the hagiography of Rumi and the Mevlevis written by Shams al-Din Ahmad Aflaki in the first half of the 14th century.24 According to Ohlander, connections between akhis and Mevlevis in medieval Anatolia are described in Aflaki’s narrative.25 However, Aflaki also relates the unrespectable behaviour of akhis during a samaʿ session in the Mevlevi shrine of Konya. When Chalabi ʿAref, the great shaykh of the Mevlevis, was informed of this behaviour he ran to the lodge (again astaneh) of Akhi Mostafa. The fact that his violence turns against the lodge’s furniture illustrates the latter’s symbolic importance: The first time he (Chalabi ʿAref) entered through the door [of Akhi Mostafa’s lodge], he took a spout of his fountain. The second time he turned upside down Akhi’s carpet, which had been spread in the seat of honor of the ṣoffa, and he poured out the oil of the lamp.26

The function of hospitality is stressed in al-Naseri’s description of the akhi lodge and, as observed by Ridgeon, using the term astaneh (meaning literally ‘threshold’ in Persian) is meaningful in this sense.27 What interests me more in this context is the strong suggestion that the akhi lodge should be an independent building. Ridgeon maintains that this freestanding structure ‘provided the ahl-i futuwwat with a certain degree of independence and freedom in their rituals and

22 Fotovvat-nameh-ye al-Nasiri, my translation based on Taeschner’s edition of the Persian text in Taeschner, Der anatolische Dichter Nasiri, 40, lines 578–583. 23 For example, see Breebaart, The Development and Structure of the Turkish Futuwah Guilds, 128–29; Lloyd Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism: A History of Sufism-futuwwat in Iran (New York, 2010), 80; Goshgarian, ‘Opening and closing’, 51; Oya Pancaroğlu, ‘Devotion, hospitality and architecture in medieval Anatolia’, Studia Islamica 108 (2013), 49–81. 24 Shams al-Din Ahmad Aflaki, Manaqeb al-‘arefin, edited and translated by John O’Kane as The Feats of the Knowers of God (Leiden, 2002). 25 Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, 278. 26 O’Kane, The Feats of the Knowers of God, 587. 27 Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 80.

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activities’.28 As I will discuss in the second part of this chapter, the independence of akhi lodges is symptomatic of a larger evolution such as explained by Ethel Sara Wolper in her analysis of dervish lodges.29 A review of textual sources dealing with fotovvat-based associations and their architecture would not be complete without the testimony of Ebn Battuteh.30 Every scholar who has studied akhi communities in medieval Anatolia has quoted from Ebn Battuteh’s narrative.31 Among his insights relating to Anatolian akhis as a provincial form of fotovvat, Ebn Battuteh firstly proposes an etymology of the word akhi.32 As demonstrated by Oya Pancaroğlu, Ebn Battuteh’s narrative reveals the importance of the akhi communities and their central institution, i.e. akhi lodges, in Anatolian social networks during the fragmentation of central authority in the second half of the 13th century and throughout the 14th century33. Even though Ebn Battuteh provides a precise assessment of the rituals held in the lodge and the inner organisation and hierarchy of these communities,34 his description of the architecture itself is quite general. Visiting the city of Antalya, Ebn Battuteh describes the akhi lodge in the following terms: The Akhi builds a hospice (zaviyeh) and furnishes it with rugs, lamps, and what other equipment it requires. His associates work during the day to gain their livelihood, and after the afternoon prayer they bring him their collective earnings; with this they buy fruit, food, and the other things needed for consumption in the hospice. If, during that day, a traveller alights the town, they give him lodging; what they have purchased serves for their hospitality to him and he remains with them until his departure. If no newcomer arrives, they assemble themselves to partake of the food, and after eating they sing and dance. On the morrow they disperse to their occupations, and after the afternoon prayer they bring their collective earnings to the leader.35 28 Ibid, 81. 29 Ethel Sara Wolper, Cities and Saints: Sufism and the Transformation of Urban Space in Medieval Anatolia (University Park, 2003), 59. 30 The Travels of Ibn Battuta. For a discussion about the date of the traveller’s journey through Anatolia, see Stephane Yerasimos’s introduction in Ebn Battuta, Voyages, vol.2 De La Mecque aux steppes russes et à l’Inde, trad. C. Defrémery and B. R. Sanguinetti (1858), (Paris, 1982). 31 See for example, Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 80–81. 32 The Travels of Ibn Battuta, 418–19. 33 Pancaroğlu, ‘Devotion, hospitality and architecture’, 72. 34 The Travels of Ibn Battuta, 420; Pancaroğlu ‘Devotion, hospitality and architecture’, 67ff. 35 Ibid, 419–420.



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Here again, the function of hospitality is stressed. Ebn Battuteh has nothing but praise for the akhis’ hospitality throughout his travels around Anatolia. Pancaroğlu, relaying on this Rehla as well as other sources, has evoked the fact that fotovvat-based association undertook some of the social roles expected of the Prince.36 However, Ebn Battuteh does not provide a detailed description of the lodge itself but repeats the descriptions of Naseri and Aflaki: the rich furnishing including rugs and lamps, etc. In the western-Anatolian city of Bolu (Buli), Ebn Battuteh describes another piece of equipment found in the akhi lodge while directing his attention once more to the interior of the fotovvat-khaneh: On entering the city, we sought out the hospice of one of the Young Akhis. One of their customs is to keep a fire always alight in their hospices during the winter. At each angle of the hospice they put a fireplace, and they make vents for them through which smoke rises, so that it does not incommode [those staying within] the hospice. They call these [chimneys] bakhari, the singular being bakhiri.37

This brief review of medieval narratives provides a degree of enlightenment about the akhi lodge both as a central institution of fotovvat-based associations and as a building responding to different socio-religious functions. Sohravardi’s two Persian treatises illuminated the importance of the Naserian reform concerning fotovvat in the beginning of the 13th century. As Ohlander argues, Anatolian akhis would have been a particularly receptive audience to these texts, which include guidelines about fotovvat-khanehs.38 Naseri’s fotovvat-nameh, written in an Anatolian context in 1290, shows Sohravardi’s influence, especially concerning the inner-hierarchy of these communities and the lodge’s architecture. Ebn Battuteh, writing some decades later, offers a more worldly description about what already existed when he travelled across Anatolia. These documentations first and foremost emphasise the independent character of the lodge. Authors have used different terms to refer to the lodge. While the term fotovvat-khaneh is not to be found in epigraphy and refers only to fotovvatbased associations, the more general terms of zaviyeh or khanaqah are shared with other communities such as the Sufis and appear in the buildings’ inscriptions. It 36 Pacaroğlu, ‘Devotion, hospitality and architecture’, 67. In this respect, the description of akhi communities and lodges in Konya and Kayseri are quite meaningful in Ebn Battuteh’s narrative: The Travels of Ibn Battuta, 430 and 434. 37 The Travels of Ibn Battuta, 459. 38 Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, 279.

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is interesting to note that Ebn Battuteh refers to the lodge as zaviyeh or rabeteh (retreat), two terms that are more common in the western part of the Islamic world.39 The term astaneh, used by Naseri for instance, is quite unexpected in a 13th-century context, since it became more common in Ottoman times, as Zeynep Yürekli has recently argued.40 Moreover, medieval narratives stress the two main functions of the akhi lodge: hospitality and gatherings hosted for the rituals of fotovvat confraternities. Pancaroğlu further attests to the existence of a central room (called majles or mahfel).41 The similarity of this ritual with the Sufi ceremony (both use the word samaʿ), as well as the use of common terminology, has lead scholars to compare akhi lodges with dervish lodges. Furthermore, the variety of furniture appears as a recurring theme in not only Ebn Battuteh’s description but also in Naseri’s fotovvat-nameh and Aflaki’s hagiography.

Architecture and the akhi lodge in fotovvat studies: a peripheral concern The origin and development of fotovvat in Arab-speaking lands and the TurcoOttoman world has attracted the attention of scholars such as Franz Taeschner and Claude Cahen since the 1930’s.42 This is in contrast to its Persian equivalent, javanmardi, which was studied by Henry Corbin in his comprehensive work about Iranian Islam published in 1983.43 However, the social dimensions of fotovvat, ahilik and javanmardi were explored only recently. In such studies, the akhi lodge appears only incidentally and the question of a larger understanding of akhi architecture still needs to be addressed. The absence of 39 Sheila Blair, ‘Zāwiya’, EI2 (Leiden, 2002), 505–8; Christophe Picard, Antoine Borrut, ‘Râbata, Ribât, Râbita, une institution à reconsidérer’, in Chrétiens et Musulmans en Méditerranée Médiévale (VIIIe-XIIe siècle): Echanges et contacts, ed. Philippe Sénac and Nicolas Prouteau (Poitiers, 2003), 33–65. 40 Zeynep Yürekli, Architecture and Hagiography in the Ottoman Empire: The Politics of Bektashi Shrines in the Classical Age (Burlington: 2012). 41 Pancaroğlu, ‘Devotion, hospitality and architecture’, 69. 42 Franz Taeschner, ‘Beiträge zur geschichte der Achis In Anatolien (14.-15. Jht.), auf grund neuer quellen’, Islamica 4 (1931), 1–47; Franz Taeschner, ‘Akhi’, EI1, (Leiden, 1960), 331–33; Claude Cahen, ‘Sur les traces des premiers akhis’, in Mélanges Fuad Köprülü (Istanbul, 1953), 81–91; Claude Cahen, ‘Mouvements populaires et autonomisme urbain’, Arabica 5 (1958), 225–50 and Arabica 6 (1959), 233–65 ; Claude Cahen, Franz Taeschner, ‘Futuwwa’, EI2 (Leiden, 1965), 983–991. 43 Henry Corbin, ‘Juvénilité et chevalerie en Islam iranien’, in L’homme et son ange (Paris, 1983), 207–60.



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concrete remains and ruins partially explains why this question was initially asked by historians and only later discussed by art historians and historians of architecture. Nevertheless, the singularity of akhi lodges in medieval Anatolia compared to their counterparts in other parts of the Islamic world should be underscored. The testimony of Ebn Battuteh is unique in this sense. Even though he travelled to most parts of the Islamic world, he did not demarcate such an importance to fotovvat-based associations and their architecture in other lands. As shown previously, the akhis also appear in a privileged position for authors including Sohravardi, Naseri and Aflaki. Furthermore, Taeschner and Cahen argued that the Mongol conquest had different consequences in the development of fotovvat communities in the central lands of the ʿAbbasid Caliphate and Anatolia where ahilik, which they define as a ‘popular’ form of fotovvat, developed during and after the Ilkhanid protectorate over the former domain of the Seljuks of Rum.44 Furthermore, our knowledge of fotovvat literature produced in medieval Anatolia is entirely indebted to Abdülbaki Gölpınarlı who edited and translated a variety of fotovvat-namehs in 1952.45 Taeschner has also stressed the importance of epigraphy as a means to generate a testimony to the growth of such communities. By doing so, he introduced another kind of documentation at the crossroads between textual and physical material: inscriptions. Taeschner focused on the akhis in the city of Ankara where he identified a genealogy, relying on the inscriptions of the Akhi Sharaf al-Din complex located near Ankara’s citadel.46 This complex consists of a wooden mosque, a türbe as well as another structure adjacent to the mausoleum of Akhi Sharaf al-Din and its lineage.47 No less than twelve inscriptions are known and have been recorded and published,48 among them two building and nine funerary 44 Cahen, Taeschner ‘Futuwwa’, 988–89. 45 Abdülbaki Gölpınarlı, İslâm ve Türk illerinde fütüvvet teşkilatı ve kaynakları (Istanbul, 1952). 46 Taeschner, ‘Beiträge zur geschichte der Achis in Anatolien (14.-15. Jht.)’, 12–13 and 43–45. 47 On the Akhi Sharaf al-Din mosque and türbe, see Gönül Öney, Ankara’da Türk Devri Dini ve Sosyal Yapıları, The Turkish Period Buildings in Ankara (Summary in English), (Ankara, 1971), 20–24 and 111–13; Semavi Eyice, ‘Ahî Şerafeddin Camii’, Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, 1, (Istanbul, 1988), 531–32; Semavi Eyice, ‘Ahî Şerafeddin Türbesi’, Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, I (Istanbul, 1988), 532. During my last visit to Ankara in May 2014, excavations were underway on the third building. The complex was most recently studied by Patricia Blessing in Rebuilding Anatolia after the Mongol Conquest, Islamic Architecture in the Lands of Rūm, 1240–1330 (Farnham, 2014, 192–97) 48 Concerning the complex of Ahki Sharaf al-Din, see RCEA n°4933, 4934, 4935, 5112, 5516 (a probable repetition of 5112), 5610, 6161, 6162, 773 010, 787 005, 787 006 and 793 012.

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inscriptions.49 The date of the foundation of the Akhi Sharaf al-Din mosque has been much discussed,50 and the oldest inscription is preserved on the front-arch of the wooden menbar dated precisely to 689/1290.51 The other building inscription of the mosque provides us with the date of 731/1331.52 By establishing this important genealogy, Taeschner was able to discuss the political role of akhis in Ankara at a time when the Ilkhanid protectorate based in Sivas had scarcely reached this region of Anatolia.53 However, although he utilised the epigraphic material, Taeschner did not pay much attention to the architecture itself. Taeschner also published a critical translation of a 19th-century document ascribed to the zaviyeh of Akhi Evren in Kırşehir much of which refers more to the organisation of the communities than to the building itself.54 Cahen, the second pioneer of fotovvat studies, concentrated mostly on the social and political role that fotovvat-based associations played in medieval Islamic towns, with a focus on Baghdad at the end of the ʿAbbasid caliphate.55 Cahen explored the associations’ role in regulating violence, and compared them to militia forces.56 Furthermore, he demonstrated the influence of North-Western Iran and Azerbaijan in the development of fotovvat-based associations in medieval and Ottoman Anatolia.57 The first work to be entirely dedicated to the development of ahilik in medieval Anatolia is Breebaart’s unpublished dissertation.58 By making use of the main textual sources available on the subject, this dissertation provides an initial attempt to analyse the social organisation of Anatolian fotovvat. Nonetheless, 49 Essentially in the türbe and on the sarcophagus that were preserved inside. The sarcophagus of Akhi Sharaf al-Din is now preserved in the Etnografya Müzesi in Ankara. 50 Depending on the reading of an inscription located on the right side of the western gate, some scholars date the foundation of the Akhi Sharaf al-Din mosque to the first quarter of the 13th century. Öney, Ankara’da Türk Devri Dini ve Sosyal Yapıları, 20–24. 51 RCEA n°4933. Two reproductions of this inscription are printed in Taeschner, ‘Beiträge zur geschichte der Achis in Anatolien (14.-15. Jht.)’, tafel 1 and 2. 52 RCEA, n°5610. 53 Taeschner, ‘Akhi’, 332. 54 Franz Taeschner, ‘Kırşehir’de Ahı Evran zaviyesinin mütevellisine ait bir berat, 1238/1822–23’, Vakıflar Dergisi 3 (1956), 93–96, German translation as ‘Eine Urkunde für den Stiftungsinhaber den Zaviye des Ahi Evran in Kırşehir von 1238/1822–23’, Vakıflar Dergisi 3 (1956), 309–12. 55 Cahen, ‘Mouvements populaires et autonomisme urbain’, Arabica 5 and 6. 56 For instance, he stresses the role of akhis in the defence of the city of Konya against the Karamanids in the last quarter of the 13th century in Claude Cahen, La Turquie préottomane (Istanbul, 1988), 316–18. 57 Cahen, ‘Sur les traces des premiers akhīs’, 81–91. 58 Breebaart, The Development and Structure of the Turkish Futuwah Guilds.



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Breebaart’s presentation of the akhi lodge and its architecture is mostly descriptive and subsidiary.59 Even if the approaches of Taeschner, Cahen or Breebaart proposed a historicisation of fotovvat-based associations, the social aspects remained in the shadow of ethical and political dimensions of these communities. Recently, several studies have attempted to situate the development of fotovvat in a cultural, social and religious context. Such a renewal of interest can be attributed to the revival of Sufi studies in the 1990s, especially in the territory of Rum, through the works of scholars including Ahmet Karamustafa or Cemal Kafadar.60 Karamustafa and Kafadar discuss the founding works of Mehmet Fuad Köprülü and his theory of the dichotomy between the high, educated, Arabic and Persian Sufi writings and the low, rural, Turkish speaking form of Islamic mysticism in medieval Anatolia. Yet this renewed interest was focused to a great extent on the medieval Islamic world. Analysing the origin and development of fotovvat in the Iranian sphere in his comprehensive study of javanmardi, Ridgeon highlights the ‘social realities’ of this movement.61 Such a focus, structured by a chronological frame, includes comments about the fotovvat-khaneh, with Ridgeon investigating the place occupied by the lodge in the larger movement of the institutionalisation of fotovvat in a later medieval period (c. 1100–1400).62 Returning to medieval Anatolia, Goshgarian offers some new insights to fotovvat-based associations. First, Goshgarian seeks to expand our vision of akhi confraternities in this multicultural milieu by explicating the development of ‘Christian futuwwa-like organisations’ as early as the 12th century;63 even if the dhimmi were later not welcome in akhi lodges, as attested in her study of different Anatolian fotovvat-namehs, such as Naseri’s or Borghazi’s treatises. Goshgarian likewise analyses the influence of fotovvat in the development of urban confraternities in the Armenian cities of Anatolia, including Sivas and Erzincan in the 13th 59 Ibid, 128–29. 60 Ahmet Karamustafa, God’s Unruly Friends: Dervish Groups in the Islamic Latter Middle Period 1200–1550 (Salt Lake City, 1994); Ahmet Karamustafa, ‘Origins of Anatolian Sufism’, in Sufism and Sufis in Ottoman Society, ed. Ahmet Yaşar Ocak (Ankara, 2005), 67–95; Cemal Kafadar, Between Two Worlds: the Construction of the Ottoman State (Los Angeles, 1995). 61 Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 1. 62 Ibid, 80–82. 63 Rachel Goshgarian, ‘Futuwwa in thirteenth-century Rum and Armenia: Reform movements and the managing of multiple allegiances on the Seljuk Periphery’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia, Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East, ed. A.C.S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız (London, 2013), 234–35.

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and 14th centuries.64 Methodologically, she argues for the study of the development of akhi confraternities within the space of the city they are situated in: Late medieval Anatolian urban confraternities – based on codes of futuwwa – were exclusive institutions whose constitutions aimed to direct members in dealing with various challenges posed by city life. Concerns related to late medieval Anatolian urbanism and present in the codes composed there are included: determining factors of inclusion and exclusion; the observance of faith-related practices; and the relationship of members of futuwwa associations with various aspects of city life (in terms of the type of structure they should use, how they should behave with each other in private and in public and, specifically, with relation to the marketplace).65

The choice of a reduced scale is useful for scholars focusing on the social dimensions of ahilik as it provides a comprehensive perception of the interaction between fotovvat-based associations and their immediate environment, otherwise understood as the economical, social and religious dimensions of the city. Furthermore, Goshgarian stresses the peculiar importance of the akhi lodge as an institution and its material aspect in Anatolia,66 along with the symbolism carried by its architecture in the context of the Anatolian city: That buildings were seen as identity markers reinforces the notion that late medieval Anatolian cities were spaces within which identity was defined according to participation in a particular organisation that engaged in activity in a specific space.67

Although, the question of the social dimensions of fotovvat is still relatively recent, it helps renew our knowledge of these associations through a diachronic approach as well as a synchronic point of view of their evolution, while focusing on the associations’ interaction with their environment. Even if the akhi lodge appears as a part of these social dimensions, its architecture is still a peripheral issue not only in historical studies but also in the study of the history of architecture and archaeology. 64 Goshgarian, ‘Futuwwa in thirteenth-century Rum’, 239–46; Goshgarian, ‘Opening and closing’. 65 Goshgarian, ‘Opening and closing’, 37. 66 Ibid, 42. 67 Ibid, 43.



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The similarities between akhi lodges and dervish lodges were discussed earlier in the chapter. In the history of architecture in medieval Anatolia, the study of these kinds of institutions and their architectural manifestations was for a long time obscured owing to a typologist and formalist approach that privileged other pious foundations like mosques and madrasehs. Pancaroğlu has pointed out the limits of this approach by exploring the footprints of the Vienna School, supported by scholars such as Heinrich Glück (1889–1930) and Joseph Strzygowski (1881–1942), in the formation of the so-called ‘Turkish art and architecture’ studies.68 By disconnecting Asia Minor from neighbouring lands (Syria and Iran for instance), as well as from the multicultural milieu including Christian and Jewish communities, this approach tended to promote an insular view of Islamic architecture in medieval Anatolia. The dichotomy between sacred and civil architecture also structured this formalist approach. Inside the former division of sacred architecture, prevalence was given to, for example, the madrasehs as well as other institutions where different forms of Islamic knowledge were transmitted.69 This lack of interest in the dervish lodge is partially explained by the meagreness of the material vestiges, but it also corresponds to the absence of the social dimensions of Sufism in Sufi studies at least until the 1970s.70 Along with the above argument, another historiographical assessment should be recalled. The legacy of the first studies about Sufism in medieval Anatolia advocated by Mehmet Fuad Köprülü profoundly shaped the scholarly approach toward architecture in relation to mystic or religious communities such as Sufis and akhis. In Köprülü’s theory, the process of Islamisation of Anatolia was supported by the figures of babas. Mystic leaders as well as political or tribal chiefs, babas had, in Köprülü’s paradigm, a large audience and actively participated in the Islamisation of Anatolia thanks to a discourse that included pre-Islamic and syncretic elements.71 This model, only recently critiqued,72 was continued 68 Pancaroğlu, ‘Formalism and the academic foundation of Turkish’. 69 For instance, early publications focused only in the inventory and description of the architecture of madrasehs in medieval Anatolia: Aptullah Kuran, Anadolu Medreseleri (Ankara, 1969); Metin Sözen, Anadolu Medreseleri: Selçuklu ve Beylikleri Devri (Istanbul, 1970). 70 J.S. Trimingham was one of the pioneers in the field. See his The Sufi Orders in Islam (Oxford, 1971). 71 Mehmet Fuad Köprülü, Türk Edebiyatında ilk mutasavvıflar (Istanbul, 1918); English trans. by Gary Leiser, Robert Dankoff, Early Mystics in Turkish Literature (London, 2006); Mehmet Fuad Köprülü, ‘Anadolu’da islâmiyet: Türk istilâsından sonra Anadolu tarihidinîsine bir nazar ve bu tarihin menbaları’, Dârülfünun Edebiyat Fakültesi Mecmuası 2 (1922); English trans. by Gary Leiser, Islam in Anatolia after the Turkish Invasion (Prolegomena) (Salt Lake City, 1993). 72 As quoted before, Cemal Kafadar and Ahmet Karamustafa discussed this theory in the

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by Ömer Lütfi Barkan when he advanced his theory of ‘Colonising Dervishes’ in 1942. In his argument, Barkan defines the zaviyeh as the frame-institution of colonisation by recently and partially Islamised communities, essentially in the rural milieu.73 Some twenty years later, Semavi Eyice introduced an architectural element to this theory by defining a new type of structure, the zaviyeh or zaviyeh-mosque, until then recognised as the ‘T-shape mosque’.74 While Eyice’s work focused on western Anatolia and the Ottoman emirate, it also dealt with the medieval period and included akhis and their zaviyehs in the movement of ‘Colonising Dervishes’.75 Later, in an article published in 1969, J.M. Rogers attempted to study akhis and their architecture.76 Addressing the question of the existence of an architectural structure proper to fotovvat-based confraternities, Rogers argued for an approach through the analysis of the Sufi khanaqah: Their precise function, social, economic or religious, is still far from clear, though it is probable that the brotherhoods had a structure in which these three elements were intermingled. […] However it has been widely assumed that aḫi brotherhoods shared at least certain aspects of their way of life with the ṣufi orders, so that architecturally speaking, to approach the aḫis via the institution of the ḫanqah would appear permissible.77

The close relationship between Sufis and akhis is a well-known topic and has attracted the interest of many scholars. If we refer to Sohravardi’s prescriptive text in his Ketab fi’l-fotowweh,78 Rogers’s assertion appears to be corroborated. 1990s; see Karamustafa, God’s Unruly Friends, and Kafadar, Between Two Worlds. Recent publications have focused on Mehmet Fuad Köprülü and his legacy; Markus Dressler, ‘How to conceptualize inner-Islamic plurality/difference: “Heterodoxy” and “syncretism” in the writings of Mehmet F. Köprülü (1890–1966)’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 37/3 (2010), 247–62; Ayfer Karakaya-Stump, ‘The Vefa’iyye, the Bektashiyye and genealogies of “heterodox” Islam in Anatolia: Rethinking the Köprülü paradigm’, Turcica 44 (2012–2013), 279–300. 73 Ömer Lütfi Barkan, ‘İstilâ devirlerinin kolonizatör Türk dervişleri ve zaviyeler’, Vakıflar Dergisi 2 (1942), 294. 74 Semavi Eyice, ‘Ilk Osmanlı devrinin dini-içtimaî bir müessesesi: zâviyeler ve zaviyeli camiler’, Istanbul Üniversitesi Iktisat Fakültesi Mecmuası 23/1–2 (1963), 3–80. 75 Eyice, ‘Ilk Osmanlı devrinin dini-içtimaî bir müessesesi: zâviyeler ve zaviyeli camiler’, 25–29. 76 J. Michael Rogers, ‘Recent work on Seljuk Anatolia’, Kunst des Orients 6/2 (1969), 162–65. 77 Rogers, ‘Recent work on Seljuk Anatolia’, 162. 78 Sohravardi, Ketab fi’l-fotowweh, in Ridgeon, Javanmardi, 58.



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Moreover, Rogers argues that akhis and Sufis may have inhabited the same buildings.79 Sharing the same terminology in inscription and vaqfiyyeh (endowment chart), the similarity between akhi lodges and dervish lodges has been accepted in modern scholarship. For instance, in her study of dervish lodges in Sivas, Tokat and Amasya,80 Wolper generally agrees with Rogers’s hypothesis, as has Pancaroğlu more recently.81 It is pertinent at this point that some characteristics of the dervish lodge or zaviyeh in medieval Anatolia are presented. With its concentration of vestiges as well as textual sources, the Inner Pontic region reflects the development of mystic confraternities and their architecture. Sedat Emir and Wolper have already recognised this region’s significance through the attention they placed on the cities of Tokat and Amasya when studying the zaviyeh’s architecture.82 According to these scholars, the dervish lodge is a small building centred on a dome-chamber and an adjoining barrel-vault room. Furthermore, based on her study of dervish lodges and their role in the transformation of Sivas, Tokat and Amasya, Wolper has advanced a chrono-typology of dervish lodges between the late 1240s and the beginning of the 14th century. In the second phase of this evolution, dated by Wolper after 1288,83 the growing architectural independence of dervish lodges implied their tendency to be separated from other pious foundations like madrasehs with which they used to be associated.84 This propensity for independence reflects the description given by Naseri in his fotovvat-nameh and its injunction for a freestanding akhi lodge (using the Persian term charsu). Wolper also includes akhis in her development of ‘interpretative communities’ for Sufis.85 Later in her book, she pushes further Rogers’s argument for the potential sharing of same lodges by Sufis and akhis: Using Rogers’s suggestion, one can argue that akhis and dervishes could have occupied the same structures without themselves being the same. I argue, however, that it seems more reasonable that akhis […] assumed 79 Rogers, ‘Recent work on Seljuk Anatolia’, 164. 80 Wolper, Cities and Saints, 77–78. 81 Pancaroğlu, ‘Devotion, hospitality and architecture’, 66. 82 Sedat Emir, Erken Osmanlı mimarlığında çok-işlevli yapılar: Kentsel kolonizasyon yapıları olarak zaviyeler, 1: Tokat Zaviyeleri (Izmir, 1994); Wolper, Cities and Saints. 83 1288 corresponds to the year when the khanaqah in Tokat of Shams al-Din ebn Hosayn was built. The chrono-typology of Wolper, for the first and third group, is however problematic. 84 Wolper, Cities and Saints, 63–65. 85 Wolper, Cities and Saints, 20.

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different titles in different communities, in much the same way that Seljuk sultans assumed different titles on different building inscriptions and coins in different contexts. Similarly, the inhabitants of dervish lodges were sometimes named differently in different sources. Akhi may simply have been the name associated with dervishes in certain forums.86

While the connection between the different mystic communities, Sufis and fotovvat-based associations cannot be doubted, Wolper’s argument may overvalue it. As has been pointed out above, medieval sources like Aflaki’s Manaqeb al-ʿarefin are unambiguous on this point. In addition, the first administrative registers after the Ottoman conquest of the Inner Pontic or Tapu ve Tahrir Defterleri dated from 859/1455 clearly distinguish between the zaviyehs linked to Sufis and those related to akhis, as has been showed by Ali Açıkel.87 Rather than a different terminology for a unique community, it appears fair to explain the porous relationship between Sufis and akhis by referring to multiple allegiances, a now well-known phenomenon in Sufism and more generally in Islamic mysticism. In this sense, akhis and Sufis may have shared buildings, at least for common rituals, as may be assumed from reading Ebn Battuteh or Aflaki, but they still had their own institutions, even if they were carrying out similar functions. Other dimensions of the akhi lodge have been studied by academics. For instance, Pancaroğlu recently proposed a new approach by examining the akhi lodge in the context of a long-term diachronic evolution of architecture centred on devotion and hospitality.88 By choosing this vast chronological frame, Pancaroğlu not only avoids the problematic dynastical division, but also addresses the question of the function of the akhi lodge as a pious institution as well as its social role in medieval Anatolia. Pancaroğlu views the akhi lodge from the perspective of buildings carrying the functions of hospitality and devotion and how they evolve. Akhi lodges appear as a link in this evolution between the polymorphism of Seljuk Anatolia, where they were treated as multiple institutions like madrasehs or caravanserai, to the development of a peculiar institution in the Ottoman emirate, i.e. the emareh: The akhī lodge – arguably even more so than the Sufi lodge – was therefore

86 Ibid, 77–78. 87 Ali Açıkel, ‘XIV-XVI. Yüzyıllarda Tokat Zâviyeleri’, in Pax Ottomana Studies in Memoriam Prof. Dr. Nejat Göyünç, ed. Kemal Çiçek (Ankara, 2001), 229–63. 88 Pancaroğlu, ‘Devotion, hospitality and architecture’.



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an institution that spoke directly to the phenomenon of dynamic social mobility in Anatolia which embraced the display of comfort and generosity and embedded these in the codes of morality and spirituality. On one level, the function of lodges in Anatolia can be contextualized in a larger phenomenon of charity that developed in tandem with the rise of mystical movements in the medieval Islamic world. Nevertheless, it is possible to distinguish the Anatolian lodge with respect to its role in the institutional and architectural response to the process of settlement in which it can be related to the conceptualization of caravanserais and madrasehs. The akhī lodge, in particular, is a clear reflection of the social conditions of Anatolia where the fluid nature of Muslim devotion necessitated adaptable building types which eased the seeming divide between the secular and spiritual realms and invited participation. It appears to have been these characteristics of the akhī lodge that triggered the adoption and transformation of its functions into an established architectural type sponsored in particular by the Ottoman rulers in the evolution of their beylik out of a frontier context in the fourteenth century.89

While Pancaroğlu agrees with Rogers’s argument about akhi lodges by comparing them with dervish lodges,90 she also proposes new avenues for research by questioning the function and social implications of the institution. The integration of the institution of the akhi lodge into a broader context shows its importance in medieval Anatolia, in spite of the lack of architectural remains. This overview of historical as well as architectural studies clearly attests that the question of the akhi lodge and its architecture has been hitherto an issue of secondary importance in scholarship: peripheral for historians who included it in the study of social dimensions of fotovvat, and also for art historians whose interest in dervish lodges was for a long time undermined by the formalist approach of ‘Turkish architecture’. As Pancaroğlu’s approach shows, opening the question of the architecture linked to fotovvat-based associations to the broader context of devotional architecture in medieval Anatolia sheds new light on the subject.

89 Ibid, 72. 90 Ibid, 66.

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Fig.1: Mausoleum of Akhi Sharaf al-Din, Ankara, 731/1331, north view © M. Durocher 2014



Akhi lodge, Akhi architecture or Akhi patronage?

Fig.2: Mausoleum of Akhi Yusuf Paşa, Turhal, 723/1323, north view © M. Durocher 2014

Fig.3: Mausoleum of Akhi Yusuf Paşa, Turhal, 723/1323, ground plan © M. Durocher 2016

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Fig.4: Mausoleum of Akhi Yusuf Paşa, Turhal, 723/1323, foundation inscription © M. Durocher 2015

Akhi architecture and akhi patronage: perspectives for research on the architecture of fotovvat-based communities One of the most obvious features of a historiographical assessment is the focus it places upon the akhi lodge. The akhi lodge is the main architectural frame within which such confraternities met, prayed and performed rituals like samaʿ, bringing together part of the revenues of the brothers’ labour for the benefit of the community. Nevertheless, in order to understand more globally the role of members of fotovvat-based associations as patrons in medieval Anatolia, definition of a broader spectrum of the concepts of ‘akhi architecture’ and ‘akhi patronage’ should be considered. The question of akhi patronage has not been studied in the same way that Wolper has investigated the patronage of dervish lodges.91 Approaching the role of fotovvat-based communities as patrons and actors of the transformation of the architectural paysage of late medieval Anatolian cities necessitates the inclusion 91 Wolper, Cities and Saints, and Ethel Sara Wolper, ‘The politics of patronage: political change and the construction of dervish lodges in Sivas’, Muqarnas 12 (1995), 39–47.



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of a larger vision of architecture. Indeed, even if akhi lodges were central buildings around which akhis gravitated, as discussed earlier they are not the only architectural manifestation of fotovvat-based associations. For example, in the case of a dervish lodge, a tomb-chamber or türbe might have been annexed to the lodge itself. Several inscriptions attested to the patronage of mausoleums, as seen on the türbes that are still preserved. In Ankara, the mausoleum of Akhi Sharaf al-Din is a square structure covered by an octagonal tambour supporting a conic dome (Fig. 1). The inscription, located above the window in the southern wall of the türbe, dates its construction to 731/1330 and names the patron as Mohammad ebn Akhi Hasam al-Husayni.92 Furthermore, the construction is styled by the word emareh (construction or building). This polysemic term was, as Zeynep Yürekli argues, often utilised to denote Sufi lodges before its meaning changed in the Ottoman period.93 A second inscription mentioning akhis as patrons and using the polysemic term emareh is found in the shrine of Hacı Bektaṣ, near Kırşehir in central Anatolia. This inscription, dated to 769/1368, is more problematic because it has been re-used in a sixteenth-century construction in the second courtyard of the shrine.94 Even if the identity of the patron is unclear, it seems to attest to the patronage of an individual related, in some manner, to fotovvat-based associations.95 While in this particular case the use of emareh in reference to the construction might require further evidence, another inscription found in the türbe of Akhi Yusof in Turhal clearly links it to a lodge.96 This mausoleum (Fig. 2 and Fig. 3) is a square building (6,15 by 6,78 metres) with a flat roof97 facing the earlier türbe of Ṣeyh Komutan Mehmed Nurullah, an octagonal domed mausoleum built, 92 This inscription was published by Halil Edhem in 1332/1914 in Halil Edhem, ‘Ankara akhīlerine ait iki kitābe’, Tarih-i Osmani encümeni mecmuası 7 (1332/1914), 313. See also RCEA, n°5610. Different readings of the inscription have been proposed, I have used Edhem’s transcription. 93 Yürekli, Architecture and Hagiography in the Ottoman Empire, 107–8. For the evolution of this meaning to the denotation of a proper structure known as emareh in Ottoman times, see Pancaroğlu, ‘Devotion, hospitality and architecture’, 73–81. 94 Yürekli, Architecture and Hagiography in the Ottoman Empire, 107–8. 95 RCEA n° 769 009. The name is generally read as Akhi Murad and identified as the Ottoman ruler Morad I (r. 1360–1389) but Zeynep Yürekli, who recently provides a comprehensive study of this shrine, proposes another interpretation and relates it to a Seyyid Emirci, whose name is known in a document dated from 1363 and who was the grandson of Akhi Evren. See Yürekli, Architecture and Hagiography, 108. 96 RCEA n°5490. 97 A restoration report by the Vakıflar Bölge Müdürlüğü of Tokat written in 1993 stipulates that the original dome of the mausoleum was replaced by the present flat roof for security reasons.

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according to the inscription, in 701/1301 (Fig. 4). The mausoleum is constructed from ashlar masonry recovered during recent restorations when the outside walls were painted green. Three cenotaphs occupy the tomb but unfortunately their inscription cannot be read because of the devotional scarf covering them. Further research needs to be carried out on this türbe and its architecture, but the inscription clearly testifies to the construction of a zaviyeh by Akhi Yusof:98 The construction of this zaviyeh […] was ordered by al-Shayh Akhi Yusuf, may God sanctify his soul, during the month of Shaʿban of the year 723 (5 August – 3 September 1323).99

A door opening into the north façade is visible on a photograph taken before the restorations. It was latterly blocked with brick masonry and transformed into a niche (as shown on the plan). This door may have opened onto the lodge.100 The name of Akhi Yusof is also linked to a public bath no longer preserved; however, it is present in photographs taken in the 1930s.101 In Tokat, the Mustafa Ağa hammam is also related to an akhi foundation. This 14th-century public bath is mentioned in the vaqfiyyeh of Akhi Paşa written in 765/1364.102 Ebn Battuteh attests to the construction of a public bath by akhis or, at least, a hammam in the vicinity of the lodge. Indeed, the welcome he received from akhis in the different cities often implies a visit to the public bath as he describes in Ladik or in Milas.103 In Bursa, the akhi lodge is connected to famous flowing springs and two public baths.104 Even if the

98 Hidden behind the courtyard of a school in Turhal, this mausoleum was described in a local publication but needs complementary investigations. I was told by the tomb-keeper in 2015 that stones of a surrounding building (the zaviyeh?) were used during construction works in the 1990s. See Hamza Gündoğdu, Tarihi Yaşatan İl Tokat (Ankara, 2006), 288–89. 99 My translation after RCEA 5490 and TEI 3379, Thesaurus d’épigraphie islamique, Fondation Max Van Berchem, [accessed 20 August 2016]. 100 This photograph belongs to the Vakıflar Bölge Müdürlüğü of Tokat. It is part of the restoration file written in 1993. Unfortunately, the copyright excludes the possibility of publication. 101 Osman Eravşar, Tokat Tarihi Su Yapıları (Hamamlar) (Istanbul, 2005), 125. 102 Gündoğdu, Tarihi Yaşatan İl Tokat, 139–40. A Turkish translation of the vaqfiyyeh is preserved in the archives of the Vakıflar Genel Müdürlüğü in Ankara (VGMA Tercüme Defter 1766, s. 333, sıra 79). Another copy in Turkish is kept by a descendant of the mütevelli of Akhi Pasha’s vaqf in Tokat. I thank Hasan Erdem for this information. The hammam was closed in the 1970s but a restoration project was discussed in Tokat in June 2014. 103 The Travels of Ibn Battuta, 426 and 429. 104 Ibid, 450.



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türbe may have been more or less integrated into the akhi lodge, the relation of other architectural features like hammams to the lodge is still unclear. This incomplete list of buildings related to fotovvat-based associations leads to two conclusions. First, the akhi lodge is not a unique architectural manifestation of such confraternities. As such, it would not be fair to talk about an akhi architecture insofar as hammams or türbes related to fotovvat-based associations do not demonstrate a peculiar and clearly different architecture. In order to study the architectural framework of these confraternities, one should expand the focus of the analysis to integrate these additional structures. The establishment of a link between these structures and ahilik should rely on textual sources, more specifically epigraphy and/or vaqfiyyeh. Examining the graffiti of the zaviyeh of Şeyh Meknun, built in Tokat during the first reign of Ghiyas al-Din Masʿud (681–683/1282–1284), Beyhan Karamağaralı maintains that it was sponsored by an akhi patron. Karamağaralı identifies some graffiti representing a türbe with a muqarnas dome as the figuration of the mausoleum of Sohravardi, erected in Baghdad in the 13th century.105 Although this interpretation is quite interesting, relying only on one such evidence is inadequate proof of patronage. Second, focusing on other buildings related to fotovvat-based associations may lead to the discovery of the existence of unpreserved akhi lodges, as is the case with the türbe of Akhi Yusof in Turhal. Although such buildings may not offer much of a clue when it comes to the question of the architecture of the lodge itself, working on a compendium of building inscriptions relevant to akhis and vaqfiyyehs may yet clarify the role of fotovvat-based confraternities and their members as patrons. In the case of the tomb of Akhi Yusof, the disappearance of the lodge, when the türbe is still preserved, must be questioned. The reason may have to do with the functional difference between these two types of buildings. Indeed, the türbe of a venerable akhi (who may be considered a saint, similar to a number of other Sufi shaykhs) attracted the piety and devotion of the communities and also of the people living in its vicinity. When fotovvat-based associations declined from the 15th century onward and were variously integrated in the Ottoman Empire, the akhi lodge may have lost its significance and function while the türbe still served as a locus for ziyarat or pious visit, independently of the original communities that built it. Moreover, such compendiums may open the way for the formations of questions apropos the modality of the settlement of these communities while providing novel insight into the integration of these communities within the urban fabric 105 Beyhan Karamağaralı, ‘The order and convent art from XIIth to XVIth centuries in Anatolia’, Ankara Üniversitesi İlahyat Fakültesi Dergisi 21 (1976), 281.

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and their relation with the surrounding countryside. This perspective has been tackled recently in Turkish historiography.106 In this context, the approach based on Barkan’s theory of the so-called ‘Colonising dervishes’ can be problematic as it conveys a binary opposition between higher-urban and lower-rural forms of Islam, as well as some nationalistic paradigms relating to those dervishes (including akhis) to a pre-supposed Turkish ethnicity. In the Pontic region, in particular, the application of Barkan’s theory is problematic insofar as, in contrast to the Balkans and Western Anatolia that were considered new territory with respect to the Ottomano-Muslim conquest, the Pontic region had been under Muslim rule since the early 12th century and the Ghazi warriors were, in legends as well as in reality, less dominant. Nevertheless, these works offer a large range of edited sources, most significant among them being the vaqfiyyehs.107 The potential of a vaqfiyyeh as a documentation for the history of architecture and more generally for a social history has been well examined by scholars such as Randi Carolyn Deguilhem.108 In most cases, vaqfiyyehs list the revenues of a pious foundation and give a prescription regarding the use of these revenues. Several of these charts belonging to foundations related to akhi lodges in the Inner Pontic region have been preserved. In addition to the vaqfiyyeh of Akhi Paşa in Tokat, two charts from the akhi zaviyeh in Niksar and its surrounding environment have survived. The first vaqfiyyeh, ascribed to Akhi Pahlavan (Turkish: Akhi Pehlivan), is dated to 723/1323.109 An inscription related to the same zaviyeh was published by İsmail Hakkı Uzunçarşılı in 1927 and mentions Akhi Pahlavan al-Awhadi as the patron of a construction, the nature of which is unknown.110 Another inscription, which is the funerary text of the same Akhi Pahlavan, was located on a tombstone.111 Unfortunately, these two inscriptions do not exist anymore and were probably 106 See for instance: Mehmet Fatsa, ‘Niksar Yöresindeki Ahî Vakıflarının Karadeniz Bölgesinin İskânı ve İslamlaşmasındaki Rolü’, Vakıflar Dergisi 39 (2013), 27–39. 107 The edition, translation and publication of vaqfiyyeh is quite an old tradition in Turkish historiography and is supported, since the 1930s, by Vakıflar Dergisi, an annual journal sponsored by Vakıflar Genel Müdürlüğü in Ankara. 108 Randi Carolyn Deguilhem, Le Waqf dans l’espace Islamique: Outil de Pouvoir Socio-politique (Damas, Paris, 1995). 109 This vaqfiyyeh is quoted by Sadi Kucur in Sadi Kucur, Sivas, Tokat ve Amasya’da Selçuklu ve Beylikler Devri Vakıfları, unpublished PhD disertation (Istanbul, Marmara Üniversitesi, 1993), 71–72. An edition and Turkish translation is proposed in Hasan Akar, Necati Güneş, Niksar’da Vakıflar ve Tarihi Eserler (Niksar, 2002), 82–88. It is preserved in the archives of the Vakıflar Genel Müdürlüğü in Ankara (VGMA Defter n° 581, s. 298, sıra 300). 110 İsmail Hakkı Uzunçarşılı, Tokat, Niksar, Zile, Ṭurhal, Pazar, Amasya Vilayeti Ḳaẓa ve Nahiye Merkezlerindeki Kitabeleri (Istanbul, 1345/1927), 69. See also RCEA, n°4948. 111 Uzunçarşılı, Tokat, Niksar, Zile, 70 and RCEA n°4949.



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stolen in the middle of the 20th century. The second vaqfiyyeh, attributed to Akhi Nahjevan and dating to 690/1291, was first published by Zeki Oral in 1954 after its discovery in 1932 in the possession of a descendant of the mütevelli (the trustee of a vaqf).112 This vaqfiyyeh registers a donation in vaqf, by Shams al-Din Akhi Ahmad ebn Doghanshah al-Nahjevani, of the revenues of the village of Fidi Köyü to a couple of zaviyehs.113 The revenues of Fidi, described in detail in the vaqfiy­ yeh, are divided into three equivalent parts: one third for a zaviyeh located in the village of Fidi; one third for a zaviyeh in Niksar; and the last portion for the mütevelli of the vaqf. Further research needs to be carried out on this vaqfiyyeh but it attests to the foundation of the ‘twin zaviyehs’ by a member of fotovvat-based associations (saheb al-fotovvat wa’l morovvat)114 both in a town and a village of the neighbouring countryside. Another vaqfiyyeh of a zaviyeh in the village of Dutluca, written in 694/1295 and quoted by Sadi Kucur, mentions a certain Akhi Masʿud ebn Mahmud al-Hasan as the vaqef.115 Although the urban character of fotovvat-based confraternities has largely been accepted by scholars since the beginning of fotovvat-studies, working on sources like vaqfiyyehs may serve to refute the supposed disconnection of these communities from the countryside. The description of a rural lodge, founded by a certain Akhi Nezam al-Din between Kastamonu and Sinope, by Ebn Battuteh in his Rehla may then not appear as an exception: After leaving this hospice116 we spent a second night in a hospice on a lofty mountain without any habitations. It was established by one of the Young Akhis called Nizam al-Din, an inhabitant of Qastamuniya, and he gave it as endowment a village, the revenue from which was to be spent for the maintenance of wayfarers in this hospice.117

112 Zeki Oral, ‘Ahî Ahmet Nahçivanî Vakfiyesi’, Ankara Üniversitesi İlahyat Fakültesi Dergisi 3 (1954), 57–65. See also, Kucur, Sivas, Tokat ve Amasya’da Selçuklu ve Beylikler Devri Vakıfları, 60–61; Akar, Güneş, Niksar’da Vakıflar, 107–8. A copy of this vaqfiyyeh is preserved in the Etnografya Müzesi in Ankara (inv. 11842/245). 113 Akça, in modern Turkey, is located some 50 kilometres west of Niksar in the Kelkit Çay valley. During my last stay in Akça in June 2014, no remnants of the zaviyeh could be seen. 114 Oral, ‘Ahî Ahmet Nahçivanî Vakfiyesi’, 57. 115 Kucur, Sivas, Tokat ve Amasya’da Selçuklu ve Beylikler Devri Vakıfları, 63–64. This vaqfiyyeh is preserved in the archives of the Vakıflar Genel Müdürlüğü in Ankara (VGMA Defter n° 990, s. 22, sıra 18). 116 This is a dervish lodge that Ebn Battuteh described before, on the same road from Kastamonu to Sinope, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, 464–65. 117 Ibid, 465.

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Another example illustrates the settlements of fotovvat-based communities in smaller localities or even in the countryside. On the road from Bursa to Iznik, Ebn Battuteh stayed in a lodge in the village (Arabic: qariya) of Kurluh.118 In addition, his description, even in a few words, of the lodge he stayed in provides information regarding the settlement of such communities in the urban milieu. In several cases, Ebn Battuteh situates the location of the lodge outside of the town centre and in the suburbs, as is the case with Tawas or Sinope.119 Such focus on the rural settlement of fotovvat-based confraternities should be coupled with the study of the modality of the implantation of akhi lodges in towns and their integration in the urban fabric. While the lack of architectural remains and the imprecision of textual sources regarding the akhi lodge restrict our comprehension of its architecture, adjusting our view to a broader approach of architecture with respect to fotovvat-based associations opens a new research axis about the social dimensions of these communities. The question of akhi patronage should be reviewed in detail and may enlighten new relations between these communities and the political and religious elite of medieval Anatolian cities. Focusing on limited regions, such as the Inner Pontic region around the Yeşilırmak valley and its neighbourhood, should bring forth a new understanding of the dynamic assimilation process of fotovvat-based associations from a larger chronological perspective, avoiding then, as Pancaroğlu demonstrated, a dynastical division and its fixed character. As discussed previously, working on an inventory of the different architectural evidence (textual and concrete) related to akhi confraternities acts as a precious tool for examining the settlement of these communities. Fotovvat-based communities developed into pre-extant religious and also socio-economical topographies, participating actively in their own transformation like other social groups. It would then be fair to question the different networks that they inscribed themselves into: geographical networks like the town and its surrounding countryside, as well as social and religious networks. Religious links between Sufi and akhi communities are well known, but the practical and social relations between the two groups still needs to be studied, and a study of their architecture may prove an expedient approach. An architectural analysis brings us closer to the vision of a dynamic and interconnected environment within which fotovvat-based associations developed, as Ebn 118  Ebn Battuta, Voyages d’Ibn Batoutah, vol.2, texte arabe accompagné d’une traduction de C. Defrémery et B.R. Sanguinetti, Frankfurt: Johann Wolfgang Goethe University, 1994 (1st ed. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1877), 322; The Travels of Ibn Battuta (1962), 452. 119 The Travels of Ibn Battuta, 428 and 465.



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Battuteh recounts in his description of the environment of Sinop and its complex religious topography: […] we entered the town and lodged in the hospice of ʿIzz al-Din Akhi Chalabi, which is outside the Sea-Gate. From there one can climb up to a mountain projecting into the sea, like Mina at Sabta [Ceuta], on which there are orchards, cultivated fields and streams, most of its fruits being figs and grapes. It is an inaccessible mountain that cannot be taken by escalade. On it there are eleven villages inhabited by Greek infidels under the government of the Muslims, and on the top there is a hermitage named after al-Khiḍr and Ilyas (on both of them be peace), which is never without a resident devotee. At the foot of this mountain is the tomb of the pious saint, the Companion Bilal al-Habashi, over which there is a hospice where food is supplied to wayfarers.120

Conclusion Despite the very few vestiges of akhi lodges, a number of conclusions can be made after examining historical sources of various kinds, i.e. fotovvat-namehs, hagiographies, travellers’ narratives, etc. The akhi lodge appears as the central institution of fotovvat-based communities and provides a site for the main objective of these confraternities, i.e. providing hospitality. While no official descriptions of the lodges are known to exist (except the few guidelines one comes across in al-Naseri’s fotovvat-nameh), different sources stress the importance (real and symbolic) of furniture including lamps and rugs. The destruction of akhi lodges in the modern period, as well as a lack of monumentality, partly explains their absence in most studies, particularly in the context of the formalist approach that shaped the study of Islamic architecture in medieval Anatolia. Most scholars, as I have argued in this chapter, propose to approach the architecture of akhi zaviyehs through a comparison with dervish-lodges, a topic that also needs more investigation despite the works of such scholars as Wolper and Emir. The recent publication of Pancaroğlu should nevertheless be remarked, as it proposes valuable conclusions about the social function of these lodges in a long-term perspective. A review of historical sources and secondary literature shows that the architecture of fotovvat-based communities is a promising topic. While examining the 120 The Travels of Ibn Battuta, 465–66.

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akhi lodge itself is an important aspect of the research, attention should be paid to patronage in these communities in general, including the social institutions built by akhis, such as hammams. The location of türbes (that have survived for different reasons, in contrast to the lodge itself, like the Akhi Yusof Paşa tomb in Turhal) also informs us about the settlement of akhis in both urban and rural backgrounds. While the urban characteristics of these communities have been stressed in modern scholarship, vaqfiyyehs of the Inner Pontic region show that, like dervish confraternities, fotovvat-based associations were not absent in rural areas and it can be argued that they derived financial support, at least to some extent, from agrarian resources. Architectural patronage offers new insights to our understanding of the role played by akhis in the transformation of Anatolian society during the late medieval period, not only from a religious perspective (even if the integration of akhis in the new religious topography is worthy of further consideration) but also with regards to the social role of these communities in the process of Islamisation; a phenomenon that deserves novel academic attention for its significance to the formation of medieval Anatolia.

Bibliography Açıkel, A. ‘XIV-XVI. Yüzyıllarda Tokat Zâviyeleri’, in Pax Ottomana Studies in Memoriam Prof. Dr. Nejat Göyünç, ed. Kemal Çiçek (Ankara, 2001), 229–63. Aflaki, Shams al-Din Ahmad. Manaqeb al-‘arefin, The Feats of the Knowers of God, trans. John O’Kane (Leiden, 2002). Akar, H., Necati G. Niksar’da Vakıflar ve Tarihi Eserler (Niksar, 2002). Barkan, O. L. ‘İstilâ devirlerinin kolonizatör Türk dervişleri ve zaviyeler’, Vakıflar Dergisi 2 (1942), 279–304. Blair, S. ‘Zawiya’, EI2 V (Leiden, 2002), 505–8. Blessing, P. Rebuilding Anatolia after the Mongol Conquest, Islamic Architecture in the Lands of Rūm, 1240–1330 (Farnham, 2014). Breebaart, D. A. The Development and Structure of the Turkish Futuwah Guilds, unpublished PhD dissertation, Princeton University (Princeton, 1961). Cahen, C. ‘Sur les traces des premiers akhis’, in Mélanges Fuad Köprülü (Istanbul, 1953), 81–91. ———. ‘Mouvements populaires et autonomisme urbain’, Arabica 5 (1958), 225–50 and Arabica 6 (1959), 233–65. ———. La Turquie pré-ottomane (Istanbul, Paris, 1988). Cahen, C., Taeschner, F. ‘Futuwwa’, EI2 II (Leiden, 1965), 983–91.



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Combe, Etienne, Sauvaget, Jean, Wiet, Gaston et al. (ed.), Répertoire chronologique d’épigraphie arabe, 18 vols. (Cairo, Paris, 1931–1996). Corbin, H. ‘Juvénilité et chevalerie en Islam iranien’, in L’homme et son ange (Paris, 1983), 207–60. Deguilhem, R. C. Le Waqf dans l’espace Islamique. Outil de Pouvoir Sociopolitique (Damas, Paris, 1995). Dressler, M. ‘How to conceptualize inner-Islamic plurality/difference: “Heterodoxy” and “Syncretism’ in the writings of Mehmet F. Köprülü (1890– 1966)”, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 37/3 (2010), 247–62. Ebn Battuta. The Travels of Ibn Battuta, ed. B.R. Sanguinetti and C. Defrémery, trans. H.A.R. Gibb (Cambridge, 1962). ———. Voyages d’Ibn Batoutah, ed. B.R. Sanguinetti and C. Defrémery (Paris, 1879–1914). ———. Voyages, vol.2 De La Mecque aux steppes russes et à l’Inde, ed. C.Defrémery, B. R. Sanguinetti, ed. S. Yerasimos (Paris, 1982). Ebn Bibi, al-Hosayn b. Mohammad. al-Avamirü‘l-‘Ala’iyye fi‘l-umuri’l‘Ala’iyye, ed. Adnan Sadık Erzi (Ankara, 1956). Edhem, H. ‘Anqara akhilerine ‘ait iki kitabe’, Tarikh-i ‘Osmani encümeni mecmuasi 7 (1332/1914), 312–15. Emir, S. Erken Osmanlı mimarlığında çok-işlevli yapılar: Kentsel kolonizasyon yapıları olarak zaviyeler, 1: Tokat Zaviyeleri (Izmir, 1994). Eravşar, O. Tokat Tarihi Su Yapıları (Hamamlar) (Istanbul, 2005). Eyice, S. ‘Ilk Osmanlı devrinin dini-içtimaî bir müessesesi: zâviyeler ve zaviyeli camiler’, Istanbul Üniversitesi Iktisat Fakültesi Mecmuası 23/1–2 (1963), 3–80. ———. ‘Ahî Şerafeddin Camii’, Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, I (Istanbul, 1988), 531–32. ———. ‘Ahî Şerafeddin Türbesi’, Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, I (Istanbul, 1988), 532. Fatsa, M. ‘Niksar Yöresindeki Ahî Vakıflarının Karadeniz Bölgesinin İskânı ve İslamlaşmasındaki Rolü’, Vakıflar Dergisi 39 (2013), 27–39. Gölpınarlı, A. İslâm ve Türk illerinde fütüvvet teşkilatı ve kaynakları (Istanbul, 1952). Goshgarian, R. ‘Opening and closing: Coexistence and competition in associations based on Futuwwa in late medieval Anatolian cities’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40/1 (2014), 36–52. Gündoğdu, H. Tarihi Yaşatan İl Tokat (Ankara, 2006).

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Hartmann, A. ‘al-Suhrawardi’, in EI, [accessed 22 August 2016]. Kafadar, C. Between Two Worlds: the Construction of the Ottoman State (Los Angeles, Berkeley, Londres, 1995). Karakaya-Stump, A. ‘The Vefa’iyye, the Bektashiyye and Genealogies of “Heterodox” Islam in Anatolia: Rethinking the Köprülü Paradigm’, Turcica 44 (2012–2013), 279–300. Karamağaralı, B. ‘The order and convent art from XIIth to XVIth centuries in Anatolia’, Ankara Üniversitesi İlahyat Fakültesi Dergisi 21 (1976), 277–84. Karamustafa, A. God’s Unruly Friends: Dervish Groups in the Islamic Latter Middle Period 1200–1550 (Salt Lake City, 1994). ———. ‘Origins of Anatolian Sufism’, in Sufism and Sufis in Ottoman Society, Sources-Doctrine-Rituals-turuq-Architecture-Literature and Fine artsModernism, ed. Ahmet Yaşar Ocak (Ankara, 2005), 67–95. Köprülü, M. F. Türk Edebiyatında ilk mutasavvıflar (Istanbul, 1918). English translation by Gary Leiser, Robert Dankoff, Early Mystics in Turkish Literature (London, 2006). ———. ‘Anadolu’da islâmiyet: Türk istilâsından sonra Anadolu tarih-idinîsine bir nazar ve bu tarihin menbaları’, Dârülfünûn Edebiyat Fakültesi Mecmuası 2 (1922). English translation by Gary Leiser, Islam in Anatolia after the Turkish Invasion (Prolegomena) (Salt Lake City, 1993). Kucur, S. Sivas, Tokat ve Amasya’da Selçuklu ve Beylikler Devri Vakıfları, unpublished PhD disertation (Istanbul, Marmara Üniversitesi, 1993). Kuran, A. Anadolu Medreseleri (Ankara, 1969) Lifchez, Raymond, ed. The Dervish Lodge: Architecture, Art and Sufism in Ottoman Turkey (Berkeley, 1992). Ohlander, E. S. Sufism in an Age of Transition: ‘Umar al-Suhrawardi and the Rise of the Islamic Mystical Brotherhoods (Leiden, Boston, 2008). Oral, Z. ‘Ahî Ahmet Nahçivanî Vakfiyesi’, Ankara Üniversitesi İlahyat Fakültesi Dergisi 3 (1954), 57–65. Öney, G. Ankara’da Türk Devri Dini ve Sosyal Yapıları, The Turkish Period Buildings in Ankara (Summary in English) (Ankara, 1971). Pancaroğlu, O. ‘Formalism and the academic foundation of Turkish art in the early twentieth century’, Muqarnas 24 (2004), 67–78. Picard, Christophe and Borrut, Antoine. ‘Râbata, Ribât, Râbita, une institution à reconsidérer’, in Chrétiens et musulmans en Méditerranée médiévale



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(VIIIe-XIIe siècle). Echanges et contacts, ed. Philippe Sénac and Nicolas Prouteau (Poitiers, 2003), 33–65. Ridgeon, L. ‘Javanmardi: origins and development until the 13th century and its connection to Sufism’, Annals of Japan, Association for Middle Eastern Studies 21/2 (2006), 49–74. ———. Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism: A History of Sufism-futuwwat in Iran (New York: Routledge, 2010). ———. Jawanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh, 2011). Riefstahl, M. Turkish Architecture in Southwestern Anatolia (Cambridge, 1931). Rogers, J. M. ‘Recent work on Seljuk Anatolia’, Kunst des Orients 6/2 (1969), 134- 69. Sarraf, M. Traités des compagnons-chevaliers, Rasa’el-i javanmardan. Recueil de sept Fotowwat-Nameh (Tehran, Paris, 1973). Selçuk, I. ‘Suggestions on the Social Meaning and Functions of Akhi Communities and their Hospices in Medieval Anatolia’, in Architecture and Landscape in Medieval Anatolia 1100–1500, ed. P. Blessing, R. Goshgarian (Edinburgh, 2017), 95–113. Sözen, M. Anadolu Medreseleri: Selçuklu ve Beylikleri Devri (Istanbul, 1970). al-Suhrawardi, ‘Umar. Ketab fi’l-fotowweh, ed. Morteza Sarraf, Traités des compagnons-chevaliers, Rasa’il-i javanmardan. Recueil de sept FotowwatNâmeh (Tehran, Paris, 1973). Taeschner, F. ‘Beiträge zur Geschichte der Achis In Anatolien (14.-15. Jht.), Auf Grund Neuer Quellen’, Islamica 4 (1931), 1–47. ———. Der anatolische Dichter Naṣiri (um 1300) und sein Futuvvetname (Leipzig, 1944). ———. ‘Kırşehir’de Ahı Evran zaviyesinin mütevellisine ait bir berat, 1238/1822–23’, Vakıflar Dergisi 3 (1956), 93–96, German translation as ‘Eine Urkunde für den Stiftungsinhaber den Zaviye des Ahi Evran in Kırşehir von 1238/1822–23’, Vakıflar Dergisi 3 (1956), 309–12. ———. ‘Akhi’, Encyclopédie de l’Islam, I (Leiden, 1960), 331–33. Thesaurus d’épigraphie islamique, Fondation Max Van Berchem, [accessed 20 August 2016]. Trimingham, J. S. The Sufi Orders in Islam (Oxford, 1971). Uzunçarşılı, İsmail. Hakkı, Tuḳad, Niksar, Zile, Turkhal, Pazar, Amasya Vilayeti Ḳaẓa ve Nahiye Merkezlerindeki Kitabeleri (Istanbul, 1345/1927). Wolper, E. S. ‘The politics of patronage: political change and the construction of dervish lodges in Sivas’, Muqarnas 12 (1995), 39–47.

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———. Cities and Saints: Sufism and the Transformation of urban space in medieval Anatolia (University Park, 2003). Yürekli, Z. Architecture and Hagiography in the Ottoman Empire: The Politics of Bektashi Shrines in the Classical Age (Burlington: 2012).

4

The Notion of Erenler in the Divan-ı Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi (Hızırname)1 Sibel Kocaer Abstract Eren, which was originally the plural form of er (man) in Turkish, came to denote both manliness and ‘friend of God’. It is considered the equivalent of rajul or fata in Arabic and mard or javanmard in Persian. Erenler, the plural form of eren, is a distinct concept in the heroic and religious literature of Anatolia, and refers to warrior dervishes. Focusing on the notion of erenler in a mystical and heroic poetic work known as the Divan-ı Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi (1476), this chapter will address the different aspects of the eren identity in Anatolian Turkish literature.

In his celebrated travelogue, the 14th-century traveller Ebn Battuteh gives a description of akhis and the akhi lodges where he stayed while in Anatolia. Akhis were also called fetyan and they consisted of different social and occupational groups, such as cobblers or notables.2 As David Waines notes, Ebn Battuteh visited at least two dozen akhi lodges in Anatolia during his travels,3 which is a significant number for the formative period of Sufism in the region. In fact, starting from the second half of the 13th century, Anatolia welcomed several 1 This chapter is based on my PhD dissertation titled, The Journey of an Ottoman Warrior Dervish: The Hızırname (Book of Khidr), Sources and Reception (SOAS, 2015). 2 David Waines, The Odyssey of Ibn Battuta (London, 2010), 48–49. 3 Ibid, 93.

2

134 Javanmardi lodges were built in Sivas, Tokat and Amasya by various amirs and akhi leaders.5

The akhis were thus one of the principal groups in Anatolia who had an influence not only on the social life of the craftsmen and the tradesmen, but also on dervish orders

new dervish groups and experienced a considerable rise in the number of dervish and mystical movements. The akhi organisation was originally linked to the fotovvat lodges.4 As Ethel S. Wolper observes, in this period, especially between 1240 and movement, initiated by the Abbasid caliph al-Naser and introduced to Anatolia by 1350, at least fifteen dervish lodges were built in Sivas, Tokat and Amasya by 6 ʿOmaramirs al-Sohravardi. various and akhi leaders.5 The akhis were thus one of the principal groups Inwho the month Ramadan not in 733/1332-3, Battuteh the Anatolian in Anatolia had anofinfluence only on theEbn social life ofvisited the craftsmen and the city tradesmen, also onstayed dervish and movements. akhi of Eğirdirbut (Akridur), in aorders madrasa in mystical the city, and along with The his other organisation originally fotovvat movement, initiated by the descriptionswas about the akhis, linked such as to thethe custom of dancing and chanting (samaʿ), in 6 ʿAbbasid caliph al-Naser and introduced to Anatolia by ʿOmar Sohravardi. 7 his travelogue he also emphasised their generosity. Almost one and half century In the month of Ramadan in 733/1332–3, Ebn Battuteh visited the Anatolian later after Ebn Battuteh’s visit, a dervish in Eğirdir composed a mystical work which city of Eğirdir (Akridur), stayed in a madraseh in the city, and along with his other basically tells of his travels to the heavens and his leadership in a battle. The work is descriptions about the akhis, such as the custom of dancing and chanting (samaʿ), known as the Divan-ı Şeyh Mehmed or the 7 Divan-ı Şeyh Muhyiddin, written in his travelogue he emphasised their Çelebi, generosity. Almost one and a half centuries 8 (d. by Şeyh Mehmed bin Şeyh Muhammed Piri Halife el-Hoyi [al-Khoyi] after Ebn Battuteh’s visit, a dervish in Eğirdir composed a mystical work which 9 basically tells ofand hisdated travels to the heavens and hissources leadership in aisbattle. The work 898/1493-4), 880/1476. In secondary the work also referred to 10 11 is known as the Divan-ı Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi, or the Divan-ı Şeyh Muhyiddin, and known as Hızırname (Book of Khezr), although it is not a title assigned by the written by Şeyh Mehmed ebn Şeyh Muhammed Piri Halife el-Hoyi [al-Khoyi]8 (d. author.12 898/1493–4), and dated 880/1476.9 In secondary sources the work is also referred to and known as Hızırname10 (Book of Khezr),11 although it is not a title assigned by the author.12 5 For information about these lodges and for an analysis of their function, see, Ethel S.

Wolper, Cities and Saints (Pennsylvania, 2003). 4 For a discussion about the origins of Sufism in Anatolia, see, Ahmet Karamustafa, 6 On the history of Sufism’, fotovvat see Lloyd and Ridgeon, and Mysticism in Ahmet PersianYaşar Sufism: A ‘Origins of Anatolian in Sufism Sufis Morals in Ottoman Society, ed. Ocak (Ankara, 2005). History of Sufi-futuwwat in Iran (New York, 2010). 5 For information about these lodges and for an analysis of their function, see, Ethel S. 7 Waines, The Odyssey of Ibn Battuta, 91. Wolper, Cities and Saints (Pennsylvania, 2003). 8 here onward, Şeyhsee Mehmed Çelebi. Also referred to as Şeyh in Mehmed Sultan 6 On From the history of fotovvat Lloyd Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism PersianDede Sufism: A History of Sufi-futuwwat in Iran (New York, 2010). in some sources, for example see vasfi M. Kocatürk, Türk Edebiyatı Tarihi: Başlangıcından 7 Waines, The Odyssey of Ibn Battuta, 91. Bugüne Kadar Türk Edebiyatının Tarihi (Ankara, 1964), 283. 8 From here onward, Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi. Also referred to as Şeyh Mehmed Dede Sultan 9 Eğirdir was, for at one time, the of the Hamidoğulları principality (1301-1423) but then in some sources, example seecapital Vasfi M. Kocatürk, Türk Edebiyatı Tarihi: Başlangıcından Bugüne Kadar aTürk Edebiyatının Tarihi the (Ankara, 1964), 283. and the Karamanids. On the it became frontier zone between Ottoman Empire 9 Eğirdir was, at one time, the capital of the Hamidoğulları principality (1301–1423) dynasty, see Sait Kofoğlu, Hamidoğulları Beyliği (Ankara, 2006). untilHamidoğulları it became a frontier zone between the Ottoman Empire and the Karamanids. On the 10 For example, see the chapter by Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, ‘Hızırname’, in Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı Hamidoğulları dynasty, see Sait Kofoğlu, Hamidoğulları Beyliği (Ankara, 2006). 10 For example, see the XvII chapter by Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, ‘Hızırname’, in Türkiye Diyanet İslam Ansiklopedisi, (1998). Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, XVII (1998). 11 Khezr is the Persian phoneticversion versionofofthe theArabic Arabic‘Khidr’ ‘Khidr’ which which means 11 Khezr is the Persian phonetic means ‘the ‘theverdant verdantone’ one’and andititisis spelled spelled ‘‫’خضر‬.. In In Turkish Turkish sources, sources, it is spelled spelled either either Hızır Hızır or or Hıdır. Hıdır. In Invarious various sources it is spelled in different ways, such as, Khadr, Khadir, Khedr, Khizr, Hazur, Kezr, Xezr or Khezr. He is also mentioned as Chadir, Chadur and Chederle. 12 According to the records available, Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi’s work was first introduced to scholarship under the title Hızırname by Fuad Köprülü in Türk Edebiyatında İlk Mutasavvıflar (Ankara, 2003), 245–46, 262. Based on the evidence in the text itself, Köprülü



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With its intrinsic features, Hızırname can simply be described as a mystical work of Turkish literature dating to the late 15th century. Written in verse and in an autobiographical style, the portrayal of the narrator-poet in the text combines different characters within his own identity, such as a dervish in a state of spiritual ecstasy, a wanderer who ascends into the heavens and travels to Mount Qaf,13 and a warrior joining a war. Throughout the narrative his complex identity is mainly represented by Hızır (Khezr) and Hacı Bektaş, and also through the erenler he meets during his travels. In addition to erenler, evliya [awliya] (friends of God)14 is also used interchangeably as a form of address for the people the dervish meets during his travels. Eren is generally, and mistakenly, translated into English as ‘the one who has attained’.15 However, as Mahmud al-Kashgari explains in his dictionary Divanu Lugati’t-Türk (Compendium of Turkic Dialects) dating to the second half of the 11th century, eren was literally the plural form of er (man) in Turkish.16 Eren then lost its claims that the founding of the Bektashi order should be dated to at least a half century or a century earlier than the beginning of the 16th century. For the English translation of Köprülü’s book by Gary Leiser and Robert Dankoff, see Early Mystics in Turkish Literature (London, 2006). 13 Mount Qaf is a mythological mountain in Islamic literature which is said to surround the Earth and keeps it stable. According to al-Tabari (d. 923), one has to travel for four months in darkness before reaching Mount Qaf. See Mary Boyce, ‘Alborz’, in Encyclopedia Iranica I/8 and Kürşat Demirci, ‘Kafdağı’, in Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, XXIV (2001). 14 Veli [wali] is one of the names of God mentioned in the Qurʾan. In Islamic literature it denotes proximity to God; see Ahmet Karamustafa, ‘Walāya according to al-Junayd (d. 298/910)’, in Reason and Inspiration in Islam: Theology, Philosophy and Mysticism in Muslim Thought. Essays in Honour of Hermann Landolt, ed. Todd Lawson (London and New York 2005); B. Radtke and J. O’Kane, The Concept of Sainthood in Early Islamic Mysticism (Surrey, 1996); John Renard, Friends of God: Islamic Images of Piety, Commitment and Servanthood (Berkeley, 2008). Devin DeWeese points to the significant development in the concept of ‘being a friend of God’ from the 13th to 15th centuries, ‘culminating in the assertion that sainthood is prior to and superior to prophethood’, see ‘An “Uvaysi” Sufi in Timurid Mawarannahr’, in Studies on Sufism in Central Asia (Surrey, 2012), IV: 1. Similarly, Shahzad Bashir also notes that in Central Asia and Iran during this period ‘more accomplished Sufi masters became acknowledged as great friends of God who mediated between the divine and the earthly realms’, see Sufi Bodies: Religion and Society in Medieval Islam (New York, 2011), 13. 15 See for example, Vernon James Schubel and Nurten Kilic-Schubel, ‘Sarı İsmail: The beloved disciple of Hacı Bektaş Veli’, in Tales of God’s Friends, Islamic Hagiography in Translation, ed. John Renard (Berkeley, 2009), 146. 16 The only manuscript copy of the Divanu Lugati’t-Turk is being preserved at the Millet Kütüphanesi in Istanbul (Ali Emiri, Arabi, nr. 4189). For its transliteration and English translation, see, Compendium of the Turkic Dialects (Dīwān Luγāt at Turk), edited and translated with Introduction and Indices by Robert Dankoff in collaboration with James

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plural meaning, and came to denote both manliness and one who is a friend of God/ dervish. With the Turkish suffix -ler, it has been made plural again and has come to represent a distinct phenomenon in the heroic and religious literature of Anatolia.17 The concept of eren is considered to be an equivalent of rajul or fata in Arabic, and mard or javanmard in Persian, and generally indicates warrior dervishes.18 In addition to its relationship with javanmardi, the concept of eren can be considered in association with the notion of fotovvat, which also includes virtues related to manliness, heroism and Sufism. According to Abu’l-Hasan Kharraqani (d. 1033), for example, fotovvat was a spiritual wayfaring experienced by the select, and implied the ‘closest proximity to God’. Likewise, Ebn ʿArabi (d. 1240) considered fotovvat to be an ‘extremely lofty spiritual station, attained only by a select few’, and he addressed this topic in three different chapters in his renowned Fotuhat al-Makkiyyeh (The Meccan Revelations).19 Similar to Kharraqani’s and Ebn ʿArabi’s definitions of fotovvat, the dervish figure in the Hızırname also tells of his own spiritual experiences and describes how he has reached God in his visionary travels. The shared subjects between the works relating to javanmardi, fotovvat and the Hızırname suggest that the notions of javanmardi and fotovvat are represented in different aspects of the eren identity depicted in Hızırname. Placing my focus on the portrayal of the erenler in Hızırname, in this chapter I address the roles of Hızır and Hacı Bektaş in the narrative and how they represent different aspects of the travelling narrator-protagonist. As the chapter will clarify, the text portrays a distinction between the roles of Hızır and Hacı Bektaş: while Hızır represents the spiritual aspect of the eren identity, Hacı Bektaş represents the warrior attribute of the narrator and thus the military deeds of the erenler.

The author, Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi The Hızırname itself does not include any information about the life of Şeyh Kelly, 3 vols. (Cambridge, MA, 1982–1985). Also see Divanu Lugati’t-Türk, edited and translated with Introduction and Indices by Ahmet B. Ercilasun and Ziyat Akkoyunlu (Ankara, 2015). 17 For brief information, see Süleyman Uludağ, ‘Erenler’ in Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, IX (1994), 76. 18 On the concept of javanmardi, see Arley Loewen, The Concept of Jawanmardi (manliness) in Persian Literature and Society, PhD Dissertation (University of Toronto, 2001); Lloyd Ridgeon, Jawanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh, 2011). Ridgeon’s study includes the translations of three Persian treatises related to the etiquette of Sufi groups. 19 See Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism, esp.28–60.



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Mehmed Çelebi other than his spiritual lineage to the Zeyniye order, which was founded by Zayn al-Khafi (d. 838/1435) in Herat. According to his selseleh (lineage), al-Khafi is linked to ʿOmar Sohravardi (d. 632/1234), and therefore, the Zeyniye order is considered to be a branch of the Sohravardiyyeh order.20 The Zeynis had close relations with the ʿolama and the leading statesmen during the reign of Mehmed II. However, after the death of Mehmed II, with the support of Bayezid II, the Halvetis challenged the influence of the Zeynis in the capital city of the Ottomans, and subsequently the Zeynis lost their power over the Ottoman lands.21 In the first half of the 15th century the governor of Hamid­ ili erected a zaviyeh in Eğirdir for Pir Mohammed’s father-in-law, Şeyhulislam Berdai who became the first Zeyni shaykh in the city. After his death, Pir Mohammed, who was also known as Piri Halife (d. 1460), became the second Zeyni shaykh in Eğirdir. He was succeeded, as shaykh, by his son Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi. In addition to this information about Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi, in some manuscript copies of Hızırname dated to the 17th century and onwards, the text is followed by, or kept with, a short biography of the author. This work, a menakıbname22 in its own right, is in fact part of a larger work, a collection of the miraculous life stories of the Zeyni shaykhs in Eğirdir, which survives in two recensions. Both editions are dated to the 17th century and their authors, Şerif Mehmed Efendi (d. 1631) and Seyyid Hüseyin (d. after 1644), are from the same family. In his recension, Şerif Mehmed tells us that although he could not be a follower of the Zeyniye order, he would read the Divan of Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi and the stories about his grandfather, Şeyh Burhaneddin, whenever he had an opportunity,23 and that there 20 On the Sohravardiyyeh order, see Erik S. Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition (Leiden and Boston, 2008). 21 See Hasan Karatas, The City as a Historical Actor: The Urbanization and Ottomanization of the Halvetiye Sufi Order by the City of Amasya in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries, PhD Dissertation (University of California, 2011); Reşat Öngören, Tarihte Bir Aydın Tarikatı Zeyniler (İstanbul, 2003). 22 Manaqeb-nameh (or menakıbname) is often translated into English as hagiography. However, this translation does not thoroughly correspond to the meaning of the ‘menakıbname’ as it belongs to a different literary tradition. By pointing out the lack of comparative studies between the Christian concept of sainthood and the Islamic concept of the friend of God, Şevket Küçükhüseyin highlights the fact that ‘in contrast to the Christian tradition, the Muslim cults of the “friends of God” are not rooted in the cult of martrys’, see ‘Some Reflections on hagiology with reference to the early Mawlawi-Christian relations in the light of Manaqib al-‘arifin’, Al-Masaq 25 (2013), 242. 23 Sadık Yazar, Eğirdirli Münevver Bir Ailenin Hikayesi: Şerif Mehmed’in Menakıb-ı Şeyh Burhaneddin’i (İstanbul, 2012), 124–25.

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was, in fact, an earlier version of the collected biographies of the Zeyni shaykhs in Eğirdir compiled by a certain Halifizade.24 Referring to six manuscript copies in total, Sadık Yazar has published a critical edition of the text based on Şerif Mehmed’s recension, as well as a comparison between Şerif Mehmed’s and Seyyid Hüseyin’s versions.25 Yazar’s edition includes several episodes about Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi which portray him in his various aspects. One of these episodes provides interesting details about the character of Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi while remaining rather critical of him. The episode exists in both editions, though with differences in content. According to Şerif Mehmed’s version, in one of his visits to Bursa, Hacı Ivaz visits the city’s Zeyni tekke and its shaykh, Şeyh Taceddin. In their meeting, the shaykh gives advice to Hacı Ivaz and tells him not to be so attached to this world and to spend his time with the friends of God. Hacı Ivaz responds by saying that there is no such person in his region. Upon hearing this, the shaykh asks about Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi, but Hacı Ivaz answers the shaykh’s question by telling him that: ‘I don’t have any faith in him. He wears good clothes and rides majestic horses, and girds himself with a sword. He does not possess the dervish mentality you mention.’ The shaykh, however, responds by saying that Hacı Ivaz should not deny Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi’s dervish-hood as this could land him in trouble since Mehmed Çelebi is the qotb-ı ʿalam.26 Seyyid Hüseyin’s edition tells the episode differently. According to this version, although Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi’s father and grandfather were highly respectable people who initiated many otherwise unruly personages into their order, Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi did not follow his father’s and grandfather’s examples. He, instead, had outings on majestic horses, wearing fur clothes and carrying hawks, and was seen in the company of beautiful youths. At the end of the episode, Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi responds to the people who do not consider him to be a dervish by stating that ‘at the bottom of the matter (“nihayetü’l-emr”) is that one should accept people as they are, faults (ʿayb) and all, warts and all’.27 As is obvious in both episodes, Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi is being 24 Yazar, Eğirdirli Münevver Bir Ailenin Hikayesi, 83–85. 25 See Yazar, Eğirdirli Münevver Bir Ailenin Hikayesi. Neither Şerif Mehmed nor Seyyid Hüseyin gave a title to their recensions. Yazar notes that since Şerif Mehmed talks about Halifizade’s text as ‘the compiled menakıb of Şeyh Burhaneddin’, he preferred to refer the text he edited under the title Menakıb-ı Şeyh Burhaneddin, see, 7, 83–85. 26 Yazar, Eğirdirli Münevver Bir Ailenin Hikayesi, 158–59. Qotb literally means ‘the pole’ or ‘the axis’. In Islamic literature it denotes the master of perfection. For more information and examples from early Islamic sources, see Süleyman Ateş, ‘Kutub’, in Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, XXVI (2002). 27 Ibid., 99.



