Religious Knowledge, Authority, and Charisma: Islamic and Jewish Perspectives [1 ed.] 9781607812791, 9781607812784

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Religious Knowledge, Authority, and Charisma

Religious Knowledge, Authority, and Charisma Islamic and Jewish Perspectives edited by

Daphna Ephrat and Meir Hatina Foreword by Dale F. Eickelman

Utah Series in Middle East Studies

The University of Utah Press Salt Lake City

Copyright © 2014 by The University of Utah Press. All rights reserved. Utah Series in Middle East Studies M. Hakan Yavuz, series editor The Defiance House Man colophon is a registered trademark of the University of Utah Press. It is based on a four-foot-tall Ancient Puebloan pictograph (late PIII) near Glen Canyon, Utah. 18 17 16 15 14   1 2  3  4  5 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Religious knowledge, authority, and charisma : Islamic and Jewish perpspectives / e­ dited byDaphna Ephrat and Meir Hatina ; foreword by Dale F. Eickelman.        pages cm. —  (Utah series in turkish and islamic stud)     Includes bibliographical references and index.   ISBN 978-1-60781-278-4 (hardback) — ISBN 978-1-60781-279-1 (ebook)  1.  Knowledge, Theory of (Religion) 2.  Authority—Religious aspects—Islam. 3.  Authority—Religious aspects—Judaism. 4.  Charisma (Personality trait)—Religious aspects—Islam. 5.  Charisma (Personality trait)—Religious aspects—Judaism  I. Ephrat, Daphna. II. Hatina, Meir.   BL51.R3534 2013   297.6—dc23 2013025403 cover photo: The Lesson (oil on canvas) by Rudolphe Ernst (1854-1932)/Private Collection/The Bridgeman Art Library. back cover: Jewish Scholars Debating (oil on board) by Josef Johann Suss (1857-1937)/Private Collection/Photo © Bonhams, London, UK/The Bridgeman Art Library. Printed and bound by Sheridan Books, Inc., Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Contents A Note on Transliteration, Dates, and Periodization   vii Foreword by Dale F. Eickelman   ix Acknowledgments  xiii Introduction  1

Daphna Ephrat and Meir Hatina

Part I. Constructions of Religious Leadership in the Formative Period Overview by Maribel Fierro   27 1. Authority within the Hanbali Madhhab: The Case of al-Barbahari  

Nimrod Hurvitz   36

2. Restoring the Prophet’s Authority, Rejecting Taqlid: Ibn Hazm’s

“Epistle to the One Who Shouts from Afar”   50 Camilla Adang

3. Succession of the Prophets: Shiʿi Theoretical and Practical

Solutions  64 Ehud Krinis

4. Oral Torah: Ideology and History in the Epistle of Sherira

Gaon    73 Gerald J. Blidstein

Part II. Centralization and Diffusion of Authority in the Middle Period Overview by Jonathan P. Berkey   91 5. Spiritual Heirs of the Prophet: Sufi Masters in a Period of Sunni

Revitalization  98 Daphna Ephrat

6. ʿUlamaʾ of Damascus and Ottoman ʿUlamaʾ: Career Patterns and

Types of Authority   114 Michael Winter

Contents

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7. Books, Commentators, and the Democratization of Knowledge

in the Geonic Period   131 Meir Ben Shahar

Part III. Knowledge and Leadership: Modern Constructions Overview by Itzchak Weismann   149 8. The Rise of a Charismatic Mujahid: The Salafi-Jihadi Quest for

Authority  157 Eli Alshech

9. Martyrs as Preachers: Altruistic Death and Moral

Authority  171 Meir Hatina

10. The New Media and Islamic Activism: The Case of ʿAmr

Khalid  187 Ksenia Svetlova

11. Charisma and Politics in the Evolution of Modern Shiʿi

Leadership  206 Meir Litvak

12. In Search of Religious Authority: The International Union of

Muslim Scholars   225 Muhammad al-Atawneh

13. Maggid or Prediger?: Knowledge and Religious Leadership in

Nineteenth-Century Eastern European Jewry   242 Haim Gertner

14. The Religious Career Opportunities of Lay Preachers: A Study of

Folk Preaching in the Haredi Teshuva Movement   254 Nissim Leon

Notes  271 Contributors  325 Index  329

A Note on Transliteration, Dates, and Periodization In transliterating Arabic and Hebrew words we have followed standard academic rules as stipulated by the new edition of the Encyclopedia of Islam (EI3) and the Encyclopedia Judaica. The letter ʿayn (in both languages) is represented by ʿ and hamza by ʾ. The transliteration from Turkish and Persian generally follows the system used in modern Turkish and Persian (except for words and names that are common in modern Arabic). All Arabic, Turkish, and Hebrew terms are italicized except for words that occur often, such as ʿulamaʾ and madrasa or gaon and yeshiva. For the sake of convenience, and in order to make this volume more accessible to nonspecialist readers, diacritical marks and macrons for long vowels have not been used in the main text. In addition, we have frequently indicated the plural nouns simply by adding an English “s” (madhhabs not madhahib, shahids not shuhadaʾ). Anglicized place and corporate names are given in their familiar form (Cairo, Mamluks, Babylonia, haredim, tsaddikim), and dates are given according to the Western calendar. In using the three periods—the formative, the middle, and the modern—as the organizing principle for the structure of the volume, we have adopted the widely accepted periodization of Islamic history coined by Marshall G. S. Hodgson in his monumental, three-volume book The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilization (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974). All translations of Qurʾanic verses are cited from M. A. S. Abdel Haleem, The Qurʾan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004).

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Foreword Dale F. Eickelman

Religious communities are created and knowable through the expression and practices of their adherents. Belief is accepted and sustained through symbol, metaphor, and ritual, the very stuff of imagination that not only enlarges perceptions but also reorders them so that the validity and rationality of religious faith and practice seem only natural to adherents. Religious authorities may assert that their representations of practice and belief are stable, uniform, distinct from others, and derive from the distant past, yet an examination of these claims to authority indicates ongoing challenges to authority and both incremental and radical transformations over time. Scholars who argue for placing ideas of religious authority into their different religious contexts or for that matter seeing homologies and common elements among different religious traditions often face stiff opposition. In 1880 O. W. Robertson Smith was excommunicated from the Free Church of Scotland as a heretic for his writings on the comparative study of religion,1 a fate that Wilfred Cantwell Smith did not endure in the twentieth century,2 but popular resistance to the sociological study of religion remains strong. Much in the spirit of historian Peter Brown’s poststructuralist writings on Latin Christianity in Late Antiquity and Sarah Stroumsa’s magisterial study of Maimonides,3 this volume boldly crosses conventional lines of periodization, religious community, and discipline, posing new questions about the social construction of religious knowledge and authority. Foundational texts, ideas of prophetic and interpretive succession, and the very idea of authoritative religious authority have been contested in the “formative,” “middle,” and “modern” eras, to use the terms of the editors. Texts, pious acts, and authoritative interpretations must captivate their initial audiences with their immediacy and significance. If they do not, as Robert Wuthnow observes, potential audiences are likely to regard them as “irrelevant, unrealistic, artificial, and overly abstract.”4 No matter how persuasive authority is in its original setting, if too closely tied to immediate audiences, it will be regarded as parochial and time bound if lacking the flexibility to attract wider audiences

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and accommodate the aspirations and concerns of succeeding generations. Even the concept of “religion,” paradoxically clear and consistent to most carriers of particular religious traditions, remains unsettled and perhaps even inherently ambiguous in content and form to others. The narrator of al-Qaʿida-produced video Nineteen Martyrs asserts that the assailants involved in the September 2001 bombings were pious scholars.5 This claim radically stretches conventional senses of “scholar” but is consonant with the underlying notion of words and thoughts meaning little unless converted into action. Religious authority, like all claims to authority, is contested, contextual, and emerging in the sense that it constantly shifts in form even as those who assert authority claim that they do so on the basis of established and legitimate precedent. The volume’s editors recognize the inherent instability of texts, interpretation, and claims to the mantles of authenticity and religious authority even as the carriers of such traditions claim their impermeability to changing times and social contexts. Religious Knowledge, Authority, and Charisma focuses on competing and changing traditions of authoritative Islamic knowledge and the acquisition, development, and practice of Jewish (and to some extent Christian) counterparts. The contributors of the book’s component chapters (social historians and historians of religion) strike a delicate balance between historical specifics and rigorous comparisons among different historical periods and religious traditions. The term “formative” rather than more familiar labels of periodization foregrounds the ongoing emphasis on structure. The book’s contributors leave behind the conventional assumptions that doctrine has an independent existence and is invariable across time and place. They transcend the crude typologies and implicit assumptions that obscure the social and political forces that render certain doctrines or appeals to authority more acceptable than others in any given period or context. In the formative, middle, and modern eras there is an almost continuous process of interpretation and contestation of authority, as much among Sunni and Shiʿa Muslims as among Christians and Jews. Modern communications, technologies, and the interplay of the oral and the written have accelerated the spread of ideas and practices, but in themselves they do not constitute a radical break with the formative era. Ideas might look the same when translated into different languages and contexts, but the mere act of crossing language divides can have a remarkably different impact on new audiences. Dividing history into sharply delineated



Foreword xi

periods can encourage the assumption that certain forms of religious authority are dominant at a given time. An alternative view, advocated here, ­accepts the simultaneity and continuity of competing ideas and forms of ­authority that in complex ways depend on the shifting groups, social institutions, and status of those who use and select them. Social history and the history of religions, like social anthropology, succeed when they balance historical specificity with the ability to ask questions of general interest. The present volume meets this threshold. The majority of the contributors belong to an emerging generation of scholars trained in the textual tradition and at the same time infused with an appreciation of what the social sciences can contribute to the mainstream of Islamic and Judaic studies. The rich content of the chapters makes the book good to think with, as Claude Lévi-Strauss might have said, for a wide audience interested in how authoritative religious knowledge is challenged, constructed, and sustained.

Acknowledgments This volume on religious knowledge, authority, and charisma in I­ slamic and Jewish contexts grew out of two years of deliberations by a group of Israeli scholars who joined together to reflect on this broad theme from a wide array of perspectives and to share ideas and methodologies. The ensuing papers were presented in their final form at an international workshop ( Jerusalem, December 2009), jointly sponsored by the Nehemia Levtzion Center for Islamic Studies at the Hebrew University, the Open University of Israel, and the Chaim Herzog Center for Middle East ­Studies and Diplomacy. Scholars from academic institutions in Israel and abroad kindly joined in this project endeavor. We would like to thank all those who contributed chapters to the book. We are also indebted to Ami Ayalon, Atallah Copty, Moshe Idel, David Satran, Emmanuel Sivan, Sara Sviri, and Daniella Talmon-Heller, who participated in the workshop, for their rich intellectual contribution. Our thanks are extended to the Scholion Interdisciplinary Research Center in Jewish Studies at the Hebrew University and its academic head, Israel Yuval, for hosting the project workshop meetings. A special note of appreciation goes to the anonymous readers for their constructive comments and useful suggestions. Last but not least, we thank the executive editors of the University of Utah Press, Peter DeLafosse and John R. Alley, for their counsel and encouragement, and Kathy Lewis and Stephanie Warnick for their role in the production of the manuscript. Daphna Ephrat and Meir Hatina

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Introduction Daphna Ephrat and Meir Hatina

The pursuit of religious knowledge is an act of worship that ensures the survival and flourishing of faith and evokes closeness to God. However, it is not devoid of social constructs. Preserving, sustaining, and transmitting the essential religious teachings through formal and informal devices provides their exponents with a source of authority, a means of excluding others, and a way of sharing the communal pie. In Pierre Bourdieu’s terminology, religious knowledge constitutes a field of cultural production within which those who monopolize the specific cultural capital devise strategies of safeguarding and perpetuating their command.1 The present volume explores the pervasive character of the affinity of religious knowledge, authority, and spiritual power in Islam along with the ways it has been articulated and constructed in particular historical and modern settings. The collection consists of a number of case studies addressing how religious authority emerges from sources of revelation, from sacred traditions, from inspired leaders, and from institutional structure and examines decisive instances where such authority exercises moral, social, and political influence. Chapters on the Jewish milieu provide us with comparative perspectives from a religious culture that, like Islam, holds knowledge in high esteem. Clearly, the volume does not aim to present a full chronological and spatial coverage, focusing instead on the Islamic Middle East in the formative, middle, and modern periods and on specifics that fall into the areas of expertise of the contributors. However, the sum of its parts offers a rich body of data and interpretive analysis relevant to its seminal topic and goals.

◆ “Seeking knowledge is a divine injunction for every Muslim, but bestowing knowledge upon the wrong people is like putting necklaces of pearls, gold, and jewels on pigs,”2 as a well-known prophetic tradition (hadith) says. Another famous tradition stipulates that “the religious scholars [the ʿulamaʾ] are the heirs of the prophets,”3 and a third says that “the ink of ʿulamaʾ will outweigh the blood of the martyrs on Judgment Day.”4 1

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Daphna Ephrat and Meir Hatina

Whether authentic or not, these traditions reflect a historical trend that restricted access to religious knowledge—theoretically open to all—and preserved the high standing conferred on a select group above all other worshippers. Who were those singling themselves out from the rest of the believers and considered to be entitled to command and disseminate the truth of Islam? On what grounds did they claim religious authority and acquire the elevated status of God’s favorites and the heirs of His Messenger? What was the relationship of scholarship to other elements in the development of religious authority and leadership status? What were the mechanisms devised to diffuse knowledge and guidance and sustain religious authority and spiritual power? How did the encounter with modernity work to introduce a strong polarization in religious knowledge and subsequently a fragmentation of sacred authority? These complex questions are raised and addressed by contributors to this volume, reflecting a social-based approach current in recent research on the history of knowledge.5 Rather than yielding generalized paradigms, the volume as a whole highlights the diversity in modes of religious knowledge and sources of religious authority in Islam and the varied nuances of the social constructs of such knowledge in historical and modern contexts.

Modes of Knowing and Types of Authority Religious knowledge (ʿilm), which forms the foundation of Islam as a religion and a way of life, is embedded in the Holy Qurʾan, in the collections of traditions attributed to the Prophet Muhammad, and in the legal texts that derived from them. From earliest times, these revered texts constituted a source of religious authority and divine blessing. Studying and transmitting them provided a medium of connection to the Prophet—the supreme source of authority and the closest to God among humans. Religious scholars, generally known as ʿulamaʾ, and especially the legal experts among them, shaped, produced, and transmitted these texts and assumed control of access to them. In the absence of a priestly establishment, such as that of the Catholic Church, control over the ­Islamic knowledge systems enabled its guardians to create a kind of religious aristocracy of established scholarly families. Their members were perceived as continuing the work of the founders, benefiting by the “genetics of greatness.”6 A similarly close-knit and elitist hierarchy can be found in the Babylonian scholarly academies during the geonic period of Jewish history

Introduction 3

(the late sixth to the early eleventh centuries). This hierarchy was also characterized by major ceremonies marking the appointment of the head of the academy, the gaon, and fixed seating arrangements at the yeshiva involving prescribed distances between teachers and students. Notably, these practices differed from those in the yeshivas in Germany and France at the time, where the study atmosphere was more open, as was promotion in the ranks of authority.7 Clearly, however, religious authority in Islam was not necessarily the product of knowledge embedded in texts and acquired in formal or informal structures. Religious leadership also emerged from other sources: piety, spiritual insight, morality, asceticism, social altruism, leadership skills, courage, dissidence, political activism, and even martyrdom as a response to a threatening or corrupt environment. In the early days of Islam, when learned and pious figures who later came to be identified as Sunnis linked themselves to the Prophet Muhammad through the transmission of sayings bearing his name and conveying his authority, the Shiʿis posited a different concept of the sources and nature of the knowledge and authority of scholars and friends of God. They affirmed the inherence of the Prophet’s comprehensive and all-pervading religious and political authority to his successors, the imams, establishing the doctrinal basis of perpetuating the divine gift of grace that ʿAli was deemed to have. As Ehud Krinis (in this volume) shows, in order to solve the problem of succession of the Prophet Muhammad—“the Seal of the Prophets”—early Shiʿi-Imami writers employed a model of prophetic legacy (wasiyya) that claimed a continuous and uninterrupted presence of divine inspiration and guidance in chosen individuals in each generation, prophets and nonprophets alike. This legacy of divine knowledge was transmitted through an unbroken line of prophets and successors from the era of the progenitors to the Islamic era, which began with the Prophet Muhammad and continued with the imams. The perpetuation of this inheritance was ultimately guaranteed by the doctrine of the Hidden Imam. In this respect, Hamid Dabashi comments, the very absence of the imam allows the permanent presence of the active Muhammadan authoritative legacy.8 While the Shiʿi-Imamis sought to perpetuate the personal charismatic authority of the Prophet, the Sunnis diffused it immediately after his death. The needs of the times, the incorporation of local practices, and the transmission or dissolution of the traditions ascribed to the Prophet in the vast areas that came under Islamic rule precipitated the

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rise of competing claims of religious authority among Sunni traditionalists and jurists. At the center of these claims lay the debate between “the people of hadith” (ahl al-hadith), who claimed that authority lay solely in the prophetic practice as reflected in the hadith, and the “masters of opinion” (ashab al-raʾy), who maintained that reasoning based on an agreed precedent is an equal source of authority. A semblance of unity between the two was imposed during the third Muslim century by means of the science of jurisprudence (fiqh), which ascribed a prominent normative function both to the hadith and to the doctrine of consensus (ijmaʿ). Both served to establish the contours of the sacred tradition and laid the foundation for the authority of the Sunni legal rites (madhhabs) that were eventually accepted as equally legitimate and were perpetuated. Nevertheless, in the absence of a sacred code or canon and a formal institutional structure of control, the scope of the Sunna remained flexible and the sphere of religious authority open to various claimants. The development of homogeneous authoritative Islamic texts from the ninth century onward certainly contributed to a growing uniformity in Islamic belief and practice as well as to what one historian has rightly called the “inscription” or “circumscription” of religious authority.9 These texts reflected the power structure in society and the narrative of the dominant religious group, which was inculcated in its students and followers (a practice common to both Jewish and Christian history as well). The texts assimilated the authority of the revelation with the authority of the religious caste, thereby defining the scope of religious knowledge: namely, what was legitimate and true and what was not; what was important to learn and what was not.10 Yet the internal tension between oral transmission and written text that underlay the dissemination of Islamic knowledge in the medieval Islamic world was never resolved. Oral transmission through unbroken chains of personal authority, combined with an emphasis on strong links between masters and disciples, was always preferred. Even texts in a written form that had been fixed for centuries, such as the principal collections of the prophetic traditions, were read aloud and transmitted orally from master to disciple. There is a parallel here to the transmission of the Oral Law in Judaism: for example, the Epistle of Sherira Gaon (d. 1006), as discussed in this volume by Gerald Blidstein. For that gaon, who (together with his son, Hai) represents the swan song of geonic creativity and authority, the most authentic source of law was the tradition handed down by master to student. The true Oral Law consisted of content

Introduction 5

alone, not text, for it existed long before any textually authoritative body of law was compiled. This ideology rested on the gaon’s reading of the history of Jewish tradition and its literature. The main thrust for fixed ­legal compilations, which restored the original oral tradition, occurred after the destruction of the Second Temple when disciples could no ­longer pursue their studies with their masters and many disputes arose in the community. As such, talmudic literature as a whole was a function of “the decline of generations.” Yet even after the compilation of the Mishnah and the Talmud, Babylonian sages would argue that interpretations of the authoritative texts can be considered reliable only if the practice of the law was handed down from the first sages, as discussed by Meir Ben Shahar in this volume. The discourse in Islam regarding the definition of true knowledge, the scope of its interpretation, and the most reliable means of passing it on continued to generate divergent modes of knowledge and types of authority both among legal scholars of the various madhhabs and in the Sunni milieu as a whole. Camilla Adang offers insightful observations in this volume on the distinctive type of authority attained by Ibn Hazm (d.  1065), the most influential scholar of the Zahiri (literalist) legal school in Islamic Spain. The school eventually died out, and the tradition molded by the Zahiri leader was never restored, although the books that he wrote remained well known. Significantly, however, Ibn Hazm had succeeded in attaining a powerful religious leadership status and attracting a body of disciples and disseminators around him while refuting the primary foundations of the madhhab authority, namely, adherence to the collective opinion of the madhhab through consensus (taqlid) and collective reasoning (ijtihad). Notably, Ibn Hazm derived his authority precisely from the notion that anyone can exercise ijtihad. Different types of authority are to be found within the framework of any given madhhab as well, as is most evident in the school that crystallized around the teachings and legacy of Ibn Hanbal (d. 855). Nimrod Hurvitz in this volume traces how, in the century following Ibn Hanbal’s death, al-Hasan al-Barbahari (d. 941) emerged as an influential religious leader in Baghdad of his time due to his piety and zealous moral activism rather than on the basis of legal scholarship. His appeal derived from his systematic efforts to revive Islam’s glorious past by insisting on morality and individual action to combat unwarranted innovations in religious and social life and to fight rationalism of all shades. Although he acquired leadership within the madhhab,

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Barbahari reached out far beyond its intellectual and social confines, exerting his personal authority and influence over a large segment of the population in the Abbasid capital. Contemporary and later Hanbali theologians and popular preachers in Baghdad replicated his example, which Hurvitz eloquently terms a “horizontal” form of leadership in which popular leaders and authoritative jurists of the madhhab worked in parallel with each other. Muslim mystics, known as Sufis, developed their own cultural field through didactic works and practical manuals, which, together with other disciplines, were studied as exoteric or discursive knowledge. Yet most practitioners of Sufism argued for the superiority of esoteric or experiential knowledge (maʿrifa) of the mystic over the exoteric ʿilm of the jurist. Emphasizing the purely gratuitous nature of their mode of acquiring knowledge, they conceived direct mystical experience (the “art of knocking on the door” of the Divine) as the science of understanding the Prophet’s message in the fullest and most perfect way. Early manifestations of the self-perception of the Sufis as spiritual heirs of God’s messenger are illustrated by Daphna Ephrat’s essay in this volume, focusing on the Arab Near East of the twelfth and early thirteenth centuries. Sufi shaykhs, in fusing mystical and legalist modes of knowledge, developed their own vision of identification with the model of the Prophet, claiming to be his true followers and the most qualified to recast his message. This assertion rested on their perfection in blending the inner spiritual with the external ethical dimensions of belief by which the complete knowledge of God’s truths may be attained. More than any other learned and pious men, the Sufis, by their own definition, embodied the piety and moral attributes of the Prophet and his role as intermediary between God and human beings. Their authority thus stemmed from the most perfect human and the closest to God. Pious behavior, morality, and the pursuit of justice appear as central traits of Sufi shaykhs and as an effective means of establishing their authority throughout Islamic history to the present day. In the Ottoman context, as discussed by Michael Winter in this volume, the Sufi religious scholar Shaykh ʿAbd al-Ghani al-Nabulusi (d. 1731) was known for his sustained protest against unjust and violent acts perpetrated by the Ottoman officials against the Muslims of Syria and their violation of the rules of the Shariʿa. In the modern era the Sufi shaykh al-Azhar ʿAbd al-Halim Mahmud (d. 1978) held that the Sufis’ role is to serve as a religious and moral avant-garde in the public sphere.11 Indeed the distinctive