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criticised because of his appearance and is not considered to be a proper dervish. This suggests a change in the concept of dervish-hood resulting from the new historical and regional context wherein these stories, which had been retold for centuries, were now situated.

Hızırname In the best available edition by Mehmet N. Bardakçı, based on the earliest manuscript, Hızırname consists of a prose opening section in Arabic and eighty poems with Persian rubrics, mostly written in the masnavi form, but also in other forms such as the ghazal.28 Following traditional convention, at the end of each composition (and any section of the larger work) the poet uses one of his two pen names, and sometimes both, ‘Muhyiddin’ and ‘Dolu’.29 Hızırname is unique as a compilation (divan) in that it contains an extensive narrative but is made up of a great number of short compositions compiled and presented together by the author or, perhaps, assembled at a later time, though there is nothing in the earliest manuscript to suggest that this is the case. The narrative tells of the travels of a warrior dervish figure in the heavenly realm and to various territories on Earth under the guidance and with the himmet (spiritual blessing) of Hızır, an enigmatic figure in Islamic literature. Another figure, Hacı Bektaş, spiritual leader of the Bektashi order, also plays a prominent role in some scenes of the narrative, for instance when he appoints the dervish as head of the Ottoman army for the military campaign to the Eastern border. The first-person 28 For Bardakçı’s edition which compares the earliest manuscript copy of the text with others, see Eğirdir Zeyni Zaviyesi ve Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi Divanı (Isparta, 2008), 119–287. Twelve manuscript copies of Hızırname survive today. The copy mentioned as the earliest one, amongst others, is undated and housed at the library of Istanbul University. In this edition, Bardakçı consults four additional copies and compares them with the earliest copy. These four copies are: Süleymaniye Kütüphanesi Hacı Mahmud Efendi, nr. 3414; Konya Bölge Yazma Eserler Kütüphanesi, nr. 3725; Yapı Kredi Sermer Çifter Araştırma Kütüphanesi, nr. 921, and Milli Kütüphane Türk Dil Kurumu Kitaplığı, nr. 288. In this chapter, quotations from Hızırname have been taken from one of the digitised manuscript copies of Hızırname which is housed at Koç University Library, see: http://digitalcollections. library.ku.edu.tr/cdm/ref/collection/MC/id/6002. The page numbers cited in the quotations refer to the digitised page numbers on the website. 29 The literal meaning of Muhiddin/Muhyiddin is ‘the one who revives the religion’. ‘Dolu’ is a derivative adjective. Turkish verb dol- means ‘to get full’ and dolu means full or complete. In mystical literature, it also denotes the divine drink which initiates the dervish into the mystical realm. Thus, on a first reading, both pen names refer to the complete and never-ending love of the dervish for God.

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narration in the text presents the experiences of the dervish figure as an autobiographical work. Vasfi Mahir Kocatürk, the author of one of the more reliable histories of Turkish literature qualifies Hızırname as a (religious) epic (dastan) and not a didactic work, with interesting and unique characteristics.30 In another argument concerning the nature of its genre, Ahmet Yaşar Ocak describes Hızırname as ‘the only example of its genre’,31 but he does not explain the features that make the text unique. Two particular features make Hızırname unusual among other Anatolian Turkish works: 1) a detailed description of the non-prophetic ascension journey, and 2) the first-person narrator. The third poem of Hızırname is the sebeb-i telif (the reason for composing the text).32 Admitting that he has experienced states of ecstasy and that the knowledge of truth has been unveiled to him, the poet declares that he is composing this text in Turkish, ‘söylene hem Türki dilince bu kelam’ (‘these words shall be expressed in Turkish’),33 for the benefit of the people. Hızırname is a poetic work from 15th-century Anatolia and as Saliha Paker notes, ‘Türki suretinde söylemek’ (‘to express it in the Turkish style’) is a common metaphor used in translated34 poetic works in 14th-century Anatolian Turkish literature.35 However, neither the sebeb-i 30 Kocatürk, Türk Edebiyatı Tarihi, 283–88. 31 Ocak, ‘Hızırname’, 417. 32 For information about the sebeb-i telif in Anatolian Turkish masnavis, see Hasan Kavruk, Türkçe Mesnevilerde Sebeb-i Te’lif (Eser Yazma Sebebi) (Malatya, 2003). 33 Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi, Divan-ı Muhyiddin, 5, [accessed 3 July 2017]. 34 Unlike the contemporary implications of the notion of translation, in early Anatolian Turkish literature it was mostly a rewriting process based on the source text. For a discussion about the literary character of the author and translator and different types of translations in Ottoman literature, see Zehra Toska, ‘Evaluative approaches to translated Ottoman Turkish literature in future research’, in Translations: (Re)shaping of Literature and Culture, ed. Saliha Paker (Istanbul, 2002). For a particular focus on poetry, see Saliha Paker, ‘Translation as Terceme and Nazire: Culture-bound concepts and their implications for a conceptual framework for research on Ottoman translation history’, in Crosscultural Transgressions: Research Models in Translation Studies II, ed. Theo Hermans (Manchester, 2002). For the concept of ‘originality’ with regard to translation, adaptation and composition in Anatolian Turkish works see Paker, ‘Terceme, te’lif ve özgünlük meselesi’, in Eski Türk Edebiyatı Çalışmaları IX: Metnin hâlleri: Osmanlı’da telif, tercüme ve şerh (Istanbul, 2014). For information about the relationship between the translations and commentaries and examples from early Anatolian Turkish works which show how the authors perceived the work of translation and how they described the features of the new work, see Selim Sırrı Kuru, ‘Anlamı aydınlatan kara yazı: metin ve hâlleri’, in Eski Türk Edebiyatı Çalışmaları IX: Metnin hâlleri: Osmanlı’da telif, tercüme ve şerh (Istanbul, 2014). 35 Paker, ‘Terceme, te’lif ve özgünlük meselesi’, 44.



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telif section of Hızırname, nor other parts include any clues which may alert us to the fact that this poetic work is a translation or an adaptation from another work. Nevertheless, the emphasis on composing this work in Turkish, and not in another language, may still point to other works with a similar content but composed in a different language other than Turkish. The rich intertextuality of Hızırname suggests a combination of various oral and written sources and different genres, such as meʿraj-names (book of ascension), frontier epics, and Eskandar-names (book of Alexander), within one narrative. However, the text does not refer to any other work as its source, with the exception of mentioning the early Ottoman poet Âşık Paşa (d. 1333). The narrator-poet introduces Âşık Paşa as ‘perverde-yi Hızır han’ (a disciple of Hızır khan) and informs us that Âşık Paşa is the one who tells him about Hızır.36 Indeed, in Âşık Paşa’s voluminous Garibname (1330),37 there is a lengthy chapter on Hızır, one hundred and eighty couplets long. The couplets on the features of Hızır in Hızırname have similarities with this chapter in terms of both content and style. Other than the relationship between Hızır and Âşık Paşa, Hızırname does not cite any of Âşık Paşa’s works; rather, being the disciple of Hızır, Âşık Paşa is introduced as a dervish persona in the narrative, not as a poet. As Gönül A. Tekin argues, its linguistic and prosodic features put the Hızırname into the category of the so-called ‘Yunus-style’ texts in Turkish literature. There exist a number of works in early Anatolian Turkish literature which may be considered ‘Yunus-style’ texts on account of displaying features of tekke poetry influenced by Yasavi dervishes in Anatolia. Yunus Emre (d. 720/1320?) created his famous ‘Yunus-style’ by modifying the Central Asian prosodic forms brought to Anatolia by the followers of Ahmed Yasavi (d. 561/1166).38 The most comprehensive account of the life of Yunus Emre which survives to this day is the Velayetname of Hacı Bektaş,39 where the origins of the Bektashi tradition is traced to the Yasavi lineage. Based on this evidence, and following Fuad Köprülü’s works, especially Türk Edebiyatında İlk Mutasavvıflar, secondary sources have 36 Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi, Divan-ı Muhyiddin, 56. 37 On the Garibname and its transcription see Âşık Paşa, Garib-name, critical edition by Kemal Yavuz (İstanbul, 2000). For a comparison of the Garibname with Mantıkuʾt-tayr (1317) by Gülşehri and Süheyl ü Nev-bahar (1350) by Hoca Mesud with a particular focus on the masnavi form in early Anatolian Turkish literature, see Selim Sırrı Kuru, ‘Destanı mesnevîde anlatmak: Gülşehrî, Âşık Paşa ve Mes’ûd’un eserleri hakkında gözlemler’, in Eski Türk Edebiyatı Çalışmaları VI: Mesnevi; Hikayenin Şiiri (Istanbul, 2011). 38 See Gönül A. Tekin, ‘Turkish literature’ in Islamic Spirituality, ed. Seyyed Hossein Nasr (New York, 1991), 357. 39 See Abdülbaki Gölpınarlı, Vilayet-name – Menakıb-ı Hünkar Hacı Bektaş Veli (Istanbul, 1995), 47–48.

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described the so-called ‘Yunus-style’ in Anatolian Turkish poetry in terms of the influence of Yasavi dervishes in Anatolia. In recent studies, however, the relationship between Ahmed Yasavi, his followers and the Anatolian dervishes has been questioned and challenged in various ways.40 Yet, for the sake of the historiography of Turkish literature, this subject needs to be addressed and revisited based upon new findings. On the other hand, the identity of Yunus Emre and the poems attributed to him are open to controversy among scholars as his Divan has been edited several times. A number of poems in different manuscript copies and editions of the Divan vary from each other.41 While this confusion reveals the popularity of the so-called ‘Yunus-style’ in Anatolia, it also suggests that the ambiguity surrounding the authors of these poems results from their circulation not only in written but also, often, in oral form. Consequently, as argued by Annemarie Schimmel, ‘although it is next to impossible to reconstitute an authentic text of [Yunus Emre’s] poetry, his very name has become a catchword for a whole genre of mystical poetry’.42 40 On the controversy around the role of Ahmed Yasavi in Anatolia and the review of Turkish and Iranian historiography on this subject, see Devin DeWeese, ‘The Masha’ikh-i Turk and the Khojagan: Rethinking the links between the Yasavi and Naqshbandi Sufi traditions’, in Studies on Sufism in Central Asia (Surrey, 2012), especially 180–85. DeWeese points out that ‘much of our understanding of the Yasavi tradition has been based upon the sources produced within Naqshbandi circles, with virtually no critical analysis of these sources’ accounts’, 185. On the history of the Yasavi order also see the following articles by the same author: ‘A neglected source on Central Asian history: The 17th century Yasavi hagiography’ and ‘Sacred places and “public” narratives: The shrine of Ahmad Yasavi in hagiographical traditions of the Yasavi Sufi order, 16th-17th centuries’, in Studies on Sufism in Central Asia (Surrey, 2012). For a discussion on the influence of Ahmed Yasavi on Anatolian dervishes with a particular focus on the notion of qotb in Bektashi literature, see Rıza Yıldırım, ‘Rum’da Öksöğüyü Tutan Kimdi?’, in I. Uluslararası Hacı Bektaş Veli Sempozyumu Bildirileri, v. II (Ankara, 2011). Yıldırım notes two sources which link the Bektashi tradition to Ahmed Yasavi: the Velayetname-i Hacı Bektaş and the Velayetname-i Hacım Sultan. Other texts of Bektashi literature on the other hand, such as the Divan-ı Sadık Abdal, do not mention Ahmed Yasavi (see p. 626). Based on this evidence, Yıldırım underlines the need for further research on the links between Ahmed Yasavi and Bektashi literature. On the history of dervish orders in Anatolia see also, Karamustafa, ‘Origins of Anatolian Sufism’. By addressing Köprülü’s claims about the migration of Yasavi dervishes to Anatolia, Karamustafa argues that Hacı Bektaş cannot be seen as a Yasavi dervish, although it is likely that he did have contact with Ahmed Yasavi. 41 For different editions of Yunus Emre’s Divan see Abdülbaki Gölpınarlı, Yunus Emre: Hayatı ve Bütün Şiirleri (Istanbul, 2013); Mustafa Tatçı, Yunus Emre Divanı (Istanbul, 1997). Annemarie Schimmel notes that ‘in his later studies and editions Gölpınarlı has become more and more critical, and excludes many of the well-known poems’, see ‘Yunus Emre’ in Yunus Emre and His Mystical Poetry (Indiana, 1981), 80. 42 Schimmel, ‘Yunus Emre’, 59.



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Another subject of controversy concerns the educational background of the dervishes who composed the poems in the ‘Yunus-style’. There is a tendency among some scholars to accept the premise that these poets were either illiterate, or lacked a proper education. This approach reflects a reading of Turkish literature based on binary opposites and divides authors into categories such as high or low class, educated or uneducated, and orthodox or heterodox.43 Also, the claim by these poets themselves in their own works that they are illiterate is another reason that has led to some scholars describing them as uneducated. Focusing on Yunus Emre’s poetry, Schimmel refers to this debate and explains that since the poems under discussion require a deep and sound knowledge of Islamic literature, including classical Persian literature, as well as Ebn ʿArabi and his commentaries, the claim by dervishes to be ümmi (illiterate) is a ‘traditional topos’.44 Indeed, the content of Hızırname does reveal strong similarities with Ebn ʿArabi’s and his followers’ writings and also with eshraqi literature in terms of its terminology and the ascension journey. Among these words keşf [kashf] (unveiling) stands out as a key word in Hızırname. It refers to the vision and experiences of the poet-narrator and he tells of the wonders and signs of God that he saw in the heavenly realm by using the expression keşf olundu (unveiled). This aspect of the text suggests a sound knowledge of a certain corpus of literatures by the author himself. The journey of the dervish starts with his ascension (meʿraj) into the seven heavens (heft asuman). During his ascension, the secrets of the unseen world are unveiled to him and he meets with prophets and angels in the heavenly realm. He learns the secret of existence and witnesses the wonders of creation. The route of his journey then leads him to various mythological places, such as Mount Qaf, to religious sites, such as Mecca, and to the tombs of celebrated dervishes. There are two main gatherings he attends en route, one which describes him entering into a state of ecstasy by drinking and dancing, thus symbolising the samaʿ rituals of 43 Following Köprülü’s studies, these binary opposites have dominated and shaped the historiography of Turkish literature. On the dichotomies in Köprülü’s writings, for an overview of the problematic issues in the way Köprülü uses them and their influence on secondary sources, see Markus Dressler, ‘How to conceptualize inner-Islamic plurality/ difference: “Heterodoxy” and “syncretism” in the writings of Mehmet F. Köprülü (1890– 1966)’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 37/3 (2010). Andrew C. S. Peacock and Sara N. Yıldız note the influence of Durkheim’s approach on Köprülü’s writings, and they also point to the dichotomy of Sunni Islam and popular/folk Islam in the studies which followed the Köprülü-Ocak line, see ‘Introduction’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia (London, 2012). Also see Ayfer Karakaya-Stump, ‘The Vefa’iyye, the Bektashiyye and genealogies of “heterodox” Islam in Anatolia: Rethinking Köprülü’s paradigm’, Turcica 44 (2012–13). 44 Schimmel, ‘Yunus Emre’, 61.

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dervish groups,45 and the other involves his meeting all warriors and dervishes in Anatolia and is followed by a military campaign in the subsequent poem. Both gatherings are significant in the narrative. The first gathering is held in a pavilion on Mount Qaf, where all the men of truth (erenler) and the community of the friends of God (veliler zümresi) drink and dance. The angels and the qotb, and the people of Arab, Ajam and Rum, are also present. In the second gathering, dervishes and warriors from Anatolia and the Balkans, called the friends of God (evliya) in the heading of the poem, congregate.46 The poet mentions the names of participants one by one and the list includes ninety names with various titles, such as abdal,47 baba,48 dede49 and gazi.50 45 On the samaʿ, see, Leonard Lewisohn, ‘The sacred music of Islam: Samaʿ in the Persian Sufi tradition’, British Journal of Ethnomusicology 6/1 (1997); Reşat Öngören, ‘Osmanlılar Döneminde Sema ve Devran Tartışmaları’, Tasavvuf: İlmi ve Akademik Araştırma Dergisi 25 (2010). 46 Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi, Divan-ı Muhyiddin, 89. 47 The use of abdal in literature dates back to the 12th century and it connotes a particular mystical experience. Ebn ʿArabi calls the seven qotbs, who stay in the seven climates, as abdal; see Ateş, ‘Kutub’, 498. In the 14th century it was used as a title for the Qalandari dervishes or generally for those who performed unruly acts in society. In the 15th century it also meant beggar and vagrant. It was more common in Anatolia than in Iran as a title for the dervishes. On the abdal in literature see Orhan Köprülü, ‘Abdal’, in Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, I (1998); Hussein La-Shay and Negahban Farzin, ‘Abdal’, in Encyclopedia Islamica (2014). In the 15th century, Âşıkpaşazade (d. 889/1484) mentioned Abdalan-ı Rum (The Abdals of Rum) as one of the four dervish communities in Anatolia, see Kemal Yavuz and Yekta Saraç, Osmanoğullarının Tarihi: Tevarih-i Al-i Osman (Istanbul, 2007), 486. Ahmet Karamustafa explains the reason for Âşıkpaşazade’s grouping ‘Abdalan-ı Rum’ with the linguistic difference: ‘as opposed to other dervish groups, […] who most probably spoke Persian, at least during the 13th and 15th centuries, the abdals of Rum spoke Turkish,’; see ‘Kaygusuz Abdal: A medieval Turkish saint and the formation of vernacular Islam in Anatolia’, in Unity in Diversity, ed. Orkhan Mir-Kasımov (Leiden, 2014), 330. 48 Baba, which literally means ‘father’, is a common title in dervish groups and dates back to as early as the 10th century. Baba Taher ʿOryan (d. 447/1055), for example, is a famous dervish from the 11th century. In the 12th century, it became a popular title in Yasavi circles since it also meant ancestor (ata), see Süleyman Uludağ, ‘Baba’, in Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, IV (1991). 49 Dede is a Turkish noun, which literally means ‘grandfather’. It was also used as a hierarchical title signalling the status of a respected man in the community as in the example of the celebrated Turkish epic Dede Korkut. As a term in the Anatolian Sufi tradition, especially in the Bektashi and Mevlevi orders, it is a title which denotes the position of a dervish in the community. See Süleyman Uludağ, ‘Dede’, in Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, XI (1994). 50 ‘Gazi’ is one of the contested titles in Turkish historiography. For an analysis of the term in Turkish sources and the diachronic changes in the meaning of gazi, see Şinasi Tekin, ‘Türk Dünyasında Gaza ve Cihad Kavramları Üzerine Düşünceler’, in İştikakçının



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Amongst those who join the great gathering are well-known dervishes, writers and heroes of the former Seljuk and Ottoman lands, such as Seyyid Battal,51 Ahi Evren,52 Mevlana (d. 672/1273) 53 and Sarı Saltuk,54 as well as the local warriors and Zeyni dervishes. Following this gathering, upon the order and with the blessing of Hacı Bektaş, the dervish Muhyiddin leads the army of the Ottomans in a military campaign to the East. With the support of the erenler and by reciting the name of Hızır, he wins the battle. Later on, he continues his journey accompanied by Hızır and mentions his meetings with the invisible men en route. As a final significant destination, the dervish visits the realm of the water of life (âb-ı hayat) with Hızır. The poems that follow continue to describe the heavenly realm; however, they mainly repeat the previous ones in terms of content. Although each poem has a rubric in Bardakçı’s edition, there is no internal reference as to the order of these poems and therefore it is hard to account for the order in which the journeys are described. There is quite a lot of repetition and Köşesi (Istanbul, 2001). Gazi was a key title in the renowned ghaza-thesis by Paul Wittek, which explains the rise of the Ottoman Empire in terms of a Holy War; see, The Rise of the Ottoman Empire, ed. Colin Heywood (Oxon, 2012). For a reassessment of secondary sources on the ghaza-thesis and an analysis of the Turkish frontier epics in the early Ottoman era, see Cemal Kafadar, Between Two Worlds: The Construction of the Ottoman State (Berkeley, 1995). On the discussion about the terms gaza and gazi in early Ottoman sources, also see, Heath W. Lowry, The Nature of the Early Ottoman State (Albany, 2003). For the different contexts to which the term was applied, see Linda T. Darling, ‘Contested territory: Ottoman holy war in comparative context’, Studia Islamica 91 (2000). For the critical edition of an Anatolian Turkish text on the etiquette of gazis dated to the 14th century, see Ş. Tekin, ‘XIV. Yüzyılda Yazılmış Gazilik Tarikası: “Gaziliğin Yolları” adlı Bir Eski Anadolu Türkçesi Metni ve Gaza/Cihad Kavramları Hakkında’, Journal of Turkish Studies 13 (1989). 51 Battalname (Book of Battal) is the story of life and deeds of Seyyid Battal Gazi and is the earliest text of the frontier epic cycle in Turkish literature. It is followed by the Danişmendname and the Saltukname. On the prose version of the narrative, its contextual analysis, transcription and English translation see Yorgos Dedes, The Battalname, An Ottoman Turkish Frontier Epic Wondertale (Cambridge, MA, 1996). 52 See for example Franz Taeschner, Gülschehris Mesnevi auf Achi Evran (Wiesbaden, 1955). Also see Mikail Bayram, Ahi Evren –İmanın Boyutları (Metail’ü’l-iman) (Konya, 1996), which is the translation of a treatise attributed to Ahi Evren. Also see Mikail Bayram, Ahi Evren ve Ahi Teşkilatı’nın Kuruluşu (Konya, 1991). 53 Mevlana [Mawlana; Maulana] Jalal al-Din Rumi (605–672/1207–1273) is famous as Rumi in Western scholarship. In Turkish sources he is known and referred to as Mevlana and sometimes as Molla Hünkar. In Hızırname, he is referred to as Monla Hünkar. 54 The life story of Sarı Saltuk was compiled in seven years and written by Ebu’l-Hayr Rumi in 1480. The facsimile of the manuscript dated 1000/1591 was published by Fahir İz; see, Saltukname (Cambridge, MA, 1974–1984). Also, Şükrü H. Akalın has published the Saltukname in the modern Turkish alphabet by comparing several manuscript copies; see Akalın, Saltuk-name (Ankara, 1987–1990).

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covering of the same ground in the different poems which make up the separate sections, while the structure is extremely convoluted. The work, taken as a large composition, opens and finishes according to a certain pattern. The Arabic prose preface mentions the possibility of heavenly experiences by people chosen by God, thus contextualising the meʿraj journey. The last two poems, poems seventynine and eighty, round off the compilation with the poet’s spiritual advice to his audience. The narrator gives two different dates for the heavenly journey and for the battle: the heavenly journey takes place on the Night of Power in the month of Ramadan, whereas the great gathering, which is followed by the battle at the eastern frontiers of the Ottoman Empire, takes place in the month of Dhu’l Qaʿda in 880/1476. Also, he uses the same descriptions for the erenler, the friends of God (evliya), the qotb, and Hızır, such as ‘the powerful hand of God’, ‘near and far are the same for them’ or ‘helping those in need’. With these interchangeably used repeating features, the text identifies these figures with each other.

Hızır In Islamic literature, Hızır appears in a wide range of texts belonging to different genres and with different contents and themes, such as love or war, journey narratives or cautionary tales, and lyrical or epic poetry. He is mostly introduced as a friend of God since he is accepted to be immortal, but he is also considered a prophet, in which case he would be a mortal human being. In the Kısasu’lEnbiya by Rabguzi, for example, written in 710/1310, the prophet Moses asks God about the identity of Hızır, and whether he is a prophet or not, by using the Turkic words savçı and yalavaç.55 Similarly, the first Ottoman muderris, Davud el-Kayseri (d. 751/1350), debates the identity of Hızır in a treatise entitled The Examination of the Water of Life and Unveiling the Secrets of Darkness. In this Arabic treatise el-Kayseri first mentions the ongoing debate about the identity of Hızır, which is about whether he is a prophet, or an angel, or a friend of God and whether he exists beyond this world or not.56 In addition to the controversy over his identity and nature, Hızır also appears in different roles depending on the content and genre of the texts. Helping those in need is one of Hızır’s 55 For the meanings of `savçı’ and `yalavaç’ see Gerard Clauson, An Etymological Dictionary of Pre-Thirteenth Century Turkish (Oxford, 1972), 785, 921. 56 See Davud el-Kayseri, ‘Tahkiku Ma’i’l-Hayat ve Keşfu Esrarı’z-Zulumat’, in Er-Resail (Kayseri, 1997). As Mehmet Bayraktar notes, in some library catalogues, this treatise is recorded as ‘Risale fî Beyani Ahvali’l- Ḫıżır’ or ‘Risale fî Ahvali’l- Ḫıżır’, see p. 21.



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well-known responsibilities which is referred to in Hızırname. Likewise, his function as a wise man and guide can be read in relation to his helper persona, when he appears before the king or the protagonist in problematic moments and helps him overcome his troubles. Another one of Hızır’s roles is that in numerous texts he converts people to Islam. The Arabic Sirat al-Iskandar, for example, can be noted as one such example which includes the story of Alexander’s conversion by Hızır.57 Likewise, placing particular focus on buildings and space, Wolper examines in several works the presence of Hızır in relation to places which have undergone a functional conversion.58 Another well-known role of Hızır is that he acts as an initiator. This can be seen as an extension of his role as the initiator of Islam, leading non-Muslims to convert. The initiation of the warrior dervish in Hızırname into the ranks of the erenler, which makes him one of the chosen ones, is a typical example of Hızır’s duty as an initiator.59 Also, Hızır is said to be the companion of several dervishes in mystical literature. As a helper and a companion figure, Hızır is not unique to Islamic literature; he has counterparts in other literary traditions as well. For example, Hızır has been identified with the prophet Elijah (or Elias), with Enoch and St. George and with certain other saints in Christian literature because of the existing parallels in their stories and features.60 In addition to the intrinsic characteristics of Hızır, a puzzling feature is that he does not always appear alone. In some texts Hızır is seen together with the equally elusive figure of Ilyas (Elias). In other texts, it cannot be ascertained whether Hızır 57 Faustina Doufikar-Aerts, Alexander Magnus Arabicus: A Survey of the Alexander Tradition through Seven Centuries, from Pseudo-Callisthenes to Suri (Paris, 2010), especially 204–13. 58 See Ethel Sara Wolper, ‘Khidr, Elwan Celebi and the conversion of sacred sanctuaries in Anatolia’, Muslim World 90 (2000); ‘Khidr and the changing frontiers of the medieval world’, Medieval Encounters 17 (2011); ‘Khidr and the language of conversion: Creating landscapes of discontinuity’, in Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia: The Life and Times of F. W. Hasluck (Istanbul, 2013); ‘Khidr and the politics of place: Creating landscapes of continuity’, in Muslims and Others in Sacred Space (Oxford, 2013). 59 For another example of Khidr’s role as an initiator, see Patrick Franke, ‘Drinking from the water of life – Nizami, Khizr and the symbolism of poetical inspiration in later Persianate literature’, in A Key to the Treasure of the Hakim (Leiden, 2011). Also see Ahmet Karamustafa, ‘Sarı Saltık becomes a Friend of God’, in Tales of God’s Friends, ed. John Renard (Berkeley, 2009). 60 See for example Ocak, ‘XIII-XIV. Yüzyıllarda Anadolu’da Dini Etkileşimler ve Aya Yorgi (Saint Georges Kültü)’, in Belleten 214 (1991); Joseph W. Meri, ‘Re-appropriating sacred space: Medieval Jews and Muslim seeking Elijah and al-Khidr’, in Medieval Encounters 5 (1999); Hasluck, Christianity and Islam under the Sultans (Oxford, 1929).

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Ilyas refers to a single person or to two different individuals. In fact, the debate on the origin and identity of Hızır and Ilyas dates back to as early as the very first Qurʾan commentators.61 In folkloric practice, the partnership of Hızır and Ilyas has formed the basis of the cult of Hıdrellez,62 a festival celebrated in Anatolia and the Balkans on the 6th of May according to the Gregorian calendar adopted in the area, and on the 23rd of April, according to the Julian calendar, which is the name day of St. George. Since ‘Hızır’ means ‘the verdant one’ and therefore connotes nature and spring, several studies have suggested a connection between this figure and religious and cultural festivities.63 Based on Sumerian literature, Gönül A. Tekin suggests that the meeting of Hızır and Ilyas on the day of the Hıdrellez in fact symbolises the meeting of the storm-god with the sun-god. In Sumerian literature, this day was celebrated as the day of the sacred marriage of the god Tammuz to the goddess Ishtar.64 The studies that examine the figure of Hızır in Anatolia describe Hızır as a syncretic figure. Among the studies that focus on Anatolia, the two scholars of major importance are F. W. Hasluck and M. F. Köprülü, who have influenced numerous works in terms of methodology and sources.65 The focus of Hasluck’s study is the resemblances between Hızır, Elias and St. George.66 The data examined by Hasluck came mostly from the historical sites he visited in the 19th century.67 Köprülü on the other hand, examined the available Turkish sources and carried out textual analyses to explain the establishment and development of Islam in Anatolia in relation to the movement and settlement of Yasavi dervishes in the region. 61 See the chapter ‘The tale of al-Khidr and his history’ by al-Tabari, in The History of al-Tabari (Albany, 1991), especially 1–5; al-Daylami, A Treatise on Mystical Love (Edinburgh, 2005), 188–89. 62 Turkish compound word formed of Hıdır/Hızır and Ilyas. 63 See for example, Pertev N. Boratav, ‘Türklerde Hızır’, in İslâm Ansiklopedisi V.1 (1987); Anna Krasnowolska, ‘The prophet Xezr-Elias in Iranian popular beliefs: With some Slavic parallels’, in Islam i chrześcijaństwo (Kraków, 1995); Meri, ‘Re-appropriating sacred space’; Ahmet Y. Ocak, ‘Hıdrellez’, in Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi , XVII (1998). 64 Gönül Alpay-Tekin, ‘Sevgililer Hep Bahçede Buluşur’, in Yemek ve Kültür 28 (2012), 56. 65 For a recent study on Hızır, see Patrick Franke, Begegnung mit Khidr: Quellenstudien zum Imaginären im Traditionellen Islam (Beirut, 2000), which is a revised version of the PhD dissertation of the author. Unlike Hascluk’s and Köprülü’s research, the focus of the book is encounters with Hızır, which is a common motif and theme in numerous works from different genres. 66 Hasluck, Christianity and Islam under the Sultans, 322. For the chapter ‘el-Khidr’, see 319–36. 67 On Hasluck’s research see David Shankland, ‘The life and times of F.W. Hasluck (1878–1920)’, in Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia: The Life and Times of F. W. Hasluck, 1878–1920 (İstanbul, 2004).



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Based on the works by Hasluck and Köprülü, Ahmet Yaşar Ocak has published the only extensive study on Hızır.68 This study examines a wide range of sources and approaches Hızır as a cult figure by pointing out similarities between Hızır and the Christian saints (especially St. George), the Shiʾa imams (especially ʿAli) and pre-Islamic Turkic beliefs. The study concludes that Hızır is a syncretic figure from Anatolia and describes Hızır as follows: ‘This syncretic figure is a combination of an ordinary human being, a prophet, a friend of God (veli) and a heavenly creature with unique features.’69 There are two major narratives about the journey of Hızır: 1) his journey with Alexander, and 2) his journey with Moses. Because of its popularity for centuries over a wide geographical area, it is not possible to talk about one specific reference story for Alexander and Hızır, without mentioning the transformations and alterations in the narrative structure and also without referring to the textual lineages to which the certain variant under examination is attached. The journey of Hızır and Moses on the other hand, is based on a Qurʾanic story in the Surah of The Cave (Al-Kahf). The journey of the dervish in Hızırname accompanied by Hızır was also inspired by these two narratives; the poet-narrator refers to the key motifs and episodes that we find in the journeys of Alexander and Moses, such as the realm of the water of life and the special knowledge endowed by God. Initiated into the heavenly journey by the Prophet himself, the poet ascends through the seven heavens and reaches the highest heaven in the company and with the blessing of Hızır. In one of the poems, he tells us that when dawn broke he ascended into the heavens sitting in front of Hızır mounted on his horse.70 Also, in addition to his role as the companion and guide of the dervish, the mention of Hızır’s gaze is repeated throughout the narrative as a motif which initiates the poet into the heavenly realm and leads him to experience the wonders of creation. Some key aspects of Hızır mentioned in one of the poems are: the angels call him Ebu’l-Abbas, a name he is known by during his frequent visits to Mount Qaf; he owns the special knowledge ilm-i ledun; he is the powerful hand of God; far and near are the same for him; and he is the head of the invisible men and khan of the universe. He is said to be alive.71 Likewise, another poem also mentions some virtues of Hızır: He has a dun-coloured horse and wears green; he sometimes 68 See Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, İslam-Türk İnançlarında Hızır yahut Hızır-İlyas Kültü (İstanbul, 2007). 69 Ocak, İslam-Türk İnançlarında Hızır yahut Hızır-İlyas Kültü, 90. 70 Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi, Divan, 46. 71 Ibid., 33–35.

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appears as a young man, sometimes as an old one; he walks in the sky; he walks all over the world and he does not hide himself from his servants.72 Through the conclusion of the book, one of the poems, which describes the visit of the dervish Muhyiddin to the realm of the water of life, exemplifies how the spiritual aspects of the eren identity is represented by Hızır. A summary of this poem, which is fifteen couplets in total, is as follows: I suddenly became sick, although I hardly ever feel ill. My soul journeyed to the Beloved and, that night, my affliction made me weak and brought me sorrow upon sorrow. All the erenler have gathered and Hızır khan has arrived. All the invisibles have come too and the angels, some mounted on horseback, some on foot, spoke to me. When the road led me to the land of darkness, Hızır khan took my hand. The water of life was flowing and sparkling like the light of the Sun. Whoever drinks from it never dies and nobody knows its secret. Although Iskandar hoped to find it, he could not; it was not his destiny. There are many servants in this world who journey to the East and to the West and they reach there in the blink of an eye. So, go now and become a perfect man and find out where Hızır khan is, so that this path will be open for you too. Oh Dolu, abandon all gossip and empty words and search for the secret of Hızır khan.73

As the visit of the dervish to the realm of the water of life accompanied by Hızır reveals, this journey symbolises ‘becoming Hızır’ and also becoming one of the erenler. This feature of the text intriguingly links Hızırname to the works of Sohravardi, the shaykh al-eshraq (d. 1191), as he writes in the treatise Red Intellect (ʿAql-e Sorkh) that to be able to reach Mount Qaf, and thus the realm of the water of life, one has to be(come) Hızır: ‘If you become Khizr you can easily cross Mount Qaf.’74 Similar to Hızırname, this treatise is written by a first-person narrator. Indeed, several poems in Hızırname repeat the same virtues for Hızır, the qotb, the friends of God and the erenler, such as, ‘the powerful hand of God’, ‘traveling from the East to the West’, and ‘traversing great distances’. With these repeating descriptions, certain features of Hızır and the erenler significantly intersect with 72 Ibid., Divan, 43–45. 73 Ibid., 132–34. 74 Suhrawardi, ‘The Red Intellect’, in The Philosophical Allegories and Mystical Treatises (Costa Mesa, CA, 1999), 32.



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each other, making their identities more complicated and vague, and suggesting that the spiritual identity of the warrior dervish, or the erenler, is represented by the Hızır figure throughout the text.

Hacı Bektaş There are only a few sources which survive from an earlier period and which include information about Hacı Bektaş, so it is not easy to trace any alterations in the cult of Hacı Bektaş in Anatolia. One of the sources that does survive is an early 14th-century Persian work, Manaqeb al-ʿarefin (The Feats of the Knowers of God) by Aflaki, who was a Mevlevi dervish. Hacı Bektaş is introduced as ‘the special vicegerent of Baba Rasul’ in this work and is described as ‘a man with the heart of a knower of God and […] an illuminated interior’.75 The text also mentions that ‘he was not obedient [to the Prophet]’ and tells the reader that he was such an influential shaykh that he could even change the minds of the disciples of Mevlana.76 The second surviving source is a Turkish work, Menakıbu’l-Kudsiyye (1358) by Elvan Çelebi, who was the son of Âşık Paşa, and this work cites the name of Hacı Bektaş among the followers of Baba Ilyas.77 Other than these two sources, Hızırname acts as the third source which includes unique information about Hacı Bektaş, associating him with the Ottomans and therefore giving him a political identity. Hızırname refers to Hacı Bektaş only in three poems. The poem which mentions Hacı Bektaş for the first time in the text describes him coming from Mount Bulgar with his uncountable number of soldiers. Mount Bulgar is described as the dwelling place of the strong (gürbüz) erenler and only the friends of God can reach it. In the following couplets the soldiers are mentioned again and referred to as ‘erenler leşkeri’ (the army of the erenler). In this poem, the erenler are also portrayed as the servants of Hacı Bektaş.78 The second poem is one of the longest poems in the text; however, despite its rich content, the name of Hacı Bektaş is referred to only once in this poem but in a significant way by identifying him with the Ottomans. This poem describes a gathering which is attended by the angels, by Hızır, Ilyas, the qotb and the 75 See Aflaki, The Feats of the Knowers of God, trans. John O’Kane (Leiden, Boston and Köln, 2002), 263. 76 Aflaki, The Feats of the Knowers of God, 263–64. 77 See Elvan Çelebi, Menâkıbu’l-kudsiyye fî menâsıbi’ünsiyye, eds. İsmail E. Erünsal and Ahmet Y. Ocak (Ankara, 1995), 169–71. 78 Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi, Divan, 48–52.

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invisible men and cites the names of some ninety people. The attendance of the heavenly figures makes this meeting a visionary one.79 The next poem, which is the last one, opens with the arrival of Hacı Bektaş on horseback amidst a large gathering of erenler, some on horseback and some on foot. The dervish then, repeatedly calling himself Dolu in this poem, approaches Hacı Bektaş who lifts him onto his horse, assigns soldiers to his command and orders him to protect the Ottoman lands by appointing him the head of the Ottoman army in a battle at the Eastern border: Hünkar lifted me up onto his horse and put the soldiers under my command, He said to me ‘go on, now you are in charge’, this mad soul has become happy. Go and watch over the Eastern borders and also the Ottoman lands, You know those regions by heart, this mad soul has become happy […] He girded me with his own sword and lifted me up onto his own horse, He blessed me and prayed for me, this mad soul has become happy.

Upon the order and with the blessing of Hacı Bektaş, Dolu heads off to the Eastern borders of the Ottoman territory with the soldiers under his command. When they arrive in Konya, all the soldiers gather in the city square and perform the evening prayer. Hacı Bektaş speaks to Dolu again and tells him to go to Erzincan immediately and to perform the morning prayer there: When all the soldiers gathered in the square at Konya, They performed the evening prayer, this mad soul has become happy. He ordered me to go to and arrive in Erzincan immediately, And to perform the morning prayer there, this mad soul has become happy.

Upon this command, Dolu and his army head off to Erzincan which they reach before the break of dawn and perform the morning prayer there. They then continue Eastward to the land of Ajam, and arrive at the border zone. With the soldiers under his command, and by reciting the name of Hızır, Dolu wins the battle.80 At this point, it becomes essential for the correct understanding of the plot to read the two poems as one. This is because, in the previous poem, the poet cites the 79 Ibid., 89–98. 80 Ibid., 98–102.



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names of the people who are accepted as belonging to the erenler and mentions, one-by-one, each of the friends of God while in the following poem the dervish attends a war with the support of the erenler. The first name mentioned, among others attending this great gathering is Dediği, and he orders Dolu to take the soldiers of the erenler and to guard the road to Sivas. The following couplet introduces Hacı Bektaş as the guardian of the Ottoman lands. The list then continues with Mahmud Hayrani, Mevlana, Konevi and Sultan Veled, and other prominent figures in the region of Konya and its neighbourhood. The list here makes a shift and begins to mention the famous gazis in frontier literature, such as Seyyid Gazi, Sultan Şuca and Melik Gazi (Danişmend). Sarı Saltuk is also mentioned among these names as being the gazi martyr (gazi şehid) of Rumili. In another couplet the names of Âşık Paşa, Tabduk and Yunus Emre are mentioned together. Afterwards, the list continues with the Zeyni dervishes in Eğirdir. What is significant in this list is the order of the names. Especially the first two names, Dediği and Hacı Bektaş, are revealing when considering the political aspect of Hızırname. By 1476, Eğirdir had already been an Ottoman city for almost fifty years. However, as Halil İnalcık observes, becoming neighbours with the Ottomans constituted a serious threat for the Karamanids and their key city of Konya,81 and even after its conquest by the Ottomans, Eğirdir continued to be attacked by the Karamanids until the conquest of their lands by Mehmed II. In 1466, Mahmud Paşa, the grand vezir of Mehmed II, commanded a military campaign in the region and tried to eliminate the power of the Turcoman groups who were rebelling against the Ottomans. Members of the Turgud group fled to Mount Bulgar, which was part of the Mount Taurus range.82 Two years later, in 1468, Mehmed II finally managed to take over all the Karamanid lands. Even after this conquest, however, it took a long time for the Ottomans to establish full control in the region; fifty years is Halil İnalcık’s estimate.83 Also, in addition to the tension caused by the Ottoman-Karamanid rivalry in the region, the collaboration of the Karamanids with the eastern neighbours of the Ottomans, in particular with the Akkoyunlu, made the situation even more problematic for the Ottoman side. By 1471, Uzun Hasan had become the greatest enemy of the Ottomans in the region;84 he was backed by several Turcoman groups, but the Turgud group was one of the main supporters of Uzun Hasan against Mehmed II.85 In the month 81 Halil İnalcık, Osmanlı İmparatorluğu: Klasik Çağ (1300–1600) (Istanbul, 2005), 20. 82 Paul R. Lindner, Nomads and Ottomans in Medieval Anatolia (Bloomington, 1983), 80. 83 İnalcık, Osmanlı İmparatorluğu, 20. 84 Ibid., 33. 85 Lindner, Nomads and Ottomans, 80.

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of Dhu’l-Qaʿda in 877/1473, the Ottomans sent a considerable number of akinci forces to the Ottoman-Akkoyunlu frontier and afterwards with the joining of the provincial military forces of Anatolia and Rumeli, a large Ottoman army headed to the Eastern frontiers. Meanwhile, some of Uzun Hasan’s forces stayed in Erzincan. In the end, the Ottoman army, which was superior to the Akkoyunlu army in terms of both manpower and technology, defeated the Akkoyunlu forces and gave chase.86 The long-lasting tension between the Ottomans and the Akkoyunlu thus resulted in the victory of the Ottomans in a battle at their Eastern frontiers. The year 1476, when Hızırname was probably written, comes just after the longlasting Ottoman-Karamanid conflict and the Ottoman-Akkoyunlu rivalry. It is obvious from the text that there is a relationship between Dediği, Hacı Bektaş and the Eastern problem of the Ottomans, which was at the centre of Ottoman politics in the last years of the reign of Mehmed II. Clearly the cult of Dediği Sultan, or Dediği Dede, was influential among the warriors in the region of Hamidoğulları and Karamanoğulları at that time, as there were several shrines dedicated to his name in the region.87 By citing the name of Dediği first, the author Şeyh Mehmed Çelebi seems to address an audience who consider Dediği respectable and who attribute importance to him during a period of political unrest. In a similar vein, when in Hızırname Mount Bulgar is associated with Hacı Bektaş and the erenler, it can be considered to have a symbolic meaning for the same audience, since the members of the Turgud group in the region were said to have fled to Mount Bulgar at the start of the Ottoman military campaign.88 Accordingly, the portrayal of Hacı Bektaş in Hızırname also needs to be read within this context. His portrayal in the book, mounted on horseback and girded with a sword, which gives him a warrior identity in a military context, differs from his portrayals in other Anatolian Turkish works. Amongst its contemporary works, such as the Saltukname,89 the Velayetname (c. 1500), and the chronicle of Âşıkpaşazade (d. 889/1484), Hızırname seems to be the only text which portrays

86 John E. Woods, The Aqquyunlu: Clan, Confederation, Empire (Salt Lake City, 1999), 110–20. 87 See Ahmet Taşğın, Dediği Sultan ve Menakıbı: Konya ve Çevresinde Ahmet Yesevi Halifelerinin İzleri (Konya, 2013). 88 Lindner, Nomads and Ottomans, 80. 89 The Saltukname was compiled by Ebu’l-Hayr Rumi at about the same time as Hızırname; although Hızırname predates the completion of Ebu’l-Hayr’s compilation by four years, it took seven years to compile the stories of Saltuk, thus, the composition of these texts intersect with each other. See, İz, Saltukname; Akalın, Saltuk-name.



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him as a warrior on horseback and which directly associates Hacı Bektaş with the Ottomans.90 By assigning the poet-narrator of Hızırname his own position, that is the guardian (gözci) of the Ottoman lands, Hacı Bektaş therefore represents the warrior aspect of the eren identity in the text, which is symbolically described by his giving his sword and horse to the poet-narrator.

Conclusion The identity of the eren in Hızırname combines both the virtues of Hızır, designating proximity to God, and virtues of Hacı Bektaş, signifying heroism. Also, the portrayal of the erenler as being strong (gürbüz) supports the warrior aspect of the eren identity. The distinction between the roles of Hızır and Hacı Bektaş, that is, the religious character of the former and the epic character of the latter, indicates that Hızırname is based on two main stories which are linked to two different textual lineages: the first is the philosophical and mystical works of celebrated Sufis, and the second is the frontier literature of the warrior dervishes in the region. The diversity of the sources of Hızırname is also paralleled by the use of two different pen names by the poet: Muhyiddin and Dolu. While Muhyiddin echoes the prolific writer Ebn ʿArabi, Dolu connects the poet to the vernacular Turkish of Anatolia, to the frontier narratives and to ‘Yunus-style’ poetry. This diversity in the sources of the text suggests that for further analysis of the notion of erenler in this 15th-century work, in addition to its Turkish sources, contemporary Arabic and Persian sources relating to the notions of javanmardi and fotovvat should also be examined.

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90 On the portrayal of Hacı Bektaş in these works, see Rıza Yıldırım, ‘Hacı Bektaş Veli ve İlk Osmanlılar: Âşıkpaşazade’ye Eleştirel Bir Bakış’, in Türk Kültürü ve Hacı Bektaş Veli Araştırma Dergisi 51 (2009); ‘Rum’da Öksöğüyü Tutan Kimdi?’

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Uluslararası Hacı Bektaş Veli Sempozyumu Bildirileri, v. II. (Ankara, 2011), 595–633.

5

Fotovvat in Bosnia1 Ines Aščerić-Todd Abstract This article provides an overview of the fotovvat tradition in Bosnia, developed following the country’s conquest by the Ottomans in the 15th century and its subsequent incorporation into the Ottoman domain as the Western-most European province of the Ottoman Empire. I assess the extent to which the Bosnian fotovvat tradition related to and preserved the characteristics of its predecessors from the earlier periods of Islamic history, both the ‘classical’ variety of fotovvat from the 11th-13th centuries – as most significantly elaborated and defined in relation to Sufism first by Mohammad ebn al-Hosayn al-Solami (d. 1021) and later by Abu Hafs ʿOmar al-Sohravardi (d. 1234) – and the later manifestation of fotovvat in the form of Anatolian akhi brotherhoods from the 14th-15th centuries.

By the middle of the 15th century, when the medieval kingdom of Bosnia was formally and finally conquered by the Ottomans and became a small but significant frontier province of the rapidly expanding Ottoman Empire,2 Anatolian akhi brotherhoods – associations of men, mostly craftsmen, artisans and traders, bound by codes of mutual solidarity and assistance and guided by spiritual 1 Unless otherwise indicated, throughout this article Bosnia refers to the modern geographical regions of both Bosnia and Herzegovina. 2 This official conquest (by Mehmet II) took place in 1463, but there had been some form of Ottoman presence in certain areas of Bosnia before this date; see Ines Aščerić-Todd, Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia: Sufi Dimensions to the Formation of Bosnian Muslim Society (Leiden, 2015) Ch. 1, 31–32.

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principles of fotovvat – which represented the final stage in the evolution of fotovvat tradition, all but disappeared,3 soon to be replaced by the more centralised organisations of Ottoman trade-guilds. This being the case, it seems a rather difficult task to try and locate fotovvat in Bosnia, let alone place it in the context of the general fotovvat tradition and its historical development through the centuries: for if the last representatives of the original fotovvat associations, and seemingly the last formally organised institutions to adhere to fotovvat principles, the akhis, effectively disappeared before Bosnia was even conquered by the Ottomans and was first exposed to Islam on any significant scale, how could fotovvat tradition have reached Bosnia and developed there? What shape did this tradition take, and, given the historical developments mentioned above, could there really be any discussion of ‘proper’ fotovvat beyond the 15th century? The answers to these questions lie in the establishment by the akhi corporations of a firm link between fotovvat and craftsmanship through their virtual insistence on all of their members engaging in a craft to earn a living.4 It is thanks to this link that the fotovvat of the Ottoman Empire – inherited from akhi brotherhoods – became inseparably bound up with trade-guilds and their work ethics and rules of conduct such that when the last of the akhi corporations were dissolved the fotovvat tradition did not disappear from the Ottoman lands; on the contrary, through its connection with the Ottoman trade-guilds, fotovvat’s legacy was preserved long after the disappearance of original fotovvat associations of the classical Islamic period. That being said, while there are many existing examples of fotovvat 3 Though in some places they may have remained active for slightly longer; see Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, ‘Ahi’, in: EI3, (2013), [accessed 1 September 2016]. 4 Rachel Goshgarian, ‘Opening and closing: coexistence and competition in associations based on futuwwa in late medieval Anatolia’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40.1 (2013), 51. The akhis are not the only or the first example of the link between Sufism and craftsmanship. Malamati orders (from Arabic malama, ‘blame’ or ‘reproach’, used by certain Sufi groups who sought to be reproached for their non-conformist behaviour, as a form of concealment of their true spiritual state) and dervish groups, for instance, have traditionally encouraged their members to engage in crafts, for two reasons: firstly, they highly praised and therefore encouraged manual work as honest and honourable means of earning one’s living, and secondly, because of the spiritual dimensions craftsmanship is traditionally thought to possess. Lloyd Ridgeon, ‘Futuwwa (in Sufism)’, in EI3 (2012), [accessed 1 September 2016]; see also Ines Aščerić-Todd, ‘The noble traders: the Islamic tradition of “spiritual chivalry” ( futuwwa) in Bosnian trade-guilds (16th-19th century)’, The Muslim World 97/2 (2007), 164–65.



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t­reatises from the Ottoman period, or guild-related documents based on or containing aspects of fotovvat tradition found across different regions and countries of the Ottoman Empire,5 modern – chiefly, though not exclusively, Western – studies of Ottoman guilds have generally ignored such documents and have tended to deny the existence of any spiritual dimensions to Ottoman trade-guilds. Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, for instance, maintains: ‘Ultimately, ahi associations became artisan guilds only, devoid of mystical identity.’6 Addressing this issue within the wider framework of the Ottoman Empire, or even within a single region of the Empire, would warrant a separate and a much more comprehensive study; it will, therefore, here suffice to say that the evidence available in relation to trade-guilds of a number of different Ottoman cities and regions indicates that the above view is far from justified.7 This evidence though, is yet to be studied and given its due attention, and the following pages could perhaps be considered as a small step towards such further study. As far as Bosnia is concerned, a number of significant sources on fotovvat tradition exist, the most comprehensive of them being the Travnik fütüvvetname (one of the Ottoman terms for a fotovvat treatise) from the late 16th century.8 Although like all Bosnian fotovvat documents – and most of the known Ottoman ones, for that matter9 – this treatise is mainly concerned with the application of fotovvat principles in the context of craftsmanship and trade-guilds – such that 5 Aščerić-Todd, Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia, 93–95; for more examples of such fotovvat treatises see Ali Torun, ‘Muhtevaları ve kaynakları itibarıyla fütüvvet-nameler’, I. Uluslararası ahilik kültürü sempozyumu bildirileri, 13–15 Ekim 1993, Ankara (Istanbul, 1996), 163–69. The contents of some of the principal Ottoman fotovvat treatises are briefly but usefully analysed in Riza Yıldırım, ‘Shiʿitisation of the futuwwa tradition in the fifteenth century’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40/1 (2013), 53–70. 6 Ocak, ‘Ahi’, [accessed 1 September 2016]. 7 Some aspects of this complex issue are addressed in various sections of Part 2 in AščerićTodd, Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia, particularly Ch. 4, 83–92, Ch. 7, 126–35, and Ch. 8, 136–42. 8 Gazi Husrev-begova Biblioteka, Sarajevo, PR – 2356, and Croatian Academy of Science and Art (HAZU) Archive, Oriental Collection, Ms. No. 523. The manuscript, copied in 1592, was first found in the Bosnian town of Travnik and was taken to the then Yugoslav Academy of Science and Art in Zagreb. According to the Gazi Husrev-begova copy, the treatise is authored by a certain Mohammad ebn Ebi Bekr ʿAbd al-Kadir al-Razi, but this cannot be verified since the final section of the manuscript is missing in both this and the original copy in Zagreb (the latter was separated from its final section upon acquisition and catalogued separately, but the whereabouts of the final section still seems to be unknown). Unless otherwise indicated, all Bosnian documents on fotovvat are in Ottoman Turkish. 9 See note 5 above.

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it contains detailed instructions on guild hierarchy, the relationship between the master and his apprentice, the appropriate business conduct and ethics, and the correct behaviour during guild ceremonies or social occasions – it is nevertheless the most general of Bosnian fotovvat treatises and thus the closest to the fotovvat works of the earlier periods, since it also contains a fairly long section on the general history of fotovvat, its origins and religious basis, and a number of narratives associated with fotovvat rituals.10 Another fairly comprehensive fotovvat treatise from Bosnia is a statute of Bosnian tanners from 1656, titled Şecere-i fütüvvet der beyan-i erkan (‘The fotovvat chain of authority with the aim of elucidating its masters’),11 which, as the name suggests, contains a number of formal chains of authority (şecere or selseleh) tracing the origins of fotovvat and establishing the legitimacy of the shaykh of the central tanners’ lodge in Kırşehir (in Anatolia) over all tanners of the Ottoman Empire, including, obviously, those in Bosnia. Given its character, it seems safe to assume that this was a statute composed somewhere else, most probably in Kırşehir, and its copies were then distributed to various parts of the Empire, including Bosnia.12 The document also contains a number of sections pointing out the superiority of tanning over other artisan professions, as well as awarding to the tanners’ guild the right of supervision over eighty-six other crafts.13 Two further significant Bosnian fotovvat documents are the fütüvvetname of Sarajevo tailors and the pirname (‘the treatise of the patron-saint’, another term used for Ottoman fotovvat-related works which outline chains of authority of fotovvat masters and patron-saints) of Bosnian farmers, both of which were copied in 1819 and issued, together with an icazetname (licence certificate) to each of the respective heads of the guilds, by the shaykh of Kırşehir tekke who 10 In this section, the Travnik fütüvvetname seems to most resemble Hosayn ebn Gaybi’s fütüvvetname, written sometime in the second half of the 15th century and considered as one of the principal Ottoman fotovvat treatises which served as a model for many later ones. Yıldırım, ‘Shiʿitisation of the futuwwa tradition’, 63. 11 Oriental Institute in Sarajevo, Inventar ANUBiH, Ms. No. 174. 12 This conclusion is supported by the existence of a seemingly identical statute for Albanian tanners from 1657. Nathalie Clayer, ‘Akhi-Qadiriyya’, EI3 (2011), [accessed 6 September 2016]. 13 For more on the Kırşehir tekke (lodge) and the tanners’ guild in the Ottoman Empire, see Aščerić-Todd, Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia, Ch. 7, 126–35. See also: Franz Taeschner, ‘Akhi Ewran’, EI2, I, 324–25; Franz Taeschner, ‘Akhi Baba’, EI2, I, 323–24; Mikail Bayram, Tasavvufi Düşüncenin Esasları (Ahi Evren) (Ankara, 1995); Mustafa Sucu, Ahi Ocakları ve Bir Ahilik Belgesi (Malatya, 1996).



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was visiting Bosnia at the time and clearly asserting his supervision rights over other non-tanner guilds.14 Going back, then, to the questions asked at the outset, the answer to the first one, namely, the question of the nature of the fotovvat tradition developed in Bosnia, can be formulated as follows: the variety of fotovvat that reached Bosnia after its incorporation into the Ottoman realm was the fotovvat adopted and preserved by Ottoman trade-guilds, which first appeared in Bosnia together with Ottoman crafts early in the second half of the 15th century.15 As for the character of this particular fotovvat tradition, given the generally held view with regard to the relationship between Ottoman guilds and fotovvat as outlined above,16 the question that remains is whether this guild-related fotovvat was inferior to its predecessors, be it the types of fotovvat practised by the akhis or that pertaining to the earlier fotovvat associations of the classical Islamic period; in other words, whether the fotovvat of Bosnian, and, for that matter, Ottoman guilds, was devoid of spiritual dimensions, as is often claimed. One way of addressing this issue is to investigate how Bosnian fotovvat compares with the fotovvat tradition of the earlier periods, both in theory and in practice. To begin with, it may be noted that the theoretical basis of Bosnian fotovvat tradition, the fotovvat narrative, is the same as that of Ottoman fotovvat in general, preserved through the akhis, and passed onto Ottoman guilds. The latter, in turn, does not differ much from its classical form. One of the first observations that can be made here is the importance and pre-eminence in Bosnian fotovvat narrative of ʿAli ebn Abi Taleb, very much in line with the classical fotovvat of Sohravardi,17 and seemingly not in conflict with Bosnian or Ottoman strong Sunni leanings.18 Bosnia’s 14 Fotovvat treatise of Sarajevo tailors, Sarajevo Historical Archives, ZAT-227; Fotovvat statute of Bosnian farmers, Gazi Husrev-begova Biblioteka, Sarajevo, A-3738. Since both treatises were copied at the same time in 1819 and for the purposes of issuing licence certificates to the guilds in question, in both cases the treatises themselves must have been composed before this date. Apart from the documents listed above, there is also a small collection of fotovvat treatises from Bosnia in the Turkish Manuscripts Collection of the Leiden University Library (Leiden MS Or. 12427), most of which relate to Sarajevo and its tanners, and most of which are still in need of proper examination and study. 15 For more on the development of crafts in Ottoman Bosnia, see Aščerić-Todd, Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia, Ch. 9, 143–54. 16 See note 6 above. 17 It is not entirely certain where and when this pre-eminence of ʿAli in fotovvat tradition first started, but Sohravardi seems to have played an important part in it; see Lloyd Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism: A History of Sufi-Futuwwat in Iran (London, 2010), 66–69. See also Yıldırım, ‘Shiʿitisation of the futuwwa tradition’, 55–56. 18 Although religious heterodoxy – of Bosnian Muslims in general and of Bosnian Sufism

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most comprehensive fotovvat treatise found to this date, the Travnik fütüvvetname from the late 16th century,19 contains several long sections on the traditional fotovvat narrative, tracing the origins of fotovvat and its principal initiation ritual, the girding of the belt, back to Prophet Mohammad. The key role in this narrative and in the chain of transmission of fotovvat and its principles belongs to ʿAli. According to the narrative, the first girding ceremony occurred during the Meʿraj, the Prophet’s Night Journey to the seven heavens, when the angel Gabriel tied a belt around the Prophet’s waist. The belt thus tied is called ‘the belt of the patron-saint’ (şedd-i pir).20 The second, and, from the point of view of the transmission of fotovvat, as well as the establishment of the ritual of the girding of the belt, more important girding ceremony occurred in the 10th-year of the Hejrah, during the Prophet’s farewell pilgrimage to Mecca. This event incorporates the hadith of the sermon at Ghadir Khumm, during which, according to the Shiʿa interpretation of this tradition, the Prophet officially named ʿAli his deputy and successor.21 According to the Travnik fütüvvetname, which places this event at the heart of the spiritual basis of fotovvat, the ceremony of the second girding of the belt started with the Prophet’s sermon and address to ʿAli, during which he named him the Commander of the Faithful (emir ül-müʾminin) and the Leader of the Pious (imam ül-müttaḳin). The ceremony carries on with the Prophet gradually passing onto ʿAli his ritual robes, acquired on the Night Journey during the first girding ceremony, and each segment and dervish orders in particular – has on occasions been proposed as a possible factor in conversions of Bosnian Christians to Islam following the Ottoman conquest, these are usually extrapolations on the basis of other regions in the Balkans with much stronger traditions of heterodoxy and/or Shiʿa leanings, such as, for instance, Albania, which has traditionally had a large Bektashi following. However, apart from a few Baktashi tekkes found in Bosnia in the early years of the Ottoman rule, and its home-grown version of the Melami-Bayrami order, the rebellious Hamzevis aside, both Bosnian Muslim tradition in general and Bosnian dervish orders are of largely Sunni orientation. For more on this issue see Aščerić-Todd, Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia, generally, but especially the Introduction. Rıza Yıldırım’s article ‘Shiʿitisation of the futuwwa tradition’ mentioned above is devoted entirely to the issue of the Shiʿa elements in fotovvat, and while he does admit the presence of these elements in fotovvat from its very beginnings, he proposes a theory that there was a further ‘Shiʿitisation’ of the fotovvat tradition in the 15th century. 19 Gazi Husrev-begova Biblioteka, Sarajevo, PR – 2356, and Croatian Academy of Science and Art (HAZU) Archive, Oriental Collection, Ms. No. 523. See note 8 above. 20 Gazi Husrev-begova Biblioteka, PR – 2356, fol. 3. 21 According to Yıldırım, Ebn Gaybi’s fütüvvetname is the first instance in which the Ghadir Khumm event is included into the fotovvat tradition and placed at the heart of its most important ritual, the girding of the belt. Yıldırım, ‘Shiʿitisation of the futuwwa tradition’, 64. Its inclusion here can thus be explained by the fact that Ebn Gaybi’s fütüvvetname was used as a model for later fotovvat treatises, including, evidently, this one.



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of the ceremony is followed by a recitation of a particular prayer or a Qurʾanic verse. Firstly, the Prophet places his cloak onto ʿAli’s shoulders and then gives him his fotovvat belt. With a different invocation for each time, he ties the belt three times, which, we are told, among the followers of fotovvat is known as ‘the seal of the belt’ (mühr-i şedd).22 The Prophet then ties a piece of tamarind (ṣibar) onto ʿAli’s belt and addresses him in the following manner: ‘I have completed you. I have perfected you. I have made you my deputy (akhlaftuka) and I have made you a craftsman (aḥraftuka).’ This address is called ‘the completion’ (tekmil).23 This is followed by the ceremony of the pairing-up of the Prophet’s companions, at the end of which ʿAli was paired up with the Prophet and given the final piece of his ritual outfit, the turban. This completes the second, and most important, girding ceremony, after which the fütüvvetname lists the fifty-one names of those who were subsequently girded in the same manner and thereby became patron-saints of different crafts.24 The spiritual dimension of the mode of fotovvat preserved in Bosnia is further illustrated by a section found in the same treatise offering definitions of a number of spiritual components of craftsmanship and obligations of an initiate/apprentice, including questions and answers on the meaning of the external (zaheri) and the internal (bateni) forms of worship, the meaning of the three knots on the fotovvat girdle, and the obligations they entail toward one’s pir, one’s father,25 and one’s master, and a series of explanations regarding six etiquettes (adab), six components, six basic principles, and six obligations of a Sufi path, or tariqat,26 all of which define the apprentice’s behaviour and the relationship between him and his master.27 These concepts and requirements are expressed as elements of tariqat even though they are discussed from the perspective of, and are to be applied within, trade-guilds, thus showing a firm link between the two and implying that the relationships and rules of conduct within the guilds were, originally through the intermediary of the akhis, based upon those within Sufi orders. 22 Gazi Husrev-begova Biblioteka, PR – 2356, fol. 5–6. 23 Gazi Husrev-begova Biblioteka, PR – 2356, fol. 6. 24 HAZU Archive, Oriental Collection, Ms. No. 523, fol. 5–8. 25 This is a person through whom a young apprentice ‘pledges an oath to God (ʿahd Allah)’ (HAZU Archive, Oriental Collection, Ms. No. 523, fol. 9), and, in fotovvat brotherhoods, it is the person who first brings a young initiate into a brotherhood (Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 156, n. 42). 26 The Persian spelling of these terms is sometimes written with te marbuta at the end, and in this case the word is pronounced tariqeh. Occasionally the word is written with ‘ta’ – the fourth letter of the alphabet – and in this way the word is pronounced tariqat. The Ottoman spelling always ends in ‘ta’. 27 HAZU Archive, Oriental Collection, Ms. No. 523, fol. 9–10.

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Another Sufi element found in Bosnian fotovvat literature is the notion of ‘the four principles of fotovvat’, or a four-fold division of spirituality into shariʿat, tariqat, haqiqat (‘the Truth’, a divine attribute) and maʿrefat (gnosis, inner knowledge of God).28 These four basic concepts of tasavvof (Sufism) are sometimes expressed through the metaphor of a circle: shariʿat is the circumference, the path which is travelled by ordinary Muslim worshippers; tariqat, used by Sufi initiates, is any of the radii leading from the circumference to the centre of the circle, which is haqiqat, the Truth; and maʿrefat is the state of gnosis, achieved by those who have reached haqiqat.29 The notion of the four principles of fotovvat is found, for instance, in the fotovvat treatise of Sarajevo tailors, which, in the introductory section, invokes these principles in the following manner: ‘Peace be upon you, the people of the shariʿat, peace be upon you the people of the tariqat, peace be upon you the people of the haqiqat, [and] peace be upon you the people of the maʿrefat.’30 Apart from linking these four concepts to the Prophet Idris, the patronsaint of the tailors, who is described as the ‘pir of the pirs of the shariʿat, tariqat, haqiqat and maʿrefat’,31 the Bosnian treatise does not offer any explanation for these terms or provide any further information about them. This information is, however, supplied by another fotovvat document belonging to textile-makers, one composed in 17th-century Esfahan. Although originally and primarily intended for tailors, the Bosnian treatise is, in fact, also meant to apply to textile-related craftsmen in general, namely ‘the people of the scissors and those who use clothmeasure in their trade’,32 and the parallels between these two documents provide an example of the remarkable universality of some aspects of fotovvat and its application across centuries and different regions of the Muslim world. Thus, the Esfahan treatise gives us a bit more information on the four principles, or pillars, of fotovvat, and tells us that there are four pirs to them each: the four pirs of shariʿat are Adam, Abraham, Moses and Mohammad; the four pirs of tariqat are the angels Gabriel, Michael, Serafil and Azrael; the four pirs of haqiqat are ‘the father’, ‘the teacher’, ‘the master’ and ‘the father of the bride’; and the four pirs of 28 It is common in Persian Sufi texts to find this four-fold classification of shariʿat, tariqat, haqiqat, and maʿrefat. 29 Aščerić-Todd, Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia, 107, n. 35; see also David Waines, An Introduction to Islam, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, 2004), 138, and Eric Geoffroy, Introduction to Sufism: the Inner Path of Islam, trans. by Roger Gaetani, (Bloomington, Ind., 2010), 59–64. 30 Sarajevo Historical Archives, ZAT-227, fol. 1. See note 14 above. Similar greeting is found in the fotovvat statute of Bosnian farmers, in which the four components of fotovvat are referred to as the four ‘gateways’ (Gazi Husrev-begova Biblioteka, Sarajevo, A-3738). 31 Sarajevo Historical Archives, ZAT-227, fol. 1. 32 Sarajevo Historical Archives, ZAT-227, fol. 4.



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maʿrefat are four famous Sufi poets and masters, namely, ʿAttar, Hafez-e Shirazi, Shams-e Tabrizi, and Rumi.33 The linking of these four concepts of tasavvof to fotovvat goes back to the classical fotovvat sponsored by Sohravardi and the very establishment of its spiritual basis. Sohravardi, who calls fotovvat the essence of the four roads of shariʿat, tariqat, haqiqat and maʿrefat,34 explains the link between them through an analogy of water channels and streams; the four roads are likened to four smaller streams, while fotovvat is a large water channel dug in order to contain the four streams and enable common people (who are, for whatever reason, unable to devote themselves to any of the four streams/roads individually) to, by drinking from it, partake in and derive blessing from each of the smaller streams. He concludes his analogy by calling fotovvat ‘the water of life’.35 Thus, even though the Bosnian fütüvvetname of the tailors does not explain to its readership the meaning of the four-fold division of spirituality, nor its precise link with fotovvat, the mention of these concepts in the treatise shows a very strong legacy which the spiritual aspects of fotovvat of the earlier periods left for the one present in Bosnia centuries later. In fact, the above definition of fotovvat by Sohravardi provides a perfect aid to understanding the role of fotovvat in making the higher spiritual concepts and requirements of tasavvof more accessible, and in providing a crucial link between spiritual aspirations of a motasavvif (disciple) and his everyday needs for sustenance, provision of livelihood, and co-existence with his fellow men within a wider social milieu. Lloyd Ridgeon observes that, from its very beginnings, what he calls ‘Sufi-futuwwa’, in other words, the fotovvat as it emerged after its ‘reinvention’ and elaboration in the context of tasavvof around the 12th century, was not a full-time occupation, and was intended as a kind of part-time Sufism, for those who were not able to devote themselves to the path of full-time spiritual endeavour.36 Among these were included those who worked for a living and, as long as their work was lawful, they were allowed to pursue it. Since certain kinds of crafts were considered particularly suitable for those who also engaged in life of spiritual exercise,37 added to the fact that some dervish groups traditionally 33 Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 128. For a definition of the term ‘father’ see note 25 above. 34 Abu Hafs ʿOmar al-Sohravardi, Ketab fi’l-fotowweh, trans. in Lloyd Ridgeon, Jawanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh, 2011), 47. 35 From Sohravardi’s Ketab fi’l fotowweh, in Ridgeon, Jawanmardi, 47–49. 36 Ridgeon, Jawanmardi, 5, 28, 105; Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 102. 37 One craft traditionally thought to have possessed such qualities is tanning; the 1656

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encouraged engagement of their members in crafts and trades,38 resulted in fotovvat being inherited by the trade-guilds which adopted it as their guiding principle in both worldly ethics and spiritual matters, effectively preserving it to modern times. This being the case, one could argue that were there not this link between the trade-guilds and fotovvat, the latter (or, to be completely accurate, its refined, spiritual form, ‘Sufi-futuwwa’) would have completely disappeared by the earlymodern period. And given the link – firmly re-established and widened thanks to fotovvat – between the trade-guilds and Sufi orders, one could also argue that the trade-guilds would have thus supplied not an inconsiderable number of fresh recruits to those Sufi orders to which they were particularly attached, and would have therefore taken part in proliferation of those orders and possibly even their preservation in certain areas. Thus, instead of considering the adoption of fotovvat by trade-guilds as a negative development, one which lowered fotovvat’s spiritual content, or deprived it of spirituality altogether, one can ask the following question: Could this development be considered beneficial from at least one point of view, namely, in as much as it in fact increased the spirituality of a wider circle of society, as was originally intended for fotovvat when it was first formulated by Sohravardi? In other words, did the fotovvat of the trade-guilds carry on with its role as an intermediary between the highly demanding spirituality of Sufi orders and the common people? As far as Bosnia is concerned at least, this suggestion seems plausible. Thus, even though by the time fotovvat had reached Bosnia it was no longer in the shape practised by fotovvat fraternities as such, some of the latter’s initiation and other rituals were adopted by Bosnian trade-guilds and there is evidence to suggest that the role of those entrusted with the spiritual aspects of trade-guilds, outlined in the guilds’ fotovvat treatises, was in practice taken over by dervish orders with which particular guilds and their members were connected. There does not seem to be any evidence, theoretical or otherwise, of presence in Bosnia of the classical fotovvat initiation ritual involving three types of pledges, by word, by imbibing salt

statute of Bosnian tanners contains a section which explains how the process of tanning corresponds symbolically to the process of purification which a disciple’s soul undergoes during his spiritual journey, such that, in fact, practising the craft of tanning can be seen and used as an aid to the tanner’s spiritual endeavour (Oriental Institute in Sarajevo, Inventar ANUBiH, Ms. No. 174, fol. 9). Similarly, a Persian fotovvat treatise of the cooks offers instructions on how to approach one’s work such that it becomes a form of worship in which even the cooking utensils, if used properly, ‘sing praise’ to God (Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 126–27). 38 See note 4 above.



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water, or by sword (qawli, shorbi and sayfi, respectively),39 but aspects of initiation into a craft, especially those concerning the relationship between a master and his apprentice, were of distinctly fotovvat and Sufi origin: in Bosnia, an apprentice was not allowed to begin learning his trade until he had gone through a series of rigorous initiation procedures aimed at testing his character and establishing a firm relationship between him and his master, one based on trust, mutual respect, and complete submission by the apprentice to the master’s will and wisdom.40 This relationship between the master and his apprentice has clear echoes of the bond between a fotovvat master and disciple described by Sohravardi in his Ketab fi’l-fotowweh, a large section of which is devoted to this subject. This treatise emphasises the importance of the master-disciple relationship in terms of turning out a successful fata (lit. ‘a youth’, a follower or possessor of fotovvat), and elaborates at some length the way in which this relationship is established and fostered. The success of the process depends chiefly upon the master’s wisdom and skill in carrying out his duties (divided in the treatise into seven categories): while being strict, the master must also be patient, forgiving and, above all, generous towards his trainee.41 Apart from describing craft initiation ceremonies, some Bosnian fotovvat treatises also give instructions as to the manner in which a tradesman is allowed to change his guild. This too is a ‘Sufi-futuwwa’ order-inspired procedure and seemingly amounted to moving from one branch of a Sufi order to another: the procedure involved the tradesman in question being interviewed by senior members of ‘the tariqat’, and being able to demonstrate his knowledge of five secret signs taught to him at his chapter of the guild, which would enable him to be accepted to the new chapter, and would make the tariqat obliged to find him either a senior position in the guild, or a work placement, depending on his rank.42 39 Ridgeon, Jawanmardi, 10, 101–2. 40 Fotovvat treatise of Sarajevo tailors, Sarajevo Historical Archives, ZAT-227, fol. 2. In another treatise, the procedure of the initiation of an apprentice into a craft is described as, among other things, involving several çiles, periods of fasting and other types of deprivation or ritual seclusion, usually practiced as a part of an initiation process into a Sufi order (Travnik fütüvvetname, Gazi Husrev-begova Biblioteka, PR – 2356, fol. 7–8). 41 See Sohravardi, Ketab fi’l-fotowweh, in Ridgeon, Jawanmardi, 55–72. 42 Travnik fütüvvetname, Gazi Husrev-begova Biblioteka, PR – 2356, fol. 8–10. For more on this procedure and a description of the five secret signs, see Aščerić-Todd, Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia, 98–99. This procedure only applied to masters and journeymen, since apprentices were not allowed to leave their master before completing their training. Some of the secret signs, like the ones, for instance, concerning the manner in which to enter and leave a room, were clearly based upon the courtesies prescribed for adherents of fotovvat in classical fotovvat treatises, which contain sections on adab, polite and appropriate behaviour and manners (see Sohravardi, Ketab fi’l-fotowweh, in Ridgeon, Jawanmardi, 73–75).

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The fact that these prescriptions were not purely theoretical, and that entering a trade-guild in Ottoman Bosnia may well have in some cases amounted to entering a particular Sufi tariqat, is confirmed by evidence which shows some of the bigger guilds in Bosnia having a strong connection with certain dervish orders. One of the most prominent examples of this is the saddlers’ guild in Sarajevo which was linked to the Mevlevi order: the saddlers, who had one of the biggest and richest guilds in Sarajevo, regularly held their guild ceremonies in the Mevlevi lodge, or, in nice weather, in its garden or surrounding areas.43 This in itself does not of course mean that all Sarajevo saddlers were also Mevlevis, but the preserved registers of the saddlers’ guild show that a significant number of senior members of the guild and those in the guild administration were regularly members of the Mevlevi order; these include masters, assistants to the head of the guild (yığıtbaşıs), and the guild heads (kethüdas).44 With this information in mind, the above mentioned procedures of initiation into a craft and moving from one chapter of a guild to another, can be looked at in new light: if an apprentice’s master was also a Mevlevi dervish – or a dervish from any other sect – and was thus entrusted with both teaching the apprentice his craft, and instructing him on his spiritual path as a motasavvef, then it is no surprise that the treatises describing these two processes should outline them side by side, and that the learning of the craft should be dependent upon the apprentice’s spiritual initiation, which included ritual seclusion and fasting exercises (çile). If the head of the guild and most of his assistants were members of a dervish order, as seems to have frequently been the case with the saddlers’ guild, for instance, then the procedure of moving from one chapter of the guild to another would have been applicable in practice: it is often envisaged in the form of moving from one chapter of a dervish order to another, and those senior members of the guild in charge of interviewing the newcomers are referred to as ‘the tariqat elders’.45 In his comprehensive fotovvat treatise, Fotovvat Nameh-ye Soltani, composed in the 15th century, the Persian preacher and Sufi scholar Hosayn Vaʿiz-e Kashefi (d. 1504) describes in some detail the different kinds of fotovvat belts, or rather different ways of tying the fotovvat belt, depending on different types of fotovvat followers. Kashefi’s treatise being one of the first to explicitly link fotovvat associations with crafts, the different types of ties (shadd) listed there include those for physicians, for soldiers and rulers, for water carriers, and for those who use 43 Aščerić-Todd, Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia, 122–23. 44 Ibid., 123. 45 Travnik fütüvvetname, Gazi Husrev-begova Biblioteka, PR – 2356, fol. 8.



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tools with a handgrip in their trade.46 The one element that is shared between all of the ties is the fact that they all have three knots at the centre, tied in the name of ʿAli, one’s master and oneself.47 These clearly symbolise the three knots which the Prophet tied on ʿAli’s belt during the latter’s girding ceremony, as described in the Travnik fütüvvetname.48 In the section outlining spiritual components of craftsmanship and their meanings, the same document offers further elaboration on the three fotovvat knots, which are defined as being tied in the name of the pir, ‘the father’,49 and the master, representing ‘oath to the pir’ (pir ʿahdi), ‘the pledge’ (beyʿat), and ‘the advice’ (vasiyet) respectively,50 referring to what an apprentice either offers, in the case of the oath and the pledge, or receives, in the case of the advice, through each of the knots. In practice, although there does not seem to be any evidence as to what kind of belts were present in Bosnian guild associations, nor indeed do we know if there were different belts involved at all, the ritual bestowal of the belt, the girding ceremony, was nevertheless a crucial part of the guild organisation, and was performed at each stage of one’s progression through the training: after completing their apprenticeship, apprentices would become journeymen after being ritually girded as such at a guild girding ceremony; likewise, after reaching the required level of seniority and proficiency in their trade, journeymen would become masters, and they too had to be ceremonially girded before being officially admitted to their new rank.51 The importance of this ceremony alone is a sufficient indicator of the presence of spiritual dimensions to Bosnian fotovvat, but certain aspects of it provide further support to the suggestion made earlier that the adoption of fotovvat by Bosnian guilds facilitated their links with Sufi orders, and in some cases probably contributed to the latter’s popularity and the spread of their influence among wider groups of the population. The first of these aspects is the fact that Bosnian girding ceremonies frequently took place inside or in the gardens of Sufi lodges, as was the case with those of Sarajevo saddlers, who held their ceremonies in the Mevlevi lodge. As already mentioned, in the case of the saddlers we also have evidence of the guild leadership and other senior members being Mevlevi dervishes. Even though for most

46 Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 103–4. 47 Ibid., 104. 48 Gazi Husrev-begova Biblioteka, PR – 2356, fol. 5–6. 49 For a definition of this term see note 25 above. 50 HAZU Archive, Oriental Collection, Ms. No. 523, fol. 9. 51 For more details on the girding (kuşanma) ceremonies of Bosnian guilds and the rituals involved, see Aščerić-Todd, Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia, 117–23.

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other guilds we don’t have such direct evidence of membership in a Sufi order,52 we know that many others also held their girding ceremonies in or around a dervish lodge. These include the guilds of horse-hair weavers, grocers, barbers and blacksmiths, all of which had special connection with Shaykh ʿAli’s tekke in Sarajevo.53 Unfortunately, no information seems to be available as yet on whatever Sufi order Shaykh ʿAli’s tekke may have been affiliated to: its name suggests an early tekke (lodge) of the type built by individual wandering dervishes, and a possible Bektashi connection, but given that all the evidence regarding the girding ceremonies held in the tekke is from later periods (18th century onwards), it is highly unlikely that the tekke would have retained such heterodox affiliation as late as that, and it is more likely that, like many other lodges in Bosnia, it would have by then been taken over by a more mainstream and popular tariqat,54 such as the Naqshbandi. In any case, if the example of the saddlers is anything to go by, it seems plausible to conclude that at least some of the guilds which were attached to this lodge would have also had links with a Sufi order – affiliated to this tekke or otherwise – and that some of their membership would have overlapped with that of the tariqat in question. The second aspect of the girding of the belt ritual in Bosnia which reflects spiritual fotovvat attributes nourished by Bosnian guilds is the fact that these ceremonies were carried out under the auspices of the akhi-baba, the spiritual supervisor of Ottoman guilds and the shaykh of the Kırşehir tekke, the central lodge of the tanners’ guilds of the Ottoman Empire.55 The Sufi affiliation of the Kırşehir tekke was, at least in the 17th century, to the Qadiri order, as attested by some of the tanners’ guild documents from that period.56 The same documents point to the existence in Bosnia of, what Nathalie Clayer calls, the akhi-Qadiri branch of the Qadiri order.57 According to Clayer, the tanners’ guild statute of 1657 from the city of Elbasan in central Albania, shows that the tanners’ guild of that city functioned according to the regulations 52 A notable exception to this being the tanners’ guild; see the discussion on tanners and the Qadiri order of dervishes which follows. 53 Aščerić-Todd, Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia, 122. 54 See note 26. 55 See Aščerić-Todd, Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia, Ch. 7, 126–35. For more on akhi-baba and the Kırşehir tekke see also footnote 13 above. 56 Statute of Bosnian tanners from 1656, Oriental Institute in Sarajevo, Inventar ANUBiH, Ms. No. 174; Statute of Albanian tanners from 1657, see Clayer, Akhi-Qadiriyya, [accessed 06 September 2016]. 57 Clayer, ‘Akhi-Qadiriyya’, [accessed 6 September 2016].



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of both the akhi organisation and the Qadiri tariqat, and that this was the case to such an extent that it warrants considering this guild a proper, separate branch of the Qadiri order. The Elbasan document shows that the members of the akhiQadiriyya revered both Akhi Evren, the patron-saint of tanners and the founder of the Kırşehir tekke, and ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani (d. 1166), the founding figure of the Qadiri order of dervishes. The document explains the principles of fotovvat and tariqat and credits ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani with being the revitaliser of fotovvat. It further elucidates the organisational structure of the tanners’ akhi-Qadiri lodge, listing the tekke’s elders and those in the guild administration, as well as enumerating the shaykh’s duties towards the members of the guild, many of them concerned with the spiritual dimensions of the guild and application of the rules of the tariqat in their conduct.58 The contents of this document are very similar, and in places seem identical, to that of the Bosnian tanners’ statute of 1656.59 The Bosnian statute also provides the spiritual chain of authority (selseleh/şecere) of ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani in which he is described as the special reviver of fotovvat. The document explains that a fotovvat chain of authority has priority over a genealogical one, or ‘a chain by origin (zeriʿat)’, and that the shaykhs of the Qadiri order belong to the fotovvat chain. The document also lists the guild elders and outlines detailed rules regarding the division of raw materials, income and guild punishments. The shaykhs’ duties are listed too and they are enjoined to accomplish the following tasks: [W]ith fotovvat, şecere, the noble decree (emr-i şerif ) and the noble permit (berat-i serif ) in their hands, and within the framework of shariʿat and on the basis of the customs of tariqat and the principles of fotovvat, promote the Prophetic knowledge, beat on the tambourine (kudum) and the drum (tabl), conduct themselves and act according to the tariqat of the patron-saints, perform dhekr and proclaim tawhid (the formula attesting the oneness of God), recite the Noble Book, and preach and advise (vaʿz ve nasihat) in the tanners’ chapters in Mecca, Medina, Sham, Baghdad, Gülşehir, Istanbul, and in all [other] provinces and lands.60

This part of the document appears identical to the Elbasan treatise,61 and 58 Ibid. 59 Oriental Institute in Sarajevo, Inventar ANUBiH, Ms. No. 174. 60 Oriental Institute in Sarajevo, Inventar ANUBiH, Ms. No. 174, fol. 8. 61 With seemingly slight variations in the wording of the text, and in the translation of the Ottoman Turkish: e.g. for the Elbasan treaty, Clayer translates vaʿz ve nasihat as ‘make

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confirms that either the latter and the Bosnian treatise are in fact copies of the same original document, or that they have their basis in the same place, an original treatise or a guild statute of the tanners, most probably in Kırşehir, on which the tanners’ guilds elsewhere modelled theirs. Either way, if we accept Clayer’s conclusions regarding the tanners’ guild of Elbasan, then these two documents certainly suggest the existence of the same akhi-Qadiri order in Bosnia, or in Sarajevo at any rate. As for the possible location of the akhi-Qadiri lodge, this is somewhat harder to determine, for, although Sarajevo had and still has its tanners’ mosque,62 there is no evidence of the existence of a tanners’ tekke or lodge in its vicinity.63 On the other hand, another tanners’ fotovvat treatise composed in Sarajevo in 1620 by a certain Shaykh Mohammad el-Serif el-Huseyni, suggests that he was the shaykh of ‘the central hanekah’ (hanekah el-merkezi),64 the term usually reserved for Gazi Husrev-bey’s hanekah, a Sufi centre built in the early 16th century for the Halveti order which did, through its history, change its Sufi affiliation a few times, but for which there is no other evidence indicating any connection with the tanners.65 It is, of course, possible that the Sarajevo tanners and members of the akhi-Qadiri order did indeed at some point use Gazi Husrev-bey’s hanekah as their lodge, but until some further evidence on this comes to light, this question will have to remain open. In any case, the existence of this akhi-Qadiri order in Bosnia provides an excellent example of the role of fotovvat suggested earlier as an intermediary between trade-guilds and Sufi orders, resulting in the promotion and spread of the influence of the Sufi order in question, in this case the Qadiriyya.

admonitions’ (see Clayer, ‘Akhi-Qadiriyya’, [accessed 6 September 2016]. 62 See Aščerić-Todd, Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia, 132, which includes photographs of Sarajevo tanners’ trading quarter and the tanners’ mosque. 63 Like many other Bosnian towns, Sarajevo did have at least two debbağhanes (tanneries/ tanners’ lodges), but these were in a completely different part of the city (see Azra GadžoKasumović, ‘Veza esnafa u Bosni sa tekijom u Kiršehiru’ (‘The connection between the guilds in Bosnia and the Kırşehir tekke’), Prilozi za Orijentalnu Filologiju 49/1999 (Sarajevo, 2000), 115), and no information has yet been found on their activities. Either or both of these could have thus functioned as Akhi-Qadiri lodges. 64 Leiden University Library Manuscript Collection, Leiden MS Or. 12427–4, fol. 122. 65 For more information on Gazi Husrev-bey’s hanekah see Aščerić-Todd, Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia, 60–63.



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Conclusion As transpires from everything said here, Bosnian fotovvat was very much in line with both the fotovvat of the classical Islamic period and the variety of fotovvat preserved elsewhere in the Islamic world following this period. What also transpires from this is the universality which this tradition maintained throughout its existence, regardless of the fact that its practice was spread across the centuries and different continents throughout which the Islamic world spans. It also seems justified to conclude that, at least as far as Bosnia is concerned, the association of fotovvat with trade-guilds was not a negative development, but, on the contrary, it served to preserve this tradition for longer than it would have lasted otherwise. Moreover, this development further served to disseminate the spiritual dimensions of Islam among wider sections of the population, and to promote some Sufi orders among them, much as was intended for fotovvat centuries earlier by its reformer Abu Hafs ʿOmar al-Sohravardi. Although in some places, most notably Iran, the concept of fotovvat still persists into modern times,66 in Bosnia fotovvat finally disappeared with the complete dissolution of the trade-guilds at the turn of the 20th century, and the role of associations of men joined together by their common interest in the life of spiritual endeavour and exercise has since devolved into purely Sufi-oriented orders.

66 Albeit within a more limited field of application; see the discussion on fotovvat in modern Iran and its legacy in the zurkhaneh (wrestling arena), the traditional space for engaging in ‘manly’ sports and exercise, in Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, Ch. 6, 166–209. In the Arab world, or in Egypt at any rate, fotovvat has made a full circle, as it were, and preserving a connection with its medieval pre-Sohravardi roots, in early modern and modern times it reverted to venerating once again urban gangster-like local ‘heroes’, vacillating between good and evil, standing up against the authorities on behalf of the common man, though not infrequently to his detriment, very much reminiscent of the members of the medieval Cairo fotovvat gangs. See, for instance, Sawsan El-Messiri, ‘The changing role of the futuwwa in the social structure of Cairo’, in Patrons and Clients in Mediterranean Societies, eds. Ernest Gellner and John Waterbury (London, 1977), 239–53; and Robert Irwin, ‘Futuwwa: chivalry and gangsterism in medieval Cairo’, Muqarnas 21/1 (2004), 162–63. On the importance of such characters and concepts of heroism and anti-heroism attached to them in the Egyptian popular culture of the 20th century, see Naguib Mahfouz’s works, in particular his Awlad haratina (1967, translated as Children of Gebelawi or Children of the Alley); see also P. J. Vatikiotis, ‘The corruption of futuwwa: a consideration of despair in Nagib Mahfuz’s Awlad Haritna’, Middle Eastern Studies 7/2 (1971), 169–84.

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Bibliography Manuscripts Travnik fütüvvetname, Gazi Husrev-begova Biblioteka, Sarajevo, PR – 2356, and Croatian Academy of Science and Art (HAZU) Archive, Oriental Collection, Ms. No. 523. Statute of Bosnian tanners, Oriental Institute in Sarajevo, Inventar ANUBiH, Ms. No. 174. Fotovvat treatise of Sarajevo tailors, Sarajevo Historical Archives, ZAT-227. Fotovvat statute of Bosnian farmers, Gazi Husrev-begova Biblioteka, Sarajevo, A-3738. Fotovvat treatise of Sarajevo tanners, Leiden University Library Manuscript Collection, Leiden MS Or. 12427–4.

Literature Aščerić-Todd, I. ‘The noble traders: the Islamic tradition of “spiritual chivalry” (futuwwa) in Bosnian trade-guilds (16th-19th century)’, The Muslim World 97/2 (2007), 159–73. ———. Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia: Sufi Dimensions to the formation of Bosnian Muslim Society (Leiden, 2015). Bayram, M. Tasavvufi Düşüncenin Esasları (Ahi Evren) (Ankara, 1995). Clayer, N. ‘Akhi-Qadiriyya’, in EI3 (2011), [accessed 6 September 2016]. El-Messiri, S. ‘The changing role of the futuwwa in the social structure of Cairo’, in Patrons and Clients in Mediterranean Societies, ed. Ernest Gellner and John Waterbury (London, 1977), 239–53. Gadžo-Kasumović, A. ‘Veza esnafa u Bosni sa tekijom u Kiršehiru’ (‘The connection between the guilds in Bosnia and the Kırşehir tekke’), Prilozi za Orijentalnu Filologiju 49/1999 (Sarajevo, 2000), 111–75. Geoffroy, E. Introduction to Sufism: The Inner Path of Islam, trans. by Roger Gaetani (Bloomington, Ind., 2010). Goshgarian, R. ‘Opening and closing: coexistence and competition in associations based on futuwwa in late medieval Anatolia’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40/1 (2013), 36–52. Irwin, R. ‘Futuwwa: chivalry and gangsterism in medieval Cairo’, Muqarnas 21/1 (2004), 161–70. Mahfouz, N. Awlad ḥaratina (Beirut, 1967).



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Ocak, A. Y. ‘Ahi’, in EI3 (2013), [accessed 1 September 2016]. Ridgeon, L. Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism: A History of SufiFutuwwat in Iran (London, 2010). ———. Jawanmardi: a Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh, 2011). ———. ‘Futuwwa (in Sufism)’, in EI3 (2012), [accessed 1 September 2016]. Sucu, M. Ahi Ocakları ve Bir Ahilik Belgesi (Malatya, 1996). Taeschner, F. ‘Akhi Baba’, in EI2 (1960–2002), I, 323–24. ———. ‘Akhi Ewran’, in EI2 (1960–2002), I, 324–25. Torun, A. ‘Muhtevaları ve kaynakları itibarıyla fütüvvet-nameler’, in I. Uluslararası ahilik kültürü sempozyumu bildirileri, 13–15 Ekim 1993, Ankara (Istanbul, 1996), 163–69. Vatikiotis, P. J. ‘The corruption of futuwwa: a consideration of despair in Nagib Mahfuz’s Awlad Haritna’, Middle Eastern Studies 7/2 (1971), 169–84. Waines, D. An Introduction to Islam, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, 2004). Yildirim, R. ‘Shiʿitisation of the futuwwa tradition in the fifteenth century’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40/1 (2013), 53–70.

6

Late Medieval Armenian Texts on Fotovvat: Translations in Context Rachel Goshgarian Abstract This chapter offers an introduction and context to translations of the two Armenian fotovvat-style texts composed in Erzinjan around 1280. The chapter situates the treatises, penned by the Armenian priest-poet Yovhannēs of Erznka (or, John of Erzinjan), within the framework of the shared goals expressed by similar treatises composed in Anatolia in Arabic, Persian, and Turkish from the early 13th through the mid-14th centuries. It demonstrates that the similarities between fotovvat treatises in Anatolia can be best understood through the lens of a need for shared, grass-roots, urban organisation and the forming of extra-familial social contracts that provided opportunities for stability.

Introduction Now, male youthfulness [Arm., manktut‘iwn; Pers., fotovvat] is three things. One, an individual keeps strong the good things received from God and doesn’t lose them. Two, in entering war, he remains brave and is not conquered. Three, when he has promised something, he makes every effort not to renege. – Yovhannēs Erznkac‘i (d. 1293), from his second treatise on Armenian fotovvat



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Two Armenian-language treatises describing and prescribing a code of ‘manliness’, associated with Christianity, were composed in the city of Erzinjan in the late 13th century by an Armenian celibate priest.1 The texts are remarkably similar to the Arabic, Persian, and Turkish-language fotovvat treatises penned in Anatolia during the 13th and 14th centuries and, like those texts, were reproduced for several centuries in cities all over the Ottoman Empire and beyond.2 The author in question was named Yovhannēs (or, John, d. 1293) and was the same prolific, peripatetic priest who had previously translated the Arabic-language Esmaʿili text, Epistles of the Brethren of Purity, and eventually authored a commentary on the Movements of the Celestial Bodies, as well as a wide range of advice (Arab., nasihat, Arm., xratakan) literature for the use of everyone, from ‘average’ people to the Armenian nobility in the region surrounding Erzinjan.3 In taking into consideration the changing political and social landscapes of the late 13th and early 14th centuries, the complex cultural situation in the city of Erzinjan, and the life of Yovhannēs, these two Armenian fotovvat treatises represent a specific moment of religious and social interchange in the urban history of Anatolia. These two texts, in fact, reflect the socio-cultural porosity that prevailed, in particular in the aftermath of the Mongol expansion,4 when fotovvat-based urban organisations became more prevalent and seem to have offered opportunities for self-governance in cities. I have argued elsewhere that the impetus behind the composition of Armenian treatises was part of a larger response to the political and social insecurities of the period, most generally understood through the lens of 1 The Armenian term manktut‘iwn has a meaning similar to the Arabic term fotowwa or Persian fotovvat. Armenian manouk means male youth (s.) and mankti functions as a pluralis tantum with the same meaning. Thus, the term manktut‘iwn translates as ‘the qualities of being a male youth’, similar to the Arabic term fotowwa. The Armenian-language title manktawag (leader of the youths) is used from the 11th through the 15th centuries, from the Monastery of Goš (North of Lake Sevan, in present-day Armenia), to Erzurum, to Ani to Soltaniyeh (in present-day Iran). By the 16th century, it would appear that this term was completely replaced by another local term, akhi (Arab., ‘my brother’). 2 See Hakob Anasian, ‘The Turkish fütüvvet and the Armenians’, trans. Aram Arkun, in Journal of the Society of Armenian Studies 4 (Los Angeles, 1988–89), 161–84. V. Grigoryan, ‘Arevmtyan Ukrainayi Haykakan Gałutneri Ktričvorac‘ yełbayrut‘iwnneri masin [Concerning the Brotherhoods of the Braves of the Armenian Communities of Western Ukraine]’, in Patmabanasirakan Handes, II (Yerevan, 1963), 115–27. X.A. P‘ork‘šayan, ‘Nor Naxiǰevani Hay Gyułeri Ktričneru Miut‘iwnneri Masin [On the Associations of the Braves in the Armenian Villages of Nor Naxiǰevan]’, in Patmabanasirakan Handes, III (Yerevan, 1966), 184–92. 3 See Yetvart Pałtasaryan, Hovhannes Erznkac‘i yev nra xratakan arjakǝ (‘Hovhannes of Erzinjan and His Advice Literature’) (Yerevan, 1997). 4 Cemal Kafadar, Between Two Worlds (Berkeley, 2000), introduction.

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the arrival of the Seljuks and the Mongols and an Armenian awareness of material loss, the establishment of Islamic and Islamicate institutions in the region, and a communal consciousness of Armenian conversion (both forced and voluntary) to Islam.5 This chapter, however, presents the two Armenian texts in translation and considers their approaches to the values and practices associated with the confraternities in an attempt to offer a nuanced approach to understanding the peculiar social space of urban, homosocial organisations in late medieval Anatolia. Each fotovvat treatise composed in the region – whether written in Arabic, Armenian, Persian, or Turkish – aims to control the behaviours of its adherents by imposing a social/spiritual order and prescribing rules related to: appearance, social relationships, education, faith, and work. In many respects, the communal, emotional, financial, and spiritual exchanges prescribed by the treatises suggest that these codes acted as binding social contracts between members of the associations who became intimately engaged in each other’s daily lives and formed important bonds of simulated kinship. The organisations became associated with specific locales within urban settings and, in some contexts, the associations themselves are written about as ‘places’ (of community, of brotherhood, of home). This article suggests that all fotovvat-based organisations were ‘communities of place’ and insists upon the significance of locality in understanding the ‘in-betweenness’ of the associations and their members. At the same time, the texts composed for these urban confraternities are, themselves, well-delineated spaces in the sense that they were composed for intentional communities and not meant for the leisure or plea­ sure of a wider audience. Translating these treatises into English will allow for more and varied analyses of the texts to take place across linguistically-imposed boundaries. While individuals living alongside fotovvat associations occasionally accused their members of homosexual practices,6 modern scholarship has had a tendency 5 Rachel Goshgarian, ‘Futuwwa in thirteenth-century Rūm and Armenia: Reform movements and the managing of multiple allegiances on the Seljuk periphery’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East, ed. A.C.S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız (London, 2013), 227–63. 6 The most critical commentary on fotovvat practices was composed in Cairo in the early 14th century by al-Torkomani al-Hanafi, a student of Ebn Taymiyyeh (d. 1328). In particular, he criticises the older members of fotovvat associations gazing upon the naked bodies of youthful members as they invest them with the trousers of fotovvat during their initiation rites. See Robert Irwin, ‘Futuwwa: Chivalry and gangsterism in medieval Cairo’, in Essays in Honor of J. M. Rogers, Muqarnas 21, (2004), 161–70. Also, Idris b. Baydakon al-Torkomani al-Hanafi, Kitab al-luma‘ fi’l-hawadith wa’l-bida‘, Deutsches Archeologisches



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to avoid engaging with the blurred lines between homosocialisation and the control over gender norms and sexual practices that is present in fotovvat treatises composed in the 13th and 14th centuries. The same manner of vagueness with respect to the nature of the intimate relationships that existed between members of these brotherhoods, present in contemporary Arabic, Persian, and Turkish treatises on fotovvat, are also clearly reflected in Armenian texts written during the same time period. The imprecision of these texts with regard to this one set of relationships reflects the character of wider contemporary social trends that were grounded in ambiguities – whether in relation to gender norms, language, religion or social place.7 This chapter offers a basic context for reading the translations of the Armenian texts on manktut‘iwn that might offer insight into late medieval Anatolian conceptions of gender roles, community building, social organisation, and the ways in which each of these was understood in the context of faith and/ or faith-based practices. I suggest that a synchronic reading of these texts offers historians a unique opportunity to understand the nature of the social contracts these associations encouraged and, by extension, a deeper understanding of the complexities and challenges of late medieval Anatolian social realities.

Fotovvat in Anatolia Famed Moroccan travel-writer, Ebn Battuteh, who visited Anatolia in the early 14th century, described akhis and their hospitality practices in many cities of the region as central to understanding the Anatolian social landscape.8 The landscape visited by Ebn Battuteh was a culturally complex space where people speaking different languages, practicing different faiths and engaged in different lifestyles (nomadic and sedentary), came into contact with one another on a relatively frequent basis. The political instability of the central and eastern Anatolian lands made cities a prime destination for local populations in search of greater stability than that which could be offered beyond the urban territory. At the same time, as regional polities and various religious hierarchies competed for political control, localised urban (and sometimes extra-urban) confraternities became an important Institut Kairo: Quellen zur Geschichte des Islamischen Egyptens, vol. 3a, ed. Subhi Labib (Wiesbaden, 1986), 113–24, 501–10. See also, Ridgeon, Jawanmardi, 36. 7 For a larger picture in the general context of Islamic literary culture, see: Thomas Bauer, ‘Die Kultur der Ambiguität’. Eine andere Geschichte des Islams. (‘The Culture of Ambiguity’: A different history of Islam) (Berlin, 2011). 8 Ebn Battuta, Selections from the Travels of Ibn Battuta, ed. H.A.R. Gibb (London, 1930), 125.

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locus of communal organisation. Associations of dervishes whose architectural programmes and poetry remain a testament to their relative importance in the late medieval period have long been associated with various kinds of inter-culturality; as were brotherhoods associated with fotovvat. Both kinds of associations played an important role in the establishment of local authority and, in some areas, contributed to a sense of urban self-governance. Still, this governance was based on regulatory practices for men included in the organisations as much as it served as a means for the exclusion of certain people from participation. Each of the Anatolian fotovvat treatises that was composed in an Islamic context names non-believers (i.e., non-Muslims) as the first category of unacceptable association members, thus highlighting the faith-based foundation of the association. Many scholars have suggested, in fact, that fotovvat confraternities, like organisations of dervishes, represented a means by which non-Muslims were encouraged to convert to Islam in Anatolia during this time period.9 And, yet, in the 14th-century hagiography of Mawlana Jalal al-Din Rumi (d. 1273), the author – Shams al-Din Aflaki (d. 1360) – makes references to Armenian akhis in both Konya and Sivas, while an inscription near Konya suggests there was at least one Greek akhi living in the city.10 According to Speros Vryonis, this evidence suggests that Christians were also members of fotovvat-based associations but it does not determine whether they participated in existing Muslim associations or created their own.11 Given the fact that in these particular examples, Armenian and Greek participants maintained their ‘Armenian’ or ‘Greek’ names while still being called akhi, one might suppose that not all akhis in late medieval Anatolia were actually Muslim. In fact, some treatises on fotovvat make note of the presence of partial, ‘social’ members of organisations who were not considered full members because they were not Muslims. Studying religious conversion in late medieval Anatolia is a complicated and politically charged endeavour. Hagiographies (like the menaqeb) suggest that it happened with relative frequency and that local Christians were seemingly convinced to abandon their faith and join the community of Muslims quite easily. And Vryonis’s seminal work on the processes that motorised the Islamisation of 9 Ö.L. Barkan, Kolonizatör Türk Dervişleri, in Vakıflar Dergisi, II, (Ankara, 1942), 279–353. Speros Vryonis, The Decline of Medieval Hellenism and the Islamization of Medieval Anatolia (Berkeley, 1971), 396–402. 10 Franz Taeschner, ‘Beiträge zur Geshichte der Akhis in Anatolien’, Islamica, IV, 20. F.W. Hasluck, Christianity and Islam under the Sultans, II, (Oxford, 1929), 383. Vryonis, Decline, 401. 11 Vryonis, Decline, 401.



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Anatolia demonstrates quite clearly how properties were transferred from Christians to Muslims over a period of four centuries. Still, the details of how and when and why and where conversions took place during this time period are filled with ambiguities. For example, Armenian poetry doesn’t tell us much about conversion although it does tell us quite a bit about cultural exchange via its language, the kinds of themes it uses and the poetic styles its authors prefer. Rather than imagining these brotherhoods as sites of cultural or religious conversion, it is perhaps more useful to imagine them as places for the establishment of fictive kinship in a society where the effects of political disorder and disorganisation might have made these kinds of extra-familial bonds particularly useful and significant. In analysing fotovvat codes across the board, in fact, it becomes clear that the focus of these texts is on: offering a mission statement for the association; underlining the significance of the intimate relationship between master and novice; prescribing specific behaviours associated with comportment both in private and public spaces; explaining the centrality of the performance of acts of faith; and encouraging celibacy as a form of asceticism associated with the mystical aspects of the code. These brotherhoods offered an alternative to the kinds of asceticism prescribed by the more focused mystical practice of the dervishes and an opportunity to engage in the production and accumulation of wealth as well as the option to engage in grass-roots urban self-governance and, occasionally, armed resistance to external threats. The liminality of this mission is most clearly observed in the physical spaces, both intra-mural and extra-mural, occupied by these associations.

Armenian scholarship on Armenian fotovvat Armenian scholarship on the fotovvat-like texts composed by Yovhannēs has generally suggested that the evidence of these two manuscripts and their eventual proliferation proves that such Armenian organisations existed in all cities of Rum and Armenia12 during the late medieval period and had been present prior to 12 A nebulous region stretching generally from just east of Erzurum to Ani and south to Bitlis, the definition of Armenia (or Arminiya), as it was called by 13th-century geographers, travellers and historians, both local and foreign, Christian and Muslim, ‘has always been ambiguous’. See Robert W. Thomson, ‘The eastern Mediterranean in the thirteenth century: Identities and allegiances the peripheries: Armenia’, in Identities and Allegiances in the Eastern Mediterranean after 1204, ed. Judith Herrin and Guillaume St. Guillain (Farnum and Burlington, 2011), 197. Armenian authors after 1204, as well as other local and foreign writers, use the term ‘Rome’ (i.e., Rum or Hṙom) to refer to the regions ruled by the Seljuks

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the composition of the treatises in 1280. Overwhelmingly, this scholarship aims to show that these Armenian confraternities were a means by which Armenians maintained their Christian identity in the face of competing (or, corrupting) Islamic institutions.13 Since Levon Xačikyan published his ground-breaking articles on the associations, scholarship in Armenia and beyond has occasionally dealt with 13th-century brotherhoods and their texts.14 Dickran Kouymjian penned a short article in English in 1975 that echoed much of what had been written earlier by Xačikyan.15 In Armenia, Yetvart Bałtasaryan prepared an Armenianlanguage critical edition of the advice literature of Yovhannēs (including the two treatises on Armenian fotovvat) in 1977.16 This important work has served as a guide for scholars who share his interest in the author, the city, its region, and the organisation of urban life in late medieval Anatolia. At the same time, also in Armenia, Armenuhi Srabyan published edited collections of the poetry of both Kostandin and Yovhannēs Erznkac‘i, making available their vast works that give insight into the ways in which Armenians living in and around Erzinjan experienced their social and spiritual worlds in the 13th century.17 Theo Van Lint’s of Konya. While Armenia and Rum were recognised as distinct entities in the late medieval period, because the two regions were in constant contact with one another and because contemporary borders changed with such frequency, here I will use ‘Anatolia’ as a general geographic term encapsulating what was 13th-century Rum and Armenia. Cemal Kafadar has discussed the obscurity surrounding geographical terminologies for the region. See: Cemal Kafadar, ‘A Rome of one’s own: reflections on cultural geography and identity in the lands of Rum’, History and Ideology: Architectural Heritage of the ‘Lands of Rum’, ed. Sibel Bozdogan, Gulru Necipoglu and Julia Bailey, Muqarnas 24 (2007), 7–26. 13 While there is some evidence that suggests an Armenian association resembling fotovvat existed amongst Armenian traders from Van (which used the term manktawag, or ‘leader of the youths’) in the 11th century, there are few epigraphic or textual references to such Armenian associations again until the composition of the texts at Erzinjan. See Armenia and the Crusades Tenth to Twelfth Centuries: the Chronicle of Matthew of Edessa, trans. Ara Edmond Dostourian (Lanham, MD, 1993), 148–49. Matt‘eos Uṛhayec‘i, Žamanakagrut‘iwn, ed. M. Melik-Adamian and N. Ter-Mik‘aelyan (Vałaršapat: Vałaršapat, 1898), 226. 14 Levon Xačikyan, ‘1280 T‘vakanin Erznkayum kamakerpvac ełbayrut‘yunnǝ’ (‘The Brotherhood organised in Erzinjan in 1280’), Tełekagir (Yerevan) 12 (1951), 83–84; and idem., ‘Erznka K‘ałak‘i ‘Yełbarc Miabanoutean Kanonatrout‘iwnǝ’ (‘The Constitution of the Association of Brothers of the City of Erzinjan’), Banber Matenadarani (Yerevan) 6 (1962), 365–77. 15 Dickran Kouymjian, ‘The Canons dated 1280 of the Armenian akhī-type Brotherhood of Erzinjan,’ Actes du XXIXe congrès international des Orientalistes (Paris, 1975). 16 Yetvart Pałdasaryan, Hovhannes Erznkac‘i ev nra xratakan arǰakǝ (John of Erzinjan and his Advice Oeuvre) (Yerevan, 1977). 17 Armenuhi Srabyan, Kostandin Erznkac‘i, Tałer (Verses of Kostandin of Erzinjan) (Yerevan, 1962), eadem. Hovhannes Erznkac‘i, Bank‘ Čap‘av (John of Erzinjan, Measured Words) (Yerevan, 1986).



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unpublished dissertation was the first English-language critical edition of Kostandin’s poetry and his analysis – both of language and of imagery – illuminates the multi-­linguistic hybridity of cultural spaces and places that seems to have existed in many Anatolian cities in the 13th century, although the work focuses specifically on 13th-century Erzinjan and Armenian brotherhoods.18 James Russell has written two articles on Armenian fotovvat associations, suggesting a link between fotovvat and earlier Mithraic cults in the region; one of those articles includes a translation of one of the Armenian-language treatises on fotovvat.19 It was not, however, until Seta Dadoyan published her Armenian-language book, From the 13th Century History of the Cultural Relations between Armenians and Arabs: Yovhannēs Pluz Erznkacʿi’s ‘From the Sages of the Muslims’ and his Intellectual Prose under the Light of Islamic Sources (in 1991), that the work of Yovhannēs and the existence of Armenian fotovvat brotherhoods were finally presented within a larger, more complete, Islamicate framework, based on original research in both Arabic and in Armenian.20 Finally, the work that I undertake with regard to these brotherhoods strives not only to understand these associations through the lens of Armeno-Islamic interactions, but to analyse them through the complex social and political framework(s) that existed in 13th and 14th-century Anatolia. Ultimately, it is by means of understanding this time period as one in which individuals and collectives felt bound(ed) by multiple allegiances21 and lived in cities, in which coexistence and competition (on various levels) were a part of everyday life, that we can better understand the significant role of fotovvat associations, both amongst Armenians and other urban dwellers.22 18 Theo Maarten van Lint, Kostandin of Erznka: an Armenian Religious Poet of the XIIIthXIVth century (Unpublished PhD Dissertation: Leiden, 1996). 19 James Russell, ‘The craft and Mithraism reconsidered’, Proceedings of the American Lodge of Research 18 (1989), 15–28. Idem., ‘Medieval Armenian fraternities’, Transactions of the American Lodge of Research of Free and Accepted Masons 23 (1995), 38–57. 20 Seta Barsoumian Dadoyan, Yovhannēs Pluz Erznkac‘ii ‘I Tačkac‘ Imastasirac‘’ew Imastasirakan ArjakǝIslamakan Ałbiwnerun lusin tak (Beirut, 1991). Dadoyan has composed several other works dealing with the interaction between Islamic and Armenian texts, peoples and institutions. Eadem, ‘The Constitution for the Brotherood of Erzkay (1280) by Yovhannēs Erznkac‘i (d. 1293): an Armenization of the Futuwwa Reform Project and Literature of Abbasid Caliph al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (d. 1225)’, Revue des Etudes Armeniennes 29 (2003–4), 117–65. Eadem, The Armenians in the Medieval Islamic World: Paradigms of Interaction, 3 vols. (New York, 2014). 21 Goshgarian, Futuwwa in thirteenth century Rum and Armenia, 250–51. 22 Eadem., ‘Opening and closing: Coexistence and competition in associations based on Futuwwa in late medieval Anatolian cities’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40/1 (2013), 36–52.

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Erzinjan: Armenians, markets, poets and brotherhoods Much of the historiography written on the city of Erzinjan would nearly have one believe that there were two cities with the same name in medieval Eastern Anatolia, one inhabited by Armenians and the other, by Muslims. Modern scholarship on the Mengücekid dynasty (based in Erzinjan, 1122–1248) avoids discussing or considering the fact that Armenians lived in or around the city, while Armenian scholarship on Erzinjan has a tendency to downplay – or even ignore! – the presence of non-Armenians there, let alone a non-Armenian ruling dynasty, such as the Mengüceks.23 In fact, in his article on ‘Armenian rule in Erzinjan in the 13th and 14th centuries’, Yetvart Paltasaryan fails to once mention the Mengücekids because, according to his research, they are never referred to in Armenian sources, although various Seljuk, Mongol, and Tatar leaders are.24 Sources from the late medieval period point to the existence of a complex relationship between the Armenian population and the ruling Muslim, Turkish dynasty. Still, there is general agreement that Erzinjan was a significant place in the region during this period, located on an important trade route, and a home for the production of fine crafts, traded throughout the Middle East and in Europe. Court chronicler, Ebn Bibi (writing in the 1280s), describes the city of Erzinjan in the following manner: In the Armenian borderlands there is a country. It is like a shining star on a tower. It is a famous and developed city. On every side it is as if it is decorated with flowers. And all around it is a great flatness. From the middle of it streams the Euphrates, like a sea. From every brook there flows a stream. On each stream there are several known villages. Each as beautiful as paradise. Heaven’s guard has never seen a tree so beautiful as the trees there. Because every nook and cranny of the place gives one’s soul peace of mind, intelligent people started to call it the ‘land of the soul’. From the perspective of profit, every village is so valuable that no one can distinguish a village from a city.25

23 See, for example, Necdet Sakaoğlu, Türk Anadolu’da Mengücekoğulları (Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları, 1995); Gaṛnik Stepanyan, Erznka: hnakuyn tareric minčev mer orerǝ (Erzinjan: From the Most Ancient Times to our Days) (Yerevan, 2005). 24 Yetvart Pałtasaryan, ‘Yerznkayi Haykakan Išxanutyunǝ XIII-XIV darerum’ (‘Armenian Rule in Erzinjan in the 13th and 14th Centuries’), in Lraber 2, no. 321 (Yerevan,1970), 36–44. 25 Ebn Bibi, 355–56.



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It is not insignificant to note that Ebn Bibi describes the city of Erzinjan within the larger context of its surrounding hinterland, brooks, and villages. The chronicler seems to want to insist upon the fact that part of the reason for Erzinjan’s wealth and beauty has to do with the integration of the city within the walls with the city beyond the walls. For our purposes, this helps us to better understand the era’s definition of urbanism from a more realistic perspective, and as a topographical definition that was also ‘in-between’. This also speaks to the Anatolian urbanity of local fotovvat associations that were based both inside and outside city walls and whose members often endowed structures inside city walls that were financed by their land holdings outside of them.26 With the arrival of the Mongols in 1277, Erzinjan was included in the Mongol tax registers and political control was effectively transferred into the hands of the Mongol, Ilkhanid dynasty (1256–1335). It is only at this point, in fact, that a blended political hierarchy of Erzinjan becomes apparent in Armenian sources. While the Mongol invasions encouraged a certain degree of depopulation and migration, Erzinjan maintained a robust Armenian intellectual life in the monasteries in and around the city, and the people living in the region engaged with the production of textiles that were then sold in the city’s bustling markets. Marco Polo visited Erzinjan in the beginning of the 14th century and was impressed with its natural resources and local production of a cloth he calls ‘buckram’: This [Greater Hermenia] is a great country. It begins at a city called Arzinga, at which they weave the best buckrams in the world. It possesses also the best baths from natural springs that are anywhere to be found. The people of the country are Armenians and are subject to the Tartar. There are many towns and villages in the country, but the noblest of their cities is Arzinga [Erzinjan], which is the See of an Archbishop, and then Arziruon and Arzizi.27

Ebn Battuteh, visiting in the 1330s, noted how the population of the city was primarily Armenian: We journeyed thence to Amasiya, a large and beautiful town with broad 26 For example, 13th- and 14th-century pious endowment deeds located in the Vakıflar Genel Müdürlüğü tell us that zaviyyehs were endowed by akhis – in Amasya, Ankara, Çorum, Kayseri, and Niksar they used their fields and properties (located outside the cities) to fund them. 27 Marco Polo, Yule, 45.

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streets; Kumish (Gumush Khanah), a populous town which is visited by merchants from Iraq and Syria and has silver mines; Arzanajan, where Armenians form the greater part of the population; and Arz ar-Rum.28

While the markets of Erzinjan were interesting enough for a visit to be made there by the Armenian King of Cilicia, Hetʿum (d. 1271), the city and its surrounding region were home to a series of churches and monasteries that were engaged in the production of manuscripts and the preparation of youth for priesthood.

The Armenian texts: an opportunity for synchronic analysis In Anatolia, seven treatises on fotovvat were penned in the 13th and 14th centuries that are still extant. Three of these were composed in Persian, one in Arabic, one in Turkish, and two in Armenian. There are other extant, contemporary texts that tell us about fotovvat and the organisations it inspired: these include the poetry and writings of Gulsehri, various chronicles, pious endowment deeds, advice literature, buildings (primarily zaviyehs), and inscriptions. For our purposes, however, analysing the meat of the two treatises in the context of the organisation, structural prescriptions, and thematic content of the other, regionally-produced fotovvat texts will shed light on the ways in which social patterns of organisation transcended religious lines, even if the organisations under consideration were ostensibly religiously inspired. At the same time, this kind of opportunity for analysis will help us locate the spaces occupied by these associations by travelling beyond a uniquely mainstream religiously-informed understanding of their significance. As noted above, participation in these associations offered adherents opportunities to be engaged in a less stringent form of mysticism or asceticism while signing a visible and tangible social contract based on a notion of gender performance that was meant to impose social regulations over groups of men with regard to their daily lives: from eating habits, to working, to sexual activity, to their embeddedness within the structure of the association via the important bond with their mentor (or, mentee). As I have suggested elsewhere, the reforms of caliph al-Naser li-Din Allah (1158–1225) did not have a direct impact on the ways in which fotovvat was envisioned in late medieval Anatolia, but the treatises composed in Konya by the caliphal envoy to the region, Shehab al-Din ʿOmar Sohravardi (1144–1234),

28 Ibn Battuta, Gibb, 172.



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did.29 Sohravardi’s Persian-language texts – composed shortly after his arrival in Anatolia, in 1221 – encourage a khanaqah-centred, urban form of homosocial association that he described as linked both to the caliphate and to Islamic mysticism. Sohravardi also asks members to imagine their participation in the code of fotovvat through the lens of ‘opening’ certain things (hands, table) and ‘closing’ others (pants, ears, stomach, eyes). This metaphor of ‘opening and closing’ – along with a real insistence upon the physical place of the association – became central to any Anatolian expression of fotovvat in the aftermath of the completion of his texts. Sohravardi’s texts also propose a bipartite division of fotovvat brotherhoods, something that was echoed in some of the treatises produced in Anatolia, but not all. Like the texts penned by Sohravardi, the lengthy, 1290 treatise composed by Naseri (most likely in Tokat – a centre of akhi activity) prescribes a bipartite communal organisation, based primarily on the relationship between master and novice and centred on the physical structure associated with the confraternity; the text also describes the kinds of behaviours that are appropriate and inappropriate at the table and beyond, through the ‘opening and closing’ framework, and is preoccupied with listing those individuals who are not welcome to participate in fotovvat. The Arabic text composed in Harput by Ahmad ebn Ilyas al-Naqqash alKhartabirti (and dedicated to ʿAli, the son of Caliph al-Mostanser, r. 1226–1242) insists that faith is the basis of fotovvat and, echoing the Sohravardian tradition, organises fotovvat in a master-novice, bipartite fashion and centres the confraternity on the structure associated with the code. Al-Khartabirti’s text also places some importance on the significance of the kinds of garments that gird initiates, and emphasises the importance of the commitment to a novice’s mentor and to chastity. This text is unique in that its geographic, linguistic, and dedicatory contexts position it more towards Baghdad and the caliphate over Konya and central Anatolia. Given this distinct location, the deep impact of the texts composed by Sohravardi on the reformed fotovvat seems even more significant. In the light of the above argument, it seems particularly noteworthy that both the Turkish text composed by Yahya ebn Chuban Fata al-Borghazi (likely in Antalya, in the early 14th century) as well as the two texts composed by Yovhannēs Erznkac‘i introduce new aspects to the definitions and prescriptions of fotovvat in the region, namely: a new organisational framework and a deliberation on the need for the reform of an institution that has become associated with the corporeal, 29 Rachel Goshgarian, ‘Futuwwa in thirteenth-Century Rum and Armenia’, 227–63. Eadem, ‘Opening and closing’, 36–52.

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rather than the spiritual. The fact that we can locate an acceptance of many of the ideas prescribed by Sohravardi in the texts composed by these two authors, as well as a departure from them, tells us that fotovvat as understood and practised in Anatolia was not uniform and that these organisations were places within which subversion could be articulated and practised. Yovhannēs composed two treatises on Armenian fotovvat in 1280, just a few years after the city had been transferred into the hands of the Ilkhanids. His first text is filled with general reflections on the institution of manktut‘iwn (or, fotovvat) and its social and religious meaning. His second treatise, while also filled with moral instructions and imbued with an almost strained layer of Christianity, is a focused text that deals more specifically with the relationship between novice and master, the meaning of the clothing associated with the code, and the initiation rites of the confraternity. Both texts fit very neatly into the body of fotovvat treatises composed in the region during this time period, save the fact that they are devoid of any references to Islam and insist upon the Christian nature of the code and the institution. The picture of the Erzinjan-based brotherhoods painted by these two texts is one in which members are deeply committed to learning and teaching and provide – emotionally and financially – both for one another, as well as for visiting tra­ vellers and religious people. Yovhannēs explains that the brotherhood had been an important institution in the realm but that it needs a reform as members of these kinds of homosocial brotherhoods had begun to act and think in a materialistic, rather than spiritual, fashion. Yovhannēs also expresses deep concern with ‘pretenders’ of manktut‘iwn, or people who act as if they are members of the brotherhood, but who do not behave according to what Yovhannēs considers conventional Christian norms and, thus, demonstrates their lack of worthiness for participation in the confraternity. He is so concerned with these ‘pretenders’, in fact, that he condemns them in both texts, both in poetry and in free verse. In describing the ‘ideal man’ of the confraternity, the author depicts an individual who is: benevolent, brave, chaste, diligent, faithful, generous, honest, law-abiding, obedient, peaceful, prayerful, pure, and sober, and who longs to become unified and united with his brothers in fellowship. Yovhannēs encourages the brotherhood to be open to wise peoples from other nations but closed to adulterers, blasphemers and sinners in general. It would seem that concern with the sexuality – and control over the sexual behaviour – of members of these brotherhoods was high on the priority list for Yovhannēs. While the author, a priest in the Armenian Church, explains that members of the brotherhood should be chaste, he offers several conditions to this



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notion. In the first text, Yovhannēs prescribes chastity until marriage (sec. D) and that after wedding an ‘appropriate’ woman, a man should keep himself ‘holy from the foreign and impure bed’ (sec. E). While the first text suggests that women may have been tangential (or, associated) members, as they are mentioned in one of the sections on prayer (sec. F), the text seems mostly concerned with ‘brotherhood’. While no contemporary Armenian-language treatises on fotovvat exist for other cities, Yovhannēs does intimate that there were other homosocial associations in different places whose members visited one another, from city to city, in the same way that Armenian monastics, Sufi dervishes and Muslim akhis did. In fact, the author’s supplication to the brothers that they ‘give corporeal fertility to the spiritual sower’ offers us a glimpse into the kind of ambiguous (but possibly sexual) language used to describe relationships between brothers. In his second text, Yovhannēs heavily criticises a life that is led primarily by corporeality and worldliness and he details the initiation rite of the brotherhood, complete with a discussion on the delivering of the belt to the initiate. The author links the binding of said belt with the conquering of the ‘great serpent’ so that the initiate might turn his ‘desire to God’. He also dissuades members from drinking wine, not only because it brings harm to the soul and to the mind, but also might push one away from his vow of chastity. Still, in his description of the initiation rite, the ambiguity of the language used suggests that the master did ‘bind the loins’ of the initiate, a practice that was cause for medieval Muslim critics of fotovvat to question the ‘appropriateness’ of the initiation rite if only because it is suggested that the initiate would be naked before his elders. Overall, the two texts penned by Yovhannēs will seem familiar to anyone who has read compositions on fotovvat in any other language. His depiction of gender-specific ideals is very similar to those of contemporary fotovvat treatises. He also stresses the significance of the master-novice relationship and the deep ties between members of the brotherhood. He consistently draws lines between those who might consider participating and those who might not. As noted above, the most notable difference between the fotovvat works composed by Yovhannēs and those composed by his peers writing in Arabic, Persian and Turkish is his consistent insistence upon the Christian origin and nature of the code and characteristics of its members. The particularly Anatolian features of these treatises include: their concern with pretenders; their insistence upon the familial aspect of the association; a real investment in the performance of chastity; and the deliberate differentiation of the clothing (or, belt) associated with fotovvat with clothing associated with other aspects of Christianity or local, hierarchical structures that would have existed alongside fotovvat associations in Anatolian cities.

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Translations Constitution and By-Laws of the Order of Brothers, which were compiled for each other by the brotherhood and by means of the love of God in this capital city30 that is called Yeznka [Yerznka, Erzinjan] in the year 1280. Having met the elderly vardapet,31 Grigor of Sanahin,32 who also wrote a chapter for this brotherhood, I, the humble vardapet Yovhannēs of Yeznka, wrote this constitution, advice for brotherhood and beneficial help by means of the guidance of the Holy Spirit. God, the Logos, who – by means of his words – gave existence to all creations and called his own word soul and life, decorated our souls with wisdom, for just as bread nourishes the body, in the same way does the word give foundation to the soul. Now, the soul-guiding word of Jesus teaches us that two are the doors and pathways of humankind’s morality that the travellers33 choose and follow for life. Narrow is the door and thin is the path that leads to life and few are those that enter it. Long and wide is the path that leads to loss and many walk along it. Now, the slothful and those who are seduced by sin cannot go along the narrow

30 The term mayrak‘ałak‘ (lit., ‘mother city’) was used by Armenian authors during this time period in reference to a few cities, including Ani, Dvin and Yerznka (Erzinjan). According to the legal code of Mxit‘ar Goš (d. 1213), cities with this title were considered second in importance to catholicosates and were home to metropolitans, one rank above archbishops and one below the catholicoi. Mxit‘ar Goš, Datastanagirk‘ (‘Law Code’), ed. Xosrov T‘orosyan (Yerevan, 1975), 136. 31 The Middle Armenian term vardapet has the ecclesiastical meaning of archimandrite (i.e., celibate priest) but can also mean teacher, lecturer, professor or doctor. 32 While contemporary sources do not shed light on the particular priest, Grigor, the monastic complex at Sanahin (about 650 km Northeast of Erzinjan) was originally constructed in the 10th century and was home to a large scriptorium and known for its school of illuminators and calligraphers. It remained active throughout the 13th century, even after the Mongol invasions led to the destruction of various buildings associated with the complex. 33 The term ‘traveller’ (Arm., janaparhort; Trk. yoldaş) is used consistently in contemporary literature in various languages to describe those individuals who follow a path of spiritual inquiry. At the same time, most Armenian priests pursued a peripatetic lifestyle. Thus, in this particular context, the term remains somewhat ambiguous, but likely is meant to signal a certain kind of mystical journey.



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and thin way that is called the path of valour34 and benevolence, and there are few on this earth that tread it with eager love. However, the long and wide way is known as that of the sinners and the evildoers, and it is the path eagerly taken by those people who love this world and delight in sin. Now, on these two paths there are two leaders that call people to follow them. The leader of the good path is the Holy Spirit, about which the Prophet David said, ‘May your good spirit lead me on level ground.’35 And the leader of the evil path is Satan about whom the cornerstone of faith, Peter, said, ‘Your adversary the devil prowls like a roaring lion, “Whom will I devour?”’36 Now, may the leader of our brotherhood be the Holy Spirit, along with the Father and the only-begotten Son, and may it lead us on straight ground by means of the good path – the princely thoroughfare – without diverting us right or left such that we are wounded by the taxes of either; but rather as though travelling in the middle of the road on a bridge over a river, that we drown not. Now, the nature of man is companionable and welcoming of both evil and good, comparable to the weather; for example, in rising the sun shines and in its nightly setting, having turned black, it spreads darkness. In this same way is man: if he contemplates the Godly word and the spiritual advice and the venerable light of God, he will be illuminated and shine and if he is welcoming of the inspiration of Satan and sinful advice, his soul will become darkened and obscured. And, like the soil of the earth, which germinates what man sows, in the same way is the terrestrial nature of men, such that what they sow is generated, whether it is a thorn of sin or a flower of valour. Now, may the venerable light of God be bright for this brotherhood and may flowers of all goodness grow in our natures. But it is worthy to know how many different types of brotherhoods exist. The first is this: that they say brother to those who are of one nature by virtue of being the Creator’s creation. And this is common to those endowed with reason and those that are irrational, to animals and to humans.

34 Usage of this term indicates a strong link to the fotovvat codes and movements of the same time period within which terms such as pahlavan or javanmard describe men in the context of their bravery or valour. 35 Psalm 143:10. 36 1 Peter 5:8.

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And the second brotherhood is that of those who are birthed of the same parents. And this is specific. Now the third brotherhood which is the real one and the spiritual one is that of those who were born in the spirit of God and baptised in the font and call each other brothers as well as Christ and the children of the heavenly father and the inheritors of his kingdom and its coheirs. And this grace is gifted specifically to Christians, those who are stamped with the name of Christ.37 Now, on top of these, you will establish amongst yourselves the fourth kind of brotherhood which is by means of writing, canonical constitution, virtuous gathering, association, unanimity, one faith and love, and heavenly desire. And it is not that this is new, but that it teaches work that suits Christians.38 And sweet is the constitution of this brotherhood, for in the same way that many stars decorate the heavens, in the same way do many brothers brighten the church by means of their love of association. And in the same way that many armies of valiant, united soldiers vanquish their enemies, in the same way do many brothers by means of valiant faith and equal love easily vanquish Satan and the sinloving demons and evil people that act on his behalf.39 And, now, consider the charter of our brotherhood, that is made up of three general sections: first, how every person behaves correctly; second, how whatever profit and gain this united brotherhood creates for each other is the fruit of their community;40 third, how they behave by means of their knowledge of general manners in the realm and amongst many different nations as observers of moral edification and the glory of the name of Jesus. 37 2 Corinthians 1:22 38 Here the author once again insists upon the ‘Christian’ nature of the association and the ‘Christianness’ of the works done by members of the brotherhood. Also, his underlining of the fact that the practice is ‘not new’ may reflect a concern that the constitution and by-laws of the brotherhood might be considered a ‘copy’ of an Islamic(ate) practice in the eyes of his fellow Armenians. 39 Again, the insistence upon the ‘brave’ nature of those who follow the code is similar to the conditions of fotovvat-based Islamicate associations. 40 This insistence on the sharing of ‘profit’ echoes a similar sentiment set forth by Sohravardi in his first treatise on fotovvat. As mentioned above, it is in its medieval Anatolian experience that fotovvat becomes most closely associated with profit and the pooling of financial resources.



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And now, let us say what is necessary for each person to accept, for just as the sun shines on everything but whomever is healthy, the sun illuminates, such are God’s laws for all of the world, but he who loves and uses them, shines with the rightly-decorated and Godly light. Listen, youth and pubescent male children that are united in brotherhood: A. May this be the first law for you: love God, your Creator, and by means of your love for him, disdain all love of this world. B. Honour your parents, your father and your mother, because along with God they are the reason for your creation and in their old age, take care of them, and be obedient to their orders, such that you are worthy of their blessing. C. Honour God’s priests as spiritual parents and confess to the priests of your congregation, and give them profit of your labour and your work such that the prayers that they present to God are considered acceptable. D. Keep yourselves holy from sins and remain in pure virginity until you are worthy of taking the crown of blessing41 such that your bodies become gifts to God and do not let yourselves be torn to pieces by a Satanic, ravenous wolf. E. After taking the crown of blessing and being united in holy matrimony with your wife, who is appropriate in the eyes of God, keep yourself holy from the foreign and impure bed,42 such that you not lose the crown of blessing and fall into destructive malediction and deception; in the name of Christianity, dogs are called such for the sin of adultery. F. Stand in prayer three times every day, at the day’s dawn, at the hour of eating bread and in the evening, at the hour of sleep. At every time, let each man perform 12 genuflections and every woman, 20.43 And s/he who can do more knows the strength of her/his soul and love that s/he has for God. 41 The ‘crown of blessing’ is a reference to the rite of holy matrimony in which crowns are placed on the heads of the bride and groom as they enter into the covenant of marriage together. 42 The text is unclear as to whether the author means any bed that is not the matrimonial bed, or the bed of a non-Armenian woman. One would infer that such an ambiguity was intentional. 43 While the title of the constitution and most of the prescriptions related to behaviour seem to be addressed uniquely to men, it is not insignificant that women are mentioned here as participants in the ‘brotherhood’ and assigned more genuflections than their male counterparts in prayer.

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G. On Saturday and Sunday, you must absolutely go to Church, such that you listen to the sound of the Gospel and become worthy of Christ’s voice, and by means of seeing the liturgy, you see Christ. H. On Sunday confess the transgressions of the week and for the 40 days following do not participate in Holy Communion. And convene in the church every feast day and understand the meaning of the feast. And in taking the word, keep Sunday holy. I. Keep the mouth, which in the name of God is confessor and communicative, holy from offensive words and all impure speech, and do not use the creations of God for the work of Satan. J. Strengthen all of your organs in the fear of God: the eye from indecent looks; the ear from evil and sinful advice; the hand from depriving [others] and stealing and beating; and the leg from running from [committing] sin. But behave in this way: by means of the eyes, see God’s beautiful creations; and by means of the mouth, bless the Creator; by means of the ear, listen to his orders; by means of the hands, do good in prayers, in good works and in blessings for the poor; and keep your heart pure from evil ponderings.44 And may all of this be a law and a warning of God’s orders and the Holy Writings for whomever. And this is the second [section] that the brothers accept and according to which realise their brotherhood in the name of their love for God: A. As this world is a sea and people float in it just like casual affairs, if someone within the brotherhood falls into human difficulty and is troubled by tyrants, all of the brothers should take care and remove him from afflictions; as Christ said, ‘I was in prison and you came to me.’45 B. And if one of you, having fallen into the difficulty of sin, should be delivered into the hands of Satan, all of the brothers – by means of prayers, good advice and blessings, and not violence or fraud – will free the fallen one from the servitude of sins and present him to Christ, in resemblance of that moment when He [Christ] showed compassion to he who had fallen into the hands of thievery. 44 Both sections ‘I’ and ‘J’ draw attention to the physicality of the practice of fotovvat, forbidding incorrect physical acts and promoting positive acts associated with the body. As noted above, this echoes the paradigm established by Sohravardi in his treatises on fotovvat. 45 Matthew 25:36.



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C. And if someone should fall into poverty and physical want, the other brothers according to their capacity and according to their own strength must help him, and in helping the poor brother their efforts will be reciprocated by God who will pay back a thousand-fold in this world and in the next will grant them everlasting life. D. And if one of them should fall into weakness and the pain of physical illness, every day one of the brothers should go to visit him and help cure he who has fallen ill, and by means of medicine and doctors should they be generous, such that they listen to Christ who said, ‘I was sick and you visited me.’46 E. And if one day one should reach death and be delivered from this life, all of the brothers should take the body with honour to the cemetery, as is appropriate, and give earth to earth, and all of the brothers should offer a liturgy in the name of the deceased. And this is the constitution that the brothers take amongst themselves, whether the brother be near or far, by means of the love and faith that they consider [an agreement] amongst them. Now, the third part is that they should be kind to others, to those who come from distant realms, such that if one of them should go to another realm, that they are helped, and help.47 If a vardapet should come from another country, the head brothers should go to visit him and honour him, and take from him his scholarly words and convene around him according to the preaching of the Holy Gospels, and when he leaves, they should send him off with love and according to their physical possibility and their capacity, give corporeal fertility to the spiritual sower.48 May they do the 46 Matthew 25:36. 47 These paragraphs suggest that these same kinds of (Armenian?) brotherhoods existed in other areas and that the associations served a kind of mutual benefit to members, offering both places to stay and education. Whether the reference here is to specifically Armenian brotherhoods or not is, again, left ambiguous. 48 The wording of this particular paragraph suggests a certain kind of ‘corporeal love’ associated with ‘fertility’ as part of the exchange between brothers from different realms. Much ink has been spilt (both by contemporary authors and modern scholars) about the ambiguous distinction between the homosocial and potentially homosexual character of fotovvat associations. This particular paragraph seems to represent the clearest prescriptive evidence for homosexuality associated with medieval urban fotovvat-type brotherhoods in the region during this time period.

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same for bishops. And also for monastics, prayerful brothers and hermits, may they be hospitable and giving of rest. And may our brothers be peace-loving in this world and with, and by means of, love may they engage in speaking with and listening to every nation of people, and may they become wise from every nation such that they grow and gain in wisdom.49 And, without exception, by means of affable goodness, go calmly, remain modest, like a gold coin in the midst of the mire of this world, remaining clear and bright, like the light of the sun in the midst of rankness remaining bright, by giving goodness to others, like sunlight, and not learning from the impurities of others, like the sun does not take impurities from others. Now, you, respectable brothers, decorate yourselves with these rules, such that you may be like fortified fortifications for each other; for when many stones are gathered in one placed they become a fortification of strength and protection for a city, in the same way may you – like living stones of God’s love, joined together – remain in impregnable solidarity in your foundation. And in the same way that heaven is decorated with many houses, in the same way may you become like the heaven of God, decorated with sweet-tasting fruit and like a garden filled with sweet-smelling flowers. And just as the crown of the king is, by default, made of gold and pearl and impressive jewels, in the same way should you be a crown of splendour for the head of our Christ and may you shine in each of your works like a resplendent jewel; and in the same way that jewels of gold strung together unite, in arranging your pure faith and your sincere love, may you also shine by means of a beautiful and bright light, such that you become a living treasure and glorious children to your mother church. And if you eat and drink, may you do so with all of the glory of God.50 Now, whoever loves this brotherhood and joins its union will keep both the rules

49 This openness to other ‘nations’ suggests a particular kind of openness prescribed by the author not only in this constitution but in other places as well. Most likely, by ‘other nations’, he means either different linguistic or religious groups, as Armenian authors during this time period refer to the Mongols as the ‘nation of archers’ and to Muslims as the ‘nation of Ismail’. At the same time, this declaration of openness to others might suggest intellectual and guest exchange between Christian and Muslim brotherhoods. 50 While eating and drinking is central to most codes on fotovvat, in the Armenian context there is only this one sentence, which suggests that communal meals may have taken place but does not outline the manners associated with the table.



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and the constitution of the brothers and he will be inscribed in the union and Christ will write him into the register of life.51 Now, may no adulterers or blasphemers or those who have conducted various other sins enter into this covenant.52 Yet, for those who are lawful, may they profit each other in love. May the lead brother advise with sweetness and may the novice listen with obedience, for the knowledgeable one must not become prideful, and he who is foolish must not despair, and may they take care of one another in the same way that they would the body of Christ. May the great and the wise be honoured, may they give the small and uneducated advice with compassion. The head of the ten and the leader of the forty are to study with the vardapets all the time and help the others and do everything according to the good advice of the heads.53 Again, the Canons and Advice of the vardapet Yovhannēs Erznkac‘i for the EarthDwelling Pubescent Youths (so that) by means of Physical and Worldly Counsel they May Conduct their Earthly Lives, and by Means of Godly Love and the Holy Gospels, We May Direct them in the Spiritual Grace of God. God’s Apostle Paul writes to the Romans that, ‘Those who live according to the flesh have their minds set on what the flesh desires; but those who live in accordance with the Spirit have their minds set on what the Spirit desires. The mind governed by the flesh is death, but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace.’54 Now, the mind governed by the body considers ignorance and sin its work while the mind that is governed by the Spirit seeks grace from God, knowledge of his commandments and all good works. According to which, the body governed by the body is sustained by ignorance and sin, in contrast with that governed by the Spirit, which is sustained by knowledge and a holy life. It is necessary to know that man is made up of two things: soul and body. The soul is logical and the 51 Exodus 32:32 52 It is interesting that while the foundation of this Armenian brotherhood is ‘Christianity’ and the entire text is peppered with Biblical citations, it does not specifically address the possibility of non-Christian members, unlike many Islamic texts that place non-believers atop of their lists of incompatible potential members. 53 This particular sentence suggests that the brotherhood may have been organised in a pyramidical structure of 1–10–40. 54 Romans, 8:5, 6.

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body is functional. The soul thinks about everything, for the mind is the eye of the soul, and the body uses hands and other limbs. And whenever [someone] acts without thinking, he is similar to an irrational animal who unthinkingly does everything without reflection. Wisdom is two types: contemplative and functional. Contemplative wisdom ma­nifests in knowledge and study, by means of which, having researched, one can ponder God and the earth and every existing thing. As for functional wisdom, it is this, that by means of it [someone] undertakes all good spiritual works directed to the pleasing of God. Now there is [a kind of] man who only loves knowledge and learning. And there is [a kind of] man who only has works and virtue without real knowledge. And there is [a kind of] man who has both knowledge and works. Now, he who has knowledge and does not work is like a man with one eye. In the same way is he who works but does not have educational studies also like a oneeyed [man]. But he who has both learning and knowledge and works with them virtuously, is illuminated by two eyes and that person is perfect. Now, be in the word, which is necessary for us. We saw in the realm a work that existed as a tradition amongst those men of men that are called ‘manktawag’ (or, leader of the youths) who call the pubescent youths their adopted children and give them belts. And there was not the possibility to remove it from the realm, for the practice was old and those who practised this were considered sweet and agreeable. But their work was corporeal and worldly and ignorant. Because of this, we attempted to send them advice and show them the way, so that the practice would be [executed] by means of knowledge and wisdom and rules and not defiled with evil but rather [executed] in accordance with the witness of the Holy Gospel and not by means of confused knowledge. It is first necessary to know these three things: 1) Who are these youths? 2) Who is worthy of being the leader of these youths? 3) When did this practice begin? Now, male youthfulness [Arm., manktut‘iwn] consists of three things. One, an individual keeps strong the good things received from God and does not lose them. Two, in entering war, he remains brave and is not conquered. Three, when he has promised something, he makes every effort not to renege.



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The good received from God is that which in spirit is the image of God, holy and sinless and that soul is everlasting. The youth is he who does not lose this image of beauty and is similar to animals. Our war is with Satan, such that the youth become valiant and conquer, rather than being conquered and wounded by the sins of the snake. And God has promised his kingdom in heaven and a restful eternity; try and be diligent in your attempts to enter that rest. Now, if a vigorous one is found, he is a youth, and when he takes this and teaches this, then he is the head of the youths. Now, the following four things are necessary for the head of the youths: First, knowledge of the Holy Scriptures and of God’s commandments, for this knowledge is like an illuminating flame that illuminates people who are in his house. For the ignorant, he is like a blind person, as Christ says, ‘Let them alone: they be blind leaders of the blind. And if the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch.’55 Second, it is also necessary for the head of the youths to have a virtuous life, for observers learn more from holy behaviour than from words. For a holy life is similar to sweet-smelling incense and a flower and every person rejoices in seeing those and smelling those. Third, the leader of the youths must do good works, such that he is blessed and benevolent, for the benevolent man wins over everyone and his blessed conduct, like a father and a parent, becomes a place of meeting for those lacking a leader, and for those who are foreign a blessing, for he has pity and blesses the poor and the needy, the orphans and the men. And for those who are deprived of virtue and knowledge, he offers healing and blesses them compassionately. Fourth, it is necessary for the head of the youths to be obedient to the church and to accept all of its counselled teachings. For God, the church is the place of God’s gift of grace, and the palace of God’s kingship. 55 Matthew, 15:14.

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And when did it start this calling of the ‘youth’ and naming of the way? Let me say that it began with Christ and his Holy Apostles. For during Christ’s physical coming, men were behaving with antiquated sins and were walking along a confused path, because of their sins and their ignorance and their Godlessness. Christ our God, by means of the basin of baptism, made them become as children again from the antiquity of their sins and he made the men wise by means of the Bible’s knowledge, and called them by means of God’s voice and turned them away from the confused path. He introduced them to God the Father, himself and the Holy Spirit, and showed them the true path, saying, ‘I am the way, and the truth and the life.’56 Now, those who go with Christ’s call, they rise into heaven and reach his kingdom, and these types are true God-fearers and the children of God. And after Christ’s ascent, the holy apostles, by means of their sermons, became the teachers of the world, and from the apostles originated the holy fathers and vardapets that teach the path of God’s laws. And this is also a tradition of the Christians, such that the God-loving, good Christian godfather takes a boy as a faithful pledge to God. And when the boy grows, it is necessary that whomever he has been pledged to teaches him the faith, and gives his teaching to him, and then he is discharged and is released from his duties. Now, even if all of the graces in the Church are shared by means of the hands of the priests, it is the most benevolent and holy Christians who are worthy and become the leaders of the youths. And like a father and a parent, he is compassionate towards his children, and encourages the youths in all good works, and by means of word and deed leads them, and gives them the belt of the holy-loving youths.

Concerning Belts Now, how many are the belts that are given? And, what are their meanings and their strengths? The first belt is that which is Christian, that the priest fastens after baptism in the font, conducting the white cloth around the ribbon, intertwining red and white. Now, the white apparel is an example of Adam’s innocence, while he was in heaven. That same innocence that he lost, his children can find in the church, 56 John: 14:6.



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which is the new heaven. As for the red and the white, which is tied across the head in the form of the cross on forehead, the white is a symbol of Christ’s God­ liness and the red, of His human body and blood, which are combined in Christ.57 Now, for every person who is baptised in the faith of Christ in his basin and who communes with his body and blood, it is necessary that he know this sacrament. Thus, in the manner that the belt binds the middle, in this same manner is it that God’s love binds the Christian and links the indestructible soul to Christ. By means of being removed from the servitude of sins, he always serves God. And the second is the priestly belt that the bishop gives to the priests and the deacons, such that the graces of God and his creations remain robust and active, and diligent and prompt in the work of the service of the church. The third belt is that of the hermits and belonged to Elijah and John the Baptist who wrapped the hair of a camel and a strap of hide around it, for in the same way that hide is dead skin, according to God’s love, all of their sins and desires are abandoned and passions killed and dried up.58 The fourth belt is the soldier’s belt, by means of which the soldier girds his loins, and on which he hangs all of his warring tools. In the same way that in this religion of Christianity, he wars and fights with Satan, the outfitting of the warrior is the belt. The Holy Apostle Paul teaches, ‘Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the coat of mail of righteousness;’59 for in the same way that a breastplate is made of many rings, in the same way does justice come from a plurality of righteousness. And, thus, dress your legs with the truth. According to the advice of the Bible, in the same way as you tie a shoe, bind your loins with truth; the truth of the girding of the belt, is to bind your loins. Take the shield of faith. Take the faith shield to your faces and your shoulders. Place faith as a helmet upon your heads. And the word of God is a weapon and a sword in your hands and in this manner did he fight with Satan and his demons who took you out of paradise and now try to take you out of the kingdom of heaven. 57 This makes reference to the narod, or braided ribbon, that is tied around one’s head during the sacrament of baptism. 58 According to the Bible, both Elijah and John the Baptist (hermetic forerunners to the ‘coming’ of Jesus Christ), wore the same kind of clothing and carried the same kind of message. 2 Kings 1:7–8. Matthew 3:4. 59 Ephesians, 6:14, 15

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The fifth belt belongs to the travellers: the belt ties the girdle (Arm., drawšak) to the clothing and lifts it up so that walking is made easy. For example, when the Israelites migrated out of Egypt and arrived in Jerusalem, God commanded them in this way and said: ‘May your belts be tied along your waist and a rod rest in your hand.’60 And in this way, by remaining on their feet they ate the Easter Sheep. In the same way with us, who are on the way in this life, is it necessary to wear the belt of sound judgment and in this way to walk along the path of life. And accordingly, they draw the belt along their loins to bridle the desire, for desire is born in the loins and below the areas that are near the liver and the kidneys. Now, tightening the belt ties the great serpent, desire. And in the same way that the traveller draws up the girdle that he might go easily, in the same way do you draw up the desire that you have in this world. And turning your love and your desire to God, such that it is easy for you to fly to Heaven by means of your thoughts and to rise towards God from this earth, that is called darkness and frustration. Now, he who desires to take the belt of the leader of the youths must learn all the mysteries of the leader of the youths, and the adopted youth must love the belt by means of this wisdom. Now, it is necessary to learn these mysteries61 such that when he gives the belt and when he receives it, and someone asks a question, they have answers to give. And do not engage with false or confused knowledge and those who call themselves travellers but are not travellers.62 You know yourself a traveller And you go along the path, You like the name of youth And you don’t have a real child. The path is restricted and narrow, You saw it with your eyes and went,

60 Exodus 12:11. 61 The term ‘mystery’ (Arm., xorxurd) is also the term for ‘sacrament’. 62 Again, this particular verse and the following poem indicate a certain concern on the part of the author for ‘pretenders’ of fotovvat or manktut‘iwn.



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The name of youth is sweet, You remain bitter and tasteless. I will call you a traveller when You know a part of the path. You were born and came to this world, Tell me, where are you from. You came from a foreign country, Show me now, where will you stay? When you die and are buried in the land, Tell me, where will you go?

Concerning the Belt of Investiture When the leader of the youths gives the belt to his adopted son, such that they enter the brotherhood, they read the constitution, he listens and they ask him, ‘Are you obedient to the laws?’ And if he assents and says, ‘I am obedient,’ then the leader of the youths says, ‘Oh my son, I order you to do these 15 things, of which the first is to love God, who is your Creator; and then according to God’s love, love people, who are your friends and your brothers; and those things that are on this earth forbidden by God’s love and are snares, hate them and leave them alone. ‘Every day, sit in three faithful prayers, and every time genuflect 12 times in the morning and at noon and in the evening, as the toil of God, and by means of prayer does one speak with Him. And every Sunday confess the sins of the week to your confessor, that in the same way that a doctor helps a sick person, in the same way does a confessor help a sinner. And every Saturday and Sunday go to church. ‘Be obedient to your parents and honour them, for along with God they are man’s esteemed parents. ‘Love work, for from your toil do you eat and give to others, as the psalms say, “For thou shalt eat the labour of thine hands: happy shalt thou be, and it shall be well with thee.”63

63 Psalms, 128:2.

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‘Be in peace with all people and do not be violent, for the peace-loving person is the son of God and the seditious violent one is the son of Satan. ‘As much as you can, remain without a woman, keep yourself pure from foreign sins. And if you want to marry, take an obedient and halal woman according to the blessing of the crown and do not show desire for other women, for he who mixes with foreign women is called a dog and not a man. 64 ‘He who loves God keeps the commandments of God, for God and his saints having given, according to this, “If you love me, keep my commandments.”65 And for the sake of one fruit that was without the command of God, Adam was cast out of paradise. ‘Do not love wine and drunkenness, for wine mislays four main things for man: when he uses it, it brings harm to the soul, to the mind, to chastity (Trk., ırz) and to duty. For example, when a boat is heavy, it sinks in the sea, and whatever is inside of it is lost. In the same way, when he becomes heavy with drunkenness, man loses all that is good. ‘Do not surround yourself with corrupt and sin-loving friends, for in the same way that man avoids leprosy, small pox and scurvy, and separates himself from them and fears them, he must distance himself and even remains separate from those men who have the leprosy of sin in their souls, and must surround himself with holy people, knowledgeable and wise people, and try to imitate them.’ And when he gives you this advice, he takes a person and gives him the thin belt called ‘zunnar’ and says, ‘I give this belt to you and I bind your loins in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.66 Gird your loins by means of the belt, and by means of God’s love will your heart be bound. And according to God’s love, keep the commandments. ‘Keep the Christian name that was given to you holy and do not make it lacking. As Christ died for you, and was immortal, you shall die for Christ, you who are 64 The term halal is used to mean ‘licit’ and most likely without any religious connotation. 65 John, 14:15. 66 The zunnar is the girdle associated with the wardrobe of Christians and Jews (or, dhimmi) living in Islamic lands. See A.S. Tritton, ‘Zunnār’ in EI2.



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mortal, and do not look after your body. ‘Deny the treasures of this world, its earthly glories and keep strong your worship of God and your faith and do not give up anything for your faith. ‘Esteem the emotions of your friends, cry with he who cries and laugh with he who laughs: Do not speak evil with your tongue, or you are lost If you confess your sins, you become righteous. Prayer is speech with God, do not be slothful in it Toil by means of your hands and give and take 1000 for one.

‘Do not be without work and idle, for the idle man is in Satan’s domain and the diligent is in the domain of God. In the same way does one of the Saints say, “The Holy Spirit takes repose in the hard-working person.” ‘And God said to Adam: “Is it by the sweat of your two hands that you must eat your bread.”67 And Paul says, “Hands that do not work do not nourish.”68 And the prophet David says, “You eat from the work of your hands. How happy you are, may it be good.”69 And the Lord teaches, “It is thanks to our prayers that our bread is solicited, not in other ways.” It is this, that it should be from your halal work and sweat and not from extortion or exploitation of the work of others.’ He gives all of this advice to the adopted youth and then ties the belt around his loins and says, ‘God, make him graceful,’ and the brothers say, ‘Amen and May it be so.’

Bibliography Anasian, H. ‘The Turkish fütüvvet and the Armenians’, trans. Aram Arkun, in Journal of the Society of Armenian Studies 4 (1988–89), 161–84. Barkan, Ö. L. Kolonizatör Türk Dervişleri, in Vakıflar Dergisi, II, (Ankara, 1942), 279–353. 67 Genesis 3:19. 68 2 Thessalonians 3:10. 69 Psalm 128:2.

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Bauer, T. ‘Die Kultur der Ambiguität’. Eine andere Geschichte des Islams. (‘The Culture of Ambiguity’: A different history of Islam) (Berlin, 2011). Dadoyan, Seta Barsoumian. Yovhannēs Pluz Erznkac‘ii ‘I Tačkac‘ Imastasirac‘’ew Imastasirakan Arjakǝ Islamakan Ałbiwnerun lusin tak (‘From the Wisdom of Muslims’ of Yovhannēs Pluz Erznkac‘i and its Worth Considered in the Context of Islamic Sources) (Beirut, 1991). ———. ‘The Constitution for the Brotherood of Erzkay (1280) by Yovhannēs Erznkacʿi (d. 1293): an Armenization of the Futuwwa reform project and literature of Abbasid Caliph al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (d. 1225)’, Revue des Etudes Armeniennes 29 (2003–4), 117–65. ———. The Armenians in the Medieval Islamic World: Paradigms of Interaction, 3 vols. (New York, 2014). Dostourian, Ara Edmond, trans. Armenia and the Crusades Tenth to Twelfth Centuries: the Chronicle of Matthew of Edessa (Lanham, MD, 1993). Ebn Battuta, Selections from the Travels of Ibn Battuta, ed. H.A.R. Gibb (London, 1930). Ebn Bibi, al-Awamir al-ʿalaʾiya fi’l-umur al-ʿalaʾiya, facsimile edition of the full text in MS Aya Sofya 2985 prepared by Adnan Sadık Erzi as Ibn-i Bibi, El-Evamirü’l-ʿAlaʾiyye fi’l-umuri’l-ʿAlaiyye (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1956); Turkish translation based on full text by Mürsel Öztürk, 2 vols. (Ankara, 1996). Goš, Mxit‘ar. Datastanagirk‘ (‘Law Code’), ed. Xosrov T‘orosyan (Yerevan, 1975). Goshgarian, Rachel. ‘Futuwwa in thirteenth century Rum and Armenia: Reform movements and the managing of multiple allegiances on the Seljuk periphery’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East, ed. A.C.S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız (London, 2013), 227–63. ———. ‘Opening and closing: Coexistence and competition in associations based on futuwwa in late medieval Anatolian cities’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40/1 (2013), 36–52. Grigoryan, V. ‘Arevmtyan Ukrainayi Haykakan Gałutneri Ktričvorac‘ yełbayrut‘iwnneri masin [Concerning the Brotherhoods of the Braves of the Armenian Communities of Western Ukraine]’, in Patmabanasirakan Handes, II (Yerevan, 1963) 115–127. al-Hanafi, Idris b. Baydakon al-Torkomani. Kitab al-luma‘ f i ’l-hawadith wa’lbida‘, Deutsches Archeologisches Institut Kairo: Quellen zur Geschichte des Islamischen Egyptens, vol. 3a, ed. Subhi Labib (Wiesbaden, 1986).



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Hasluck, W. Christianity and Islam Under the Sultans, II (Oxford, 1928). Irwin, R. ‘Futuwwa’: Chivalry and gangsterism in medieval Cairo”, Muqarnas 21 (2004), 161–70. Kafadar, C. Between Two Worlds (Berkeley, 2000). ———. ‘A Rome of one’s own: reflections on cultural geography and identity in the lands of Rum’, History and Ideology: Architectural Heritage of the ‘Lands of Rum’, ed. Sibel Bozdogan, Gulru Necipoglu and Julia Bailey, Muqarnas 24 (2007), 7–25. Kouymjian, D. ‘The Canons dated 1280 of the Armenian akhī-type Brotherhood of Erzinjan’, in Actes du XXIXe congrès international des Orientalistes (Paris, 1975), 107–15. Pałtasaryan, Y. Hovhannes Erznkac‘i yev nra xratakan arjakǝ (‘Hovhannes of Erzinjan and His Advice Literature’) (Yerevan, 1997). ———. ‘Yerznkayi Haykakan Išxanutyunǝ XIII-XIV darerum’ (‘Armenian Rule in Erzinjan in the 13th and 14th Centuries’), in Lraber 2, no. 321 (Yerevan, 1970), 36–44. P‘ork‘šayan, X.A. ‘Nor Naxiǰevani Hay Gyułeri Ktričneru Miut‘iwnneri Masin [On the Associations of the Braves in the Armenian Villages of Nor Naxiǰevan]’, in Patmabanasirakan Handes, III (Yerevan, 1966) 184–92. Ridgeon, L, Jawanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour ((Edinburgh, 2011). Russell, J. ‘The craft and Mithraism reconsidered’, Proceedings of the American Lodge of Research 18 (1989), 15–28. ———. ‘Medieval Armenian fraternities’, Transactions of the American Lodge of Research of Free and Accepted Masons 23 (1995), 38–57. Sakaoğlu, N. Türk Anadolu’da Mengücekoğulları (Istanbul, 1995). Tritton, A.S.. ‘Zunnār’ in EI2, XI, 571–2. Srabyan, A. Kostandin Erznkac‘i, Tałer (Verses of Kostandin of Erzinjan) (Yerevan, 1962). ———. Hovhannes Erznkac‘i, Bank‘ Čap‘av (John of Erzinjan, Measured Words) (Yerevan, 1986). Stepanyan, G. Erznka: hnakuyn tareric minčev mer orerǝ (‘Erzinjan: From the Most Ancient Times to our Days’) (Yerevan, 2005). Taeschner, F. ‘Beiträge zur Geshichte der Akhis in Anatolien’, Islamica, IV (Weisbaden, 1931). Thomson, Robert W. ‘The Eastern Mediterranean in the thirteenth century: identities and allegiances the peripheries: Armenia’, in Identities and Allegiances in the Eastern Mediterranean after 1204, ed. Judith Herrin and Guillaume St. Guillain (Farnum and Burlington, 2011).