Introduction 7

characteristics of the Sufis earned them a high status in society despite their deemphasis of book learning and erudition. This trend also typified the more peripheral regions of the Islamic world, such as northern India during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, as shown by Farhan A. Nizami and Masooda Bano. Their studies support the thesis that the moral authority and social standing of Sufis—as of ʿulamaʾ—was acquired mainly through their piety, lifestyle, and day-to-day interaction with the immediate community.12 Piety, altruism, and moral conduct were also important attributes in the claim for authority by Islamist ideologists and leaders in modern times, who were deeply involved in the communal and political realms and “spoke truth to power,” at times through violence. Their agenda included not only the quest to implement the Shariʿa but also opposition to socioeconomic inequality, attacks against corruption and ostentation among the wealthy, and a commitment to protect the rights of the people from exploitation by the ruler. This quest for justice was reinforced by the adoption of a puritanical lifestyle, thereby projecting an affinity with the masses and their distress and an antithesis to the ostentatious lifestyle of the local ruling elite. Examples are the modest appearance of Hasan al-Banna (d. 1949), founder of the Muslim Brethren in Egypt, and ʿIzz al-Din al-Qassam (d. 1935), who advocated armed struggle against the Zionist movement and the British Mandate in Palestine. More contemporary examples are Saʿid Hawwa (d. 1989), an eminent ideologist of the Syrian Muslim Brethren, ʿUmar ʿAbd al-Rahman (b. 1936), the ideologist of the Egyptian al-Jamaʿa al-Islamiyya, and Hamas leader Shaykh Ahmad Yasin (d. 2003). Notably, in addition to their well-known asceticism, ʿAbd al-Rahman and Yasin were also disabled: the former was blind and the latter confined to a wheelchair. They were also imprisoned for various periods. Yet they led active political and armed campaigns against their political adversaries—the Egyptian government and Israel, respectively. Such merits were viewed by their followers as manifesting a total disregard of their weakened physical condition and as radiating spiritual strength, commitment, and complete faith in God. The attack that killed Yasin in 2003 elevated him to the status of ultimate martyr and an icon of resistance to the Israeli occupation. As such he joined a series of key figures in modern Islamic discourse, such as Hasan al-Banna, Sayyid Qutb, Marwan Hadid, ʿAbd al-Salam Faraj, and Osama bin Laden, all of whom met their death in assassinations or

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executions by their enemies and acquired a place of honor in the pantheon of glory of modern Islam. These personalities were self-taught in religious matters, reflecting a widespread phenomenon in the second half of the twentieth century:13 religious knowledge constituted only one element in the acquisition of authority and leadership. Other elements, which were more important, were rhetorical skills, organizational and media expertise, and, especially, dissident political activism. Such activism identified them as men of deeds and not merely men of the pen, prepared to bear the consequences of their convictions and closely bound to the assertive narrative of “education through confrontation” (tarbiyya bi-l-sidam). In this context the Pakistani Islamist Abu l-Aʿla Mawdudi and the Lebanese Fathi Yakan wrote that making do with preaching and religious guidance alone is not enough; it resembles Christian messianism in its disregard of human reality and is useless in a world founded on tyranny, contention, and bloodshed.14 Political activism, rather than religious knowledge alone, contributed to the development of leadership authority not only in the Sunni realm but also in the Shiʿi domain. While religious erudition was the most important precondition for leadership status in the nineteenth century (alongside patronage networks), with the constitutional revolution of 1905–11 in Iran the projection of political opinions and positions came to constitute an additional vital element in forging authority. This process reached a peak with the rise to power of Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini after the Islamic Revolution of 1979. His charismatic leadership derived first and foremost from his political activism and his frontal challenge to the shah’s regime, as discussed by Meir Litvak in this volume. Khomeini’s written work and his declarations underscored his understanding that knowledge must be accompanied by political action and that the quest for justice involves jihad and self-sacrifice.15 Revolutionary Iran systematically promoted martyrdom, t­urning it from theory to practice during the Iran-Iraq War (1980–88) and mounting a massive commemorative project at its conclusion. This project included the burial of martyrs on academic campuses, the erection of monuments in the public space, and the construction of a martyrs’ museum in Tehran containing displays of clothing items and letters by the fallen. Iranian martyrdom served as a source of inspiration for the Hizballah movement in Lebanon, spreading out thereafter to the Sunni world, including Palestine, Chechnya, Afghanistan, and Kashmir. Self-sacrifice (istishhad) by falling in battle or by “suicide” attacks

Introduction 9

became a source of authority, endowing the martyr—whose image was commemorated in written and videotaped wills and in hagiographic literature—with a status no less revered than, and even preferable to, that of a religious scholar. Al-Qaʿida circles even reversed the well-known hadith “The ink of the ʿulamaʾ will outweigh the blood of martyrs on the day of judgment,”16 granting pride of place to the martyrs and arguing that only someone who took part physically on the battlefield could wield ­authority and power. In effect the martyr functioned as a pedagogical agent and preacher of the path to jihad and to righteousness. Moreover, holy attributes and miracles (karamat) were identified with some of the martyrs, especially in Afghanistan and in Palestine. These miracles were said to account for the preservation of their bodies over time and for the presence of a scent of musk (misk) rising from their graves and reaching great distances. These attributes also turned the martyrs into conduits between the believers and God: they were perceived as possessing the ability to serve as advocates for others, ranging from penitents to those seeking cures or fertility. An important tool in molding the holy image of martyrs was provided by the digital and online media, which also produced a new type of preacher, sometimes called the “new Islamic preacher,” as discussed by Ksenia Svetlova in this volume. Prominent examples are ʿAmr Khalid of Egypt and Tariq Suwidan of Kuwait in the 1990s and early 2000s. Both attained wide popularity in the Middle East and beyond by their intensive use of modern media technologies, from simple audiotapes to various social networks on the Internet. Their charisma emanated from an easygoing style and dramatic presentation, pleasing to listeners and ­viewers. While the martyr sanctified the sacrifice of life as a response to the distress of Muslims in the modern era, the new media stars such as Khalid and Suwidan sanctified the earthly activism of the individual in order to attain material benefit and progress. These figures typified a growing number of preachers (duʿa) who exemplified the fragmentation of religious authority, whether scholastic-oriented or mystical, and the blurring of the image of the old-style preacher, a topic discussed by Eli Alshech and Meir Hatina in this volume. This might be compared to the Sephardic haredi (ultra-orthodox) repentance movement in Israel, in which self-taught preachers, especially in synagogues, were viewed by their followers and by wider audiences as spiritual leaders and saintly figures by virtue of their engrossment in mysticism and the Kabbalah, as discussed by Nissim Leon in this volume.

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Knowledge and Charisma The sources of charisma are as varied as those of authority. Charisma, according to Max Weber, is a personal attribute that enables individuals to stand out from ordinary people, who view them as endowed with super­natural powers. Charismatic authority contrasts with traditional authority, which is based on formal institutions. Charismatic authority also tends to defy normative institutions due to its inherent moral ­fervor and nonconformism.17 The charismatic virtues attributed to popular Hanbali activists in medieval Baghdad are a notable historical example in the Islamic context.18 Leaders of the Muslim Brethren are an example in modern times.19 Often, however, the contrast between charismatic virtues and formal social relationships in established contexts is not pronounced and allows for points of contact and interaction. In order to acquire recognition for their authority and disseminate their message, charismatic leaders must display exceptional virtues publicly in ceremonies, traditional processions, and institutional structures. Moreover, without a responsive and supportive audience, charisma remains an abstract idea: its existence is made possible only when a group is prepared to attribute exceptional qualities to one of its members. A dialogue must develop between the charismatic figures who aspire to ensure public recognition of their claims and the community. The more publicly such leaders display moral qualities through guidance, preaching, the distribution of charity, and protection from injustice, the more attractive they are to the community; the more they meet communal spiritual needs, the larger their following becomes. A select few disciples and colleagues will seek their legal or spiritual advice. A much more numerous audience will turn to them for instruction in the essentials of their religion, guidelines in correct behavior, and blessings. Research points to the links of learning, intercession with God, and divine grace. One finding is that charisma is not necessarily the privilege of an individual possessing exceptional qualities and creativity, imbued with zealotry and moral fervor, or with a critical attitude toward routine, laws, and established institutions. Nor is charisma necessarily generated on the margins of society identified with popular religiosity, a belief in the miraculous, and saint worship.20 A charismatic aura may also be attributed to scholars in the mainstream of the learning community whose mastery of dry legal knowledge is perceived by their disciples

Introduction 11

and ­followers as bestowing spiritual and material blessings, turning their graves, too, into pilgrimage sites. In Weberian terms, “charismatic” and “legal-rational” authority may coexist in the same person, and specifically in scholars of religion. This phenomenon was widely accepted in Islam of the medieval and Ottoman periods. ʿUlamaʾ acquired such attributes such as baraka (blessing), enabled by the ability to perform karamat (miracles), demonstrating that formalistic knowledge alone is not sufficient to establish authority in society at large and secure the devotion of the believer who hungers for religious stimulation.21 This is as true for Jewish rabbis as it is for Muslim religious scholars. Rabbis who had an intimate knowledge of the Kabbalah, such as Chaim Yossef David Azulai, known as the Hida (d. 1806), Yossef Chaim, known as Ben Ish Hai (d. 1909), Yaakov Chaim Sofer (d. 1939), and much later Mordechai Eliyahu (d. 2010), applied it in their sermons or rulings. This is a clear indication that jurists and theologians are not content with legal expertise alone and sometimes expropriate other, more esoteric sources of authority from other agents in the religious spectrum, often rivals. Notably, upon their death, these rabbis acquired a holy aura when an intensive commemorative project collected and compiled dozens of accounts of miracles and acts of salvation connected with them that benefited the people who turned to them.22 The acquisition of sources of authority from other cultural agents also means canonizing such recipients with the aim of ensuring that they will not degenerate into extremism. This rationale applies as well to Sufis who, eager to penetrate the legal consensus and broaden their following, expropriated such formal fields as the hadith and jurisprudence. The historical outcome was a more diffused and harmonized relationship between scholarship and mysticism. Both groups depicted their status as “the heirs of the prophets,” with the authority sources of the other group constituting an “added value” and in no way overshadowing their own sources. This can be understood by studying Ottoman and Arabic biographical dictionaries, which reveal that while jurists argued that the path to knowing Allah consisted mainly of the Shariʿa, Sufis stressed the importance of the haqiqa (esoteric truth), depicted as the cream (zibda) by which an enriched religious life and steadfast faith can be attained.23 As Max Weber observes, the fervor that characterizes the ascendancy of charismatic leaders eventually fades away, but the processes of institutionalization and routinization guarantee the dissemination of their

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message and authority among fellow believers. This idea may well be applicable to Sufi sainthood and to the Shiʿi Imamate. Even in its formative period, the authority of the imams underwent a process of routinization and was delegated to the ʿulamaʾ, thereby providing them with the ­religious authority to guide their followers at all times.24 This historical evolution reached its peak in Khomeini’s political theology of the rule of the jurist (wilayat al-faqih). The Shiʿi case demonstrates the difficulty of preserving and sustaining a minority or a persecuted religious community solely by dint of the historic holiness and charisma of its founders. The Shiʿi community needed symbolic and human reinforcing mechanisms that would empower the sacred within the profane. These were developed by molding epic myths such as the Karbala events of 680 and the disappearance of the Hidden Imam in 874, by visual rituals such as the ʿashura ceremonies, and above all by enhancing the power and authority of close disciples of the imams and the official ʿulamaʾ of later generations. Conceivably, without such symbolic and human reinforcement, Shiʿi culture might have developed differently and perhaps been paler.

Mechanisms of Control The need for a committed following in any religion leads to a consideration of the mechanisms to control sources of knowledge and religious authority. The cultural power of Islam alone—namely, texts, ethos, symbols, and hagiography—was not sufficient; structural power, whether material, human, or textual, was also required. The empirical and not only the conceptual reality underscored the power of God or the metaphysical entity, provided a mechanism of control, and thus conferred status on the representatives of religion. The social history of knowledge tends to stress the significance of centers of learning for concentrating, distributing, and controlling knowledge.25 Centers of learning granted a prestigious aura and a fixed geographical location to their population of teachers and students. This is evident in particular with regard to centers for the production and distribution of orthodox knowledge that derived their significance from sanctified locations. Due to the prestige allotted to them, these sites usually enjoyed political patronage and material resources, thereby building up social and economic networks—assets that also endowed them with public appeal. The talmudic academies of late antiquity and medieval Palestine and Babylonia, the madrasas (law colleges) and zawiyas (Sufi establishments) of medieval Cairo, Damascus, Baghdad, and Hijaz, the

Introduction 13

great madrasas of the Ottoman capital, and the hawzas ʿilmiyya (Shiʿi centers of higher learning) in the sacred cities of Najaf and Karbala come to mind. Such prestigious centers of religious learning also constituted a focus for seekers of knowledge and social status who came from peripheral regions and a nucleus for a wide scholastic network that built up authority and later exported it to far-flung areas. For example, students from North Africa, Asia, and the Indian subcontinent came to study at al-Azhar from the Middle Ages until modern times, gaining authority when they returned to their home country.26 Rivalry among various centers of learning and guidance over seniority, resources, and students made the issue of establishing authority all the more challenging. Added to this multifaceted picture were emerging new centers, some of them revolving around holy figures in their lifetimes or after their deaths. Yet the transmission of knowledge and authority retained an ­informal, personal character. Companionship (suhba) has constituted the pillar of social organization in the Islamic institutions of legal learning—the madrasas—ever since they made their appearance in the late eleventh century. This dynamic may be seen both as the cause and as the result of the crystallization of the informal character of the Islamic educational system. What mattered was with whom one studied rather than where one studied. Teaching took place in “circles” centered on a particular reputable shaykh who would determine the acceptance of students and the sequence and method of all instruction and would confer his personal authority over the texts or body of knowledge transmitted. Nor did the madrasa have a rigid hierarchical organization similar to that of the Babylonian yeshiva or the European university of the time. Similarly, the ordination of disciples preserved a traditional character: a personal permit (ijaza) was granted by the teacher to indicate that the student could then pass on a particular text to others, never developing into a formal diploma such as the licentia docendi granted by the European university with the approval of the church authorities.27 The foundations of this personalized pattern of religious authority were laid long before the establishment and spread of madrasas. By hearing a certain text directly from their masters, and eventually receiving an ijaza from them to pass it on, the disciples became a link in a chain (isnad) of personal authority extending back to the author of that text or in the case of the hadith to the Prophet himself. This vertical chain, which began as the principal source of the authenticity of the hadith and developed into an authoritative principle used to elaborate Islamic law and

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dogma, bore another advantage as well. The chain of transmitters linked the students to their intellectual ancestors and established them as part of the Muslim elite of “knowledge holders.”28 This “genealogical” tradition of establishing religious authority supported the crystallization of the madhhabs as the nucleus of scholarly and social communities that functioned as a network of identity, solidarity, and exclusion, while reaching out to the masses. Similarly, the Babylonian talmudic community also functioned on the basis of a pedigree of knowledge handed down from master to disciple, which sustained its authority and ensured its hegemony over its counterparts in Palestine, as described in this volume by Meir Ben Shahar. The Sufi tradition constructed its own genealogies of authority. Two principal forms of isnad to the Prophet were cultivated. The first was known as the “chain of companionship” (isnad al-suhba) or the “chain of purification” (isnad al-tazkiya). Originating in early Islam, this form was based on the sensible premise that if the Companions, who spent many years in the Prophet’s company, learned his pious and God-fearing ways from him, so too would any committed students of the Sufi shaykhs in subsequent generations. The second form, known as silsila, represented the chain of transmission of esoteric knowledge and blessing from ­master to disciple, going back to the Prophet.29 Sufi shaykhs, acknowledged as part of a silsila, acquired the authority necessary to transmit sacred knowledge and guidance along a particular spiritual path. New, more institutionalized rituals gradually emerged to enhance the student’s submission to the master’s authority and spiritual lineage, including the adoption of vigils, litanies, devotions, and other forms of worship, most notably “remembrance,” or repeated mention of God’s name (dhikr) accompanied by dance. The performance of these rituals and their routinization furthered the concentration of authority in particular shaykhs and contributed to the identification of their disciples and other followers as members of tariqas—fraternities or orders, as they came to be known in Western literature. The centrality of the relationships forged between teachers and disciples extended well beyond teaching and were viewed as a personal binding commitment. These relationships acquired substance and concreteness as basic as that exemplified by such legally recognized institutions as madhhabs or madrasas. Michael Winter’s account in this volume points out that a common strategy adopted by ambitious Arab-speaking students and ʿulamaʾ from various parts of the Middle East was to choose

Introduction 15

a famous scholar in the Ottoman capital as their mentor and patron and remain in his milieu indefinitely, far from home. Such a relationship was called mulazama, meaning close adherence. The power of the master-disciple tie appears most vividly in the Sufi milieu. The linkages between them are described in Sufi literature as surpassing all other personal connections in terms of attachment and reciprocal obligations. The shaykh is viewed as the living heir of the Prophet, and the relationship between a shaykh and his disciple as similar to that between the Companions and the Prophet. This depiction was clearly manifested in practice. Disciples clung to their shaykh, showing unquestioning obedience. The shaykh, for his part, monitored their conduct closely and was devoted to serving their needs. The centrality of the master-disciple tie in Sufism has remained largely intact to this day, serving as both a key metaphor and a key practice by which authority is legitimated. Moreover, Muslims still see themselves as disciples and followers of a particular shaykh rather than identifying themselves as members of a Sufi order or simply as Sufis. Apart from the practices and institutions related to the transmission of religious knowledge and spiritual guidance, specific textual formats reinforce and sustain authority. These include canonical texts; compilations of legal opinions (fatwas and, in Judaism, rabbinical responses) attributed to founders of specific groups, which serve as a source of guidance and adherence by followers; and biographical dictionaries, which entrench and commemorate the lineage of a particular legal school or spiritual route, thereby providing historical, intellectual, and mythical depth. Biographies, which, as in Judaism, can be classified as a moral or ethical genre, have also acquired a modern usage in Islamist movements. In producing hagiographic literature consisting of wills and life stories to commemorate their martyrs, these movements enhance their own status as well. In the Sufi context, handbooks for seekers of the Path served as a vehicle for defining spiritual progress, commanding the path to God, and controlling affiliation with the genuine Sufis. Guidebooks to saintly tombs, Sufi and non-Sufi alike, were written as far back as medieval Greater Syria and Egypt, directing pilgrims and travelers to sacred sites and commemorating the elevated status of righteous figures known or believed to be buried there.30 Additional reinforcement is provided by ceremonies and processions in the public sphere such as the mawlids (anniversaries of saints), which may be classified as visible commemorations that project authority by

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highlighting the social status and hierarchy of religious authority figures. Such ceremonies constitute an optimal expression of faith as a social practice.31 Rituals that heighten a certain object and stimulate the senses of sight, taste, and smell also play a substantial role in enhancing and sustaining religious ­authority and spiritual power. The investiture of the Sufi robe, the display of a picture of a lay preacher in a traditional ethnic synagogue in contemporary Israel, and spreading the scent of musk throughout the house of a Salafi jihad martyr are examples of the power of the corporeal and the material in projecting authority.32

Polarization and Fragmentation Although these traditional devices for building and sustaining authority enabled ʿulamaʾ and Sufis to maintain their role as the custodians of faith throughout Muslim history, at times this role was contested, as shown by Nelly Hanna in her study of book production in Cairo between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries, In Praise of Books (2003). Hanna highlights the role of a middle class consisting of merchants, minor bureaucrats, and artisans with sufficient means, leisure, and education to produce literary works that were often nonreligious in outlook.33 This sector nevertheless remained marginal in the cultural and intellectual milieu, which was essentially dominated by the religious scholarly elite. A much more profound and lasting challenge to traditional modes of learning and the very bases of religious authority stemmed from internal dynamics. In the course of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries the “independent judgment” (ijtihad) traditions of the formative period were renewed in both jurisprudence and Sufism. The Wahhabis in the Arabian Peninsula and legal scholars and Sufi shaykhs in various parts of the Muslim World negated the taqlid of the madhhabs’ traditions and urged the return to ijtihad, the sources of revelation, and the path of the righteous “founding fathers” (al-salaf) as the basis for religious revival (tajdid).34 Similarly, they took pains to rebuke and root out whatever they considered to be deviations from the ordinances of the holy law and the sacred traditions. They were followed by the intellectual pioneers of Salafism—most famously Jalal al-Din al-Afghani, Muhammad ʿAbduh, and Rashid Rida—who articulated ways of facing the Western challenge and paved the road for new modes of learning and new bases and practices of religious and spiritual authority.35

Introduction 17

The Muslim encounter with modernity from the nineteenth century onward resulted in an expansion of secular education, the rise of a literate public, and a proliferation of print culture. These developments engendered a strong polarization in religious knowledge, the fragmentation of sacred authority, and altered social norms.36 Prolonged education under a learned master was no longer considered a prime requirement of legitimate learning. The religious learning community became more fragile, and an open space was created for competing cultural agents and narratives—­ modernist and radical alike. Some had a political agenda, debating such loaded issues as the status of women and religious minorities, the role of Islam in the state, and the implementation of the Shariʿa. The t­ echnological transformations of the times, mainly the electronic and digital revolution, played a key role. The mass media created a complex communicative sphere in which contested discourses shaped diverse concepts of the sacred texts. This was especially true regarding the impact of the Internet in creating what Jon Anderson has termed “public Islam,” namely, an online Islam that was often challenging the authority of its official spokespeople. The new media thus became an important lever in the deconstruction of religious authority.37 The proliferation of media venues was closely linked to social transformations, especially the emergence of a new stratum of intellectuals, mainly lay, who were educated in modern schools and universities that in contrast to traditional education emphasized practical knowledge and the training of citizens for an active role in communal life. As a result, the dominant center of ideological discourse and cultural norms passed from the religious learning community to members of the free professions, including government officials, lawyers, teachers, university students, engineers, bureaucrats, business leaders and financial managers, army officers, and politicians.38 Moreover, the reforms introduced by the state in the Islamic educational system and in the mosques, as in Egypt and Jordan, aimed at assuring closer supervision and better adaptation to modern circumstances, produced low-level religious functionaries with only partial religious knowledge. Some were attracted to the defiant agenda of the Islamic movements, thereby diffusing the status of the ʿulamaʾ sector.39 The fragmentation of religious authority was manifested especially in the Sunni orbit and much less in the Shiʿi one, given the relatively distant relationship of Shiʿi mujtahids (who stressed the use of reason as a source of law) with the state, their theological credibility as the trustees