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Uṛhayec‘i, Matt‘eos. Žamanakagrut‘iwn, ed. M. Melik-Adamian and N. TerMik‘aelyan (Vałaršapat, 1898). van Lint, Theo Maarten. Kostandin of Erznka: an Armenian Religious Poet of the XIIIth–XIVth century (Unpublished PhD Dissertation: Leiden, 1996). Vryonis, S. The Decline of Medieval Hellenism and the Islamization of Medieval Anatolia (Berkeley, 1971). Xačikyan, L. ‘1280 T‘vakanin Erznkayum kamakerpvac ełbayrut‘yunnǝ’ (‘The Brotherhood organized in Erzinjan in 1280’), Tełekagir 12 (Yerevan, 1951), 73–84. ———. ‘Erznka K‘ałak‘i ‘Yełbarc Miabanoutean Kanonatrout‘iwnǝ’ (‘The Constitution of the Association of Brothers of the City of Erzinjan’), Banber Matenadarani 6 (Yerevan, 1962), 365–77.

7

Adab in the Workshop: Concepts of Fotovvat, Proper Conduct and Moral Economy in Central Asian Craftsmanship1 Jeanine Elif Dağyeli Abstract Adab and more specifically ethical behaviour associated with fotovvat are central discursive and embodied moral values often disseminated through different vernacular narratives. Among Central Asian craftsmen, the prime source for knowledge about etiquette was the so-called craft’s resaleh, a popular text genre that religiously legitimised and sacralised to a certain degree manual labour, services and trades. By drawing on prominent concepts like purity, modesty, self-denigration and honesty, the texts modelled the image of the ideal craftsman and were a powerful tool for the production of a group identity among the working population.

Adab is not only a set of rules concerning etiquette, but a mimetic practice that occupied a central place in Muslim societies.2 Although much of the ideas 1 For the sake of readability and uniformity throughout the volume, transliterations of Persian and Chaghatay terms in this article have been adapted to a modern Persian style. This does not, however, represent the Dari/Tajik variants of Persian used in the Central Asian region, according to which I would have to use risola instead of resaleh. The catalogues usually list the texts as risala. 2 Adeeb Khalid, The Politics of Muslim Cultural Reform: Jadidism in Central Asia (Berkeley, 1998), 21.

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on etiquette and conduct have been laid down in specific literature, adab was not primarily designed to be known theoretically, but to be practised in daily conduct. Thus, adab is also an embodied behaviour intimately linked to age, class, gender, and profession. The Central Asian crafts’ atmosphere generated a milieu-specific kind of literature on etiquette called the crafts’ resaleh (resalehye kasb in Persian, and kasb resalasi/resalesi in the Turkic languages of the region).3 Resaleh best translates to ‘treatise concerning gainful activity’, taking into consideration that the word kasb which is used throughout the texts has a wider range of meaning than ‘craft’, used here for convenience. These popular literary texts have been utilised as a moral code of conduct for the male population engaged in the crafts in Persianate communities of Central Asia, North-Western India and Kashmir, and informed the craftsmen’s habitus.4 The resaleh mostly comes in the shape of a small book and contains the individual craft’s divine initiation story, information about the patron saint of the profession (pir), instructions for proper moral conduct of the craftsmen, eschatological scenes, and the appropriate prayers that should accompany various stages in the production process. Manuscripts are usually either in Persian or Chaghatay, while lithographic or print copies may appear as well in Uyghur, Uzbek, Turkmen or Pashto.5 Passages from the Qurʾan are rendered in Arabic. The age of the texts has been an object of dispute and divided the scholarly community as soon as the texts were discovered in the late 19th century. Some scholars were convinced that the genre went back to the earliest antiquity, others saw its genesis in the formation of early Islam, still others said it was a produce of the 19th century.6 The manuscripts themselves offer no solution: although some are dated, these 3 See note 1. 4 For the resaleh and its previous study cf. Mikhail Gavrilov, Risolia sartovskikh remeslennikov. Izsledovanie predanii musul‘manskikh tsekhov (Tashkent, 1912), Micheline Centlivres-Demont, ‘Un corpus de risāla du Turkestan afghan’, in Madrasa. Le transmission du savoir dans le monde musulman, ed. Nicole Grandin & Marc Gaborieau (Paris, 1997), 84–89, Dilyara Atadjanova, Istoriografiia remeslennogo proizvodstva bukharskogo khanstva XIX v. (na osnove izucheniia literatury i remeslennykh ustavov ‘risola’), (Autoabstract, Institute of History, Academy of Sciences of the Republic of Uzbekistan, Tashkent, 2008), Jeanine E. Dağyeli, ‘Gott liebt das Handwerk’, Moral, Identität und religiöse Legitimierung in der mittelasiatischen Handwerks-risāla (Wiesbaden, 2011a), as well as their bibliographies. 5 Language is a difficult issue in the resaleh. Many texts, although written predominantly in one language, are interspersed with words, expressions, sentences and even passages in another. Furthermore, they occasionally seem to be translated in an interlinear manner, rendering the syntax in the target language somewhat awkward. 6 For a short discussion of this debate see Dağyeli, ‘Gott liebt das Handwerk’, 12–13.



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dates refer to the time of copying only and range from the late 19th to early 20th centuries. Even if available data does not allow us to locate the resaleh in a specific historical timeframe, it is clear that the genre must have been firmly in place by the 19th century. Rather than looking for the origin of the texts, we may embark on a study of the gradual evolution of this genre through observing the wider literary environment. One treatise dated from 1697 has been preserved in the Institute of Oriental Studies in Tashkent. The manuscript called Anis al-salekin (‘Companion to the travellers on the path’) deals with professional ethics. In the strictest terms, it is not a resaleh because a resaleh restricts itself to a single profession, while Anis al-salekin talks about general work ethics. The work may, however, point to the possible origin of the resaleh from a sphere of mixed oral and written treatises concerning ethics and the proper conduct that were increasingly tailored to fit a vocational context.7 Other earlier treatises of comparable characteristics include the mirror of princes, Qabus-nameh (written around 1082–83), and Hosayn Vaʿez Kashefi‘s Fotovvat-nameh-ye soltani (written before 1505), which, despite their titles, at least partly occupy themselves with ethical comportment throughout different professions.8 While hagiographies, admonition stories and exempla literature flourished in oral, written and mixed forms, the 18th century saw a shift in Central Asia towards the written fixation of hitherto orally circulated texts by laypersons who entered the scene of formerly elite, trained scribes. The result was the expansion of the range of texts considered noteworthy of being written down. Nuryog‘di Toshev, who has drawn our attention to this development, suspects that the resaleh might have been among the texts that were increasingly written down in the course of this process, which would explain its relatively late appearance on a mass basis.9 With the implementation of socialist rule in Soviet Central Asia and later in Xinjiang, and the subsequent restructuring of the work sphere and the introduction of new spaces for the production and transmission of knowledge, the resaleh quickly lost its authority and survives today mostly in archives and private collections.

7 MS IVRUz-1 10723, 1v-36r. It is described in Katalog sufischer Handschriften aus der Bibliothek des Instituts für Orientalistik der Akademie der Wissenschaften, Republik Usbekistan, ed. Jürgen Paul (Stuttgart, 2002), serial. no. 154. 8 Both works have been published variously. For this chapter the editions Kaykovus, Qobusnoma (Tashkent, 2006) and Husayn Voizi Koshifi, Futuvvatnomai sultonī (Dushanbe, 1991) have been consulted. 9 Nuryog‘di Toshev, ‘Znachenie fonda rukopisei instituta vostokovedeniia akademii nauk respubliki Uzbekistan dlia issledovaniia voprosov islamskoi civilisacii’, in O‘zbekistonning islom tsivilisatsiyasi rivojiga qo‘shgan hissasi (Tashkent, 2007), 320–21.

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The resaleh-texts claim scriptural authority and the power to secure the craftsman a place in heaven if he recites the resaleh and works according to its prescriptions and moral admonitions. Obviously, the texts were meant to contain memorisable, formulaic truths which could be expected from a craftsman in good standing, and some rare ethnographic accounts claim that the contents of the resaleh were recited during the ceremony that promoted an apprentice into a master.10 The texts were intended to be kept in the workshop or to be carried around by the craftsman (e.g. in his pocket or – as one craftsman recalled having heard from his grand-uncle – rolled up, fixed by a silver ring and worn in the turban). This shows their double function: they served as religious texts and as amulets at the same time. The resaleh was meant as a practical guide for craftsmen concerning questions of work-related and general proper conduct; they mirrored disputes about religiously legitimate gain and transmitted basic Islamic concepts as well as central Sufi concerns – especially concerns eminent among the Naqshbandiyya order, which was very influential in Central Asia. It verbalised these central Islamic and fotovvat-related values in milieu-specific language and images, and transformed them into ritual practice ultimately embedded in the craftsmen’s protocol. The resaleh was copied frequently, and each copyist and each performer reformulated the text according to his audience, which explains the wide variety of motives and plotlines encountered within textbooks of one and the same craft.11 Even if the explicit terminology of javanmardi is largely absent in these texts, its inherent values and concepts are at the core of the morality, ethics and etiquette outlined in the resaleh. The references made in the resaleh to Sufi and fotovvat-related ideas are plenty and variegated. It is impossible to follow each indication in detail in one chapter; instead, I will highlight some of the resaleh’s central concerns and show how they fit into the general crafts’ context. The resaleh usually describes norms and values concerning fotovvat, decency, modesty and manners under the term adab. Originally standing for decent education/instruction, adab later came to designate a specific kind of education, namely 10 Isa Dzhabbarov, ‘Remeslo uzbekov iuzhnogo Khorezma v kontse XIX-nachale XX v. (Istoriko-etnograficheskii ocherk)’, in Zaniatia i byt narodov Srednei Azii, ed. N.A. Kisliakov (Leningrad, 1971), 72–146. For comparable memorisation within the Moroccan crafts, see Dale Eickelman, ‘The art of memory: Islamic education and its social reproduction’, Comparative Studies in Society and History 20/4 (1978), 485–516. 11 To give an example, there are three major initiation storylines in the resaleh-texts for blacksmiths which are very different from each other, alongside a variety of combinations of these stories and additional plots.



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one aimed at moulding a virtuous, decent, generous, modest personality with good manners and regard for others’ well-being. More specifically, adab suggests the decent behaviour of a pupil towards his elder or master. A resaleh of bakery, for instance, explicitly calls upon the baker to behave with adab when in the company of his master.12 Within the context of the crafts’ resaleh, this is an important point, since the transmission of spiritual and mundane professional knowledge depended on the quality of the relationship between master and apprentice, modelled after the relationship between the master and the patron saint, the patron saint and the archangel Gabriel, and ultimately Gabriel and God.

Ethics concerning the Self and the Other The notion of adab as advanced in the resaleh implies an inward and an outward aspect of ethics and etiquette. One relates to the spiritual and bodily comportment of the craftsman himself – invisible to the outside. The other concerns his personal mode of interaction with customers and the outside world in general where resaleh-backed morality demands modesty, benevolence, a denigration of gain and a preference for spiritual values over worldly affairs. A central concern throughout the resaleh is cleanliness and purity. Purity is envisioned on several distinct levels and often, if not always, distinguished semantically. The respective terms are pak or pakizeh, tazeh, halal and ba-taharat. Taharat signifies an invisible ritual purity gained through the performance of the ablution prescribed in Islam. Many resaleh texts demand that the craftsman be in a state of taharat during his work. In practice, this prescription could easily collide with requirements and nature of the profession, for instance if a craftsman was exposed to substances with inherent polluting faculties like blood, as butchers or barbers would be. This antagonism is not addressed in the texts, however. In contrast, a resaleh of butchery dedicates the first three out of twelve prescriptions classified as vajeb – mandatory Islamic obligations – to purity and cleanliness: to keep oneself clean (pak), to work in the state of ritual purity (taharat), and to smell well. It furthermore generally demands adab from the butcher.13 The term pak, meaning pure or clean, is used interchangeably with pakizeh and tazeh in the resaleh. These are the most opaque designations for they can indicate the visible, outward purity of the craftsman’s body, clothes and the state of his 12 Resaleh of bakery, MS, Prov. 41. Lund University Library, Gunnar Jarring Collection. 13 Resaleh of butchery, printed copy ST-2, 17. Private collection, described in Dağyeli, ‘Gott liebt das Handwerk’, 311–12.

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workshop, as well as invisible inward references to his intentions, moral standing and compliance with work-related ethics. To work in a pak or tazeh state means to keep the workplace clean and to wear fresh clothes, but also to be pure in a more figurative sense: to treat clients in a friendly manner, to refrain from gossip and cheating, etc. On a more abstract level, purity is applied to a whole complex of moral and ethical questions related to work and professional honour. This holistic understanding of purity still resonates with many craftsmen. Usto Abdusattor, a master silversmith from the Tajik town of Kulob, was only one among my many interviewees who stressed the importance of purity in craftsmanship and pondered its multi-layered meanings. A craftsman should wash himself every morning before starting off to work and dress in clean clothes. One’s head and body should be pure (tazeh) as well as one’s thoughts. Tazeh, however, also refers to honesty in practising the craft. Usto Abdusattor recalled the ritual admonition spoken in his craft by the master when an apprentice finishes his apprenticeship and enters the ranks of masters. The new master is reminded to adhere to the craft’s moral requirements: The master recites the prayers and congratulates his apprentice: ‘May [your] work be pure, work in a pure way (kor kori toza ay, kori toza kun).’ This means he should not dilute the silver by adding something else.14

Another smith from the city of Bukhara reasoned about the balance of purity and harmony in a similar way: It is necessary to always recite the fateha and prayers for the pir. It is also necessary to always keep the workshop clean. The workshop has to be clean and one’s self (he pointed to his heart) also has to be. It is necessary to treat one’s apprentices well and explain everything to them. A workshop where all craftsmen are permanently quarrelling will not work. Not because of the clients who will not enter in the first instance, but because of the pir. He will intervene and put an end to everything.15

The master’s statement very nicely shows an interwoven conception of outward and inward purity at the heart of harmony – a social value in itself – while the patron saint of the profession acts as the guardian of morality and etiquette. 14 Interview with the silversmith Usto Abdusattor Ghaforov, Kulob/Tajikistan, in 2006, reflecting the Tajik style of pronunciation. 15 Interview with the blacksmith Usto Shokir Kamalov, Bukhara/Uzbekistan, in 2007.



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The last category for purity in the resaleh, halal, is used in an interesting way. In principle, it signifies everything legitimised by Islam. In the texts, however, it predominantly refers to the religious legitimacy of professional gain. Earning one’s livelihood is equated with food and coded as a morsel [of food] (loqmeh) in the texts. The source of income and the moral standing of the individual determine whether the morsel of food is halal or not. A resaleh of smithery, for example, gives an account of the prophet David, king of an unspecified realm and patronsaint-to-be of smithery. Wandering his city in disguise, he asks a woman what kind of person her king is. She says that the king is a good person but his servants harass the people. Sorrow-stricken by her statement, David solicits God for a craft which enables him to make his livelihood in a pure way in future.16 This exempla story, apart from serving as an initiation narrative for the smiths’ craft, echoes Naqshbandi discourses on the legitimacy of earning one’s livelihood. The Naqshbandiyya advocated earning one’s livelihood through labour and favoured income generated by professional activity over accepting presents of dubious provenance, let alone from rulers, even if occupations be tiresome or base.17 The resaleh of the smiths’ craft seems to support this Sufi argumentation by stating indirectly that being a king is incompatible with a halal livelihood. Probably related to the train of thought about food, some resaleh texts maintain that it was haram for a craftsman to eat in the bazaar, since the food was prepared by others.18 This prohibition probably echoes concerns that one’s fotovvat may be damaged for eating in public places.19 If one ate and drank in the bazaar, one had to recite various surahs when leaving the place in order to render the consumed food halal.20 In the moral hierarchy of crafts, trades and services, food vendors occupied one of the least respected ranks. The prescription for abstaining from food in the bazaar may seem strange and exaggerated but probably rests on two moral and religious considerations. A powerful strand of opinion within the Central Asian 16 Resaleh of the smiths’ craft, IBH 7, 3–5. Private holding. Described in Dağyeli, ‘Gott liebt das Handwerk’, 296–97. 17 Jürgen Paul, Die politische und soziale Bedeutung der Naqshbandiyya in Mittelasien im 15. Jahrhundert (Berlin, 1991), 40. 18 Resaleh of the saddle makers’ craft, MS 1701, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preussischer Kulturbesitz. Described in Martin Hartmann, Die osttürkischen Handschriften der Sammlung Hartmann. Mitteilungen des Seminars für Orientalische Sprachen 7/2, serial no 85 (Berlin, 1904). 19 Cf. Franz Taeschner, Zünfte und Bruderschaften im Islam. Texte zur Geschichte der Futuwwa (Zurich et al., 1979), 118. 20 Resaleh of comb making, MS USI, fols. 27b-28a, in the craftsman’s private holding. Described in Dağyeli, ‘Gott liebt das Handwerk’, 313–14.

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Naqshbandi order claimed that only such food was religiously permissible which had been prepared by a pure person and in religiously permitted ways. As this was something never to be sure about when buying food in the street, eating outside was generally discouraged and considered harmful to a person’s etiquette. The second rationale behind the argument was the locale itself. The bazaar was considered an impure, filthy place and a preferred dwelling place of the devil since it encouraged fraud, speculation, avarice and other morally and religiously dubious activities. Furthermore, through its focus on competition and gain, the bazaar posed a challenge to the individual who was in danger of surrendering to his nafs (appetitive soul), responsible for the quest for gain instead of controlling it and turning business into a service to the family or society. The bazaar was thus the conceptual counter-piece to the workshop, the dwelling place of the patron saint. The category halal is used with caution in the resaleh since there are many crafts which do not conform wholly to Islamic prescriptions on matters of purity in parts or in their entire production process. The resaleh, however, as a text following internal crafts’ objectives, aims at legitimising all professions, and reasons that God initiated the professions and instructed prophets and holy figures to act as founding fathers and patron saints. The professions are thus under His tutelage and therefore cannot be religiously illegitimate: God sent out of His own might 40,072 professions to his slaves (i.e. mankind) for them to exercise a craft, so men and women would have a pure (halal) source of livelihood.21

Income generated from crafts and similar professions is accordingly halal as long as the craftsman works in the morally impeccable way laid down in the resaleh. Only through individual moral failure can a craft and the income derived from it become religiously impure: The morsel (i.e. livelihood) of the butcher who does not work according to the resaleh, and who does not treasure the resaleh but [nevertheless] sells meat […] is as much haram as pork.22

Another aspect of adab, closely connected to purity, is orderliness. The craftsman 21 Resaleh of the barbers’ craft, Lit. 93/7, 96–97. Lund University Library, Gunnar Jarring Collection. 22 Resaleh of butchery, MS Prov. 271/2, 2r-v.



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is strongly encouraged to keep his workshop tidy. After work, everything should be stored away in its place. A resaleh of bakery calls it adab to take bread decently with one’s right hand and to put everything one has taken back to its place.23 Although prescriptions of tidiness in the resaleh are normative and did not necessarily correspond to lived labour practice, they still appear strange in the light of Russian colonial texts which deplore the filth, disorder and low technical standard of Central Asian craftsmanship.24 The discrepancy encountered in these two kinds of very different sources might owe as much to the necessity of legitimising the colonial ‘civilising mission’ by degrading the Other, as to cultural differences with regard to notions of tidiness and order. The purity of mind emphasised so often in the resaleh as well as in interviews translates into many facets of morally approved behaviour. Although the resaleh makes no reference to existing general codices of conduct, it obviously resonates with other books on etiquette and Sufi treatises in propagating the comportment of craftsmen. Frugality, generosity and honesty distinguish the ideal craftsman who engages neither in gossip nor fraud. Owing to its status as a professional code of conduct, the resaleh is ambivalent in judging remuneration and often oscillates between legitimacy and limits of gain. While generally positive towards remunerated work (and thus contradicting certain Sufi schools of thought that propagated reliance on God for sustenance), it seeks to discourage over-evaluation of material wealth through appeals for frugality (qanaʿat) and almsgiving and an explicit disdain for lucre, avarice and accumulation of capital. Profit, greed and stinginess are condemned as religiously illegitimate (haram). Remuneration received from work or parts of the output should be spent on charitable deeds and almsgiving as detailed in a resaleh of bakery: Every time you go to the mouth of the oven, you should donate one bread in the name of the prophets and the saints as meritorious deed to wandering scholars (ʿalem-e gharib) [and] the needy (masakin-e na-tavan).25

Other resaleh-texts specify certain proportions of the remuneration and their proposed use; according to these, a craftsman should spend a quarter of his income for charitable deeds (‘on God’s path’), a quarter for his and his family’s 23 Resaleh of bakery, Ms Prov. 41, 30v. 24 Cf. V. Razvadkovskii, ‘Opyt izsledovaniia goncharnogo i nekotorykh drugikh kustarnykh promyslov v Turkestanskom krae’, Turkestanskoe selskoe khoziaistvo 6 (1916), 567–73. 25 Resaleh of bakery, Ms Prov. 41, 29v-30r.

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sustenance, and the rest for the upkeep of his workshop and savings.26 His interest in work should not be dominated by overtly pecuniary consideration: a craftsman should rather be modest and content with whatever the customer is willing to pay, even if the sum turns out to be too little.27 A resaleh of the weavers’ craft calls frugality (qanaʿat) one out of eight stations (maqam) every righteous weaver has to know, thus using an explicitly Sufi terminology: If they ask how many stations there are in the weavers’ craft, answer: there are 1001 stations. If you do not know these, there are eight. These eight stations, every master must know. God prevent he does not know them. […] The first of the eight stations is patience (sabr), […] the second station is modesty (hayaʾ), […] the third station is godliness (taqvaʾ), […] the fourth station is frugality.28

While admonitions for proper behaviour are often made explicit in the texts, they may also be embedded in exempla stories usually revolving around the patron saint of the profession. The prophet Ayyub, in any case a symbol for patience and unshakeable trust in God, is evoked as an extraordinary model of almsgiving and denigration of worldly gain: His cattle (mal-teva) proliferated beyond measure; he had 40,000 black-eyed ewes. It was impossible to count his sheep, their number was not known. But he gave them all away in oblation to God’s path.29

Since not everybody is expected to show the same munificence as Ayyub, the text specifies that God will grant spiritual merit as well as material if the craftsman sacrifices part of his surplus for benevolent purposes: The noble Ibrahim’s flocks were especially numerous. […] If he donated one [of the animals] on God’s path, God gave him one hundred [instead].30

26 Resaleh of the smiths’ craft, IBH 7, 16–17. 27 Resaleh of the barbers’ craft, Lit. 93/7, 100. 28 Resaleh of the weavers’ craft, MS Prov. 2/3, 42v-43r. Lund University Library, Gunnar Jarring Collection. 29 Resaleh of stock breeding, lithography, IBH 11, 4, private holding. Described in Dağyeli, ‘Gott liebt das Handwerk’, 299–300. 30 Resaleh of stock breeding, ibid., 1–2.



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The passage not only points out a viable solution for lesser-than-Ayyub, ordinary craftsmen to conform to the commandment of benevolence, but also highlights the ultimate benevolence of God, who will return even a small donation in abundance.

Morality and moral economy in craftsmanship Although a manual for a community defined by certain professional gainful activities, the resaleh strongly promotes values of renunciation, honesty and an ‘ethical economy’ – described as an awareness of ‘dispositions, sentiments, valuations and norms regarding how people should behave with respect to others so as to harmonise conduct and maintain the different protagonists’ well-being’.31 This manner of moral economy requires strong bonds created and maintained by a collective identity based on an imaginary shared lineage from an apical patron saint regarded as a professional ancestor, an egalitarian ideal32 and a source for mutual solidarity.33 Egalitarian ideal manifested itself linguistically in the designation of ham-pir (the one with the same pir) for fellow craftsmen of the same profession and baradar (brother) as general form of address between fellow craftsmen. Debates about egalitarianism versus hierarchy have deep roots in the intellectual history of the Islamicate world.34 Especially in the crafts’ milieu, Sufi orders and schools of thought with an emphasis on ‘honest labour’, sobriety and just allocation of means of sustenance enjoyed popularity.35 Economist and social scientist, Sabri Ülgener, who comes from a family background with religious and Sufi ties, critically characterises this ideology of renunciation and culture of poverty in the crafts’ milieu in the late Ottoman Empire as both hypocritical and superficial, and prejudicial to economic progress, competition and modernisation. 31 Andrew Sayer, ‘Moral economy as critique’, New Political Economy 12/2 (2007), 261–70. 32 The ideal was upheld in the resaleh and in ritual practice but not necessarily in everyday life where crafts’ professional organisations as well as the individual workshop were also marked by hierarchical structures counteracting the egalitarian approach (cf. Dağyeli, ‘Gott liebt das Handwerk’, and ‘La construction des identités collectives d’après les chartes des corps de métier (risāla) en Asie centrale’, in La définition des identités, ed. Carole Ferret & Arnaud Ruffier, Cahiers d‘Asie centrale 19/20 (2011b), 73–94). 33 Cf. Dağyeli, ‘La construction des identités’, 88–90. 34 For an overview see Axel Havemann, ‘Soziale Hierarchie und Gleichheit: Zur Stellung der Berufe im mittelalterlichen Islam’, Der Islam 82/2 (2005), 256–72. 35 The term ‘just’ is difficult to pin down as it could mean different things depending on time and locality. For instance, a just allocation of raw materials for workshops could either mean an equal distribution of the same material to each workshop or an allocation depending on size and output.

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He sees the origin of this religiously-backed ideology of poverty in the early sixteenth century, when trade opportunities gradually decreased and craftsmen found themselves relegated to the fringes of economic development.36 Their ostentatious disinterest in worldly affairs – even if merely for display rather than out of real intention – glossed over with religious terms earned them a morally superior nimbus. Rather than a result of direct economic changes, the debates about a culture of poverty and the religiously correct use of gain mirrored in the resaleh derive from a religious and moral engagement with canonical and other sacred texts on these matters. Many arguments in the resaleh resemble Malamati thought, although a direct impact seems unlikely. The craftsmen’s religious and moral beliefs equipped them with a powerful counter-scheme vis-à-vis economically, politically, and socially more dominant groups, and can be seen as an attempt to legitimise at least within their own milieu a class specific view of how Islamic prescriptions ought to be understood. Even if the resaleh emphasises modesty and frugality, it does not completely renounce wealth. According to the texts, wealth implies social responsibility, however. A certain redistribution of wealth in favour of poorer segments of the population was not only stipulated by religion but also by social pressure. Wealthy craftsmen were expected to contribute more in financial terms to professional gatherings or festivities than their less wealthy peers. If an apprentice came from a rich family, he was expected to invite and entertain all local masters of his craft at the ceremony of his promotion to a master, while it would suffice for less well-to-do apprentices to invite their own master and the head of the professional association.37 A cautionary tale, whether real or fictional, about the moral pitfalls of wealth comes from early 20th-century Xinjiang. Two relatives from a village close to Kashgar had allegedly accumulated considerable wealth through investment in land, houses and political power. The critical matter turning the success story into an admonition was that the two nouveau-riches became arrogant, stopped giving alms, treated their clients badly and cheated their social inferiors.38 The story exemplifies that it was neither the newly acquired wealth, nor its dubious origin (currency and food speculation), but the violation of moral norms which deprived these two investors of social recognition and respect. 36 Sabri Ülgener, İktisadî çözülmenin ahlâk ve zihniyet dünyasi (Istanbul, 2006a) and Zihniyet ve din. İslâm, tasavvuf ve çözülme devri iktisat ahlâkı (Istanbul, 2006b). 37 Dzhabbarov, ‘Remeslo uzbekov iuzhnogo Khorezma’, 132. 38 Cf. Ildikó Bellér-Hann, Community Matters in Xinjiang 1880–1949. Towards a Historical Anthropology of the Uyghur (Leiden, 2008), 139.



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The moral danger emanating from wealth was also addressed by the Naqshbandiyya order. Although generally positive towards economic activities, Mohammad Parsa (died 1460–1461) had warned early on that rich persons and rulers were more in danger of yielding to the temptation of money, fame or other worldly matters.39 Gainful occupation should only secure one’s livelihood but not become a distinguishing feature between oneself and one’s neighbours and fellow Muslims. It should, furthermore, not dominate one’s life or become an end in itself, but remain secondary to religious obligations. The resaleh echoes these concerns by focusing on charity, honesty, modesty and religiosity. A resaleh of agriculture, if taken literally, demanded considerable renunciation of worldly affairs and trust in God: He [i.e. the righteous farmer] should [be able to] cite the names of the patron saints and give charitable oblations. Every year, he should have the Qurʾan recited (hatm-i Qurʾan) in honour of his predecessors and masters. He should not do any forbidden work. And he should not neglect the prayer times. Whatever work there might be to do, be it irrigation of the field or taking measures against mass flooding or preventing livestock from walking into the harvest, he should not deal with these matters during prayer times. He should always privilege matters of the hereafter over matters of this world. […] By this resaleh, he will gain much benefit. If he keeps this resaleh in faith, he will see great benefit. And God is omniscient in His justice. If someone harvests a batman of wheat according to this resaleh, his granary will fill up with wheat.40

Other texts are less specific and simply remind the craftsman not to engage in any illegitimate activities (na mašruʿ išlar).41 Keeping and reciting the resaleh could already qualify as a guarantee against these vices and as an equivalent to almsgiving. According to a resaleh of trade, keeping and reciting the text was on a par with going on pilgrimage to Mecca one hundred times, organising one hundred Qurʾan recitations, a donation of one hundred dirhams and the emancipation of slaves.42 39 Jürgen Paul, Doctrine and Organization. The Khwajagan/Naqshbandiya in the First Generation after Baha‘uddin (Halle, 1998), 47–48. 40 Resaleh of agriculture, MS IVRUz 7287/5, 358r-360r. Described in Katalog sufischer Handschriften, serial no. 168. A batman was a locally varying weight measure. 41 Resaleh of bakery, Ms Prov. 41, 29v. 42 Resaleh of grocery, MS IVRUz 3081/3, 57v. Al-Biruni Institute of Oriental Studies,

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Conclusion The resaleh holds up an ideal of craftsmanship imbued with morality, chivalrous behaviour, piety and modesty that was certainly far beyond the standard, everyday conduct. In the opinion of Bourdieu,43 discrepancies between the sacralised text and daily behaviour correspond to the tensions between symbolic representations of the world like patterns of thought and social orders or contexts which can never be fully congruent. We may, however, assume that its codes of conduct call for egalitarianism among craftsmen, and that regulations for morally grounded professional behaviour held an esteemed place in the crafts’ milieu, at least as an ideal one tried to aspire to. The value of the resaleh lay in its inherent promise: it was the materialisation of a ‘permanent possibility’ to achieve the ideal, an imagination of what craftsmanship should and could be like.44 In that respect, the resaleh was a sacred text, an amulet, a mnemonic device and a storage of values all at the same time. The end of the resaleh as a craft booklet came about during the 1930s, but was not completely Soviet-made. Already during the late 19th century, scholars like Mikhail Gavrilov noticed that the resaleh was on the decline, and the local spiritual leader Mahmudkhoja Behbudi (1875–1919) sharply attacked it for its alleged superstition and perverted rendering of Islamic doctrines. Russian and other European researchers, missionaries, administrators and other personnel who came across the resaleh likewise criticised the texts for their superstitious content and the fear they were thought to induce in the craftsmen with regard to Resurrection Day. The anti-religious campaigns of the 1930s led to the confiscation and destruction of religious books, often interpreted as books in Arabic script in general. A large share in the resaleh collections of Central Asian archives originates in this time when individual families and museum staff or scholars tried to save old books by locking them away in archives and museums. Finally, however, it was the restructuring of the entire work sphere that made the resaleh irrelevant to most craftsmen. Apprenticeship training was taken out of the individual master’s hand and transferred to crafts’ schools and colleges. The resaleh’s main arena had been public lecture and enactment during religious or crafts-specific Academy of Sciences of the Republic of Uzbekistan, Tashkent. Described in Kratkii katalog sufiskikh proizvodenii XVIII-XX. vv. iz sobraniia Instituta Vostokovedeniia Akademii Nauk Respubliki Uzbekistana im al-Biruni (Berlin 2000), seq. no 1742. 43 Pierre Bourdieu, ‘Systems of education and systems of thought’, International Social Science Journal 19 (1967), 339. 44 David Graeber, Toward an Anthropological Theory of Value. The False Coin of our Own Dreams (New York, 2001), 87.



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celebrations;45 these public events ceased with the changed work organisation and the political disapproval of religious display.

Bibliography Manuscripts and lithographies Anis al-salekin, MS IVRUz-1 10723/1, 1v-36r. Al-Biruni Institute of Oriental Studies, Academy of Sciences of the Republic of Uzbekistan, Tashkent. Described in Katalog sufischer Handschriften, serial no. 154. Resaleh of agriculture, MS IVRUz-1 7287/5, 358r-360r. Al-Biruni Institute of Oriental Studies, Academy of Sciences of the Republic of Uzbekistan, Tashkent. Described in Katalog sufischer Handschriften, serial no. 168. Resaleh of bakery, Ms Prov. 41, 2v-68v. Lund University Library, Gunnar Jarring collection. Resaleh of the barbers’ craft, Lit. 93/7, 95–102. Lund University Library, Gunnar Jarring collection. Resaleh of butchery, MS Prov. 271/2, 1v-9r. Lund University Library, Gunnar Jarring collection. Resaleh of butchery, print, ST-2, 15–19, Private holding. Described in Dağyeli, ‘Gott liebt das Handwerk’, 311–12. Resaleh of comb making, MS USI, no foliation. In the craftsman’s private holding. Described in Dağyeli, ‘Gott liebt das Handwerk’, 313–14. Resaleh of grocery, MS IVRUz-1 3081/3, 55r-57v. Al-Biruni Institute of Oriental Studies, Academy of Sciences of the Republic of Uzbekistan, Tashkent. Described in Kratkii katalog, serial no. 1742. Resaleh of the saddle makers’ craft, MS 1701, 42–72. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preussischer Kulturbesitz. Described in Hartmann, Die osttürkischen Handschriften, serial no. 85. Resaleh of the smiths’ craft, print, IBH 7, 1–63. Private holding. Described in Dağyeli, ‘Gott liebt das Handwerk’, 296–97. Resaleh of stock breeding, lithography, IBH 11, 1–22. Private holding. Described in Dağyeli, ‘Gott liebt das Handwerk’, 299–300. Resaleh of the weavers’ craft, MS Prov. 2/3, 38v-45r. Lund University Library, Gunnar Jarring collection. 45 Cf. Jeanine Dağyeli, ‘A “deserted site of display”: Performing the crafts’ risāla in pre-socialist Central Asia’, in Performing Religion: Actors, Contexts, and Texts, ed. Ines Weinrich (Würzburg, 2017).

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Literature Atadjanova, Dilyara. Istoriografiia remeslennogo proizvodstva bukharskogo khanstva XIX v. (na osnove izucheniia literatury i remeslennykh ustavov ‘risola’) (Auto-abstract, Institute of History, Academy of Sciences of the Republic of Uzbekistan, Tashkent, 2008). Bellér-Hann, I. Community Matters in Xinjiang 1880–1949. Towards a Historical Anthropology of the Uyghur (Leiden, 2008). Bourdieu, P. ‘Systems of education and systems of thought’, International Social Science Journal 19/3 (1967), 367–88. Centlivres-Demont, Micheline. ‘Un corpus de resāleh du Turkestan afghan’, in Madrasa. Le transmission du savoir dans le monde musulman, ed. Nicole Grandin & Marc Gaborieau (Paris, 1997), 84–89. Dağyeli, J. E. ‘Gott liebt das Handwerk’. Moral, Identität und religiöse Legitimierung in der mittelasiatischen Handwerks-resāleh (Wiesbaden, 2011a). ———. ‘La construction des identités collectives d‘après les chartes des corps de métier (resāleh) en Asie centrale’, in La définition des identités, Cahiers d‘Asie centrale 19/20, ed. Carole Ferret & Arnaud Ruffier (2011b), 73–94. ———.‘A “deserted site of display”: Performing the crafts’ resāleh in presocialist Central Asia’, in Performing Religion: Actors, Contexts, and Texts, ed. Ines Weinrich (Würzburg, 2017). Dzhabbarov, Isa. ‘Remeslo uzbekov iuzhnogo Khorezma v konce XIX-nachale XX v. (Istoriko-etnograficheskii ocherk)’, in Zaniatia i byt narodov Srednei Azii. Sredneaziatskii etnograficheskii sbornik III, ed. N.A. Kisliakov (Leningrad, 1971), 72–146. Eickelman, D. ‘The art of memory: Islamic education and its social reproduction’, Comparative Studies in Society and History 20/4 (1978), 485–516. Gavrilov, M. Risolia sartovskikh remeslennikov. Izsledovanie predanii musul‘manskikh tsekhov (Tashkent, 1912). Graeber, D. Toward an Anthropological Theory of Value. The False Coin of our Own Dreams (New York, 2001). Hartmann, M. Die osttürkischen Handschriften der Sammlung Hartmann. Mitteilungen des Seminars für Orientalische Sprachen 7/2 (Berlin 1904). Havemann, A. ‘Soziale Hierarchie und Gleichheit: Zur Stellung der Berufe im mittelalterlichen Islam’, Der Islam 82/2 (2005), 256–72.



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Katalog sufischer Handschriften aus der Bibliothek des Instituts für Orientalistik der Akademie der Wissenschaften, Republik Usbekistan, ed. Jürgen Paul (Stuttgart, 2002). Kaykovus. Qobusnoma (Tashkent, 2006). Khalid, A. The Politics of Muslim Cultural Reform: Jadidism in Central Asia (Berkeley et al., 1998). Koshifi, Husayn Voizi. Futuvvatnomai sultoni (Dushanbe, 1991). Kratkii katalog sufiskikh proizvodenii XVIII-XX. vv. iz sobraniia Instituta Vostokovedeniia Akademii Nauk Respubliki Uzbekistana im. al-Biruni (Berlin, 2000). Paul, J. Die politische und soziale Bedeutung der Naqshbandiyya in Mittelasien im 15. Jahrhundert (Berlin, 1991). ———. Doctrine and Organization. The Khwajagan/Naqshbandiya in the First Generation after Baha’uddin (Halle, 1998). Razvadkovskii, V. ‘Opyt izsledovaniia goncharnogo i nekotorykh drugikh kustarnykh promyslov v Turkestanskom krae’, Turkestanskoe selskoe khoziaistvo 6 (1916), 567–73. Sayer, A. ‘Moral economy as critique’, New Political Economy 12/2 (2007), 261–70. Taeschner, F. Zünfte und Bruderschaften im Islam. Texte zur Geschichte der Futuwwa (Zurich et al., 1979). Toshev, Nuryog‘di. ‘Znachenie fonda rukopisei instituta vostokovedeniia akademii nauk respubliki Uzbekistan dlia issledovaniia voprosov islamskoi civilisacii’, in O‘zbekistonning islom sivilisatsiyasi rivojiga qo‘shgan hissasi (Tashkent et al., 2007), 318–21. Ülgener, S. İktisadî çözülmenin ahlâk ve zihniyet dünyasi (Istanbul, 2006a). ———. Zihniyet ve din. İslâm, tasavvuf ve çözülme devri iktisat ahlâkı (Istanbul, 2006b).

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Zurkhaneh, Sufism, Fotovvat/ Javanmardi and Modernity: Considerations about Historical Interpretations of a Traditional Athletic Institution Philippe Rochard and Denis Jallat ‘Grand words, about javanmardi, morals and friendship, that are not practised are just vulgar boasts. Here [in the zurkhaneh] we say that it’s better for a man to be a heavy drinker than a “two-faced friend”, because the first is at least sincere, while the other is purely rotten!’ (Tehran, 1996, a loud and unusual public address of an old and famous veteran of one of Tehran’s zurkhanehs, to the discreet delight of many and the obvious embarrassment of a few others.)

Abstract This chapter pays attention to several questions about javanmardi, the world of the zurkhaneh and its link with Sufism. It is divided into two parts. The first part investigates six concepts: i) the modern myth, built around three famous historical characters: Takhti, Tayyeb and Shaʿban-e Jaʿfari; ii) zurkhaneh’s reputation; iii) zurkhaneh and the issue of martial arts; iv) a historiography of the zurkhaneh until the beginning of the 1980’s; v) academic opinions on the recognised development model; and vi) problems



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in defining javanmardi (and the genre of fotovvat-nameh). The second part considers the links between Sufism and the zurkhaneh through the analysis of a quite unusual manuscript written in 1875, which also provides an example of an intellectual and social adaptive process.

Introduction: modern myth and reinvented tradition When Lloyd Ridgeon organised a round-table seminar in London in 2012 on the theme of javanmardi in Iran and invited me to contribute a presentation on the links between fotovvat/javanmardi and the zurkhaneh – the traditional Persian wrestlers’ house of training1 – memories of the first months of the four years I stayed in Tehran studying that very institution came flooding back to me. Under the influence of Henri Corbin’s works, dated literature and a nationalistic myth, I was naïvely chasing after a hypothetical, romantic javanmardi tradition, a kind of secret, mystical, nationalistic and popular ‘knighthood’ which was supposed to have sheltered a singular spirit of resistance against all historical invaders and wrongdoers to Persia since the 7th/13th century. My subsequent research showed, however, that this ‘tradition’ was a constantly reproduced nationalistic narrative in the grand tradition of all the great patriotic tales that have accompanied the global spread of the nation-state system. This tale is so powerfully enshrined in the Iranian public psyche and so routinely proffered as a casual statement to gullible observers that it is necessary to reject it again and again for what it is.2 While my general perspective could be applied to all preindustrial, traditional, martial arts or codified games of contest that exist in Asia and elsewhere, I will here consider only the institution of the Iranian zurkhaneh and its link with javanmardi. It is of course true that the zurkhaneh is a genuine depository of many respectable popular traditions, but these are not quite the timeless ones trumpeted by some modern zealots, since they have been redefined in ways that deserve our respect and attention. This chapter is divided into two sections. The first, titled ‘The world of the zurkhaneh and the javanmardi ethic’, begins by investigating the different types of individuals associated with the institution, both in terms of social and moral categories and in terms of contemporary myths, all of them being linked with various 1 The zurkhaneh (lit. house of strength) was also known by the terms varzesh-khaneh (house of exercise) or taʿlim-khaneh (house of training). 2 A recent exponent of this discourse and its stereotypes is D.H. Luijendijk, Zoor Khane: History and Techniques of the Ancient Martial Art of Iran (Boulder, CO, 2006).

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social and political movements at various times. Having provided this background, the first section then examines wrestling and the callisthenic programme that has traditionally been associated with the zurkhaneh. Here, I take issue with the assumption that zurkhaneh exercises are a martial art, for wrestling and zurkhaneh physical exercises are not combat techniques designed to kill opponents, but rather a codified fight game and traditional callisthenics replete with ideological and spiritual references of their time. This argument leads to considerations about how the zurkhaneh and wrestling have been conceived of by contemporary academics and those with vested interests in promoting the tradition, ranging from texts with romantic, nationalist perspectives to works that focus on the zurkhaneh as a positive, emic tradition pitted against the corrupting influence of the West. This last point raises the question as to how the zurkhaneh is supposed to develop within a world that is changing at an accelerated rate. It would seem that the attempt to preserve an ‘authentic’ tradition is doomed to failure if the zurkhaneh is to attract the attention and participation of new generations of young athletes. Having investigated the problems associated with the historiography of the zurkhaneh, the difficulties of defining the ethic of javanmardi is examined, since this ethic is often considered the basis for the correct behaviour of the athlete. This section ends with another look at the fotovvat-nameh genre and the tendency to associate the zurkhaneh with Sufism. The second section analyses the Sufi-zurkhaneh affiliation, which was still present at the end of the 19th century. This analysis will be undertaken by the presentation and study of a document written in Tehran in 1875 that emerged from a rather bold and original attempt to establish a national physical education programme on the basis of existing zurkhaneh practices.3 It was a project intended to adapt the zurkhaneh’s physical exercises to the new hygienic and nationalistic goals of the time, rather than translating and applying the European physical education manuals and programmes already available. This move demonstrates that the ‘glocalisation’ concept, used recently in the field of sports to describe the well-known processes of interaction between cultures,4 if taken out of its original 1970/1980s economic and ‘developmentalist’ context,5 is just a new name for an old garment. 3 ʿAli Akbar ebn Mahdi al-Kashani, Ganjineh-ye koshti (Tehran, 1292/1875). E. Blochet, Catalogue des manuscrits persans de la Bibliothèque Nationale. Tome II (N° 721–1160), (Paris, 1912). Cote: Supplément 1169, 119, 83 & illustrations. 4 Katrin Bromber, Birgit Krawietz and Joseph Maguire, eds., Sports across Asia: Politics, Cultures and Identities (London, 2013). 5 References related to the concept of ‘think global, act local’ are numerous. Ideological positions around the Globalisation phenomenon and its ideology have been used in diverse ways by so many actors, and it has been driven by so many contradictory interests that I



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Part I: the world of the zurkhaneh and the javanmardi ethic Legendary figures of the zurkhaneh If asked about javanmardi in the 1990s, the veterans and old morsheds (music masters) of Tehran’s zurkhaneh often referred to the teachings of the 14th-century saint and patron of all Muslim wrestlers, Mahmud Khwarazmi, better known in Iran under the name Purya-ye Vali, along with Imam ʿAli and the legendary Rostam – in fact to every legendary figure linked to feats of strength and bravery. But when the same people were asked about javanmardi’s reincarnation in the contemporary period, they immediately spoke at length about three famous and popular 20th-century Tehran personalities who, brought together this way, constitute the multifaceted scheme of an updated modern myth of the Iranian man of strength. The first was the beloved and revered pahlavan (champion) Gholamreza Takhti, a wrestler who won many medals at Olympic Games and world championships and who committed suicide in 1968. The second was the most famous godfather of Tehran’s bazaar, Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi, executed for being a ring leader of the popular demonstrations against the arrest of Ayatollah Khomeini in 1963. The third was Shaʿban Jaʿfari, nicknamed the ‘Brainless’, former client of Tayyeb and, after his death, the main ‘authority’ within the zurkhaneh world during the Pahlavi period. Although he tried to develop and organise the zurkhaneh into an association in 1971, Shaʿban Jaʿfari remained a despised symbol of the close relationship between the zurkhaneh and the former regime. (He fled the country in 1979 and died in Santa Monica in 2006.) Through a clever embellishment of his life by individuals who exploited his notoriety and his actual generous deeds, Takhti was made the embodiment of a popular and contemporary javanmard as Iranians understand the term today. A hero and a saint who, like the legendary Persian hero Rostam, has been granted the epithet jahan-pahlavan (world champion), Takhti was a man who carried the popular symbolic flag of the country and the National Front and who never changed sides. A man as rare as admired.6 Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi is the subject of a whole chapter by Olmo Gölz in this volume, but it is worth summarising the salient elements that connect him with the zurkhaneh. He was the ‘down-town’ king of all the jahels (louts) of Tehran between 1950 and 1963, the year of his public execution. He was the ruthless lord shall only observe that its use in anthropological and historical academic field covers many different cultural processes which makes difficult any real understanding of the multifaceted form of adaptive processes occurring in transcultural interactions. 6 For details see H.E. Chehabi, ‘Sport and politics in Iran: The legend of Gholamreza Takhti’, International Journal of the History of Sport 12/3 (1995), 48–60.

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of Tehran’s food-supply networks and markets, and was brought to power at the end of the 1940s by bazaari leaders who were angered by the negative impact of gangs that endangered Tehran’s food market business.7 Tayyeb provided ‘peace’ the hard way and lived, gang leader that he was, by the standards of Iranian underworld rules; the rules of the luti (hoodlum) and the jahel, respecting a popular mardanegi (manliness) ethic comprising of traditional virile values and attitudes that are usually confused with the ethic of javanmardi itself.8 He and his brothers, Taher and Masih, were the feared and leading figures of the Zurkhaneh-ye Shah-e Mardan, which was famous in its time but which no longer exists. After a very opportunistic and bloody ascension to the top, Tayyeb’s life ended in such way that after the revolution he was the subject of attempts at rehabilitation, and he was considered a martyr and a follower of Imam Khomeini, thanks to a quite embellished and distorted interpretation of more grim and prosaic facts. But the fact is that today Tayyeb is partly seen as someone who deserves respect and even, somehow, admiration. 9 In contrast, the third man, Shaʿban Jaʿfari, has been systematically presented as the perfect opposite of the previous two heroes, the embodiment of a dishonourable man, a hopelessly corrupted brute. He was the Shah’s security forces’ middle man, who infamously stormed Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddeq’s house. He did not die in the luti way like Tayyeb, but ran cowardly, as his critics say, for cover to foreign lands after the revolution. Of course, the story and the character of Shaʿban are much more complex and require more nuanced investigation.10 These three Iranian strong men represent the three main interpretations that a society may give about an individual’s destiny and the path open to the soul’s salvation: the righteous man, the man who erred but redeemed himself, and the 7 Cf. the chapter about him in the inspiring book by Fariba Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran (London, 1999). 8 This confusion is obvious in the otherwise valuable book by Sina Mirzaʾi, Tayyeb, dar gozar-e luti-ha (Tehran, 1381/2002), Cf. particularly 84–97 and the interview with Javad Khanbaba, ‘javanmardi-e ba mohhabat’. The author deals with people who reinterpret the past to their own advantage, but interesting information can be gathered between the lines, such as in the biography of Shaʿban Jaʿfari; see Homa Sarshar, Khaterat-e Shaʿban Jaʿ fari (Tehran,1381/2002). 9 Tayyeb illustrates well the ‘qualities’ needed to do business in Iran, as understood by Adelkhah in the 1990s concerning Iranian businessmen. See Adelkhah, Being Modern, ch. 2. To manage a sizeable business in Iran is increasingly dangerous if stern determination and a ‘quick hand’ are not shown, and if political protection, true friends and the ad hoc network are not available to immediately retaliate in case of problems. 10 Homa Sarshar, Khaterat-e Shaʿban Jaʿ fari, and H.E. Chehabi, ‘Zur-ḵana’, ‘Taḵti, ḠolamReża’, and ‘Jaʿfari, Šaʿban’, all in EI2 online.



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damned man. Whatever the truth about these three historical figures, once identified as such, all three have been reinforced by a myth-building phenomenon, giving shape to a full narrative that can be summarised thus. Shaʿban and Tayyeb fight first for (1951) and then against (1953) Mosaddeq and the National Front. Then there is a decisive split between Shaʿban and Tayyeb during the arrest of Ayatollah Khomeini in 1963. Tayyeb chooses to fight and die for Ayatollah Khomeini, who spearheaded the resistance against the Shah’s reforms, a redemptive phase from which point onward his life is reappraised. In contrast, Shaʿban remained remorselessly on ‘the wrong path’ until the end. He ‘prostituted’ the zurkhaneh under the Shah’s protection, which provided him with murky and easy money, enabling him to turn the institution into a show business which, along with his open devotion to the Shah, brought the whole zurkhaneh world to the verge of disaster in 1979. After his dishonourable escape, all zurkhaneh veterans – including some of his former pupils – went to Qom, swore allegiance to the Revolution and Khomeini and formed a sports federation within the National Sport Office, which was headed by the most upright and respected figures.11 Thus a new era began. Shaʿban’s line was opposed by Takhti,12 who remained uncorrupted and defended the real country and the National Front from 1951 (and especially between 1962–1963) until his ‘martyrdom’ in 1968.13 These events, and their three main characters, were potent symbols of a passing world that had its last heyday between the end of World War II and the beginning of the 1960s. It was a period that witnessed the end of the ‘old days’, when state authorities were still confronted by autonomous urban local powers, which were gradually subdued or even eliminated by the rising central power of the modern Iranian state. Like all similar traditional popular gymnasiums or fighting schools around the world, the zurkhaneh reflected the social and masculine diversity of its day. It was a place for popular gentlemen like Takhti, for benign and responsible notables dedicated to their friends and their community, and yet it was also the familiar location of stout, forgotten fellows and bad boys, of lutis, jahels and gardan kolofts (lit. ‘thick necked’), heavy drinkers and knife-players, ruling and roaming the popular streets of Iranian cities, from the zurkhaneh to the public baths and from there to traditional cabarets, surrounded by their nowchehs (rookies). It was an urban network of societies of connivance and compelling 11 These included the pahlavans Mostafa Tusi, Habibollah Bolur and Ahmad Vafadar, all former champions of Iranian traditional wrestling in the 1940s and early 1950s. 12 See the Police Cadet Episode of 1962, in Chehabi, ‘Sport and politics in Iran’, 54. 13 Takhti’s suicide was denounced at the time as a political murder by the Shah’s opponents.

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solidarities, formed of course in the vast majority of cases – and in modern times – by mundane and honest men who were state employees, worked in the bazaar as craftsmen or shopkeepers or as butchers in the slaughter houses, or eked out a living as taxi and bus drivers. All of them gravitated towards more wealthy and influential people, looking for higher, local patronage, whatever the social strata or the community involved. The popular society of the ‘down-town’ zurkhaneh, more often than not, was the witness to or sometimes the helpless victim of the many intertwined interests and traffickers of the usual local powers: criminal gangs and police informant networks, crafty and wealthy businessmen, real-estate sharks and, last but not least, political factions, either royalist, secular nationalist, communist or religious, looking for easily available tough guys whenever a ‘popular mob’ was required against the opponent of the day. Colourful and dangerous relationships indeed, but inherited from the traditional old alliance between local powers and rogue brotherhoods that were mobilised on every side during all the historical upheavals of Iran,14 a tradition that we can trace back to the medieval brotherhoods and urban factionalism described by Frantz Taeschner, William Hanaway Jr. and Claude Cahen.15 With the development of modern Iranian society, these traditional ‘rogue networks’ became defunct or insignificant. Many athletes and retired policemen pointed out to me that the Iranian urban underground quickly moved away from its traditional places of power at the end of the 1960s and 1970s. The destruction of Tehran’s red-light district, Shahr-e Now, in 1979 was more a symbolic gesture than a real strike against Tehran’s prostitution and its mafia ring. Rogue underworld elements had already been expanding to new places and activities and, beginning in the 1980s, targeted more influential revolutionary networks such as the Basij. Willem Floor has come to a similar conclusion in his entry on the luti in the Encyclopaedia Iranica, an article which allows us to see how the concepts of javanmardi and lutigari encompass different social codes, attitudes and groups in Iranian society 14 Willem Floor summarises the more general problem of social banditry, encompassed in the controversial dialogue between Eric Hobsbawm and Anton Blok. See his ‘The Lutis – a social phenomenon in Qajar Persia’, Die Welt des Islams 13 (1971), and ‘The political role of the Lutis in Iran’, in Modern Iran: The Dialectics of Continuity and Change, ed. Michael E. Bonnie and Nikki Keddie (Albany, 1981). 15 See notably Cl. Cahen and W. L. Hanaway, Jr. ‘Ayyâr’, Encyclopaedia Iranica; Claude Cahen and Frantz Taeschner, ‘Futuwwa’, EI2; Claude Cahen, ‘Mouvements populaires et autonomisme urbain dans l’Asie musulmane du Moyen-Age’, Arabica 5/3 (1958), 225–50; 6/1 (1959), 25–56; and 6/3 (1959), 233–60; Cahen, ‘Ahdât’, EI2; Taeschner, Zünfte und Bruderschaften im Islam: Texte zur Geschichte der futuwwa (Zurich, 1979); Taeschner, ‘Akhi’, EI2.



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– such as Sufis, wrestlers, entertainers, rogue gangs and everything in between. But one should note that the comparison between the 19th- and 20th-century lutis and the ‘Robin-hood luti of legend’ as described by Floor, shows the necessity of dealing with the contrast between blatant and unromantic daily experiences and a quite embellished and reinterpreted vision of the past. To endure daily life alongside a Mafiosi-style group which sells ‘protection’ with a pointed knife, the society had to ‘naturalise’ and idealise this forced relationship, which was based on quite an unfair balance of power. But in case of serious trouble, and like the Japanese yakuza for example, the Iranian luti/jahel gangs were indeed an effective (but quite dangerous) mediator for problems when efficient police and justice services were unavailable and when all other solutions had been of no avail. Freed from this dubious legacy, the zurkhaneh remains a popular and sympathetic institution, oriented more towards sport competitions of three different types: wrestling, four individual exercises (sang, kabbadeh, mil bazi and gyratory movement16), and the collective zurkhaneh programme display. It has inherited one of the most ancient ‘codified fight’ games worldwide, i.e. wrestling, and it is a training place for an ancient but fast evolving callisthenic and body-building programme, the varzesh-e bastani (the ‘ancient sport’). This ancient gymnastic and body-building programme, along with the koshti-ye pahlavani (Persian traditional wrestling) went through a period of modernisation in the 1940s and 1950s – and became a real sporting federation in 1979, achieved International Federation status in 2004,17 and was recognised by UNESCO’s programme of ‘Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity’ in 2010 as a Persian Martial Arts school. But this cursory outline of its recent evolution calls for three further arguments.

The zurkhaneh and martial arts I deliberately speak of a ‘codified fight game’ rather than a ‘martial art’ because I have been convinced by the solid and well-argued study of Benoit Gaudin that the question of whether or not self-defence, duel, wrestling and boxing techniques were ‘martial arts’ is in fact, from a sociological point of view, both irrelevant and unimportant.18 There are two reasons for this: first, academic research does not need to investigate a question which is largely a matter of romantic, partisan, 16 See note 48. 17 Lloyd Ridgeon, ‘The Zurkhana between tradition and change’, Iran 45 (2007), 1–23. 18 Benoit Gaudin, ‘La codification des pratiques martiales. Une approche socio-historique’, Actes de la Recherche en Sciences Sociales 179 (2009), 4–31.

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sectarian, nationalistic and anachronistic discourses that are being reinforced today by branding and marketing preoccupations around a very specific but flourishing business. Second, there is no real ‘martial art’ of the pre-industrial period left alive around the world. Indeed, all martial arts have experienced a codifying process, inducing a control of violence (and consequently a lowering of their lethal techniques), sometimes as early as the 17th century. Most of them went into a well-known process of reinvention,19 in the course of which their techniques, programmes and teaching methods were thoroughly transformed. This transformation took the form of rationalisation and standardisation, in line with the dominant Western educational and economical models that were oriented towards modern nation-building between the end of the 19th and the mid20th centuries. An excellent example is the creation in 1895 of the Japanese Dai Nippon Butokukai which centralised, standardised and controlled ‘martial arts’ as an institution, and whose director as of 1899 was Jigoro Kano, the man who created modern judo on the basis of traditional jujitsu.20 This decisive turn channelled the teaching of all the remaining lethal techniques into a standardised and a codified physical education system that was open to everybody, especially children. This allowed it to be taught in the modern school system in its country of origin, its legitimacy reinforced by the development of a whole spiritual ideo­ logy which had been quite marginal in the fighting techniques schools of former times. Accordingly, it could henceforth be exported abroad. The ideological and spiritual frames of these codified fights, so emphasised today, are the fruits of the modern period. In one way or another the overwhelming majority of codified fight games around the world followed the Japanese model. In terms of lethal efficiency, the contemporary zurkhaneh’s varzesh-e bastani (the ‘ancient sport’) is close to zero. This is because it is just a traditional callisthenic and gymnastic programme used by acrobats and wrestlers. As I have argued elsewhere, wrestling is a very popular game of contest, a show offered by professional entertainers patronised by a Middle-Eastern warrior-like aristocracy,21 but 19 See the work of Eric Hobsbawm and T. Ranger, eds., The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge, 1983). On Qigong, a discipline created by the Chinese communist regime from a collection of scattered traditional knowledge, see David A. Palmer, Qigong Fever: Body, Science, and Utopia in China, 1949–1999 (New York, 2007), which is an abridged version of La Fièvre du Qigong: Guérison, Religion, et Politique en Chine (Paris, 2005). 20 His work inspired many other such attempts throughout Asia. See Gaudin, ‘La codification des pratiques martiales, une approche socio-historique’, 16. 21 Rochard, ‘The identities of the Iranian Zūrkhanah’, Iranian Studies 35/4 (2002), 337–38. See also H. E. Chehabi, ‘Recovering Asia’s lost West: Iran’s Asian connections in the realm of sports’, AJAMES 31/2 (2016), 303–29.



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it is not a military or even an efficient lethal technique in itself. At the highest level of social recognition, skilled wrestling masters were the living embodiment of the political might of their patrons and protectors, who, for instance, liked to organise bouts between their champions as a preamble to diplomatic meetings.22 At every feast and merry occasion wrestlers were present to entertain the assembled guests. This spectacle was common and appreciated at every social level of Middle-Eastern society. The possibilities for upward social mobility offered to low-born wrestlers were prodigious (even if this social elevation, linked to their prowess, was always precarious), given the socially compartmentalised world in which they lived; from the most common wrestlers, earning their rewards at village feasts, to the best who sought patronage and protection and were eager to catch the eye of the pahlavan-bashi, the veteran chief-wrestler of a noble house or the court itself. These champions and chief-wrestlers were very often both wrestler and Sufi, like Purya-ye Vali, chief-wrestler of the governor of the Khiva oasis within the 14th-century empire of the Golden Horde, or Darvish Mohammad, who wrestled for his master, the Timurid Sultan Hosayn-Mirza Bayqara.23 But even the most ferocious variety of this wrestling style, the koshti-ye khasmaneh (‘hostile wrestling’), which allowed biting and attacks on the eyes, was quite inefficient against fighters who used weapons or practised boxing techniques, such as the jethimallah of Gujarat, which were prominent at the Mughal court.24 The Turco-Persian warrior aristocracy who brought the wrestling art and spectacle to its pinnacle around the 15th and 16th centuries were very often wrestlers themselves and practised wrestling as a game in private. Wrestling nourished too the moral and religious metaphors of the learned, metaphors that were always linked to the good use of force, humility, control of passion, and respect for social hierarchy. Famous poets like Ferdowsi used it as the symbol of the ultimate fight between two equally-matched warriors who, after breaking their weapons, had only their hands left – which of course never occurs in real, military engagements. In sum, wrestling was never a lethal fighting technique. From the very beginning, wrestling was a physical game of contest, the most simple that two men can 22 See Joseph S. Alter, The Wrestler’s Body: Identity and Ideology in North India (Berkeley, 1992), especially chapter 4, ‘The Patron and the Wrestler’, 70–89 and Marius Canard, ‘La lutte chez les arabes’, in Le cinquantenaire de la Faculté des lettres d’Alger (1881–1931) (Algiers 1932), 127–90. 23 Angelo Piemontese, ‘La leggenda del santo-lottatore Pahlavan Mahmud Xvarezmi “Purya-ye Vali” (m722–1322)’, Annali dell’Istituto Orientale di Naploi, NS 15 (1965). 24 Arion Rosu, ‘Les Marman et les arts martiaux Indiens’, Journal Asiatique 249/3–4 (1981). See also B. J. Sandesara and R. N. Mehta, eds., Mallapurana (Baroda, 1964).

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choose when they want to test their strength and agility or to conclude a quarrel without endangering their lives.

The historiography of the zurkhaneh At this point, a few clarifications about Persian sources of the Pahlavi period and its sequel are in order. The books and articles written or co-authored by Kazem Kazemaini in the 1960s and 1970s contain useful illustrations and technical descriptions but are not noted for their academic objectivity. They propound a nationalistic and chivalrous thesis that was promoted by the former monarchy and modern secular nationalists. Kazemaini was director of the zurkhaneh of the Bank Melli, which hosted many foreign dignitaries during their official visits. The popularity of his analyses was enhanced by translations of his works into English and French. Zurkhaneh practitioners, of course, adopted these interpretations wholeheartedly and offer them today as factual to any interlocutor, and the internet has popularised them further. But the overall analysis was never really checked by this era’s academics, since in those times sport was quite a vulgar object of study, unworthy of any serious scholarly consideration. The narrative was accepted unquestioned, with a growing focus on pre-Islamic origins, until the beginning of the 1990s.25 The first statistics about zurkhanehs in Tehran were published in 1976 by the High Council for Culture and Art,26 after which they were plundered several times by students and academics. Nevertheless, one should note that most academic contributions of this period such as Mostafa Sadeq in 1964 and 1975, or Ensafpur in 1974,27 and even the thesis of Mehrdad Bahar in 1981,28 which rests on a dubious Mithraic interpretation rightly criticised by Sadr al-Din Elahi,29 do not 25 Cf. Faramarz Barzagar, Tarikh-e varzesh-e Iran (Tehran, 1350/2500 [1971]), 448. For a more exhaustive list of references see Rochard, ‘The identities of the Iranian Zūrkhanah’, 322. 26 High Council for Culture and Art, Barrasi-ye farhang-e ejtema‘i-ye zurkhanehha-ye Tehran (Tehran, 2535/1976). 27  Mostafa Sadeq, ‘Gowd-e Moqaddas’, Honar va Mardom 145 (1353/1974–75); Mostafa Sadeq, ‘Zurkhaneh va varzesh-e bastani’, Honar va Mardom 26 (1343/1964); GholamReza Ensafpur, Tarikh va farhang-e zurkhaneh va goruhha-ye ejtema‘i-ye zurkhaneh-row (Tehran, 1353/1974). 28 Mehrdad Bahar, ‘Varzesh-e bastani-ye Iran va rishehha-ye tarikhi-ye an’, Chista 1 (October 1981) reprinted in Doktor Mehrdad Bahar, az Ostureh ta Tarikh, ed. Abuʾl-Qasem Esmaʿilpur (Tehran, 1376/1997). This article is reprinted in Barrasi-ye Farhang-e Ejtema‘i, see note 26. 29 Sadr al-din Elahi, ‘Negahi digar beh sonnati kohan: zurkhaneh’, Iranshenasi 6 (1994).



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match the importance of Hosayn Partaw Bayzaʾi’s study published in 1958, where he commented upon the two oldest and most useful sources still available on the zurkhaneh.30 Mention should also be made of a Marxist-oriented inquiry made in 1947 by Hasan Gusheh,31 certainly the first Iranian academic to really describe the zurkhaneh and depict it at the end of World War II under the pressure of the Iranian hygienist movement.

Traditional athletic games in an international context: a flawed debate? The vision of Iranian zurkhaneh, sport history and traditional athletic games are considered in a recent article by Birgit Krawietz and the overall project of the volume that contains it.32 Here we are again, more or less, with the noble, true and authentic local tradition or the culturally adapted sporting practice displaying its positive (neo)diversity, so glocalised, so trendy, against the corrupted and corrupting globalised and ugly Western sport process. At its best, the authors discover a well-known process of appropriation, described several years ago by other scholars, to which they add new interesting case studies. At its worst, the result is the usual and politically correct contempt for the actual international sporting system and its institutions. Different kinds of physical game models have grown in Asia, especially in Japan, but the British model prevailed,33 and brought all the nations together in one of the most impressive set of common practices in the world. The world as an imagined global community inventing new and shared traditions can be a seductive concept as well, while ‘traditional’ sports and codified fight games can be a nest of murky practices, doping, illegal moneymaking and discriminating against women. Balancing between the old and the new is not a recent dilemma; social appropriation, adaptation, reinvention or the refusal of a foreign cultural feature is as 30 Hosayn Partaw-Bayzaʾi, Tarikh-e varzesh-e bastani-ye Iran: Zurkhaneh (Tehran, 1958), 464. Partaw-Bayzaʾi published a critical edition of the Gol-e Koshti of Mir Najat Esfahani and also the Tumar-e afsaneh-ye Purya-ye Vali which is analysed in length both by Angelo Piemontese and Philippe Rochard, all references available in Rochard, ‘The identities of the Iranian Zūrkhanah’, 334–38 and ref. Ibid, 321 n.13, 332 n.47, 337, n.59. 31 Hasan Gusheh, ‘Varzesh-e bastani dar Iran’, Payam-e naw 3 (1326/1947). 32 Birgit Krawietz, ‘Martial arts Iranian style’, in Sports across Asia: Politics, cultures and identities, ed. Katrin Bromber, Birgit Krawietz and Joseph Maguire (London, 2013). 33 The best historical synthesis and anthropological analysis available on this worldwide process is Sébastien Darbon, Diffusion des Sports et Impérialisme Anglo-Saxon (Paris, 2008) and of course J. A. Mangan, ed., The Cultural Bond: Sport, Empire, Society (Oxford, 1992).

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old as interaction between human societies. The concept of ‘glocal’ offers something new in the present case in that it enables countries that wish to register their cultural traditions in international programmes such as UNESCO’s the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity (ICCHH) to brand and market these practices in the interest of promoting the kind of tourism that appeals to the worldwide craving for ‘true people’ and exotic ‘authenticity’. Moreover, it is necessary to ask what is the worth of traditions when they do not help people to sustain or improve their own desired lives? If a new format of the Ancient Sports was needed to attract young Iranians to the zurkhaneh, it is inappropriate to sneer at the Iranian Federal decisions and local clubs with arguments about lost authenticity, not to mention disapproving remarks about the wearing of a shirt along the traditional breeches that purportedly result in a ‘dysfunctional’ aesthetic. Dysfunctional in relation to what? A biased vision of the concept of authenticity? Promoting the zurkhaneh requires the support of the media. And the fact is that in today’s Iran a show of traditional athletes on TV, or at any public event, strictly forbids the display of bare chests, as Islamic dress-codes must be respected. It is not difficult to understand the context of these restrictive rules and the consequences for the Federation, or any athlete, if they do not obey it. Besides, as several old athletes told me with a smile, after a certain age one has to cover up rather than to show off. Who said there are no aesthetic considerations among the zurkhaneh athletes? Traditional sport and wrestling in Iran are not a rural show business, as oil wrestling is in Turkey, nor are they a professional activity like Japanese sumo: they remain a truly amateur affair. The efforts of Iranian sport authorities, from the presidents of the Sport Federation down to the volunteers, should be saluted. These are the people who, since the middle of the 1980s, have been adapting this tradition to the new tastes of Iranians while fighting the entrenched stereotypes linked to the zurkhaneh’s tumultuous past. They have been promoting a reformed zurkhaneh programme and a new system of sport competitions, attracting a new generation of younger athletes from a wider social background, closer to the Iranian urban middle-class which is well reflected in the new zurkhaneh competitions introduced in the middle of the 1990s.34 These new policies, combined with financial and administrative help from Iranian provinces (especially Khorasan, Kordestan, Azerbayjan and Mazandaran), municipalities (Tehran, 34 Philippe Rochard, ‘Les représentations du “beau geste” dans le sport traditionnel iranien’, in Iran: Questions et Connaissances. Vol. III: Cultures et Sociétés Contemporaines, ed. Bernard Hourcade (Leuven, 2003). 



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Tabriz, Mashhad, Sanandaj, Shiraz, Esfahan, among others), and public or private benefactors have clearly saved traditional wrestling and this ancient corpus of strengthening and body-building movements.35 But let it also be pointed out that, by favouring a modern and more respectful approach to individual life and privacy, the new social environment and the new values introduced to the zurkhaneh have riled veteran athletes. Group solidarity is one of the fundamental elements of the old fotovvat pact as well as a fundamental element of any instrumental friendship.36 As one famous veteran and zurkhaneh expert, ʿEzzat Karimi, told me: ‘Mellat hemmat-e valast, na fard!’ (‘It is the people who have a noble ambition, not the individual!’). A zurkhaneh is a place where help and recommendations from other comrades and higher-ranking protectors should be available, but this help is purchased at a very high social price. It is the loss of this utilitarian aspect of the comradeship, among other things, that zurkhaneh veterans have regretted most since the 1990s. By mourning the passing of the zurkhaneh of old, they were in fact mourning the end of the period of economic prosperity before the revolution, and their turbulent youth in a smaller Tehran where people knew each other and respected their neighbours. They were mourning the passing of the autonomy of an idealised community that answered to no one but its own members and recognised no other hierarchy than its own. They said too that people were growing egoistic nowadays and that the Federation was meddling too much. But they were forgetting that without the Federation’s policies and lobbying, the traditional zurkhaneh would have been wiped off the map, sacrificed on the altar of real estate income policy and profitability, and that the old rules of group solidarity and seniority are increasingly viewed as utterly oppressive by young Iranians. Having faced a severe lack of vocation and growing competition from other disciplines since the 1970s, many veteran athletes and the Federation’s executives came to admit the need for a transformation in the middle of the 1980s. Grandfathers looked at their grandsons and tried to induce them to take an interest in the athletic traditions. Decisions were taken, the resistance of many was overcome, and as a result we can now see very young athletes performing demonstrations on television and competing at all sorts of tournaments and championships, which brings them to the forefront of local and national celebrity. Yesterday the 35 But one should also note that they were not able to prevent a genuine decline of the knowledge of traditional wrestling techniques. 36 Graham Allan, Friendship: Developing a Sociological Perspective (Harvester, 1989). Idem, A Sociology of Friendship and Kinship (London, 1979). See also William O. Beeman, Language, Status and Power in Iran (Bloomington, 1986), especially chapter 3 & 4, 36–92.

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zurkhaneh was a place where young adults shunned children, eager as they were to ‘show their qualities’ to their elders and thereby gain admission to the entourage of men of importance. Today that relationship still exists, but in a much warmer place, open to all ages, from young bands of brothers with their closest cousin – their pesar khaleh – to affable grandfathers still coming with their closest relatives and friends – their old dadash and rafiq. I know some people within the Federation who would like to open the practice of traditional sport to women, but they are aware of the existing limits. One day, they say, that barrier will fall too. This reminds us that sport organisations can be tools of social emancipation. And so we are back to ethical and social values.

Contemporary javanmardi and the fotovvat-nameh genre: problems of definition and understanding Iranian officials, athletes and some academics support the idea that the javanmardi ethic is particularly embodied in the zurkhaneh and that it has to be extended to Iranian sports in general: a sportsman, then, is someone who engages in fair-play, and is bold and brave. Iranian spectators of the 1998 FIFA world cup were quite astonished to hear journalists using the term javanmard on an official TV sport channel to describe a good sporting attitude either in the intention or the execution of some element of play. But to consider the zurkhaneh as an institution formally devoted to a specific and unchanging javanmardi pact or ideal is plainly wrong. As a living ethic, javanmardi depends upon the values people put into it. Some people may just look for exercise and enjoyable pastimes bereft of any ethical dimensions. Discourses on javanmardi are very often good for officials and senior people, while younger athletes usually do not care about this subject. Nevertheless, if we look closely, the zurkhaneh is a reminder of a professional fotovvat organisation backed by the Sufis. Documents quoted previously demonstrate this point. Even though the professional initiation rituals disappeared by the end of the 19th century as bureaucratic rationalisation process grew in importance,37 some social, material and training features related to the old fotovvat, Sufi organisation and group solidarity survive today. One such feature is the Gol-rizan ceremony.38 This is 37 Max Weber, Economy and Society, ed. Guenther Roth and Claus Wittich (Berkeley, 1978), 956–58. 38 It is not a surprise that the most resilient part of any tradition is linked more or less directly to material resources and their direct or indirect control. See Maurice Godelier, The Mental and the Material (London, 1986).



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an event organised in the zurkhaneh to collect financial assistance, and it usually takes place during Ramadan.39 In addition, we may mention the morshed’s traditional dress, the so-called kamand-e vahdat or ‘belt of unity’, which is sometimes worn on the chest from the left shoulder to the right, or on the waist of the wrestler’s breeches and, of course, the gyratory movements at the end of the training programme.40 Discussing javanmardi with many different interlocutors, whether academic or non-academic, Iranian or non-Iranian, demonstrates that everybody in Iran has an opinion about the zurkhaneh, ʿayyaran and javanmardi, and could easily talk about it for hours, without much concern for the very different historical and social contexts involved. In a way, we could say that Henri Corbin’s spiritual and philosophical interpretations have much more appeal than the thorough historical analysis of Cahen, Hanaway and Taeschner. Moreover, the rather ‘anti-Sufi’ and nationalistic interpretation we can find in the early 1940s to 1960s has been transmitted to the present. This ‘anti-Sufi’ perspective gathered strength in Iranian society during the Constitutionalist period when reformists denounced Sufism as one of the reasons for Iran’s backwardness. This was the view of Sayyed Hasan Taqizadeh who in 1921 wrote three short articles in which he praised the modern German gymnastic movement (Ludwig Jahn’s Turnverein movement) and, based on a quote from Xenophon about pre-Islamic physical Iranian exercises, cursed the Sufis and dervishes, holding them responsible for corrupting the Persian Zoroastrian body and introducing fatalism to society.41 Javanmardi has always been, and still is, a polysemic concept. Born supposedly from an ancient pre-Islamic and Iranian way to structure and legitimise the spirituality of many Middle Eastern urban forms of collective organisation, this word is also used to define a concrete ethic of life, that is, the ideal concentration 39 This informal ‘state and bank-free’ solidarity system always remains discreet but it is still very operational, from quite modest amounts (free gifts) within small district associations to much more spectacular ones within professional circles (which are, in this case, interest-free loans). 40 The literature about the use of gyratory movements in Islam is vast. To give one reference linking specifically this zurkhaneh exercise with an acknowledged Sufi dhekr, see the conclusion of the most famous of the Gol-e koshti literary genre (poetry comprised of specialised words used in the zurkhaneh), written in 1700 by Mir Najat Esfahani, rediscovered by Adib al-Molk Farahani and printed in Partaw Bayzaʾi, (op. cit. p. 399). This shows that the author is using Purya-ye Vali’s name during the dhekr when looking at the whirling of the athletes. 41 Hasan Taqizadeh, ‘Khayalat’, Kaveh, Dawra-ye Jadid 2/6 (8 June 1921), 1–4; reprinted in Kaveh (Tehran, 1997).

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of all the most positive values of a civilised world, for many different – and historically dated – social and professional groups. After its fusion with Sufi values and organisations, the word was also used to typify a very specific stage in the Sufi path of perfection.42 In the context of professional organisations, doing one’s work ‘with javanmardi’ basically means fully respecting the rules of one’s profession and maintaining a very demanding moral high ground, even in professional matters. This ethic should be distinguished from – and a fortiori not reduced to – the more mundane and popular concept of mardanegi, ‘manly’ values linked with men’s traditional virile virtues. A javanmard is noted for his humility, his objectivity, his strong proclivity to protect the weak, such as foreign people, and his overall generosity. His demeanour must be distinguished from another acknow­ ledged – but much more morally dubious – model of conduct, the mard-e zerang (the ‘wily man’). The latter is a mentally agile, clever and crafty individual who can perceive the secret thoughts and intentions of other people, and who, for better or worse, intrudes into other people’s baten – private lives. This is a psychological and social attitude very often linked with another great popular literary character, the ʿayyar.43 As might be guessed, the javanmard is a socially quite rare hero – spiritually, he is close to being a saint. In the zurkhaneh, as anywhere else in Iranian society, nobody claims this title for himself. This appellation can only be bestowed on someone by the members of society – very often posthumously or in his very last years, when an overall interpretation of his life is possible. Of course, these models of behaviour are just ideal types, for everybody knows that in real life these moral characteristics are not neatly separated. Nonetheless, one should note the resilience of the concept of javanmardi in indicating a concentration of moral and behavioural virtues, as Lloyd Ridgeon reminds us in his analysis of Vaʿez-e Kashefi’s ‘biographical’ treatise on Hatam-e Taʾi.44 It is, however, very often conflated or even confused nowadays with the other social and behavioural models described above. That the social context and use made of the javanmardi ideal in Middle Eastern societies has been perpetually enriched and has evolved with the times is obvious, 42 Morteza Sarraf, Traité des Compagnons-Chevaliers: Rasaʾil-i javanmardan (TehranParis, 1973), 6 and passim and especially 65–67 (Analytical introduction from Henri Corbin). 43 Marina Gaillard, ‘Le champ d’emploi des termes ʿayyar et javanmard dans le DarabName d’Abu Taher Tarsusi’, Arabic and Middle Eastern Literatures 4/1 (2001); and Beeman, Language, 27. 44 Lloyd Ridgeon, Javanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh, 2011).



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and discovering its origin is a virtually impossible task. Mohsen Zakeri has put forward the thesis that fotovvat, javanmardi and ʿayyari have an exclusively military and Sassanian origin.45 As convenient as it would be to follow his admittedly well-constructed interpretation, limiting the argument to a single social and professional origin (the feudal ʾazadan warriors and urban militia) does not do justice to the organisation and ethic of so many different social and professional groups and the intellectual, social and institutional realities they clearly encompassed.46 A broadening of fotovvat studies to a larger cross-cultural field with a more sociological and anthropological approach is required, encompassing the sociology of religions, law history and a thorough analysis of the phenomenon of ancient, medieval and early-modern brotherhoods, such as, for instance, the professional and religious Conjuratii, the Byzantine Collegia or the Hindu Caste Purana. Such approach would help us to make some significant interpretative progress which puts Arab, Turkish and Persian sources in new perspectives. Javanmardi is only the Persian side of a much larger historical phenomenon. In a way, we need to take the road that Cahen took fifty years ago47 with new questions, and to extend the study – from Italy up to India – and to compare, for instance, the way local pre-industrial administrations – and especially Justice – were dealing with the professional world of their time. The fotovvat-nameh genre is a part of a law process. It is not because the form of this law process disconcerts us, as we will see below, that we have to reject the mere idea of it. Besides these considerations, we need to reassert another point. The core of the zurkhaneh institution’s traditional callisthenic movements and training instruments (especially the mil) is really ancient and originates in different parts of the world (Central Asia, Iran and Indian subcontinent).48 But whatever their origin, 45 Cf. ‘Javanmardi’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, which reflects many of the ideas in his book, Sasanid Soldiers in Early Muslim Society: The Origins of Ayyaran and Futuwwa (Wiesbaden, 1995). 46 Moreover, why should researchers stop at the Sasanian period or limit themselves to a military explanation? As Shelomo D. Goiten reminds us, the concept of ‘king’s friends’ brotherhood in Pre-Islamic Iran goes back to the Hellenistic period. See Shelomo D. Goitein, ‘Formal friendship in the medieval Near East’, Proceedings of the American Philosophical society 115 (1971), esp. 486. I would like to thank Houchang Chehabi for bringing this source to my attention. 47 Claude Cahen, ‘Y a t-il eu des corporations professionnelles dans le monde musulman classique?’, in The Islamic City: a Colloquium published under the Auspices of the Near Eastern History Group, Oxford, and the Near East Centre, University of Pennsylvania, edited by A. H. Hourani and S. M. Stern (Oxford, 1970). 48 The form of the mil is already available on Buddhist sites (3–4th century AD) in Bengal. See K. Krishna Murthy, Nagarjunakonda: A Cultural Study (Delhi, 1977), fig. XIII and

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these tools, movements and wrestling are just physical exercises and a game of contest that can easily be interpreted to suit the preferences of their practitioners: in India, for example, we can still find Muslim and Hindu akharas that are very similar except that the former are dedicated to ʿAli ebn Abi Taleb and the latter to the monkey-god Hanuman.49 These exercises and practices do not constitute an ideology in and of themselves but are a corpus of physical techniques that result from various empirical experiences and are subject to an interpretation that best fits the dominant culture of the considered period. Christian wrestlers from Damascus and their Zoroastrian counterparts from Ctesiphon came under Muslim rule thirteen centuries ago. Whatever the past and the spiritual backing of these professional entertainers, they became Muslims and very often Sufi, and likewise, the concept of javanmardi and any existing organisations, institutions or corporations which could be linked with it was soon connected with a Muslim fotovvat. In this matter we should remain cautious with tricky analogies: today’s zurkhaneh, or its organisation and programme are not remote memories of a Mithra temple and its cult. It is the popular alliance between Sufi orders and professional organisations (economical support on one side, spiritual legitimacy on the other side) which interests us here. Sufi doctrines are the main spiritual reference of the fotovvatnameh genre. The best analysis of the link between Sufism and fotovvat has been provided by Ridgeon in his extensive works, for which reason I will not expatiate on the issue here.50 The only point I would like to add is related to the notion, found in the article on javanmardi in the Encyclopaedia Iranica, that professional organisations and craftsmen were producing fotovvat-namehs for the sole purpose of spiritual teaching or their need to remember how to conduct initiation rituals. One should not underestimate the oral tradition’s power of memorisation within pre-industrial societies. Rather, they provided documents attesting to their professional legitimacy, that is, their rights and obligations vis-à-vis their peers, clients, and employers as well as royal and local authorities, especially in the case of any professional quarrel or a status modification which required an appeal to the court 193–194; 224 & plate XXX. That the tool’s shape appears to be inspired from an old weapon (very often links to sacred figures) does not necessarily mean that the tool is or was designed to be used as a training weapon. The analogy here is a trap. The same applies to every other zurkhaneh tool. The takht-e shena (lit. ‘swimming plank’) is not a sword, the sang (lit. a ‘stone’) is not a shield, the kabbadeh and the mil and their movements are not designed to be used as war bow and mace. 49 See especially Alter, The Wrestler’s Body, passim and particularly 261. 50 Lloyd Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism (London, 2010).



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of justice of its day. The more socially elevated the fotovvat-nameh, the more elaborate, precise and prescriptive it was (i.e., those requested by the local judge to the governor’s house, or the court of justice of the King). At the bottom of the social pyramid, craftsmen of the lowest rank kept a small piece of folded or rolled paper, with a poorly written text which was sometimes re-written by somebody who clearly did not understand Arabic or Persian. This explains the rather wide and very unequal level in the quality of literature found within the fotovvat-nameh genre: a written testimony of a diversified spiritual, social and professional reality. Documents linked to professions, found everywhere in the Middle East, Central Asia and India, seem more or less written the same way. What differentiates these documents is a plausible mythical and religious presentation of a trade or craft (the legitimating discourse) by the ostad (the master craftsman): for example, a satisfactory knowledge of the origin of every tool and custom, especially the ritual of initiation (the legitimate way to establish an apprentice in his job). Also included were, as mentioned previously, an enumeration of professional rights, claims and duties, and sometimes explanations of how to share income equitably and how to treat pupils properly, which at times could become an occasion to denounce abuses by some pahlavan. In the spiritually unchanging world of his time, the ostad had to show that he knew from which precise ‘place’ his craft and tradition was coming. As a result, and in case of a litigation, the sole solution left to promote or defend the plaintiff’s right was to require from the recruited public writer (someone who made his living from writing any required official papers or private letters for illiterate people) that he present as subtly as possible some aspects of the mythic and religious legitimating discourse and twist them to the benefit of the plaintiff’s case.51 This reminds us, of course, of the way ancient Greeks used and carved their own multi-purpose myths, as Paul Veyne has shown.52 But as Qajar rule came to an end, with the growing modernisation 51 See Veena Das, ‘A sociological approach to the Caste Puranas: A case study’, in Sociological Bulletin, Journal of the Indian Sociological Society 27/2 (September 1968). This study adds much to our general understanding of traditional craft treatises, whether of Turkish, Persian, Arab or Indian origin. Thanks to its reading I understood at last the problem met by Jean-Claude Vadet in his analysis of Mowlana Hoseyn Vaʿez Kashefi Sabzavari, Fotovvat-name-ye Soltani, ed. Mohammad-Jaʿfar Mahjub (Tehran, 1350/1971). J.C. Vadet, ‘La Futuwwa, morale professionnelle ou morale mystique’, Revue des Etudes Islamiques 46/1 (1978). That treatise was written on behalf of an ostad who reclaimed the property of a house owned (illegally?) by a Sufi shaykh. 52 Paul Veyne, Les Grecs ont-ils cru à leurs mythes? Essai sur l’imagination constituante (Paris, 1983), especially 87f. Translated by Paula Wissing, Did the Greeks Believe in Their Myths? An Essay on the Constitutive Imagination (Chicago, 1988).

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of Iranian society, the critique of the new Persian intelligentsia and the advent of the Pahlavi era, both these corporative frameworks and their traditional values gradually faded away.53 It comes as no surprise that a strong cultural ‘identity card’ such as fotovvat/javanmardi was not discarded for long. Taken out of its traditional context, whether functional, popular or mystical, a Persian and chivalrous javanmardi was ‘rediscovered’ (or reinterpreted) through two seminal works by Malek-e Shoʿara Bahar (1866–1951), namely his edition of the Tarikh-e Sistan and the Majmaʿaltawarikh wa’l-qisas54 and disseminated by Iran’s rising academic institution.55 Bahar’s work is of high literary value and gave distinctive new features to Iranian national identity. From this moment on, the javanmardi concept was updated, and although he, to the best of my knowledge, barely mentioned the zurkhaneh, all nationalist theoreticians of zurkhaneh history found their inspiration in his works. All these interpretations of the zurkhaneh had one thing in common: Iranian intellectuals and officials from past to present have been very reluctant to acknowledge the importance of the link with the Sufis. (The Federation Executive in the 1990s did not want to hear anything about it.) Sufism was seen either as: 1) a decadent and backward institution (especially in the opinion of the Pahlavi court and the very first secular nationalists, like Taqizadeh), or as 2) another form of religious superstition according to the Marxists, or as 3) an old and well-known spiritual competitor that, in the opinion of Shiʿa theocracy, did not and does not deserve any publicity. This means that from the end of the Qajar era down to the present, Iranians have had multiple motivations to dismiss Sufism. Consequently, they have tended to play down its integration in the old professional guild system and, importantly for our case, the spiritual legitimacy and the symbolic and organisational framework it provided wrestlers and the zurkhaneh world with more 53 See W.M. Floor, ‘Asnaf’, in Encyclopaedia Iranica, which provides the best available synthesis of the Iranian guild system and contains references to the possible use of fotovvatnamehs. But his description of litigate settlements during the medieval and Safavid periods raises an issue. If every dispute between members of a guild was solved within the guild, why would the guild elders – masters of lore themselves – have asked for the particular kind of fotovvat-nameh I describe in the present chapter? It seems that other judiciary solutions were available for plaintiffs or, perhaps, that all guilds were not so well-organised. 54 Malek al-Sho‘ara Bahar, ed., Tarikh-e Sistan: taʾlif dar ḥodud-e 445–725 (Tehran, 1314/1935). His work on these two texts spawned a series of articles on javanmardi that can be found in Ihsan Naraqi, ed., A’in-i javanmardi, (Tehran, 1363/1984). 55 Parviz Natel Khanlari, ‘A’in-e ‘ayyari’, Sokhan 18 (1348/1969), 1071–77, 19 (1348/1969), 19–26, 113–22, 263–67, 477–80; Mohammad-Jaʿfar Mahjub, A’in-e javanmardi ya fotovvat (New York, 2000); Morteza Sarraf, ed., Rasa’el-e javanmardan: Moshtamal bar haft fotovvat-nameh (Tehran, 1973, 1991).



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generally. But what kind of Sufi orders were present in the zurkhaneh? In a field in which there is too much speculation and where direct proof is rather scarce, the second part of this paper will offer some clues related to 19th century by focusing on an unlikely document: the Ganjineh-e koshti (the Treasury of Wrestling).56

Part II: the zurkhaneh-Sufi affiliation of the Khaksar, as attested in an aborted project in the Traditional Physical Education Manual from 1875 The link between the traditional zurkhaneh and urban factionalism, local mafias and professional acrobats, strongmen and wrestlers, marked the institution as a very specific way of life with obvious distinctive characteristics. The practitioners were known, admired, despised or even feared by the rest of the population, which considered the zurkhaneh both socially and morally a place of ‘institutionalised marginality’. This well-established social identity is crucial to understanding why in the 1920s and 1930s Iranians chose to adopt European sports and gymnastics as development vectors instead of the zurkhaneh.57 However, it is on the basis of the zurkhaneh that a number of Qajar reformists of the Dar al-Fonun, Iran’s first modern school, tried to create a nationalist and hygienic physical-education programme alongside the earliest development of physical education system and objectives in European nations. Two Frenchmen were linked to this project: Jules Richard (a French translator and teacher, or one of his sons, the treaty is not clear on that) and Dr. Joseph Désiré Tholozan (Naser al-Din Shah’s official physician). The project was aborted, but the idea to draw up a manual of gymnastics and wrestling based on the Iranian tradition of the zurkhaneh produced a manuscript, a planned prototype of a future manual of ‘traditional physical education’: the Ganjineh-ye koshti by ʿAli Akbar ebn Mahdi al-Kashani, a secretary at the Dar al-Fonun who composed involuntarily an unexpected pearl for the academics working on Sufism and especially on the Khaksar dervishes. Kashani appears almost as a ghost-writer, forced to write the treatise in the name of Jules Richard (or his son) in three months by order of Prince Eʿtezad al-Saltaneh, Naser al-Din Shah’s science minister under the reformist Prime 56 For other hints about zurkhaneh-Sufi affiliations see Rochard, ‘The identities of the Iranian Zūrkhanah’, 334. 57 See H.E. Chehabi, ‘Mir Mehdi Varzandeh and the introduction of modern physical education in Iran’, in Culture and Cultural Politics Under Reza Shah: The Pahlavi State, New Bourgeoisie and the Creation of a Modern Society in Iran, ed. Bianca Devos and Christoph Werner (London, 2014).

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Minister, Mirza Hosayn Khan Moshir al-Dowleh. This manuscript is our missing link between the zurkhaneh of the late Safavid period, as described in the Gol-e koshti by Mir Najat (Qomi) Esfahani, and the reinterpreted tradition of the 20thcentury zurkhaneh. ʿAli-Qoli Mirza Eʿtezad al-Saltaneh (1822–1880) was the forty-seventh son of Fath-ʿAli Shah (r. 1797–1834). He became the official director of the Dar alFonun in 1858. Given the institute’s assignments, Naser al-Din Shah also named him the head of the brand-new Ministry of Public Communications, Publications and Educational Institutions. After ten years, Eʿtezad al-Saltaneh found himself responsible, in addition, for mines, artisans, the first modern public hospital (built next to the Dar al-Fonun), the governmental press, printing presses, certain factories and, finally, for the governorship of the regions of Malayer and Tuyserkan, whose revenues covered the budget of the Dar al-Fonun.58 On a visit to France in July 1873, two years before the composition of the Ganjineh-ye koshti, Naser al-Din Shah had a meeting with the president of Paris’s health council.59 Eʿtezad al-Saltaneh, Jules Richard and Dr. Tholozan, who accompanied the Shah on that trip, were most likely present at the meeting. They were in France at a moment when the patriotic and pro-Republican gymnastic movement was fast developing, especially in the wake of the French defeat in the FrancoPrussian war of 1870–1871. It was a period when Eugène Paz, the founder of the Union of French Gymnastics Societies in 1873, had just published a work entitled Reasoned Gymnastics.60 This was a book whose introduction emphasised the connections between the gymnastics movement and medicine, proposing a number of exercises similar to those existing in the zurkhaneh and also presenting gymnastics as a way to improve the health of the entire population and develop militaristic patriotism. In Iran, at that time, it was in the realms of publishing, public health, and education that reformist princes could carry out new initiatives. Hence there 58 Abbas Amanat, ‘Eʿteżad-al-salṭana, ‘Alīqolī Mīrza’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, VIII, fasc. 6 (1998), 669–72. See also idem, Pivot of the Universe: Nasir al-Din Shah Qajar and the Iranian Monarchy, 1831–1896 (Berkeley, 1997). 59 Naser ed-din Shah Qajar, Journal du voyage en Europe (1873) du shâh de Perse, ed. Bernadette Salesse (Paris, 2000), 29, 195, 263. 60 Eugène Paz, La Gymnastique raisonnée (Paris, 1872), cf. his two other books, La Gymnastique obligatoire (Paris, 1868) and La Santé de l’esprit et du corps par la gymnastique (Paris, 1865). He was an important lobbyist for the cause of an obligatory gymnastic programme at school and close to several ministers of education such as Victor Duruy (Second Empire) and Jules Simon (Third Republic). I am grateful to my colleague, Denis Jallat, with whom I shared many long hours of work and discussion about the whole 19th-century period and French Physical Education’s ideas and programmes.



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was a concentration of very favourable factors around the Ganjineh. From 1874 to September of 1875, the year in which the Ganjineh was composed, Eʿtezad al-Saltaneh directed the new ‘council for beneficial reforms’, a body modelled on the reformist example of the Ottoman Empire. This council was supposed to provide a general code of reference for the overhaul of the administration of the Iranian provinces, but it met with opposition from the clergy and a lack of support from the Shah, forcing Eʿtezad al-Saltaneh to discontinue its activities. He died five years later. This background information helps us comprehend the spirit of the time when the treatise was written. The formal organisation of this manual is fascinating, and considering its openly patriotic, educative and especially hygienic goals, it foreshadows the general movement of Asiatic body cultures to the new general and physical education systems that were flourishing in Europe. Similar movements around wrestling were seen in India with nationalistic motivated goals, but they failed (just as in Iran) because the Indian middle-class, like the new Iranian middle-class, preferred Western sports and gymnastic activities, exemplified by the ruling elite’s adoption of cricket. In other words, the Ganjineh project was in and of itself not surprising, but it was doomed because it quickly appeared that it was easier to adopt a foreign but socially untainted tradition than to accept a local tradition that was familiar but socially despised. Be this as it may, our manuscript cuts decisively across two previous literary Iranian traditions relating to the zurkhaneh: poetic works and professional treatises. Kashani did his best to organise and give the clearest explanation possible, but the text shows that he was confronted with the inner difficulties of the project and a clash between new theoretical frameworks and the ones available. It should be remembered that he had to depict physical movements and wrestling holds for a two-hour programme in an organised, detailed, quantified and supposedly reproducible way – linked to hygienic goals – relying on informants who, when asked to reveal their techniques and knowledge, used quite a different frame of thinking. This exercise caused Kashani visible distress, as the following non-exhaustive list of examples shows: 1. He began his text with a poem glorifying the zurkhaneh that contains a myth of origin, as required by tradition. However, as an educated man who was forced to work on a very popular activity, he could not refrain from denouncing one page later the alleged decadence of the institution in a very sharp tone.

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2. He obviously wished to describe only serious, useful and agile exercises. These he categorised as well as he could into chapters organised around tools of strength. But he also had to deal with more frivolous exercises that were part of the training programme of professional entertainers. He declared these exercises useless several times in a sharp tone, not realising that such demonstrations of prowess actually formed a coherent whole (acrobatic and juggling training). 3. The time-frame of the training programme, which the author organised into periods of first seven days and then forty days, testified to the synthesis that he instinctively carried out between the requirements of manual-writing (which included, in particular, the establishment of a progressive and quantified training programme for beginners) and his involuntary respect for the traditional alchemical number 40, which was used in transmutation processes and was, as we all know, a most common symbolic time of passage (like the chehellom funeral gathering, ‘the fortieth day’, well respected among Iranians). At the same time, he paradoxically rejected the notion that there were 360 wrestling techniques – a number which is traditionally provided by the ancients – as an impossibility, finding an artificial explanation for the number 360 when in fact this number was also the usual symbolic number of complete human mundane knowledge. 4. The author also constantly ran up against the problem of linguistic taboos: the shameful parts of the body must never be mentioned, but unfortunately, many wrestling holds highlight these very body parts. These examples allow us to see the porous, changing, and nevertheless tight constraints of large registers structuring our systems of knowledge and our perceived identity. Among the many considerations which can be drawn from this manuscript, I will only develop the question of Sufi identity. The author gives a full explanation of the zurkhaneh’s Sufi affiliation to the Khaksar, the selseleh of Qotb al-Din Haydar. He describes the clothes and tools of the morshed, both provided by his informants.61 The poem, translated from the Persian below,62 is 61 The whole description makes it quite impossible to believe in a reference to the common Neʿmati/Haydari factionalism. On this urban factionalism phenomenon see John Perry, ‘Toward a theory of urban moieties: The Ḥaydariyya and Niʿmatiyya revisited’, Iranian Studies 32/1 (1999). 62 I would like to thank here my wife, Shirin Baniahmad, for her decisive help in the translation of this poetry and her invaluable help for more than twenty years now.



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laden with terms that are familiar to scholars of various Sufi orders, such as the Qalandar, Khaksar and ʿAjam (which was an offshoot of the Khaksar): The carpet (pust-e takht) on which I choose to dwell, Know that it comes from God, majestic and benevolent. The rod (taʿlimi), the flower-crown (goltaj) and the belt of unity (kamand-e vahdat), Thanks to Adam, Noah and Mohammad are worthy of value. The oven (anbur) is life and my link is to Qotb al-Din, I disclose this secret to you as a precious gem worthy of a Shah (shahvar). The falcon feather (baz) and the stone pearl (mohreh) are from the representative of the dervish (darvish-e naqiban-e ʿajam), Know that every art comes from the lion of God who hides all faults (shirkhoda-ye sattar).

Then the author mentions once again the names of the morshed’s necessary tools and says how one must act and dress in them: the crown, which is a Sufi crown of poverty on the head,63 the belt to be put on the waist or across the chest, the falcon feather, which he ties to his clothes, and the stone pearl, which he fastens to one of his arms. He also includes some other tools that are not mentioned in the poetry: a ring of bronze on the left thigh and the bell of Haydar (zang-e Haydari) on the right thigh. The dervish-e naqiban-e ʿajam falcon feather and the stone pearl seem to belong to official representatives of noble houses who were in charge of the dervishes, keeping open a tent near their estates, especially during festive periods, and having care especially of the wandering dervishes. The link between the Qaderis and the zurkhaneh tradition seems to have appeared at a rather late period when Kurdistan came under the influence of the house of Ardalan at the end of the 18th century.64 The zurkhaneh immediately caught the favour of the Qaderis who had and still have very close links to both Khaksars and the zurkhaneh. Many Kurdish zurkhaneh athletes I met in Sanandaj in 1997 actively associated themselves with the Qaderis. In Tehran, the Sufi athletes were mostly Neʿmatollahi, but it was quite delicate to work with them because they did not feel safe and consequently did not want to attract the 63 The Sufi crown of poverty was replaced during the Pahlavi period by the royal taj and then, after the revolution, was simply wiped off from the zurkhaneh. 64 ‘Abbas Kamandi, Varzesh va sargozasht-e varzesh-e bastani-ye Kordestan (Sanandaj, 1984) and B. Nikitine, ‘Les Valis d’Ardelan’, Revue du Monde Musulman 49 (1922).

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attention of authorities. Indeed, their library was seized in 1996 by the police and their association was outlawed during Ramadan in the same year. They immediately used their connections within the down-town bazaar and in the zurkhaneh to avoid further humiliation. They gathered in friendly zurkhaneh networks and thanked their hosts by organising curative and votive meals in the bazaar’s second floor warehouses of a wealthy merchant. The Qaderi athletes in Tehran and Karaj were even more discreet and I did not approach them. But Sufis were more daring in Esfahan in 1996. Their shaykh came openly to the national competitions of traditional wrestling and ancient sports, at the displeasure of the religious representatives, who saw numerous people and sportsmen kiss his ring, and reassert an unforgotten bond under their very noses.

Bibliography Adelkhah, F. Being Modern in Iran (London, 1999). Allan, G. Friendship: Developing a Sociological Perspective (Harvester, 1989). ———. A Sociology of Friendship and Kinship (London, 1979). Alter, J. S. The Wrestler’s Body: Identity and Ideology in North India (Berkeley, 1992). Amanat, A. ‘Eʿteżad-al-salṭana, ‘Alīqolī Mīrza’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, VIII, fasc. 6 (1998), 669–72. http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/etezad-alsaltana, accessed 19.1.2012. ———. Pivot of the Universe. Nasir al-Din Shah Qajar and the Iranian Monarchy, 1831–1896 (Berkeley, 1997). Barzagar, F. Tarikh-e varzesh-e Iran (Tehran, 1350/1971). Bahar, Malek al-Shoʿara, ed. Tarikh-e Sistan: taʾlif dar ḥodud-e 445–725 (Tehran, 1314/1935). ———. ‘Varzesh-e bastani-ye Iran va rishehha-ye tarikhi-ye an’, Chista 1 (October 1981), reprinted in Doktor Mehrdad Bahar, az ostureh ta tarikh, ed. Abuʾl-Qasem Esmaʿilpur (Tehran, 1376/1997), 27–41. Beeman, W. O. Language, Status and Power in Iran (Bloomington, 1986). Blochet, E. Catalogue des manuscrits persans de la Bibliothèque Nationale. Tome II (N° 721–1160) (Paris, 1912). Bromber, K., Krawietz, B. & Maguire, J. eds. Sports across Asia: Politics, Cultures and Identities (London, 2013). Cahen, Claude. ‘Ahdât’, EI2 I (1960), 256. ———. ‘Y a t-il eu des corporations professionnelles dans le monde musulman classique ?’ in The Islamic City: a Colloquium published under the Auspices



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of the Near Eastern History Group, Oxford, and the Near East Centre, University of Pennsylvania, ed. A. H. Hourani and S. M. Stern (Oxford, 1970), 51–63. ———. & Hanaway Jr, W. L. ‘Ayyar’, Encyclopaedia Iranica. Vol. III, Fasc. 2, (1987) 159–163. ———. & Taeschner, F. ‘Futuwwa’, EI2, II (1965), 961–65. ———. ‘Mouvements populaires et autonomisme urbain dans l’Asie musulmane du Moyen-Age’, Arabica 5/3 (1958), 225–50; 6/1 (1959), 25–56; and 6/3 (1959), 233–60. Canard, M. ‘La lutte chez les arabes’, in Le cinquantenaire de la Faculté des lettres d’Alger (1881–1931) (Algiers 1932), 127–90. Chehabi, Houchang E. ‘Sport and politics in Iran: The legend of Gholamreza Takhti’, International Journal of the History of Sport 12 (1995), 48–60. ———. ‘Mir Mehdi Varzandeh and the introduction of modern physical education in Iran’, in Culture and Cultural Politics Under Reza Shah: The Pahlavi State, New Bourgeoisie and the Creation of a Modern Society in Iran, ed. Bianca Devos and Christoph Werner (London, 2014). ———. ‘Zur-ḳana’, Encyclopaedia Iranica online [accessed 13 July 2016]. ———. ‘Taḳti, Ḡolam-Reża’, Encyclopaedia Iranica online [accessed 13 July 2016]. ———. ‘Jaʿfari, Šaʿban’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, XIV, fasc. 4 (2008), 366–67. ———. ‘Recovering Asia’s lost West: Iran’s Asian connections in the realm of sports’, AJAMES 31/2 (2016), 303–29. Corbin, H. and Sarraf, M. Traité des Compagnons-Chevaliers: Rasaʾil-i javanmardan (Tehran-Paris, 1973), 5–108. Darbon, S. Diffusion des sports et impérialisme Anglo-Saxon (Paris, 2008). Das, V. ‘A sociological approach to the Caste Puranas: A case study’, Sociological Bulletin, Journal of the Indian Sociological Society 17/2 (September 1968), 141–64. During, J. Musique et Mystique dans les Traditions de l’Iran (Paris, 1989). Elahi, S. ‘Negahi digar beh sonnati kohan: zurkhaneh’, Iranshenasi 6 (1994), 731–38. Ensafpur, Gh-R. Tarikh va farhang-e zurkhaneh va goruhha-ye ejtema‘i-ye zurkhaneh-row (Tehran, 1974). Floor, Willem. ‘The Lutis – a social phenomenon in Qajar Persia’, Die Welt des Islams 13 (1971), 103–21.

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———. ‘The political role of the Lutis in Iran’, in Modern Iran: The Dialectics of Continuity and Change ed. Michael E. Bonnie and Nikki Keddie (Albany, 1981), 83–95. ———, ‘asnaf’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, II, fasc. 7, 772–78 and [accessed 13 July 2016]. Gaillard, M. ‘Le champ d’emploi des termes ʿayyar et javanmard dans le DarabName d’Abu Taher Tarsusi’, Arabic and Middle Eastern Literatures 4/1 (2001), 5–18. Gaudin, B. ‘La codification des pratiques martiales, une approche sociohistorique’, in Pratiques martiales et sports de combat: Actes de la Recherche en Sciences Sociales 179, ed. Benoit Gaudin (Septembre 2009), 5–29. Godelier, M. The Mental and the Material (London, 2011). Goitein, S D. ‘Formal friendship in the medieval Near East’, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 115 (1971), 484–89. Gusheh, H. ‘Varzesh-e bastani dar Iran’, Payam-e naw 3 (1326/1947), 46–55. High Council for Culture and Art, Barrasi-ye farhang-e ejtema‘i-ye Zurkhanehha-ye Tehran (Tehran, 2535/1976). Hobsbawm, E. and Ranger, T. eds. The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge, 1983). Ibn Mahdi al-Kashani, ʿAli Akbar. Ganjinah-ye koshti (Tehran, 1292/1875). Khanlari, P.N. ‘A’in-i ‘ayyari’, Sokhan 18 (1348/1969), 1071–77, 19 (1348/1969), 19–26, 113–22, 263–67, 477–80. Kamandi, ‘A. Varzesh va sargozasht-e varzesh-e bastani-ye Kordestan (Sanandaj, 1984). Karamustafa, A.T. God’s Unruly Friends (Oxford, 2007). Krawietz, Birgit. ‘Martial arts Iranian style’, in Sports across Asia: Politics, Cultures and Identities, ed. Katrin Bromber, Birgit Krawietz & Joseph Maguire (London, 2013), 144–66. Krishna M. K. Nagarjunakonda: A Cultural Study (Delhi, 1977). Luijendijk, D.H. Zoor Khane, History and Techniques of the Ancient Martial Art of Iran (Boulder, CO, 2006). Mahjub, M.J. A’in-e javanmardi ya fotovvat (New York, 2000). Mangan J. A. ed. The Cultural Bond: Sport, Empire, Society (Oxford, 1992). Mirzaʾi, S. Tayyeb, dar gozar-e lutiha (Tehran, 1381/2002). Naraqi, I, ed. A’in-i javanmardi (Tehrân, 1363/1984). Nâser ed-din Shâh Qâjâr. Journal du voyage en Europe (1873) du shâh de Perse, ed. Bernadette Salesse (Paris, 2000).



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Nikitine, B. ‘Les Valis d’Ardelan’, Revue du Monde Musulman 49 (1922), 88–89. Palmer, D. A. Qigong Fever: Body, Science, and Utopia in China, 1949–1999 (New York, 2007). Partaw-Bayzaʾi, H. Tarikh-e varzesh-e bastani-ye Iran: Zurkhaneh (Tehran, 1958). Paz, E. La Santé de l’esprit et du corps par la gymnastique (Paris, 1865). ———. La Gymnastique obligatoire (Paris, 1868). ———. La Gymnastique raisonnée (Paris, 1872). Perry, J. ‘Toward a theory of urban moieties: The Ḥaydariyya and Niʿmatiyya revisited’, Iranian Studies 32/1 (1999), 51–70. Piemontese, A. ‘La leggenda del santo-lottatore Pahlavan Mahmud Xvarezmi ‘Purya-ye Vali (m722–1322)’, Annali dell’Istituto Universitario Orientale di Napoli, NS 15 (1965), 167–213. Ridgeon, L. ‘The Zurkhana between tradition and change’, Iran 45 (2007), 243–65. ———. Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism: A History of Sufi-futuwwat in Iran (London, 2010). ———. Javanmardi: Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh, 2011). Rochard, Philippe. ‘The identities of the Iranian Zūrkhanah’, Iranian Studies 35/4 (Autumn 2002), 313–40. ———. ‘Les identités du zurkhâne iranien’, in Sports et Corps en Jeu, Techniques et Culture, ed. Jean-Luc Jamard, CNRS & MSH 39 (Janvier-Juin 2002), 29–57. ———. ‘Les représentations du ʻbeau geste’ dans le sport traditionnel Iranien’, in Iran: Questions et Connaissances, ed. Bernard Hourcade (Leuven, 2003), 161–72. Rosu, A. ‘Les Marman et les Arts Martiaux Indiens’, Journal Asiatique 249/3–4 (1981), 417–50. Sadiq, M. ‘Gowd-e Moqaddas’, Honar va Mardom 145 (1353/1974–75), 63–65. ———. ‘Zurkhâne va varzesh-e bâstâni’, Honar va Mardom 26 (1343/1964), 6–15. Sandesara, B. J. & Mehta, R.N., eds. Mallapurana (Baroda, 1964). Sarraf, M. Traité des Compagnons-Chevaliers: Rasaʾil-i javanmardan. Analytical introduction from Henri Corbin (Tehran-Paris, 1973). Sarraf, M, ed. Rasa’el-e javanmardan: Moshtamal bar haft fotovvat-nameh (new ed. Tehran, 1991). Sarshar, H. Khaterat-e Shaʿban Jaʿfari (Tehran, 1381/2002).

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Schayegh, C. ‘Sport, health, and the Iranian middle class in the 1920s and 1930s’, Iranian Studies 35/4 (Autumn 2002), 341–69. Taqizadah, H. ‘Khayalat’, Kaveh, Dawreh-ye jaded 2/6 (8 June, 1921), 1–4. Taeschner, F. Zünfte und Bruderschaften im Islam: Texte zur Geschichte der futuwwa (Zurich, 1979). ———. ‘Akhi’, EI2, I (1960), 321–23. Vaʿiz Kashifi Sabzavari, Mowlana Hoseyn. Fotovvat-name-ye Soltani, ed. Mohammad-Ja‘far Mahjub, Bonyad-e Farhang-e Iran (Tehran, 1350/1971). Vadet, J.C. ‘La Futuwwa, morale professionnelle ou morale mystique’, Revue des Etudes Islamiques 46/1 (1978), 57–90. Veyne, P. Did the Greeks Believe in Their Myths? An Essay on the Constitutive Imagination (Chicago, 1988). Weber, Max. Economy and Society, ed. Guenther Roth and Claus Wittich (Berkeley, 1978). Zakeri, M. ‘Javanmardi’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, XIV, fasc. 6 (2008), 594–601. http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/javanmardi, accessed 13. 4.2012. ———. Sasanid Soldiers in Early Muslim Society: The Origins of Ayyaran and Futuwwa (Wiesbaden, 1995).

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Representation of the Hero Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi: Sociological Reflections on Javanmardi Olmo Gölz1 Abstract Following a theoretical framework that anticipates the construction of collective identities through heroes, this chapter demonstrates how the concept of javanmardi is a focal point in creating a hegemonic modern Iranian identity. In the official discourse of the Islamic Republic of Iran, the national hero Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi (1912–1963) is presented as the first martyr who sacrificed his life for Ayatollah Khomeini and additionally as a javanmard-e bozorg (a grand javanmard). Thus, his example is used to mediate the ideal virtues of javanmardi to the public. Accordingly, this paper is dedicated to a study of the motives present behind a public depiction of Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi as a hero.

Introduction The Iranian daily newspaper Ettelaʿat reported on 2 November 1963 that at the 1 This chapter is the result of a research year (2013/14) at the Collaborative Research Center 948 ‘Heroes – Heroizations – Heroisms. Transformations and Conjunctures from Antiquity to the Modern Day’ (Freiburg, Germany), funded by the German Research Foundation (DFG).

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break of dawn, at five-past-six in the morning, the famous 20th-century javanmard Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi was executed alongside his brother Hajj Esmaʿil by a firing squad in Tehran. Born in 1912, Tayyeb was the self-appointed chief of the Tehran fruit and vegetable market. He played a crucial role in winning the streets in the name of the Shah during the coup d’état of 1953 by mobilising large groups of subalterns. Ten years later, in 1963, he again was accused of commanding a mob, this time on behalf of the Shah’s opponent Ayatollah Khomeini. He was sentenced to death by the judgement of an inferior court. He had been accused of organising the riots which took place on 5 June 1963 (15 Khordad 1342) – a verdict which was confirmed by the court of last resort.2 A few months before the trial, Tayyeb and his brother had already been publicly blamed by the state prosecutor for having bribed seven different local leaders for turning out in the uprising,3 nowadays remembered as Qiyam-e Panzdahom-e Khordad – which in the official Iranian narrative marks a turning point in the Iranian history towards the Islamic Revolution of 1978/79.4 Contemporary public opinion in Iran claims that the javanmard Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi had to die as a consequence of his refusal to denounce Ayatollah Khomeini as the hidden hand behind the riots.5 Anthropologist Fariba Adelkhah stresses that Tayyeb’s heroic death marks ‘the culmination of his javanmard life’, not only because he saved the life of Ayatollah Khomeini ‘but more simply because he refused to testify in favour of the unjust and false (na-haq) instead of the just (haq)’, which – she argues – was the most important aspect of Tayyeb’s javanmard life.6 Following on from this argument, Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi’s willingness to die for the just cause might help to explain in a paradigmatic way the concept of javanmardi and how this concept is perceived and reconstructed in modern Iran. However, this observation raises further questions concerning Iran’s cultural system, because the concept of javanmardi first and foremost sheds light on notions of ideality. It defines how the ideal man ought to be and behave from society’s viewpoint. Since Tayyeb is depicted as the javanmard-e bozorg,7 as the great ideal man, he can be considered a public figure

2 ‘Tayyeb va Esmaʽil Rezaʼi tirbaran shodand’, Ettelaʿat, 11 Aban 1342 [2 Nov. 1963], 1 & 13. 3 ‘Eslami-ye ʽamalin-e balva-ye panzdahom-e Khordad’, Ettelaʿat, 15 Tir 1342 [6 July 1963], 13. 4 Fakhreddin Azimi, ‘Khomeini and the “White Revolution”’, in A Critical Introduction to Khomeini, ed. Arshin Adib-Moghaddam (New York, 2014), 36. 5 Ibid., 37. 6 Fariba Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran (London, 1999); Jonathan Derrick (trans.), 36. 7 Goruh-e farhangi-ye shahid-e Ebrahimhadi, Tayyeb: Zendegi-nameh va khatirat-e horr-e nezhat-e Emam Khomeini shahid-e Tayyeb-e Hajj Rezaʼi (Tehran, 1392 h. š. [2013]), 11–13.



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who is constructed to represent the collective identity of a specific community. In other words, he is projected as a figure who embodies a range of ideal virtues which the collectivity considers paradigmatic to its own ideal state. This chapter is dedicated to the motives behind the public depiction of individuals as javanmardan and the herein entwined discourses of heroisms. While studying the Iranian case it is indispensable to determine the meanings and uses of the concept of javanmardi for the study of collective identities. Thus, the appreciation of a man as a javanmard might not only be based upon his actual deeds, but rather the needs of the collectivity represented through the historical person. Of course, the historical person has to accomplish extraordinary deeds to function as a role-model for the ordinary ideal, here the concept of javanmardi. This argumentation follows a theoretical framework that relies on the analyses of the construction of collective identities put forward by the sociologists Shmuel Eisenstadt and Bernhard Giesen. Accordingly, the javanmardi phenomenon will be approached from the perspective of a sociological theory of heroism. Hence, with the case study of Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi’s death and his commemoration, it will be demonstrated that the concept of javanmardi is a focal point in constructing a hegemonic Iranian Identity.

Collective identity and boundary construction In their study of collective identity, sociologists Eisenstadt and Giesen argue that the construction of social collectives requires a perception of equality among the members of a certain community.8 Drawing on the theories of Max Weber and Émile Durkheim, which Eisenstadt and Giesen consider the ‘classical paradigms of collective identity’,9 they state that collective identity is not naturally given but rather socially produced through the construction of boundaries.10 These boundaries define the alike while discriminating the non-alike. They establish a ‘demarcation between the inside and outside, strangers and familiars, kin and akin’.11 These boundaries define a realm wherein the members of a group can view each other as equals in a certain respect.12 This sense of equality is to be seen as the key prerequisite for the consolidation of a collective identity – or even for a social entity as such. 8 S. N. Eisenstadt and Bernhard Giesen, ‘The construction of collective identity’, European Journal of Sociology 36 (1995), 74. 9 Ibid., 73. 10 Ibid., 74. 11 Ibid. 12 Ibid.

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Following this argument, it can be assumed that all collective identities presuppose specific boundaries forged and fostered through collective memory, which Jan Assmann defines as a ‘concept for all knowledge that directs behaviour and experience in the interactive framework of a society and one that obtains through generations in repeated social practice and initiation’.13 Hence, the collective memory of a social group can be seen as the manifestation of its actual boundary-work. One very important way of negotiating the boundaries of a collective identity is covered by the concept of communicative memory – a term coined by Assmann which describes ‘those varieties of collective memory that are based exclusively on everyday communications’.14 Communicative memory might for example appear in stories about a living person who is appreciated as a role-model for ideal and exemplary behaviour perceived as typical for the society. However, the communicative memory is naturally characterised by a high degree of thematic instability and disorganisation.15 Furthermore, boundary constructions are questionable, highly fragile and of course arbitrary.16 What, for instance, if we learn that a revered javanmard was but a nasty thief? Would it become less recommendable to imitate the sublime virtues he otherwise stands for? Would the boundaries of the collective identity have to be renegotiated? Or worse: What, if the concept of javanmardi itself weakens or loses its attraction? Adelkhah, for example, was confronted during her research with a statement by an interviewee who said: ‘Today you are a javanmard if you succeed in bringing home a kilo of meat.’17 Does this indicate that the values and virtues mediated by the concept of javanmardi are no longer part of the collective identity in modern Iran? These examples might help to illustrate the fact that a social group would fail to consolidate its collective identity if its boundaries do not become a shared social construction. Therefore, a continuous reaffirmation of the social construction of boundary is required,18 while simultaneously the circumstances of its construction have to be kept latent. A collective identity would forfeit its function if the social processes at work in constructing its borders became apparent.19 A conveni13 Jan Assmann and John Czaplicka, ‘Collective memory and collective identity’, New German Critique 65 (1995), 126. 14 Ibid. 15 Ibid. 16 Bernhard Giesen, Triumph and Trauma (Boulder, 2004), 4. 17 Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, 31. 18 Giesen, Triumph and Trauma, 4. 19 Eisenstadt and Giesen, ‘The construction of collective identity’, 73.



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ent way of maintaining latency is to emphasise the boundaries’ detachment from ordinary life while at the same time fostering references to the sacred.20 Accordingly, collective identity requires the incorporation of cultural memory which is characterised by its distance from the everyday.21 It is precisely the notion of distance which brings the collective identity into the scope of sociological analysis. As Giesen and Eisenstadt pointed out, attempts to question the boundaries and ‘to lift the veil of latency are usually rejected by pointing to its naturalness, sacredness or self-evidence’.22 Thus, the two sociologists stress that a sociological analysis ‘has to reconstruct the process by which latency is achieved and by which the fragile social order is considered to be the self-evident order of things’.23 Following this claim, the study presented here is focused on the deconstruction of the concept of the hero – in this case, the hero of javanmardi – as a symbolic code of distinction, which on the one hand represents a focal point in the construction of collective identity,24 while on the other hand, the construction of a hero can be seen as the personalised manifestation of a society’s boundary-work. Based on the assumption that identity appears to its possessor as entirely certain, but nevertheless remains insuperably inscrutable, Giesen argues that the collective identity’s boundaries have to be presented in the everyday world.25 He argues ‘that social reality is constituted by referring to something that transcends the sheer positivism of the ordinary world of everyday life’.26 Consequently, Giesen offers a theory on heroes, arguing that heroes represent the collective identity of a community since heroes are liminal figures who symbolise the community’s ties to the sacred in a Durkheimian sense.27 Furthermore, the hero represents the sacred centre in twofold manner: First, he is a person who is close to the community since he is ‘the projection of the ideal self that is in the mind of the individual persons who admire the hero’.28 Thus, the hero becomes part of the everyday communica20 Bernhard Giesen, ‘Tales of transcendence: imagining the sacred in politics’, in Religion and Politics: Cultural Perspectives, ed. Bernhard Giesen and Daniel Šuber (Leiden, 2005), 101. 21 Assmann and Czaplicka, ‘Collective memory and collective identity’, 129. 22 Eisenstadt and Giesen, ‘The construction of collective identity’, 73. 23 Ibid. 24 Ibid., 73–74. 25 Bernhard Giesen, Zwischenlagen: Das Außerordentliche als Grund der sozialen Wirklichkeit, 1. Aufl (Weilerswist, 2010), 72. 26 Giesen, Zwischenlagen, 96. 27 Giesen, Triumph and Trauma, 17. 28 Ibid., 22.

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tive memory in the sense of Assmann. Accordingly, the hero becomes part of the cultural memory. Second, he is distant because he possesses a triumphant creativity which is far out of reach for the ordinary member of a collectivity.29 Thus, the hero’s qualities and attributes become self-evident labels for the collective identity and its boundaries.

Closeness – the javanmard Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi As indicated above, one central characteristic of the hero is his ability to establish a relation to reality whereby the community can reassure and prove itself.30 For our case, it is thus important to determine whether Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi provides this heroic property of closeness to the community, and if so, where this relation to reality can be found. Following the argument put forward by Adelkhah, the most important aspect of Tayyeb’s death lies in the depiction of his execution as a performance of self-sacrifice to protect the truth. This feature defines paradigmatically everything a true javanmard has to represent.31 Regardless of all scholarly discussions about the origins, emergences or meanings of the concept, one will hardly find any account in which the ideal javanmard is not described as an honest and courageous man, a man who would keep his word and a man who would not betray another for his own safety. However, for a nuanced understanding of the meaning of his death, a reconstruction of the historical events leading to Tayyeb’s execution is required. The uncontroversial component of the story unfolds as follows: On 3 June 1963, coinciding with the day of ʿAshuraʾ, Ayatollah Khomeini delivered his famous speech in Qom, harshly criticising the Shah: ‘You wretched, miserable man, forty-five years of your life have passed. Isn’t it time for you to think and reflect a little, to ponder about where all this is leading you, to learn a lesson from the experience of your father.’32 On the following days there were demonstrations in Tehran, but it was Khomeini’s detention in the early morning of 5 June that triggered the uprising.33 According to the report of Khomeini’s confidant in Tehran, Hajj Mehdi ʿEraqi, at five o‘clock in the morning news of the arrest reached Tehran. 29 Ibid. 30 von den Hoff, Ralf et al., ‘Helden – Heroisierungen – Heroismen: Transformationen und Konjunkturen von der Antike bis zur Moderne’, Helden. Heroes. Héros 1 (2013), 10; Konzeptionelle Ausgangspunkte des Sonderforschungsbereiches 948. 31 Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, 36. 32 Baqer Moin, Khomeini: Sign of God (London, 1989), 104. 33 Azimi, ‘Khomeini and the “White Revolution”’, 35.



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Immediately, Khomeini’s followers gathered and decided to stage an insurgence. Their first concern was to make sure that the bazaar would not open, and accordingly, it was arranged that envoys were to be sent to the most important parts of the bazaar. When they reached Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi’s store, they found it still closed with only Tayyeb’s son Bizhan present. After calling his father via telephone, Bizhan confirmed the approval of his father to keep the fruit and vegetable market closed.34 Thereafter, protest marches from seven points of the city got under way and caused disruption all over Tehran.35 Concerning any active participation from Tayyeb during the events of 5 June, the telephone agreement is the only indication of sort that we have. Nevertheless, this episode exemplifies the important role of the javanmard. There are three main interpretations of the above incident: The first one – and back in the times of the Shah, the official version – presumes that Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi received two million riyals from Ayatollah Khomeini. He used this money to instigate the leaders of the seven protest marches. The state prosecutor claimed in an interview in July 1963 to not only know their names but also how much exactly they received from Hajj Esmaʿil, who acted on behalf of his brother.36 Consequently, as this interpretation has it, the street leaders of the uprising were just greedy henchmen, acting in the name of Tayyeb who organised and controlled their action. The second interpretation stresses that Tayyeb was neither willing nor able to act against the religious feelings of the crowd. The recent publication Lompen-ha dar siyasat-e ʿasr-e pahlavi reports a phone conversation between the chief of the police and Tayyeb, in which the latter confessed that he could not do anything against the uprising because of its distinct religious character and the people’s fury.37 On the basis of this interpretation, Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi simply did not have the agency to be behind the riots, but was either opportunistic enough to hijack the will of the crowd or he supported it for the same religious sentiments he also shared. His decision to keep the vegetable market closed is therefore interpreted

34 Hajj M. ʿEraqi, Na-goftehha: Khatirat shahid Hajj Mehdi ʿEraqi (Tehran, 1380 h.sh. [2001]), 182–83. 35 For a detailed report see: ‘Havades-e diruz va emruz’, Ettelaʿat, 15 Khordad 1342 [5 June 1963], 1 & 13; and ‘Jariyan-e mashruh-e tazaharat va jad-va-khord-e Tehran’, Ettelaʽat, 16 Khordad 1342 [6 June 1963], 1, 4, 13 & 14. 36 ‘Eslami-ye ʽamalin-e balva-ye panzdahom-e Khordad’, Ettelaʿat, 15 Tir 1342 [6 July 1963], 13. 37 Mojtaba Zadeh-Mohammadi, Lompen-ha dar siyasat-e ʿasr-e pahlavi, 3rd ed. (Tehran, 1392 h.sh. [2013]), 231.

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as a subsequent order to revolt, which triggered the dynamic of the uprising. In the words and interpretation of Zadeh-Mohammadi: ‘Tayyeb said: “No problem. Keep the shops closed!” Consequently, following the instructions of Tayyeb, the furious mob marched from the south of the city to the centre and the north.’38 With regard to the actual ʿAshuraʾ ceremonies two days before the uprising, it is even said that Tayyeb managed to mobilise around 20,000 people.39 According to the published files of the Shah’s secret police, SAVAK, they all came at his invitation and were acting at his command.40 Before discussing the third interpretation, it has to be noted that even the two narratives depicting Tayyeb as a hidden hand or as a mere opportunist, respectively, demonstrate his generally perceived mobilisation capacity as the leader of the fruit and vegetable market. This coincides with reports of his life-story, where it is told that he managed to establish his predominance in the fruit and vegetable market in two ways. On the one hand, he showed economic aptitude, for example when he managed to become the undisputed monopolist of the banana trade in Iran during the 1950s – a fact that yielded him the nickname Soltan-e Mowz-e Iran, ‘Banana Sultan of Iran’.41 Or when he recognised the sign of the times and invested in lorries when others still relied on horse-drawn carriages,42 which made him one of the biggest and most influential bazaaris of the time.43 On the other hand, his javanmardi gestures earned him the status of a big-man, in the sense described by anthropologist Marshal Sahlins.44 Sahlins stresses that the indicative quality of a big-man is personal power. They do not come to office and they do not rely on the power of installed institutions. ‘The attainment of big-man status is rather the outcome of a series of acts which elevate a person above the common herd and attract about him a coterie of loyal, lesser men.’45 In the context discussed here, it must have been precisely his javanmard status which gave him his capability to mobilise the people. Sahlins argues that big-men instigate mass action first and foremost through their extensive renown.46 Trans38 Ibid., 232 39 Ibid., 236 40 Markaz-e barrasi-ye asnad-e tarikhi-ye vezarat-e ettelaʿat, Azad mard-e shahid Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi (be ravayat-e asnad-e Savak) (Tehran, 1378 h.sh. [1999/2000]), 115. 41 Goruh-e farhangi-ye Shahid-e Ibrahimhadi, Ṭayyeb, 36. 42 Ibid., 37. 43 Ibid. 44 Marshall D. Sahlins, ‘Poor man, rich man, big-man, chief: Political types in Melanesia and Polynesia’, Comparative Studies in Society and History 5/3 (1963), 285–303, 289. 45 Ibid. 46 Ibid., 291.



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ferred to the case presented here we have to state that all ideas about Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi’s participation at the Qiyam-e Panzdahom-e Khordad deal at least with the idea that he could have been behind this incident. This verifies the narration of Adelkhah, who vividly shows how Tayyeb became the undisputed leader of the bazaar through all the (very ambiguous) attributes characterising him as a javanmard.47 In her words: he ‘had a back’.48 Additionally, the circumstances of his death sentence and the fact that he chose death over a life in dishonour make him an undisputed javanmard – even in the eyes of his opponents. However, looking at the two interpretations presented above, it becomes clear that the deeds of a historical person are always interpreted in the light of the needs of the specific interest group telling the story. Presenting the uncontested hero of javanmardi as a mercenary, paid by religious leaders, as a lompen (derived from the German ‘Lumpen’) or at least as a man without agency, even if it is a political statement, tells much about how javanmardi is perceived. Vice versa, we can trace back the functions and uses of the concept of javanmardi as a boundary marker of a rather ideal or ‘official’ collective identity if we determine the hegemonic narrative of the Islamic Republic of Iran on the role of Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi in the Qiyam-e Panzdahom-e Khordad. This third interpretation of Tayyeb’s role in the events around 5 June 1963 follows the narrative of Hajj Mehdi ʿEraqi who emphasises the role of Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi at the crucial ʿAshuraʾ events on 3 June.49 Regarding the uprising two days later, it is merely said that Tayyeb was not present, but that his group took part with reckless religious abandon.50 Seeing as this narrative is hegemonic, we do not have to detect a hidden path around the true meaning of a concept, but can rather directly determine how the concept of javanmardi is to be interpreted in a political sense, since Tayyeb is presented as a javanmard-e bozorg.51 Afterwards, one can tell his life story in terms of javanmardi, which is how it has been told in his ‘official’ biography. In this regard, the interpretation of his death becomes just a logical consequence, or even the culmination of his javanmard-life, as Adelkhah had stressed.52 The effect of this javanmardi-status is remarkable in a twofold manner: first, stories about javanmardi become edifying lessons. They speak, very frankly, 47 Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, 38–41. 48 Ibid., 42. 49 ʿEraqi, Na-goftehha, 175. 50 Goruh-e farhangi-ye shahid-e Ebrahimhadi, Tayyeb, 130. 51 Ibid.,13. 52 Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, 36.

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about the idealised behaviour for members of a collective identity. Second, it makes the practitioner of javanmardi accessible to the community. We can learn, for example, from his biography that Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi not only died in a true javanmard-manner but also lived the exemplary life of a javanmard. He was magnanimous and generous, a man who abstained from sin, who was bold and brave, and who was a devoted patriot, of course.53 All accounts on his life inform us about these aspects, be it the collected interviews of Tehran’s lutis,54 or the recently published biography of Tayyeb.55 Adelkhah comes to the same conclusion when she writes in her anthropological study, relying on interviews with his friends and relatives, that Tayyeb had shown complete adherence to the ethic of javanmardi well before his execution.56 One of the most important and most frequently repeated attributes when seeking to characterise his javanmard virtues seems to be Tayyeb’s helpfulness and his tremendous generosity. His biography recounts his behaviour in the difficult years after World War II as follows: ‘Even in these times, when his financial situation was not good, Tayyeb aspired to help others. No one who took refuge with him had to regret it. At times when his financial situation improved, he just helped others more than before.’57 Adelkhah concludes: ‘Tayyeb had a sense of family, of sharing, of giving and of justice, qualities crowned by the courage (shojaʾat) which he proved by sacrificing his life […].’58 This might precisely define the qualities an ideal member of the collectivity should embody. Therefore, the construction of Tayyeb as a role-model becomes a sociologically relevant process, at least because from this approach all of his virtues become exemplary. But exemplariness naturally conflicts with singularity. Reza Arasteh has rightly observed that the ideal virtues of javanmardi are not limited to people of a certain class or community, but the ideal behaviour is rather attainable by every individual.59 In fact, every man is free to behave in accordance with these values and virtues in order to obtain the community’s esteem. Vice versa, the javanmard discussed here, Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi, becomes close to the community through

53 Goruh-e farhangi-ye shahid-e Ebrahimhadi, Tayyeb, 13. 54 Sina Mirzaʼi, Tayyeb dar gozar-e lutiha, 8th ed. (Tehran, 1392 h.sh. [2013]). 55 Goruh-e farhangi-ye shahid-e Ebrahimhadi, Tayyeb, 11–13. 56 Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, 36. 57 Goruh-e farhangi-ye shahid-e Ebrahimhadi, Tayyeb, 38. 58 Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, 37. 59 Reza Arasteh, ‘The character, organization and social role of the Lutis (Javan-Mardan) in the traditional society of the nineteenth century’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 4/1 (1961), 48.



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his everyday behaviour and represents the manifestation of the ideal self of his admirers. In this regard, the embodied fulfilment of a community’s ideality constructs a man not as an extraordinary human-being, but on the contrary, as a very ordinary example of such. This leads to a dialectical problem: a man has to be precisely extraordinary to be remembered. He has to be extraordinary to represent the ordinary ideal. The solution to this dialectical problem is to be found in the construction of the hero.

Distance – the shahid Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi We need the heroic for mediating the ordinary as socially ideal. Only then the specific historic person becomes a public figure able to define society’s boundaries and ‘good behaviour’ as such. Following the theory introduced above, it is a man’s triumphant creativity which characterises him as a hero. In addition to his javanmardi, we therefore need a specific historical moment in which Tayyeb showed this creativity. Again, it is in his death where we find the extraordinary. At first glance one might argue that the death of a man is merely another proof for his ordinary humanness, since he shares the collective fate of all men. However, the further significance of Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi’s death can only be determined against the background of the ethos of martyrdom in the Islamic Republic of Iran and it is this combination which helps to define the specific collective ideal represented by him. As it is argued here, he becomes part of the cultural memory because – through his heroic death – he represents the society’s ties to the sacred. With regard to Tayyeb’s life-story we can easily follow the interpretation of Adelkhah and determine his death as the culmination of his javanmardi. However, as argued here, it becomes only possible through him that this noble way to die is considered an act of javanmardi. Therefore, it is required to identify the historical setting and its significance for an Iranian collective identity. Accordingly, we have to take up the standpoint of Twelver Shiʿa Islam to identify Tayyeb as the hero who is presented as the embodiment of the sacred on earth. This being said, it will suffice here to note the broad consent in scholarly literature that the impact of the martyrdom of Imam Hosayn can hardly be exaggerated. The narrative of the cruel murder of the just leader and his entourage in the desert near Karbala by Yazid’s forces on 10 Moharram 61 (ʿAshuraʾ) has given to Twelver Shiʿism ‘a whole ethos of sanctification through martyrdom’.60 Thus, this Karbala paradigm – as it has 60 Moojan Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam: The History and Doctrines of Twelver

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been called recently61 – can be regarded as the dominant reference point for the construction of a Shiʿa collective identity. Accordingly, a conscious decision to die for the just cause – or at least for the cause that is perceived as just – might paradigmatically represent a set of virtues of a collectivity with close ties to the ideology of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Nevertheless, since this behaviour is required from every honest member of the society and has to be described cynically as ordinary, we need the appropriate setting to determine someone as a hero in reference to his death. Ayatollah Khomeini himself linked the events of the Qiyam-e Panzdahom-e Khordad to the narrative of Imam Hosayn’s martyrdom at ʿAshuraʾ. He declared the parallelism as follows: it was precisely on that day when Yazid and his men showed the true cruelty of their criminal regime. The Pahlavi regime did exactly the same on 15 Khordad 1342 (5 June 1963) and they therefore dug their own graves.62 Khomeini further declared that the Qiyam-e Panzdahom-e Khordad was directly inspired by Imam Hosayn and ʿAshuraʾ, i.e. by the sacred centre of Shiʿa society.63 He therefore referred to the events as Qiyam-e ʿAshuraʾ. In this interpretation, the actual uprising is extended to a coherent historico-political period, translocating its political focus to the religious connotations of ʿAshuraʾ. Against this background, it is not only the willingness to die for the just cause that defines Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi’s sublime heroism, but his heroism is rather defined by his willingness to die for the society’s sacred centre – or more precisely for the projection of the collectivity’s borders. An act which was ‘officially’ approved by Ayatollah Khomeini who, referring to the ‘martyrs of Qiyam-e ʿAshuraʾ’, said: ‘Obviously, the loss of a perfect man or the martyrdom of a perfect man is a thing of beauty in the eyes of the divine authorities, not because that person had fought and was killed. Rather, because the fighting had been for God and so was the Uprising [sic].’64 It is precisely here where the latency of the social construction of a society’s boundaries becomes visible. Whether the process was deliberate or not, it might be described as follows: the Islamic Republic represents the death of

Shi‘ism (New Haven, 1985), 33. 61 Joanna de Groot, ‘“Brothers of the Iranian race”: Manhood, nationhood, and modernity in Iran c. 1870–1914’, in Masculinities in Politics and War: Gendering Modern History, ed. Stefan Dudink, Karen Hagemann and John Tosh (Manchester, 2004), 137–56, 150. 62 Institute for Compilation & Publication of the Works of Imam Khomeini (s.a.). International Affairs Department Imam Khomeini, The Ashura Uprising in the Words & Messages of Imam Khomeini (s.a.), 2nd ed. (Tehran: 2000), 42. 63 Ibid., 54. 64 Ibid., 87–88.



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Figure 1: Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʿi and Ayatollah Khomeini (photographed by Olmo Gölz, Tehran 2014)

Tayyeb as an act of sacred sacrifice in order to consolidate the ideologically desired collective identity which legitimates the collectivity’s need for the self-sacrifice of its members. It is true, that Tayyeb did not give away Ayatollah Khomeini for instigating the riots. However, one might argue that he did so because this direct instigation simply did not take place. Actually, Tayyeb did betray the names of

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some of the mob-leaders,65 who all were sentenced to imprisonment for up to five years.66 Nevertheless, it becomes feasible to connect him to society’s sacred centre when he himself is presented as one who died on the path of Imam Hosayn. Accordingly, he is not depicted as the instigator of an ordinary uprising – which he actually never was – but it is emphasised that he was the organiser of ʿAshuraʾ celebrations, which then turned out to become the Qiyam-e ʿAshuraʾ. Consequently, his refusal to denounce Ayatollah Khomeini becomes a general rejection to betray the cause of Imam Hosayn. This strategy of connecting Tayyeb, Khomeini and Hosayn with each other might best be observed in the south of Tehran where placards show Tayyeb’s portrait inserted next to that of Khomeini, quoting an alleged dictum of the former: ‘I will not betray Imam Hosayn and his faction.’ (Fig. 1) The statements of Ayatollah Khomeini concerning the martyrs of the Qiyam-e ʿAshuraʾ reveal what is required for an individual to become a role-model and a society’s boundary-marker from the standpoint of the Islamic Republic of Iran: a hero is nothing less than a perfect man who died for God. If a man dies in the accurate historical setting, he is declared a shahid and presented as a hero. Accordingly, Tayyeb’s biography describes him as the first martyr of the movement of Imam Khomeini. It states: ‘Tayyeb and Hajj Esmaʿil were the first patriots who sacrificed themselves on behalf of the Islamic movement. They showed us the path to fighting against darkness and suppression, and they themselves were the first shohada on that path.’67 We can therefore argue that Tayyeb’s death does not mark his failure but rather his final success in becoming a triumphant hero. Against this background, he represents the sacred in the world, and hence becomes the distant person a hero ought to be.

Boundary work – Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi, the hero To sum up, we have so far determined several implications behind the death of Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi. First of all, his death can be seen as the manifestation of a triumphant creativity that he showed when he was condemned to death. Keeping the historical setting in mind, at that moment when Tayyeb acted like Imam Hosayn, the ‘master of martyrs’, he becomes the distant mediator of the sacred 65 Markaz-e barrasi-ye asnad-e tarikhi-ye vezarat-e ettelaʿat, Azad mard-e shahid Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi (bi ravayat-e asnad-i Savak), 114–15. 66 Zadeh-Mohammadi, Lompin-ha dar siyasat-e ʿasr-e pahlavi, 238. 67 Goruh-e farhangi-ye shahid-e Ebrahimhadi, Tayyeb, 13.



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in the mundane world. Second, death communicates the fallibility and humanness of the martyr, who thus is not a too distant saint but rather ‘one of us’ in this crude world. Third, the way he died represents the culmination of his javanmard life. Hence, Tayyeb becomes the projection of the ideal self of his admirers and it therefore seems to them that everyone could theoretically be like him. That the last point is as consequential as the first one is proved by the mere fact that Hajj Esmaʿil (about whom it is not told that he lived such an exemplary javanmardlife like his brother) never gained the same posthumous reputation, although he was executed for the same reason. He therefore never became the projection of the ideal self to someone beyond his narrower circle. In other words: his lack of javanmardi reduces the extent of his fall as a dramatic hero. At the end, his deeds were neither close enough nor distant enough for the needs of the collectivity. In sum, through the appreciation of Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi as a hero of the Islamic Republic of Iran and the first martyr of the Islamic movement, he is able not only to represent ideality, but rather to define the ideal virtues of a hegemonic IranianShiʿa collective identity. The narration of his life becomes a teaching lesson with a subtext telling that one should act like he did. However, since he lived the life of an ordinary human being in turbulent times, and basically not that of an aloof saint, we inevitably must find moments of transgression, which cannot be interpreted in terms of heroism. There must naturally be historical evidence for acting against the rules or interests of the collectivity which the role-model now represents. Some of these failures might be very easy to excuse. The life-sized tattoo of Reza Pahlavi on Tayyeb’s stomach68 can hardly be communicable to a fine upstanding citizen of the Islamic Republic of Iran. However, this problem is solved in a rather crafty way: it is said that Tayyeb had supported the powerful and honest Reza Khan not the later Reza Shah, who tried to dishonour the women of Iran by commanding them to unveil.69 Some other reports on detentions, brawls, or even a murder charge are now downplayed to tales about defending someone’s honour (like that of the innocent boy who was pressed hard by ‘three Kurds with massive bodies’ in Kermanshah70) or acting out of self-defence.71 Here the ambiguity of the concept of javanmardi helps in keeping the role-model manoeuvre through challenges against his reputation. It is expected from a real javanmard to protect himself, and his helpfulness requires the use of force sometimes. As Adelkhah 68 The image is found in ibid., 21. 69 Ibid., 22–23. 70 Ibid., 18. 71 Ibid., 31.

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states, such ambivalence is to be found in a typical life story of a man like Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi, and everything depends on the perspective from which we look at them. In sum, ‘Courage can be another word for blind obstinacy, authoritarianism, despotism and atavistic attachment to an outdated way of life.’72 It is argued here that the incorporation of ambiguity into the concept of javanmardi is not an end in itself, deriving from the historical deeds of ideal examples of javanmardi, but rather helps legitimise failures of the historical person ex post facto. However, this phenomenon does not seem to be reducible to the Iranian case, but is rather an enduring paradigm which can easily be detected while analysing other role-models. In regard to his ideas on heroes, Giesen argued that this ambiguity does not challenge the concept of a hero but rather confirms it, since heroes ‘do not perform according to the rule, instead they constitute them’.73 Indeed, there is a distinct moment in history when our hero was responsible for constituting rules. Yet, it is this moment which bears some problems for those who refer to him as a boundary-marker for their collective identity in modern times. Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi was actively involved in the coup d’état of 19 August 1953 (28 Mordad 1332) that led to the toppling of Premier Mohammad Mosaddeq on behalf of the Shah. However, Tayyeb’s participation in these emblematic events is also explained in terms of his javanmard life: he obeyed the instructions of Ayatollah Behbahani who had declared that it would be better to be ruled by a Shah than by the communists who controlled Mosaddeq at that time.74 According to this reasoning, on the one hand Tayyeb helped to defend the state’s honour,75 on the other hand he repeated the same desirable act he did before he died: he selflessly served the Ayatollahs he was loyal to, namely Ayatollah Behbahani and Ayatollah Kashani.76 Following this interpretation, Tayyeb did not help bring back the Shah to the throne, but on the contrary, he is presented as the harbinger of the Islamic Revolution, because in this narrative Ayatollah Kashani is depicted as the ‘precursor of the movement that led to the establishment of the Islamic Republic’.77 Accordingly, the coup of 1953 is depicted as ‘the seed that later developed into

72 Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, 37–38. 73 Giesen, Triumph and Trauma, 18 74 Goruh-e farhangi-ye shahid-e Ebrahimhadi, Tayyeb, 71. 75 Ibid. 76 Ibid., 70. 77 Schirin Fathi, ‘From Mosaddeq to HAARP: Some aspects of the conspirational component of U.S.-Iranian relations’, in Conspiracy Theories in the United States and the Middle East: A Comparative Approach, ed. Michael Butter and Maurus Reinkowski, linguae & litterae (Berlin, 2014), 71.



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the Islamic Revolution of 1978–1979’.78 Therefore, the javanmard Tayyeb is once more responsible for the present system in Iran, regardless of the fact that the Shah himself referred to him as taj-bakhsh,79 the ‘kingmaker’.

Bibliography Adelkhah, F. Being Modern in Iran, trans. Jonathan Derrick (London/Paris, 1999); Jonathan Derrick (trans). Arasteh, R. ‘The character, organization and social role of the Lutis (JavanMardan) in the traditional society of the nineteenth century’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 4/1 (1961), 47–52. Assmann, J. & Czaplicka, J. ‘Collective memory and collective identity’, New German Critique 65 (1995), 125–33. Azimi, F. ‘Khomeini and the “White Revolution”’, in A Critical Introduction to Khomeini, ed. A. Adib-Moghaddam (New York, 2014), 19–42. de Groot, J. ‘“Brothers of the Iranian race”: Manhood, nationhood, and modernity in Iran c. 1870–1914’, in Masculinities in Politics and War: Gendering Modern History, ed. S. Dudink, K. Hagemann and J. Tosh (Manchester, 2004), 137–56. Eisenstadt S. N. & Giesen, B. ‘The construction of collective identity’, European Journal of Sociology 36 (1995), 72–102. ʿEraqi, H. M. Na-goftehha: Khatirat shahid Hajj Mehdi ʿEraqi (Tehran, 1380 h.sh. [2001]). Fathi, S. ‘From Mosaddeq to HAARP: Some aspects of the conspirational component of U.S.-Iranian relations’, in Conspiracy Theories in the United States and the Middle East: A Comparative Approach, ed. Michael Butter and Maurus Reinkowski, linguae & litterae (Berlin, 2014), 59–75. Giesen, B. Triumph and Trauma (Boulder, 2004). ———. ‘Tales of transcendence: imagining the sacred in politics’, in Religion and Politics: Cultural Perspectives, ed. Bernhard Giesen and Daniel Šuber (Leiden, 2005), 93–137. ———. Zwischenlagen: Das Außerordentliche als Grund der sozialen Wirklichkeit, 1. Aufl (Weilerswist, 2010).

78 Ibid. 79 Goruh-e farhangi-ye Shahid-e Ebrahimhadi, Tayyeb, 72–74.

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Goruh-e farhangi-ye shahid-e Ebrahimhadi. Tayyeb: Zendegi-nameh va khatirat-e horr-e nezhat-e Emam Khomeini shahid-e Tayyeb-e Hajj Rezaʼi (Tehran, 1392 h. š. [2013]). Institute for Compilation & Publication of the Works of Imam Khomeini (s.a.). International Affairs Department Imam Khomeini, The Ashura Uprising in the Words & Messages of Imam Khomeini (s.a.), 2nd ed. (Tehran, 2000). Markaz-e barrasi-ye asnad-e tarikhi-ye vezarat-e ettelaʿat, Azad mard-e shahid Tayyeb Hajj Rezaʾi (be ravayat-e asnad-e Savak) (Tehran, 1378 h.sh. [1999/2000]). Moin, B. Khomeini: Sign of God (London, 1989). Momen, M. An Introduction to Shi’i Islam: The History and Doctrines of Twelver Shi’ism (New Haven, 1985). von den Hoff, R. et al. ‘Helden – Heroisierungen – Heroismen: Transformationen und Konjunkturen von der Antike bis zur Moderne’, Helden.Heroes.Héros 1 (2013), 10; Konzeptionelle Ausgangspunkte des Sonderforschungsbereiches 948, 7–14. Sahlins, M. D. ‘Poor man, rich man, big-man, chief: Political types in Melanesia and Polynesia’, Comparative Studies in Society and History 5/3 (1963) 285–303. Zadeh-Mohammadi, M. Lompin-ha dar siyasat-e ʿasr-e pahlavi, 3rd ed. (Tehran, 1392 h.sh. [2013]).

Newspapers Ettelaʿat, ‘Tayyeb va Esmaʽil Rezaʼi tirbaran shodand’, 11 Aban 1342 [2 Nov. 1963], 1 & 13. Ettelaʿat, ‘Havades-e diruz va emruz’, 15 Khordad 1342 [5 June 1963], 1 & 13 Ettelaʿat, ‘Jariyan-e mashruh-e tazaharat va jad-va-khord-e Tehran’, 16 Khordad 1342 [6 June 1963], 1, 4, 13 & 14. Ettelaʿat, ‘Eslami-ye ʽamalin-e balva-ye panzdahom-e Khordad’, 15 Tir 1342 [6 July 1963], 13.

10

Digital Javanmardi: Chivalric Ethics and Imagined Iran on the Internet Babak Rahimi Abstract As an ethical worldview that constitutes moral assessment based on altruism and fidelity to members of, by-and-large, male associations, javanmardi has played a critical role in shaping diverse collective identities throughout Islamic history. Among the variety of modern collective formations, nationalism has emerged to be the most significant in its incorporation of competing ethical traditions, especially javanmardi, in the process of identity reproduction of a masculine type. In this study, I show how the internet, as a locus for distinct technological practices, has provided a new model of action for Iranians in the context of post-revolutionary social life which allows them to perform alternative practices of civic action built around javanmardi ethics. The new model is marked by novel ways of (re)imagining the Iranian nation in terms of chivalric ethics and in negotiation with the digital age. Digital performances linked to ideals of authentic action are built on notions of equality, selflessness and sacrifice that transcend masculinity. The ways of imagining Iran as a nation through the idioms, symbolisms and visuals of javanmardi that appear on the internet ultimately deflect a homogenised conception of what it means to be an Iranian in a global life of digital networks.

As an ethical worldview that constitutes moral assessment based on altruism and fidelity to members of by-and-large male association, javanmardi has played a

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critical role in shaping diverse collective identities throughout Islamic history. Of the variety of modern collective formations, nationalism has emerged to be the most significant in the incorporation of competing ethical traditions, especially javanmardi, in the process of masculine identity reproduction. But more importantly, in Muslim nationalistic traditions, javanmardi has undergone a process of perpetual adaptation embedded in changing ethical discourses and moral practices influenced by social conceptions of imagined physical and virtual spaces. While the connection between militarism, masculinity and chivalric ethics has historically remained vague and even inconsistent, the ethical struggle to remain faithful to the ideal of altruism has also remained vulnerable to changing circumstances. In a significant sense, javanmardi is essentially tied with shifts in social contexts defined by political intervention, in which the ethical tradition is reinvented by historical actors with competing claims over power. Various practices of javanmardi that have developed over the centuries are deeply informed by socio-historical conditions and political contexts within which ways of being a javanmard are experienced and, at times, pre-reflectively performed, sometimes excluding any notion of militaristic masculinity. While norms of ethical performativity and ritual observance are subject to societal transformations, javanmardi has remained polyvalent in meaning, shifting along with visions of social identity and senses of belonging in the civic spheres of everyday life. In the case of Iran, for instance, javanmardi developed into a highly politicised practice of state power during the Safavid period (1501–1722). Under Safavid rule, especially during the reign of Shah ʿAbbas (1587–1629), Muharram rituals and mourning ceremonies for the grandson of the Prophet, Hosayn, who died a martyr’s death in 680 in Karbala, served as public arenas for staging state power through the commemorative performances of the martyrs of Karbala.1 The martyrdom of Hosayn, in its Safavid Muharram manifestation, personified the kind of javanmardi ethos that defined a spiritual order in its imperial manifestation in competition with the Sunni Uzbek and the Ottomans. I bring the Safavids as an example to explain how cultures of javanmardi are contingent to changes that include transformations within frameworks of perception, experiences of solitude or togetherness, senses of community and, more importantly, conceptions of identity on both a local-national-transnational and subjective bases. What needs to be understood, as Fariba Adelkhah shows in her study of post-revolutionary Iran, is that javanmardi is also about the construction of specific forms of subjectivity 1 See Babak Rahimi, Theater State and the Formation of Early Modern Public Sphere in Iran (Leiden, 2012), 264–67.



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that require particular modes of action in response to agency and context.2 Such responses are situated between self-formation and shared experiences in distinct localities and ways of being in shifting public settings. With this view of javanmardi on mind, how can we understand its realisation in the so-called ‘digital age’? To be precise, what is the role of information communication technologies (ICTs) in the reinvention of the javanmardi tradition(s)? And finally, how have digital technologies brought about new forms of public practices of javanmardi, based on new interpretations of authentic action, concurrently shared, circulated and consumed in emerging digital landscapes of everyday life? In this study I focus on the internet, as a locus for distinct technological practices, and examine how in the context of post-revolutionary social life Iranians perform new practices of civic action built around javanmardi ethics, and accordingly, re-imagine Iranian nationalism.3 Such chivalric ethics, I argue, are performed on the internet in respect to ideals of authentic action, built on notions of equality, selflessness and sacrifice that transcend masculinity. The internet provides ways of imagining the nation through the idiom, symbolism and visuals of javanmardi that ultimately deflect a homogenised conception of what it means to be an Iranian in connection with a global life of networks. The internet is therefore a performative technology in the sense that it enables the constant merging of invented traditions of javanmardi, rearticulated to produce new discourses and practices of Iranian identity. This study will not take up the grand challenge of discussing the implications (or reflections) of online javanmardi on the broader social order, nor will I aim to offer a comprehensive study of javanmardi practices on the internet.4 In the sections that follow, I will map out what I understand to be some key features of chivalric ethics in the public life of internet forums in post-revolutionary Iran. I elaborate, albeit briefly, how javanmardi practices are reconstructed through 2 See Fariba Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, trans. Jonathan Derrick (London, 1999), 68–70; 75–76; 141–44; 175–77. 3 The reference to ‘Iranians’ includes diaspora communities. Although the chapter does not specifically focus on diaspora online practices, the reference to transnational ties with regards to how Iranians interact online is, in many ways, a discussion on the role of diaspora in identity construction. In terms of discrepancy in digital practices, I also acknowledge the role of the digital divide in how technology is accessed and consumed in uneven ways. Such a divide is primarily evident in class relations based on socio-economic inequalities, mostly in terms of use, access and technological skills. 4 Space precludes me from analysing online user activity and interactivity on various sites to which I make reference in this study.

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online narratives and representations, and the ways through which a network of Iranians, mostly based in Iran, articulate the tradition and accordingly imagine alternative conceptions of national identity. Also, it is not my intention to suggest such changing tradition can be reduced to a new paradigm. I coin the term ‘digital javanmardi’ to underline how digitisation of everyday life has been enabling Iranians to interactively and in value-laden ways engage with issues of collective identity, at times in contested ways, and in doing so produce new and multiple mediated experiences of citizenship and nationhood in reference to older conceptions and ancient traditions of youthful manliness. This chapter is divided into two sections that focus on the distinct ways javanmardi is portrayed and interpreted online. Nearly all the cases studied in this research are Persian-language websites and social media profiles. Many are Iranbased sites, while others, in particular social media sites such as Facebook, are mostly transnational, notably implying that the process of reformulating Iran through javanmardi entails a diasporic dimension. The first section looks at online discourses and practices of javanmardi around the persona of pahlavan, best represented by Gholamreza Takhti (1930–1968). I discuss changing conceptions of his memory, which the internet reveals as a complex process that alters with different imaginaries of an idealised Iran. This section also considers how online representations of javanmardi, in terms of pahlavan motifs, have extended to memorials of Iran-Iraq War (1980–1988) on social media and the kind of contentious politics such online and visual cultures occasion. The second, briefer section examines ambivalent traditions of javanmardi with a focus on male bandits and the female javanmard, who surface online with varied interpretations. The outlaw form of javanmardi in its masculine pomp appears in the ruffian figure of luti, whose youthful manliness recollects a transgression of class ideality to defy a perceived feminised consumerist Iranian identity. In contrast, female javanmardi focuses on female characters whose gender identity becomes ambivalent in acts of bravery and sacrifice for the nation, and whose (online) presence seeks to redefine Iranian identity not in terms of gender-specific characteristics but as a cosmopolitan citizenship within the network domains of social media.