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of the imams, and their effective social networks. These assets gave Shiʿi ʿulamaʾ an advantage over other agents of change in society, especially when they became the masters in Iran in the wake of the Islamic Revolution. The main challenge to their leadership actually sprang up within their own clerical ranks, led by reformist ʿulamaʾ rather than by the “new intellectuals.”40 Viewed in a comparative perspective, the Sunni reality of eroded authority may apply as well to the situation of rabbinic authority in late nineteenth-century Eastern Europe due to the Haskalah (enlightenment) movement, or in Israel today, while the Shiʿi picture of sustained authority might replicate the courtyards of hasidic rabbis (admors) in certain ultra-orthodox communities in the West and in contemporary Israel. Religious knowledge in modern times continued to be an active process of redefinition, but ʿulamaʾ and Sufis were no longer the sole arbiters. Have they completed their historic role? Surely not. They do not resemble the Amish or Buddhist monks, who seclude themselves from the modern world. The authority of the ʿulamaʾ and Sufis was gravely challenged but was not destroyed. They thrust themselves into the ­public sphere during the latter twentieth century, embracing new information technologies and reinvigorating their ideological and organizational structures. Their abiding affinity with the state served as a facilitating factor. Some have adopted a moderate approach, while many others adhere to a more conservative one. All, however, continue to constitute a significant part of the modern Muslim experience, contributing to the public debate on cultural, social, and even political issues and incorporating the global Islamic trend of preaching and establishing daʿwa (communal) networks. This vitality is true of the Azharis in Cairo, the Wahhabis in Riyadh (mainly under the aegis of the Muslim World League), and the Naqshbandi Sufis in Beirut and Ankara. Notably, a number of Naqshbandi branches in the Turkish domain have remolded Islam into a capitalistic and entrepreneurial culture that has spurred the establishment of a flourishing civil society and a new Islamic discourse that rejects slogans such as “Islamic revolution,” “the implementation of the Shariʿa,” and “an Islamic state.” This progressive interpretation of Islam has also been disseminated in communities of Turkish immigrants in central Asia and in Europe. Ironically, the Naqshbandiyya, known historically for its affinity for orthodoxy by emphasizing the centrality of the Shariʿa and its opposition to Sufi ceremonies that

Introduction 19

include music and dancing, generated strong modern and liberal trends in the contemporary period.41 The continued presence of ʿulamaʾ in the Muslim public sphere ensured a diverse religious discourse and sustained the struggle over the image of Islam in the eyes of its believers and foreign observers alike. At times ʿulamaʾ confronted their rivals in the community of new intellectuals, such as liberals and leftists, with intensity, depicting them as preaching secularism and atheism. Mainly, though, they directed their attacks at Islamists, criticizing their meager religious knowledge as distorting the image of Islam and exhorting them to repent and accept guidance from the ʿulamaʾ in order to return to the right path. One example was Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz b. Baz, mufti of the Saudi Kingdom (d. 1999), who ruled that a preacher (daʿiya) must demonstrate religious expertise and a vigorous commitment to master legal literature. Another shaykh, the Albanian-born Nasir al-Din al-Albani (d. 1999), who lived part of his life in Saudi Arabia, stressed the importance of knowledge of the Arabic language and grammar and the principle of al-nasikh wa l-mansukh (abrogation) as a prerequisite for interpreting Qurʾanic verses. His colleague Muhammad b. Salih al-ʿUthaymin (d. 2001) ruled that slighting the reputation of the ʿulamaʾ and inciting against them was a grave sin. The issue is not personal insult, he emphasized, but rather a slight against the legacy of the Prophet, for the ʿulamaʾ are the “heirs of the prophets.” Any undermining of their status will thus detract from believers’ confidence in religious knowledge and in the Shariʿa that emanates from it.42 Even ʿulamaʾ who served as leaders or mentors for protest Islamic movements and opposed the religious establishment, such as Saʿid Hawwa (d. 1989), ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam (d. 1989), and Yusuf al-Qaradawi (b. 1943), refrained from sweeping anti-ʿulamaʾ polemics. In their view every field has its experts, and the field of the Shariʿa and its interpretation is the province of ʿulamaʾ, whose authority must be respected and whose opinions must be sought in matters of ritual and law. Such religious guidance, however, must be sought only from ʿulamaʾ of integrity and loyalty to the word of God.43 Sufi masters, for their part, defended themselves with alacrity against attacks against them, accusing Islamist circles of religious ignorance and heresy and of tarnishing Islam with ruthlessness and violence in the eyes of the world. Sufi fraternities also made efforts to rid themselves of a negative image that accrued to them over time through local and foreign detractors (through accusations of religious deviation) by highlighting their

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loyalty to the Shariʿa injunctions and moderating such disputed rituals as the dhikr ceremonies and the cult of saints.44 ʿUlamaʾ and Sufis also extended the boundaries of their polemical and religious activity to the Western arena, especially in the wake of large waves of emigration by Muslims to Europe and North America in the mid-1960s and thereafter. Globalization played an important role in this development, stimulating a flow of capital, information, and people to all parts of the world. Both human and technological mobility apparently benefited not only Salafi circles such as the Muslim Brethren or revolutionaries such as al-Qaʿida but also the religious establishment and the Sufi fraternities. Globalization granted them opportunities to acquire new audiences that had been out of reach in the past, thereby creating transnational communities of followers.45 ʿUlamaʾ made efforts to regain some of their religious authority by making known their views on contentious news-making international episodes, such as the veil issue in France in 1989 and 2003 and the caricatures of the Prophet Muhammad in a Danish newspaper in 2005. Following the attacks of September 11, 2001, ʿulamaʾ were also involved in rebutting American talk of a cultural war and played an active role in issuing fatwas boycotting American and Western goods.46 Important efforts were also made to establish international judicial forums that would, inter alia, provide solutions to dilemmas and challenges facing Muslim minority communities in Europe, such as the veil issue, mixed marriages, participation in elections, and the military draft. A prominent example of the globalization of religious authority was provided by the International Union of Muslim Scholars (IUMS), founded in 2004, which has over 500 members throughout the Arab and Muslim world today. The center of the organization was established in Dublin, headed by the Egyptian Shaykh Yusuf al-Qaradawi. Its declared goal, as it appears in the organization’s charter, is to heighten coordination and cooperation among ʿulamaʾ and to serve as a source of authoritative guidance for Muslims throughout the world. Special attention is given to the development of a new legal field that supports pluralism and tolerance in the schools of law in order to cope better with the challenges of modernity, as discussed by Muhammad al-Atawneh in this volume.47 Several of the Sufi fraternities that are active on a global level, such as branches of the Naqshbandiyya and the Khalwatiyya, also underwent ideological and organizational transformations, accommodating themselves to changing circumstances. They promoted a spiritual agenda that emphasized the improvement of the soul and projected a softer, more

Introduction 21

pacifistic image of Islam, attracting followers in Europe and the United States who perceived their own culture as materialistic and decadent and sought a more spiritual lifestyle. Sufi orders served as an intercultural bridge between East and West in these interactions. Some of these fraternities abroad preserved their Islamic character and provided social and psychological support for Muslim immigrant communities; others integrated into the broader and more eclectic spiritual trend of the New Age era.48 A glimpse of Judaism in modern times reveals a similar picture in terms of the vitality of the institution of the rabbinate despite predictions to the contrary by the educated Jewish elite and in its wake the academic research community.49 Haim Gertner makes a strong case in this volume regarding the rabbinate in central and Eastern Europe in the late nineteenth century, which did not fade away and disappear in the face of modernity and the rise of the Haskalah but instead developed new strategies to deal with them. Rabbinic accommodation, and the rabbis’ assertive struggle against “the freedom of the pulpit,” to use Marc Saperstein’s words,50 was reflected in various ways: the use of new communication means to publish a wide range of rabbinical literature; renewing the structure and curriculum of the traditional study hall (beit midrash) for training scholars; and developing new modes of preaching, such as delivering sermons in German (instead of Yiddish) and using folk culture to interest the listeners.51 Similarly the ultra-orthodox Ashkenazi scholarly world in Israel faced a crisis of legal authority as a result of ongoing friction with modern secular Israeli society as well as the emergence of lower-level religious ­leaders whose authority was not based on scholarship or mysticism and thus presented a challenge. This situation was evident as well in the Sephardic ultra-orthodox community, where a teshuva (repentance) movement accelerated from the 1980s onward, supporting the development of l­ ocal community authority centered on synagogues, some of them led by lay preachers. These preachers were not trained in yeshivas and lacked a religious education, thereby undermining the authority, traditions, and restrictions of the ultra-orthodox community. Some adopted mystical practices and were perceived as pious figures and spiritual leaders, as discussed by Nissim Leon in this volume.52 In both the Ashkenazi and the Sephardic instances, however, the formal rabbinical elite and its sources of authority were retained, albeit with varied nuances reflecting changing realities. Admors (heads of yeshivas and interpreters of the legal tradition) remained an important focus of

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loyalty and obedience while utilizing the assets at their disposal, from educational institutions to prayer books, pamphlets, and media channels, including satellite dishes and the Internet.53 These platforms also served as a means of publicly distancing and ostracizing rivals and dissidents. For example, a pamphlet written by Rabbi Ovadia Yossef in 1986 that was included as an appendix in holiday prayer books forbade yeshiva students to study Kabbalah until they were proficient in Torah and religious legal studies, and even then under the stricture that the teacher was an accepted scholar with expertise in the hidden literature and known to be God-fearing.54

The Structure of the Book Introduced by an overview of the themes in their broader historical context, each of the three parts of this volume corresponds to a major phase in the construction and diffusion of religious and spiritual authority, with comparative Judaic perspectives. Part I, devoted to the formative period in Islamic history (AD 800–1000), examines the sources and types of authority developed in the Sunni milieu and the early evolution of elites consisting of arbiters of religious knowledge and practice who claimed to be the truthful interpreters and transmitters of the prophetic message. A chapter on the Shiʿi milieu shows how a similar evolution occurred in the formative period of Shiʿism: an elite of ʿulamaʾ, formulators and guardians of the tradition, arose as a practical solution to the gap between the notion of the imams as the sole legitimate heirs of the Prophet and the historical reality. An essay in the field of Jewish studies provides comparative and illustrative insights into the ideological and historical basis for the authority and superiority of the Babylonian sages. Part II illuminates the devices used to control knowledge and build legal and spiritual authority in various settings in the course of the middle period that stretched between the emergence of the regimes of military lords in the eleventh century and the rise of the great Islamic empires in the early sixteenth century. The first two chapters demonstrate how authority was centralized in the hands of particular Sufi shaykhs and legal scholars and the institutions supporting them. At the same time they point to the differences between the ʿulamaʾ and the Sufis in terms of concepts and structures of authority as well as the dependence on the policies and patronage of the powerful, which culminated in the creation of a state-controlled religious establishment under the early Ottomans. A

Introduction 23

discussion of the erosion of the Babylonian academies’ control over the repository of rabbinic culture and the rise of the new autonomous Torah centers in Spain and North Africa under Islamic rule (beginning in the eleventh century) provides further insights into the social ramifications of the methods of diffusing legal texts and commenting on them. Part III is devoted to the modern period. It explores the changing trends in Islam by highlighting the profound changes in the affinity between religious knowledge and authority resulting from the pluralization of the religious discourse with the rise of the “new intellectuals”—both lay modernists and Islamists. These intellectuals burst into the public sphere, making intensive use of the print and electronic media in attracting new believers. A parallel can be found in the profile of the new Jewish preacher in the ultra-orthodox community in contemporary Israel. The chapters that follow examine how traditional agents of knowledge, both Sunni and Shiʿi, deal with the challenges of modernity and the fragmentation of religious authority. What approaches and methods have they adopted to preserve their status? Does their response also entail a perceptual change in the essence of religious knowledge? Have they succeeded in achieving their aims? These significant questions are raised by the contributors. A Jewish perspective is provided by an analysis of East European Jewry in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. In exploring the dynamic affinity of religious knowledge, authority, and charisma in premodern and modern Islamic societies, the discussions in this volume highlight the sociology of Islamic knowledge and its historical evolution from diffusion in early Islam to consolidation in medieval times and dramatic rediffusion in the modern era. Without having the final say, the volume offers further persuasive insights that suggest ­areas for future research.

I

Constructions of Religious Leadership in the Formative Period

Overview Maribel Fierro

In early eleventh century Cordoba four distinguished Maliki jurists were consulted about a case that had been brought before the judge. Sulayman al-Shaqqaq—a Cordoban follower of the preacher Abu l-ʿAbbas Ahmad b. Abi l-Rabiʿ al-Ilbiri with no entry in any Andalusi biographical dictionary and therefore someone of whom we know nothing except his actions that led him into trouble—had started calling people to prayer from the roof of a mosque in the middle of the night. He then prayed aloud until dawn. Two jurists were of the opinion that he had to stop that practice and limit himself to following the obligatory prayers according to the precedents established in the Maliki legal school. The two other jurists cited Qurʾanic verses, prophetic traditions, and also Maliki legal opinions on the benefit of praying at any hour and in any place. They held that al-Shaqqaq should not be stopped and that his case should never have been brought to the qadi’s court. This event can be dated to around the time when the Cordoban Umayyad caliphate was abolished (1031), Sufism became a recognizable trend in the Andalusi religious landscape, and an alternative to Malikism (namely, the anti-madhhab Zahiri doctrines) began to gain adepts, among them ʿAli b. Ahmad b. Saʿid Ibn Hazm. Within this early eleventh century context, the legal case of Ibn al-Shaqqaq and other cases reflect contemporary concerns about religious authority.1 Should such authority be linked to adherence to God’s revelation, to the doctrines of a specific legal school, or to piety and religious activism? Does religious authority have its source in humans beings whose genealogical excellence and/or knowledge puts them above the rest or in a method of reasoning? These modalities do not exclude each other, but emphasis tends to be put on one or the other according to specific circumstances and especially in polemical contexts. The authority of the Hanbali al-Barbahari (d. 941), as noted by Nimrod Hurvitz (chapter 1), was based on piety and a radical religious activism, rooted in his conviction that believers had to take part in fighting religious deviation. This activism made him a major player in the religious

27

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politics of early tenth century Baghdad to the extent of being called its “Sunni caliph”—an intriguing description about whose import and ­local resonances we would like to know more. Al-Barbahari’s inclusion in biographical dictionaries devoted to ʿulamaʾ fails to prove any solid credentials in terms of religious knowledge.2 Only two teachers are listed: the Hanbali al-Marwadhi—himself not an accomplished jurist—and the Sufi Sahl al-Tustari. This short list of teachers and the silence regarding any pupils fall short of the standard for scholarly achievements—to form part of a chain of transmission linking oneself to a number of i­ dentifiable teachers and to a number of identifiable students—although it offers food for thought. What exactly are the requirements for someone to become or be considered to be a scholar? The rich biographical literature devoted to ʿ­ ulamaʾ—the purpose of which is precisely to tell us who the scholars are, how they are trained, how they should behave, and how they relate to other sectors of society—displays a great variety of profiles.3 Reading biographical dictionaries of scholars can be compared to reading the list of members of a club: you can make out certain common features among them, but there are always cases in which you ask yourself why this one is in and this other is out. Clubs carry out a selection of those who have applied to be admitted, and authors of Islamic biographical dictionaries do the same. But the criteria for admission into a club are normally clearly outlined, even if not followed literally, whereas the criteria for inclusion or exclusion in the biographical dictionaries are not made as explicit as we would like.4 A biographical dictionary of Sunni scholars always offers a partial and subjective vision of who the scholars are. It is not the record of some kind of official graduates in religious scholarship but a selective compilation of those who—for different reasons and in different degrees—were connected in some way to the production, preservation, and reproduction of religious knowledge. The need for the scholars to make such compilations is precisely the lack of official records of “graduated” scholars. What is at stake is the creation of an esprit de corps through the pedagogical process and the preservation of the academic and social practices that make a scholar and, more fundamentally, that ensure the maintenance and reproduction of religious knowledge. Biographical dictionaries of Sunni scholars are also their presentation cards to believers at large and especially to the rulers, as if stating: “Here we are; and you need us because we are the heirs of the Prophet, and the interpretation of the Law with all that it involves is in our hands.”



Constructions of Religious Leadership in the Formative Period 29

The different conception of the Prophet’s inheritance determined that no biographical dictionaries of scholars were written under the Ismaʿili Fatimid imam-caliphs. In 909, a year after al-Barbahari had been referred to as “the Sunni caliph” by the rebel Abbasid prince Ibn al-Muʿtazz, the Fatimids became the rulers of Ifriqiya, where they established an Ismaʿili caliphate. The Fatimid imam was believed to have inherited the charismatic powers of the Prophet, could perform miracles, was infallible, and possessed supernatural knowledge,5 so in principle there was no need for jurists or interpreters of the law under his rule. The third Fatimid caliph, al-Mansur (r. 946–53), unambiguously upheld the divinely sanctioned authority of the imam in religious and legal matters. He issued a (now lost) compilation of religious law that, according to Wilferd Madelung, “was probably the first official Fatimid legal code . . . al-Mansur seems to have set forth his rulings without referring to the pronouncements of former imams or justifying them by legal reasoning, solely relying on his own authority as the infallible imam.”6 The Fatimid imams had reached power on the basis of the special formulation of the wasiyya model described by Ehud Krinis (chapter 3), while claiming that the appearance of the Mahdi was near,7 “under whose authority God shall gather His slaves, making him the king of the whole earth, and the religion of the world shall become one under him.”8 This implied the disappearance not only of Judaism and Christianity but also of the non-Ismaʿili versions of Islam. Eventually, however, the Fatimids mainly restricted the application of ­Ismaʿili law to the adherents of Ismaʿilism and accommodated the ­majority of their Sunni subjects as a legitimate community without recognizing them as true believers. All this went together with the abandonment of the initial Messianic expectations.9 Al-Mansur’s legal code was soon superseded by a work composed by the famous Ismaʿili judge al-Qadi al-Nuʿman (d. 974), whose legal writings aimed at the creation of a state madhhab issued from above that at the same time was simplified, moderate, and accessible to the masses and implied a rapprochement between Ismaʿili doctrine and the t­ heses of Sunnism. Crucial differences between Ismaʿilism and Sunnism persisted, however, such as in the definition of faith and the role of the imam. Al-Qadi al-Nuʿman wrote his legal works in close collaboration with the fourth Fatimid caliph, al-Muʿizz (r. 953–75) (or so it was claimed), because the Ismaʿili imam was the repository of all learning.10 The Fatimid religious elites were dependent on the imam in doctrinal, political, and economic terms; they were not scholars in the Sunni sense

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but propagandists and missionaries (duʿat).11 To my knowledge, no biographical dictionary of Ismaʿili “scholars” of the Fatimid caliphate was ever written, because it did not make sense in the Ismaʿili context of religious knowledge and authority. Ismaʿili missionaries wrote autobiographies, memoirs in which they recorded the services that they had rendered to the imam’s cause. The focus was therefore not on the group and how it related to society, but on the individual and his commitment to a charismatic leader and his mission.12 We also lack biographical dictionaries of Zahiri scholars produced by the Zahiris themselves,13 so their biographies have to be located, scattered around different kinds of compilations. A Spanish saying states that “opposites eventually touch”: despite being the opposite of Ismaʿili esotericism (batin), Zahirism in this respect comes close to Ismaʿilism, but for different reasons. Whereas Ismaʿilism had propagandists or missionaries committed to the transmission of the infallible knowledge of the imam, Zahirism, as shown by Camilla Adang (chapter 2), was an anti-madhhab trend that prohibited imitation of human authority, which was fallible by its very nature. Authority resided exclusively in God and His Revelation as conveyed to humankind through a special human being, Muhammad, who was the last of the prophets. Scholars were those who applied a correct methodology to understand God’s message without subtracting from it or adding to it. As Jonathan Brockopp has noted in this respect, the Zahiri school is the only one that is named after a method of legal analysis, while all others are organized on the basis of personal allegiances, like Sufi orders.14 The endeavor of the scholars within Zahirism always had to be individual, without indulging in the imitation of those who had preceded them. With no imitation or taqlid, there could be no school and therefore no special need to preserve the memory of fore­ fathers or masters. The Prophet had left his people with perfect knowledge. Believers should strive to preserve it as it had been given to the first generations of Muslims,15 in order to minimize the corruption brought about by time (fasad al-zaman). This was close to the “decline of the generations” after the destruction of the Second Temple dealt with by Gerald J. Blidstein (chapter 4). As Shiʿis, the Imamis are close to the Ismaʿilis in claiming an uninterrupted presence of divine inspiration among the chosen individuals of each generation, prophets and nonprophets alike. As Krinis makes very clear, for the Shiʿis each generation in human history has one chosen individual—be it a prophet or a trustee (wasi)—who is the sole legitimate



Constructions of Religious Leadership in the Formative Period 31

leader of the people of his time as a result of the divine favor and inspiration that he possesses. But Krinis points to a specific development within the Imami camp: even in the stage of the presence of the imam of a given generation the Imamiyya relied on broad circles of hadith transmitters, a development that did not take place among the Ismaʿilis. In this respect the Imamis became closer to the Sunnis than the Ismaʿilis and eventually produced biographical dictionaries of Imami scholars. According to Krinis, the decisive role played by the Imami circles of hadith transmitters during the formative stage of the eighth to ninth centuries was the main reason why, at the end of the process and after the acceptance of the imam’s occultation (ghayba), the Imami Shiʿis adopted a structure similar to that of the Sunnis: “a society of religious law in which the religious path was determined by the ʿulamaʾ as the guardians and formulators of tradition.” In both Imami Shiʿism and Sunnism the ʿulamaʾ became the victorious class. While in the Sunni case their legitimacy was based on the affinity of direct inheritance between them and the Prophet, in the Imami case that same legitimacy was based on the claim of continuity between the ʿulamaʾ and the imams. The different development taken by the Ismaʿilis would have been determined by its initial organization in the underground-hierarchical structure of the daʿwa. The organizational structure based on a strict hierarchy strengthened the status of those at its head and minimized the possibilities for the rise and prosperity of ʿulamaʾ-type scholars. Precisely because the Imamis’ imam became occult and failed in establishing a caliphate as the Ismaʿilis did,16 they had no choice but to merge into the Sunni environment in which they were now forced to live. Therefore they became more and more like Sunnis.17 On their part, having managed to carve out a caliphate for themselves, the Ismaʿilis did not have to become like Sunnis: they could take the hierarchical structure that is a basic component of Shiʿism to extremes. Their very powerful model influenced the development of Sunnism in both the eastern and the western lands.18 The establishment of an Ismaʿili caliphate on the other shore of the Mediterranean forced the Umayyads of al-Andalus to claim the caliphal title in 929 and to insist that correct knowledge and salvation in the territory under their rule was ensured not by an infallible imam but by the “infallible” doctrine of Malik and his pupils, which preserved the practice of Medina, the town where the Prophet had ruled.19 Perhaps the adoption of the caliphal title by the Umayyad ʿAbd al-Rahman III contributed to the Abbasid policy of cursing Muʿawiya b.