The pahlavan and the chivalric martyr Walking in the streets of Tehran, photos of Takhti, famed Olympic Gold-Medalist wrestler, adorn shops, stores, neighbourhoods, major sports arenas and zurkhanehs (as discussed in the introduction to this volume). Since his death in 1967,



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believed by many to be engineered by the Pahlavi regime for his pro-Mosaddeq views and membership of the Second National Front, Takhti has gained a mythical stature in the collective imaginary of Iranians.5 Poems have been written in his memory, books about his life, sport competitions are dedicated to his name, streets are named after him and statues put up in his honour in squares and city parks – one such park, located in Tehran, is called ‘the garden of Iranian javanmards’. In fact, Ruz-e javanmardi (Day of Javanmardi), an official day to celebrate the tradition of javanmardi, falls on Takhti’s death (7 January). He is remembered as both a national legend and a living champion even after his death. In the words of Jalal Al-e Ahmad (1923–1969), famed intellectual who wrote an essay about Takhti after his death, ‘he is the foundation and the very meaning of greatness and nobility (ʿazadegi)’.6 For the most part, Takhti’s popularity has derived from people’s idea of a sportsman, not merely a champion (qahraman), but, as Houchang Chehabi has noted, a pahlavan or a just and ‘moral exemplar’ whose bravery, gallantry and generosity toward the poor personifies a model for all Iranians.7 By upholding the values of generosity and humbleness, Takhti embodied the very ideals of javanmardi for his self-reliance and support of the marginalised and the poor. In the Iranian national consciousness, Takhti signifies an iconic figure of youthful manliness, whose untimely death emphasises the unfulfilled future of a nation. Since his death in 1968, numerous popular discourses, some of which appear in the form of hagiographies, have described the life of Takhti as a javanmard sportsman whose idealised imagery is composed from a simple code of ethics that demarcates both the limits and possibilities of human conduct in the world. Through a process that Adelkhah calls ‘javanmardisation’, such discourses conceive the legendary hero as a receptacle of ethical ideals in whom particular historical and contemporary conditions of Iran can be critically articulated toward the creation of new understandings and practices of being a modern Iranian.8 In the revolutionary (1979–1980) and post-revolutionary periods, javanmardisation involved discourses and visual practices surrounding Takhti that legitimised a new ethos of revolutionary action. Such new practices underscored Takhti’s javanmardi 5 For a biography of Takhti, see Houchang E. Chehabi, ‘Takti, Golam-Reza’, Encyclopedia Iranica, 20 July 2005 [accessed 3 October 2016]. 6 Quoted in Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, 142. 7 Houchang, E. Chehabi, ‘Sport and politics in Iran: The legend of Gholamreza Takhti’, The International Journal of the History of Sport 12/3 (1995), 48. 8 Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, 142–43.

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in terms of a fighter against the Shah and the protector of the downtrodden.9 Vartan Antasian’s documentary film, World Champion Takhti (Jahan Pahlavan Takhti), appeared as one of the first depictions of Takhti’s revolutionary imagery with his javanmardi emphasised not only in terms of sportsmanship virtues, but also martyrdom, with his death interpreted as a state-sponsored assassination.10 Memorial sites in various sports arenas, houses of strength or stadiums associated with maledominated sports activities like wrestling played a key role in making Takhti into a state-sanctioned national hero.11 By the end of the war, Takhti became the model of confrontation against both tyranny and foreign invasion. The post-war period, however, particularly after the election of Mohammad Khatami in 1997, brought a new shift in print and visual culture about Takhti. While the official media and other cultural sites continued with the revolutionary portrayal, the iconic figure of the national sportsman came to be viewed in terms of development and reform rather than revolutionary reconstruction. In the minds of a new generation of Iranians, many of whom were born after the 1979 revolution, historical figures such as Takhti, along with Mosaddeq and the democratic-minded prime minister of the first post-revolutionary administration, Mehdi Bazargan, personified a post-war Iranian nation that was less about sacrifice on the battlefield and more about bravery in making Iran more inclusive, equal, and global for all Iranians. The arrival of post-war cosmopolitanism coincided with two significant changes in the post-revolutionary media landscape: the blossoming of print media under a reformist administration and, more importantly, the introduction of new information technologies, in particular the World Wide Web. Coupled with the rise of satellite TV, the internet unleashed a new communication configuration with the mushrooming of news and personal sites in the late 1990s, blogs in the early 2000s and, later, social network sites such as Balatarin and Facebook.12 While online news became new signifiers of Iranian journalism, blogs and social media in particular dominated the Iranian internet. The Iranian ‘Weblogistan’ would involve modes of lived experiences wherein values and lifestyles would emerge to 9 Although the idea of Takhti as a champion of the poor was a main cultural theme in prerevolutionary culture, the combat motif became more pronounced with the beginning of the Iran-Iraq war in 1980. 10 Hamid Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema: The Islamicate Period, 1978–1984, III (Durham, 2012), 111. 11 It is particularly interesting to note how the names of Takhti and Fahmideh became increasingly overlapped in the process of the construction of various sports facilities in the post-war period. 12 Babak Rahimi, ‘The politics of internet in Iran’, Media, Culture, and Society in Iran: Living with Globalization and the Islamic State, ed. Mehdi Semati (London, 2007), 37–56.



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underline what Raymond Williams called ‘structures of feeling’, understandings of individuals, groups or societies in a particular time and place, where distinct historical moments are shared and felt. 13 Lived experiences of online communication highlight major changes that primarily reveal contrary views, ideologies, sentiments, and forms of sociability among Iranians pushing for various political agendas. The repertoire of pahlavan ethos in the imagery, rhetoric, symbols and visuals of Takhti underline contentious understandings of what it means to be an Iranian, an experience that can be hardly expressed in the print media which is strictly under state surveillance. For the most part, such online cultures reflect competing political agendas that become, at times, highly pronounced and antagonistic. While anti-monarchists and Islamists, for example, on various blogs and sites praise Takhti’s refusal to bow in front of Mohammad Reza Shah for honouring him as the pahlavan-e paytakht (national champion), monarchists post and circulate short clips of the medal ceremony which in fact shows Takhti bowing before the Shah.14 The monarchists argue that what truly made Takhti affirm his Iranian identity was his recognition of the institution of monarchy. There is also an element of satire nestled in responses against the Islamicisation of Takhti, with one site making fun of a statue of Takhti portrayed in a pair of trousers.15 What these sites ultimately reveal is a subversive attempt to present a less ideological depiction of a national pahlavan. But in doing so such sites usher Takhti back into a historical context by recollecting his involvement with the secular nationalist movement and his activism after the 1953 coup.16 As discursive locales where stories around identity are produced, social media sites in particular are able to show a vast range of agonistic interactions. But not all online portrayals of Takhti are contentious. Some online discussions on Takhti’s death also seek to downplay either his suicide or alleged assassination by the government. They instead emphasise his legacy as a living pahlavan, providing a shared national pride in the memory of a wrestler javanmard whose life exemplified fortitude and generosity.17 Likewise, new reports or blog stories about Takhti’s generosity toward his opponents at national or international 13 Raymond Williams, Marxism and Literature (Oxford, 1977), 128, 133. 14 See: http://www.balatarin.com/permlink/2013/1/6/3234225. 15 Takhti wore wrestling shorts during tournaments. See: http://www.hadidnews.com/ vdcf.0deiw6dv1giaw.html. 16 For accounts on Takhti’s ties with Mosaddeq and his support for the working class, see: http://www.balatarin.com/permlink/2013/1/7/3234702; and: http://irancontemporary. blogspot.com/2013/07/blog-post_17.html. 17 Such discussions are led by sports journalists or bloggers, some based outside Iran.

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wrestling matches portray an authentic human whose memories should serve as an example of a moral life for all Iranians. Stories and poetry about Takhti’s javanmardi are more widespread on blogs, Facebook and Instagram, and photosharing and video-sharing social networking sites where memories of his pious life illustrate an exemplary way to live.18 Some online depictions of Takhti as a pahlavan also fuse the culture of wrestling and the traditional houses of strength with mythical-heroic figures found in the Shahnameh of Ferdowsi.19 These sites provide a discursive and pictorial venue for the online audience to imagine the pre-Islamic past of Iran reincarnated in the modern pahlavan culture, which Takhti embodied with his javanmardi virtues. Takhti is presented as the future of Iran in the glorified past of javanmardan, in figures such as Rostam, Siyavash and Zal. In the wake of the 1979 revolution and war with Iraq, javanmardi became increasingly identified with sacrifice, forged on the battlefield. Meanwhile, Takhti’s representation underwent a revolutionary makeover. In its revolutionary manifestation, the figure of pahlavan personified a form of purity and masculine beauty while combating the foreign invader. The name of Takhti came to glorify major urban streets and sports arenas, many of which marked spaces of male homosocialisation, while radio and state TV channels underscored his Islamic character, essentially identifying him as a pious athlete. Honorific death on the battlefield projects youthful manliness as a means to bring new vitality to the life of the Islamic nation under foreign invasion. Male soldiers in their youth would perform such ideals at war in exemplary acts of selfsacrifice. Figures like Mohammad Hosayn Fahmideh (1967–1980) who bravely jumped under an Iraqi tank and blew himself up with a grenade came to represent a new kind of javanmard who also embodied the virtues of pahlavanan (plural of pahlavan). The merging of pahlavan and javanmard becomes more ideologically significant in the light of the masculinity of the male martyr surrounded by women as mourners and reproducers of future male javanmardan, whose virtues, even in death, can inject permanence into the nation. With the end of the war in 1988, the culture of martyrdom continued to develop with state support in the production of commemorative events, murals, and audiovisual programmes.20 The most significant development occurred in the production 18 Online chronicles of Takhti’s life, in either narrative or visual format, also vary in focus and style. While some sites focus on his spiritual virtues, others praise his love for Iran and its people. 19 See, for example: http://fouman.com/Y/Gallery_Tag.php?tagid=Pahlevan&lax1=English 20 See Roxanne Varzi, Warring Souls: Youth, Media, and Martyrdom in Iran (Durham, 2006).



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of photography, documentary and films that deployed an array of visual techniques in the memorialisation of the javanmardi war culture. With the advent of the internet and particularly blogs in early 2000s, as Niki Akhavan has argued, the audiovisual war culture underwent a transformation, since many of the forum posts, online depictions or circulation of war-related culture did not necessarily follow the official version of the war and its fallen warriors.21 This was mainly due to the ability of the internet, in particular video-sharing sites like YouTube, to provide a venue for multiple audiences and users to express their views about the war and the culture of martyrdom associated with it, hence enabling many to criticise the state-sponsored notion that young soldiers can be identified with the javanmardi tradition merely because of their young age. In the post-war period, javanmardi underwent a critical refashioning, as experiences and perceptions of youth and adulthood shifted with demographic changes that realigned age, class and gender relations. Social media forums such as Facebook, which has remained a popular social networking site since 2009, play a significant role in the way youthful beauty is articulated and reproduced online in line with consumerist and fashion-conscious practices. Young Iranians with a variety of colourful clothing, flamboyant hairstyles, body and facial cosmetics bring forth new practices of beauty in terms of aesthetics of pleasure and private taste. While displays of globalised youth culture portray a mode of hedonism and raucous playfulness, online expressions of javanmardi, perceived as traditional culture, cultivate heroic imageries of the war’s fallen soldiers, whose ascetic lifestyles stand in sharp contrast to the aesthetic performances of contemporary youth culture. The ascetic/aesthetic cultural divide becomes visible in discussion forums associated with various blog and news sites, mostly operated by pro-government supporters and crowdsourcing. For the most part, online discourses and imageries of martyred figures are posted, shared and circulated among those who tend to be critical of changes in lifestyle behaviours in urban settings and who seek to depict the current developments in terms of a moral crisis and cultural corruption. This perceived crisis shows how ideals of beauty, honour and a good life are contested on the internet amongst Iranians of diverse class, gender, and generational differences, although some of these tensions overlap and extend from offline discussion forums such as home, business and leisure spaces of daily life. Within the realm of online cultural production, public/private distinctions become blurred 21 Niki Akhavan, Electronic Iran: The Cultural Politics of an Online Revolution (New Brunswick, New Jersey, 2013), 59–82.

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as individual expressions of youthful beauty reformulate aesthetics of public life through which perceptions of Iranian identity are constructed. An observation of online performances reveals therefore a tension that stems from competing ethics of youthfulness and, by extension, contesting ways in which Iran is imagined through a young generation of Iranians.

The tough woman and the ‘lion-woman’ (shir zan) In Being Modern in Iran, Adelkhah argues, in the vein of Max Weber, that javanmardi can be recognised as a ‘life style’, a way of living that involves morals, behaviours, interactional rituals, traditions and tastes in all spheres of everyday life.22 Post-revolutionary javanmardi, with its roots in the Sufi brotherhood tradition, is the enactment of ethical action in daily life, which includes not only the life of the urban middle class, but also the urban poor and other marginal groups in society. It should come as no surprise that in a marginal confinement javanmardi achieves an ambiguous identity in terms of moral and masculine conceptions. The figure of the luti emerges as a distinct example of such ambiguity that problematises javanmardi as a performatively normative tradition. The luti can be an athlete, an entertainer, a butcher, leader of a religious procession (dastegardani), and a neighbourhood tough. In homosocial spaces like zurkhanehs, where javanmardi culture achieved social recognition between the 13th and 15th centuries, the luti enjoys a respected social position, especially for his public service in protecting the community’s honour and promoting religious piety. 23 In the Iranian online landscape, the luti’s image appears across wide-ranging discourses and imageries associated with the javanmard culture in daily life.24 On YouTube in particular, scenes of luti performance are depicted as a street phenomenon. A short film by Amir Fardin about a popular street performer, for instance, narrates the story of Akbar Pahlavan, a muscular man who performs strengthrelated acrobatics in front of a standing audience on the streets of Tehran.25 With the zurkhaneh traditional music playing in the background, Akbar Pahlavan explains in the video his passion for athleticism and encourages young Iranians to do sports as a way to purify the heart and to attain javanmardi. Seeing as the figure of the 22 Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, 68. 23 For a history of zurkhaneh, see Philippe Rochard, ‘The identities of the Iranian Zurkhaneh’, Iranian Studies 35/4 (2002), 321. 24 See: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJGA318K4aw; and: https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=jND-WqcKBQ4. 25 See: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_MkfFMCSxAA.



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luti manifests as a street performer in Akbar Pahlavan, performance of javanmardi becomes a spectacle for mixed audiences of pedestrians in an urban street. In a sense, the audience participates in both the physical power of the pahlavan and also the manly lifestyle that the luti exhibits, watched by multiple audiences who are witness to centuries of javanmardi tradition on YouTube. What is also shared is a street culture of javanmardi with the tough-guy luti image transmitted online as a reminder of a chivalric tradition that once dominated urban life in Iran. But the street is also about rough lifestyles in the urban context, giving rise to one of the most popular perceptions of the luti as an outlaw. Such a perception has historically stemmed from the luti’s involvement with urban spaces, such as entertainment houses, or with combative performances like street fighting or even neighbourhood gang warfare. Yet it is not the life of crime that defines the luti, as Hamid Naficy explains, but the complexity of his social position as both a hero and a villain, a jahel (thug), lat (hooligan) or a velgard (loafer) and a pahlavan or a dashmashti (slick brother/fellow).26 The social position of luti enables him to serve as a prominent public figure and yet by possessing that power he also transgresses the moral conventions of society. As a bandit, a Robin Hood figure and a street tough, he can be both, paradoxically, admired and hated, honoured and despised for crossing boundaries of accepted norms of behaviour, even at times transgressing the law. His javanmardi suggests a polarity of social identity that in combining opposing qualities can appear as the manifestation of an alternative form of action in the public sphere. The aspect of polarity is a central feature of luti depiction on social media. In a Facebook profile called shararat (troublemaking), for example, which is now taken off the net, the hooligan (arazel) appears as an individual who is at once thuggish and heroic. He is both feared and revered as a strong man who has neither fallen in a street fight nor been imprisoned for daring to defy the law, which was implicitly understood throughout the profile as unjust. Pictures of tattooed criminals and knifewielding bandits appeared on the profile alongside photos of prisons, sports cars, knives, guns, bodybuilders, and (male) football players. It is as though an athletic thrust enables the hooligan to contest the law. The profile’s wall is adorned with poetry, memorials and pictures of fallen hooligans, identified with impoverished neighbourhoods in south Tehran. Implied on the wall is the framing of the masculinity of honorific manhood in terms of autonomy in the face of economic poverty and state control. There is a sense of truth and freedom in men who defy their social position from the slums of Tehran by reaching for social mobility and, at times, 26 Hamid Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema: The Industrialization Years, 1941– 1978, II (Durham, 2011), 265–67.

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distribution of wealth in their neighbourhoods through criminal activities. This form of gallantry is primarily about an inner strength that is defined by self-preservation and respect for one’s gang, family or poor neighbourhood in a corrupt world. But while the luti figure was praised as a lout and a thug on this Facebook profile, on the commentary of the wall section numerous users criticised the members of the page for associating manliness with men who violate the law. One commentator wrote, ‘What has this person with this huge body done for our people, family, and humanity?’ He adds, ‘Has he defended justice and fought against dictatorship?’ Another commentator posted a photo of a deceased Iranian soldier on the battlefield describing him as the only true man to praise. The contentions about the photos revolve around how true masculinity can be defined and the form of manhood that can regenerate Iran and revive its honour among nations. Meanwhile, femininity plays a key role in the way authenticity is defined, even if in a negative way. Iranian-ness excludes effeminate qualities of dependency and degeneration. A true Iranian is the ethical man who remains independent and pure from the influence of an exterior world of corruption, a man who is willing to sacrifice his life for the nation. In sharp contrast to both the dandy and the hooligan, who embody certain feminine qualities for respectively displaying flamboyance and as a fugitive-bandit on the run, the ideal Iranian is the pahlavan, either a sportsman or a warrior who, humble and without glint or glamour, accepts his responsibility with resilience and courage. While masculinity is reflected in appearance, courage is a virtue that transcends male and female identity. In her study of gender and sexuality in shaping the political and social life of Iranian modernity, Afsaneh Najmabadi discusses the phenomenon of the female javanmard.27 In reference to women’s involvement in the Constitutional Revolution (1906–1911), she explains how the concept of the female javanmard offers an alternative manly identity encoded as ‘women’s manliness’ (mardanegi-ye zanan). What defined patriotic women in the revolution, combating oppression like their male counterparts, was the masculine virtues they embodied in order to uphold the nation’s honour, ‘reassuring’, Najmabadi argues, ‘restoration of gender order: only men performed such great acts.’28 Women’s javanmardi served as a reminder for those men, who were too afraid to fight oppression, that only in the act of defiance and bravery, regardless of gender identity, can the nation’s honour be preserved. Historically speaking, the Iranian tradition of the female javanmard is not unique 27 Afsaneh Najmabadi, Women with Moustaches and Men without Beards: Gender and Sexual Anxieties of Iranian Modernity (Berkeley, 2005), 219–22. 28 Ibid., 221.



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to the Constitutional Revolution. As Sayyed Maʿsud Razavi has argued, Iranian history, unlike Arab and Turkish histories, is filled with women who uphold the ideals of javanmardi.29 Women who are identified as the ‘lion-woman’ (shir zan), bring to light a potential for the concept and practice of javanmardi to transcend masculinity in favour of a universalised mode of moral conduct. Such generalised youthful manliness denotes virtuous character rather than masculine norms of behaviour. The moral potential lies in how women’s subordination to traditionally perceived feminine qualities, such as modesty or fear, is transcended by the honorific characteristic of bravery and honesty embedded in javanmardi, a feature that is a necessary condition for women to enhance their social role in public life. With the 2009 post-election street protests in Tehran and other major cities, known as the ‘Green Movement’, the image of the female javanmard underwent a dramatic change. First, visual representations of female protestors went on to show the insurrection of female manliness against the state and its official count of election results, believed by the opposition leader, Mir-Hosayn Mousavi, and his supporters as fraudulent. Photos and videos of female demonstrators at the forefront of the anti-government rallies came to shape the perception that women drove the Green Movement.30 On the other hand, online activism by women who also participated in the demonstrations was also most instrumental in disseminating and deepening a new awareness about bravery in the form of female javanmardi.31 Green Movement websites, YouTube videos, and Facebook profiles illustrating female activists combating security forces on the streets of Tehran expanded the scope of understanding about who can participate in the shaping of Iranian identity within the global context of digital connectivity. What matters is a selfless act of virile courage embodied in the woman activist and not the mere fact of being a man; in other words, deeds count and not the gender associated with javanmardi. As I stated in the outset, javanmardi is a code of ethics that combines both practical and spiritual actions. It exemplifies an authentic notion of humanity that ensures permanence of vitality is grounded on a moral combat between good 29 See Sayyed Masʿud Razavi, ‘Javanmardi-ye zananeh’, in Tarikh va farhang-e Javanmardi, ed. Sayyed Masʿud Razavi (Tehran, 1391/2011–2012), 106–28. Note that Razavi’s claim that the woman javanmard appears more prominently in Iranian than Arab and Turkish history has not been not verified in his study. 30 An interesting development occurred on the afternoon of 20 June 2009, when a video of the assassination of Neda Agha Soltan by a state security force went viral on the internet. One of the responses to the tragic death of the young woman was the evocation of the language of javanmardi to describe Neda’s death. 31 See, for example: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CMD6KMdrJkk; and: https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=TCv57_wCzFI.

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and evil. The body plays a central role as a site wherein such combat becomes manifest and the moral heroism of action is realised. But what exactly builds javanmardi is not the body but the very virtue of the act, which makes the body’s social identity possible in the first place. In an attempt to explicate changing interpretations of javanmardi in the context of post-revolutionary Iran, in this study I attempted to outline how an ethical tradition necessitates multiple practices characterised by complex meanings and variant conceptions with changing audiences and participants. The concepts of pahlavan, luti, and shir-zan, I suggested, pronounce the ethical core of javanmardi as a multifaceted and socially situated complex phenomenon, which can transcend class and gender. The ambivalences bespeak of the broad appeal of the concept of javanmardi, a universality that underlines the Persianate cosmopolitan imaginary of citizenship. What social media and other internet-based communication practices reveal, in this sense, are the complex workings of interconnected networks that involve multiple communication styles that enable Iranians at various localities to reimagine and reproduce their identities in alternative ways. This capacity for communication, however, paradoxically can foster the reinforcement of power across national and transnational lines to reify alternative identities. Post-revolutionary javanmardi in its digitised form, therefore, includes contested ways to re-define but also reify social practices marked by distinct ethical codes. A mapping of such complex set of social practices would, nevertheless, require a separate study.

Bibliography Adelkhah, F. Being Modern in Iran, trans. Jonathan Derrick (London, 1999). Akhavan, N. Electronic Iran: The Cultural Politics of an Online Revolution (New Brunswick, 2013). Chehabi, H. ‘Takti, Golam-Reza’, Encyclopedia Iranica (20 July 2005), [accessed 3 October 2016]. ———. ‘Sport and politics in Iran: The legend of Gholamreza Takhti’, The International Journal of the History of Sport 12/3 (1995), 48–60. Naficy, H. A Social History of Iranian Cinema: The Industrialization Years, 1941–1978, II (Durham and London, 2011). ———. A Social History of Iranian Cinema: The Islamicate Period, 1978–1984, III (Durham, 2012). Najmabadi, A. Women with Moustaches and Men without Beards: Gender and Sexual Anxieties of Iranian Modernity (Berkeley, 2005).



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Rahimi, Babak. Theater State and the Formation of Early Modern Public Sphere in Iran (Leiden, 2012). ———. ‘The politics of Internet in Iran’, in Media, Culture, and Society in Iran: Living with Globalization and the Islamic State, ed. Mehdi Semati (London, 2007), 37–56. Razavi, S. M. ‘Javanmardi-ye Zananeh’, in Tarikh va farhang-e Javanmardi (Tehran, [1391] 2011–2012). Rochard, P. ‘The identities of the Iranian Zurkhaneh’, Iranian Studies 35/4, (2002) 313–40. Varzi, R. Warring Souls: Youth, Media, and Martyrdom in Iran (Durham, 2006). Williams, R. Marxism and Literature (Oxford, 1977).

Online media sources Arazeh, Iman. ‘Cheguneh Takhti Takhti shod’, Aftab, 2007. Dokhtaran-e Khoshgel & Pesaran-e Khoshtip, [Facebook community] [accessed 3 November 2016]. ‘Fesad-e akhlaqi’, samsamshiraz, 2013. ‘Film-e dideh nashod-e daryaft-e medal-e Takhti – Takhti be Shah eday-e ehteram mikonad’, [Balatarin post] [accessed 3 November 2016]. ‘Hozour-e ajib va bi-pardeh ashrar dar Facebook ba tasavir-e motefavet’, Tabnak, 2013. ‘Iranian Green Movement’, 2009 [accessed 3 November 2016]. ‘Javan Mardan-e Iran Park’, Foursquare. ‘Majid Kargari, pahlavan-e Kord-e Irani’, 2011 [accessed 3 November 2016]. ‘Pahlavan’ [accessed 3 November 2016]. ‘Pahlavan Akbar’, 2007 [accessed 3 November 2016]. ‘Qazieh-e hozour Takhti dar marasem-e haftom-e marhoom Doctor Mosaddeq’, Tarikh-e Moaser-e Iran, 17 July 2013 [accessed 3 November 2016]. ‘Shalvar pay-e Takhti kardan’, Hadid News, 2012 [accessed 3 November 2016]. Shararat, ‘khalaf ma’nay be shararat’, [Facebook post].

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‘Takhti; Shemshad-e bargharar, manesh-e mandegar’, [Balatarin post], 2012 [accessed 3 November 2016]. ‘(Tasavir) Album-e khaterat-e jahan pahlavan Takhti’, Fararu, 2012. ‘The vital role of Iranian women in new democracy movement’, 2009 [accessed 3 November 2016]. ‘Zanjir pareh kardan-e pahlavan’, 2012 [accessed 3 November 2016]. ‘Zurkhaneh shahid fahmideh Tehran, pahlevan saray-e Iran mishavad’, IRNA, 2013.

11

Constructing Masculinities through Javanmards in Pre-Revolutionary Iranian Cinema Nacim Pak-Shiraz Abstact Iranian cinema has become one of the leading mediums through which popular images of modern Iranian men are constructed. In negotiating the various and at times conflicting demands of tradition and modernity, film-farsi created models of masculinity that re-interpreted the concept of javanmardi through its heroes and villains. By subverting the masculine hierarchies propagated by the state, these films endowed marginalised men with the moral authority to take on the hypermasculine role without subverting the idea of hegemonic masculinity itself. Alternative films, however, reflected a claustrophobic society devoid of javanmards. This chapter also examines women’s positioning in the structure of both sets of films.

For many Iranians – both men and women – the experience of modernity in the early 20th century was accompanied by corporeal shame. The forced unveiling of Iranian women in 1936 and their subsequent enforced veiling in 1979 has been the subject of many studies on Iran. Only a few works, however, have studied similar political impositions on men’s bodies.1 In fact, the idea of the body as a 1 Houchang Chehabi, ‘Dress codes for men in Turkey and Iran’, in Men of Order:

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political site for the Pahlavi state’s aspirations first emerged with men. In December 1927, ‘a dress law decreed western attire mandatory for all Iranian male citizens, with the exception of clergymen who received government permission to retain traditional dress’.2 As part of his modernising project, Reza Shah made much of Iranian male clothing of the time, including tribal clothing, illegal and replaced them with an alternative that was considered ‘modern’ and worthy of the Iranian nation. The brimmed Pahlavi hat, for example, replaced existing Iranian headgear. As Sivan Balslev notes, the enforcement of this law humiliated men whose turbans were publicly torn off and trampled upon by policemen: ‘Taking off another man’s hat or turban was a challenge to his honour and masculinity.’3 This less-discussed episode in modern Iranian history is a reminder of the complex socio-political influences in the construction of masculinities in Iran. Most studies of gender in the Middle East have focused on women as subjugated, oppressed and silenced entities. Very little attention, however, has been devoted to the study of men in the Middle East. Where they do appear, it is generally in passing and in relation to women, with a tendency to imagine men as a homogenous group striving to protect and enforce the patriarchal system. Over the last few decades, however, there has been an increased recognition of the significance of research on masculinities, and not simply in gender studies, which include a number of works focusing on studies of masculinities in the Middle East.4 There are no detailed studies of structures of masculinity in Iranian cinema. Cinema, however, offers a potent site for the study of these socio-cultural constructions of masculinities as they compete to propagate or undermine dominant ideas of desired masculinity. The case study of Iranian cinema allows us to examine both forms of the visible and invisible operations of hegemony, as noted by Connell and Messerschmidt, in Iran. 5 It provides a case study for the scrutiny of these Authoritarian Modernization Ataturk and Reza Shah, ed. Touraj Atabaki and Erik J. Zurcher (London, 2004); Sivan Balslev, ‘Dressed for success: Hegemonic masculinity, elite men and westernisation in Iran, c. 1900–40’, Gender and History 26/3 (2014), 545–64; Houchang Chehabi, ‘Staging the emperor’s new clothes: dress codes and nation-building under Reza Shah’, Iranian Studies 26/3–4 (1993), 209–33. 2 Balslev, ‘Dressed for success’, 558. 3 Balslev, ‘Dressed for success’, 560. 4 See for example, Lahoucine Ouzagane, Islamic Masculinities (London, 2006); Shahin Gerami, ‘Islamist masculinity and muslim masculinities’, in Handbook of Studies on Men and Masculinities, ed. Michael S. Kimmel, Jeff Hearn and R.W. Connell (London, 2005), 448–57; Amanullah De Sondy, The Crisis of Islamic Masculinities (London, 2014). 5 R. W. Connell and James W. Messerschmidt, ‘Hegemonic masculinity: Rethinking the concept’, Gender & Society 19: 829 (2005), 834.



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various discourses and constructions, which not only influence men’s relations with each other but also with women. This chapter examines the construction of the hero through the figure of the javanmard in pre-Revolutionary Iranian cinema and competing discourses that define the ideals of masculinity. I will first study these depictions in popular commercial films known broadly as film-farsi, and later in the ‘alternative’ films of the 60s and early 70s. In my study of film-farsi, I analyse popular films that directly reference manhood or valour in their titles and included performances by some of the iconic stars of pre-Revolutionary cinema. From the much smaller pool of alternative films, I will study Ebrahim Golestan’s Brick and Mirror (1964) and Bahram Bayzaʾi’s Downpour (1972). I will focus on the constructions of the hero and the wimp, as well as and their relation to the female characters, to demonstrate the ways in which these films have propagated or subverted socially-admired examples of masculinity in Iran.

Creating the modern man on screen From its early days in Iran, cinema was a contentious medium susceptible to much resistance from various factions, particularly the religious. The first cinema was closed only a month after opening in 1904 in Tehran. Historians have variously speculated on the reasons behind this closure, some citing the ‘constitutionalist leanings in the midst of the Constitutional Revolution of 1905–1911’ of the owner, Mirza Ebrahim Khan Sahhafbashi-ye Tehrani, and others the opposition of religious factions, including the Shiʿi religious leader, Shaykh Fazlallah Nuri, ‘because it opened during the month of piety and fasting (Ramadan)’.6 Similarly, the motive behind early Iranian films’ endorsement of state policies as a deliberate decision remains unclear. Did the early filmmakers pander to the state’s values and ideals because their survival was dependent on state support? Or did the state actively encourage and provide these early cinematographers – many of whom were ethnic and/or religious minorities – with the platform to create a cinema that reflected the state’s policies? Or was it that these early filmmakers were independently supportive of the new modernising social trends and were simply entrepreneurs who recognised the opportunity for an untapped market? Whatever the reasons, the indisputable fact remains that cinema began, even if inadvertently, as a tool for modernising Iranian society. 6 Negar Mottahedeh, ‘Collection and recollection: on studying the early history of motion pictures in Iran’, Early Popular Visual Culture 6/2 (2008), 103–20.

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Pioneers of Iranian cinema extended Reza Shah’s aspirations of creating the new Iranian man onto their screens. Their films became one of the sites in which the confrontation between tradition and modernity was played out. The earliest extant Iranian film, the silent movie Haj Aqa Actor-e Sinema (‘Haj Aqa, the Cinema Actor’; Avanes Ohanians, 1932), clearly demonstrates this affinity between the film and Pahlavi policies: The eponymous Haj Aqa who is a traditional man strongly opposes his son-in-law’s love of cinema, his daughter’s unveiled appearance, and the eventual triumph of modernity over tradition. Hamid Reza Sadr contextualises the film within the socio-political developments of the country to emphasise the social tension that arose as a result of the ‘symbolic and ideological separation of Iranian nationalism and Islam’ in that period of Iranian history.7 Soon after, in the first Iranian talkie Dokhtar-e Lur (‘The Lur Girl’; Abdol Hosayn Sepanta, 1933), the new values of a modern nation state are depicted in the image of a unified Iranian nation where tribal men are evil outlaws juxtaposed against the new urban hero. This ‘new man’ embodied the national values and became the saviour not just of Golnar, the female lead, but also of the nation. The clean-shaven hero, Jaʿfar, wore western outfits and was juxtaposed against tribal villains, who sported ridiculously outsized turbans and moustaches, both of which were traditional symbols of male honour and pride. These early depictions narrated the nation’s socio-political changes and propagated a new model of citizenship. They transposed the long-held values and principles of integrity, honour, and valour to the modern man. Heroism and javanmardi was to be found in this new man, whereas tribal men were now mocked as backward rebels detrimental to a strong, unified nation. In this new and ‘modern’ Iran, one of the main images that had to change was that of the Iranian people themselves, both men and women. But how much of this was really possible and how effective were these supposedly ‘westernising’ tools in creating these changes? By the 1950s, even though the dress law was no longer enforced outside governmental spaces, men’s sartorial practices had changed irrevocably. For Iranian men, it became the norm to don western clothes without even considering them non-Iranian. However, the values that defined this new modern man were contentious. In fact, by the 1960s, images of barely-dressed female characters might have deceptively suggested a changed Iranian society that had shed its past. Although the appearance of Iranian men and women had altered and the repudiation of tribal values had lost their urgency 7 Hamid Reza Sadr, Iranian Cinema: A Political History (London, 2006), 24–25.



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in these films, these changes, as I discuss below, were merely skin-deep. More­ over, these films departed from the trends of the initial films, produced in the early 1930s. The ‘new man’ who conformed to the images of educated and westernised men as propagated by the state was no longer the hero like Jaʿfar from The Lur Girl. By the early 1950s, Iranian cinema had created its own commercial counterpart. Referred to as film-farsi, it was mostly despised by critics as simply inferior imitations of Bollywood and Egyptian films – an over-simplification of a more complex development in Iranian cinema.8 Even though the state continued to strictly monitor film production, it was financial constraints that influenced much of the direction film-farsi was to take. ʿAlireza Davudnejad, who worked as a director and screenwriter before the Revolution, argues that two main factors, namely the suffocating political atmosphere and financial constraints, shaped both the form and content of film-farsi.9 On the one hand, the stifling political milieu did not allow for a realistic depiction of Iranian lives and stories. On the other, the increasing import of foreign films destroyed local production, as it became far more lucrative to import foreign movies than to invest in Iranian films, subsequently draining away much of the resources from Iranian cinema.10 These factors, in Davudnejad’s view, resulted in the production of low-quality commercial films, which attempted to imitate the more successful cinemas of the West. Davudnejad argues that this imitation of the West can be explored in the depiction of film-farsi heroes over three decades. Whilst the heroes of the 1950s, and to a large extent 1960s, resembled a conventionally Iranian man, the hero of the 1970s film-farsi had the characteristics of the western hero.11 Mehdi Fakhimzadeh, another director from that era, elaborates on this point by highlighting the changing character of the luti and his love interest. Iranian audiences of the 1950s, he argues, could not accept their hero’s relationship with a loose woman. There would usually be a scene in which he took her to visit a sacred space, and in some instances literally have the water of repentance poured over her before he could 8 For a discussion on the development of comedy as genre and its connection to traditional Iranian performing arts, see Nacim Pak-Shiraz, ‘Imagining the diaspora in the new millennium comedies of Iranian cinema’, Iranian Studies 46/2 (2013) 165–84. 9 ʿAlireza Davudnejad, ‘Mardom moshtari-ye ebtezal nistand: Goftagu ba ʿAlireza Davudnejad va Mehdi Fakhimzadeh’, in Filmfarsi Chist?, ed. Hosayn Muizezinia (Tehran, 1378/1999), 56–57. 10 Davudnejad, ‘Mardom moshtari’, 55. 11 Ibid., 57.

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Table. 1 Films with Javanmard or Champion in their titles Year Title 1958 The Chivalrous Tough Guy (Lat-e Javanmard) 1965 The Vagabond Champion (Velgard-e Qahreman) 1965 The Champion of Champions (Qahraman-e Qahremanan) 1966 The Trickster Champion (Nukhal-e Qahraman) 1966 Shamsi the Hero (Shamsi Pahlavan) 1966 The World Hero (Jahan Pahlavan) 1966 The Champion of the Village (Qahraman-e dehkadeh) 1966 The Three Champions (Seh Qahraman) 1967 The Chivalrous Three (Seh Javanmard) 1967 The Glory of Chivalry (Shokuh-e Javanmardi) 1967 The Beauty and the Chivalrous (Khoshgel va Javanmard) 1967 The World of the Champion (Donya-ye Qahraman) 1967 The Champion of our City (Qahreman-e Shahr-e Ma) 1969 The Glory of the Champions (Shokuh-e Qahramanan) 1969 The Hero of Heroes (Pahlavan-e Pahlavanan) 1970 Champions (Qahramanan) 1970 Champions Do Not Die (Qahramanan Namimirand) 1971 The Hero in the Atomic Century (Pahlavan dar Qarn-e Atom) 1971 The Solitary Hero (Pahlavan-e Mofrad) 1971 Baba the Hero (Pahlavan Baba) 1972 Forever Champion (Hamisheh Qahraman) 1974 The Chivalrous Man (Javanmard) begin any sort of relationship with her. By the 1970s, however, the hero would visit the cabaret at night, lug the prostitute over his shoulder and take her home.12 But who was this hero? A survey of all film-farsis reveals 22 films with 12 Mehdi Fakhimzadeh, ‘Mardom moshtari-ye ebtezal nistand’, in Filmfarsi Chist?, ed. Husayn Muizezinia (Tehran, 1378/1999), 56–57.



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the term ‘javanmard’ or ‘qahraman’ (champion) or ‘pahlavan’ included in their titles. The overwhelming majority of these films (16 out of 22) were made in the five years between 1965–1970 as listed in Table 1.13 After 1971, which was the beginning of the 1350s decade of the Iranian calendar, only two other titles carry these references. In the next section I analyse four of these films to examine the construction of film-farsi heroes. This is not to say that the rest of the film-farsis did not employ the above terms to refer to their heroes or did not draw from the same stock images in creating them. However, for the purposes of this study, I have selected the earliest, Lat-e Javanmard (‘The Chivalrous Tough Guy’; Majid Mohseni, 1958) and the latest, Javanmard (‘The Chivalrous Man’; Faraydun Zhurak, 1974), as well as two films from the mid-1960s, Qahramane Qahramanan (‘The Champion of Champions’: Siyamak Yasemi, 1965) and Jahan Pahlavan (‘The World Hero’; Esmail Riyahi, 1966). The last three of these films starred one of the most iconic stars of pre-Revolutionary Iranian cinema, Mohammad ʿAli Fardin. In analysing these films, I will also draw upon a fifth film-farsi, Hamsafar (‘Companions’; Maʿssoud Asadollahi, 1975), which does not invoke any of the references of masculinity or manhood present in the other four in its title. This film, however, features another popular star of Iranian cinema, Behrouz Vossoughi, who unlike Fardin, had also starred in critically acclaimed Iranian films, such as Dash Akol (Maʿsoud Kimiyaʾi, 1971), and Qaysar (Maʿsoud Kimiyaʾi, 1969), both of which have been credited as pioneers of Iranian New Wave Cinema.

Javanmard and na-javanmard in film-farsi Pre-Islamic myths and Shiʿi religious narratives have historically provided prototypes of masculinity within the Iranian context. Some examples of the pre-Islamic Iranian male heroes can be seen in the idealised qualities of the javanmard. The pre-Islamic myths and legends of the Shahnameh – the 10–11th-century Iranian epic – abound in tales ranging from Rostam’s heroism in repeatedly saving Iran from its enemies, and Kaveh’s courage in standing up against Zahhak’s tyrannical rule, to Siyavush’s integrity and sacrifice. Similiarly, ʿAli’s valour against the enemies of the Prophet of Islam and Hosayn’s courage and sacrifice to uphold the rights of the just ruler each provide examples of javanmardi for the believer 13 This in itself makes for some very interesting reading, including the association of the ‘vagabond’ or ‘dregs’ with championship in some of these titles, which is outside the scope of the study here.

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and, arguably, reflect models of hegemonic masculinity. As Connell and Messerschmidt explain, however, hegemonic models are not necessarily the norm, but they are rather normative in that men might not be able to emulate the models they are expected to aspire to.14 These ancient and early Islamic icons have circulated within the Iranian context for centuries and more recently provided stock images for the heroes of Iranian cinema. In constructing male heroes, film-farsi drew from these existing iconic images. Many of the pre-Revolutionary stars of film-farsi were former wrestlers and bodybuilders. Their success in the arena meant that Iranian audiences already attributed many of the javanmardi qualities associated with these sports to these stars. Producers, in turn, capitalised on the image value of the champions already popular with audiences. For example, Mohammad ʿAli Fardin was the winner of the 1954 silver medal for the free wrestling world cup championships in Tokyo and he later went from international wrestling success to film stardom. Both in real life and the filmic images of these lutis, as Hamid Naficy states, ‘What was on public display and what was at stake was not just the toughs’ power to charm their fans but also their power to defeat their opponents.’15 The cinema screen produced and widely circulated a new image of the javanmard. For centuries the ancient stories of heroes had entertained audiences through pardeh khwani (a form of storytelling that involves coffee-house murals and paintings), rowzeh khwani (dramatic narration of the Karbala tragedy), naqqali (a traditional mode of storytelling), and taʿziyeh (the Islamic passion play). In films, however, heroes not only performed heroic feats but also sung and/or danced, and the contesting forces of good and evil against which they were tested belonged to both tradition and modernity. The projection of these ancient ideals of javanmardi onto the screen became a new development in its cultural reproduction at such a large scale for mass consumption. Here, I intend to locate these depictions within the wider socio-political context of Iranian society. In discussing the ‘central masculine prototypes’ in the pre-Revolutionary culture, Shahin Gerami presents a hierarchical order that has the merchants and professionals (engineers, doctors, professors) at the top, with the jahel or urban cowboys and lat-ha or misfits, as she calls them, at the bottom.16 Thus, the lats who largely resisted centralised control, claiming to uphold traditional values, 14 Connell and Messerchmidt, ‘Hegemonic masculinity’, 832. 15 Hamid Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema, II (London, 2011), 268. 16 Shahin Gerami, ‘Mullahs, martyrs, and men: Conceptualising masculinity in the Islamic Republic of Iran’, Men and Masculinities 5/3 (2003), 264.



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could not be further away from the state’s ambitions in presenting a modernised image of its citizens. As I will demonstrate below, film-farsi subverted these masculine hierarchies by presenting the luti as the central heroic character and the rich and the westernised man at the bottom rung of that hierarchy. However, these film-farsi masculinities were not a subversion of hegemonic masculinity itself but were rather the realisation of the ‘fantasies and desires’ of marginalised masculinities in achieving hegemonic masculinity. In this way, the screen lutis are at best what Connell refers to as ‘complicit hegemonies’ as they continued ultimately to propagate, rather than challenge, the core principles of hegemonic masculinities.17 As such, a ‘degree of overlap or blurring between hegemonic and complicit masculinities is extremely likely if hegemony is effective’.18 In the new hegemonic order of film-farsi, much like the real life they supposedly depicted, rich merchants and educated westernised men occupy privileged positions within society. However, in the film-farsi world, despite all the wealth, power and education at their disposal, they are merely wimps. In short, their presence is a foil to the hero’s masculinity and strength of character. The failed economic policies of the Pahlavi state – including the 1963 White Revolution – resulted in an increased migration of disaffected rural Iranians flooding the major cities, particularly Tehran. This led to an increased population of the working urban class which found itself at odds with the hegemonic values dictated by the state. Film-farsi, however, provided an escape where they could identify with the hero and reaffirm their own masculinities. As I will illustrate in the examples below, these films dichotomised the free-spirited, chivalrous, working class man as the hero, in contrast to the villain, who was educated, westernised and dishonourable because of his insatiable greed. Lat-e Javanmard is credited as the first tough-guy film of film-farsi.19 The hero’s merits are emphasised in both his relation to women and in juxtaposition to the villain. Hasan’s chivalrous qualities are highlighted in the way that he selflessly protects the honour of his friends’ families, shelters a fallen woman and, in an ultimate act of javanmardi, rescues her by marrying her and taking responsibility for the illegitimate child she is carrying. Hasan displays no care for the accumulation of wealth, stays true to his word, and demands nothing of a woman other than her chastity and virtue. The necessity of the javanmards in society as part of a time-honoured and 17 R.W. Connell, Masculinities (Cambridge, 1995), 79–80. 18 Connell and Messerschmidt, ‘Hegemonic masculinity’, 839. 19 Naficy, A Social History, II, 261.

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trustworthy tradition in protecting (fe)male honour is established from very early on in Lat-e Javanmard. The film rejects both the clergy and the police and justice department as being reliable or effective in protecting female honour. Instead, when male members of the family are away, this important duty is entrusted upon the javanmard of the neighbourhood. Hence, when the wealthy merchant sets off for hajj, he asks Hasan to step in and protect his family’s honour as neither the neighbourhood mullah, nor the police, nor the justice department are trustworthy. Just as knowledge was gendered at the turn of the 20th century in Iran, with folkloristic and religious knowledge considered as effeminate and irrelevant,20 these films dismiss not only the religious but also modern secular institutions as ineffective and unreliable in protecting female honour and by extension traditional Iranian values. In this way, the filmic javanmards become the symbol of hypermasculinity in film-farsi. Much of film-farsi simply perpetuated and re-produced this filmic hegemony of masculinity. In Qahraman-e Qahramanan, Hasan – played by the former wrestling champion, Fardin – is the poor but chivalrous man who saves Mozhgan from the villain’s schemes on numerous occasions. Unlike the wimp, he is uninterested in worldly riches or empty imitations of western etiquette and values. Instead, it is the male honour, pride, integrity and valour of his character that projects the desired masculinity and stands tall against the mimicry of those lost westernised souls. Sadr attributes the success of films such as The Champion of Champions ‘to the fact that they alluded to class antagonism, pitting capitalists and the rich on one side of the social divide, against workers, peasants and lumpen proletarians. Yet Fardin’s character was always enchanting enough to be able to mingle with the rich’.21 For audiences who had to negotiate between the contesting forces of tradition and modernity in their daily lives, these heroes were presented as an exemplar of masculinity. In Jahan Pahlavan, once again a rigid dichotomy is created between the hero and the villain. ‘Jahan Pahlavan’ was a title given to the legendary champion of free-style wrestling, Gholamreza Takhti.22 As Houchang Chehabi notes, even though ‘a number of Persian athletes have won more international medals than Takhti’, his enduring popularity was because he ‘embodied the values of the traditional javanmard: he was kind, fair, humble, and generous, and he kept his

20 Balslev, ‘Dressed for success’, 548. 21 Sadr, Political History, 121. 22 See Ridgeon and Rahimi in the Introduction and Chapter 10, respectively.



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distance from the powerful while passionately caring for the poor’.23 The film is not an adaptation of Takhti’s life by any stretch of the imagination, but the title does certainly draw from this popular social paradigm. The hero of The World Hero, Akbar, like the actor Fardin who portrays him, is a former wrestling champion. He earns an honest living as an ordinary welder in one of the poor quarters of the city. Akbar’s heroic chivalry (pahlavani, javanmardi) transcends his time-bound achievements as a former sportsman. Indeed, it is his permanent commitment to the codes of chivalry that defines him as a true champion. He stands up to injustice, protects helpless women and has no concern for worldly gains. When his companion initially protests against their taking in the simple-minded old peasant, Maryam, into their bachelor pad, Akbar’s monologue, spoken in front of his medal displays, sums up the film’s definition of a hero, and that of ‘proper’ masculinity. Akbar’s oration, dispersed with flashbacks of his previous victories in the wrestling arena on the international scene, uses the example of Maryam, the helpless woman, only to underscore his own masculinity and chivalry: How can I deny assisting this helpless woman? Everyone calls me pahlavan (hero). You witnessed all the cheering during my competitions. It wasn’t my physical strength that the audience cheered for. That’s something that many animals possess as well. It’s all the other attributes besides strength that makes one a pahlavan. It is our ‘manliness’ (mardanegi). I may have abandoned wrestling now, but that does not mean that I have also abandoned pahlavani (heroism). Pahlavani and ghayrat (honour) runs through my blood. I cannot abandon this woman who has sought refuge with me.

Discourses on what constitutes real javanmardi, particularly when it comes to ideal sportsmanship and heroism, appear to have retained much of their general tenor. Akbar’s monologue is very similar to post-Revolutionary references to Takhti. Fariba Adelkhah quotes from a brochure published by the Physical Education Organisation in 1995 which comments: [W]hat distinguished [Takhti] and gave him his authenticity was his qualities as a hero, a javanmard, his simplicity. What makes a hero or a sportsman is not his rounded torso or his muscular arms, it is his lofty ethical and 23 Houchang Chehabi, ‘Gholam Reza Takhti’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, online edition, 2005 [accessed 13 February 2015].

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human qualities. It is these that make the difference between the champion (qahreman) and the true hero (pahlavan).24

In another film, Companions, ʿAli, played by Behrouz Vossoughi, agrees to find and return Atefeh to her family for a sum of money he desperately needs in order to save his mother’s modest house from being auctioned. Even though ʿAli does not set out to save Atefeh out of any javanmardi obligations unlike Hasan in The Chivalorous Tough or Akbar in The World Hero, he behaves like a javanmard in carrying out this mission.25 He heroically saves Atefeh numerous times from various men’s clutches and despite being attracted to her and spending a night in her company, he does not take advantage of her. In all the films discussed above, the hero’s relationship to the woman defines and completes his character as the javanmard, hero or champion, all of which are used interchangeably. In looking at the traditional qualities of the javanmard, be it in mythological references or in medieval manuals and texts, it becomes clear that the javanmard ‘possessed the aggregate of all positive virtues of manhood – courage, honesty, hospitality and generosity’.26 In referring to the ethos of javanmardi in the early classical period, Mohsen Zakeri states that it implied ‘bravery and readiness to help actively the defenceless and… with a more abstract meaning of moral and spiritual nobility’.27 The values emphasised by the javanmard did not directly highlight his relations to women as a defining characteristic but the reference to ‘helping the defenceless’ and ‘moral nobility’ could be read to include women. Of course, film-farsi and classical manuals had very different purposes and audiences in mind, but the films do imply a claim to these older traditions rooted in Iranian culture. One of the genres in which references to the relation between the hero and the woman can be studied is classical Persian literature. In discussing the love triangle in Nezami Ganjavi’s Khosrow and Shirin, Heshmat Moayyad notes that the episode on the debate between Farhad and Khosrow ‘is the culmination of the clash between two conflicting codes and concepts of love, one heroic and sensual, regarding the beloved as a prize or booty to be conquered and possessed, the other 24 Bijan Rouintan quoted in Fariba Adelkhah, Being Modern in Iran, trans. Jonathan Derrick (London, 1999), 143. 25 This is the only film-farsi discussed here that does not invoke javanmardi in its title. 26 Arley Loewen, ‘Proper conduct (adab) is everything: The futuwwat-namah-i sultani of Husayn Va‘iz-i Kashifi’, Iranian Studies 36/4, (2003), 543. 27 Mohsen Zakeri, ‘Javanmardi’, Encyclopedia Iranica, online edition, 2012 [accessed 23 March 2014].



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unrequited and all consuming, relishing the very notion of the annihilation of the self through love’.28 In film-farsi, it was certainly the first stereotype of masculinity, embodied by Khosrow, that was propagated – women were to be conquered and possessed both by the villain and the hero. The love of Farhad, on the other hand, did not turn into a popular paradigm in these filmic masculinities of love and heroism. In addition to the profitability of romance in films, this emphasis on defining the protagonist’s javanmardi in relation to women can also be located within the wider socio-political changes of the time. It could be read as yet another cultural production that reflected the further heterosexualisation of modern Iranian society.29 From the early Pahlavi period, heterosexualisation was enshrined in the law with article 207 of the 1926 penal code preserving the harshest punishment – the death penalty – for convictions of sodomy. Whereas traditionally matters of sexual preference could remain obscure through the genderless Persian language that rendered a certain ambiguity to the gender of the beloved in its prized lyrical love poems, modern Iran was keen on implementing clarity about sexual relations. A man’s masculinity was therefore underscored through his heterosexual relations – a paradigm that was to be replicated in cultural products such as film-farsi through the hypermasculine hero. This erasure of references to same-sex desire, along with the stress placed on heterosexual relations as the norm, is evident in reproductions of the story of Dash Akol. The story of this famous luti of Shiraz, who lived at the turn of the 20th century, was transformed into a short story by Sadeq Hedayat in 1932 and later in 1971 to a film by Kimiyaʾi. According to Naficy’s account of the background story of the real-life Dash Akol, when the rich merchant of the neighbourhood leaves for Hajj, he asks the neighbourhood luti to look after his daughter and his wife.30 However, when Dash Akol’s underling violates the girl, he is so concerned about his own sexual relations with the lackey being divulged that he takes the blame for disgracing the girl. ‘This shame was less than that which would have befallen him had his homosexuality been exposed, for that would have violated a higher

28 Heshmat Moayyad, ‘Farhad’, Encyclopedia Iranica, online edition, 1999, available at [accessed 17 December 2012] 29 For a detailed study of the heterosexualisation of Iranian society, see Afsaneh Najmabadi, Professing Selves: Transsexuality and Same-Sex Desire in Contemporary Iran (London, 2014); Afsaneh Najmabadi, Women with Moustaches and Men without Beards: Gender and Sexual Anxieties of Iranian Modernity (Berkeley, 2005). 30 Naficy, Social History, II, 278–79.

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luti code, destroying his masculinity.’31 The short story and the film, however, completely eliminate this episode of the story and replace it with an unrequited love story between Dash Akol and the girl. In addition to the hero’s relation with women, his juxtaposition against the villain also helps define his character. As Donna Peberdy mentions in her study of masculinities in Hollywood, the relationship between the wimp and the hero is ‘one of interdependence with each masculine trope reliant on the other for validation and definition’.32 In film-farsi, the wimp’s existence helps emphasise the hero’s masculinity. In The Chivalrous Tough Guy, Khosrow, the educated, westernised man is a coward and a womaniser. Instead of facing his opponents, he pays his henchmen to settle his scores and seduces and dishonours innocent virgins. In Qahraman-e Qahramanan, Mahmoud the westernised, womanising and gambling cousin of Mozhgan is only after her father’s wealth even as he declares his undying love for her. Unable to obtain her consent to marriage, he schemes to get her killed and pays his lackeys to get rid of her. In The World Hero, Hashem, the privileged westernised man, sees the young and beautiful Lily only as a means for securing her grandfather’s wealth. An epitome of cowardliness and dishonesty, Hashem will stop at nothing to achieve his end. In his attempts to force Lily into marriage, he tries to rape her, masterminds the kidnap of her long-lost mother, Maryam, and orders his henchmen to whip them into submission. When all else fails, he attempts to murder Lily’s grandfather who has taken him under his wing. Similarly, in Companions, Atefeh’s boyfriend is an irresponsible, wealthy, westernised womaniser who has seduced her. Instead of honouring his promise of marriage and taking responsibility for her pregnancy, he cowardly escapes when she tries to confront him. A scheming man, he sets up Atefeh in compromising situations with another man to discredit her claims and rid himself of her. Not all tough-guys, however, are heroes. Sometimes, the wimp is himself one of the tough-guys. In another film, simply titled Javanmard, the hero Amir, played by Fardin, sacrifices everything like a true javanmard for the sake of his friendship with Ahmad. This includes his love for Asiyeh and taking the hit for a crime Ahmad had committed. Ahmad, however, forgoes all javanmardi values for worldly gain, dishonours his promises and instead of fighting like a man, uses weapons against his unarmed opponents. Unlike the wimps discussed earlier, he does, however, redeem himself in the end and gives his life and his wealth to Amir 31 Ibid., 279. 32 Donna Peberdy, Masculinity and Film Performance: Male Angst in Contemporary American Cinema (Basingstoke, 2011), 97.



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and Asiyeh. The ultimate na-javanmard remains the greedy rich cabaret owner who targets helpless women, ensnares them into a life of vice, knifes his opponents and cowardly hides behind his minions to settle his scores. Similarly, in Lat-e Javanmard, Khosrow, the westernised wimp pays a few lats to rid him of Hasan. An injured Hasan complains to the lats that they have misused their strength for the riches of the world instead of protecting people’s honour and the rights of the dispossessed, and have, therefore, sold their ‘manliness’ or mardanegi. The tough-guys can err, but usually because they are tempted by the allure of the rich man’s lifestyle. The westernised, educated man, on the other hand, remains the ultimate irredeemable villain and wimp. Whilst by the end of the film the hero usually possesses worldly riches, this in not actively sought out by him as he is a content and honest man. Instead, he almost stumbles upon it through either his rightful claim to a long-lost inheritance or by conquering the heart of the rich young woman who is swept off her feet by the hero’s performance of masculinity and javanmardi. Gaining riches in and of itself is, therefore, not contradictory to the values of chivalry as long as it remains incidental to its codes. The attributes and actions discussed thus far are some of the codes crucial to the image of javanmardi performances across many film-farsis. As Peberdy argues, masculinity is ‘an image to be performed or acted out’ in films.33 In film-farsi, courage and the absence of fear are integral to the performance of javanmardi. In fact, when Farrokh Ghaffari’s South of the City depicted a hesitant tough as its protagonist, Naficy notes how some South End toughs in Tehran assaulted and injured the actor who portrayed the luti protagonist because ‘his character had exhibited self-doubt and weakness’.34 In film-farsi, the cowardliness of the westernised antagonist reinforces the masculinity of the hero. However, all these wimps are financially well off whilst the heroes are all from disadvantaged and poor backgrounds. The archetype of the man as breadwinner is a construct that has transcended time and context. By reversing the hierarchical order of masculinity, these films can also be read as a reaction to the emasculation of a section of society who sought comfort from their daily hardships by identifying with the poor but heroic characters on screen. In addition, these films provided models of masculinity to Iranian men who found themselves pulled into opposite directions by the forces of tradition and modernity. Nevertheless, even though they criticised the social hierarchy of hegemonic masculinities by depicting the idealised man on the bottom rung of the ladder, this 33 Peberdy, Masculinity and Film, 4. 34 Naficy, Social History, II, 190.

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was not a stark departure from the prevalent social gender relations, particularly in relation to women.

The disappearance of the javanmard from alternative pre-revolutionary films Whereas film-farsi demonstrated feats of masculinity in the heroic roles they portrayed, a smaller group of alternative films explored the claustrophobic experience of men living in the 60s and early-70s Iranian society. Hence, these films subverted hegemonic models of masculinity. In this section, I examine Ebrahim Golestan’s Brick and Mirror (1964) and Bahram Bayzaʾi’s Downpour (1972). In Golestan’s Brick and Mirror, we are presented with the everyday challenges and fears of ordinary Iranian men. The film follows 24 hours in the life of Hashem, a cab driver. It opens in the darkness of Tehran’s night, artificially illuminated by shop lights. This backdrop and the ominous radio programme playing in Hashem’s taxi sets the mood and atmosphere for the rest of the narrative, which is dominated by fear, suspicion, paranoia and anguish. The radio threatens: ‘Danger throbbed in the dark. Fear filled the forest… And terror sparked in the night… Nothing was reflected in the eye of the owl but anguish… And dread was life’s only sign.’ Men’s claustrophobic existence is governed by invisible fears and threats whose effects on its victims are, however, vividly visible. Hashem is terrified of his neighbours seeing Taji in his house and finding out about his illicit relationship with her. He constantly peers from behind the curtains to see if his neighbours are watching and is scared of talking louder than a whisper in his own home. He exercises with the clubs used in the zurkhaneh, where javanmards used to build their bodies. However, this is a caricature of who he is. Despite his strong body and his heroic pose in the picture on the windowsill, he is a weak man unable to face the fears that have rooted in him. Hashem’s fear of invisible sources is not simply an unfounded paranoia. The doctor at the police station complains of having been called away on the pretext of visiting a woman in labour and then beaten up in the dark by people whose names, faces and addresses he does not know. These faceless threats, including the fear of God and religion, lurk in the background of the film. Qurʾanic verses and prayers inviting believers to fear God can be heard from the radio playing in the background while the camera focuses on Hashem and Taji arguing about their relationship and the future of the baby left behind in Hashem’s taxi, possibly the outcome of another illicit relationship. Unlike the stereotypical depictions of the heroes and villains of film-farsi, the



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definition and performance of each of the masculinities in Brick and Mirror is not reinforced by its contrast with other performances of masculinities. In fact, it is very difficult to talk about a hierarchy of masculinities in this film with the tough man at the top and the wimp at the bottom. The educated and ‘westernised’ men are as disempowered and incompetent as the working men, and none of them perform heroic or chivalrous acts. The policeman is unable to help either the doctor or Hashem, with his hands tied up literally and symbolically in a cast. At the cabaret, the name-dropping effeminate pseudo-intellectual is only capable of delivering bombastic speeches. The conspiracy theorist only breeds further fear and suspicion amongst others. The hypocritical intellectual, who on television preaches mutual responsibility as humanity’s duty, in private discourages Hashem from adopting the child as it would result in sacrificing his own comforts. Ultimately, none of these men are able to provide any meaningful solution to the problem and the child ends up in the orphanage alongside many other children. Whereas film-farsi provided prototypes of an ideal masculinity, Brick and Mirror presents the Iranian male’s fear and anxiety, which dominates much of his life regardless of his socio-economic background. None of the characters display hegemonic masculinity, nor a desire to attain it. It is in fact Taji, the female character, who calls for the man to rise up from his resigned lethargy. The hero’s physical strength, as shown earlier, is an important display of masculinity in film-farsi. However, the image of the ‘strong man’ is subverted in Downpour. Hekmati, the new school teacher in a poor neighbourhood of Tehran has to battle accusations of being in love with Atefeh, sister of Mosayyeb, one his pupils. When Hekmati tries to deny the rumours to Atefeh, much to his own surprise he declares his love for her instead. The immediate consequence of this pure and unadulterated expression of love is his receiving a beating from his rival, Rahim, the tough-guy. Rahim ensures that he publicly defends his threatened male honour through exhibiting the bloodied body of Hekmati in front of the same onlookers who had witnessed Hekmati’s expression of love. In this way, he makes a wimp out of Hekmati whilst re-asserting himself as the alpha-male of the neighbourhood. However, Hekmati’s physical subordination and public humiliation has the opposite result as it becomes a visceral realisation of his love for Atefeh. As Hekmati reflects later, he enjoyed the beating and found out that he is unable to live without her. For champions of classical Persian literature and heroes of filmfarsi, physical strength emphasised masculinity. Hekmati himself equates heroism with acts of physical violence when he tells Atefeh’s mother: ‘There’s no trace of heroism in me, I’ve not even killed an ant! But I love your daughter.’ As the much-feared and respected toughie of the neighbourhood, Rahim is

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invested in maintaining his display of hyper-masculinity. Unlike the heroes of film-farsi, the strong luti, however, is a vulnerable character. Rahim, who publicly performs great acts of strength, courage and sacrifice, finds himself hunched and sobbing at the idea of losing Atefeh’s love and hand in marriage after a drunken brawl with Hekmati. Just like his rival, he too declares that he will he die without Atefeh. These displays of weakness place both male characters far from the desired masculinity of the heroes depicted in many Iranian films of the time and, as such, starkly diverge from the stereotypical categories of the hero and the wimp.

Eroticising violence against women Even as the male heroes of film-farsi were saviours of women and delivered them from scheming and menacing wimps, their own expressions of intimacy and love was often accompanied by acts of violence and aggression charged with eroticism. In Companions, ʿAli’s dispassionate pursuit of Atefeh to take her back home is faced with her resistance. Ultimately, when one of her escapes leads to her almost being raped by her kidnappers, ʿAli slaps Atefeh hard upon saving her, a scene that is heavily charged with erotic tension and at which point the famous theme song of the movie begins. From this moment on, Atefeh submissively follows her man and gives both heart and soul to him. She finds this male aggression accompanied by sexual restraint irresistibly attractive and desirable. In The Champion of Champions, one of the film-farsis discussed earlier, Mozhgan, the female lead, is a strong woman running her father’s huge company. However, Hasan who ends up working as her bodyguard constantly puts her down with disparaging remarks. When he finds out that his new drinking pal, Akbar, is actually Mozghan disguised as Akbar, he becomes aggressive towards her and forces her out of the cabaret even as he finally declares his love for her. That any intimacy and expression of love requires violence and aggression in building up either the romantic plot or the sexual tension is notable in these films. In The Chivalrous Tough, Hasan never even raises his voice against his love-interest, Fati. However, their declaration of love for each other occurs when Fati confides in Hasan that she has been raped by Khosrow, the wimp. Fati’s narration of the violence forced upon her contributes to the characterisation of the female as victim and highlights the hypermasculinity of the hero whose subsequent male rage creates the required erotic tension for the development of intimacy and love. Unlike film-farsi, Downpour problematises the eroticisation of violence. It depicts how boys are socialised to find violence against women erotic and



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entertaining. One of the pastimes of the film’s pre-adolescent boys is shooting at pictures of semi-nude women with dart guns. They cheer at every shot that pierces the body of the woman. This act of violence facilitates and justifies gazing at erotic images of women as the boys display their skills and ‘manhood’. The woman literally stays mute and beautiful as the boys practice becoming men through acts of aggression. Even in New Wave films, such as Qaysar, defending a sister’s honour results in shedding the blood of six. However, Downpour portrays the tragedy of burdening boys with these social expectations through Mosayyeb’s ordeal of having to deal with the rumours about his sister and his teacher. Boys are hence conditioned to perform masculinity by their public defence of the female honour. Rather than glamorising male rage against threatened honour and using this to depict Mosayyeb’s development from a boy to a man, Downpour instead portrays Mosayyeb’s agony for being unable to carry out social expectations. He picks up a brick to attack his teacher, but instead sits crying at his door. Similarly, Brick and Mirror contests the gender norms prevalent in pre-revolutionary commercial cinema. Hashem’s continuous condescension and aggression towards Taji is not eroticised as an expression of masculine authority or protection over women. In fact, Taji is the only person who challenges Hashem’s cowardice and invites him to emerge out of the fear that has engulfed him, in order to appreciate the little pleasures of life. In contrast to the love scenes embroidered on the wall-hangings and curtains of his room, Hashem does not know how to be a lover as he is constantly threatened by what lies on the other side of the curtains. When Taji, who is fed up with the claustrophobia of Hashem’s existence addresses the baby with: ‘Shout! Shout before you grow up! Shout! Shout before you become a coward!’ Hashem pleads: ‘I have no will of my own here. I have thousands of eyes watching me.’ Performance of masculinity before the neighbours’ thousands of watchful eyes is also a motif in Bahram Bayzaʾi’s Downpour where Hekmati’s every move is under surveillance and speculation. Whereas in Brick and Mirror we only see Hashem’s constant fear of being overheard by his landlord, in Downpour we see the landlady doing exactly that: listening to Hekmati’s rehearsal of telling Atefeh that he does not love her. The impossibility of privacy in a neighbourhood where everyone seems to know everyone else’s affairs is comically depicted in a scene in the park where Hekmati says to Atefeh, ‘It’s nice we’re all alone and away from all those prying eyes,’ only for the camera to zoom out and reveal dozens of boys hanging from the trees surrounding them. Brick and Mirror also challenges the homosocial order presented in most

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Iranian films of pre-revolutionary cinema. Rather than depicting women in cabarets as solely entertainers for a male audience, Taji, the waitress, not only dines with the men but is also the only person who challenges the empty words of the pseudo-intellectual. In fact, it is the male entertainer who performs erotic gestures on stage, juxtaposed against the chatter of the pseudo-intellectual. While film-farsi heterosexualised the cabaret scenes with the inclusion of hypermasculine men ogling female performers, Brick and Mirror alludes to the homoerotic relations of the men in the cabaret through the characters of the pseudo-intellectual, the male performer and the luti. In Downpour, Rahim’s public persona of hegemonic masculinity does not ultimately win Atefeh’s love. It is rather Hekmati’s ‘silliness’, as she calls it, and the possibility of escaping the neighbourhood with him that she finds attractive, instead of any socially desired attributes of masculinity. As she tells her deaf mother, ‘He’s not a hero, but he can save me from this neighbourhood.’ However, by the end of the film, Hekmati too is a victim of social constructions that define love, women and relationships. Instead of being himself, he seeks more effective ways of gaining Atefeh’s love. These are not necessarily the ‘traditional’ norms of masculinity displayed by Rahim, but modern manuals on love and masculinity. He says: ‘I’ve recently read in an article somewhere that in love self-restraint is very important. When you maintain your pride, she will come towards you.’ Hekmati thus loses the very advantage he had over Rahim, the difference that Atefeh found attractive in him, his non-conformance to social constructs of manhood and ways to love. The article he has read becomes a modern prescription on both masculinity and love, an advice not very different from the traditional outlook – ignoring a woman is the way to attain her love. Ultimately, the advice reflects society’s inability in understanding how to love a woman. It is society, and not just woman, that is bound by the very ties it has constructed, and men are equally victims of these constructions. Both the modern and traditional versions of patriarchy fail to secure happiness for any of the men in these alternative films, and unlike filmfarsi, there are no happy endings.

Conclusions Film-farsi subverted masculine hierarchies by reversing the state’s most desired and most disenfranchised masculine prototypes into villains and heroes respectively. However, it continued to propagate the ideas of hegemonic masculinity. In film-farsi’s new but nostalgic hegemonic order, the ideal man upheld traditional values and his hyper-masculinity was interdependent on both the wimp and the



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woman. In contrast, Downpour and Brick and Mirror problematise these depictions and offer an alternative construction of masculinities devoid of any heroes or villains. Instead, these films present a far more complex image of men’s lives. In Brick and Mirror there is a palpable sense of fear and loss that dominates the lives of men, regardless of their socio-economic backgrounds. In Downpour the tough guy has a façade of hyper-masculinity and the ‘modern’ man a façade of progressiveness. In reality, they are both victims of the social constructions they aspire to attain. Gender roles are broken in Brick and Mirror and the ordinary, this-worldly woman, who is neither condemned as loose or praised as ethereal, is the only character who displays the courage to challenge social norms. In both films women voice their needs and desires. There are no acts of heroism or victory in either of these films. The crisis is not so much of masculinity’s assertion of power and authority over female subjectivities, but of social instability and inability of individuals to form relationships.

Bibliography Adelkhah, F. Being Modern in Iran, trans. Jonathan Derrick (London, 1999). De Sondy, A. The Crisis of Islamic Masculinities (London, 2014). Balslev, S. ‘Dressed for success: Hegemonic masculinity, elite men and westernisation in Iran, c. 1900–40’, Gender and History 26/3 (2014), 545–64. Chehabi, H. ‘Dress codes for men in Turkey and Iran’, in Men of Order: Authoritarian Modernization Ataturk and Reza Shah, ed. Touraj Atabaki and Erik J. Zurcher (London, 2004), 209–37. ———. ‘Gholam Reza Takhti’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, online edition, 2005, [accessed 13 February 2015]. ———. ‘Staging the emperor’s new clothes: dress codes and nation-building under Reza Shah’, Iranian Studies 26/3–4 (1993), 209–33. Connell, R. W. and Messerschmidt, J. W. ‘Hegemonic masculinity: Rethinking the concept’, Gender & Society 19: 829 (2005), 829–59. Davudnejad, ʿA. and Fakhimzadeh, M. ‘Mardom moshtari-ye ebtezal nistand: Goftagu ba ʿAlireza Davudnejad va Mehdi Fakhimzadeh’, in Filmfarsi Chist?, ed. Hosayn Muizezinia (Tehran, 1378/1999), 47–82. Gerami, Sh. ‘Islamist masculinity and muslim masculinities’, in Handbook of Studies on Men and Masculinities, ed. Michael S. Kimmel, Jeff Hearn and R.W. Connell (London, 2005), 448–57.

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———. ‘Mullahs, martyrs, and men: Conceptualising masculinity in the Islamic Republic of Iran’, Men and Masculinities 5/3 (2003), 257–74. Loewen, A. ‘Proper conduct (adab) is everything: The futuwwat-namah-i sultani of Husayn Va‘iz-i Kashifi’, Iranian Studies 36/4 (2003), 543–70. Moayyad, H. ‘Farhad’, Encyclopedia Iranica, online edition, 1999, [accessed 17 December 2012]. Mottahedeh, N. ‘Collection and recollection: on studying the early history of motion pictures in Iran’, Early Popular Visual Culture 6/2 (2008), 103–20. Naficy, H. A Social History of Iranian Cinema, II (London, 2011). Najmabadi, A. Professing Selves: Transsexuality and Same-Sex Desire in Contemporary Iran (London, 2014). ———. Women with Moustaches and Men without Beards: Gender and Sexual Anxieties of Iranian Modernity (Berkeley, 2005). Ouzagane, L. Islamic Masculinities (London, 2006). Pak-Shiraz, N. ‘Imagining the diaspora in the new millennium comedies of Iranian cinema’, Iranian Studies 46/2 (2013) 165–84. Peberdy, D. Masculinity and Film Performance: Male Angst in Contemporary American Cinema (Basingstoke, 2011). Rahimi, Babak. ‘Digital Javanmardi: Chivalric ethics and imagined Iran on the Internet’, Chapter 10 in this volume. Ridgeon, Lloyd. ‘The felon, the faithful and the fighter: The protean face of the chivalric man (javanmard) in the medieval Persianate and modern Iranian worlds’, Introduction to this volume. Sadr, H. R. Iranian Cinema: A Political History (London, 2006). Zakeri, M. ‘Javanmardi’, Encyclopedia Iranica, online edition, 2012, available at [accessed 23 March 2014].

12

Masculinity Crisis and the Javanmard Icon in Iranian Cinema Farshad Zahedi Abstract Javanmards have been depicted in Iranian movies since the beginning of Iranian cinema. Whereas popular movies invite the audience to identify with the javanmard, a minority of movies, especially those made by women and independent filmmakers, question their authority. The tension and challenge posed by the javanmard on the screen seems to be a symptom of sociohistorical conflict. This study traces the javanmard’s portrait in a number of noteworthy films from Iranian cinema and observes the ways in which javanmards sometimes defy and sometimes conceal dominant ideologies. I also seek to demonstrate how the concept of javanmardi gradually transforms and disintegrates in the aftermath of a deep identity crisis.

Introduction This study focuses on the issue of masculine representation in Iranian movies that reflect the tradition of javanmardi as experienced by contemporary male subjects. My methodology consists of a review of a select number of movies from Iranian cinema since the 1950s, while searching for the traditional representations of masculine identity in conflict with modern gender definitions. In other words, my objective is to analyse the evolution of the masculinity crisis reflected in the javanmard icon, an archetypal resource of male identity in Persianate societies in the prominent movies of various periods.

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The clash with modernity has shifted the border limits of gender identity, previously defined within the traditional structures of culture. In the classic world, the border limits of male identity, the fortress of manhood, were present in which there stands a female figure. At the same time, in Iranian classic literature, female characters tend to be the only persons with the knowledge required to open fortresses unconquerable by male strategies. But what happens when modernity changes social structures to include active roles for women? Javanmardi rituals emphasise a division of socio-cultural spaces in order to maintain the ancient order, which is jeopardised with a modern outlook on gender roles. The cultural concept of considering men as active social agents and women as passive domestic subjects has always been an ideal image that belongs to the past. Nevertheless, there is still active cultural resistance that maintains a nostalgic view of all traditional rituals with the difference between genders considered as one of the main functions of the dominant ideology. The existence of these two opposing viewpoints can be described as a sign of the masculinity crisis which is represented in Iranian cinema. The deep cultural root of javanmardi codes, as a perfect model for male beha­ viour, influences the construction of male characters of Iranian narratives even today. Adhering to the javanmard icon, males figures were introduced to cinema through Iranian literature and have survived until today via transformation, adaptation and metamorphosis. Through examining some prominent films of Iranian cinema, my argument demonstrates that Iranian cinema’s javanmard icon disintegrates gradually on the screen in wake of a crisis concerning the integrity of traditional masculine values. Most of the films selected here have been massively praised, which is a sign of their popularity and their potential to represent social codes of behaviour, and, at the same time, to respond to the popular demands of the time. However, in observing the javanmard icon’s representation and evolution in Iranian films spanning from fifties to today, first it is necessary to study the contexts within which the term appears in historical texts.

The etymology of the term javanmard The literal meaning of the word javanmard is ‘young man’. Seeing as the concept of javanmardi is primarily not incompatible with womanhood – as Mohammad Reza Shafeʿi Kadkani maintains1 – being a man was the chief condition for 1 See Mohammad Reza Shafeʿi Kadkani, Qalandariya dar tarikh, (Tehran, 1386/2007), 146–49.



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joining the group of javanmards in the final years of the 11th century and at the beginning of the 12th century, when the Abbasid Caliphate became interested in principals of fotovvat (fraternity). Perhaps the popularity of the concept was owing to the support given by the ruling powers that sanctified javanmards and the group’s hermetic impenetrability from any feminine factors, hence determining, protecting and guaranteeing the identity of the group. Most of the texts called fotovvat-nameh produced after the 12th century have listed the characteristics of the people who do not deserve to be counted in the circle of fraternity. For these texts mardanegi (maleness) is a primary condition for membership and zananegi (femaleness) disqualifies the candidate. In his book on fotovvat, Ebn Meʿmar Baghdadi calls masculinity the basic condition for entering the circle of javanmards, and a guarantee for honour and perfection.2 One of the other important fotovvat-namehs, the so-called Fotovvat nameh-ye Mirza ʿAbd al-ʿAzim Khan Qarib recognises women, as well as slanderers, the misshapen, the lenders, the androgynous, the miserly, the disabled and the jealous disqualified from entering the fotovvat institution.3 This work reserves the right for heterosexual healthy men exclusively to be considered members of the javanmardi circle. The great Sufi master Sohravardi banned colourful clothes for javanmards since such garments were deemed specific to women only.4 Furthermore, another text declares that if an apprentice transgresses the orders of his master, he would be punished by being forced to paint his hands, wear makeup on his face, put on a scarf and then sent to the streets.5 The concept of mardanegi (manliness) acquires meanings beyond virility when associated with altruism, loyalty, benevolence and honesty. To achieve these conditions, javanmards had to perform many difficult spiritual exercises to purify themselves and find the ability to help people unconditionally. Eventually, they transformed into the guardians of more fragile social units such as defenceless farmer families, while embodying some sort of symbolic capital for traditional societies. Also, to become physically capable of performing their duties, they had to do some mandatory exercises called pahlavani, which after a certain historical period were performed in zurkhanehs.6 The fact that there are a number 2 Quoted by Shafeʿi Kadkani, Qalandariyeh, 169. 3 ‘Futuwwat-nameh’, in Chahardah resala dar bab-e fotovvat va asnaf, ed. Mehran Afshari and Mehdi Madayeni (Tehran, 1381/2002), 87–92. 4 Quoted by Lloyd Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism: A History of SufiFutuwwat in Iran, (London, 2010), 66. 5 Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 71. 6 For an exhaustive study of Zurkhaneh in Iranian culture, see Phillipe Rochard, ‘The

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of pahlavani stories in Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh, as well as in Samak-e ʿAyyar, Hosayn-e Kurd-e Shabestari, Darab-nameh, Eskandar-nameh and Amir Arsalan, and so many other tales, emphasises the importance of fotovvat circles and their special rituals as educational paradigms in ancient Iran. In all these romances and tales, javanmards are characterised by virtues such as bravery, loyalty, generosity, self-sacrifice, truthfulness and piety. A pure javanmard always tells the truth, fulfils his promises, never betrays a friend, respects elders, helps the poor and protects women, children and the downtrodden.