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Abi Sufyan that was instituted in Baghdad in 933. The Hanbali al-Barbahari reacted by mobilizing his “large and committed following” against such cursing associated with Shiʿism. It is worth noting that around this same time in al-Andalus the poet and man of letters Ibn ʿAbd Rabbihi, in his historical Urjuza, omitted the name of ʿAli as fourth caliph, replacing him with the Umayyad Muʿawiya b. Abi Sufyan. The qadi of Cordoba, the Zahiri Mundhir b. Saʿid, who happened to obtain a copy of the work, expressed his disapproval of the omission.20 Thus contemporary scholars in Cordoba and Baghdad stood up against the rulers’ attempt at defining correct belief and through their stance contributed to the doctrinal homogenization of Sunnism. As noted above, a distinctive feature of the Ismaʿilis is their lack of biographical dictionaries of scholars. This is not the only difference between Ismaʿilism and Sunnism. Sunni scholars are often portrayed as the mouthpiece of the populace (ʿamma) and the censors of the palace, listened to by the sovereign and feared by the aristocracy. Censure and criticism of the Sunni rulers on the part of a scholars, even if severe, is not really a threat to the rulers, because it actually helps strengthen them. The religious authority of the Sunni caliphs resides in their guaranteeing and protecting the religious law (Shariʿa), while the ʿulamaʾ are those ­responsible for the interpretation of that religious law.21 The caliph himself is bound to follow its regulations. Thus a Sunni caliph is reinforced if scholars under his rule or even the official preachers appointed by him remind him of the norms that he has to obey as a Muslim and censure him when he fails to do so. Only a good caliph, just and pious, would allow such admonishment and criticism, and the fact that the caliph is admonished and criticized closes the circle: the caliph is good, just, and pious. This kind of behavior has to be kept within certain physical and verbal limits, however, and going too far—as al-Barbahari was considered to have done for all his loyalty to the Abbasid caliph—would lead to repression. But in other cases a Sunni ruler drew political and religious gain from allowing public criticism of his acts and by showing repentance.22 Of course, this kind of behavior would be inadmissible with the Ismaʿili imam, who is infallible and closer to God than to humans. As a Sunni, al-Barbahari did censure the ruler and mobilized the masses around his program of reform. His leadership was closely connected with piety, a value that was being increasingly attached to the figure of the Prophet Muhammad.23 Nimrod Hurvitz (chapter 1) sees this form of leadership—different from that of the learned that concentrated



Constructions of Religious Leadership in the Formative Period 33

on the written word—as closer to that of the Sufis.24 We need to study to what extent this form of leadership was also present in the other legal schools at the time, especially taking into account that the combination of activist piety and scholarship tended to be seen with mistrust and concern as a venue leading to undesirable consequences not only by rulers but also by fellow scholars. Ibn Hanbal had put privacy above enforcement of what was right, and al-Barbahari went against this doctrine. It is not clear if his fellow Hanbalis criticized him or tried to stop him because of his violence or intolerance. Perhaps his behavior was considered the lesser evil in view of the gains that the Hanbalis could obtain in making the caliph recant his wrong policies. Ibn Hazm was also an activist, but one who did not appeal to the masses as al-Barbahari did. Among other factors, this could be because in the last part of his life he lived a life of exile away from the centers of power in al-Andalus. But perhaps it is worth asking the question of whether Ibn Hazm would have behaved as al-Barbahari did in order to bring about the changes that he thought were necessary to make true Islam triumph. My tentative answer is that he would not have thought it a correct way of doing things. Ibn Hazm was convinced that being believed or acted upon by a great number of people did not make something true. Truth resided in a correct understanding of the scope of Revelation; and that correct understanding involved the use of reason within the limits imposed by Revelation itself. Activism to unveil falsehood and bring truth to light had to be carried out through scholarship and through a pedagogical process in which all Muslims had to be involved, obviously taking into account that their capacities were different. Even if for Ibn Hazm no human being could be put at the same level as that of the Prophet Muhammad, he also thought that God had rendered certain individuals immune to falling into error, putting them firmly on the track of the pious ancestors from the early praiseworthy generations. They followed the customs of the Prophet, studied the Qurʾan, and abandoned taqlid. Ibn Hazm prayed that he might be counted among these virtuous people. We have here a hierarchy in the attainment of religious knowledge and authority,25 which is closely linked to the acceptance of logic and rational methodologies, as the opponent of Ibn Hazm states with the accusation that the Cordoban Zahiri relies on the books of the ancients and other heretics. Ibn Hazm goes to the point of saying of himself: “God be praised for the strong perception and perfect discernment that

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He gave us” and stating that “the ʿulamaʾ are divided into no more than two groups: either scholars who agree [with us] or scholars whose ijtihad led them to disagree with me, and these latter either behave like [true] scholars, fair in their objections and using proof, not random, confused talk and stupidity in their address, or they restrain themselves and remain silent.”26 While proud of his own rational and scholarly capacity and abilities, Ibn Hazm was adamant in his criticism of the veneration that members of the legal schools had for their founders and of the fact that they took them as models for emulation. He saw this practice as terribly dangerous and damaging for Islam and often made fun—with his very sharp tongue—of the extremes to which Malikis went in their praise and veneration of Malik. The manaqib literature produced in praise of the “founders” of the legal schools deserves to be studied more fully in connection with Shiʿi and Sufi veneration of their imams and saints. Al-Shafiʿi (d. 820) was granted the ability to look into the future.27 Al-Ruʿayni, a Maliki from Nasrid Granada who settled in Egypt, where he died in 1449, wrote a book on the merits of Malik b. Anas and the legal school of which he is considered to be the eponym. It makes fascinating reading: it contains much material illustrating the many blocks on which Islamic religious and legal authority has usually been built. Thus we find not only statements about Malik’s profound knowledge of religious matters but also anecdotes about his moral probity. For example, never having entered a public bath, his staunch dislike of innovators and heretics, his relationships with rulers and other officials, his endurance of the trials he was inflicted with (including a public parade during which he kept repeating the legal opinion for which he had been punished and insisting on its validity), and also the possibility of counting Malik among the Successors of the Prophet. We are also informed of other traits of his character, such as his forbearance when he was bitten by a scorpion sixteen times without stopping his reading of prophetic hadith. This kind of material transforms Malik b. Anas into someone out of the ordinary who shows clear signs of having been chosen for a special destiny. Al-Ruʿayni includes a report recording that Ibn al-Qasim, one of the most influential pupils of Malik, saw written on his master’s thigh “in the writing of Divine Power, ‘Malik is Allah’s proof against His creation.’” Although al-Ruʿayni considered this physical trait to be unlikely, he did record it, so that in spite of all the cautions about its improbability the



Constructions of Religious Leadership in the Formative Period 35

reader will be impressed by its theological implications. He also recorded that there was a secret between Malik and God and that the Abbasid caliph al-Mansur intended to write Malik’s famous legal treatise al-­ Muwattaʾ in letters of gold and have it hung on the Kaʿba to make people follow it, but Malik refused. This decision is to be regretted for the missed opportunity, according to the Granadan Maliki: had the c­ aliph carried out his plan, he would have “removed all the confusion and prejudice between people.”28 Timely decisions of this sort could have been as influential as the writing down of the Oral Torah (analyzed in chapter 4 by Blidstein). Divine gifts, such as those attributed to al-Shafiʿi or Malik, tend to be restricted to the founders, but other qualities of leadership are conferred on subsequent generations and sometimes even attributed again to other individuals. As Brockopp reminds us, the charismatic cycle never quite ends even though religious histories emphasize the uniqueness of the originating charismatic event.29 Ibn Hazm, however, did take this uniqueness seriously and to extremes. No one may be taken as a model to be emulated and thus be endowed with authority, except God’s Prophet who brought the final revelation and whose entire behavior was divinely inspired. Every believer—endowed by God with a certain capacity to understand His laws—has to make a personal effort of interpretation (ijtihad), looking into the sources of Revelation for God’s legal rule and that of His Messenger. Only if believers are unable to arrive at a solution must they turn to someone more learned. Adang has pointed to Ibn Hazm’s idealism and even naiveté in imagining such a context: how could a mufti be trusted to reflect in his responsum only God’s law and not his own opinion? We know that Ibn Hazm was very much concerned with the pedagogical process and that his vision of Islam necessarily entailed a program for the general education of the population. It also involved the necessity of delegitimizing the world of scholarship inherited from previous centuries with all the divergence of opinions that it had generated (also a central concern of Sherira Gaon, as noted by Blidstein).30 This Ibn Hazm did to extremes—quick to declare anyone who disagreed with him an unbeliever who would go straight to hell. But it also involved the necessity of a ruler who would ensure that those scholars could not regain their former authority, and this Ibn Hazm did not have.

1

Authority within the Hanbali Madhhab The Case of al-Barbahari Nimrod Hurvitz

This essay explores nonscholarly ways of constructing authority in the Hanbali madhhab. Ordinarily positions of authority and influence in the madhhabs were based upon a scholar’s professional reputation.1 This is the impression we get from the biographical dictionaries and historical accounts of the schools of law. The tendency to concentrate on scholars and scholarship, however, obscures the fact that the activities and concerns of the members of the madhhabs were not limited to the articulation of legal doctrine. In some cases they were involved in theological debates and in other cases in confrontations over moral issues. Furthermore, they were huge communities that were able to mobilize the masses and as a result were also involved in local politics. By the tenth century the madhhabs had recruited large followings and regulated the social and religious life of their members. It stands to reason that in some cases the authoritative figures who led the lay adherents of the madhhabs were not outstanding experts of law but rather individuals whose religious prestige was based on other factors, such as piety and moral activism. It is this type of leadership that is examined here.2 Several currents and communities placed a high premium on nonscholarly leadership. They are addressed in the concluding remarks of this study. This essay concentrates on the Hanbalis, one of the earliest and best known movements, often led by individuals whose main claim to fame was piety and activism. In some cases these leaders were not the outstanding scholars of their age and their authority was not based solely on their legal expertise. In fact some of them were probably mediocre scholars who contributed very little to Hanbali legal thought. One of them

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Authority within the Hanbali Madhhab 37

was Abu Bakr al-Marwadhi (d. 888), who was one of Ibn Hanbal’s closest confidants and went on to become an influential figure in Hanbali circles after the death of Ibn Hanbal.3 Marwadhi, who was on intimate terms with Ibn Hanbal and spent a great deal of time with him, wrote down his master’s opinions on a variety of issues and passed this information on to his many students. However, he was not recognized by scholars of his age as a knowledgeable master of hadith or as a jurist to whom people turned for advice. Yet despite this unimpressive intellectual profile, Marwadhi was known as one of the most influential Hanbalis of his age. Another well-known figure who enjoyed a position of leadership among the Hanbalis was Sharif Abu Jaʿfar al-Hashimi (d. 1078), who was an important scholar in his day. However, his historic role and leadership were the outcome of his zealous struggle against deviants. Michael Cook has described the sharif as “[a] great zealot against wrong (munkar) in general, and heresy in particular.”4 The Hanbali tendency to emphasize moral activism and place such activists in positions of leadership should not come as a surprise. Even Ibn Hanbal, who was an outstanding h ­ adith scholar and a very influential jurist, was reluctant to transform the Hanbalis into a madhhab but encouraged his disciples to act piously and thought that piety was a solid basis for the position of leadership.5 The Hanbali leader examined in this essay is Muhammad al-­Barbahari (d. 941), the well-known and powerful leader of the Baghdadi Hanbalis during the first decades of the tenth century. This study examines the image of al-Barbahari from two perspectives: first, as it is depicted in the biographic dictionaries; and second, in terms of the scope of his influence in Baghdadi society as it appears in the chronicles. The third part of the essay examines al-Barbahari’s leadership features (that is, his nonscholarly type of authority) in a wider historical setting.

al-Barbahari Biographical Dictionaries In the century following Ibn Hanbal’s death al-Barbahari was the most famous and influential Hanbali leader. He received a great deal of attention from Hanbali sources, was mentioned in a variety of non-Hanbali biographical dictionaries, and attained unmatched notoriety in the chronicles that described the first decades of the tenth century. Despite his fame, however, he was clearly not a typical leader of a madhhab,

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because he was not mentioned by contemporary or later Hanbalis as a notable jurist.6 The opening paragraph of al-Barbahari’s entry in the Tabaqat al-hanabila begins with the following words: “shaykh al-taʾifa (leader of the faction) in his age.”7 This is followed by laudatory remarks noting his efforts to root out heretical ideas. The paragraph ends with a vague description of his knowledge. Thus the opening words of al-Barbahari’s very long biographical entry do not mention his knowledge of hadith and of Ibn Hanbal’s masaʾil (questions and answers) or his expertise in law (fiqh) in general. Similarly, most non-Hanbali biographical dictionaries refer to his influence but not his knowledge of any aspect of the law. The two most frequent terms they used are “shaykh” and raʾis (headmaster), both alluding to positions of leadership.8 Furthermore, where the biographic entries usually sketch a brief profile of the protagonist’s intellectual network (his teachers and disciples), in al-Barbahari’s entry we come across two names. The first is Marwadhi, who was a close companion of Ibn Hanbal and like his own disciple al-Barbahari was not an accomplished jurist. The other, Sahl al-Tustari (d. 896), was not renowned for his scholarship and was not a disciple of Ibn Hanbal but rather a well known Sufi who spent time with famous Sufi masters such as Dhu l-Nun.9 Al-Tustari was an important figure in the Sufi networks of his day. The biographical entry does not mention any other teachers or disciples. This exceptionally short list of teachers and the source’s silence regarding students suggest that al-­Barbahari played a minor role in the Hanbali scholarly network. Although authors of biographies of Hanbali jurists and hadith experts (muhaddithun) depict al-Barbahari as a minor intellectual figure, they do mention that he appeared in two forums. One of the two was “his mosque (masjid) in the alley of the rawashin.”10 The anecdote describes him as praising the renowned ascetic Abu al-Hasan b. al-Bashshar (d. 951), but it does not specify what sort of intellectual interaction was taking place in this forum.11 Was al-Barbahari preaching or teaching in his masjid? Was this simply a casual remark that someone overheard? Another anecdote that depicts him in the midst of a scholarly exchange is more informative. The story appears in an entry on Ibn Hanbal’s great-­ grandson, Muhammad, who participated in the regular study session (majlis) of al-Barbahari: “It was transmitted by Abu l-Qasim al-Azhari— dictated in the majlis of al-Barbahari—transmitted by my father, Ahmad b. Salih, transmitted by my grandfather, Ahmad b. Hanbal.”12 The session that was being led by al-Barbahari dealt with hadith. The specific topic of



Authority within the Hanbali Madhhab 39

conversation was a hadith that went back to ʿAʾisha, the Prophet’s wife. This terse story reveals that al-Barbahari taught hadith. Other than this basic fact, we know very little about his skills or status as a hadith scholar. Whereas these two anecdotes reveal very little about al-Barbahari’s intellectual activities, they do mention that he had a masjid and a regular majlis. Clearly, he had his own centers where he met with students and admirers. Furthermore, the Tabaqat al-hanabila informs its readers that al-Barbahari wrote about theology. A long entry cites extensive passages from one of his books, Sharh kitab al-sunna, which discusses theology, history, and politics of the Islamic tenets of faith but not legal matters. Thus the intellectual profile that appears in this Hanbali source is of a popular theologian and preacher rather than an expert in Hanbali legal doctrine. Another dimension that gets little attention in al-Barbahari’s biographies is his personal piety. The biographies include one brief anecdote in which he stood to inherit a large sum of money but refused to accept it.13 This topos of the rejection of large sums of money from family or patrons appears in the biographies of Ibn Hanbal. Interestingly, Ibn Hanbal did agree to accept his inheritance but rejected presents from the donors who wanted to help him.14 Al-Barbahari was seemingly even more stringent than his master regarding the acceptance of financial assistance. Most of the information that appears concerns al-Barbahari’s activities in the public sphere. A number of Hanbali anecdotes depict him as the defender of the faith who battled the heretics. These descriptions are in contrast with those of the non-Hanbali chroniclers, which portray al-Barbahari and his followers as hoodlums who upset the public order. Despite their contrasting perspectives, both sources recognize that he was a major player in the religious politics of Baghdad in the early tenth century. Chronicles The thirteenth-century chronicler ʿIzz al-Din ʿAli b. al-Athir depicts al-Barbahari as a widely recognized leader of the masses. In an anecdote that appears in al-Kamil fi l-taʾrikh, Ibn al-Athir writes about a coup instigated by the prince and poet Ibn al-Muʿtazz (d. 908). After an initial success, the tide turned against Ibn al-Muʿtazz. As he was about to lose the battle, he called to the inhabitants of Baghdad: “Oh, ye people of the community, call unto your Sunni caliph al-Barbahari.”15 The chronicler who recounts this affair feels that he needs to clarify why Ibn al-Muʿtazz

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made this unexpected appeal to al-Barbahari just as he was losing the battle: “the common people considered him [al-Barbahari] to be the leader of the Hanabila and the Sunnis, and they held him in great esteem, and [Ibn al-Muʿtazz] wanted to attract them to his cause.”16 Al-Barbahari did not join the rebel Ibn al-Muʿtazz, who was executed soon after these events. If this report is true, however, al-Barbahari’s abilities to mobilize the masses of Baghdad were widely known around the capital and had reached the ears of the members of the highest political echelons. Al-Barbahari’s name was mentioned within the ruler’s circle in another anecdote, about the caliph, sitting in his palace: “We have heard that while al-Barbahari was passing through the Western part [of Baghdad] he sneezed and his companions watched him [in apprehension] as their cries arose, to the extent that the caliph, who was sitting next to one of the spy-holes [in his palace] heard the clamor. The caliph asked about the noise, and when he was informed about its cause, he was astonished.”17 This event may never have taken place. Yet whether it occurred or not, the main point that Abu al-Husain Muhammad b. Abi Yaʿla, the author of the Tabaqat al-hanabila in which the anecdote appears, wanted to convey was that al-Barbahari had a large and loyal following. Much like the previous anecdote, this anecdote shows that al-Barbahari was perceived by the rulers of Baghdad as a popular leader with a large and committed following. This was obviously something they could not ignore as politicians, and they were probably quite disturbed by it. Even though the Hanbalis were a force to reckon with in the capital, the rulers instigated acts and policies that offended the Sunnis’ religious sensibilities. According to Ibn al-Athir, in the year 933 the authorities encouraged the cursing of Muʿawiya b. Abi Sufyan. Muʿawiya was one of the Prophet’s companions, the founder of the Umayyad dynasty and the arch-opponent of ʿAli. Obviously, the Shiʿis much despised him, and the act of cursing his name was meant to bolster the Shiʿites and embarrass the Sunnis. The Hanbalis would not put up with this. Ibn al-Athir describes the events that ensued: “The masses demonstrated. ʿAli b. Yalbaq [who gave the order to curse Muʿawiya] wanted to arrest al-Barbahari, the chief of the Hanabila, who, along with his companions, was instigating sedition. Al-Barbahari found out about this and fled. [Ibn Yalbaq] managed to arrest some of al-­Barbahari’s senior companions and send them on boats to Oman.”18 Ibn Yalbaq’s decision to persecute al-Barbahari and his companions



Authority within the Hanbali Madhhab 41

is another indication that the Hanbalis led the opposition to the caliphal establishment in tenth-century Baghdad. It is reasonable to conclude that the Hanbalis’ self-confidence had two components. First, they believed in the justness of their way. They deemed themselves the guardians of a faith that was constantly in jeopardy of going astray. Second, they were aware that they were one of the largest mass movements in Baghdad. Within three decades, under the stewardship of al-Barbahari, the Hanbalis went from being a well-known moral and theological movement to becoming the chief contesters of caliphal court culture. Probably more than a mere nuisance, they were becoming a threat. As a consequence we read that the rulers began to persecute the Hanbalis. Historians such as Ahmad b. Muhammad Miskawayh and Ibn al-Athir report that the caliph prohibited the gathering of any “two Hanbalite followers of Abu Mohammed al-Barbahari.” They specify that this step was followed by a search for al-Barbahari (who was in hiding) and his senior companions and explain that this policy was the outcome of relentless assaults on people by the Hanbalis and “stirring up strife.”19 This caliphal decree, along with ʿAli b. Yalbaq’s search for al-Barbahari and his companions, was testimony to the Hanbalis’ popularity and power and the extent to which they were motivated by a strong sense of moral and theological activism. It is important to note that the caliphal pressure on the Hanbalis was not the result of a direct Hanbali threat against the caliph. The ­Hanbalis were loyal to the caliphs throughout that period, including the years when their leaders went into hiding. But the caliphs’ policy was meant to prevent the social unrest that the Hanbalis had been fomenting in the first decades of the tenth century. The caliph’s decision to confront the Hanbalis, even though they were not disloyal to him, reveals that he considered them to be the source of another problem: they were the cause behind a great deal of social disturbance in the capital. Moreover, he identified them with forces that opposed and threatened the lifestyle and beliefs of many of the courtiers and members of his entourage. The ideology that lay behind al-Barbahari’s assaults on individuals who practiced modes of conduct that he considered immoral is encapsulated in the phrase “commanding good and forbidding evil” (al-­amr bi­-l-maʿruf wa-l-nahiy ʿan al-munkar: Q 3:104, 3:114). According to al-Barbahari’s interpretation of this Qurʾanic injunction, believers are obliged to intervene in each other’s moral behavior. In al-Barbahari’s words, “al-amr bi-l-maʿruf wa-l-nahiy ʿan al-munkar is obligatory except

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regarding persons whose sword or stick you fear.” In this statement al-Barbahari encouraged his followers to confront all sinners except the rulers, who possessed swords and were permitted to use them. In light of this statement it is hardly surprising that the Hanbalis willfully confronted all the inhabitants of Baghdad, for example, whose lax lifestyles offended them. The level of violence that al-Barbahari recommended is also interesting and sheds light on some of the events that occurred in Baghdad during his days. He states that al-amr should be performed “by the hand, by the tongue, and in the heart, but not with a sword.”20 In other words, it is legitimate to use some violence (hence the use of the hand) but not too much—and not weapons that can kill. This is congruent with the pattern of Hanbali behavior: they broke musical instruments and jugs of wine and beat up individuals that they deemed depraved but did not go so far as to kill sinners. In a detailed description of such Hanbali violence, Ibn al-Athir writes: “In that year [935] the Hanbali affair became more distressing as their fury intensified. They began to raid the houses of the commanders and of the common people, and if they found wine they poured it away, and if they found a singing girl they beat her and broke her instruments. They hindered buying and selling and delayed men who were walking along with women and youths, to question them about their companions.”21 Ibn al-Athir and other historians who wrote about these affairs create the impression that these incidents are spasmodic eruptions of the raging crowds. But this description, like others, indicates that the Hanbalis were implementing the principle of al-amr in their own violent way. Their attacks were often aimed at seemingly immoral actions such as consumption of wine, listening to music, and maintaining illicit relationships.22 There are a number of differences between the way that al-­Barbahari and his companions implemented this principle, however, and the way that Ibn Hanbal and his generation discussed “commanding good” and acted upon it. The first is the extent and nature of the use of force. Although al-amr was an important concern among Ibn Hanbal’s direct disciples, who asked him many questions about it, no evidence indicates that they were active practitioners of this principle. Furthermore, we have no evidence whatsoever that they acted in this way in groups. The Hanbali understanding of al-amr underwent a significant change some eighty years after the death of Ibn Hanbal, as they transformed it into a violent collective activity. Michael Cook describes “the new style of Hanbalite politics”: “al-Barbahari and his followers zealously applied their power to



Authority within the Hanbali Madhhab 43

taking action against innovators. Or as unsympathetic accounts describe it, the Hanbalites went wild: al-Barbahari’s Hanbalites were thus a serious problem for the police and a tribulation for Baghdadis who did not share their values.”23 A second feature of these descriptions of al-amr, which conflicted with Ibn Hanbal’s writings and his understanding of the principle, was privacy. In his conversations with his disciples Ibn Hanbal emphasized that steps against immoral acts and objects (such as wine, musical instruments, and games) were to be taken only against artifacts that were out in the open.24 If the vessel of wine or musical instruments were covered, for example, they ought to be left alone. These statements reveal that in Ibn Hanbal’s opinion privacy superseded al-amr. Ibn al-Athir’s description of Hanbalis (likely associated with al-Barbahari and his deputies) who entered into homes in order to find wine is the kind of behavior that Ibn Hanbal probably would have considered unacceptable. Ibn al-Athir’s description of tenth-century Hanbalis also refers to forms of conduct that Ibn Hanbal and his disciples did not discuss within the framework of al-amr, such as stopping couples in the streets and interrogating them about their relationship. These assaults, which al-Barbahari’s associates waged against unsuspecting individuals who were walking in the streets, are not mentioned in Ibn Hanbal’s dialogues with his disciples and therefore are not endorsed by him. Al-Barbahari’s disciples did not stop at that: they bullied and harassed individuals who belonged to other madhhabs. These eruptions of violence and intolerance, such as interrupting commerce in the markets, hitting singing girls, and dragging people to the police station, are a far cry from the way in which Ibn Hanbal perceived this principle. The historical sources that address al-Barbahari and his conduct depict him from two opposing perspectives. Some write with great admiration, while others mention him with disdain. But many of the facts seem very similar. Both admirers and enemies refer to his moral and religious activism: incessant preoccupation with the beliefs and daily conduct of Muslims. None of these sources mention al-Barbahari’s legal capabilities and achievements or any network of jurists. It stands to reason that highly respected legal works or outstanding students would have been mentioned if he had them. This combination of repeated references to religious activism and silence regarding his intellectual achievements leaves the impression that scholarly achievements were not an important component in al-­Barbahari’s profile. His authority was not based on intellectual

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accomplishments but rather on the mark that he left on Baghdad’s public sphere.

The Wider Context Having examined al-Barbahari’s biography and placed him in the context of the Hanbali madhhab a question remains: how common was the phenomenon of nonscholarly authority in the Islamic world? The answer is that the social presence of nonscholarly elements of authority was widespread and extended beyond the Hanbali madhhab. The following discussion situates piety and moral activism in other social contexts in which they were influential, such as Sufism and puritan movements. It is difficult to present an exact assessment of the extent to which nonscholarly factors influenced the standing and prestige of leaders because of the ideological biases that characterize the types of sources that discuss spiritual leaders. Piety and Authority Stories about piety that served to bolster the standing and image of individuals can be found in a number of religious circles. One of the most significant was the scholarly milieu. Reading through biographical dictionaries reveals that piety, in its varying manifestations, came to be a widespread pattern of conduct among the scholars. In some instances the scholars were called zahid (ascetic) or described as practitioners of zuhd (asceticism), while in others the descriptions were more detailed.25 Wael Hallaq, one of the leading historians of Islamic law, observed that “a new religious impulse accompanied by an ascetic piety that became the hallmark of the learned religious elite in general and of the jurists (fuqahaʾ) and later mystics in particular” developed as early as the seventh century.26 Numerous entries in biographical dictionaries indicate that in many cases there was an overlap between scholarship and piety and that piety became an important component in the ethos of the scholarly milieu. Yet the importance of piety in the process of status building extended beyond the scholarly milieu. One of the most interesting indications that piety was a means of attaining social capital was through the changes that entered contemporary versions of the Prophet’s biography. In the earliest versions of the Prophet’s biography, composed by Ibn Ishaq, the Prophet is presented as a leader in war (ghazawat) and peace (wufud, meaning the parties that came to establish alliances with him).27 In the ninth century,



Authority within the Hanbali Madhhab 45

however, a new dimension is added. Ibn Saʿd allots dozens of pages of information about the Prophet’s personal habits and presents him as leading a mildly ascetic lifestyle. The Prophet is perceived by most Islamic scholars as a role model, so it is clear that the insertion of such information about him reflected a strengthening of the pious ethos. For the most part the expressions of the ascetic style of the Prophet and scholars took on the nature of mild asceticism. Ascetic piety was also a central component in constructing ­authority in the Sufi milieu. Among some Sufis, pious behavior was taken even further: they adopted a variety of ascetic practices that reached the point of self-mortification. For example, al-Barbahari’s teacher, Sahl al-­Tustari, is famous for leading “a life of seclusion and introspection marked by austere asceticism, especially systematic hunger.”28 In part due to his reputation as an ascetic who imposed harsh self-mortification al-­Tustari was deemed a man with high spiritual standing when he came out of his seclusion. As a result he went on to establish an important circle of disciples. Al-Tustari’s biography illustrates how ascetic behavior was instrumental in the construction of his authority and leadership. Al-Tustari’s case was not exceptional. Sufi masters, most of whom were known as practitioners of ascetic lifestyles, established circles and centers with numerous adherents throughout the ninth century. This process, in which Sufis who were characterized by ascetic practices and high levels of religious introspection attracted a following that would disperse after the death of the master, was the first stage in the formation of Sufi brotherhoods. In the twelfth century the dynamic within the circles of followers changed. After the death of their master they did not disperse but rather stayed on and followed one of his disciples. This was the ­critical shift from circles to Sufi fraternities. From that point on the Sufi fraternities grew in numbers and became huge social movements after a few centuries. Yet one of the elements that withstood these organizational changes was the place of piety in their religious visions. The fraternities that underwent a process of institutionalization, and even wrote tracts of Sufi etiquette, inserted references to pious behavior in these regulations. Thus it is clear that asceticism was very common throughout the stages of Sufi history, and its practitioners won the respect of numerous adherents. Pious behavior remained an important component of Sufi ideologies and an effective means of attaining social status.29 The ascetic expressions of piety were a widespread phenomenon in several large milieus. Asceticism (zuhd) was perceived as the

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manifestation of morality and was highly admired. As a consequence it often served as the basis for construing the social standing of individuals and the attainment of authority. Religious Activism Al-Barbahari’s profile reveals yet another component used to build the authority of leaders—religious activism. Such activism is based upon a conception of the mutual moral responsibility of Muslims. It assumes that believers ought to make special efforts to correct wrong and to stop acts of deprivation of other Muslims. Such conduct is deemed to be a way of making society more moral. These notions of moral responsibility are embedded in the same Qurʾanic injunction of “commanding right and forbidding wrong.”30 The Qurʾanic statements do not specify what is right or wrong, however, or who ought to command and forbid or how this injunction is to be carried out. The Muslim believers get a little help from the prophetic tradition (hadith), which cites three ways of performing this duty—in the heart, by the mouth, or by the hand. Appearing several times in the Qurʾan as well as in a hadith, the notion of commanding and forbidding has guided the conduct of numerous believers who aspired to reform Islamic societies. Cook observes that this kind of conduct is usually ascribed to scholars. He writes about “a tendency to make scholars rather than laymen the primary agents of the duty.” For several reasons scholars seem to have been disproportionately represented among the religious activists who practiced commanding and forbidding. One reason, as Cook writes, is that biographical dictionaries tended to write about scholars and not about the rest of society. However, there are indications that it was not just a literary bias and that many Muslims expected the scholars to be active in “the art of rebuking rulers.” For example, Abu Hamid al-Ghazali (d. 1111) laments the silence of the scholars who stopped confronting rulers.31 He does not mention the Muslims at large, revealing that he expected scholars to be active in commanding and forbidding. Cook’s observations about scholars are certainly convincing, but his study seems to identify pious ascetics as another group who were disproportionately active in commanding and forbidding. Cook gives the example of “the ascetic Dahtham b. Qurran”: “as a traditionist he was a disaster . . . but he seems to have done better as a pietist.”32 A better-known and more significant example is Ibn Karram (d. 869), the founder of the Karramiyya, a widespread movement that was active in Iran during the



Authority within the Hanbali Madhhab 47

ninth to the thirteenth centuries.33 He was widely recognized as an ascetic and is referred to as “al-imam al-zahid Abu ʿAbdallah” in one of the sources.34 Ibn Karram had his own ideas about commanding right. He is reputed to have succeeded in changing the conduct of a number of young men who were drinking wine simply by talking to them and bringing them to a state in which they broke the “instruments of their depravity.”35 According to this report Ibn Karram performed this act of moral conversion while his adherents were watching. Hence, to some extent, this story illustrates how commanding and forbidding can serve to bolster the religious standing of its practitioner. It is not a coincidence that ascetics of different types were active practitioners of commanding and forbidding. Asceticism and commanding good stem from a similar moral posture. Both are adamantly opposed to unbridled expressions of passions. Hence both emphasize the disciplining of physical and sensual desires. Whereas asceticism is a form of self-discipline, commanding and forbidding are acts of imposing moral strictures on others. Together they purify the faith of immoral behavior. Many believers attributed to ascetics and religious activists the status of moral authority because they protected Islamic society from moral deterioration. By purifying the self or society these ascetics and activists cleansed Islam of the obstacles that stood in the way of a better and more moral society.

Conclusion: Nonscholarly Authority— Continuity and Change When we situate al-Barbahari’s biography within the context of the biographical dictionaries, it is easy to notice the exceptional features of his profile. Whereas most biographies address the scholarly abilities of their protagonists, al-Barbahari’s biography depicts his religious activism. Where most biographies place their protagonists within a network of teachers and students, al-Barbahari’s biography mentions two teachers and makes no reference to his students. Al-Barbahari comes across as an activist and not as a scholar. It is reasonable to assume that his authority and leadership were derived from his behavior rather than from his knowledge. Every once in a while the Hanbalis were led by individuals like al-­ Barbahari, which indicates the existence of nonscholarly religious leaders. But it is difficult to assess how widespread this phenomenon was. It is

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clear that the biographical dictionaries mention very few such cases. Yet the biographical dictionaries aim to record the lives of scholars and therefore tend to ignore nonscholarly leaders. Hence it is not possible at this point to present a thorough depiction of this type of leadership. If we approach the issue from a somewhat different angle and ask if nonscholarly elements contributed to the reputations of scholarly or nonscholarly leaders, we will find that pious and ascetic conduct was often praised in the entries of scholars in biographical dictionaries. Moreover, it was a crucial component in the biographies and reputations of Sufis and leaders of puritan movements such as the Khawarij, Muwahhidun, and Wahhabiyya. Therefore it can generally be said that nonscholarly elements were an important part of the reputation of many premodern leaders. This last point is important if we want to examine the question of continuity and change with regard to the authority of leaders of Islamic movements. It is often argued that one of the characteristics of modern Islamist movements is that they are led by individuals who have not had classic scholarly training. Hasan al-Banna, Sayyid Qutb, and Osama bin Laden, to name a few of the better-known ones, have not been trained in the leading scholarly institutions. What, then, is their claim to authority? On what basis can they position themselves as leaders of movements that aspire to lead the entire Islamic community? Most importantly, where do they fit in the scheme of Islamic history: are they a new phenomenon? This study demonstrates that modern leaders without classic scholarly training are not a new phenomenon. Al-Barbahari and leaders of Sufi orders and puritan movements have constructed their authority on the basis of their conduct and activism. This is the element of continuity that begins in the premodern period and continues into the twenty-first century. The difference between premodern and modern movements may be their number. Modern Islamist movements seem to be making their appearance in droves, while premodern puritan movements tended to be few and far between. Only after we widen the scope of our studies on the formation of premodern leaders and movements will we be able to go beyond such basic observations and present a nuanced and detailed narrative of religious leadership in the Islamic world. A second point worth noting is that nonscholarly and scholarly authority are not mutually exclusive. Some authoritative figures of tenth-century Hanbalism were renowned for their scholarship, while others were not. At the same time when al-Barbahari stood at the head



Authority within the Hanbali Madhhab 49

of a Hanbali movement that mobilized the masses of Baghdad and transformed them into a powerful political force, Hanbali scholars like Abu Bakr al-Khallal and Abu l-Qasim al-­Khiraqi collected Ibn Hanbal’s legal views, wrote them down, taught them to another generation of students, and reworked these countless legal opinions into abridged law books. In other words, we cannot speak of one type of leadership among tenth-century Hanbalis: we must look at the broad picture in which we find popular leaders standing alongside scholars. The status of these leaders did not derive from a formal position in the structure of the movement but rather from the support and respect that they won from their followers due to their intellectual abilities, mastery of legal knowledge, or relentless activism against individuals and movements that were deemed to threaten the integrity of Islam. Furthermore, the Hanbali movement was not hierarchical, so we need to perceive this movement as decentralized and horizontal. Hanbali authority and leadership were informal, as in most Islamic movements, based on persuasion rather than on institutionalized authority. The movement did not have a clear hierarchical structure that would define the roles and authority of its various leaders. In the twenty-first century many devout Muslims have a complicated relationship with the traditional scholars (ʿulamaʾ). Newly formed Islamic movements both criticize and admire traditional scholars. It is worth noting that throughout Islamic history there were several types of leaders, whose prestige stemmed from a variety of expressions of religiosity. Hence, when we study the authority of leaders of movements such as the Muslim Brethren and al-Qaʿida we need to bear in mind that they draw upon long-standing forms of authority.

2

Restoring the Prophet’s Authority, Rejecting Taqlid Ibn Hazm’s “Epistle to the One Who Shouts from Afar” Camilla Adang

Sometime in the first half of the eleventh century two scholars were evicted from the Great Mosque in Cordoba, where they had been teaching law to an ever growing number of students from among the common people. The order was issued by the town inspector of the Andalusian capital after he had received complaints from members of the Maliki religious establishment. The two scholars were forbidden to hold further sessions or to issue fatwas in the mosque. Several of their students were publicly humiliated or even sent to prison, so that their respective study circles soon disbanded. Hisham III al-Muʿtadd, the last of the Umayyad caliphs of al-Andalus, who had been petitioned by a Maliki religious scholar, ratified the decision.1 The caliph was not in Cordoba at the time, our source tells us, which enables us to date the event to the period between Rabiʿ II 418/June 1027 and Dhu l-Hijja 420/December 1029. Hisham had been elected caliph in June 1027 but finally took up residence in Cordoba and was officially instated at the end of 1029, only to be deposed two years later.2 It probably did not surprise anyone that the caliph did the Maliki scholars’ bidding in approving the removal of the two men: as early as the second Muslim century the Umayyad rulers of al-Andalus, first the emirs and after 929 the caliphs, had adopted the Maliki school of law as their official madhhab, giving it a monopoly in all matters religious. Not only did the overwhelming majority of the population profess allegiance to the school but virtually all religious and semireligious personnel, such as judges, notaries, preachers, market inspectors, and police officers, were

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Restoring the Prophet’s Authority, Rejecting Taqlid 51

Malikis. Other schools, such as the Hanafiyya and the Shafiʿiyya, which had successfully spread in the eastern parts of the Islamic world,3 were never able to establish a foothold in al-Andalus. The only challenge to Maliki supremacy came from the Zahiri school, which had originated in Baghdad at the end of the ninth century and was introduced to al-­ Andalus during the lifetime of its originator, Abu Sulayman Dawud b. ʿAli al-Isfahani (d. 884). The two scholars in question, Abu l-Khiyar Masʿud b. Muflit and his student Abu Muhammad ʿAli b. Hazm, belonged to this school of thought.4 What, now, did these Zahiris teach that so infuriated the Malikis of Cordoba that it prompted them to take such drastic measures? We possess no writings by Ibn Muflit, so we can only rely on works by and about Ibn Hazm,5 from which we can infer that they advocated a return to the principles of Islam as it had been before the creation of the schools of law (madhhabs) in the eighth through the tenth centuries: to the pristine religion that had been revealed by God to His Prophet Muhammad and was professed by his Companions and the following generation of Muslims as well as by a dwindling number of pious scholars who conscientiously followed in the Prophet’s footsteps. Unlike the other schools of law, including the Malikiyya, the Zahiris did not profess allegiance to the personae of the school’s eponymous founders and main teachers. Nor did they rely on the writings of any of these imams: the thought that an ordinary person could become someone’s religious reference point was completely unacceptable to them. In their view, the only one whose custom was to be emulated and whose words were to be accepted without any reservations was the Prophet Muhammad, who had been chosen by God to bring His final dispensation to humankind. Only the Prophet was infallible, so only following his divinely inspired practice and the book revealed to him would guarantee believers that they were on the straight path, ultimately leading to paradise. The Zahiris thus completely rejected any form of taqlid: the unquestioning following of an earlier authority whose teachings, so they said, were bound to deviate from those of the Prophet, because, unlike him, they were prone to error.6 For this reason they also rejected legal decisions based upon the personal opinions (raʾy) of the much revered imam Malik b. Anas (d. 796) and his immediate disciples,7 as well as rulings derived through analogical deduction (qiyas), all of which were regarded as subjective and arbitrary and therefore not conducive to the truth. They strongly condemned any attempt to determine the reasons

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behind God’s precepts and prohibitions (taʾlil). Instead of taqlid, the Zahiris encouraged personal inquiry into the sacred sources (ijtihad), which in their view was not the sole prerogative of legal scholars but rather the right, if not the duty, of every Muslim, of whatever gender or social status.8 Only someone who did not have the ability to search the scriptures independently was allowed to consult a truly learned scholar, who had to guarantee that his advice would be exclusively based on the Qurʾan and the hadith. These sacred sources were not to be subjected to interpretation, moreover, because God Himself announced in the Qurʾan that His revelation was brought to Muhammad “in a clear Arabic tongue” (Q 26:195) and as “explaining everything” (Q 16:89), so it needed no further analysis. Thus one must limit oneself to the external sense, the zahir, of the text—hence the name of the school. Their on the whole literal understanding of the sacred scriptures led the Zahiris to very interesting, often totally idiosyncratic, and not seldom irrational legal opinions that not only intensified their conflict with the Malikis but continue to baffle the minds of scholars of Islamic law today. In their opinion verses like “Today I have perfected your religion for you, completed My blessing upon you” (Q 5:3) clearly indicated that the religion of Islam had received its perfect form during the very lifetime of the Prophet and thus was not to be tampered with. What had been forbidden by God and His Prophet was forbidden forever to everyone; what had been prescribed by them was binding forever and on everyone; and no legal scholar had the right to declare licit what had been forbidden (tahlil) or to declare forbidden what God had allowed (tahrim) without a clear indication in the scriptures that this was called for. Likewise forbidden was restricting the applicability of laws of an originally general nature and generalizing the applicability of laws of an originally restricted nature. From the Zahiri point of view, whatever God and His Messenger had not expressly prohibited was allowed, and what they had not clearly imposed was left to one’s discretion.9 Jurisprudents who chose to ignore these fundamentals were straying from the right path and dragging those who followed in their footsteps down with them. A further characteristic tenet of the Zahiri school was that the only valid consensus to be followed was not that of the scholars of Medina, as the Malikis claimed, but that of the pious ancestors (salaf), and especially the consensus of the Prophet’s Companions, at least to the extent that it agreed with the Prophet’s teachings and actions. The opinions or customs of individual Companions or Followers, let alone later scholars (khalaf),



Restoring the Prophet’s Authority, Rejecting Taqlid 53

had no value whatsoever if they did not coincide with the Prophet’s utterances or practices. It is the Prophet, then, who is the exemplar for all human behavior. These views had far-reaching consequences for the relationship between the Zahiris of al-Andalus and their Maliki peers. Whereas Ibn Muflit took his ostracism hard and retreated from public life (which did not, however, stop the Malikis from harassing him), Ibn Hazm, who had already achieved some notoriety for his ill-fated political activities, left Cordoba and presented himself at the courts of several of the new, self-styled kings who ruled the petty states built on the ruins of the former caliphate.10 From a comment by the later Qadi Abu Bakr b. al-ʿArabi (d. 1148), the son of one of Ibn Hazm’s most loyal students but himself a fierce opponent of Zahirism, we may understand that Ibn Hazm attempted to incite some of the kings against the Maliki scholars, insinuating that they were guilty of unbelief and unacceptable innovations.11 In the end, however, Ibn Hazm himself became persona non grata at their courts, probably because he did not make a secret of his belief that the collapse of the caliphate and creation of kingdoms in which the laws of the Shariʿa were not respected, where non-Muslims were appointed to various key positions and illegitimate taxes were ­levied, was a deplorable development. In 1038 Ibn Hazm had the good fortune to be offered hospitality on the isle of Majorca by its governor, Ibn Rashiq. The latter, of scholarly disposition himself, apparently gave Ibn Hazm free rein to teach his Zahiri convictions. He seems to have been quite successful in spreading his views over a ten-year period. The local scholars were no match for him, for few if any of them possessed his dialectical skills or were as familiar with the Qurʾan and the hadith, as the Malikis had for centuries relied mainly on the works of jurisprudence produced within their school. Many of them had been profoundly suspicious of and even averse to the Sunna of the Prophet (which, they feared, would undermine their monopoly), so few of them had bothered to acquire a thorough knowledge of hadith.12 During a public debate on the island, Ibn Hazm was able to deliver a crushing defeat to a certain Ibn al-Bariya.13 Because of the latter’s behavior during the debate, Ibn Rashiq sent him to prison, although he was released after he had expressed remorse. Ibn al-Bariya may have taken his revenge by supplying damning information about Ibn Hazm’s activities in Majorca to a redoubtable opponent, the Cordoban mufti Abu l­ -Asbagh ʿIsa b. Sahl (d. 1093), who wrote one or more polemical treatises against Ibn Hazm (see below).14 It is clear that the Majorcan Malikis did

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not surrender easily. Another one of them, Abu ʿAbdallah Muhammad b. Saʿid,15 decided to enlist further outside help and appealed to Abu l-Walid Marwan al-Baji (d. 1081).16 Al-Baji was a skilled theologian and legal scholar and one of the few leading Malikis who agreed that taqlid was unsatisfactory and that the teachings of the school had to have a firm basis in the Qurʾan and the Sunna. He had spent many years in the East studying theology, law, and legal methodology. The two men confronted each other in a series of disputations, and this time Ibn Hazm could not prevail over his opponent. As a result he was forced to leave the island in 440/1048. After several more years of wandering in al-Andalus, with sojourns in Denia, Almeria, and Seville, where he may have witnessed the public burning of his books, Ibn Hazm felt compelled to withdraw to his family’s estate near the town of Niebla, where he died in 456/1064, leaving three or four sons and a handful of students who carried his torch as well as some four hundred works on a large variety of topics. Only a small number of these have come down to us, many of them marked by a caustic polemical tone. Although Ibn Hazm indiscriminately shoots his arrows at Christians and Jews as well as Muʿtazilis, Ashʿaris, Murjiʾis, Shiʿis, Kharijis, Hanafis, and other groups within Islam, the Malikis bear the brunt of his wrath. The text translated below, which in all likelihood dates from the period of Ibn Hazm’s residence in Majorca, is only a small example.

The Text The text presented here, the “Epistle in Refutation of the One Who Shouts from Afar,” is one of the many rasaʾil that Ibn Hazm wrote to real or fictitious correspondents. Most of them have come down to us in a single unique manuscript kept in the Süleymaniye Library in Istanbul and are available in an excellent edition by Ihsan ʿAbbas.17 In the introduction to the epistle Ibn Hazm states that he has received two anonymous letters in which the author attacks his views. After having replied to the first letter, he now proceeds to take apart the second one. As he does in various other epistles, he first provides the opponent’s arguments and subsequently refutes them, one by one. Thanks to this procedure we get an impression of the accusations that were leveled against Ibn Hazm. For although David Wasserstein is convinced that all the correspondents that Ibn Hazm addresses are fictitious, this does not seem to be the case here.18 Samir Kaddouri has argued plausibly that the “one who shouts from afar”



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(al-hatif min buʿd) was in fact Ibn Sahl (referred to above). It would seem that Ibn Sahl was being kept informed of the teachings that Ibn Hazm was spreading in Majorca by the rancorous Ibn al-Bariya. The arguments to which Ibn Hazm replies in his “Epistle” can also be found in a later refutation of Ibn Hazm by Ibn Sahl.19 It is not clear whether Ibn Hazm was really unaware of his detractor’s identity or whether he wanted to achieve a certain dramatic effect by claiming that his opponent was cowardly, hiding behind anonymity. In the following translation the division into paragraphs is from the edition by Ihsan ʿAbbas; the manuscript has no such divisions. Ibn Hazm’s replies are usually introduced with “said ʿAli” (ʿAli being his first name). Rather than provide a summary of the arguments and counterarguments (most of which are referred to above), I prefer to let Ibn Hazm speak for himself.