The impact of modernity The gradual advent of modernity in the late 19th century, and the establishment of the civil state based on the European model of centralisation and bureaucratisation of power in the 20th century ended the social role of javanmards. Likewise, most Sufi rituals, as Lloyd Ridgeon states, were ‘viewed as an anachronistic vestige of the medieval period’.7 From the javanmardan heritage, there remained only the zurkhanehs and minor gangs, namely, dashes and lutis which had taken control of some segments of large cities. Furthermore, a linguistic heritage including some symbols and idiomatic expressions, which originally belonged to the javanmards, was passed down to the following generations.8 In the modern period dashes and lutis lost their spiritual practices, which led to the emergence of ‘lats’, villainous descendants of lutis. The public recognised these urban groups as binary opposites: the first group consisted of dashes and lutis who maintained the javanmardi ethics, even occasionally acting as Robin Hood figures and thus obtaining justice for the poor, and a second group was made up of lats, who did not believe in traditional values and would exploit women and the weak in order to satisfy their miserly and arrogant egos. In some occasions, lats were hired by governors as social pressure groups. During the coup d’état of 1953, for example, they played a crucial role in restoring power to the Shah, breaking down the public demonstration in Tehran through violence. These urban groups shared with their antecedent javanmards a disinterest in material possession, their nomadic mobility, self-sufficiency, hierarchy, as well as their raiment style, their personal belongings and accessories, which had to identities of the Iranian Zurkhaneh’, Iranian Studies 35/4 (2002), 313–40. 7 Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 195. 8 On the social circumstances of Iran in this period, especially the urban behaviour of Tehran’s lutis and dashes, see ʿAbdollah Mostawfi, Sharh-e hal-e zendegani-ye man (Tehran, 1343/1964).



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be donned under complex traditional codes.9 However, in spite of difficulties in distinguishing lutis from lats, the masculine archetype of javanmard/pahlavan survived in popular culture, transforming into a nostalgic symbol of the past. Many cultural products of the Iranian society, having existed since the beginnings of the transition to modernity until the present, reflect this nostalgic feeling. Sadeq Hedayat, 20th-century Iranian author, used the metamorphosis of the javanmard icon as the subject of his work, Dash Akol, which narrates the story of a dash who lives in the heart of Shiraz in late-19th century. Dash Akol believes in the codes of honour and is in constant quarrel with another luti called Kaka Rostam over territorial claims. In contrast to Dash Akol, Kaka Rostam is an unprincipled womaniser. Dash Akol is physically and mentally superior to Kaka Rostam and is considered an infallible pahlavan in the public eye. In the last moments of a friend’s death, Dash Akol promises to take care of the man’s wife and daughter. Fulfilling this promise keeps him away from the streets and gives an opportunity to his rival to take over. The traditional feminine territory of home transforms Dash Akol from a free, irresponsible man into a thoughtful patron whose only purpose is to preserve the family property. According to the masculine community to which he belongs, this change is considered a defect. He receives the last strike when through a ‘forbidden’ voyeuristic gaze he falls in love with Marjan, the deceased man’s daughter.10 He cannot declare his love for Marjan since in his code of conduct this is construed as betrayal of trust. His contact with the feminine world brings about a proximity to the deeper levels of his own identity – and the quintessential male subject – where no experience of familiarity with feminine elements exists. This change, considered a weakness according to his rivals, leads to serious distress for Dash Akol. Marjan finally marries her suitor. As a result, Dash Akol desperately agrees to duel Kaka Rostam in defence of his honour. Kaka Rostam takes advantage of the situation and fulfils Dash Akol’s desire for selfdestruction by stabbing him in the back.

9 Hamid Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema: The Industrialization Years 1941–1978, II (Durham, 2011), 282. 10 In javanmardi codes, especially in Iranian culture, seeing the body or face of a woman who is not a member of the man’s close family (i.e. mother, sister, wife, daughter and sometimes nieces) is prohibited. However, with the fragmentation of the javanmardi concept, the prohibition has become less strict. Nevertheless, there is still cultural resistance, which appears in some movies like A Separation (Asqar Farhadi, 2010).

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From literature to cinema Dash Akol’s masculine crisis is one of the primary signs of the disintegration of the traditional values of masculine characters, regarded as a turning point in Iran’s cultural production. Later, from the fifties onwards (1948–1979), characters based on the javanmard paradigm were frequently present on screen especially in the famous film-farsi, the Iranian popular cinema. Hamid Naficy mentions a dominant genre in Iranian cinema – the tough-guy movies (as he calls them) – which survived the Revolution and even reappeared in diasporic images due to their deep cultural roots.11 Some critics like Shahla Mirbakhtiar recognise this kind of characterisation as an imitation of Hollywood characters. However, it should be noticed that the dichotomy between good and evil, which divides these characters into the two groups of javanmard and na-javanmard, rather than suggesting a mere imitation, has its roots the Iranian literary tradition.12 Such characters, performed by well-known actors like Mohammad Ali Fardin, appear as javanmards who have adapted to a modern life. The genre formula of a young hero saving the defenceless – especially women (generally beautiful women captured by bad men or lats) – started with the first talkie film-farsi, The Lur Girl (Dokhtar-e Lur, Ardashir Irani and ʿAbd al Hosayn Sepanta, 1933), and reached the height of success in Qarun’s Treasure (Ganj-e Qarun, Siyamak Yasami, 1965). Although the characters in these movies were traditional representations, the genre types varied. On the one hand, they imitated Hollywood prototypes (such as the masculine logic of the voyeuristic gaze mentioned by Laura Mulvey),13 on the other hand, they followed the melodramatic model of Iranian popular stories and Indian and Egyptian popular cinema. Iranian cinema in the fifties was a perfect dream factory in the absence of liberal media and was used to create a perfect temporary sense of welfare in the audience. Female stars came from higher echelons whereas most successful male stars came from javanmardi circles: ‘many luti wrestlers, among them Mohammad Ali Fardin, Imam Ali Habibi, Reza Beikmanverdi and Behrouz Vossoughi turned to acting and became stars.’14 The Iranian popular movies of the thirty years prior to the Revolution often depicted the interaction between defenceless women and their javanmard protectors. It is in Ibrahim Golestan’s 1965 Mud-Brick and Mirror (Khesht va Ayineh) 11 Hamid Naficy, A Social History, 262. 12 Shahla Mirbakhtiar, Iranian Cinema and the Islamic Revolution (London, 2006), 28–31. 13 Negar Mottahedeh, Displaced Allegories: Post Revolutionary Iranian Cinema (Durham, 2008), 15. 14 Hamid Naficy, A Social History, 268.



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that we witness the first masculine identity crisis when the character experiences contact with the female domain. Hashem, who is a taxi driver, finds a newly born baby in his taxi. His moral integrity does not allow him to discard the baby; however, he is unable to take care of the baby on his own so he asks for help from Taji, his fiancée. Like all other contemporary javanmard characters in Iranian cinema, Hashem is benevolent, kind, yet strict and determined. This matter brings about contact with a subliminal phantom that is counted as the historical legacy of his social behaviour that Hashem does not evade. In the sequence of the house, the room’s atmosphere is filled with the man’s deep phobia of the neighbours who – like hidden ghosts – might start scandalous rumours about his living with a baby and a woman he is not married to. In Hashem’s estimation, potential rumours develop into obscene public fantasies and infamy, resulting in his increased reticence. Hashem’s horror increases when Taji reveals her fantasy of making love with the lights on and furthermore suggests that they adopt the baby and live together. Taji’s offer of breaking taboos directly triggers Hashem’s phobia and prevents full masculine conquest. The movie manifests the crisis of the traditional value system and a confrontation with new gender horizons. Masoud Kimiyaʾi’s Qaysar (1969), another important movie in the Iranian cinema due to its local success, comprises a male subject based on a romanticised view of the javanmard model. Qaysar is a benevolent man who comes from the world of zurkhaneh and he is known in the neighbourhood for his altruism and considerateness. When he comes back from a work trip, he is informed that his sister has committed suicide after being dishonoured and his brother has been killed in a quarrel with his sister’s rapist, Karim Ab Mangol and his brothers. Kimiyaʾi’s film reviews javanmardi rituals from a nostalgic perspective that nevertheless marginalises female characters. As Gonul Donmez-Colin states, Qaysar ‘endorsed the values of a male-dominant society in a story of rape, murder and revenge setting the precedence for several vengeance stories that showed helpless young girls who could not defend [their] chastity by themselves’.15 Be that as it may, the tragic ending of the film depicts social turbulence and masculine identity crisis even as it mourns the disappearance of the same traditional values criticised by Donmez-Colin. Qaysar tries to personally take revenge but he is obstructed by legal authorities. The movie starts with an illustration from the Shahnameh and there are zurkhaneh drumbeats played in the background. Qaysar’s journey of revenge represents a perfect performance of manhood in an endeavour to end dishonour. He kills Ab Mangol’s two brothers in two traditional 15 Gonul Donmez-Colin, Women, Islam and Cinema (London, 2004), 38.

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places mentioned in fotovvat-namehs: the bathhouse and the slaughterhouse. The public bathhouse sequence refers to the initiation rituals of the brotherhood circles and their codes of honour. Nevertheless, the third brother and Qaysar are killed in an abandoned railway, which in contrast to the other places Qaysar frequents such as a coffeehouse, the bazaar, and old houses, highlights the nostalgic tone of Kimiyaʾi’s film toward lost values. Naficy observes how the film’s women are divided into two groups: the fallen dancer and café singer, Soheila, ‘with whom Qaisar is authorized to have sexual relations (…) [and] Qaisar’s sister, and his fiancée, Azam (…) [who] represents angelic women, both of whom are asexual and wear the chador in public.’16 Without questioning Qaysar’s ideology (which permits violence and self-destruction), all the women respect and obey him. Meanwhile, the absent sister turns into the omnipresent hallucinatory phantom of virility; Qaysar maintains a platonic love toward Azam, respecting her chastity. Acting in accord with cultural codes of honour, he sets out to avenge the lost chastity of his sister. Qaysar’s vigilantism and his reaction to the authorities’ apathetic response to the rape crime is perfectly justified by references to javanmardi rituals. Qaysar is mythologised by the masculine audience and becomes an archetypal model for other tough-guy films up to the Revolution. In 1971, Maʿsoud Kimiyaʾi made an adaptation of Dash Akol in another feature film, presenting Behrouz Vossoughi (who also played Qaysar) as its protagonist. Naficy finds fundamental disparities between the actual lives of the characters in late 19th-century Shiraz and Hedayat’s story, as well as Kimiyaʾi’s movie. The success of these two works by Kimiyaʾi culminated in the emergence of the movie star as a perfect example of the modern javanmard character onscreen, which is a turning point in re-thinking the figures developed based on the dash paradigm in cinema.17 Hedayat’s pessimism is repeated in Kimiyaʾi’s film. Dash Akol conserves masculine values which vanish by his death. In spite of the absolute passivity of female characters in Hedayat’s novel, in Kimiyaʾi’s adaptation Marjan falls in love with Dash Akol in the same voyeuristic way as he fell in love with her in the novel. The shot is filmed from Marjan’s point of view with her watching Dash Akol from behind the curtains, ‘emphasizing that she is only a sad observer of her own fate, not an agent in its transformation’.18 The female culpability subtext of Hedayat’s novel returns in Kimiyaʾi’s portrayal 16 Naficy, A Social History, 298. 17 See Hamid Naficy, ‘Iranian writers, Iranian cinema, and the case of Dash Akol’, Iranian Studies 18/2–4 (1985), 231–51. 18 Naficy, A Social History, 291.



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of women while the last javanmard disappears. Dash Akol’s platonic love of Marjan, as much as his carnal desire for Aqdas the café dancer, weakens him before his last fight. In Dash Akol, as in Qaysar, women are the Achilles’ heels of vigilante javanmards. On the contrary, Bahram Bayzaʾi’s works take a different approach; rather than appreciating old masculine values, they are understood as their critiques. Downpour (Ragbar, 1972) is a critical view of an androcentric society and focuses on the masculine identity crisis which developed due to the impact of modernity. It is suggested that this clash ends in violence with women and children as its main victims. Rahim, a traditional butcher, Hekmati, an idealist teacher, and Atefeh, an assistant tailor from a poor South-Tehran neighbourhood, constitute a love triangle that results in the teacher leaving the neighbourhood. Hekmati’s departure occurs irrespective of his educational endeavours at the school which have contributed to the enhancement of his students’ cultural awareness. Like Taji in Mud-Brick and Mirror, Atefeh is unable to evade surrounding social pressures. The financial assistance of her suitor, who is apparently the javanmard local butcher, makes it difficult for her to make the final decision, and in the end she decides to stay with Rahim in spite of her preference for Hekmati and allows the teacher to leave the neighbourhood by himself. Bayzaʾi makes references to the lack of contemporaneity in his social subjects; it is implied that social problems that at times fuel specific cultural behaviours have their roots in a javanmardi way of life that shows resistance to a modern logic which demands increasing independence for women. In Bayzaʾi’s film, the female characters take on an active role in developing the narrative and consequently evoke one of the first signs of the fragmentation of the javanmard icon on Iranian screens. Bayzaʾi observes Downpour as a reaction to what he calls farhang-e ghayrati (male-protectionism culture), ‘the culture that does not know another way [of control] except violence and tribal behaviour marked by deep intolerances’.19 In his commentary on Downpour, he also points out that ‘for the first time [in Iranian motion picture history], we find a woman who is a worker from a working class. She neither sings nor dances. She works’.20 Female workers never left Bayzaʾi’s films, bringing into the foreground the image of one of the main challenges of Iranian culture in the advent of modernity: active smart women who cross the borders of their traditional roles and set foot on a 19 Nushabeh Amiri, Bahram Bayzaʾi (Jedal Ba Jahl) Goftagu: Nushabeh Amiri (Tehran 1388/2010), 62. 20 Gonul Donmez-Colin, Cinemas of the Other: A Personal Journey with Film-makers from Middle East and Central Asia (Bristol, 2006), p. 29.

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hitherto exclusively masculine world which is defined as an ideal in javanmardi rituals of the past.

Rebellious youths and the path to auto-destruction Hamidreza Sadr views Amir Naderi’s rebellious characters in three of his movies from 1971 to 1974 as symptoms of the collapse of the political system in the years leading to the 1979 revolution. Sadr believes these characters represent an Iranian generation suffering from an identity crisis.21 In their narratives, Khoda-hafez Rafiq (Goodbye Pal, 1971) and Tangna (Impasse, 1973) develop a myth of friendship which is considered to be the only refuge for male figures in challenging social circumstances. Tangsir (1974), an adaptation of Sadeq Chubak’s novel, narrates the story of a magnanimous man and his rebellion against the inequality and injustice of the feudal system. A modern ʿayyar, he rebels against a tyrant, which makes him a legend for his people. In the same way, Kimiyaʾi’s controversial movie, Gavaznha (The Deer, 1974), which is again based on a myth of friendship, is one of the most successful films before the Revolution that shows flawless javanmard outsiders rebelling against authorities. In Gavaznha, Sayyed (Vossoughi), a drug addict, recovers his dignity through contact with his old friend Qodrat (Faramarz Gharibiyan), a man with anti-establishment guerrilla links who is carrying a bag full of stolen money. Qodrat asks help from Sayyed as he is wanted by the police. In an araq-drinking scene they cement their bonds of friendship.22 Sayyed’s girlfriend, who is predominantly ignored by the men, witnesses the drinking ritual. Qodrat encourages Sayyed to restore the javanmardi codes, leaving behind his weakness and the drugs. Eventually Sayyed recovers the confidence to stand up against his tyrant landlord and his drug dealer. When the police come to arrest Qodrat, Sayyed is shot while defending him. He dies fighting for his moral principles, just like a perfect javanmard who never abandons his friend. Among all the movies produced in the last years before the Revolution, Fereydun Gole’s Kandu (Beehive, 1975) can be considered the clearest example of the javanmard figure in crisis. Starring Vossoughi, the movie outlines the adventures 21 Hamidreza Sadr, Tarikh-e sinema-ye esasi-ye Iran: 1280–1380/[1900–2001] (Tehran, 1381/2002), 209–12. 22 Possessing a great stamina for drinking araq, an alcoholic drink, was and still is, a sign of manhood in luti circles. But, here, apart from the wager, the drinking scene is an imitation of the initiation rituals of javanmardi, in which respecting the hierarchical rank of drinkers they achieve (or tighten) the collective identity.



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of a group of marginalised men who precariously gamble during a drinking ritual that is a traditional javanmard custom.23 Ebi, the main character of the movie, loses a bet with Aqa Hosseyni (his boss and prison mate) who subsequently dares him to visit drinking dens in specified zones, starting from the poorer areas of South Tehran and ending in the affluent northern districts, and drink and eat without paying. Thus, Ebi gives in to self-destruction. As in Kimiyaʾi’s works, this movie features the idiomatic dash speech and pictures from the Shahnameh, presented in a teahouse to create a spontaneous masculine circle. The misogynist tone of the film betrays the group’s frustration, portraying an accurate representation of masculinised Tehran in the 1970s, as well as vast class differences. Parviz Jahed detects in Beehive a number of ‘clear references to Iranian mythology (like the seven cities of love)’,24 but Ebi’s distorted initiation journey, he argues, ‘presents us with a disquietingly grotesque parody of this dynamic at its most savagely self-destruction’.25 Gole’s film deconstructs javanmardi codes to reveal the male characters’ deep crisis of identity, who lacking in self-reflection, have lost their productive power and tend subconsciously towards self-destruction. The pessimism of Gole’s tragedy is dervied from social inequality and anomic circumstances in which a group is imprisoned without having any desire to change their destiny. Meanwhile, the women’s situation shows no improvement. In the vein of all film-farsis, the movie offers only a stereotypical portrayal of female figures who are represented as prostitutes, dancers or singers.

After the revolution The revolution and the attempt to establish a new political authority based on Islamic shariʿa created a difficult situation for the film-farsi cinematic genre which was deemed sleazy and deviant by revolutionary authorities. As Naficy observes ‘the new Islamic government distrusted what is called the “un-Islamic” learnings of second Pahlavi-era tough guys and jahels whom it associated with that era’s corrupt western influences’.26 At the same time, the indefatigable endeavour to define a form of Islamic cinema posed many hardships for cinema 23 In the movie, the drinking ritual revolves around araq, but as Ebn Meʿmar’s Fotovvatnameh describes, the original ritual of javanmards used water and salt as the ingredient for one of the most important imitation ceremonies meant to strengthen bonds of friendship and brotherhood between members. 24 Parviz Jahed, Directory of World Cinema: Iran (Bristol, 2012), 106. 25 Hamidreza Sadr, Iranian Cinema (London, 2006), 161. 26 Naficy, A Social History, 310.

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professionals in the absence of any direct references to such a concept in religious texts. Therefore, the scope of figurative arts was significantly limited.27 The outbreak of war between Iran and Iraq coincided with years of uncertainty and indecision concerning the formation of a cinematic content controlling system and the need for images that would enhance the collective spirit. Soon, fraternal codes of honour (among soldiers) appeared in the form of a new genre, called Defa‘-e Moqaddas – or the Holy Defence – Cinema. The only female characters who appeared in this genre were the soldiers’ mothers and wives who hardly left interior spaces and rarely featured as the main characters of the stories. Thus, a new cinematic universe was formed, identified by Bill Nichols as ‘a world of wind, sand, and dust, of veiled women and stoic men, of unusual tempos and foreign rhythms’.28 The masculine characters of film-farsi, including dashes, lutis, and jahels, and also female characters – as objects of scopophilia – were all removed from Iranian screens as a result of a dominant opinion that considered them symbols of cultural perversity belonging to the film industry of the previous period. The ‘stoic’ men of Iranian cinemas in the eighties replaced the glory of dashes and rebel youth, emerging as powerful signifiers of new socio-cultural values, which had been in opposition to cultural politics of the Shah for a long time. As a result, a novel javanmard icon emerged within the new ideological framework of Iranian cinema.

The transformation of dash codes The dashes and lutis did not entirely disappear from Iranian cinema after the Revolution. In some films produced during the eighties, they appeared as secondary characters. These men – usually without any decisive roles in the main narrative – were presented as decadent bad-men riddled with psychotic complexes. More than lutis, they were fallen lats devoid of any moral principles and acting in some ways as public enemies. Mohsen Makhmalbaf’s ʿArusi-ye Khuban (The Marriage of the Blessed, 1986) portrays the turbulent relationship between a young basiji volunteer soldier who returns to his city after being shell-shocked and his father-in-law, a sturdy bazaar businessman who is yet to relinquish his dash-like behaviour and bears overt enmity towards the basiji’s and his young wife’s religious beliefs. Likewise, Dariush Mehrjui’s Ejareh Neshin-ha, (The 27 See Hamid Naficy, ‘Islamazing film culture in Iran’, Cahiers d’études sur la Méditerranée orientale et le monde Turco-Iranien 20 (1995), 145–58. 28 Bill Nichols, ‘Discovering form, inferring meaning’, Film Quarterly 47/3 (1994), 17.



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Tenants), a popular 1980s comedy, shows the busy lives of neighbours who are preoccupied with their conflicts with the landlord’s representative and the estate agents all of whom are avaricious men similar to the jahels of film-farsi. In the mid-eighties, Iranian cinema produced films in genres other than the Holy Defence, some of which can be characterised as comedies and family melodramas. Among these, movies that were dedicated to children’s predicaments were most successful in international festivals. At the same time, movie heroes of the 1980s were directly, and paradoxically, influenced by their Hollywood counterparts: a solitary soldier, who turns into a righteous character like the contemporaneous solitary American heroes of the Reagan era, fights the enemies on his own. Movies featuring the actor Jamshid Hashempour are clear examples of this trend in Iranian cinema of the eighties. In this period, among the few movies made from a feminine point of view, Bayzaʾi’s Bashu Qaribeh-ye Kuchak (Bashu, the Little Stranger, 1986) is notable, which not only does not follow the common androcentric apologetic view of the dominant war genre, but narrates the war from the point of view of a mother who lives in the fertile lands by the Caspian sea. The father – who is initially absent, and later is revealed to be at the battlefront – finally returns home weak and physically handicapped, an image symptomatic of Bayzaʾi’s perspective of the masculine authority of his time. In the late eighties, in movies produced after the war, returning soldiers feature frequently as cinematic characters. Kimiyaʾi’s Dandan-e Mar (Snake Fang, 1987) and Goruhban (The Sergeant, 1990) were the first films depicting an alternative aspect of the war to the official version. Snake Fang and The Sergeant adapt luti characters in Kimiyaʾi usual style and use them as evolved examples of the javanmard. Reza, the main character of Snake Fang, rebels against social inequalities, generated by the Iranian traditional market’s ‘middleman’ system that manipulates the public’s basic needs. Neither a war apology nor the ideological agitprop of commercial films are present in Kimiyaʾi’s work. In one of the sequences, a principal male character, dressed in black, confesses to his personal, traumatic experience of war. He concludes, ‘you can rebuild your destroyed house, you can rebuild your destroyed city, but what do you do with your memories.’29 The main character of The Sergeant also returns from battlefront. He encounters the same type of mediators who have seized his land and who show no sign of acknow­ ledging religious justice. The characters in Kimiyaʾi’s later films display the same 29 Maʿsoud Kimiyaʾi, ‘Monolog-e sansur shuda-ye Ahmad Najafi dar f īlm-e Danden-e Mar’, Youtube [accessed 15 March 2013].

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heterodoxical behaviour of javanmards with an added nostalgia for codes of honour. The same friendship and brotherhood values of Qaysar and Dash Akol are present in these films. Nonetheless, the most conspicuous difference is the portrayal of the female roles that become more active compared to the women in Kimiaʾi previous movies. In Snake Fang and The Sergeant women demand a new space in a wholly male-dominated society. The presence of matrimonial friendship in some occasions fragments the dominant ideal of manhood, representing a starting point for changes marked by the disintegration of the javanmard icon, an ongoing process which developed during the nineties and has continued until today. By the end of the war in 1988, feminist activities and a noticeable freedom in cinema emerged. Soldiers – who never quite left the cinema screen – gradually changed and lost their holy, mythic auras and were no longer a part of the dominant propaganda that was prevalent during the war. Gradually, masculine characters based on the javanmard icon evolved and once more appeared on the cinema screen overwhelmed by a deep masculine crisis. Azhans-e Shisheʾi (The Glass Agency, 1988), by Ebrahim Hatamikia, demonstrates the identity crisis of a basiji who has returned from the frontline and is suddenly finding himself left behind in a society which systematically ignores his personal sacrifices. Michael Abecassis sees the film’s main character, Hajji Kazim, and his friend ʿAbbas, ‘as the members of a male-dominant community of fighters who speak in the same way and look identical’.30 Hajji Kazim, the perfect javanmard, faces a challenge when he tries to help his friend ʿAbbas who is suffering from serious health problems after being exposed to chemical armaments used in the war. Hajji Kazim wants to take him to Europe to find a cure, but owing to economic problems, he is unable to fulfil his wish. Hajji Kazim’ isolation and his aggression toward the person who has a hand in denying his applications for economic help to support his friend’s travel costs are perfect signs of a crises of social values in the post-war period, when the javanmard’s integrity gradually collides with new heterogeneous social values.

Intellectual middle-class men The crisis of masculinity faced by javanmards did not only surface in soldiers who returned home after the war. Intellectuals (in most occasions represented by a middle-aged, middle-class man) could also serve as characters embodying 30 Michael Abecassis, ‘Iranian war cinema’, Iranian Studies 44/3 (May 2011), 393.



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resistance against changes that occurred in the early nineties, when within the new economic-cultural landscape, women’s demand for equality was on the increase. Mehrjui’s Hamoon (1990) is a remarkable example of this trope. The protagonist of the film, Hamid Hamoon, is a highly-educated intellectual who can speak several foreign languages and read philosophical texts in their original language, but when attempting to have a conversation with his wife, Mahshid, his behaviour corresponds to antiquated beliefs. His matrimonial crisis leads to Hamoon’s psychological deterioration and his final loss of authority in the familial circle when his wife asks for further freedom and independence. Hamoon can only take refuge in the memories of a desirable past when he is in the company of his master and friend, ʿAli Abedini, a mystic engineer who, as Mehrjui portrays him, is the only person that has been able to solve his identity crisis by interspersing modern life with thoughts based on the historical tariqeh of his native land.31 A sequence illustrating Hamoon’s childhood memories, when Hamoon meets ʿAli Abedini lighting a candle in the shrine, saqqa-khaneh (a holy place for water bearers),32 is a very thoughtful and lucid reference to javanmardi rituals, the lack of which has brought about nostalgic feelings in Hamoon. The masculine crisis of male characters in Iranian cinema increases whenever women take on protagonist roles, especially in the nineties. Mehrjui’s femalefocused tetralogy is a noticeable example of the metamorphosis of masculine characters who suffer from an identity crisis when facing women in social spaces originally defined for men. None of the male characters in Banoo (1992), Sara (1993), Pari (1995) and Leila (1997) feels safe in the wake of the mental turmoil caused by relationships with female characters who are consciously demanding increased social rights and insisting on gender equality within socio-familial roles. The same crisis of masculinity is present in another one of Mehrjui’s main characters: the author in Derakht-e Golabi (The Pear Tree, 1998), who is looking to the past for a reason for the infertility of his present career. He realises that all his juvenile desires for change – from his secret fights for freedom and equality after the 1953 coup d’état, to his intellectual activities in the following era – have been a kind of absurd ideological game, originating from when he left his teenage beloved, ‘M’, and tried to substitute her absence with membership in a political party.

31 See Farshad Zahedi, 40 años de cine iraní: el caso de Dariush Mehryui [40 Years of Iranian cinema: The case of Dariush Mehrjui] (Madrid, 2010), 99–107. 32 See Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism, 153

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The fragmented javanmard icons of today’s cinema Kimiyaʾi never abandoned his cinematic tributes to mardanegi and the javanmardi rituals of bygone days. Lutis like Qaysar did not reappear in his films, but all his main characters in some way adhere to javanmardi moral codes and fight until the end to preserve their honour. New trends in Iranian cinema of the nineties and the noughties that feature young couples as protagonists are quite contrary to Kimiyaʾi’s masculine universe. Nevertheless, in films like Soltan (1996), Hokm (The Verdict, 2005) and Mohakemeh dar Khiayban (Trial on the Street, 2009), female characters obtain active roles in narrative development, even if the destiny of these heroines does not differ much from that of Marjan in Dash Akol; they remain powerless observers of the main characters’ and their adversaries’ performance of masculinity. Among masculine figures in the movies of the contemporary Iranian cinema, Asghar Farhadi’s trilogy attracts much attention because of its focus on the fragmented javanmard paradigm. Farhadi belongs to a new generation of Iranian directors who emerged in the post-war period. In the works of this generation of directors there are no longer any nostalgic characters who are portrayed as the last defenders of the homogenous block of traditional values. Matrimonial crisis tends to destabilise javanmardi principals in Farhadi’s films. Facing women’s growing self-consciousness, men are not able to fill the vacancy they feel inside. After the disintegration of traditional values and in the absence a defined horizon for modern values, the patriarchal system encounters a kaleidoscopic clash of identities rising from an unknown apprehension of globalisation. Farhadi’s characters, dwellers of cities which were defined by Dariush Shayegan as utopos33 – i.e. a place that is no place – live in an atmosphere where there is no trace of old traditions and no trace of modernity either. This complex social system affects relations and creates a microcosm that includes Farhadi’s movies as its authentic examples. The scene of Morteza’s confession to his beloved in Chaharshanbeh Suri (Firework Wednesday, 1995) is an excellent example of the fragmentation of the javanmard icon. An ex-soldier and a current businessman shows his confusion (resulting from a lack of communication with his wife) by beating her in the street; while an hour later, he cries for his wife out of love and loyalty. In Farhadi’s universe, lying becomes a cultural currency, whereas once being a man equalled telling the truth. Women use lying as self-defence while men use it to escape judgement. The same element of incommunicability is repeated in Darbare-ye Elly (About 33 See Dariush Shayegan, Es Teherán una ciudad emblemática: Horizonte de mezclas [Is Tehran an Emblematic City?: The Horizon of Miscegenation] (Barcelona, 2008).



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Elly, 2009). The movie portrays a group of young couples who go to a village by the seaside for a weekend of rest and recreation. When Elly is lost – a young girl invited by the group’s other women who intended to introduce her to one of the men – the pretentious harmony in the couples’ lives turns into a serious conflict between genders. Women are criticised by men and defend themselves in a dialectical battle. Elly’s loss awakens a collective subconscious monster, nourished by the masculine model of the javanmard archetype. Farhadi’s film questions apparently modern relationships between genders with the intention of unveiling their fake facade. The incident divides a circle of friendship into two isolated groups of men who accuse women of being illogical, and women who defend themselves accordingly. Jodaʾi-ye Nader az Simin (A Separation, 2011) follows a similar line of reasoning. Nader’s father, an old man who suffers from Alzheimer’s disease, is an excellent example of what we call familial heritage of traditional consciousness. Nader and Simin decide to separate and Nader’s father features in the midst of all their quarrels. Nader, a middle-class bank clerk, and Morteza, a working-class shoemaker who is much closer to the codes of traditional javanmardi, are in a similar position to the male characters in Farhadi’s previously mentioned movies. All characters lie to liberate themselves from bonds, and there is no way for any of the two couples to manage matrimonial crisis, as they are offered with no new horizons of thought. In Farhadi’s world, characters are prisoners of a no man’s land where, as Shayegan argues, a lack of contemporaneity exists.34 The new generation observes the adults and spontaneously learns the codes of conduct from them. Perhaps the only way for the characters to survive continuous crisis is a conscious choice (made by the offspring) to strive for a less adverse social condition in the future.

Conclusion The deeply rooted nature of javanmardi rituals in Iranian culture is the principal reason for the longevity of its iconography in cinema. The male characters of Iranian cinema have influenced cultural codes of masculine behaviour. Certain socio-cultural factors, especially the dominant ideologies, tend to change the javanmard icon’s properties as a masculine model of excellence; however, the central paradigm still persists. Some films like Kimiyaʾi’s works directly treat javanmardi codes as nostalgic apologia for past values, and others, like Bayzaʾi’s 34 Shayegan, Es Teherán, 38

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films criticise these values because of their contribution to a segregated system that defines the rights of women and children. In spite of the different points of view in contemporary cinema, javanmard icons have continued to exist but become fragmented in contact with female active agents. The Qaysar archetype in Farhadi’s films reappears as a reference to new psychological trends in Iranian society and implies lost male authority. The ideal performance of masculinity is formed when passive women observe masculinity in practice, but when female subjects enter the stage as active agents, the masculine ritual loses its sense of balance. Some of Mehrjui’s films, and Farhadi’s trilogy, among many other films, portray the crisis of masculinity in contact with active women. Masculinity rituals guarantee the relationship between men and power. When women and children do not need to be protected by javanmards, the paternalistic ideology that shapes male rituals faces a deep crisis. Thus, the broken javanmard appears in late Iranian cinema as a sign of a new phase of masculine identity crisis in face of modernity.

Bibliography Abecassis, M. ‘Iranian war cinema’, Iranian Studies 44/3 (May 2011), 387–394. Afshari, M. and Madayeni, M. eds. Chahardah resaleh dar bab-e fotowwat va asnaf (Tehran, 1381/2002). Amiri, N. Bahram Beyzai (jedal ba jahl) goftogu: Nushabeh Amiri [Bahram Bayzaʾi (Fighting with Ignorance) Interview: Nushabeh Amiri] (Tehran, 1388/2010). Donmez-Colin, G. Cinemas of the Other: A Personal Journey with Film-makers from Middle East and Central Asia (Bristol, 2006). ———. Women Islam and Cinema (London, 2004). Jahed, Pa. Directory of World Cinema: Iran (Bristol, 2012). Kimiyaʾi, Maʿsoud. ‘Monolog-e sansur shuda-ye Ahmad Najafi dar fīlm-e Danden-e Mar’, Youtube, 2011 [accessed 15 March 2013]. Mirbakhtiar, S. Iranian Cinema and the Islamic Revolution (London, 2006). Mostowfi, A. Sharh-e hal-e zendegani-ye man (Tehran, 1343/1964). Mottahedeh, N. Displaced Allegories: Post-Revolutionary Iranian Cinema (Durham, 2008). Naficy, Hamid. ‘Iranian writers, Iranian cinema, and the case of Dash Akol’, Iranian Studies 18/2–4 (1985), 231–51.



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———. ‘Islamazing film culture in Iran: An update’, Cahiers d’études sur la Méditerranée orientale et le monde Turco-Iranien 20 (1995), 145–58. ———. A Social History of Iranian Cinema: The Industrialization Years 1941– 1978, II (Durham, 2011). Nichols, B. ‘Discovering form, inferring meaning: new cinemas and the film festival circuit’, Film Quarterly 47/3 (1994), 16–30. Ridgeon, L. Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism (London, 2010). Rochard, P. ‘The identities of the Iranian zurkhaneh’, Iranian Studies 35/4 (2002), 13–40. Sadr, H. Iranian Cinema: A Political History (London, 2006). ———, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye esasi-ye Iran: 1280–1380 (Tehran, 1381/2002). Shafe‘i Kadkani, M. R. Qalandariyeh dar tarikh (Tehran, 1386/2007). Shayegan, D. Es Teherán una ciudad emblemática: Horizonte de mezclas (Barcelona, 2008). Zahedi, F. 40 años de cine iraní: el caso de Dariush Mehryui (Madrid, 2010).

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Princes, Thieves and Death: The Making of Heroes amongst Yezidis of Armenia1 Christine Allison & Estelle Amy de la Bretèque Abstract This chapter discusses for the first time the production of heroic paradigms among the Kurmanji Kurdish-speaking Yezidis of Armenia and adds to the existing literature on masculinities in the Middle East and the former Soviet

1 This article builds on a joint presentation at a BIPS/AHRC funded workshop on javanmardi held in 2012. In the presentation, we drew on our respective data gathered through fieldwork with the Kurmanji-speaking Yezidi community of Armenia. Christine spent a total of three months from 2005 to 2007 researching oral history and community memory, using both oral and written narrative accounts; Estelle spent a total of 15 months researching melodised narratives and songs in the years between 2006 and 2010 for her PhD dissertation in anthropology, submitted in 2010 and published in 2013. Acknowledgments: From Christine: to my generous Yezidi hosts in Armenia who remain anonymous; Emerikê Serdar, Hasan Hasanian, Ferida Hecîê Cindî and Suren Cihangir Agha, for answering my many questions; to Mithat Ishakoglu for help with transcription; to Nahro Zagros and Argun Çakir for sources on Cihangir Agha. From Estelle: to my generous friends Cemile Avdal, Emerikê Serdar, Nure Serdar and Mrazê Cemal for answering my questions; to Nure Serdar and Zeynep Turhalli for help with transcription. Any unintentional errors are our own. Transcription: We have tried to make Kurdish and Armenian words as easily pronounceable as possible without straying too far from accepted transcriptions. For Kurdish, most letters are recognisable to the English speaker, with ç as in English church, ş as in shout, c as in jam, and x as in loch.



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Union, using an approach derived from the ethnography of speaking. The authors analyse ciwanmêrî, a ‘traditional’ paradigm resembling the classical ‘princely virtues’ and identify a contemporary parallel originating from the post-Soviet ‘thieves in law’ model. Ultimately not the values themselves, it is argued, but the enactment of heroic feelings through the specific speech genre of kilamê ser contributes to the production of heroes.

Introduction In line with the theme of idealised masculinities represented in javanmardi, this chapter will discuss for the first time in print the production of heroic paradigms in a subaltern community, the Yezidis of Armenia – who speak Kurmanji Kurdish2 and originate from Eastern Anatolia – using an approach derived from the ethnography of speaking. Our aim in this research is to add to the evolving literature on masculinities in the Middle East and the former Soviet Union.3 We argue that the paradigm of traditional virtue known as ciwanmêrî (which bears some resemblance to the classical Persian discourse of ‘princely virtues’) still exists and has been embodied by Cihangir Agha, a Yezidi tribal chief originating from Kurdistan of Turkey, who is also a national hero in Armenia. However, alongside this model exists a newer heroic paradigm derived from the vory v zakone, ‘thieves in law’, culture which developed in Soviet prisons and expanded outward during the 1990s. Our model for this newer paradigm is Çekoê Xidir, a young mafioz, who was widely commemorated and mourned. These two cases do not represent everyday examples of desirable masculine behaviour, but heroic paradigms attributed only to the dead. These personalities are remembered not only in everyday conversation but also in heroic songs known as kilamê ser 2 Kurdish is a Western Iranian language, whose major dialects are Sorani – spoken in most Iraqi and Iranian Kurdish regions – and Kurmanji – spoken in Turkey, the northernmost parts of Iraqi and Iranian Kurdistan, Syria, the Caucasus and Khorasan. Although Kurmanji speakers are more populous, Sorani has been the culturally dominant dialect since the First World War, due to a more favourable cultural climate in Iraq, which included schooling in Kurdish in the Suleymani area. State schooling in Kurmanji was confined to certain areas in Armenia. See, for example, Hassanpour, Nationalism and Language in Kurdistan, 1918– 1985 (San Francisco, 1992); G. Haig and Y. Matras, ‘Kurdish linguistics: a brief overview’, STUF 55/1 (Berlin, 2002), 3–14. 3 For other examples, see Ghoussoub and Sinclair-Webb, eds, Imagined Masculinities: Male Identity and Culture in the Modern Middle East (London, 2000); Lahouchine Ouzane, ed, Islamic Masculinities (London, 2006); R. Friedman Clements and D. Healey, eds, Russian Masculinities in History and Culture (London, 2002).

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which bear many similarities in form and content to funeral lamentation. We focus not only on the qualities glorified but also on their means of production and distribution through socially constituted narratives which use different speech genres.4 We also consider the reasons behind the formation of these archetypes. Although the ‘thief’ paradigm is relatively easy to account for in socio-economic terms, we argue that the apparently old ‘princely virtue’ template in fact serves very contemporary concerns for the Yezidis. However, we argue that it is not the values themselves, but the enactment of heroic feelings through the specific speech genre of kilamê ser that produces heroes. We wish to emphasise that the data presented here was collected before the attacks by so-called Islamic State on the Armenian Yezidis’ co-religionists in Sinjar, Iraq, in August 2014. Since the attacks and the mass abduction of women, female victims have spoken out and other Yezidi women have taken up arms and joined guerrilla groups; the subsequent development of a new internationalised Yezidi female heroism is beyond the scope of this article.

Production of heroism through discourse Although we are considering an aspect of masculinity – defined by Connell as ‘a configuration of practice within a system of gender relations’5 – it is important to note that these paradigms of heroism are an idealised representation of masculi­ nity, which materialises after the death of the individual. The ultimate barrier of death has the potential to affect different gender behaviours and ways of speaking; Herzfeld notes that after death has occurred, men, usually spokesmen for communities, cede their ‘voice’ to women, who command specific forms of expression in the form of lamentation.6 In Kurmanji-speaking communities (Northern Kurdish), including the Yezidis, expressions of grief, imagery and even the melodies used by women in their lamentations are noticeable features of eulogies recited for heroes, forming part of the ‘folkloric’ canon mainly performed by men.7 Among Yezidis of Armenia, stories about heroic figures are often narrated in a 4 For an account of the intimacy of the links between text and social context, see R. Bauman, ‘The philology of the vernacular’, Journal of Folklore Research 45/1 (2008), 29–36. 5 R. W. Connell, Masculinities (2nd ed. Cambridge, 1993), 243. 6 M. Herzfeld, ‘In defiance of destiny: The management of time and gender at a Cretan funeral’, American Ethnologist 20 (1993), 243. 7 See most recently Amy de la Bretèque, Paroles mélodisées. Récits épiques et lamentations chez les Yézidis d'Arménie (Paris, 2013); W. Hamelink, The Sung Home: Narrative, morality and the Kurdish Nation, PhD thesis, University of Leiden, 2014.



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melodic tone, which the Yezidis call kilamê ser mêranîê (‘words about the hero’). According to most Yezidis Estelle met, ‘heroic songs’ at first functioned as lamentations. Both kinds of enunciations are described in the same manner: kilamê ser… (‘words about…’). Some are ‘words about the dead’ (kilamê ser mirya), others are ‘words about the hero’ (kilamê ser mêranîê). In both cases, these narratives apply to dead individuals. In fact, among Yezidis of Armenia, to become a hero, one has to be a man and face a fatal and tragic destiny. As a result, heroes are always dead! Further similarities are to be found in the emotional content of both kinds of utterance as well as in their semantic and acoustic features. In the local typology of voice production ‘words about…’ are always associated with feelings such as loss, mourning or exile, and are considered as liminary utterances, lingering at the border between music and language. Indeed, among the Yezidis kilamê ser is not considered a song (stran), but a speech. Nonetheless, these utterances differ from daily speech (axavtin) semantically, poetically, and in their specific treatment of pitch (which we call melodisation).8 A kilamê ser mirya performed at the deceased’s bedside can be remembered and performed outside of the ritual context. By doing so, words intoned over the coffin during funerals transform the dead body into an exemplary figure and are converted little-by-little into heroic songs. This is particularly true in the case of the violent and/or tragic death of a man. But another important way to become a hero is to have a big family (sisters, daughters-in-law, sons, nephews, etc.) and more generally a social network who can recount the individual’s death in melodised speech. Removed from the funeral context, exemplary ‘words about the dead’ still recall the deceased, but as they spread outside the household and the village, they become more and more autonomous and, just like epics, constituents of a shared Yezidi culture. The main difference is that epic narratives are not attached to their specific context of enunciation. The topic of epic narratives pertains to heroes who died a long time ago, in a faraway land, and with whom the narrator does not have personal links. Besides the kilamê ser, which were the subject of Estelle’s research, we drew on examples from other forms of discourse perhaps more familiar to the readers. Christine’s participant observation elicited many comments and anecdotes about Cihangir Agha within the context of ordinary ‘talk’, a rich source not only of 8 For a detailed analysis of the local typology of vocal production, see Amy de la Bretèque, La Passion du Tragique: Paroles Melodisées chez les Yézidis d’Arménie, PhD Thesis, Paris X, Nanterre, 2010; idem, ‘Le pleur du duduk et la danse du zurna. Typologie musicale des émotions et fêtes calendaires dans la communauté yézidie d’Arménie’, Acta Ethnographica Hungarica 56/2 (2011), 385–401; idem, Paroles mélodisées (2013).

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embedded anecdotes but also of reflections on morality and identity.9 Formal oral history interviews, especially those conducted with Cihangir Agha’s son Suren Agha, have also been studied, alongside published articles by Yezidi writers. The ‘ethnography of speaking’ approach, pioneered by Dell Hymes, considers socially constituted texts, which may be written or oral, and examines them within their social context with respect to form, content and pragmatics (the latter encompassing production, diffusion and reception).10 We use as a starting point the notion of text defined by linguistic anthropologists Karen Barber and Richard Bauman as a constructed piece of discourse rendered detachable from its context, an approach which allows us to consider both oral and written material. We show how these texts, which here include not only the heroic kilamê ser but also the more humble anecdotes and family stories, are produced, circulated and used. Barber maintains that texts can serve as a medium for the crafting of new selves: our analysis examines both continuity and innovation in heroic paradigms which are intimately linked to the Yezidi identity. 11

Producing the heroic paradigm: studio recordings In the past 20 years it has become more and more common for Yezidis to film funerals.12 Along with recordings of weddings, families keep recordings of fune­ rals in memory of the deceased. These recordings are often duplicated and sent to villagers who are in ‘exile’ – i.e. abroad13 – who could not attend the funeral. The post-Soviet period is indeed characterised for the Yezidis of Armenia by a massive emigration (mostly to Russia, Ukraine and Germany). The links with the village 9 For a sensitive analysis of anecdote and other forms of talk, see N. Ries, Russian Talk: Culture and Conversation during Perestroika (Ithaca and London, 1997). 10 Bauman, ‘The philology of the vernacular’. 11 K. Barber, The Anthropology of Texts, Persons and Publics: Oral and Written Culture in Africa and Beyond (Cambridge, 2007), 22; 103–9; 150–61. 12 This practice has existed at least since the 90s. During fieldwork conducted between 2005 and 2010, Estelle watched video tapes recorded by families from 1995. 13 On the Yezidi understanding of the concept of exile as opposed to the household or the village, see Amy de la Bretèque, ‘Chants pour la maisonnée au chevet du défunt: La communauté et l’exil dans les funérailles des Yézidis d’Arménie’, Frontières 20/2 (2008); idem, Paroles mélodisées. The cultural importance of exile on a larger geographic scale is explored by C. Delaney, The Seed and the Soil: Gender and Cosmology in Turkish Village Society (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1991); H.G. Delaporte, ‘De l’enterrement à la fête, Parcours d’un texte funèbre en Épire. Grèce’, in F. Dupont, C. Calame, B. Lortat-Jacob, and M. Manca, eds., La Voix Actée. Pour une nouvelle ethnopoétique Kimé (Paris, 2010); and B. Fliche, Ghurba/gurbet: Variations autour de l’exil (Paris, 2003).



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are strongly kept, however, in particular where funerals are concerned. Even now, the ‘exiled’ members of the community hope to be buried in their particular village in Armenia (it is much more common, and less tragic, to get married in ‘exile’ than to be buried in ‘exile’). And they also very often go back to the village for the ‘Graveyard Day’ commemorating the dead in June or September. But when it is impossible for the ‘exiled’ villagers to return and attend funerals, the family sends a recording to the relatives abroad.14 As a result, this massive emigration has provided the funeral ritual with a new domain, surpassing borders and timescales. Nowadays a kilamê ser performed locally for the deceased may be spread in two ways. First, as we explained, funerals are filmed by families (and sent to the relatives who live abroad). And second, members of rich or influential Yezidi families may have their kilamê ser recorded in studios by professional musicians and distributed as CD compilations on street-markets in Yerevan and in Russia. This use of new formats (mostly mp3 or video clips) for melodised speech acce­ lerates its independence from a local context. They enable a wider dissemination, thus transforming this phenomenon in a regional-political process. We now proceed to give a general account of ciwanmêrî in Kurdish society in the 19th and early 20th centuries. After a brief account on the life of Yezidis in Armenia, we describe the salient points of the life-story of Cihangir Agha (Cangîr Agha) as told by Yezidi writers, family and community memories given in conversation, and his commemoration through a monument and a kilamê ser sung in his memory whose text has been collected by Estelle. Afterward, we draw further on Estelle’s research to examine the construction of a new kind of heroism, the ‘thief in law’, through the texts commemorating Çekoê Xidir.

The ciwanmêrî paradigm Ciwanmêrî, sometimes abbreviated to camêrî, is obviously the lexical Kurdish equivalent of javanmardi, though a comparison between the two is beyond the scope of this article. The term is still used in secular and modern contexts which are very different from the more classical environment normally associated with javanmardi. There is very little scholarship on either its historical or contemporary meanings in Kurdish; whilst gender is certainly becoming an important topic in 14 More recently, mobile phones have found their way into funeral rituals. People who live abroad tend to attend funeral rituals through applications on their mobile phones (listening to laments and sometimes even performing them). Members of the audience frequently takes pictures of the dead and send them to the relatives via SMS/MMS.

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Kurdish studies, most writings so far have dealt with the performance and construction of femininity, the honour system of namûs which deals primarily with relationships between men and women and the constraints placed on women’s sexual behaviour, as well as the problem of violence against women currently prevalent in Kurdistan of Turkey and Iraq.15 For the moment – though probably not for long, because Kurdish studies is a fast-evolving field – very few studies deal specifically with masculine codes of behaviour or with concepts of honour such as qedir and qîmet (social worth and respect), which do not necessarily foreground relations between the sexes. However, works on anthropology and oral history present us with many examples of Kurdish discourse on manly virtue. These tend to occur in discussions on the virtues and faults of local notables, landowners and chieftains. Denise Sweetnam, who based her ‘cross-cultural’ guide to Kurdish culture on consultation with Kurds from across Turkey, Syria, the Caucasus and Northern Iraq, translates ciwanmêr to ‘gentleman’;16 a useful definition, since it may also be a comment on personal comportment. Edmund Leach notes that, because of his personal behaviour, a local agha in Northern Iraq was much more respected for his ‘manliness’ than the chieftains who outranked him in wealth and conventional social status. Martin van Bruinessen draws a distinction between a Turkish ağa, who is ‘the rich man of the village’ and the Kurdish agha, who rules but may be poor. 17 Generosity is one of the keynotes of ciwanmêrî. Cited by van Bruinessen, the British political officer Rupert Hay (who worked in Iraq during the British mandate), writes: ‘It is on his guesthouse that a chief’s reputation largely depends. The more lavish his hospitality, the greater his claim to be called a piao or man.’18 Van Bruinessen continues: 15 E.g. see R. Aras, The Formation of Kurdishness in Turkey: Political Violence, Fear and Pain (London, 2014); C. Hardi, Gendered Experiences of Genocide: Anfal Survivors in Kurdistan-Iraq (Farnham, 2011); A. Fischer-Tahir considers the construction of both femininity and masculinity in Brave Men, Pretty Women? Gender and symbolic violence in Iraqi Kurdish urban society (Berlin, 2009); Gendered masculine memory is explored in A. Fischer-Tahir, ‘Gendered memories and masculinities: Kurdish Peshmerga on the Anfal campaign in Iraq’, Journal of Middle East Women’s Studies 8/1 (2012), 92–114. 16 D. L. Sweetnam, Kurdish Culture: A Cross-cultural Guide (Bonn, 2004), 24. 17 M. Van Bruinessen, Agha, Shaikh and State: The Social and Religious Structures of Kurdistan (London, 1992), 127, n. 58. 18 W. R. Hay, Two Years in Kurdistan. Experiences of a Political Officer 1918–1920 (London 1921), 47, cited in van Bruinessen, Agha, Shaikh and State, 127 n. 59. Although it is a point of honour that the hospitality of a ciwanmêr should never cease, performance of ciwanmêrî is more complex than displays of unlimited lavishness (Leach, Social and



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In Kurmanji (Northern Kurdish) there are two forms that correspond to the Persian ‘mard’: ‘mêrd’ and ‘mêr’. The first means generous, the second means ‘man’, but with strong overtones of ‘courageous’. An agha must be both mêr and mêrd.19

Despite variations in terminology, association of both generosity and courage in formulations of manly virtue is a common feature across Kurdish-speaking regions. The ‘courage’ or mêr aspect of this nexus of masculine virtues encompassed by ciwanmêrî is mêrxasî, which is a key part of Cihangir Agha’s persona. In fact, it may be more accurate to say that he is more of a mêrxas than a camêr (ciwanmêr); however, the two notions are closely connected and often expressed through the same repertoires of behaviour. Another word which is very close in meaning is xweşmêr, which is heard in the dialect of Caucasian Yezidis. Aghas and tribal leaders were responsible for the guest-house (called dîwanxane/ode) – formerly an important social space – and obviously, for protecting their clan or tribe and enhancing its prosperity, as an extension of their own personal capital. Sometimes this was done by acquiring persons or wealth from other groups – sources show that tribal population waxed and waned considerably.20 Also crucial is the leader’s function in regulating the community, in making judgments when petitioned by those of lower social status, and in meting out punishment for transgressive behaviour. A particularly rich source of relevant anecdotes is Zaken’s varied collection of oral history interviews with Kurdish Jews from Northern Iraq living in Israel.21 They recalled the late 19th and early 20th centuries in a region not very far from Cihangir Agha’s home in Eastern Economic Organization of the Rowanduz Kurds, London, 1940, 28, cited Van Bruinessen, Agha, Shaikh and State, 87). However, there is also a responsibility on the guest, especially a person known to the host, to respect the host’s dignity by not making claims on the host’s hospitality which are disproportionate to the guest’s status, or which might cause the host any discomfiture. In modern, urban society as much as in the ‘old’ village environment, a dignified guest knows when to visit, where to place him- or herself, and what kinds of gifts to bring. Properly conducted behaviour honours both parties. For ‘generosity’, see Sweetnam, Kurdish Culture, 7–22. For ‘hospitality’, see ibid., 23–58. For a discussion on contemporary gender discourse and performance in Iraqi Kurdistan, see Fischer-Tahir, Brave Men, Pretty Women? 19 Van Bruinessen, Agha, Shaikh and State, 87. 20 Van Bruinessen, Agha, Shaikh and State, 50–132; on a specific example, the Fuqara’ (Feqîran) of Sinjar, see N. Fuccaro, The Other Kurds: Yazidis in Colonial Iraq (London, 1999), 62–65. 21 M. Zaken, Jewish Subjects and their Tribal Chieftains in Kurdistan: A Study in Survival (Leiden, 2007).

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Turkey. In rural areas, outside the control of government administrators, Jews living under the protection of a local agha were said to belong to that agha. A number of anecdotes included incidents where ‘their’ agha punished those who had stolen from or molested the Jews, either by insisting on reparation, or if the offenders were members of his own community, by public humiliation. The cordial relations described were not simply due to philanthropy on the aghas’ behalf; within the system of values, a manly agha would view attempts by other tribal leaders or urban administrators to interfere with ‘his’ Jews as an insult to his own honour, the maintenance of which required decisive action. Offenders against the Jews who were beaten, fined or humiliated paid in public with their own dignity for the insult proffered to the dignity of the agha.22

Cihangir Agha: traditional camêr and post-Soviet hero Unlike the Muslim aghas recalled by the Jews, Cihangir Agha was a Yezidi. This religious minority, almost entirely Kurmanji-speaking, now numbers several hundred thousand souls worldwide. The largest communities live in Northern Iraq, where the most holy sites are located; until the First World War, however, many lived in Eastern Anatolia, forming Yezidi sections within wider Kurdish tribal confederations around Kars, Van and Doğubayazit. Most Yezidis migrated from the Ottoman Empire into Transcaucasia in times of crisis, especially during the Russo-Turkish war of 1828–29 and (alongside many Armenians) in 1918; this last migration, on a much larger scale than previous ones, included Cihangir Agha and his clan.

Yezidis in Armenia Much has been written elsewhere on the origins and intricacies of the Yezidi religion, which lies beyond the scope of this chapter. 23 However, to contextualise our contemporary Yezidi hero-cults, we must outline the position of Yezidism in the late Ottoman Empire (when Cihangir Agha was active) and in more recent 22 Ibid., 127–84, for many anecdotes illustrating different aspects of the relationship between Kurdish aghas and ‘their’ Jews. 23 See P. G. Kreyenbroek, Yezidism: Its Background, Observances and Textual Tradition (N.Y. Lampeter, 1995); idem, Yezidism in Europe: Different Generations Speak about their Religion (Wiesbaden 2009); P. G. Kreyenbroek and K. J. Rashow, God and Sheikh Adi are Perfect: Sacred Poems and Religious Narratives from the Yezidi Tradition (Wiesbaden, 2005).



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debates on Yezidi identity and religious origin. It is safe to say that their religion is highly syncretistic and its belief system probably derives from an ancient Iranian faith somewhat akin to Zoroastrianism (or possibly based on a ‘heretical’ derivative of Zoroastrianism)24 with many observable elements of Islam (especially Sufism), Christianity, Gnosticism and others, interwoven in a highly complex fashion.25 Yezidis have a system of religious status groups determined by birth; traditionally they marry within these groups and do not practise exogamy at all. For centuries they were not viewed as ‘People of the Book’, though by the end of the Ottoman period they acquired some official status under the millet system.26 Nevertheless the Ottoman government made many attempts to control them, culminating with the appointment in 1892 of a provincial governor, Omar Wahbi Pasha, who initiated programmes of forced conversion to Islam with the aim of forming Yezidi Hamidiye units.27 Under the CUP (Committee of Union and Progress), various plans were developed for the different millets; although Muslim Kurds were considered potentially trustworthy citizens who were nevertheless in need of some civilisation, for Yezidis the policy implied integration through conversion in the longer term.28 After the great rupture of the Frist World War, those Yezidis who crossed into Armenia encountered different social policies. In the Soviet Union, communities were marked by ‘nationality’ rather than religious creed (though in the early years at least religion was not entirely disregarded).29 Yezidis were considered ‘Kurds’ alongside the Muslim Kurds already living in Armenia; after 1926, this classification was reflected in Soviet census figures

24 Cf. P. Crone, The Nativist Prophets of Early Islamic Iran (Cambridge, 2012). 25 Two striking features of Yezidism are belief in the reincarnation of the Seven Holy Beings (who serve God) and the importance of purity, which is expressed in a social order of endogamous castes and many taboos concerning food, dress and personal habits. See Kreyenbroek, Yezidism. 26 See J. S. Guest, Survival among the Kurds: A History of the Yezidis (London, 1993), 104–5 for the 1849 edict negotiated, among others, by Layard. 27 Guest, Survival among the Kurds, 134–44; C. Allison, The Yezidi Oral Tradition in Iraqi Kurdistan (Richmond, 2001), 94–97. 28 F. Dündar, ‘L’Ingénierie ethnique du comité union et progrès et la turcisation de l’Anatolie (1913–1918)’, (PhD thesis, EHESS, Paris, 2006), 379, cites a document itemising the Yezidis as a mezhep of the Kurds alongside Sunnis and Kizilbash, and therefore deemed assimilable. 29 However, the issue of religion was not disregarded. For the travails of those attempting to define the terms of the 1926 Soviet census, see F. Hirsch, Empire of Nations: Ethnographic Knowledge & the Making of the Soviet Union (Ithaca, 2005), 108–23. Confessional group and mother tongue (itself not easy to define) were seen as important elements of nationality (both nationalnost’ and narodnost’) at this point.

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which no longer distinguished Kurdish peoples based on their religion.30 Since both Yezidis and Kurds were members of the Kurdish ‘nationality’, distinctions were not in general made between their cultural productions.31 Folkloric songs and stories broadcast on Radio Yerevan were simply labelled ‘Kurdish’. As with many of the nationalities of the Soviet Union, Kurdish cultural production in Armenia underwent an eclipse in the late 1930s, but resumed in the early 1950s.32 However, during the late 1980s and early 1990s, when Armenia became independent and the Karabagh ‘problem’ deteriorated into armed conflict, the prevailing anti-Muslim discourse characterised Kurdish Muslims as suspect, in common with Azeris and Turks in general. Almost all Muslim Kurds left Armenia, but the Yezidis negotiated the issue in different ways, dividing themselves between those who claimed Kurdish nationality and Yezidi religion, and those who considered the Kurdish heritage and Islam to be interconnected and claimed that as Yezidis they belonged to a separate ethnie (calling their language not Kurmanji – which was Kurdish – but ‘Ezdîkî’). According to the ‘Ezdîkî’ camp, long-felt and legitimate Yezidi claims to a separate identity had been repressed by the Soviet system; ‘Kurdish’ Yezidis, by contrast, asserted that the problem was new and a product of the political climate generated by the Karabagh war.33 The schism was bitter in the early 1990s and the most notorious violent incidents occurred in this period.34 The situation is now much calmer; both sides interact and attend each 30 There were probably some 40–50,000 Kurdish speakers in the Caucasus for most of the Soviet period; D. Müller, ‘The Kurds and the Kurdish language in Soviet Azerbaijan according to the All-Union Census of December 17, 1926 (A contribution to the history of the so-called “Red Kurdistan”)’, Journal of Kurdish Studies 3 (2000), 61–84. The 1959 census listed 59,000 ‘Kurds’ in the USSR, with 26,000 in Armenia. See K. M. Chatoev, Kurdy Sovetskoj Armenii. Istoricheskij Ocherk (1920–1940) (The Kurds of Soviet Armenia. A Historical Sketch) (Yerevan, 1965), 9; T.F. Aristova, Kurdy Zakavkaz’ ja (The Kurds of the Caucasus) (Moscow, 1996), 19. 31 A typical example is O. Celil and C. Celil, Zargotina K'urda (Kurdish Oral Tradition) (Moscow, 1978) where ‘Yezidi qewls and beyts’ (religious poems) form a sub-section of their larger work on Kurdish folklore. 32 For further details see C. Allison, ‘Memory and the Kurmanji novel: Contemporary Turkey and Soviet Armenia’, in P. G. Kreyenbroek and C. Allison, eds., Remembering the Past in Iranian Societies (Wiesbaden, 2013), 139–218. 33 J. Flint, The Kurds of Azerbaijan and Armenia, Kurdish Human Rights Project (London, 1998), 77–83. 34 There are two notorious events – the murder of Yezidi ‘pro-Kurd’ paediatrician Seid Iboyan – see G. Lennox Lennox, Fire, Snow & Honey: Voices from Kurdistan (Halstead, NSW, 2001), 418–23 – and the celebration, in which Yezidis participated, of the capture of the (still disputed) Lachin corridor, after the ethnic cleansing of its partly Kurdish population.



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other’s celebrations. However, tensions still persist, especially on matters such as education.35 Radio programming remains divided between broadcasts in ‘Ezdîkî’ and Kurdish (Kurmanji). Although the Yezidi community in Armenia remains deeply divided on the question of identity, local politics are complex. Armenia does not have the resources of her Transcaucasian neighbours; Yezidis, never a high-status community, have been hit hard by the economic situation in the South Caucasus over the past twenty years. Not only are festivals and celebrations organised by one side or the other often attended by those whose ‘public’ allegiance lies elsewhere, but Yezidi citizens may seek help from politicians or notables representing the ‘other’ faction if it promises a higher chance of success.36 Like their Armenian neighbours, most families find themselves scattered over wide distances, with many earning a living in Russia, Ukraine, Siberia or Western Europe.37 With the young members of the community so widely scattered and many exposed to urban life far from home, elders fear for the survival of the community.

The life of Cihangir Agha: written histories Cihangir Agha is remembered in Armenia mainly for his role at the battle of Sardarabad. However, he is only mentioned in passing in the standard accounts of the battle; most of the detailed sources on his life have been written by Yezidi scholars during the post-Soviet period, using data from oral history. In our own experience, knowledge of tribal genealogy, chronology and the places of origin in Turkey remain strong within the community. In this research we have drawn on a book by Tharê Emer Abasyan,38 who makes a distinction between Yezidis and Kurds, and an online account from Eskerê Boyîk,39 a well-known writer in the 35 In 2008, Christine was told that schoolbooks in ‘Ezdîkî’ designed by senior members of the ‘Ezdîkî’ side of the community had been rejected by schools in Aparan district, which continued to use Soviet-era learning materials in Latin and Cyrillic scripts. 36 A member of a Yezidi family on the ‘Kurd’ side did not hesitate to approach Aziz Tamoyan, leader of the ‘Ezdîkî’ movement (again, our term – he called his organisation the World Council of Yezidis), for support in a dispute with a neighbour. He duly received aid; it was explained to Christine that regardless of political position, Tamoyan was a good and conscientious advocate for all Yezidis in such matters (personal conversation, summer 2006). 37 For a map showing Yezidi settlements across the former Soviet Union, see K. Omarkhali, Jezidizm: iz glubiny tysjacheletii (Yezidism: From Deepest Milennia) (St. Petersburg, 2005). 38 T. E. Abasyan, Cangîr Axa (Yerevan, 2005). 39 E. Boyîk, ‘Êla Zuqurya’ (2006) [accessed 13 March 2014].

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Kurdish diaspora, first published in an Armenian literary journal. Both writers cite their oral sources at many points and cover much the same ground. Written in Kurdish and published locally, Abasyan’s book, whose preface declares its intention to teach younger generations about their heritage, is of course more detailed. However, we favour Boyîk’s account. Aimed at national audiences, it was written first in Armenian (thereby addressing a wider audience) and then published in Kurdish online. It clearly aims to capture the most salient points of Chihangir Agha’s account and is thus more revealing of the public myth.40 It is this myth which is our focus, rather than a correct and balanced historical understanding of religious politics at the end of the Ottoman Empire. Boyîk presents a picture of a steadily worsening relations between the Yezidis and the Muslim Kurdish tribes throughout the nineteenth century, and attributes this to the Turkish government and military forces. He recounts the death of Cihangir Agha’s grandfather in about 1830, also called Cihangir but known as Midur Agha, who was poisoned by the rulers of the vilayet at a military gathering, an act which intended ‘to sow enmity among the Kurdish tribes’.41 Later on, the accounts are dominated by conflict with the Hamidiye troops of irregular Kurdish cavalry42 and attempts to force Yezidis to convert under duress, which reached their peak under Omar Wahbi Pasha in 1893 when the Yezidi Mir (the paramount prince) in Iraq converted and the shrine of Lalish was seized, causing consternation and disbelief among Anatolian Yezidis.43 Both Boyîk and Abasyan note the shrewdness and foresight of Khetiv (Khatib) Agha, the leader of the Zuquri tribe of Yezidis and son of Midur Agha. Cihangir, 40 We used the Kurdish online version here, rather than the earlier Armenian version published in the literary periodical Grakan Tert. 41 Boyîk, ‘Êla Zuqurya’, 2–3. 42 For a detailed study of the Hamidiye, see J. Klein, The Margins of Empire: Kurdish Militias in the Ottoman Tribal Zone (Stanford, 2011). 43 Boyik, ‘Êla Zuqurya’, 4, includes the following anecdote:

They [the provincial governorate] told the Yezidis that the Mir of Sheikhan [the paramount prince of the Iraqi Yezidis] was converting with the Yezidis of Lalish and Sinjar and called on all the Yezidis to convert and take up Islam. The leaders encouraged the Yezidis to choose three men who would go to the Mir and see for themselves. Three were chosen but were arrested at Sivas, on the way to Iraq. One escaped but the other two were arrested and told to convert and return to deceive the Yezidis, on pain of death. One converted, but the other, Pir Haji, died calling on the Yezidi holy being, Sultan Êzdi. The man who had escaped told the Yezidis of Sinjar who buried Pir Haji in Yezidi sacred earth; the other returned home and confessed all but his son handed him to the Yezidi authorities, who had him killed.

For the events surrounding Mir Ali Beg’s conversion, see Guest, Survival among the Kurds, 133–44.



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his second son, was born in 1874 and grew up between Lake Van and the Iranian border. Khetiv Agha died between 1904 and1906, having spent years consolida­ ting the wealth of the tribe. In the end, foreseeing future difficulties, he advised Cihangir to use his wealth to buy horses and weapons and train good cavalry fighters.44 Moreover, Boyîk observes, his influence undermined the government’s attempts to sow disunity among Kurdish tribes.45 Boyîk’s initial character-sketch of Cihangir sets out the key virtues of the tribal leader clearly: ‘Even in his childhood, he distinguished himself among the children of (Khetiv) Agha by his courage, adeptness and acumen… He knew no fear. He did not accept aggression, injustice, or enslavement.’46 To this he adds truthfulness, lack of affectation, and pure and honourable behaviour. On winter nights in his childhood, we are told, he used to sit in his father’s hall with ‘storytellers and greybeards’ and hear tales of heroism, mêrxweşî û qehremanî, among his forefathers. ‘He wanted to be like them.’47 Most of the episodes illustrate one or another of these virtues. Cihangir took his father’s advice, sold most of his livestock and bought horses in Aleppo and firearms from his Russian and Armenian contacts. Some notable skirmishes took place. During one surprise night-attack all his village guards were killed; he and his wife (a determined soul named Almast) defended their house with limited weapons and ammunition, but he possessed the presence of mind to taunt the enemy into challenging him verbally so that he could identify their position and the marksmanship to strike them down.48 On another occasion, he was attacked by Hamidiye cavalry whilst burying his brother Temer (a shocking intrusion as funerals are especially sacred for Yezidis); Boyîk stresses that Cihangir was obliged to leave the corpse behind to fend off the attackers and return later, and that this incident made him decide to leave his village to join his wife’s clan by the Iranian border.49 Around this time Cihangir strengthened his links with the Armenian leader Andranik Ozanian and the Russian military. He fought off Kurdish tribal leaders, Hamidiye forces and the Ottoman military with his Armenian allies at the battle of Dercemed (the subject of a song to be presented later in the chapter),50 before moving onward with his Yezidi followers 44 Boyîk, ‘Êla Zuqurya’, 5. 45 Ibid, 4. 46 Ibid, 5. 47 Ibid, 5. 48 Ibid, 6. 49 Ibid, 7. 50 Ibid, 8.

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and some Armenians into the Russian-controlled zone. En route, their column was ambushed in a steep gorge which was too narrow to allow the Yezidi fighters to defend their families. Boyîk does not question the leader’s strategy in this instance but moves swiftly to a heroic anecdote. Cihangir Agha found himself isolated, fighting alongside a young Armenian. The boy, Misak, gave him his last bullets, saying that if he were killed it did not matter, but that if Cihangir Agha were killed, all would be lost. And Misak was killed, but Cihangir Agha managed to kill a Turkish commander, gaining a breathing-space for his forces to regroup. They limped on with almost all their wealth gone and many of their families lost, and years later Cihangir Agha recalled how that young man’s death weighed on his conscience.51 This time they settled in the Russian-ruled Kars province, and united forces with the Yezidi Usib Beg of the Heseni tribe. In 1917, Russian forces withdrew from Kars, and the Turkish army began to advance, hoping to reach Baku and secure territory across the South Caucasus. Armenian soldiers formerly serving in the Russian armies (which included Andranik’s forces) hastily regrouped in the area, their irregulars fighting alongside and escorting the retreating lines of refugees. Cihangir Agha, Usib Beg and Andranik fought at Kars and Sarikamiş but were pushed back across Transcaucasia. The offensive continued even as peace talks in Georgia had begun. While Turkish columns advanced from different directions, one of Cihangir Agha’s missions was to blow up the bridge over the Araks at Markara, in a bid to prevent the Turkish forces arriving from the south from uniting with their compatriots. Meanwhile two other Turkish columns were heading for Yerevan, with a view to capture a strategic railway line leading into Persia; each took a different route around Mount Aragats. Only one troupe arrived at Sardarabad (to the south-west of Yerevan) and joined the battle in May 1918, but even the addition of this one column was enough to outnumber the Armenian forces. Cihangir Agha, we are told, was dismayed at the disarray in the Armenian forces; he quickly noted the Turks’ weak points and recommended they attack at daybreak. Without receiving consent from the Armenian commander, he and his horsemen attacked the enemy; we are told that he did this through solicitude for his horsemen, knowing if the enemy won, not a single horseman would be spared.52 The battle was desperate and bloody, but the Armenians prevailed. Victory at Sardarabad could only last as long as Turkish forces remained at Bash Aparan (on the opposite side of Mount Aragats from Yerevan), held in an 51 Ibid, 9. 52 Ibid, 11.



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uneasy stalemate with the Armenian general Dro (Drastamat Kanayan). For Cihangir Agha, as the Yezidi sources explain, this was a burning issue, as the Turks had occupied Yezidi villages near Aparan, and although they met with no resistance from the populations, they massacred civilians of all ages; some of his 100 or so horsemen came from these villages.53 Having ridden in haste to Bash Aparan, he launched an attack without receiving Dro’s permission; the enemy fled, leaving behind their heavy artillery.54 After the victory, Cihangir Agha settled there, in the village of Cerceris (Dêrik) and distributed his forces among the Yezidi villages. Cihangir Agha did not fare well under Communism. Foreseeing the difficulties inherent in staying, Andranik left for the US in 1919.55 According to several sources, Andranik encouraged Cihangir Agha to leave too, but he refused to leave his people behind.56 Despite his excellent contacts amongst elite members of the Armenian party, Cihangir Agha was unable to survive ‘dekulakisation’ and along with many others, he was exiled in 1938. His death is surrounded with mystery, but it appears to have happened in Saratov in 1943.57 For his family, the absence of a body and a grave is disastrous as it leaves them without a focus of ancestral commemoration, a crucial part of the contemporary performance of Yezidism.

Cihangir Agha as an Armenian national hero Cihangir Agha’s name was rarely mentioned in public discourse for much of the Soviet period. After the re-establishment of Kurdish cultural production in the 1940s, the trauma of the Great Patriotic war continued to resound through the 1950s and into the 1960s. Dominant themes were stories of war and patriotism and also of internationalism.58 After the ‘Thaw’ of the 1950s, developing dis53 In 1918, according to Yezidi sources, about seventy men were massacred in cold blood in Camûşvan village (now Alagyaz) alone, while those who could sought sanctuary in the clefts of the mountain. Meanwhile their goods were plundered (Boyik, 12). Heciê Cindi, who lived through this as a child, remembered it vividly, as his daughter recalled (Christine’s interviews: with villagers of Ortachiya, Summer 2005; with Ferida Heciyê Cindî, Summer 2007). 54 For an Armenian perspective on Bash Aparan, see S. Afanasyan, La victoire de Sardarabad, Arménie (mai 1918) (Paris, 1985), 61–62. 55 Andranik died in Fresno, California in 1927, and was buried in Père-Lachaise cemetery, Paris, in 1928, but his remains were reinterred in Armenia in 2000. 56 Boyik mentions this, as did Suren Agha, in 2006. 57 K. Omarkhali, ‘On the structure of the Yezidi clan and tribal system and its terminology among the Yezidis of the Caucasus’, Journal of Kurdish Studies 6 (2008), 111. 58 L. Japharova-Brutti, Littérature Kurde de la Période Soviétique (années 1930–1990) (PhD thesis, INALCO, Paris, 2001), 131–32.

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courses of Armenian memory, spurred on by diaspora activities, began to apply pressure for official commemorations of the genocide; alongside this, Kurdish literature commemorated the traumatic events of World War I.59 Chatoev’s standard history of the Kurds of Soviet Armenia, published in 1960, mentions Sardarabad in passing, briefly adding that ‘Yezidi Kurds’ fought at Bash Aparan, with no mention either of Cihangir Agha or Usib Beg.60 Kayaloff’s book on Sardarabad appeared in 1973; however, Afanasyan’s slimmer volume of 1985 contains much more detail on the irregulars, mentioning Cihangir Agha by name. In independent Armenia, where the Sardarabad conflict is a defining event in national history, Cihangir Agha is the most visible Yezidi in the national commemorative space. The Sardarabad museum, situated immediately outside the battlefield, features explanations of his role (and that of Usib Beg) in the hostilities and a substantial plaque with his image. He is also commemorated with a monument in the modern town of Aparan (near Bash Aparan) and a statue in a park in the Masif 2 area of Yerevan, depicting him in military style, with an inscription extending gratitude to Chinagir Agha as a friend of the Armenian nation.61 The significance of Cihangir Agha’s current heroic status cannot be overestimated. Although they are the largest minority in Armenia (which unlike neighbouring Georgia, is ethnically quite homogeneous), Yezidis constitute just over 1% of the population – which in 2013 was estimated at a little over three million62 – and are socio-economically disadvantaged. Their cultural capital in Armenian national discourse is enhanced by Cihangir Agha’s heroism, his opposition not only to Turkish forces but also to Kurdish Muslims, and his association with Andranik. Both sides of the Yezidi identity schism stress his role in history, placing strong emphasis on the links of friendship between Armenians and Yezidis. This is hardly a new phenomenon – it was not an uncommon theme in the Soviet period and fitted the internationalist agenda rather well – but whereas the overarching principle had previously been the struggle against imperialism, 59 For more detail, see Allison, ‘Memory and the Kurmanji novel’. 60 Chatoev, Kurdy Sovetskoj Armenii, 30. Murgul’s account of the battle (55–56), which draws on a number of Russian and Turkish language sources, does not mention Cihangir Agha or the Yezidis. 61 For a more detailed description of these monuments, see C. Allison, ‘Addressivity and the monument: Memorials, publics and the Yezidis of Armenia’, History & Memory 25/1 (2013). 62 Statistics from CIA online world factbook: https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/theworld-factbook/geos/am.html> [accessed 2 March 2014]. Although Armenian sources such as Professor Garnik Asatrian (personal conversation with Christine, 2004) have estimated the number of Yezidis in Armenia at about 40,000, it is likely that in the current climate many are now resident in Russia or the diaspora, for economic reasons.



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contemporary discourse of Yezidi-Armenian friendship, typically of many deve­ loping nationalisms, is concerned with common persecutions and sufferings.

Remembering Cihangir Agha: the Yezidi community Many members of Cihangir Agha’s extended family still live in Armenia and in 2005, 2006 and 2007 Christine was fortunate enough to be their guest. Most of their anecdotes illustrated his heroic qualities in some way, and they mentioned many of the battles that Boyîk describes, most specifically the prodigious energy with which, having fought an exhausting battle at Sardarabad, he galloped to Bash Aparan to reinforce the Armenian general Dro. On visits to the Aparan area, locals pointed out the location of various key events in the story. There were also tales of his generosity, when members of other families or communities came to ask him for help. Many of these illustrated the close links he had with members of other groups, including the Armenian establishment. The content of the anecdotes, even within the family circle, was gendered. Men spoke more about battle exploits. The women, with whom a female researcher was bound to spend more time, often focused on his attention to taking care of his own, and especially to matters of honour within the household. One story was recounted by more than one source: that he ordered a young bride to be sent back to her family for having once smiled at a male servant (strict rules of behaviour for new brides are very much part of living memory amongst rural Caucasian Yezidis).63 The frequency of such namûs-related tales no doubt says as much about the community’s current insecurities as about Cihangir Agha’s personal qualities. By contrast, Christine’s interview with Cihangir Agha’s only surviving son, Suren Agha, had a different flavour. Speaking in 2006, next to a monument to his father, he dealt mainly with the public legend; clearly, he saw himself as a guar­ dian of his father’s memory. He retold the story of how his father had come from Turkey, had fought at Sardarabad and Bash Aparan, had refused to leave with

63 In a house Christine visited in the village of Hatsashen in 2005, a woman well into her middle-age, who ran a smallholding with her husband, was very inconvenienced when the husband went away on business because it meant she had to speak directly to her elderly father-in-law which custom traditionally forbade her to do. She still found this troublesome, even after decades of marriage. This episode can also be viewed as a reflection of the decline of the villages; in ‘normal’ times, the family remaining at home would have been large enough to include another appropriate person – a brother or a son – who could act as an interlocutor. But few families can currently afford to keep all their members in the same village.