Epistle in Refutation of the One Who Shouts from Afar In the name of God the Merciful the Beneficent. From ʿAli b. Ahmad to the one who shouts from afar without being named or known. Praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds, and prayer be upon Muhammad, the Seal of the Prophets, and upon God’s privileged angels and the prophets He sent, and peace be upon the people of Islam. If you are one of them, o addressee, then what applies to them collectively also includes you, but if you are not, then you do not deserve to have peace invoked upon you. Now then, two letters reached me, on neither of which the author wrote his name. They are like something stolen and then disclaimed, like an illegitimate child disavowed; each of them disappears without leaving any traces, which are wiped out as if by desert winds. We replied to the first one in a manner necessitated by its author’s stupidity, and this is our reply to the second. 1. As for his taking refuge with God against the evil that He has visited on us, that is, our alleged slander of the leaders of the Muslims and the eminent believers, and our [supposedly] accusing them of ignorance, and saying about the religion of God what He has not authorized, this liar, who hides his name like a cat hides its excrement,20 should know that he takes refuge with God from something imaginary; God forbid that we should slander any of the eminent believers or leaders of the Muslims, or that we should accuse them of ignorance, or that we should say

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anything about God’s religion that He has not authorized; we have only been blamed for what he unjustly and impudently attributed to us in the manner [characteristic] of a generation that turns away from the Qurʾan and prophetic customs and professes raʾy and taqlid and knows nothing else, and contradicts every imam, salaf, or khalaf. Someone who exerts ijtihad and receives a single or a double reward for his efforts,21 on the other hand, does not unleash his tongue or give his speech free rein, saying things that will come back to harm him in this world and the next. 2. Then he said: You do not content yourself on this point with the Muslim scholars of our own time and those who lived before; no, you went beyond that, to the very Companions of your Prophet Muhammad, and you said that they produced new opinions that God (Exalted is He) did not authorize them to produce, and that after the death of their Prophet they innovated things that are not permitted. Said ʿAli: Know, you questioner, that you lied, but then no one is incapable of lying unless he is prevented from it by piety or shame. God forbid that we should attribute to the Companions any of the things you mentioned; how could it be so, when we praise God the Exalted for graciously inspiring us to proceed in accordance with their custom, which is: refraining from taqlid, rejecting qiyas, and following the Qurʾan and the prophetic customs. Only someone who describes [the Companions] in the terms you mentioned thinks that the latter’s sayings must not be written down, that their fatwas should not be sought, and that they are all in error except in what agrees with his own taqlid; these practices of yours no one can deny since they are so well known. Praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds! 3. Then he said: Would that I knew, if that is your view, in whose transmission you accept the reports about the customs of the Prophet. Said ʿAli: We have already told you that you are lying in what you attribute to us, and that we take our religion from the Companions; they constitute our proof in what they transmitted to us and in what they were agreed upon, even if they did not transmit the latter with a full isnad; after them we take the reports from the trustworthy Followers and the most learned transmitters, and so on from those muhaddithun who came after them; from them we take our religion and receive our Sunna. But you, o ignoramus, and the likes of you have dispensed with the Qurʾan in favor of raʾy and make do with taqlid instead of the customs of the Messenger of God. You do not make an effort to transmit a single report



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[about the Prophet] and do not occupy yourselves with the ruling of a single [Qurʾanic] verse; this is a matter you cannot deny. Would that I knew who your leader (imam) is in this disaster, and from whom you heard that he said: Dispense with the Qurʾan in favor of raʾy. God forbid that any Muslim, be he salif or khalif, would say this. As for us, we do not tire night or day, nor do we desist all our lives from writing down the rules of the Qurʾan—God be greatly praised—checking [the accuracy of ] the reports of the Messenger of God, learning the sayings of the Companions, the Followers, and the legal scholars after them (may God’s mercy be with all of them), and you cannot but admit this, even if grudgingly, and even if your belly is near to bursting with anger. Our way is that of the scholars of the nation, without disagreement from any of them. 4. Then he said: Are you sleeping, man? No, but you’re mad and ignorant, or pretending to be. Said ʿAli: We are awake once we wake up, and we sleep only when we go to sleep, God be praised. As for madness, God has protected us from it, our lasting thanks are due to Him, because we are not zealously attached to any one of the legal scholars over against another, and we do not acknowledge anyone save the Messenger of God, nor do we take anyone apart from God or His Messenger as our ally. How could we not assert this, when God granted us success in the religion of Islam, and in the creed of the people of the Sunna, the ashab al-hadith; He eased the way for us to follow the Qurʾan and the customs of the Messenger of God and the consensus of the believers, while you, together with the likes of you, established the road of raʾy and taqlid and have forsaken the Qurʾan and the Sunna. You yourself are the mad ignoramus, for you censure those who follow the Qurʾan and the Sunna and the consensus of the nation. These are the facts, and every Muslim will affirm that it is the truth with God. As for your describing us as ignorant, by my life, there is indeed much that we do not know and that others do; that is what it is like with all people, and above anyone endowed with knowledge there is always an Omniscient one. As for your saying that I am pretending not to know, this may be your own characteristic, for God’s proof has been furnished to you, but you turn away from it because of the blindness of your heart. May God protect us from the misfortune He visited on you. We ask that we may stand firm with the truth that He so graciously granted us. 5. Then he said: The like of you harbors wicked thoughts and reveals with his utterances what he conceals and hides.

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Says ʿAli: We say: May God curse the one who secretly harbors wicked thoughts; his Maker and Observer (Exalted is He) knows the secret [thoughts] first, and [only] then the one who harbors them, but his outward expression discloses his hidden thoughts. If someone publicly declares that he follows the words of God, and the reports transmitted from the Messenger of God, and the consensus of the Muslims, this is evidence of the goodness of his innermost thoughts, but he who turns away from the Qurʾan and the Sunna and is hostile to its people and relies on taqlid and goes against the consensus demonstrates the wickedness of his innermost thoughts and the pervertedness of his understanding. God protect us from being forsaken! 6. Then he said: In my view these matters are just the result of your reliance on the books of the ancients and the materialists (dahriyya) and the logicians, the book of Euclid and the Almagest, and other heretics. Says ʿAli: We say (and God grants success): Tell us about these books on logic, Euclid, the Almagest. Did you read them, you prattler, or didn’t you? If you read them, then why do you disapprove of those who read them just like you did? Why don’t you disapprove of this for yourself ? And tell us, what heresy did you find in them, if you stumbled on instances of it in these books? And if you did not read them, then how can you disapprove of what you do not know? Did you not hear this saying of God: “Why do you argue about things of which you know nothing?” (Q 3:66). And His saying “When you took it up with your tongues, and spoke with your mouths things you did not know [to be true], you thought it was trivial but to God it was very serious” (Q 24:15). But your scant occupation with the Qurʾan and the obligations that He imposed in it has made this and similar things seem very easy for you. If you had a mind that made you fear notoriety, you would not talk about books whose contents you do not know. 7. Then he broke into his familiar nonsense and said: Know that in our eyes you are someone who combines three things: lack of religion, feeble-mindedness, and lack of discernment and learning. Says ʿAli: Let this despicable ignoramus and the likes of him know that this is their [own] mien, not mine, and that their censure is an adornment for the one they rebuke, and their approval a disgrace for the one they praise, for they do not speak the truth; they are rather like cattle, only even further astray from the path. After this, let him say whatever he wants, but we shall clarify (the Exalted God willing) that these characteristics that he mentions are in fact those of the author of this despicable



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rag. As for his lack of religion: it is his ignorant objection to the Qurʾan; his feeble-mindedness is his talking about things he does not understand; his lack of discernment and learning finally is his browbeating someone who is indifferent to him. “He howls to scare the full moon / But he is no dog even if he barks.”22 8. Then he said: Your lack of religion is [manifest in] the slander you spread about the Companions, and the fact that you declare them to be in error and call their views inconsequential. Says ʿAli: This man lied and we have already replied to him that there is no doubt that it is he himself who is slandering them, declares them to be in error, and regards their views as inconsequential, and that he is the one who dispenses with all of [the Companions] except in what suits his taqlid. What slander of the Companions could be more enormous than this! As for the fact that he regards their views as inconsequential, he himself knows and others know it from him that in his opinion all of them belong to those that are not to be taken into consideration and are regarded as insignificant in knowledge, unlike the view of the one from whom he took his religion. What inconsequentiality is greater than this, and which accusation of error can surpass it? 9. Then he said: As for your feeble-mindedness: it is manifest in the presumption that you have stood up to show the truth and to ­clarify it and that you possess [a portion] of it that the Companions of the Prophet were neither vouchsafed nor guided to. Says ʿAli: If this sinful madman would realize that this is rather his own characteristic and that of the likes of him, he would bewail himself. The first of this is his lie about us, namely our supposed claim that we were vouchsafed some of the truth that the Companions of our Prophet Muhammad were not vouchsafed and that they were not guided to. How can this be, when all we adhere to are the reports [about prophetic custom] that they transmitted to us, and informed us of, and that we do not transgress. How could we have been vouchsafed what was not vouchsafed to them, when we do not possess any part of the religion that did not come from them and through their transmission? His lie, then, is openly established. As for the characteristic he mentioned, it is his own characteristic, because he follows the taqlid of Malik, and no two people disagree that there was never among the Companions, anyone who imitated anyone else, nor was there ever anyone who agreed with all the sayings of ­Malik to the point that he did not allow disagreement with any of it. It

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has thus been soundly established that this ignoramus, the author of this rag, is himself the one who presumes that through taqlid he has achieved knowledge that is hidden from the entire nation. He is the real witless person. God protect us from being forsaken! We ask Him for guidance and success. 10. Then he said: You have only emerged at the end of time and at the farthest edge of this world, long after the praiseworthy generations, at a time of little knowledge and much ignorance, and this, in the opinion of anyone with reason, partly explains the weakness of your perception and the shortcomings of your mind. Says ʿAli: As for his saying that we live at the end of time: indeed, and at the farthest edge of this world, far removed from the praise­worthy generations, at a time of little knowledge and much ignorance. But God taught us much out of His grace and made it easy for us to walk the path of the Companions and the Followers and the people of the praiseworthy generations; then, after them, that of the imams of the Muslims and the eminent transmitters, whereas He turned your hearts away from them, and He granted us the ability to follow them and to stick to their path, while rendering you blind to it. He guided us to search the Sunna, while causing you to stray from it; greatly praised be He! It has been reliably transmitted that the Messenger of God said: “This religion began as a stranger, and will again become a stranger; blessed are the s­ trangers ghurabaʾ.”23 God be praised for the strong perception and perfect discernment that He gave us, and for the weakness of your senses; your mindlessness; your opposition to what God imposed on us, namely, to follow what the Messenger of God gave you, but you turned instead to the taqlid that He forbade you to follow. 11. Then he said: Your scant discernment and learning are obvious from your inconsistency, namely, you prohibit imitation of the Companions and those after them while encouraging your own followers to imitate you and to rely on your writings, and you condemn sayings based on raʾy whereas you yourself issue opinions concerning God’s religion whose clarification is not given in God’s book, nor by mouth of the Messenger of God. Says ʿAli: This ignoramus should know that he is lying in most of what he is saying. As for our prohibition to imitate the Companions and those who came after them, this is a matter that we do not deny, and we are on this point in agreement with all of them, without any dispute. Would this questioner deny a matter on which the consensus of the entire nation has



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been established? Does this man condemn Malik for this, when no one disputes that he said: “No one shall be imitated, neither a Companion nor anyone else”? As for his saying that we encourage our followers to imitate us, this is an outright and obvious lie, for we do not encourage our companions or anyone else [to do so], and we do not fill our books except with instructions to follow the Qurʾan and the customs of the Prophet and the consensus of the nation, to peruse the sayings of the Companions and the Followers and the ʿulamaʾ who came after them, and to contrast them with the word of God and the words of His Prophet Muhammad (God bless him and grant him peace); whatever these two [sources] confirm, we [also] hold. As for his allegation that in our books we issue opinions that are not in the Qurʾan or the Sunna, this is a patent and manifest lie. Our books are readily available and well known, visible to all and widely distributed, and they do not contain any of what he states, praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds. If this ignoramus would consider carefully who is the one who does issue opinions [that are not in the sacred sources] as he says, tears of sorrow would sting his eyes and he would feel a painful affliction. “God is enough for us: He is the best protector” (Q 3:173). 12. Then he said: Wake up, you cretin, and know your place, for you are as ignorant as can be. Says ʿAli: If he were to offer himself this advice or would be given it, this would be suitable, for this, by God, is his own characteristic, to be sure. 13. Then he said: Your condition in the eyes of the people of learning is twofold: one is of feeble-mindedness and lack of discernment, the other is of harboring evil thoughts, wanting deliberately to misrepresent [the true facts] and pursuing your own goals. But God is watching and knows the secrets of His servants. Says ʿAli: That man should know that these are his [own] characteristics. As for the calumny in his words, it is like the braying of a donkey or the howling of a dog. For this, he will not be able to wipe out his disgrace in the eyes of God, neither now nor in the future, or the continuous disgust of His servants. God takes every evildoer to account! 14. With regard to his saying: If you do not stir from your sleep and wake up from your lethargy and do not hurry to repent of the enormity of your slander, the replies of the ʿulamaʾ from all the regions of the earth will come right back to you and to the one who seeks you out and refrains

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from applying God’s law to you, as you will find out, and I hope that God will rid the people and the towns of you, or that He will reform you, if that is what was previously in His knowledge. “In time you will certainly come to know its truth” (Q 38:88). We say to him: O you forsaken one, what should we repent of ? Of following the Qurʾan and the customs of the Messenger of God and the consensus of the nation? Of following all the Companions and of walking the path of every believing scholar on earth? May God protect us from repenting of this! To what, then, should we return? To the personal opinion of a mere creature who is of no avail to us against God and to imitating him? God forbid! By my life, if you were to take your own advice and stood by it, you would return to that to which I invited you, namely, following the Qurʾan and the Sunna and the consensus of the nation, but if not: you will be brought back [to Him] and then you will know [to whom belongs the ultimate recompense]. We have already called upon Ibn al-Bariya,24 the accursed refractory apostate who turned to you with these fabricated lies and these invented enormities,25 to repent. And we met this ʿUtaqi who is one of the more stupid ones among you, and we expect that God will deal in His customary fashion with those who stubbornly oppose His words and dispense with the words of His Prophet Muhammad. “God is sure to help those who help His cause—God is strong and mighty” (Q 22:40). As for your threatening us with the words of the ʿulamaʾ from the corners of the earth: “These are the vanities of objects of desire, and their delusion / Caused you to occupy yourselves with useless things.”26 By God, the ʿulamaʾ are divided into no more than two groups: ­either scholars who agree with us or scholars whose ijtihad led them to disagree with me, and these latter either behave like true scholars, fair in their objections and using proof, not random, confused talk and s­ tupidity in their address, or they restrain themselves and remain silent, but they do not behave like you, rushing in to issue opinions before you have been asked for one, plunging into foolishness. As for your saying: I hope God will rid the people and the towns of you: God will only get rid of the unbeliever who stubbornly refuses to accept the word of God and the Sunna of His Prophet Muhammad; as for the believer, he will be saved. I only say to you what the poet Jarir said: “The people long for me to die, and if I die / I will not be alone on that road / Perhaps the one who wishes me dead and anticipates / it before I do die will be the one to perish first.”27



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By God, when I die, I will not fill one of your graves, and I will not increase your fortune; verily I will be received by a beneficent Lord and one who intercedes for the accepted ones, because I will have followed the Book of God and the Sunna of His Prophet Muhammad, and I did not take any intimate friend besides them. But when you die, by God, you will proceed to a Lord whose Book you opposed, and to a prophet whose commandments you flung behind your back, obeying another instead. So prepare a reply to the question and a garment for the affliction in the grave; you will be brought back [to Him] and then you will know. And never mind, woe to you, whether I die fast or whether my death is delayed, God (exalted is He) will leave you and your ilk what He relieved me of: an extended grief and much disgrace; He will be shattering every raʾy and qiyas, strengthening the Sunna and rendering it victorious; may God help those who help Him. “Do you except something other than one of the two best things to happen to us?” (Q 9:52). After this, soothe your soul after you have made it taste the coldness of desperation, having foolishly opposed what is the patent truth in this epistle. How can you oppose the text of the Qurʿan and the Sunna? This is out of the question. So stop this, it will increase your peace of mind and is more appropriate for you, if God wills. Peace be upon those who follow the right guidance and God’s mercy and blessings be with him [the Prophet], his family, and all his Companions. Praise be to God, the Lord of Worlds, and His prayers be upon our master Muhammad and his ­family. God is sufficient for us! Most excellent is He in whom we trust!

3

Succession of the Prophets Shiʿi Theoretical and Practical Solutions Ehud Krinis

The forefathers of Shiʿi Islam played a decisive role in the debate over the succession to the Prophet Muhammad in early Islam. More than any other group in the young Muslim community, the Shiʿis stressed the significance of the question and introduced its central features into the general Islamic discourse.1 Underlying the constitution and crystallization of the Shiʿa, the succession to the Prophet was also the cause of the emergence of strong factional forces. The points of agreement with regard to the identity of the legitimate heir and the nature of his role were too blurry and loosely defined to prevent the dissolution of the Shiʿi camp into various branches in the early phase of its evolution. This essay analyzes the ways in which each of the main Shiʿi streams— the Imami and the Ismaʿili—approached the question of legitimate succession through an examination of the relation between the ideological­-theoretical and historical-practical levels. The comparative perspective promoted yields an intricate and multidimensional picture. It points to the fundamental differences that set the two Shiʿi streams apart while highlighting the inner tensions that resided at the heart of their historical evolution. A further aim of this essay is thus to contribute to current research on the historical evolution of the Shiʿa as a variegated and divergent movement in terms of ideological identity and historical destiny.2

Theoretical Solutions The factional and sectarian history of the Shiʿa is marked by an immense gap between theory and reality. The most basic Shiʿi claim that ʿAli and

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his descendants are the sole legitimate successors of the Prophet of Islam and the exclusive source of leadership for the entire Islamic community (umma) was not realized in practice (with the possible exception of the short and stormy caliphate period of ʿAli himself ). Although all Shiʿi branches clearly recognized the gap between theory and reality, they differed greatly in the solutions that each formulated for bridging it. On one end of the Shiʿi spectrum is the Zaydi branch, named after Zayd b. ʿAli, the grandson of al-Husayn b. ʿAli (d. 740), which regarded the gap between theory and reality in the development of the umma and its leadership as a primarily political problem that could be solved through purely political means, that is, through an armed uprising aimed at toppling the present usurping regime and restoring power to the legitimate heirs from the house of ʿAli. This solution is expressed in the Zaydi principle of political activism (khuruj), according to which any pious individual from among all of ʿAli’s descendants who leads the armed uprising against the illegitimate ruler is worthy of the role of head of the community.3 On the other end of the Shiʿi spectrum is the Imami branch that evolved under the leadership of Zayd b. ʿAli’s half-brother, Muhammad b. ʿAli al-Baqir (d. 733), and his son Jaʿfar al-Sadiq (d. 765). This Shiʿi branch adhered to an opposite principle: political passivism (quʿud).4 Whereas in the Zaydi camp the acute political urgency of bringing the problem of succession to its proper resolution was framed in the context of the relatively short-term developments of Islamic history, the political passivism of the Imami camp was anchored in an all-encompassing historical framework.5 In the Imami worldview, the issue of prophetic succession in Islam plays out on a broader historical plane, beginning with Adam and the first generation of humankind and ending with the messianic figure of the qaʾim, who brings humankind into the posthistorical era of redemption. In the metahistorical doctrine put forward by the Imami Shiʿa, the specific issue of the succession of the Prophet of Islam, as a fundamental issue in the political development of the religion, was reformulated as a question regarding the succession of the prophets in general.6 The commonly accepted scheme among early Muslim writers, rooted in the Qurʾan, is that the prophets, despite their large numbers, were not a constant presence in human history. Throughout history there were periods of fatarat (intervals) between successive prophets.7 The conventional wisdom regarding the lack of an uninterrupted presence of the prophets throughout history corresponds with another point of

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consensus: Muhammad’s status as the “Seal of the Prophets” (khatam/ khatim al-nabbiyyin).8 This concept views Muhammad as the Prophet whose death transforms the state of the absence of prophetical presence into a permanent historical reality. The question of the relationship between the Prophet of Islam and his successors and followers can therefore be formulated in terms of the relationship between the periods when prophets are present and the periods when they are absent. The patterns of transition between the prophetic and the nonprophetic eras of history can help identify the proper solution to the issue of transition and succession of leadership in the Islamic era.9 We can accept the concept of the fatra at face value and claim that during the intervals between prophets humanity continues in the absence of the divinely inspired individual and receives its legitimate leadership from among those who are loyal to the message of the most recent prophet. This stance had adherents among Sunni and Zaydi writers.10 The early Imami Shiʿa writers were distinct, among other things, however, in their rejection of the notion of intervals or time gaps in the presence of divinely inspired individuals, as well as in their employment of a model of prophetic legacy (wasiyya). This model claims an uninterrupted historical presence of divine inspiration and guidance among chosen individuals, prophets and nonprophets alike.11 As a continuous dynastic model, the legacy model is the Imami Shiʿa’s metahistorical theological solution to the problem of prophetic succession and succession of the Prophet of Islam in particular. According to this model, in each generation in human history one chosen individual is the sole legitimate leader and religious authority for the people of his time. This individual, who is directly related to the former chosen individual (whether in a familial and spiritual relationship or just a spiritual one), is endowed with divine grace and inspiration. He may be a prophet or a legatee (wasi), the successor of the Prophet.12 In terms of the essential matter of political leadership, there is no difference between the guiding prophet of one generation and the legatee of the next; both may be considered God’s vice-regent (khalifat Allah) and the guarantor of His presence (hujjat Allah) because both are the absolute embodiment of divine authority on earth. According to the early Imami metahistorical perception, the vast majority of humankind of all generations since the beginning of history failed to recognize the all-encompassing religious-­political authority of either the prophet or the wasi of their time. This pessimistic perception corresponds well with the apocalyptic



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and messianic elements in the early Imami worldview. For early Imami writers, all history was thus considered a “nightmare” from which the true Shiʿi believers will be awakened at the end of history, upon the arrival of the messianic figure of the qaʾim.13 That being the case, the Imami solution to the problem of prophetic succession unfolds—at least on the theoretical level—within the general scheme of prophet-legatee relationships and as a continuous pattern throughout human history. This model of succession has two important variations in Shiʿi-Imami literature. The first is the exclusive materialist model, which emphasizes the genetic biological transmission of the primordial factor generally known as “the light of Muhammad” (nur Muhammad) in a continuous line of direct kin. This continuous dynasty spans three historical stages: the stage of the progenitors from Adam to Abraham, the Arab stage from Ishmael to the direct forefathers of Muhammad and ʿAli (ʿAbdallah and Abu Talib), and the final stage—the era of Muhammad, ʿAli, and their imam descendants. The other model of the Imami tradition is the more typical legacy model. This universal spiritual model holds that the legacy of divine knowledge is transmitted as part of a decisive act of initiation and testament in a continuous line of prophets and legatees (anbiyaʾ wa-awsiyaʾ) throughout four eras: the era of the progenitors from Adam to Abraham, the Israelite era from Isaac to Zachariah (portrayed in the Muslim tradition as a link between the Jewish and the Christian eras), the Christian era from Jesus to the last Christian legatee (sometimes identified with the character of Bahira), and the Islamic era, which opens with Muhammad and continues with ʿAli and the imams.14 The Shiʿi-Imami model of the legacy as solving the problem of prophetic succession on the broad historical plane was accepted for the most part by the writers of another central Shiʿi branch: the Ismaʿiliyya, which emerged as a force in the Muslim world in the last quarter of the ninth century.15 Early Ismaʿili writers gave the legacy model a special formulation, in keeping with their characteristic cyclical conception of history. According to their formulation, the “speaker-prophets” (nutaqaʾ) are those who bring with them a new written divine law. There were only six of these throughout history: Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad.16 Every one of these bearers of divine law opens a new historical cycle and is succeeded by the one prime legatee, who is also called “foundation” (asas) in the Ismaʿili literature. This legatee was known for his special role in bearing and transmitting the internal, concealed (batin) side of the revealed (zahir) law brought by the prophet before him. Each “foundation” is succeeded by a line of imams, the seventh of whom

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is raised to the level of the next prophet and brings a new divine law that ushers in the next cycle in history. This continuous cyclical pattern ends with the appearance of the seventh imam of the Islamic era that began with Muhammad. The mission of the seventh natiq does not involve the bringing of a new law. Rather, he bears the messianic message of the end of the encompassing cycle of history as concealing time (dawr al-satr) and the initiation of the posthistorical cycle of unveiling time (dawr al-kashf).17 According to the Imami theoretical conception of knowledge (ʿilm), just as the imams are the only authoritative and reliable receivers and transmitters of the legacy of the Prophet of Islam (and the legacy of all the prophets before him), each imam is the only authoritative and reliable receiver and transmitter of the legacy of the imams that preceded him. The hereditary manner in which the prophetic legacy is passed between prophets and imams is part and parcel of the Imami legacy model—the wasiyya. This point becomes even clearer when we take into consideration that, according to the early Imami worldview, only the imam can fully comprehend the esoteric meanings concealed in his predecessors’ sayings. From this theoretical point of view, it seems necessary that only the one who matches the rank of pervious prophets and imams (the current imam) is eligible to serve as the transmitter of this kind of sacred knowledge. On the theoretical level, we therefore find that early Shiʿi theology, both Imami and Ismaʿili, produced a systematic and organized response to the question of prophetic succession. The imams of the house of ʿAli who received the legacy of ultimate knowledge and were designated as God’s worthy possessors of divine inspiration and qualities are the exclusive inheritors of the Prophet of Islam. This stage of inheritance is compatible with the pattern of prophetic succession in the pre-Islamic eras, with its fixed transitions from prophets (anbiyaʾ) to legatees (awsiyaʾ). Considering the basic theoretical similarity between the Imami and Ismaʿili responses to this issue, it is worthwhile to look at the practical solutions developed by each of these two central Shiʿi branches in light of the challenges of historical reality and as a formative issue in their identity.

Practical Solutions The orientation evident from existing treatises written during the early period of Imami consolidation (circa early eighth to mid-tenth centuries)



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puts almost exclusive emphasis on the imam as the figure responsible for the fate of the Shiʿi adherents and the entire world.18 Nonetheless, it is of great practical importance that, even when the imam of a given generation is present, the Imamiyya rely on local circles of hadith transmitters, active mainly in the towns of Kufa (since the early eighth century) and Qom (since the late eighth century).19 In this sense the socio-literary development of the hadith as a formative development in the Imami camp can be compared with a similar development in the Sunni camp. The Sunni hadith gives theoretical precedence to the figure of the Prophet as the sole source of authority for the formation of hadith just as the Shiʿi hadith gives theoretical precedence to the imams. In practice, however, in both early (or proto-) Sunni and early Imami camps it is the transmitters of the ­hadith who play the leading role in this process. They are the ones responsible for the faithful transmission and preservation and often also for the formulation of the traditions.20 From a theoretical point of view, unlike the chains of transmitters in the Sunni hadith, the Imami hadith chains might be expected to be limited to the figures of the inspired authoritative imams. In practice, however, the early Imami tradition followed the same pattern as its rival Sunni tradition, with marked reliance on the circles of hadith transmitters.21 This historical resemblance should not be taken for granted. For the Sunnis, the justification for relying on chains of transmitters in the process of hadith transmission is that their only recognized source of inspirational authority—the Prophet Muhammad—passed away in the first generation of Islam. The Imami Shiʿis, by contrast, adhered to the authority of a successive chain of twelve inspired imams, who, according to their own claim, continued functioning until the mid-tenth century, when the last imam entered the state of complete occultation (ghayba). On the theoretical level, the adherence of early Imami Shiʿis to the authority of an existing chain of imams should have spared them the need to rely on circles of transmitters, as did the Sunnis. Yet, on the practical level, the Imamis’ reliance on their own circles of transmitters for the transmission of their unique hadith tradition was evident from the start, even when their authoritative imams were still present. It is noteworthy in this respect that, unlike the Sunni or proto-Sunni hadith transmitters during the formative period in the evolution of Islamic tradition generally, the transmitters of Shiʿi hadith were usually immediate disciples of one or more of the imams.22 At the end of the process and following the acceptance of the principle of the imam’s occultation (at first in 874 as a mediated absence and

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later in 941 as a complete one), the Imami Shiʿa adopted a structure generally resembling that of the Sunna. The initial similarity between the decisive role played by the Sunni and Imami Shiʿi circles of hadith transmitters should be seen as the main reason for this. Both had a society of religious law in which the religious path is determined by the religious scholars, the ʿulamaʾ, as the guardians and formulators of tradition. In other words, the main practical Imami Shiʿa response to the question of the succession of the Prophet was significantly similar to the Sunni response. In both cases the ʿulamaʾ were established as the victorious class. In the Sunni case, the legitimacy of the ʿulamaʾ was based on direct inheritance between them and the prophets, as in the saying “the ʿulamaʾ are the heirs of the prophets.”23 In the Imami case, that same legitimacy rested on the claim of continuity between the ʿulamaʾ and the imams. In theory the absent Shiʿi imam continues to exist, so this claim of inheritance was formulated as a claim of a temporary substitution.24 Such a development, in which a Shiʿi group with a distinctive ­theological character such as the Imamate adopts a religious organization largely parallel to that of the Sunni majority, should not be taken as a historical inevitability. This is further underscored by the completely different line of development taken by the Ismaʿiliyya. On the social organizational level, the determining factor in the development of the Ismaʿiliyya was its initial organization in the underground hierarchical structure of the mission (daʿwa), which operated at first (at the end of the eighth and the beginning of the ninth centuries) from its secretive headquarters in the town of Salamiyya.25 The preservation of this inner hierarchical structure, even after emergence from the underground and establishment as a genuine political organization under the Fatimid dynasty in the year 909, is what protected the unique Ismaʿili structure over time.26 In the strict hierarchical organization of the Ismaʿili mission, the executive authority, at least in theory, is the individual (the imam) located at the top of the hierarchical pyramid.27 Loyalty and obedience to the head of the pyramid survived as a central value in this organization. Historical experience shows that adherence to these organizational values could be routed into two tracks. In the first, the institution of the Imamate, as head of the hierarchy, is preserved. This happened, for example, in the case of the Nizari faction of the Ismaʿiliyya (founded in 1094), headed to this day by the present (hadir) imam, otherwise known as Agha Khan.28 In the second track, in which the imam is absent for some reason, he is replaced by the next in line in the hierarchical chain as the



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absolute authority. This occurred, for example, in the case of the Tayyibi Ismaʿili faction (founded in 1130), headed to this day by “the absolute missionary” (al-daʿi al-mutlaq).29 The two cases show how an organizational structure based on a strict hierarchy strengthens the status of those at its head and minimizes the possibility of the rise and prosperity of a group such as the ʿulamaʾ as a broader and more egalitarian class. Theoretically speaking, it is also important to note that the imam is not generally seen as the religious authority in the broader sense of the term among the Ismaʿilis. The role of the formulator and preserver of religious law given to the imam by the Imamiyya is limited in the early Ismaʿili theological scheme to the natiq as the speaker-prophet. In Ismaʿili theory, the imam, as a direct inheritor and successor of the “foundation” (asas), is generally portrayed as being responsible for the interpretation of law, for understanding the internal layer of revelation (batin) and less concerned with the execution of the declared content of the law found in the outward layer of the religion (zahir). This fundamental conceptual difference provides another explanation as to why the Ismaʿiliyya did not produce significant hadith literature of their own that could have served as a basis for the development and strengthening of the ʿulamaʾ class within this Shiʿi branch.30

Conclusion We have seen that the two main Shiʿi streams—the Imami and the Ismaʿili—succeeded in formulating a theoretical response to the crucial question of prophetic succession in a systematic and unique way that contributed to the consolidation of their communal identities. This was achieved through a comprehensive historical generalization and the transposition of the discussion from the narrow Islamic historical realm to the broader realm of prophetic succession throughout history in general. Looking at the same issue from its practical perspective, we notice how the Ismaʿiliyya succeeded in preserving the unique Shiʿi solution to the issue of the succession of the Prophet of Islam and the prophets in general, by safeguarding its basic hierarchical structure. The Imamiyya (better known today as the Ithnaʿashariyya: Twelver Shiʿism), in contrast, kept this solution only in theory. This initial and essential difference is crucial for understanding the different historical routes taken by those two most influential manifestations of Shiʿism. The Imamiyya emerged and developed in the open urban

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environment of Kufa and Qom among the local circles of Shiʿi hadith transmitters, while the Ismaʿiliyya emerged from a hierarchical underground organization operating from its secret headquarters in Salamiyya. The Imamis continued to flourish among urban societies (particularly in Iraq and Iran), while the Ismaʿilis were destined to survive throughout much of their history either in secure fortresses under the disguise of Sufi orders or scattered in small remote communities (in Yemen and India, in particular), far from the historical homeland of Shiʿism.31 Still, as observed by Amir-Moezzi, Imami Shiʿism was divided throughout its history into two distinctive and conflicting tendencies. The first—the fundamentally esoteric and theosophic tendency—continued to interpret Shiʿism as an essentially individual and internalized religious experience based on the discreet initiatory relationships between the authoritative bearers of hidden knowledge (initially the imams) with each of their few selected disciples. The second—the exoteric by nature—manifested itself in the established public forms of Imami Shiʿism, culminating in a class of Shiʿi clergy that controlled (or aspired to control) the Shiʿi community and attain worldly power by issuing religious prescriptions in matters of explicit religious law.32 The history of Imami Shiʿism was dominated by different historical expressions of the exoteric tendency, but the esoteric tendency preserved its fundamental alternative role in Imami Shiʿism in continuous appearances of various religious expressions and movements.

4

Oral Torah Ideology and History in the Epistle of Sherira Gaon Gerald J. Blidstein

Sherira (906–1006) served as the head (gaon) of the Babylonian academy at Pumbeditha from 968 until his death. Scion to a family of Pumbedithan geonim, he was succeeded by his son, Hai. Together they represent the swan song of geonic creativity and authority, a final outburst of rabbinic glory that ironically eclipsed that of the Gaonate before their time. The Epistle of Sherira Gaon has bequeathed a vast storehouse of traditions on the institution of the Gaonate itself, its history, its personnel, its terminology, and its relationship with both Jewish laity (including the Exilarchate) and gentile authorities. More than any other document, it has also shaped the research into the history of talmudic literature.1 Rashi—the celebrated commentator in eleventh-century France/Germany—was influenced decisively by its contents, and traces of the Epistle are found in even greater proportions in modern study. We appeal to Rav Sherira when we want to clarify basic issues: the history of tannaic collections prior to the compilation of the Mishnah; the continuity of Oral Law; the status and function of Midrash; the function and character of the redaction of the Mishnah and its purpose; the writing of Mishnah and Talmud; the historical characterization of different eras in the rabbinic period; the attitudes of rabbis toward each other; the growth and redaction of the Babylonian Talmud; and much else. It would appear that Rav Sherira set the agenda for subsequent research and determined its direction.2 Even the talmudic materials that he emphasized have defined discussion (primarily of a historical-literary character) of these topics to the present day. The sages of Qayrawan had asked a primarily literary

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question of Sherira (“How was the Mishnah written”?), and Sherira responded in the same vein in his Epistle. But it is likely that this query reflected an ideological-religious problematic and that its implications were not purely academic or theoretical. The prevalent assumption is that the Karaite polemic provided the context that challenged the legitimacy and authority of Oral Law by accepting scripture alone as probative.3 Sherira’s reply addressed an ideological-­religious difficulty and of necessity proposed an ideologically principled approach to the topic of Oral Torah. Sherira excavated this approach through his reading of the talmudic materials, much as the sculptor discovers a desired image in the stone—mostly in tandem with the nature of the material and even by surrendering to its demands but sometimes in conflict with it. My discussion focuses on Sherira’s reading of Oral and Written Law and his reading of the history of Jewish tradition and its literature. This perspective obviously is not identical with the perspective of a contemporary researcher.

Written Scripture and Oral Law Foundational discussion of Oral Torah (and indeed the very nomenclature itself ) refers to the contrasting existence of Written Torah (scripture). A central problem in Muslim thought concerns the difficult transition from the unity and authenticity of the Text of God to the multiplicity and inherently disputed quality of human texts. Jewish thought seeks to defuse this problem by adopting the phrase “Torah” for Oral Law and asserting its authorship at Sinai; the Karaite counterclaim and that of the sectarians of the Judean desert was that this evasion was inauthentic.4 In a sense scripture serves as a foil for Oral Torah, much as Oral Torah is perceived as providing scripture with immortality. So one way of searching for the rationale for an Oral Torah in a world where scripture already exists is to pursue the qualities that distinguish Oral Law from Written Law and define them. Sherira did not investigate orality per se, a topic that has received much attention in recent years. In any case this Oral Torah exists, as noted above, in tandem with a Written Torah and thus does not represent a purely oral culture. Furthermore, the written culture is not represented by secular or commercial documents alone but is present as a sacred artifact: the Torah scroll. But Sherira deals with an Oral Torah that has been both fluid and fixed, an artifact that has long ago been turned into a written text. In a sense, as we shall see, the



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compilation of the Mishnah should be seen by Sherira as signifying a decline in rabbinic culture. Sherira deals with an Oral Law that has been compromised, at least in his own terms. He relates to the Mishnah as a sacred text, however, and does not betray any uncertainty as to its status. Sherira proposes a basic distinction between Written Torah (scripture) and Oral Torah (the rabbinic tradition). His claim is not that the one is inscribed on the page and the other is oral. This physical distinction merely reflects a more basic one. Scripture sanctifies its textual formulation, the specific word and sentence. It is not the content alone that originates at Sinai—the very textual formulation is also divine Torah. Scripture is not primarily “recitation,” whatever may be the medium through which it reached Moses. Scripture—as distinguished from the Qurʾan—is fundamentally a written text. Although it too claimed to have originated in the form of words spoken to Moses,5 Jewish culture persistently saw it as bestowed in written form, with this form sharing in the sanctity of the content. This understanding of Written Torah is not unique to Sherira; nor was it first formulated in geonic times. Indeed pre-geonic talmudic culture developed the belief in the sanctity of the Torah scroll and the writing inscribed in it, down to the level of the word and eventually the letter.6 But Sherira continued to claim that Oral Law has no intrinsically sacred formulation, because its content alone is holy: “Each master teaches it to his students in any formulation he chooses.”7 Indeed Oral Law is most appropriately taught by a master to his student. Oral Law prioritizes the master-student relationship as a whole as a form of spiritual paternity. The enterprise of Oral Law is contingent on transmission, a process that both tests and constitutes the bond linking generations from earliest times on.8 Until the compilation of the Mishnah by Judah the Patriarch, Sherira asserts, the sages did not memorize their knowledge “in one standard formulation” because no requirement of linguistic uniformity or control existed.9 Rabbinic oral culture, for Sherira, did not require memorization or recitation until Judah the Patriarch created his Mishnah—a rather surprising position given the centrality of both recitation and (ostensible) memorization in oral cultures generally. But—and here Sherira makes his fundamental contribution to the idea of rabbinic Oral Torah—this textual multiplicity did not imply the legitimacy of disagreement or the reality of pluralism, because “a single opinion” reigned among the sages as to the content of their tradition. The consensual authority of scripture, however, expressed itself by the fact “that all Israel pronounced a single

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[biblical] text.”10 Thus the basic contrast is not between the oral and the written, but between the polyvocal and the univocal, between t­ extual multiplicity and uniformity. From this point of view it is immaterial whether Judah the Patriarch compiled his Mishnah in written or in oral form, an issue to which much research has been devoted.11 The heart of the matter lay in his intention of creating a document that all the sages of Israel were obliged “to accept as uniform.”12 The novum of Judah the Patriarch was to create an authoritative text, a body of material whose very text was authoritative, unchanging, and sacred. An analogy (though a partial one) to the situation generated by Oral Law, wherein content is basic and textual formulation is secondary, is suggested by the famous responsum of Hai Gaon (son of Sherira and his frequent collaborator) concerning the various sounds produced with the shofar (the ram’s horn sounded on the New Year’s festival). The gaon argued that the teruʿah (series of tremulous notes) required by biblical law can be legitimately sounded in a variety of ways, all of which are simply different but adequate sounds by which the biblical imperative is fulfilled. However, the gaon continues, the presence of these different tones was perceived by the ignorant to reflect conflict, and so the talmudic Rabbi Abbahu instituted the obligation that all the possible tones be sounded.13 In both situations (the Oral Law and the shofar) the original content was initially and legitimately expressed in a variety of modes, until this variety was incorrectly perceived (due to the “decline of the generations”) as a threat to communal unity or the integrity of the Law. As we shall see, the varied forms taken by the Oral Law would also be perceived in later times (according to Sherira) as suggesting or even inviting conflict. Scripture itself serves as a useful contrast: there is no disagreement as to the text of scripture because all Jews read it in a uniform way and relate to an identical text. Thus Sherira testifies to the value of consensus and hints at the difficulties to be encountered by a tradition that attempts to combine variety and uniformity. It is not merely the case that variety contains the seeds of possible conflict; it also denies the benefits granted by a consensus rooted in uniformity. Therefore Sherira labors to demonstrate that the variety of form (in the case of Oral Law) does not necessarily imply variety of content, with all its problematic implications. Sherira claimed that the Oral Law initially fused variety of form with uniformity of content and that this early uniformity—called by the sources “the lack of dispute (makhloket)”—is proof of the integrity of the tradition.14 Now the talmudic rabbis also thought that disputes



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undermined the power of the tradition. But the rabbis nonetheless granted legitimacy to the phenomenon by stating: “These and these are [both] the words of the living God.”15 They must have been aware of the bold theological implications of this statement, which is dramatically and noticeably absent from the Epistle of Sherira Gaon. Further confirmation of the integrity of the tradition as it reached the sages from early times is found in the words of Hillel to the Elders of Batyra: “Why did I become patriarch over you? [This is] because of your laziness in not serving under the two great men of the generation, Shemaia and Abtalyon.”16 This is the only direct proof for the integrity of the tradition offered by Sherira, and he generalizes from it to the Oral Law in its entirety and to the integrity of all the links in the chain of tradition. This statement was made (by Hillel) in the context of a historical event, not as polemic or apologetic, such as Mishnah Avot 1, 1 (which is absent from the Epistle), which increases its credibility (assuming that one accepts the historicity of rabbinic statements and attributions). Sherira apparently derived from this comment that the most authentic source for law is the tradition passed by a master to his student. A sage who had not received a tradition on a given matter did not invent one out of whole cloth but rather admitted that he had no knowledge on the matter. Sherira became aware of this multiplicity of forms by realizing that parallel and different forms of the same law were prevalent during the entire rabbinic period. He also discovered a similar phenomenon in his pedagogic career: he learned that each student produced different, personal summations of the material taught.17 It also appears that Sherira found no talmudic sources indicating that textual uniformity existed even in the idyllic period before the destruction of the Second Temple. Hillel’s statement that “a person is obliged to recite the tradition in his master’s words” was apparently not taken as inherent in the legitimate transmission of the Oral Law but as a matter of pedagogic technique. And Rabbi Akiva’s narration of how Moses himself saw to the absorption of the identically formulated Oral Law by different students was not mentioned at all by Sherira, who apparently understood it as didactic legend but no more.18 Sherira does admit that this formulaic multivocality existed only in the ideal period that preceded the destruction of the Second Temple. From that point on, the different study halls (batei midrash) bridged the gap between full formulaic freedom and the authoritative formulae of tannaic literature—crowned by the Mishnah of Judah the

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Patriarch—crystallized and transmitted from master to disciple over the generations. The Mishnah of Judah the Patriarch is the culmination of this textual development. It is not a revolutionary phenomenon from a literary point of view, as Sherira himself notes. Sherira demonstrates Judah’s commitment to the Mishnah of his predecessors by pointing to his linguistic faithfulness in retaining the ancient and abbreviated patronymic “Ben Zakkai,” which Sherira identifies as the name by which Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai was called before he reached maturity as a scholar and was ordained. Similarly Sherira explained that Judah the Patriarch chose the Mishnah of Rabbi Meir to serve as the basis for his own Mishnah because of its brevity and elegance. These claims, which link Judah’s Mishnah to that of his predecessors, point to the literary tradition within which his own Mishnah developed. Even this literary crystallization, however, does not stand in sharp contradiction to Sherira’s claim of an ideal formulaic license. The major consideration, he maintains, is that these works enjoyed no textual authority. No study hall was compelled to adopt the literary tradition of its fellow, because no single specific tradition was authoritative. Every sage, notwithstanding his loyalty to his master, remained free to formulate his tradition as he pleased. All halakhic formulations—until the time of Judah the Patriarch himself—were literary phenomena, irrespective of whether they were written down or not. They possessed pedagogic value, not juridic authority. The major change—the designation of one formulation as normative and the subversion of the original literary multiplicity of the Oral Law—came with the Mishnah of Judah the Patriarch. Even before his time, each master taught a specific “composition” (hibbur) to his students, but these “compositions” varied literarily. The change to be brought by Judah’s Mishnah was that “each master would now recite an identical text, rather than each one reciting a text of his own devising.”19 Thus the nature of Oral Law would approach the nature of scripture, which also possessed a single uniform text. But we may still ask: what is the significance (other than academic) of textual uniformity?