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Andranik, and died in exile. He emphasised the symbolic importance of the public monument (which had been paid for by the Armenian authorities) for Yezidis in general, on both sides of the identity schism.64 Suren Agha was the last of Cihangir Agha’s seven children, born in 1936 when his father had just gone into exile. He grew up first among his mother’s kin, the family of Egid Beg, and then with his elder brother. In the absence of a grave, the monument clearly functioned as a lieu de mémoire for him. The fact that its construction was funded by a grateful Armenian public was clearly very important to him. He spoke little of the consequences of growing up as the child of a ‘kulak’ in the 1940s and 1950s, beyond hints at the difficulty of pursuing his ambitions to achieve higher education and the impact of the destruction of his father’s papers. Beyond the circle of family and close friends, Cihangir Agha is often spoken and sung about. After his reappearance in public discourse after the end of the Soviet period, traditional folkloric songs commemorating his exploits were again performed. During her fieldwork in the Yezidi villages of Armenia, Estelle had the opportunity to listen to ‘words about Cihangir Agha’ (kilamê ser Cangîr Ax’a) performed in gatherings between friends and co-villagers. Here are the words uttered by Binbaş, a 60-year-old man from Elegyez, in a kilamê ser Cangîr Ax’a performed in April 2006. It recounts the battle of Dercemed, near the Iranian border: Wî lo, lo, lo…

Wî lo, lo, lo…

Wî lo, lo, lo… father of fathers

Wî lo, lo, lo…, bavî Bava

Wî lo, lo, lo…

Wî lo, lo, lo…

Hey father, my head is burning as if it Hey lo bavo, germa halê serê mida was on fire germistanê Wey, my dearest, my head is burning as if it was on fire

Wey, maqûlo, germa halê serê mida germistanê

Cihangir Agha, father of fathers pitched his tent65

Cangîr ax’a – bavê Bava çadira xwe vegirtye

On the plateau of Mûş, at the border with Iran

Textê Mûşê ser sînorê vê Îranê

64 Êzîdxane qedrê mi digire, ez qedrê millet digirim. ‘The Yezidi community respects me, and I respect (my) people.’ 65 The horse is a very important figure in epic narratives: it is sometimes even mentioned as a part of the hero’s body. Its importance is also clearly reflected in funeral rituals, such as



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Father of fathers, brother of the Bavê Bava bir’e syara çadira xwe cavaliers, pitched his tent in the vegirtye textê Mûşê66 ser sînorê vê plateau of Mûş, at the border with Iran Îranê When the father of fathers, a Titan, invincible…

Gava ser serê bavê Bava divû xelaya mêra

If only a few horsemen from the tribes De bira pêva derketa çend syarê of Kurdistan could have come and e’şîreta Kurdistanê helped him Wî lo, lo, lo…

Wî lo, lo, lo…

Heylo father, I found myself in this abandoned land of Dêrcemed

Heylo, bavo, wezê Dêrcemeda xopan ketim wê bi pûşe

Wey, my dearest, I found myself in Dêrcemed’s colourful land

Wey, maqûlo, ezê Dêrcemeda rengîn ketim wê bi pûşe

Hespê K’odir H’erç’o bin bavê Bava The horse Kodir Herço,67 under the father of fathers Cihangir Agha flying Cangîr ax’ada dimeşe mînanî teyrê by like a bird of prey qereqûşe It’s been already three days and three Eva serê sê roja, sê şevane berî h’ezar nights since he defeated 1700 Turkish hevsid mêrê t’irk daye soldiers The dearest drew apart and were killed furtively

Evî maqûlî ji hev qetandye tengilqûşe

Wî lo, lo, lo…

Wî lo, lo, lo…

Heylo, father, father of fathers is riding Kodir

Heylo, bavo, bavê Bava K’odir syar bû

Wî lo, lo, lo…

Wî lo, lo, lo…

Heylo, father, Kodir left in full gallop Heylo, bavo, K’odir ba bû He sat astride a new horse, the horse started to walk slowly

Hespekî dinê syar bû, hespê binda dimilmilî

kotel, described by M. R. Rudenko Kurdskaja Obrjadovaja Poezija (Kurdish Ritual Poetry) (Moscow, 1982), 65–68, in which the horse of the deceased participates in the procession to the cemetery. Gravestones were also often sculpted in the shape of horses with the name of the deceased’s horse engraved on the stele (see T. F. Aristova, Kurdy Zakavkaz’ ja (The Kurds of the Caucasus) (Moscow, 1966), 191. 66 The word ‘tent’ is to be understood here as household. 67 This is geographically imprecise as Dercemed must have taken place at a location east of Van and west of the Iranian border, but Muş is in fact to the west of Van.

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The swords of the Hamidiye and the whips of the officers are swiping around him

Şûrê H’emîdîê qamçîê zapitîê ber wêda difitilî

May God kill the enemies’ sons

De bira Xwedê bikuje kurê wan neyara

They sent 80 letters, and came from Istanbul to catch Cihangir Agha

Heyştê e’rze ser Cangîr ax’a dane textê Stenbolê çîne gilî

Wî lo, lo, lo…

Wî lo, lo, lo…

Heylo, father, father of fathers

Heylo, bavo, bavê Bava

The cavaliers’ shots are the tattoos of the youngsters

Gula syara dax’maê xortanî, syaro

Wî lo, lo, lo…

Wî lo, lo, lo…

Heylo, father, I look towards the Heylo, bavo, ezê Dêrcemeda rengî magnificent lands of Dêrcemed, three dinihêrim, sê hev syarê wêda têne horsemen are coming back The first horseman looks like the messenger of death

Syarê pêşin rengî mînanî rengê mêrê kulêye

I didn’t know that this horseman was the father of fathers, Cihangir Agha, sworn enemy of Mustafa.68

Min nizanbû ev syar bavê Bava Cangîr ax’a kilê ç’evê Mistefêye.

The words uttered by Binbaş in this kilamê ser Cangîr do not tell a linear story. There is no clear beginning, nor an ending to the story. And the listener cannot follow the chronology of the events (past and present tenses are mixed). Furthermore, the facts narrated are not linked with each other and are often expressed in metaphors which give to the utterance an impressionist touch of juxtaposed pictures. These features are typical of kilamê ser. Among the Yezidis, melodised utterances about heroes are indeed barely narratives, they do not tell a story. They rather arouse strong feelings and moral values, by an accumulation of details, facts and pictures, as well as by the use of a melodised tone of voice. 65 66 67 68

65  66 Binbaş is referring here to Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, founder of the Turkish Republic 68 67 1923. Promoted general Pasha of the Ottoman armies in 1915, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk in 68  represents here the army against which Cihangir Agha was fighting.



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Yezidi ‘thieves in law’ In the last decade, among the Yezidis’ ‘best-of’ compilations one can find a number of kilamê ser in the memory of soldiers who died in the Nagorno-Karabakh War (1988–1994), others for Armenian and Yezidi heroes who died during the battle with the Ottomans in 1918, or even for mafia leaders killed in Moscow or in Far Eastern Siberia. In houses of the Aparan region, Estelle heard some kilamê ser for Abdullah Öcalan, the PKK leader kept prisoner by the Turkish State since 1999. These new heroic figures fit perfectly with the moral values that surfaced in post-Soviet Armenia. Martyrs of the Nagorno-Karabakh War and old heroes such as Cihangir Agha sustain the idea of an old and stable friendship between Armenians and Yezidis. Mafia leaders embody the post-Soviet ideal of the mafioz, a guy who started with nothing but was clever enough to become rich in a very short time.69 And, for many of those who believe Yezidis are Kurds, Öcalan remains an important figure of resistance. The new post-Soviet heroes, and more specifically the mafioz, display some characteristics of old ciwanmêrî such as acknowledgment of the importance of clan and family. But they enact as well values which differ from old ciwanmêrî. The case of Çeko, a ‘new hero’ from the criminal world, will help us analyse these differences.

Çekoê Xidir, a ‘new hero’ from the criminal world Çekoê Xidir was killed in 1996 in Moscow. He was a Yezidi from Armenia, married to an Armenian, and father of two young children. A member of the criminal world, Çeko was a vor v zakone (literally a ‘thief in law’), a kind of bandit that appeared in the Gulag during the Soviet times.70 Çeko died very 69 For a detailed analysis of this ethos in Armenia and a comparison with a similar phenomenon in Romania, see Amy de la Bretèque and V. A. Stoichita, ‘Musics of the new times: Romanian Manele and Armenian Rabiz as icons of Post-Communist changes’, in I. Biliarsky, O. Cristea and A. Oroveanu, eds., The Balkans and the Caucasus: Parallel Processes on the Opposite Sides of the Black Sea (Cambridge, 2012), 321–35. 70 Under Stalin, the forced labour camps (Gulag) overflowed with political prisoners and criminals, and a new organised group of top criminals arose, the vory v zakone. The term ‘thief in law’ might be more closely translated as ‘thief who follows the law’, figuratively referring to a criminal who obeys the thieves’ code of honour. The professional code of the ‘thieves in law’, based on the idea of brotherhood, is defined by an anti-state ethos and by the moral authority given to some thieves, see V. Volkov, Violent Entrepreneurs: The Use of Force in the Making of Russian Capitalism (Ithaca, 2002), 58–60. ‘Thieves in law’ were drawn from many nationalities from a number of post-Soviet states.

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young at the age of 26. His death was the continuation of a vendetta between his family and an Armenian family. He was buried in the cemetery of Malatya (a neighbourhood in Yerevan). Among the Yezidis of Armenia, people say that ‘the entire Armenia’ came to Çeko’s funeral. A few weeks after the burial ceremony, the story of his life and death was recorded in studios by professional musicians. Several recordings, sung by different singers, were released.71 Sold in mp3 format in Yezidi best-of compilations, these tracks describe with great detail the moment of his death. In addition to these audio recordings, a video clip has been filmed on the site of his grave. Here is a transcription of the lyrics of the kilamê ser performed by Alixanê Reşo (a well-known Yezidi singer) in the video clip:72 Heylo, father

Hey lo bavo

Çekoê Xidir, hero belonging to the big Neyar, xêrnexazê Ç’ekoê Xidir tribe, has many malevolent enemies qeremanê e’şîrê gele, gelek hene It has already been three days since they gathered in the cursed Moscow

De eva sê roje, sê şeve wêrana bajarê Moskvaêda hev civyane

They are discussing there the murder of Çekoê Xidir, who married three years ago

De dikin şêwra kuştina Ç’ekoê Xidir, ze’vê sê salane

I said: ‘Murderer, Godless man

Go mêrkujê, bêxwedêyo

Do not show your chest to fire, their bullets are without a remedy, wey, orphan…’

Nevî, nevî berê xwe didî ç’eka, gulle û fişekê ser ç’eka bêne ç’are, wey, êtîmo

His fire is sharp like a sword, an arrow, he is so young, he is only twenty-six.

De agirê wî tûjin mînanî şûrê wan kewana, ewî xortekî cihale, e’mrê wî bîstşeş sale

But he has the order to kill, as if it came from Rosteme Zal

De ewê ya bi Xwedê mînanî fermana Rostemî Zale

Miserable one, you will lose the use of De hêsîro, binihêre, destê te wê şilbin, your hands, your legs will bend, qudûmê çokê te wê bişkên 71 A studio recording about Çeko is transcribed and commented about in Amy de la Bretèque, Paroles mélodisées. Audio document is available at : document 10. 72 Source: VHS tape given to Estelle by members of Çeko’s tribe. Recorder unknown, subtitles are my own.



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But they will not win by killing Çekoê De ewê ser Ç’ekora nekevin raê. (duduk)73 Ah, it was morning

Ax, sive bû

It was a gloomy morning, rainy and windy

Siveke xusûsan bû, ba û baran bû

The murderer was already in position. Berê ra û tivdîra karûbar bû In Moscow, Çekoê Xidir, the champion of men, went down from the last floor

Pelewanê mêra – Ç’ekoê Xidir – ji wêran Moskvaêda ji qatê jorin

Ah, from the last floor he went down the stairs

Ax, ji qatê jorin berbi qatê jêrin hate xarê

By misfortune, he had left his bodyguards behind, and he went down alone

K’or’a qedera pişmêrî neda pêşîê, ew t’ek-t’enê hate jêre

Like a fearless bear who wanted to go Mînanî h’erç’a bê minet xwest derkeve, for a walk pêşda here When Heso and Samo, the hero’s bodyguards came after him

De wexta H’eso, Samoê pişmêrê Ç’ekoê xweşmêr hatine dere

Hurry up, the murderers have already De zûbke, mêrkujê kêrê kilîtê danî piş put their knives to the door key, and dêrî, mînanî sîtila çarç’emilî ser alava boiling like pots on a flame, they are gur bike bikelînî shooting This coward suddenly understood that Wî kafirî nemerd hêja tê derxist pê holding his Mauser74 with one hand he destekî mawizerê nake ç’arê wouldn’t make it Pressing his second hand on the Destê dinê jêla kire taqet bi nemamî, bi Mauser, like a coward, the traitor fired xayîntî berda Ç’ekoê bira at our brother Çeko 73 The duduk is a woodwind instrument with a double reed, often made of apricot wood and common in the South Caucasus. In some areas, including Azerbaijan and Kurdistan of Iraq, it is known as balaban. 74 An automatic gun invented by P. Mauser, a German arms manufacturer, and in use since 1870.

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The Mauser’s bullet reached the temple of the hero, passing through him

De gulla mawizerê cênîka mêrxasra daye dere

Ah, the Mauser’s bullet reached the hero’s temple

Ax, de bila mawizerê cênîka mêrxasra daye dere

This hero left behind him all his household and tribe without support, they became orphans

Vî xweşmêrî temamya êl û e’şîra hiştye bê pişt, bêxwey, na, welle, xweyo dîsa stuxare.

(duduk) Hey lo, father

Hey lo bavo

Look at the cemetery of Zeytun

Emê bala xwe bidne ser fêza Zêytûnê qibirstane

At Çeko’s funeral, there was a sea of people in the squares and the streets

Hewarîê Ç’ekoê xweşmêr weke lê-lê miştê k’ûçe û meydanê

In the big city the merchants of death set up traps

Bajarê giran kişyane şivêta bazirgane

The entire Armenia has come to the funeral of our dear hero

Tê qey bêjî şîn û mirina xweşmêr û pelewanê mey e’zîzda hazire temamya Hayastanê

All the women and men of the tribe were dressed in black

De jin û mêrê e’şîrê gişka reş girêdane

Ah, all the women and men of the tribe were wearing black

Ax, de jino, mêrê e’şîrê gişka reş girêdane

75

From the beginning of time, there had Dewir-zemanada ser t’u merî nebûye û never been such a mourning neqewimye As that which happened at Çekoê De çawa îro hatye kirinê ser Ç’ekoê Xidir’s funeral, lion without fear, man Xidir, şêrê çargurç’ikî notlanî Rostemî with four kidneys, like Rostamê Zal. Zale. 73 74 75

73  74  75  75 Zeytun is a neighbourhood in Yerevan.



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This melodised speech depicts in detail the moment of the drama. The finale section of the kilamê ser is dedicated to a description of Çeko’s magnificent funeral. The words emphasise Çeko’s uniqueness and heroism. Çeko is compared to ‘a bear without fear’, ‘a lion without fear’, and even to Rostamê Zal, an Iranian epic hero known throughout the Middle East. He is also painted as an extraordinary creature with non-human features: ‘Çekoê Xidir with four kidneys’ (Çekoê xidir çargurç’ikî). In the video clip the filming and the editing are very basic. The frame is very often centred on Çeko’s gravestone. Watching the videoclip one has plenty of time to admire Çeko’s rather unusual grave. The entire body of Çeko is sculpted in a two-metre high white marble block. Shirtless, draped in a large white sheet of marble ‘floating in the air’, Çeko is looking far away, towards the hills of Yerevan city. The white colour of the marble and the sheet wrapped around the statue are strongly reminiscent of an angel’s wings. While performing his kilamê ser Çeko, Alixanê Reşo is alternately sitting or standing next to the grave. Some scenes were recorded at night, lit only by a street lamp. A few pictures from an old recording of Çeko’s wedding (27 April 1991) illustrate the words uttered by Alixan at the 3 minutes and 48 seconds mark. A few seconds later, while Alixan is narrating the moment of the drama, the shooting shows the feet of a man going down the stairs (3:56). Çeko was killed at the entrance of a building while he was going out for a walk. Watching the video clip, the viewer can only tremble while observing the feet of a man walking towards death.

New heroes and ancient ciwanmêrî Çeko provides an interesting case for a study of the way heroic figures are still produced among Yezidis of Armenia. The way Çeko is remembered and commemorated among Yezidis offers many similarities with ancient ciwanmêrî ceremonies: people visit his grave (even if they did not know him), they listen to the many versions of his story recorded in mp3 format and distributed in compilations, they also perform songs about him at home. Çeko is remembered as a bandit or an outlaw, figures that are often considered in this region as positive and heroic characters.76 But Çeko has little in common with Robin Hood: the melo76 For a study on bandits and outlaws among the Kurds, see B. Nikitine, Les Kurdes (Paris, 1956), 75–86. For comparative studies of the positive values attributed to bandits in the Caucasus, in the Middle East and in the Balkans, see P. Briant, ‘Brigandage, dissidence et conquête en Asie Achéménide et Hellénistique’, Dialogues d’histoire ancienne 2/1 (1976), 163–258; U. Brunnbauer and R. Pichler, ‘Mountains as “Lieux de Mémoire”: Highland values and nation-building in the Balkans’, Balkanologie 6/1–2 (2002), 77–100; M. Herzfeld,

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dised words do not mention any signs of generosity, for example, nor gallantry… The positive values lie more in a deep sense of devotion to family and clan, as well as respect for the ‘thieves’ code’ according to which organised crime and anti-state ideology are positive moral values. While conducting fieldwork, Estelle witnessed that, while the family and clan values are accepted by most (if not all) Yezidis as positive elements of his personality, Çeko’s association with organised crime and anti-state ideology is a much more controversial topic. In this context it seems unconvincing to define Çeko’s heroism through an ethical lens. Then how then did Çeko become a hero known by all? It seems that Çeko was mainly transformed into a hero through concrete and pragmatic communicational processes. These processes, which are poetic, musical and visual, convey feelings linked to a tragic and heroic mood. Our point is that heroic figures are not created just by values but by a performance of heroic feelings. Such feelings may be understood as ‘moral emotions’. Defined as ‘those emotions that are linked to the interests or welfare either of society as a whole or at least of persons other than the judge or agent’. Moral emotions propagate moral values and cover a wide range of feelings such as compassion, shame, culpability, anger, contempt or respect.77 Moral emotions thus are reactions to social events that go beyond the direct interests of the self, whereas emotions in general are reactions to perceived changes, threats or opportunities that affect directly the self. In kilamê ser moral emotions play a central role. They evoke relationships and call for emotional reaction from the listener who is encouraged to experience the same emotional mood.78 These moral values are mainly conveyed in melodised utterances. Conversely, heroic feelings appear as an unavoidable feature of kilamê ser. Moreover, as discussed earlier in this article, heroes are mainly created after their death. The agency of the hero in this process is thus quite limited. And if there is no need to accomplish an heroic act to become a hero, which is the case with Çeko, the question is: what makes the difference between an ‘ordinary’ death and a heroic one? And in fact, the construction of Çeko’s memory uses some processes which are also used for ‘ordinary’ people. Should we then consider, thinking the other way around, that ‘ordinary’ people have a great potential The Poetics of Manhood (Princeton, 1985); E. J. Hobsbawm, Bandits (London, 1969). 77 See J. Haidt, ‘The moral emotions’, in R. J. Davidson, K. R. Scherer & H. H. Goldsmith, eds., Handbook of Affective Sciences (Oxford, 2003), 852–70. 78 For a detailed analysis, see Amy de la Bretèque, ‘Voices of sorrow. Melodized speech, laments and heroic narratives among the Yezidis of Armenia’, Yearbook for Traditional Music 44 (2012), 129–148.



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to become heroes after their death? Such a hypothesis can explain, to a certain point, why laments and heroic songs share so many similar features. But the main element that turned Çeko into a hero known by all Yezidis in Armenia is that he had a vast and powerful network which, after his death, employed significant means to transform him into a hero commemorated by the entire community.

Conclusion: production of heroism A comparison between Cihangir Agha and Çeko shows not only the evolution in masculine heroic qualities over the Soviet and post-Soviet periods, but also gives insight into the community’s process of hero creation. There is no doubt that Cihangir Agha displayed princely virtues such as courage, generosity, attention to honour (qîmet as well as namûs), in addition to being acknowledged as the preserver of his own and his community’s honour. In addition, he was shrewd and far-sighted, like his father. Such princely virtues are largely consistent in Europe and the Middle East (in the so-called ‘mirrors for princes’ tradition) and as K. Clark shows, pre-Soviet Russian paradigms are also similar: ‘…the typical prince … was said to be loving, generous, hospitable and good-natured, but is also stern and majestic.’79 There is not a total rupture between Soviet heroisms and those values that preceded them – indeed, it was not the possession of princely qualities that disqualified Cihangir Agha from becoming a hero, but his lack of the requisite level of ‘consciousness’ required of the Soviet ‘positive hero’ during the 1920s.80 He was precisely the type of tribal leader criticised by Bolshevik Kurdish writers such as Erebê Şemo.81 The cultural and literary discourse of the Soviet period favoured more enlightened Kurdish heroes such as Ferîk Polatbegov, born of a Yezidi father and a Russian mother, who died fighting for the Bolsheviks during the Civil War. (A village in the Hoktemberyan region was later named after Fêrik and he figures in the Soviet literature following the Second World War).82 Cihangir Agha’s memory was preserved within the small Yezidi community, though it is unlikely that any kilamê ser was widely performed for him. Cihangir Agha’s rehabilitation came with the development of Armenian 79 K. Clark. The Soviet Novel: History as Ritual (Bloomington, 1981; 2nd ed., 2000), 63. 80 For a definition of the ‘positive hero’ see ibid., 9–10. For his presentation in the 1920s see ibid., 68–89. 81 See E. Şemo, Kurdskij Pastukh (The Kurdish Shepherd) (Leningrad, 1931) in Russian. In Kurdish see Kurdê Elegezê (The Kurds of Mount Aragats) (Yerevan, 1932) and Şivanê kurmanca The Kurdish Shepherd (Yerevan, 1935) in Kurdish. 82 He is a central, though absent, figure in Heciê Cindi’s 1967 novel Hawerî.

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national sentiment and the public discourse of the genocide. His current status as a hero of Sardarabad and his association with Andranik gives the Yezidis a pretext to commemorate him, hence emphasising their own belonging in contemporary Armenia and adding a sense of pride in their tribal history which had been impossible during the Soviet period. Whereas Cihangir Agha, we are told, strove to emulate the heroic examples of the past, Çeko did not accomplish any heroic action in order to become a hero, although he did display virtues linked to the maintenance of community, clan and family, which are associated with ciwanmêrî. But his heroic status comes prima­ rily from his violent death. We have seen that laments for the dead and heroic songs have the same poetic and musical features; both enable feelings linked to an ethos of heroism and tragedy. There seems to be a continuous transition between heroes and ‘ordinary people’ as the processes used to create a hero are also used in funerals for ‘ordinary’ people. But one of the main differences between laments for the dead and heroic songs is the degree of precision. Delocalisation from the space and time of the ritual is central in this matter. Among the Yezidis of Armenia, melodised speech is a central tool for the enactment of heroic feelings. As described previously, moral emotions are not only lived in the self’s subjecti­ vity: they also represent relationships and call for an emotional reaction from the listener. In this sense, melodised utterances foster shared ideals as much as they express individual feelings. The words uttered and embodied in these narratives gain a consecrated status and mould the Yezidi ideal of masculine heroic qualities. Both the Yezidis’ Anatolian past and their post-Soviet political and economic present can be defined through these heroic paradigms; it is not difficult to speculate the purpose they serve for the community. However, our focus in this chapter concerned the production of contemporary heroes; through a violent death, a man may become the subject of kilamê ser and conjure a rich array of emotions and meanings associated with heroes of the past. We have shown how, through specific forms of discourse, new heroic paradigms have come into being and spread through the community, resulting in the invention of new selves.

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A Tale of Two Concepts: Civanmertlik and Fütüvvet in Modern Turkey1 David Barchard Abstract Industrialisation, urbanisation and related changes in Turkish society have caused the idea of civanmertlik, the philosophy that promotes an ideal of youthful but strong defenders of the weak in rural society, to fade, and the word is receding from use as traditional notions of local chivalry disappear. However, revival of Muslim practices in Turkey during the past thirty years has sparked a growing interest in fotovvat ( fütüvvet) as Islamic brotherhoods become more prominent, especially in the business world.

Introduction This is a tale of two concepts, or perhaps the two faces, of what was once a single social religious reality within Turkish Islam: civanmert ( javanmard) and fütüvvet ( fotovvat), and their fate in modern Turkish society. One word is derived from Persian and the other from Arabic, and each has developed in a different way. The former is an almost obscure term evoking florid politeness, while the latter is experiencing a rebirth of sorts among Muslim businessmen in the post-Kemalist, re-Islamised Turkish Republic. This chapter attempts to show how and, as far as possible, why this has happened. 1 I am grateful to David Shankland and the late Andrew Mango for reading and commenting on early drafts of this paper.

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In the discussion that follows, civanmertlik will be examined in the light of its application in 20th-century and early 21st-century Turkey.2 While originally the word referred to a Persian notion of Islamic chivalry, in the early 21st century a residual aura of young male valour and generosity is all that is left of its original meaning, and even that is not always the case. As we shall see, some possible instances of the ethos, what might be called civanmertlik après civanmert, persist in current Turkish Islamic and secular settings and an attempt will be made in this chapter to identify a number of them. However, I suggest that the present structure of Turkey’s metropolitan industrial society diminishes or even eliminates the possibility for the subsistence of a heroic male javanmard-type ethos among the ‘de-agnatised’ modern Turkish youth. At least in metropolitan secularist circles, young men take outward gender equality for granted and have shed a considerable portion (though alas in many cases by no means all) of the agnatically-defined value system of their forefathers. After analysing the civanmert and its association with Persian Islamic chivalry, the discussion switches to fotovvat or its Turkish manifestation as fütüvvet, and the second part of the chapter surveys some elements in Turkey today which are derived from the javanmard/fotovvat tradition and do retain awareness of its classical and medieval Islamic origins. These include the phenomena of contemporary fütüvvet movements and ahilik or ‘neo-ahilik’. This is an Islamic tradition which is alive and growing, though the degree to which this continuity is authentic is a moot point. Modern fütüvvet, nonetheless, is popular among the middle-aged rather than young men and it is powerfully influenced by a factor which can only be briefly touched on here; that is, the role of the Sufi tariqeh or brotherhoods which arose in Anatolia during late Middle Ages, particularly the Naqshbandi tariqeh, whose influence in Turkey today, though seldom reported, remains very widespread outside metropolitan secular society. Arguably the Naqshbandiyya might even be considered a key cohesive force in contemporary provincial Turkish society.3

2 Civanmert is the adjectival form in Turkish. ‘Civanmertlik’ is the noun derived from it. 3 On the Naqshbandi movement in Turkey, see Şerif Mardin, ‘The Nakşibendi order in Turkish history’, in Richard Tapper, ed., Islam in Modern Turkey (London, 1991); Şerif Mardin, Religion, Society, and Modernity in Turkey (Syracuse, N.Y. and London, 2006), 283–84. For the worldwide movement, see Itzchak Weismann, The Naqshbandiyya: Orthodoxy and Activism in a Worldwide Sufi Tradition (Routledge, 2007).



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The social setting Ritual language and ceremonies are often treated in academic discussion as if they were freestanding social entities existing essentially only as words on the pages of manuscripts. In reality, the ritual’s setting is always particular to specific socio-economic circumstances which determine its evolution. Turkey is par excellence a country where the cultural landscape has been refashioned by social and economic changes over the last two hundred years and where this process has accelerated dramatically in the last half-century. Before discussing civanmertlik and fütüvvet I will briefly review some of these changing conditions in the context in which they originate in Turkey. Traditional Turkish society – and more particularly Ottoman society – is often portrayed as being sharply divided between a metropolitan centre (in the Ottoman period, the Palace) and a provincial periphery in which folk culture prevails.4 It is to the latter – the rural world – that civanmertlık appears to belong today, though we shall see that this was not always so. Two principal groups stand out in rural society as distinct from folk culture: the Islamic clergy and urban economic groups, i.e. merchants and craftsmen. In Anatolia the two overlapped in a way that they never did in the medieval West where guild culture had some religious trappings (e.g. patron saints, feast days, and places of worship) but was ultimately non-religious: the distinction between monks and merchants or artisans being self-evident. In traditional Islamic societies, economic and religious identities were closely intertwined, strikingly so as, for example, in the case of the ahiler in 13th- and 14th-century Anatolia who, as we shall see, were an economic category held together within religious organisations.5 The advent of modernity and Westernisation has transformed the simple ‘centre-periphery’ model, creating a vastly larger society which is demographically much more diverse. Yet any visitor to the interior of Turkey, or the lower-income districts of its large cities, will be struck by the continuing presence in the names of streets, schools, and other public institutions of symbols belonging to the Islamic Ottoman past, juxtaposed against a potentially non-Islamic and anti-Ottoman present. 4 The classic account of this view remains: Şerif Mardin, ‘Center-periphery relations: A key to Turkish politics?’ Daedalus 102/1, Post-Traditional Societies (Winter, 1973), 169–90. 5 The influential Erenköy Cemaatı in Istanbul, a Naqshbandi group, is an example of a religious group whose membership is essentially drawn from (male) businessmen and industrialists. Okan Konuralp, ‘Türkiye’nin tarikat ve cemaat haritası’, Hürriyet, 17 September 2006.

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Perhaps the most important internal division in Turkey today is a polarity between secular modern education and religious establishment. The dichotomy between ‘province’ and ‘metropolis’6 still exists, though it has been overshadowed by economic growth and social and political change. However, most Islamists offer a simple model – which is surprisingly frequently copied by Western observers – of a division between a small and unrepresentative secular ruling elite and the homogeneous, devout, ‘conservative’ Islamic masses. But this is essentially an ideological portrayal of a cultural situation the reality of which implies that education and learning themselves are bifurcated. The division is cultural and educational and between a fairly small stratum of religious intellectuals able to use the technical vocabulary of Islamic theology and mysticism and a mainstream population educated in secular lycées and universities in which mysticism and theological discourse are still relatively unknown, though less unknown than they were a decade or two ago. A glance at online sources is sufficient to indicate that Turkey’s social stratum of literate Islamists, people able to use technical Islamic vocabulary and concepts, is large and growing. Not unreasonably, it can be described as one of Turkey’s most important elites whose impact seems to be destined to grow much further. The rise of Imam-Hatip Lycées, in theory vocational, but in practice replacements for the secular high school system, is the most striking feature of this change. Precise statistics seem surprisingly hard to come by, partly because for statistical purposes most of Turkey’s Islamic schools are lumped together with all other kinds of vocational schools. In 1973–74, the total number of Imam Hatip students was 34,570; in 1997, according to the think tank TESEV, this number had ‘sharply increased’ to 511,502, through schools and boarding schools built with substantial private contributions.7 But according to the Ministry of National Education, the number of students in the slightly more prestigious Anadolu İman Hatip Liseleri (a kind of Islamic grammar school for more able students) was only 380,771 in 2012, and there were 708 such schools in existence.8 An online discussion in 2010 suggested the President of the Office of Religious Affairs had claimed during a television broadcast that Turkey’s 41 faculties of Divinity had turned out 40,000 6 Metropolis no longer refers to a single centre, but essentially to the three cities of Istanbul, Ankara, and Izmir. 7 Ruşen Çakir, İrfan Bozan and Balkan Talu, İmam Hatip Liseleri: Efsaneler Ve Gerçekler, TESEV (Istanbul, 2004), 43. Available online at: http://www.tesev.org.tr/Upload/ Publication/b12fbad8–6b04–4b4c-a987–021487dafae0/IH%20Efsaneler-Gercekler.pdf 8 Mi̇ llî Eğiti̇ m İstati̇ sti̇ kleri̇ Örgün Eğitim, National Education Statistics Formal Education 2012- 2013, M.E.B. (Ankara, 2013), 118, 121.



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graduates – a figure which was thought to be possibly exaggerated.9 But it does point to the rise of a stratum in Turkish society of intellectuals with an ‘Islamic formation’ – a conclusion supported by the proliferation of Turkish websites specialising in fairly technical religious matters. The ulema have not, at least as yet, returned as a formal entity to the Turkish scene. The Islamic intelligentsia is not as yet the mainstream or even the dominant intellectual current in Turkish life; indeed, it is not certain whether it will ever be.10 Religious newspapers and magazines use a specialist vocabulary which is at present only partially accessible to the majority of the reading public, whether educated or uneducated. This lack of accessibility reflects wider changes in Turkish society over the past 150 years. From the 19th century onward, and particularly after the establishment of the Republic in 1923, a variety of factors – economic development, population growth, urbanisation, and the rise of mass literacy and universal education – combined to redraw and redefine many of the features of this social map but by no means all. Modern secular schooling was first introduced alongside, and then largely supplanting, the traditional educational institutions that had in any case catered for a narrow section of the population in Ottoman society. During the late Ottoman Empire, even in the early 20th century, the Naqshbandi order still ran schools in cities like Ankara, as can be deducted from a look at late Ottoman provincial salnameler (yearbooks). But from 1923 onwards, under the Republic, these traditional schools disappeared and a version of Western primary and lycée education spread across the country, a process assisted by the dropping of Arabic script and the adoption of the Latin-based Turkish alphabet in 1928. The expansion of education was accompanied by a growing secularisation of the middle class from about 1960 onwards, and the fading of religious practices among large sections of the metropolitan middle and, to some extent, working classes and the increasing appearance of overt unbelief and the spread, from the late 1960s, of Marxist political movements which were explicitly atheist and anti-religious. This trend, however, was matched and countered by the persistence, revival, and re-growth of religious traditionalism that has been already mentioned. The revival of Islamic secondary education began in Turkey in the late 1950s, expanded and diversified in the following two decades, and was actually 9 See the discussion at: http://forum.memurlar.net/konu/903444/. 10 For a study of religious education in Turkey intended to dispel secularist fears, see Ruşen Çakir, İrfan Bozan and Balkan Talu, İmam Hatip Liseleri: Efsaneler Ve Gerçekler (Istanbul, 2004).

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encouraged by the military rulers of Turkey after 1980 (now remembered for their alleged anti-clericalism) as an antidote to the spread of Marxism among the young. During its time in power between 1980 and 1982, the military made Islamic classes compulsory even for non-Muslims in Turkish schools – a striking reversal of the earlier secularism of the republic. During the late 20th century the process broadened, so that today the distinction between religious schools and secular ones is more blurred than it used to be, and though religious services are officially not permitted in high or middle schools, there is a strong demand for them. Moreover, many schools at all levels are being turned perforce – sometimes despite student demonstrations – from secular into Islamic institutions and there is a new emphasis on the separation of the sexes, a reversal of Kemalist policies.11 Though schools may not yet have their own mosques or mescits [masjid], such worship is in practice not uncommon and usually not discouraged and school mescits may well become a feature of Turkish high-school education in the not too distant future, since schools now have the authority to open places of worship within their grounds. Though the secularism of mid-20th-century Turkey has since been substantially unravelled, the most striking feature of Turkish society is still the difference between the appearance and dress of the devout population – symbolised in particular by middle-class girls in headscarves or takke-wearing (skullcaps) lowerincome men who linger around mosques – and that of the majority of the urban population which wears Western clothes, including notably more suits and ties than are now conventional in the Western world itself. The adoption of Western dress is commonly linked to the early Republic and the Hat Law of November 1925,12 but at least as far as metropolitan males are concerned, the abandonment of traditional dress predates the Tanzimat Reforms by a few years and goes back to the reign of Mahmut II (1808–1839) when traditional oriental garb was essentially outlawed. These days, in rural communities, austere Islamic male costume is becoming more common, as also in some of the more devout quarters of Istanbul where it has been evident for several decades that a section of the male population rejects Western dress codes.

11 See: http://t24.com.tr/haber/mebden-ilkogretime-kadin-erkek-mahremi-kitapcigi,262389. 12 For a Kemalist account of the ‘revolution in dress’, see: http://www.ataturkinkilaplari. com/ik/54/sapka-ve-kiyafet-devrimi----25-kasim-1925.html.



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Age and seniority A further point that needs to be remembered in the discussion on civanmertlik is that manifest seniority is prized and often required in traditional Turkish society at the local level to a point that sometimes seems to amount to gerontocracy. Youthful appearance in a senior citizen is deemed abnormal. Seniors are expected to look like elders. Officers are expected to be venerable, if not actually aged, figures, and if possible linked by lineage to their predecessors. This feature straddles the secularist and religious traditionalist currents in Turkish society alike. One of the few affinities between these two sets of strikingly dissimilar figures, Turkish Republican senior academics and bureaucrats on one hand and the tariqeh şeyhs of eastern Anatolia on the other, is that they are expected to be and look old. Civanmertlik is a massive exception to these norms, while the much more common expression, delikanlılık (hot-blooded youth), overtly implies a willingness to waive some of the usual rules of social conformity by male teenagers, i.e. the traditional stratum from which fighters and soldiers (but not office-holders) are recruited. It is against this changing and dichotomised cultural background that we now return to look at civanmertlik.

Civanmertlik – a fading memory of chivalrousness A definition of the word civanmert As a semi-obsolete word, civanmert seems to be fading away from Turkish vernacular. There are a surprising number of Turks who look blank when they hear the word or try to guess its likely meaning from its components. Even dictionary definitions do not quite tally. The Redhouse Dictionary offers the following definitions: 1) Brave, manly; 2) Generous, noble; 3) Bravery, generosity. The TürkçeOsmanlıca Lügat by contrast has ‘sağlam iyilik sever. Kahraman’, – i.e. ‘sound, someone who likes doing good things, hero’. The Türk Dil Kurumu definition (which identifies the word as Persian and archaic) suggests: ‘adjective; Mert yaradılışlı, yüce gönüllü, yiğit’, i.e. ‘with a manly constitution, noble-hearted’. Those relatively few people who do recognise the word civanmert regard it as the preserve of old men in central Anatolia, where it is generally equated with the word yiğit (fine young man), and among a cross-section of non-academic Turks I interviewed no one was aware of its Persian origin. Even fewer, including a pious aspirant local member of the Naqshbandi order, had any idea what fütüvvet meant. The parallelism with yiğit is picked up by the Encyclopedia of Islam, which notes that ‘the Turkish word yiğit, like Arabic fata and Persian javanmard, means

simple coincidence’.1 In the Turkish Encyclopedia of Islam, the concept is explored in ple coincidence’.1 In the Turkish Encyclopedia of Islam, the concept is explored in the article on Fotovvat/Futüvvet but the word civanmert goes unmentioned. Süleyman Ul le on Fotovvat/Futüvvet but the word civanmert goes unmentioned. Süleyman Uludağ begins by pointing out that the dictionary definition of the Arabic fata is ‘young, b 378 Javanmardi ns by pointing out that the dictionary definition of the Arabic fata is ‘young, brave, generous while fütüvvet is the abstract noun linked with it, meaning youth, heroism, erous while fütüvvet is the abstract noun linked with it, meaning youth, heroism, and generosity; however, from the 8th century, it began to be used in association with mysticis 2 both youthful and8th courageous virtuous, which be explainedwith eithermysticism’. as the erosity; however, from the century, or it began to be usedmay in association result of loan translation, or of simple coincidence’.13 In the Turkish Encyclopedia

Civanmertlik in today’s Anatolia Islam, the concept is explored in the article on Fotovvat/Futüvvet but the word anmertlik inoftoday’s Anatolia civanmert goes unmentioned. Süleyman Uludağ begins by pointing out that the

Mysticism fütüvvet may go fata hand in hand, but generous this is less of civanmertlik. L dictionaryand definition of the Arabic is ‘young, brave, whiletrue fütüvvet is ticism and fütüvvet may go hand in hand, but this is less true of civanmertlik. Let us the abstract linked with it, meaningmeans youth, heroism, and generosity; however, consider whatnoun provincial civanmertlik in practice, and to do so we have to examin ider what provincial means inused practice, and to do so mysticism’. we have to14examine the from the 8thcivanmertlik century, it began to be in association with connotations of yiğit, a word which is still common in every-day language as a complimen notations of yiğit, a word which is still common in every-day language as a complimentary adjective for a young man. Yiğit has specific connotations of moral virtue, and in in today’s Anatolia ctive for aCivanmertlik young man. Yiğit has specific connotations of moral virtue, and indeed excellence. A central Anatolian villager whom I spoke to offered a striking definition: Mysticism and fütüvvet may go hand Iinspoke hand, but this is less true of civanmertlik. llence. A central Anatolian villager whom to offered a striking definition: ‘The word meanswhat a popular herocivanmertlik who thinks means not just his own Let yiğit us consider provincial in of practice, andadvantage to do so webut the good o d yiğit means a popular hero who thinks not just of his own advantage but the good of the have to examine its connection to yiğit, powerless a word which still common in everypeople, and who protects and defends butisrighteous [haklı] people.’ The pote ple, and who powerless but righteous [haklı] potential dayprotects languageand as adefends complimentary adjective for a young man.people.’ Yiğit hasThe specific ethical and religious significance of this account is fairly clear even if it is somewhat conce connotations of moral virtue, and indeed excellence. A central Anatolian villager cal and religious significance of this account is fairly clear even if it is somewhat concealed bywhom the republican Turkish vocabulary and‘The useword of ‘halk’ [people] rather than a relig I spoke to offered a striking definition: yiğit describes a popular he republican Turkish vocabulary and useadvantage of ‘halk’but [people] rather than a and religious hero who thinks not just of his own the good of the people, expression for community. The essentially provincial and rural context of the concept is protects and powerless but righteous [haklı] people.’ Theconcept potentialis also ession for who community. Thedefends essentially provincial and rural context of the apparent. So religious too is gender: it is self-evident that Yiğitlik/Civanmertlik is taken to be sol ethical and significance of this account is fairly clear even if it is somearent. So too is gender: it is self-evident that Yiğitlik/Civanmertlik is taken to be solely a what concealed the republican Turkish vocabulary and use of ‘halk’ [people] male attribute, thebyquality of a warrior. e attribute, rather the quality a warrior. than aof religious expression for community. The essentially provincial and Simultaneously, it seems to be an attribute for individuals striving to be admired. rural context of the concept also apparent. So too is thestriving gender associated with The Simultaneously, it seems to be anisattribute for individuals to be admired. idea civanmertlik has something to do with a warrior code, perhaps even a sporting e thethat term: it is self-evident that Yiğitlik/Civanmertlik is taken to beorsolely a male that civanmertlik has something to do with a warrior code, or perhaps even a sporting ethos attribute, the quality of a warrior. invoked in contests, is less discernible: this suggests that, used today in Turkey, the word Simultaneously, it seems be an attribute for today individuals striving be has ked in contests, is less discernible: thistosuggests that, used in Turkey, thetoword shed a lot of the connotations it has for Persian-speakers. If this is chivalry, it admired. The idea that civanmertlik has something to do with a warrior code, oris chivalry wit a lot of the connotations it has for Persian-speakers. If this is chivalry, it is chivalry without perhapsand eveninaan sporting ethos popular, invoked in contests, less rural discernible: a contest essentially rather than iselite, setting.this sugntest and ingests an essentially popular, ratherthe than elite, setting. that, used today in Turkey, word has rural shed most of the implications it has A civanmert performs beneficial social acts, righting wrongs altruistically, though for Persian-speakers. If this is chivalry, it is chivalry without a contest and in an A civanmert performs beneficial social acts, righting wrongs altruistically, though probably for popular, a moral motive which ultimately essentially rather than elite,isrural setting. religious. My village informant continue ably fordescription a moral motive is ultimately religious. My village informant continued his thus:which ‘If a civanmert hears of a case oppression injustice, he personally A civanmert performs beneficial social acts, of righting wrongsoraltruistically, ription thus: ‘If a civanmert hears of a case of oppression or injustice, he personally opposes cruelty;for fora example, by returning to a poor farmer has been wrongf thoughits probably moral motive which is land ultimately religious. Mywho village oses its cruelty; for example, by returning land to a poor farmer who has been wrongfully deprived of continued it. informant his description thus: ‘If a civanmert hears of a case of oppresived of it. sion or injustice, he personally opposes its cruelty; for example, by returning land

‘Javanmard’, EI, XIv, fasc. 6 (2008), 594-601. 13 Mohsen Zakeri, ‘Javānmardi’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, XIV, fasc. 6 (2008), 594–601. vanmard’,2 EI, XIv, fasc. 6 (2008), 594-601. 14 Süleyman Uludağ,‘Fütüvvet ‘Fütüvvet ‫’الفتوة‬, ’, İslam XIII,XIII, 259–61; AhmetAhmet Yaşar Yaşar Ocak, ‘Füt Süleyman Uludağ, İslamAnsiklopedisi, Ansiklopedisi, 259-61; Ocak,‘Fütüvvet ‘Fütüvvet ‫’الفتوة‬,(history)’, XIII, 261–63. XIII, 259-61; Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, ‘Fütüvvet eyman Uludağ, İslam Ansiklopedisi, ‫( الفتوة‬history)’, XIII, 261-63. (history)’, XIII, 261-63. 1



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to a poor farmer who has been wrongfully deprived of it. Bu yaptığı olay çok mertçe yiğitce dir. This person is then commemorated in popular memory as a civanmert.’ As a moral concept, it might be said to have some affinities with the idea of virtue ethics in contemporary Western moral philosophy, since it is the intrinsic quality of the actor, rather than the outcome of the act, which is emphasised. It is also a kind of goodness ‘commemorated in memory’. Interestingly, my informant said that the reforms of the Republic (inkilap) and the modern legal and educational system meant that there is today much less need for civanmert-type activity compared to the past. This is the view of a young person with connections with the Süleymancı religious order, but it is nonetheless essentially a secularised account which turns civanmertlik into simple traditionalist, folk heroism, perhaps based on high-school accounts, and contrasts with religious accounts of modernity. Why this emphasis on righting wrongs? Well, the explanation may be simply that most lower-income Turks perceive their society to be unjust and their life unfair. Anyone who listens to the local türkü folk-songs of central Anatolia will be aware that they are frequently to do with tales of local violence, rapine, injustice, a generation or two back, and the smouldering resentments which they engendered, now safely locked away in songs. By the same token, in the central provinces of Nevşehir, Kayseri, Niğde, Ankara, Aksaray and Kahramanmaraş, the word civanmert is an epithet from these earlier times and now used mainly by elderly men to describe the heroes of their youth. A young man in an agnatic rural society is in effect seen as a fighter, or at least an individual with fighting capabilities, who can expect to be called upon to fight at any time and will only win social approval to the degree that he does so in a good cause.15 It is tempting to speculate that the heroic aura of civanmertlik is thus ultimately a role-defining inducement to encourage young men to respond heroically to calls upon them for actions involving physical risk. As we shall see, there is some evidence to suggest that this attitude is carried over into modern forms of action and protest, particularly where left-wing political activism in Turkey is concerned. But there is also a potential turn in a different direction. It should be noted – as any Turkish Islamic follower of the films of the lives of Anatolian, and particularly Eastern Anatolian, holy men on YouTube will be aware – that there is 15 For the link between agnatic social organisation (status based on male lineage) and ability to fight, see Paul Stirling, Turkish Village (London, 1965), especially Chapter 11, ‘Groups, Feuds, and Power’.

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usually a ‘civanmert’ element in the early life of Turkish (or perhaps more exactly, Kurdish) şeyhs. The first stage towards eventually becoming a holy man with a tomb bearing the inscription ‘hazretleri’ is a set of stock scenes involving an innocent boy tending his sheep on a hillside, then a painful parting with an aged and tearful mother who is nevertheless eager that her son should do great things for Allah, and the boy’s subsequent relinquishment of his home and the childhood world as a step toward entering his life’s mission.

Civanmertlik in early 20th-century Turkish literature The obsolescence of the term civanmert is relatively new, a reflection perhaps of the cultural changes in Turkey during the 20th century. At the beginning of the 20th century the word was still in regular use among metropolitan Turkish writers. Before Persian and Arabic studies dropped out of the regular educational curriculum in the late 1920s, when literary Turkish was dominated by a completely different vocabulary, we find a character in a Reşat Nuri Güntekin novel saying: ‘Allah razı olsun, çok civanmert çocuksun,’ which translates to: ‘God bless you, are a valiant young man.’16 There is one striking case where the word is used in an historical conversation. In 1913, just after the Ottoman Empire had lost almost all its territory in Europe in the Balkan Wars, Zeki Pasha, the müşir [a senior Ottoman general] of Tophane, spoke to his son, the journalist and writer, Ali Kemal, about what he should do with his career. His advice was simply: ‘Be a civanmert defender of the cause of the nation.’17 Even so, Ali Kemal Bey’s career went in exactly the opposite direction and during the Turkish War of Independence he was the most outspoken Turkish opponent of the Nationalists, while collaborating with the occupying British, and paid for this with his life when he was lynched. During the War of Independence, Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] declared that the religious tolerance of the Ottoman Empire showed that ‘dünyanın en müsaadekâr ve civanmert milleti olduğunu isbat eder en bâriz delilidir’. (‘It is the clearest proof that this is the most tolerant and civanmert nation in the world.’)18 Here, civanmert seems to carry a residual sense of ‘generosity’.

16 Türk Dil Kurumu, Güncel Türkçe Sözlük, entry for ‘civanmert’. 17 Yahya Kemal [Beyatlı], Siyası ve Edebi Portreler (Istanbul, 1968), 86. 18 İbrahim Kafesoğlu, Mehmet Saray, Atatürk İlkeleri ve Dayandığı Tarihi Temeller, (Istanbul, 1984), 20. This sentence is however widely encountered in quotations.



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The cult of generosity Generosity is almost the only consistently recurring theme in civanmertlik and mürüvvet. Seljuk fütüvvetnames identify it as one of the key qualities to be observed. Cömertliği öğüş, ‘nekesliği’ (pintilik) Nekeslik Aliyyü İbnü’l-Hasan İbn Ca’deveyh’in ‘Kitabü Mirâti’l-Mürüvvet’.19 Whether religiously based or not, contempt for meanness and the expectation of extreme generosity persist. Anyone who has taught Turkish schoolchildren or students today knows that it is still a highly prized quality among people who have not the foggiest conception of what fütüvvet or civanmertlik might mean. But what does this generosity entail? It is not a straightforward equivalent of ‘munificence’ in English. It is more a question of having a casual, implicitly communal attitude towards ownership, of being willing to share and sacrifice for one’s immediate circle of friends. Its opposites, cited in the text just quoted, are nekeslik and pintilik – words which are better translated as stinginess or even selfishness rather than miserliness or saving aimed at accumulation. In the context of civanmertlik, I would argue, generosity is a reflection of the idealistic attitudes of a group of adolescent males or young men living together and not the almsgiving of established middle-aged heads of households or what some Western analysts hopefully refer to as ‘Islamic Calvinism’.20 Blind genero­ sity is not an attitude which can persist very far into modern adult life. It is difficult to be civanmert if it means denying things to your wife and children. Hence the word is anchored to some notion of youthfulness. This also partially explains why the word has become rather archaic. As the quotation I brought above indicates, in a rigid, bureaucratically-controlled community, one perhaps tied to settled urban disciplines within a clear legal framework and welfare institutions, the sort of situations which require, or indeed even permit, a civanmert manner of response are much less commonly encountered, and indeed opportunities for individual initiatives have contracted.

Heroism, politics, and civanmertlik The word civanmert is increasingly expected to apply to persons of heroic stature who are outside the normal community and have the power or charisma to make 19 Cited in a modern Turkish online text on ahilik and the basic Islamic rules on which it is based. 20 On generosity in modern Turkish society, see Zekeriya Başkal and Helen Ebaugh, ‘The Turkish Islamic culture of giving’, in Helen Ebaugh, ed., The Gülen Movement: A Sociological Analysis of a Civic Movement (New York, 2010).

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changes in the life of ordinary people. Perhaps a little unexpectedly, civanmert does not seem to be used much in reference to Atatürk, even though by the standards of Turkish society he was a relatively young leader and definitely a fighter. As already mentioned, Atatürk himself used the word in praising Turkish soldiery. One is tempted to wonder whether, as a victor par excellence, Atatürk is somehow disqualified as a civanmert. Civanmert is also a stock epithet for the Turkish nation itself in the first two or three decades of the Republic. ‘The civanmert Turkish nation which relies on itself alone,’ one politician declared in 1939.21 Atatürk’s successor, Ismet Inonu, an older and less charismatic leader, was an arch-bureaucrat of great financial conservatism, so it is not surprising to find that no one seems to have called him civanmert. Their successor, Adnan Menderes, Turkey’s prime minister from 1950 to 1960, applied the epithet to the nation, declaring that the Turks were the most ‘civanmert, industrious, and clever nation in the world’.22 But these kinds of references seem to be relatively infrequent: since 1960, civanmert has not been in frequent use as an epithet. Bülent Ecevit, a leader whose youthfulness was a feature which his campaign organisers emphasised during his early career and whose fondness for blue shirts inspired a sort of fashion statement among students in the 1970s, is also seldom described as civanmert, even though his left-of-centre policies might have led one to expect it.

Romantic historical figures It is in popular history books nowadays that we encounter the word civanmert most often. In Türk Târihinde Osmanli Asirlari, Sâmiha Ayverdi describes Cem Sultan as ‘the fine poetic civanmert prince to whom this city has opened its arms forever’.23 Another unhappy prince who regularly earns the epithet civanmert is the Şehzade Sultan Mustafa, who was put to the bowstring on his father’s orders in October 1553 at the age of 38.24 ‘Gençosman’, Osman II, murdered at the age of 17 in a Janissary revolt in 1622 is also ‘civanmert’ par excellence, the word 21 T. B. M. M. Zabit Ceri̇ desi̇ [Proceedings of the Turkish Grand National Assembly], 10 April 1930, II, 23. 22 Adnan Menderes, Söz Sırası Demokrat Parti̇ ’de, 42 (in a speech delivered at Izmir, 23 April 1960). For a recent general application of the word to Menderes by an avowedly conservative writer, see Ömer Bilgin, ‘Osmanoğullarının Dramı ve Menderes'in Civanmertliği’, (The drama of the sons of Osman and the chivalry of Menderes), Yeni Makale, 7 May 2012. 23 Sâmiha Ayverdi, Türk tarihinde Osmanlı asırları (Istanbul, 1975), 122. Ayverdi, whose writings are traditionalist and religious in tone, uses the epithet frequently. 24 Dursun Gürlek and Sururi Çelebi, ‘Meçhul Meşhurlar’, Zaman, 5 April 1998.



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being almost invariably used when he is mentioned. Hence, in Turkish literature civanmert does not have political implications and indeed it can even be seen as the source of worldly failure, a kind of tragic youthful nobility. A well-known conservative female journalist, Nazli Ilicak, described this paradox in a newspaper article in the early 2000s. Writing in 1999 about Bulent Ecevit’s politics and idealism, she says: ‘Politikada civanmertlik sökmez. Makyevel olacaksınız. İlkesiz davranacaksınız, fakat, sanki büyük hedefler peşindeymiş izlenimini vereceksiniz.’ (‘Civanmertlik does not work in politics. [In politics] you have to be Machiavellian and act without principles, but give the impression that you are pursuing grand goals.’) 25 Drawing on the work of Taha Akyol, journalist and historian, Ilicak went on to point out that the idealistic chivalry of civanmertlik was responsible for the victory of Sultan Yavuz Selim over Shah Ismail I of Iran at Çaldıran in 1514. On the eve of the battle, the Shah thought it would be unbecoming to his civanmertlik to attack an Ottoman army that was still tired from the journey and delayed his attack. ‘Ben kervan soyguncusu değilim! Allah ne yazdıysa, o olur demiştir.’ (He said, ‘I am not a caravan robber. Whatever Allah has ordained, that is what will happen.’) The result of this chivalrous attitude was that Shah Ismail was soundly defeated and the Iranian threat effectively removed from Anatolia and Ottoman power consolidated.26 With Shiʿa power vanquished, Turkish Islam became steadily more Sunni and more Arabic in tone. Anatolian Shiʿism was fiercely repressed and the Iranian cultural context receded, and with it the idea of civanmertlik, to the point that, as we have seen, it either shrank into a polite epithet or mutated into cömert, i.e. generosity in daily life. In the 18th century, the word civanmert was the title of the head of the guild of Master Butchers in Istanbul, a strange fate for a word which had originally referred to chivalry.27

Civanmertlik as political struggle? Some social aspirations of civanmertlik were, however, distinctly visible in the left-wing youth movements of the 1970s and 1980s. The stress on the ‘organisation’ (a dirty word in Turkey because it implies terrorist organisation) is perhaps 25 Nazlı Ilıcak, ‘Civanmertlik ve Makyavel’, Yeni Şafak, 12 March 1999. 26 Ibid. 27 I am grateful to the late Andrew Mango for this information. Participants at the seminar where the first version of this paper was delivered suggested that there are possible Iranian antecedents for the idea of an association between civanmertlik and the butchers’ guilds.

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reminiscent of the organisations of those decades. In a restaurant in Van in 1982, when two waiters were having a fight, a third turned to me and remarked, ‘Çok ayıp. Ikisi aynı örgütün üyesi.’ (‘It’s shameful because they are both members of the same organisation’). The popularity of revolutionary groups among the young in an Islamic society is perhaps easier to understand if they appealed to primordial norms. But of course terrorism led to Dostoyevskian horrors and to a firm attempt, and beyond south-eastern Turkey an almost wholly successful drive, by the state to wipe it out with the support of society. The cult which made up the leaders of the first generation, who came to violent ends before committing any violent crimes, still resonates in Turkey’s left-wing factions – and they are indeed referred to as civanmert. The figure who most qualifies for this epithet is Ibrahim Kaypakkaya, a would-be Maoist revolutionary who died under torture at the age of 24 in Diyarbakir in May 1973.28 Later generations of revolutionary leaders were perforce more secretive, much more brutal and less Romantic. The cults of these dead revolutionaries continue today, and the anniversaries of their deaths are still commemorated among Marxist youth movements. Civanmert is also used, however, by the nationalist right to describe its dead. It would seem that if today one looks for something similar to classical civanmertlik, the youth movements of the 1970s and 1980s are the place where the word is most frequently encountered. But those movements are in decline, though they have not entirely disappeared. Indeed, in 2013 and 2014, the notion of youthful heroism struggling against perceived evil underwent a revival in Turkey through the political protests and demonstrations which began in Istanbul and spread to other cities in subsequent months. The Gezi Park protestors might at first sight seem to have more in common with California in the 1960s than with an Islamic society – Westernised, fond of pop music and dancing, and (according to their opponents, including the prime minister) given to noxious substances such as alcohol, and most of the time non-violent. However, the protests have given rise to what is in effect a recognisable ‘cult of martyrs’. At its centre are the eight young men,29 all of whom were incidentally non-Sunnis, and who were killed in the summer of 2013. Their images jointly dominate posters and banners at protests today: smiling, innocent, working class, sympathetic, and above all young. Their 28 In 2014, demonstrators in Ankara were still marching under banners with the face of Ibrahim Kaypakkaya. More than four decades after his early and obscure death as a torture victim at the age of 24, ten biographies about him have appeared. See: http://tr.wikipedia. org/wiki/İbrahim_Kaypakkaya. 29 In the course of revising this article, this number rose from seven to eight, leading to further protests across Turkey.



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cult remains a very powerful mobilising force in large cities among high-school and university students. The Gezi Park protests seemed briefly to have reactivated attitudes that were fading because of social and economic progress. Today, in the place of the revolutionary politics of the 1960s and 1970s, we have a consumerist age. Turkey, as we have seen, is a land of contrasts between the culturally modern metropolitan cities and the rural hinterland or periphery, which remains much stronger in traditional forms of social control and specifically religious education. But culturally and economically, it is the metropolis which is dominant and it is there that a strong youth culture has developed since the 1980s, fed partially by private satellite TV stations. The metropolitan young in Turkey live in a world of high schools and universities, with a consumerist pop culture in which a good fashion sense, rather than male valour, is the most admired quality. At least for the present, the strict separation of the sexes has disappeared and co-education is the norm, as is close informal friendship between males and females. In this new, and possibly temporary, metropolitan or quasi-metropolitan environment, traditional values of young men are often replaced by values derived from competitive consumerism; for instance, being ‘tiky’ (wearing enviable fashion brands) is considered a valuable attribute, or even in contemporary student Turkish borrowing from late 20th-century English, being ‘cool’. The code governing close non-intimate relationships reflects a synthetic modelling of sibling relationships, i.e. a diluted form of blood brotherhood, called kanka (a contraction of kan kardeş) – except that for a young metropolitan male Turk these days, blood brothers, and also quite often sisters, can be numerous, 30 though this last situation probably applies much less often in provincial hinterland of Anatolia. However, the values of male heroism persist in some quarters. AKÜT, the Turkish volunteer search and rescue organisation, set up by pioneering mountaineers in 1994, certainly has an aura of civantmertlik chivalry and dogged unostentatious heroism about it.31 And so I return to the notion of brotherhood, but one with a fundamental discontinuity with the world of traditional Islam. Whether this picture will continue or revert to something closer to the past we cannot yet be sure of: it depends on how the current changes in Turkish society and its educational system, which are only beginning, unfold. But we are looking at millions of people for whom 30 There is of course no grammatical gender in Turkish which perhaps makes this transformation easier than it would be in an otherwise gendered-language setting. 31 See: http://www.akut.org.tr/en.

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civanmertlik is a meaningless archaism of a linguistic tradition, culture, and ethos they have almost forgotten and are not much interested in remembering – and this is despite the continuing nominal adherence of most of them to the practices and symbolic language of Islam.32

Fütüvvet in the twenty-first century Let us now turn from this nostalgic idea of civanmert to an atmosphere where the concept of religiously motivated pluck is alive and well and regularly encountered. I am of course speaking of religion and religious studies, and specifically the rules of fütüvvet in the context of ahi culture and tasavvof. In the regular specialist vocabulary of Turkish Sunni Islamic scholars writing on tasavvof, civanmert appears as a minor allonym of terms such as fata, fotovvat, and ʿayyar: it is just one item in a list of words all amounting to more or less the same social phenomenon and, unless one regards it solely in its capacity to imply generosity, it does not appear at first glance to have any exclusive meanings. And yet the term civanmert has a clear basis in Islamic tradition, stretching back to the 7th century. Religious and cultural attitudes from which the tradition of youthful heroism is derived, in Turkey as elsewhere across the Islamic world, is clearly indebted to the Qurʾan and its use of the term fata (heroic young man, i.e. yiğit in Turkish). Following the Qurʾan’s description of Abraham and other Prophets as ‘fata’, this adjective has been applied to almost all prophets, including Mohammad, and not only to famously youthful prophets like Joseph. Unlike civanmert, the word fütüvvet is not a remote or fading concept. It is something that today may be the subject of sermons in Turkey’s most famous mosques. This is despite the fact that, since it is a technical term, it is if anything less familiar than civanmert among most Turks who do not specialise in religious studies; indeed, the idea of fütüvvet today arouses very strong interest among Sunni intellectuals and the clergy. Furthermore, in their eyes it relates to a specific historical period and specific experiences: the first centuries of Turkish presence in Anatolia when the land was Islamised. In this light, the works of a number of widely-cited writers yielding (with the eye of faith) an historical narrative just about stretches down from the Middle Ages to the 21st century. There is a stream of copious (though rather repetitive) writing on this process, 32 However, a soap opera, Muhteşem Yüzyıl [Majestic Century] – an intricate narrative of palace sex, violence, and intrigue – is currently one of the most popular programmes on Turkish television, see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muhteşem_Yüzyıl.



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deriving from the fact that codes or lists of injunctions of what is expected of young men engaged in fütüvvet have survived from the 12th to the 15th century. These were written by holy men for their immediate relatives or followers, though they drew on earlier ideas and practices. It should be noted that these texts mostly survived in libraries rather than through practical use and some of the emphasis placed on them hints at a rediscovery or even, perhaps, a reinvention.33 There is indeed an attempt to push back the origins of the fütüvvet movement in what is now Turkey to pre-Turkish times. One expression of this is the recent interest in Turkey in the life and work of Ebuʾl-Hasan Herekani,34 an Islamic sage said to have been born in 962 – i.e. more than a century before the Byzantine defeat at Mantzikert – and to have died in 1033, after (it is claimed) beginning the process of the Islamic conversion of the population of Byzantine Anatolia. In other words, unlike the familiar historical version, in this narrative conversion to Islam to some extent anticipates or precedes military conquest rather than the other way around. This is not all Ebuʾl-Hasan Herekani stands for: he is also inserted into the Naqshbandi lineage almost four hundred years before the birth of its historical founder Bahaʾeddin in Central Asia. The term civanmert is applied to him, and in the few details of his perhaps historically highly questionable biography, it is emphasised that his origins are humble and agricultural and that he had no education of any sort, other than reading the Qurʾan. All of these are classic civanmert characteristics.35 From the point of view of current writings on fütüvvet, the most widely cited influence is the work of Harputlu Nakkaş İlyasoğlu Ahmet (1179–1225) whose fütüvvetname, entitled Tuhfetüʾl-Vasâya, is cited in almost every discussion on fütüvvet for those interested in religious self-improvement and progress towards membership in the tariqehs or secret religious brotherhoods. Ilyasoğlu Ahmet was writing prescriptions for the fütüvvet lifestyle for his son. His injunctions amount to the familiar rules of strict Sunni observance, beginning with instructions to perform namaz (daily prayers) without fail, avoid obvious transgressions, and so forth, and also to follow the pattern of life set by the Prophet. İlyasoğlu Ahmet’s life work emerged a couple of generations before the collapse of the 33 Riza Yildirim, ‘Shī‘itisation of the Futuwwa tradition in the fifteenth century’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40/1 (2013), 53–70; Rıza Yildirim, ‘Geleneksel Alevi̇ li̇ kten Modern Alevi̇ liğe: Tari̇ hsel Bi̇ r Dönüşümün Ana Eksenleri̇ ’, Türk Kültürü ve Hacı Bektaş Veli Araştırma Dergisi 62 (2012), 135–62. 34 Known in Persian as Abuʾl-Hasan Kharraqani. 35 See: http://tr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ebu'l_Hasan_Herekani; and: http://www.haberler.com/ ebu-l-hasan-harakani-de-civanmertlik-programi-5214148-haberi/.

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Seljuk sultanate following the Battle of Erzincan in 1243, and assumed a new significance after this event with the rise of the Ahi movement in Anatolia. Turkish discussion of fütüvvet continues to be closely linked to a particular Turkish Islamic historical experience, the ahis or guilds, which played a leading part in Anatolia between 1333 – when Ebn Battuteh observed them in Antalya and other Anatolian cities, calling them akhiyat al-fityan (Brotherhoods of Young Men) – and the defeat of the Ankara ahis and execution of Seyh Bedrettin in 1416. The last reference to ahis comes in an abortive revolt in Bursa in 1423. The word ahi was used as a title preceding the name of a member, the earliest and most notable being Ahi Evren, who died in 1329. Their appearance is clearly a consequence of the vacuum created by the sudden decline of the Seljuk Empire. ‘Whenever civil government was weak or ina­dequate, the ahis came to the fore as a political force,’ writes Arnakis.36 The ahis dominated much of Anatolia during the two centuries which followed the collapse of Seljuq centralised authority, and at a time when the ultimate political authority in Anatolia was a remote Mongol overlordship. The meaning of their name is disputed, but suggestions that the word comes from Arabic and means ‘my brother’ are unlikely. It is generally accepted, on the basis of its spelling in Arabic, that ahi is derived from a less familiar Turkish word akı meaning ‘generous’ or ‘open-handed’. The Ahi period – the time of the initial Turcification of Anatolia after its conquest from the Byzantines – is a distant one, romanticised in the imagination of both Turkish Islamists and also the early Republic, which fostered the idea that the ahis ruled in Ankara over a sort of religious merchant republic: an idea since dismissed by Paul Wittek and subsequent scholars.37 With the growth of a new centralised power under the Ottomans during the reign of Murat I (1362–1389), the ahis rapidly disappear from sight, their tradition of religious brotherhoods continued by the Mevlevi, Khalveti, and the (Shiʿa) Bektashi religious societies. The local social and economic dominance of guilds under the ahis was replaced by that of the land-owning ayans whom we encounter in 18th- and 19th-century Anatolia and who were just possibly contemporaneous with ahis, though a transition from merchant-guild to landowner seems questionable. These historical details are not our concern in this chapter. It is more important to note that for observant Muslims in Turkey wishing to delve more deeply 36 G. G. Anarkis, ‘Futuwwa traditions in the Ottoman Empire’, Journal of Near-Eastern Studies 12/4 (1953), 233. 37 Paul Wittek, The Rise of the Ottoman Empire (London, 1967).



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into their religion, ahilik, or what is taken to be ahilik, is an important part of their roadmap. It looks back to earlier traditions of fütüvvet and the associated qualities of murevvet, defined in Redhouse as ‘munificence or hospitality or generosity’, but in religious texts as ‘Mertlik, yiğitlik ve insâniyet, iyilik ve cömertlik anlamlarında bir İslam ahlâkı terimi’ (‘an Islamic ethnic term meaning manliness, valour, humanity, goodness and generosity’). This, of course, is a fairly precise description of civanmertlik. However, two points need to be born in mind. The first is that though Çobanoğlu and İlyasoğlu Ahmet were Turks, they were living during a largely Persian rather than Arabic high culture, a fact that is obscured today when they are seen through a retrospective modern Turkish Sunni prism whose intellectual language is Arabic. This no doubt partially accounts for the relegation of the folksy Persian idea civanmertlik to the rural fringes. Secondly, the interest in these concepts today does have a clear locus. Specifically, it is closely associated with Anatolian business organisations, the nearest modern equivalent to guilds, and fütüvvet thus reappears in the early 21st century not as a youthful code of altruism and chivalry but a religiously-based business ethic. It is considered as the basis for institutions and organisations in the first Islamic industrial society. This is explicitly stated by Professor Nurettin Öztürk of Samsun University when he states, ‘the organisation set up by the Ahis may in a way be considered the foundation of institutions and organisations of today, such as the Chambers of Esnaf (craftsmen), employers’ unions, chambers of commerce, chambers of industry, workers’ unions, organisations providing educational services, Bagkur (the social insurance scheme for the self-employed), the Turkish Standards Institute, and the Municipalities. In short, Ahilik should be understood as a model for all those who work and produce.’38 This is a breath-taking claim and a largely unhistorical one judged by Western methods of historiography; but it is not nonsensical. It represents an attempt at a wholesale reinterpretation and redefinition from within of the commercial and economic institutions of Turkey, borrowed from the West, in terms of the concepts of fütüvvet. Time will tell how successful this approach will be. The institutions Özturk names were in the past usually identified by American academics – for example Robert Bianchi in his 1970s’ study of interest groups in Turkey39 – as lingering manifestations of corporatism, groups which in an era 38 Nurettin Öztürk, Ahilik Teşkilati Ve Günümüz Ekonomisi, Çalişma Hayatı Ve İş Ahlakı Açısından Değerlendirilmesi, n.d. at: http://www.ahilik.net/images/stories/makaleler/ sosyalguvenlik.pdf , 1. 39 Robert Bianchi, Interest Groups and Political Development in Turkey (Princeton, 1984).

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of industrialisation are the increasingly anachronistic victims of a ‘bad bargain’ and fated to disappear eventually. It may indeed yet turn out that they have no real functional authenticity. Nevertheless, so far collective groupings of artisans and small industries have turned out to be an enduring and persistent feature of the Turkish landscape, something to be seen on the outskirts of every town of any size. However dire their position in the 1970s, the fact remains that they have fared better than the Kemalist secularists. The business world as a whole is grouped into collectivities, or chambers, which are much more prominent than in Western societies – and where membership is compulsory. Viewed from a Western standpoint, the Turkish Union of Chambers, for example, appears something of a puzzle, for the reason that it is much larger and wealthier than its counterparts in Western countries. ‘Why does it exist?’ a puzzled Western ambassador once asked me. The answer may be that it exists because, in each community, business groups naturally form chambers and associations whose roots are in earlier guild traditions and which refuse to disappear; this in turn may reflect the different ways in which economic groups mediate their relations with political authority. For both ruler or patron, and for members themselves, a collective group based on a legally-assigned, rather than a spontaneous, identity may seem the safest way to conduct business. Without delving further into this question, suffice to say the continuing importance of ‘assigned collective identities’ may be a large factor in why economic pressure groups, and political parties based on class and economic interests have failed to strike deep roots in Turkey. Whether this surmise is correct or not, the mixed religious-business groupings in Turkey today seem to be a genuine social movement and one which in a few years may attract a good deal more attention. To see specifically what the movement, which one might tentatively call neoahilik, is like in Turkey, one must travel to Ulus, the heart of Ankara, and to the environs of the Hacibayram mosque, itself a monument from the original ahi period. Beside the Temple of Augustus, one of the premier Roman monuments of Europe but now locked off and neglected – considered an irrelevant sideshow – a new colony of ‘ahi houses’ and shops set up by associations has been created. These appear to be self-consciously living out fütüvvet traditions, initially in the teeth of local opposition whose homes made way for it – there were armed guards on the site when the development was beginning in 2009–10. The changes in Hacibayram Square seem to me to represent an attempt to transcend the legacy of the entire period since 1839 and the Tanzimat, Westernisation, and Kemalism, and return to an entirely Islamic social and cultural order. In Turkey today this movement draws on a society that benefits from a relatively



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wealthy modern industrial economy and 21st-century technology; indeed, the internet is one of the movement’s main channels of transmission. A stroll around the square reveals it populated on some days by bearded young mürids (pupils) from theology schools in rural areas for whom Western modernity might never have existed. These changes are taking place, it should be remembered, only a few hundred metres away from the spot where the leadership of the War of Indepen­ dence created the secular Turkish Republic. Alms and charity remain among the core values and religious duties of this new Islamic business world and its offshoots. Turkish industrialists, including secularists, have long carried on the tradition of endowing schools, hospitals and universities. However institutional large-scale charity of this kind is something very different from sports or chivalry. And unlike civanmertlik it believes itself to be the wave of the future, and in Turkey it may well be so.

Bibliography Anarkis, G.G. ‘Futuwwa traditions in the Ottoman Empire’, Journal of NearEastern Studies 12/4 (1953), 232–47. Ayverdi, Samiha. Türk tarihinde Osmanlı asırları (Istanbul, 1975). Bilgin, Ö. ‘Osmanoğullarının Dramı ve Menderes’in Civanmertliği’ (The Drama of the Sons of Osman and the Chivalry of Menderes), Yeni Makale, 7 May 2012. Çakir, R., Bozan, I. & Talu B. İmam Hatip Liseleri: Efsaneler Ve Gerçekler, TESEV (Istanbul, 2004), 43. Gürlek, D. and Çelebi, S. ‘Meçhul Meşhurlar’, Zaman, 5 April 1998. Ilıcak, N. ‘Civanmertlik ve Makyavel’, Yeni Şafak, 12 Mart 1999. Kafesoğlu, I. & Saray, M. Atatürk İlkeleri ve Dayandığı Tarihi Temeller (Istanbul, 1984). Konuralp, O. ‘Türkiye’nin tarikat ve cemaat haritası’, Hürriyet, 17 September 2006. Mardin, S. ‘Center-periphery relations: A key to Turkish politics?’, Daedalus 102/1 (1973), 169–90. ———. ‘The Nakşibendi order in Turkish history’, in Richard Tapper, ed. Islam in Modern Turkey (London, 1991), 121–42. ———. Religion, Society, and Modernity in Turkey (Syracuse, N.Y. 2006). Menderes, A. Söz Sırası Demokrat Parti̇ ’de, 42, (in a speech delivered at Izmir, 23 April 1960).

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Mi̇ llî Eğiti̇ m İstati̇ sti̇ kleri̇ Örgün Eğitim, National Education Statistics Formal Education 2012–2013, M.E.B. (Ankara, 2013), 118, 121. Stirling, P. Turkish Village (London, 1965). T. B. M. M. Zabit Ceri̇ desi̇ [Proceedings of the Turkish Grand National Assembly], II (April 1930), 2310. Weismann, I. The Naqshbandiyya: Orthodoxy and Activism in a Worldwide Sufi Tradition (Routledge, 2007). Wittek, P. The Rise of the Ottoman Empire (London, 1967). Yahya Kemal [Beyatlı]. Siyası ve Edebi Portreler (Istanbul, 1968). Yildirim, R. ‘Geleneksel Alevi̇ li̇ kten Modern Alevi̇ liğe: Tari̇ hsel Bi̇ r Dönüşümün Ana Eksenleri̇ ’, Türk Kültürü ve Hacı Bektaş Veli Araştırma Dergisi 62 (2012), 135–62. ———. ‘Shī‘itisation of the Futuwwa tradition in the fifteenth century’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40/1 (2013), 53–70. Zakeri, M. ‘Javānmardi’, Encyclopaedia Iranica, XIV, fasc. 6 (2008), 594–601 & (2006), 283–84.

The Contributors Christine Allison is Associate Professor of Kurdish Studies in the University of Exeter. She works on folklore, memory and minority religions. Ines Aščerić-Todd is a Teaching Fellow in Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies at the University of Edinburgh. She is the author of Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia: Sufi Dimensions to the Formation of Bosnian Muslim Society (Brill, 2015). David Barchard is a former Financial Times correspondent in Turkey and lecturer at Bilkent University. He has written widely on many aspects of 20th-century and 19th-century Turkey and is completing a book on prominent 19th-century Ottomans and is co-author of the forthcoming Turkey: A Very Short Introduction. Estelle Amy de la Bretèque is an anthropologist and a musician. She has conducted research on melodised speech and narratives of sorrow among the Yezidis of Armenia, on mourning ceremonies in Baku (Azerbaijan), and on the laments of displaced Kurdish women in the suburbs of Istanbul and Diyarbakir (Turkey). Jeanine Elif Dağyeli is a research fellow at Leibniz-Zentrum Moderner Orient in Berlin, Germany. She has a background in regional studies and works on different aspects of labour, human-environment relations and ritual from an anthropological and historical perspective. Maxime Durocher studied the architecture of dervish lodges and the settlement patterns of Sufi communities in medieval Anatolia for his PhD in Islamic archaeology (Sorbonne University). He is now working on Ottoman hagiographies related to medieval shrines at the Alexander von Humboldt Kolleg for Islamicate Intellectual History, Bonn University. 

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Olmo Gölz is a postdoctoral researcher in Islamic and Iranian Studies at the University of Freiburg, Germany, with a research focus on men and masculinities. As a member of the interdisciplinary collaborative research centre ‘Heroes – Heroisations – Heroisms’ he is currently working on dynamics of the heroic in the Iran-Iraq war. Rachel Goshgarian is an Associate Professor at Lafayette College. Her book The City in Late Medieval Anatolia: Inter-faith Interactions and Urbanism in the Middle East is forthcoming with I.B. Tauris. Denis Jallat is an Associate Professor of History at Université de Strasbourg. He currently teaches at Strasbourg’s Faculty of Sports Science and is affiliated with his university’s multi-disciplinary research unit Sciences sociales du sport – Strasbourg – EA 1342, where his research uses sports and physical education as an entry point into the study of cultural identities of élites and acculturation processes. Sibel Kocaer received her PhD from SOAS, University of London. She currently lectures on Turkish literature of Ottoman era and before, mythology, and comparative literature at Osmangazi University of Eskişehir.  Nacim Pak-Shiraz is the Head of Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies at the University of Edinburgh. She has published widely on Iranian visual culture, particularly on Iranian cinema. Babak Rahimi is Associate Professor of Communication, Culture and Religion and the Director of the Program for the Study of Religion at the University of California, San Diego. The historical and social contexts that inspire his research range from early modern Islamicate societies to contemporary Iran. Lloyd Ridgeon is Reader in Islamic Studies at the University of Glasgow. He has published widely on Sufism and on modern Iran. He is the editor of the British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, and also of Iran. Philippe Rochard is Associate Professor of Anthropology at Université de Strasbourg. His research explores traditional forms of physical education with a regional focus on the Middle East, the Caucasus, and Asia. From 2008 until 2010, he was Director of Institut Français de Recherche en Iran (IFRI) in Tehran.



The Contributors

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Raya Y. Shani has been an instructor of Islamic Art and Architecture at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Her interests include Persian architecture and painting of the pre-Safavid period. Rıza Yıldırım studies the formative period of the Qizilbash-Alevi tradition within the context of the Ottoman-Safavid rivalry. His research interests lie in non-orthodox religious practices in the Middle East. Farshad Zahedi received his PhD in Film History in 2008. He is a lecturer at University of Carlos III de Madrid. He has published widely on Iranian cinema.