Mishnah: Its History and Career Sherira now clarifies the status granted to the Mishnah of Judah the Patriarch and its sources, thus justifying the central authority of this compilation in the halakhic domain. As Sherira acknowledges, the establishment of a single version of the tradition as universally authoritative



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is a revolutionary proposition. (Luckily for Sherira, he is not proposing such a shift in status for a contemporary work or person but for one located in the past and possessed of ancient authority.) With some editorial asides, this section of my essay presents historical reality as perceived—or as presented—by Sherira. Even Sherira acknowledges that some historical clarification is in order: why should this radical change in the transmission of Jewish tradition have taken place at the time of Judah the Patriarch? More significantly, Sherira must relate to the status and the legitimacy of this compilation—is it part and parcel of the Chain of Transmission or does Judah’s work represent a break with the traditional framework? And if the Mishnah is merely another link in the tradition, how does it relate to the previous links, and why is its authority greater than theirs? Sherira’s agenda, naturally, is to demonstrate the coherence of Judah’s Mishnah with the halakhic materials that preceded it, to emphasize the continuity implicit in this body of work, and to minimize its novelty. Legitimacy stands in opposite proportion to innovation—at least as far as Sherira is concerned. In regard to the historical moment Sherira emphasizes the ­centrality of the destruction of the Second Temple.20 That event already heralded a change in the transmission of the Jewish tradition: for “the early ones did not require any compilation at all until the Temple’s destruction when the disciples were no longer the equals of their predecessors” and therefore “required a literary compilation.”21 True, Hillel the Elder had already (before the destruction of the Second Temple) required the disciple to adopt his master’s words when reciting the Law, but the major thrust for fixed halakhic compilations came with the destruction. From then on each master would transmit his teachings in a fixed, formulaic way. The period when “the disciples of Hillel and Shammai did not study with their masters sufficiently” so that “many disputes arose in Israel” was identified by Sherira with the period between the destruction of the Second Temple and the devastation at Betar and thereafter. “Because of the persecutions and the oppression of those times, the disciples did not pursue their studies with their masters.”22 Sherira is not primarily concerned with establishing a time frame for the increase in the numbers of the disciples of Hillel and Shammai, but rather with rationalizing the multiplicity of disputes as a historically generated phenomenon, thus exonerating the masters of the tradition themselves from blame for this negative development. (Let us recall that a gaon had also identified the destruction

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as the decisive period for the development of authoritative nomenclature and terminology.)23 The Mishnah of Judah the Patriarch must be viewed in this historical perspective: “therefore, it was necessary for Judah the Patriarch to compile the Mishnah after the people had rested for some two generations after the persecutions of the Destruction.”24 For Sherira, talmudic literature as a whole—not only its tannaic component—is a function of the “decline of the generations.” As time went on each generation was inferior to its predecessor, so the need for an ever more detailed literature grew. From this point of view every literary composition reflects and is a product of the decline of the generations. “The next generation appeared, and matters which were simple for those who came earlier . . . were for this generation doubtful . . . requiring that they be formulated in a fixed talmudic text . . . each generation in its turn being of lesser stature and understanding.”25 The destruction caused the initial decline that culminated in the compilation of the Mishnah, as we have seen. But it is difficult to identify this single event as sufficient cause for the decline that afflicted subsequent centuries, as Sherira asserts. One gains the impression that this decline is rooted deeply in the ­human person, so that we may almost speak of a universal tendency: “Rabbi Yohanan said, the heart [understanding] of the ancients was wide as the door of the ulam, but that of the last generation is narrow as the door of the hekhal,26 and ours is like the eye of a the needle . . . the fingernail of the ancients is better than the torso of the moderns.”27 These talmudic evaluations are adopted in the Epistle as historically and objectively true, not as manifestly didactic statements. So we should treat this degeneration as distinct from the historical decline that was set in motion by the destruction and view it as an independent factor in the shaping of the spiritual culture of the people. That factor continued to function through the generations.28 Sherira claimed that this very infirmity penetrated Jewish society from the time of the destruction on (or slightly before it), which makes it difficult completely to detach the cultural development from this single decisive event. Perhaps Sherira thought that the institutions of learning and instruction, the social reality that existed before the destruction, were adequate to serve as bulwarks against the degenerative tendencies: with their disappearance, continuous decline set in. Be that as it may, the struggle to preserve and retain spiritual resources characterizes talmudic culture as a whole, according to Sherira.29 It would be appropriate, then, that Sherira’s readers maintain an ambivalent attitude toward this literature (and no less so toward geonic literature itself ).



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On the one hand it embodies the tradition of the Jewish people and indeed provides the spiritual platform for the gaon himself. But on the other hand it testifies to ongoing deterioration and is a literary parallel to political-national decline.30 In reality, of course, the Gaonate does not view the Talmud in this dim perspective; the perception of creativity and authority triumphed over the ideological assertion. Perhaps even my previous formulation (in its one-sided form) reflects the polemic thrust that provides the background for the Epistle as a whole. The formulations that were devised after the destruction of the Second Temple suffered of necessity from the very conditions that led to their generation. This decade saw the development of dissension and doubt in the rabbinic world, and this situation was reflected in the halakhic compendia. A Mishnah based on these documents could not avoid these flaws. But Sherira is convinced that the Mishnah of Judah the Patriarch is the faithful reflection of the original and untainted tradition. Therefore he must assume that the period from Rabbi Akiba until Judah the Patriarch was characterized by tranquillity; during this placid time the Tannaim worked out their doubts, restored the original body of law, and rehabilitated the tradition. From this point of view it is clear that the danger posed by disagreement is not social but religious, because it produces a distorted version of the original tradition. The determinations of the sages are designed to rectify this situation and restore the original tradition, not simply to produce a uniform body of law. We may ask whether the “religious” problematic simply masks the social one, which is truly at the heart of the matter, even for Sherira. But it is difficult not to accept Sherira’s statement at face value, especially his version of the restorative nature of the rabbinic project before the time of Judah the Patriarch: A significant period of time passed after the Destruction; during that time the Sages possessed the traditions that were seemingly lost in the Temple’s Destruction and the persecutions and the conflicts of the Houses of Hillel and Shammai. Many Sages were active during that time . . . During those years all the laws that were left unresolved in the House of Study because of the great losses caused by the Destruction and the doubts raised during that upheaval and the disagreements which arose . . . were resolved; the opinions of the many and the few were identified . . . Due to the great efforts of the Sages, who paid scrupulous attention to all the traditions and Mishnahs . . . until they restored what was said by

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the Ancients [the Great Assembly] . . . resolving questions which for the early ones were not at all problematic.31 One does detect an easing up in political conditions in these times. It appears that Sherira infers, as is his wont, from the political situation to the institutional and religious one. This is so for the Second Commonwealth, a period when “non-threatening governance” was in Jewish hands and when Torah also thrived.32 So did Judah the Patriarch, “who possessed both wealth and Torah-knowledge. . . . and [in whose time] the sages were free of all persecution.”33 But the existence of an idyllic three-generational period is not a historical reality. The students of Rabbi Akiva do not abandon the luxury of disagreement (on the contrary—the sages of Usha have left a heritage of halakhic conflict); nor do they create a body of consensual halakhic rulings. The reality may be just the opposite, even though we should not overlook Yaakov Epstein’s description of Rabbi Akiva as “the first to investigate the tradition and to reformulate it” and the calm necessary for the making of decisions and the work of compilation.34 Both Judah’s vision and his fear were sustained by this complex reality, which dominated the scene from the time of the destruction of the Second Temple. He feared a decline similar to the “great loss” that transpired with the destruction, because he saw in his time as well a “stopping up of the wellsprings of wisdom” similar to that which marked the period of Akiva.35 At the most Judah the Patriarch enjoyed a providential period of grace, granted to allow him to provide for the crises that were sure to follow in the future.36 The Mishnah therefore is not merely a collection of source materials but a distilled body of determinations that reestablished the ancient consensus. The agenda of this literary work was thus restorative. Judah the Patriarch did include disagreements in his Mishnah rather than omitting them and consigning them to oblivion, but this policy functioned to reject the minority opinion decisively and openly. Mishnah Euyyot 1, 5–6, offers two explanations for the inclusion of disagreements in the Mishnah: (1) by preserving the minority position, it enables its subsequent legitimation and adoption; (2) if someone should say “My tradition is so,” you can answer him that he represents the minority position, which has been rejected.37 Sherira adopts the second rationale in his Epistle, citing the position that stresses the role of the Mishnah as authoritatively making an unambiguous decision and projecting it into the community of



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scholars. This rationale is preferred over an explanation that stresses the ongoing validity of a variety of opinions.38 For Sherira, variety testifies to a departure from the original tradition and has no place in a work that reflects this tradition in its primal glory. For even the pristine Oral Law lacked formulaic uniformity, not uniformity of content. Hence the first justification for the authority of the Mishnah is objective, reflecting those characteristics that elevated it (with divine providence) above all other compilations, linking it with the ancient law of the predestruction period. The second justification is consensual: “all society . . . dispensed with the other collections . . . and this one spread throughout all the people of Israel . . . The people of Israel espoused this body of laws and accepted it, as we see . . . and none dissent on this.”39 The entire people accepted this compilation as authoritative in a manner not achieved (or sought) by even the predestruction compilations: as the authoritative textual formulation of the Oral Law. (Note the overall significance of consensus in this scheme, similar to the Islamic ijmaʿ.) This aspect of the Mishnah required and received national consensus. Sherira indeed stresses this distinction between the Mishnah and the other compilations, saying that he who consults them is similar to someone consulting a commentary, which is of course nonauthoritative.40 But in truth even the Mishnah of Judah the Patriarch is no more than a derivative, secondary version of the Oral Law. The true Oral Law is content alone, not text; for so it was before any textually authoritative body of Oral Law was composed.41

The Talmud as Book and Culture The Oral Torah is not simply a collection of formal norms, according to Sherira. It has always possessed another component, that is: talmud, the rationality of the Torah and the rationality of the Mishnah. Now while talmud signifies for Sherira the rational quest found in Oral Torah as a whole, it is still possible to differentiate between two separate activities: (1) the study of ancient materials in order to understand and explain them; and (2) the study of these materials in order to innovate and infer from them, to develop “boughs and branches.”42 It is difficult to dissociate these two functions completely; but Sherira definitely distinguishes between them, so we shall follow in his footsteps. Inasmuch as halakhic content existed before the adoption of a uniform text, “known rationales (teʿamim)” for these norms also existed.

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These rationales were apparently the homilies/hermeneutics attached to scripture, which served as the basis for the norms: the “talmud” of the ancients was their quest “to uncover these rationales.” Sherira is vague on the question of whether this hermeneutic created the norms or simply served as justification after the fact, as seems more likely. “Sifra and Sifrei are homiletic expositions of scripture, showing where the norms are located in scripture; in Second Temple times, during the time of the ancient rabbis, the norms were studied and taught in conjunction with these homilies.”43 The Midrash is thus Second Temple “Talmud,” but we should not infer that it preceded and produced the law. On the contrary, the purpose of the Midrash is to demonstrate how the already existent law is hinted at in scripture, as Benjamin De Vries has pointed out.44 The term “rationales” (teʿamim) also refers to the “wisdom of the ancients” in expounding the laws taught by the master to his disciple; “they expound their Mishnah and call their explanation ‘Talmud.’” Here too the scope of “Talmud” grows through the ages and with the “decline of the generations.” “Explanations . . . which were superfluous for the ancients because of their broad understanding” must be provided for later scholars. “Wisdom has diminished.”45 “Talmud” also denotes innovative activity, the content derived from ancient traditions and their exposition and expansion. Each generation indulges in such innovation, and even Judah the Patriarch inserted such “talmudic” innovations into his Mishnah, so that innovation is present at all times.46 But Sherira does not consider these additions truly innovative. These ostensibly novel matters were already known to the ancients. Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai knew all the topics debated by Abaye and Rava, who lived centuries later.47 Why, then, were these topics not raised for deliberation until that later time? Sherira seems to say that in general these topics were so well known to the ancients that they saw no need to explicate them. They also wished to “leave room for the later ones to excel (lehitgader),” as the Talmud has it.48 (Interestingly, while this phrase is used by the Talmud to legitimatize the creation of a new norm, Sherira uses it to rationalize the duplication created when later scholars devise norms already known to their forebears.) These later sages had not received the norm in question in their tradition but rather had originated it on their own, apparently “hitting on their own at the ancient knowledge.” The relation of generations to each other in this scheme of things resembles the paradoxical relationship of the sages to Sinai. In both cases the later generation does nothing more than teach that which has already



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existed. But the later generation does not only teach that which it had received through tradition; it innovates. This worldview can easily be maintained in a conceptual framework that encompasses the giving of Torah at Sinai at the one pole and the teaching/innovation of Torah at the other. In this situation these two poles need not inhabit the identical historical and ontological space: their collision can easily be avoided. But this paradigm is more difficult to maintain if we apply it to a human present and its relation to a human past, a relationship that must be formulated in terms of realistic solutions to historical problems, such as the identity of later innovations with those (as yet unknown) of earlier figures. In this situation we cannot find succor in the presumed (and wondrous) character of Sinai as comprehending all of human culture that will develop in the course of time or in its juridical character as a bestowal of authority on all subsequent human creativity. The very fact that this “revelational” knowledge is found in its entirety with Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai, for example, contaminates the paradoxical relationship assumed to exist between Sinai and the later “seasoned student” who will introduce the Torah given at Sinai for the first time. “Talmud” thus becomes a subsidiary of “mishnah.” It also becomes difficult to comprehend how the actual law (Halakha) grapples with new situations and new historical problems. Once again, what is packed into the wondrous Giving of Torah is not easily discovered in the consciousness of an early sage. Sherira is also forced to conceal or at least minimize the activity of the sages as legislators (initiators of takkanot and gezerot [rulings and commands]); nor does he provide for the authority of this process. This authority is possessed by the sages in the talmudic scheme of things but in fact constitutes its Achilles heel from Sherira’s ideological point of view. The model that he proposes makes no natural room for this activity, which presumes the independence and authority of the sage acting in conjunction with his peers.49 Thus we have seen that even the archetypal legislated norm, how to sound the shofar, is actually a reconstitution of primal but equally legitimate tonal possibilities.50 Sherira does base himself on talmudic materials, but the Talmud does not speak with one voice on this topic. We cannot ignore the presence of statements such as “no study hall lacks originality” and “the words of Torah are fruitful and multiply.” These statements and others like them proclaim the joy of creativity and faith in the significance of this creativity. From this perspective the Oral Torah of the sages can not only be a repetition (if unconscious) of matters always known to the ancients but

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not articulated by them. Sherira, by ignoring these perspectives, has lost the creative tension between innovation and tradition, sacrificing innovation on the altar of legitimacy. For example, he acknowledges that “Judah the Patriarch agreed with Rabbi Meir and therefore formulated his [Meir’s] opinion as that of the majority,” suggesting that Judah the Patriarch as editor of the Mishnah both countenanced and even adopted minority opinions.51 But Sherira is forced to explain: “the opinions cited as those of Rabbi Meir are not his alone, for he was only an individual. Rather, they were the opinions of his masters, of Rabbi Akiva his master. So since Judah the Patriarch knew that the opinion of Rabbi Meir was actually that of his masters, he cited it as the opinion of the majority.”52 Sherira stresses the dependence of the individual on the teachings of his predecessors in order to justify the behavior of the editor of the Mishnah. He minimizes the editor’s role, his use of judgment, and his wielding of editorial authority. But it should be recalled, in all honesty, that the citations on the legitimacy and joy in creativity (see above) may relate to intellectual activity as easily as to the legislative kind. This conservative attitude to Talmud in general and to “the Talmud” in particular dovetails with Sherira’s solution to the issue of the Oral Torah. It is true that Sherira describes the flexible development of this literature, at least until the time of Judah the Patriarch. But this flexibility is limited to the formal, literal level alone. So far as the content of the Oral Law is concerned, there was neither development nor dynamism—even differences of opinion are rejected. The frequent assertion that Oral Torah, representing the human confrontation with scripture and the tradition, enables flexibility and response is absent in Sherira on any substantive level. From this perspective we may glance at Maimonides and see how he shifted the discussion to a completely different and more nuanced plane in the “Introduction” to his Commentary on the Mishnah and in his subsequent writings.53 For him, too, disagreement belies sanctity, but it is nonetheless an authentic aspect of Oral Torah. As is true with many topics, Maimonides did not carry the day or convince the majority of his compatriots, who gave their loyalty to the more static vision of Sherira. Sherira—and not Maimonides—became the author of the vision of Oral Torah that has defined Jewish orthodoxy until the present day.

Conclusion The tenth-century Sherira presented a dual developmental portrayal of Jewish Oral Law. In its earliest manifestation Oral Law was



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morphologically distinguished from Written Law (scripture) by the freedom that it gave its tradents in formulating its substantive contents. Until the time of Rabbi Judah the Patriarch, each master was sovereign to teach the law to his disciples as he himself saw fit. The Oral Law’s formulation was not sacred, as opposed to scripture. But this freedom was limited to the literary characteristics of Oral Law. It never extended to the contents of that law, which did not admit of variety or significant disagreement. This Law was not humanly authored in its substance but was bestowed at Sinai. This picture changed with the composition of the Mishnah by Judah the Patriarch. Now Oral Law was a text. Sherira did claim that this insistence on a fixed text was the result of historical decline, as was the very multiplicity of talmudic discussions. Furthermore, Sherira was aware of the many disagreements preserved in the Mishnah. Nonetheless, it was not one text among many: it was the text, Oral Law, embodied in Mishnah. While it is true that Judah’s Mishnah favored the formulations of Rabbi Meir, who himself derived from Rabbi Akiba, Mishnah itself was intended to remain a fixed, normative body of text. Text and substance were fused into a single normative statement. As such Oral Law as a phenomenon did not encourage flexibility or change; nor did it promote these characteristics as legitimate options within the Jewish halakhic tradition. The “orality” of Oral Law was meaningful on a literary level before the Mishnah was composed, but even this significance became outdated after that. Sherira’s basic achievement was to endow the rabbinic tradition with the immutable legitimacy of Sinai, a legitimacy that its adherents have maintained. Originally designed as a rebuttal of Karaite polemic, this characterization of the rabbinic tradition became the standard.

PA R T I I

Centralization and Diffusion of Authority in the Middle Period

Overview Jonathan P. Berkey

One of the persistent and confounding issues of premodern Islamic history concerns the nature and construction of authority. Two sides of the issue have commanded considerable attention in the scholarly literature in recent years: the nature of religious authority and of the institutions and modalities through which it was expressed and the relationship between religious authority and the political sphere. These issues lie at the heart of many of the most important developments of early Islamic history, including the construction of the office of the caliph, the separation of Sunni and Shiʿi Islam, and the emergence of a distinctive group of religious authorities, the scholarly ʿulamaʾ. Of course the nature of religious authority and of its relation to civil or political power is a matter of significance in virtually any society. But what makes it such a compelling and controversial topic of research in the Islamic case is the failure of Islam in its formative centuries to articulate definitive and dominant constructs of religious authority. As a result that authority and its relationship to the state were a perennial source of contention in most Islamic societies. Each of the three essays in the second section of this book serves as a reminder that religious authority is a construct. Put another way, religious authority is always in flux: it must constantly be negotiated and renegotiated against the backdrop of historical contingencies and changing circumstance. In the Islamic middle period on which this section concentrates, roughly from the year 1000 through the Ottoman conquest of Egypt and Syria in the early sixteenth century, the nature of religious authority began to change.1 What made this period different is that religious authority for the first time began to be expressed in more institutional terms. In the matter of law the authority (but also the mutual tolerance) of the jurisprudential schools (madhhabs) was firmly established. In education the informal system through which Islamic religious learning was transmitted in the earliest centuries became embedded in new schools, most of them established and endowed by the political authorities. Even in Sufi mysticism the process of institutionalization went far. Despite the

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arguably anarchic nature of the mystical experience, Sufis developed various mechanisms and institutions, most notably, the “orders” (turuq, sing. tariqa) of mystics bringing together the followers of particularly revered Sufi shaykhs and a wide array of establishments (such as the khanqah and zawiya) housing and supporting communities of mystics. These went a good distance toward reifying the authority of leading mystics. The tension between the persistent informality of Islamic religious authority as it developed in the earliest Islamic centuries and the new possibilities and problems posed by the institutionalization characteristic of the middle period is fully presented in Michael Winter’s chapter on the “ʿUlamaʾ from Damascus and Ottoman ʿUlamaʾ.” Winter addresses a host of interrelated questions: the creation of a class of Ottoman religio-legal scholars; the relationship between the Ottoman state and the Ottoman ʿulamaʾ; and the changing pattern of relations between Ottoman ʿulamaʾ and those from the Mamluk territories of Syria and Egypt, which were conquered by the Ottoman Empire in 1516–17. These are important questions, which address some of the larger interpretive issues that have informed much recent scholarship—for example, the matter of the origins and nature of the early Ottoman state or the even larger theoretical question of center-periphery relations and the construction of imperial identity and authority. But in the context of the present volume Winter’s essay is most valuable in reminding us that the construction of religious authority in the premodern Islamic world was intimately tied to political conditions. This is important to remember: even if the Western concept of the separation of church and state (or the “sacred” and the “secular”) is not germane to the Islamic context, there are good reasons for stressing the separation of the authority of the religious elite (the ʿulamaʾ) and the medieval Islamic state. After all, the network of religious and educational institutions in places like Mamluk Egypt remained largely independent from at least formal governmental control. But the formation—the legitimation—of the Ottoman state required, among other things, the deliberate creation of an ʿulamaʾ class in the Ottomans’ Anatolian heartland, which until recently had formed part of the Byzantine march. Whatever their origins, the Ottomans soon came to adopt the mantle of the defenders of Sunni Islamic orthodoxy, responsible for the imposition of the Shariʿa. They accomplished this in part through the importation and attraction of scholars from Iran and the Arabic-speaking lands and in part through sending aspiring young scholars from Ottoman towns and



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cities to more established centers of culture, especially in Syria and Egypt. (Eventually, of course, the polarities were reversed once the Ottoman state had consolidated its political position and emerged as the dominant power in the region: Syrian and Egyptian ʿulamaʾ traveled to Istanbul and other Ottoman cities for education and preferment, as Winter shows in copious detail.) What makes the Ottoman case different—in fact unique, at least until that point—is the way in which they gradually brought about the complete institutionalization of at least the upper echelons of the religious establishment. This is of course a development familiar to historians of the Ottoman period: the Ottomans established formal career tracks for scholars of the religious and legal sciences, tied religious and educational institutions together into a network controlled by the state, and turned the ʿulamaʾ into formal state employees. Two things in particular stand out from Winter’s account of this development. One is the human cost of the subordination of the religious elite to an absolutist political power, a cost paid by individuals such as the qadi of Iznik, who was executed for failing to maintain the local roads properly and thereby inconveniencing the sultan on his journey. The Ottomans were hardly the first Muslim regime to execute individual religious figures, but earlier examples were mostly mystics and others whose heterodox ideas put them in conflict with the political defenders of Sunni orthodoxy, most famously al-­Hallaj (d. 922) or al-Suhrawardi “al-Maqtul” (the murdered one; d. 1191).2 Under the Ottomans the punishment and execution of ʿulamaʾ was apparently more a matter of the routine exercise of despotic political power. Winter’s essay also draws attention to the persistent difference in the relationship of political and religious authority between the imperial center and periphery. Both for Ottomanists and for students of Islamic religious authority more generally, it is important to delineate the precise ways in which the construction of religious authority and its ties to the state differed between, say, Istanbul on the one hand and Damascus and Cairo on the other. Winter’s piece constitutes an important contribution to that discussion. Daphna Ephrat’s essay deals with two related but distinct issues: first, the concentration of charismatic authority in the hands of particular Sufi shaykhs; and second, the diffusion of that authority broadly among communities of devotees and also, perhaps, the larger body of believers. At the core of these issues lies what Ephrat calls “the institutionalization of Sufism as a path to God.” This institutionalization manifested itself,

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in her analysis, in three principal ways. First, it insisted that Sufi adepts attach themselves to and submit themselves to supervision by “an authoritative guide” (a shaykh or master). Second, the crystallization of “spiritual genealogies” linked the shaykh and his disciples to the Prophet himself (it goes without saying that the fact that these genealogies were “pious fictions” was irrelevant to their force). Third, it identified certain practices and modes of legitimation, such as the bestowing of the Sufi robe (khirqa) upon adepts at a particular stage of their spiritual development. One of the persistent questions concerning religious authority in the medieval Islamic world involves the relationship between Sufism and the legalistic Islam of the ʿulamaʾ. Ephrat’s study of the nature of the Sufi shaykhs’ authority is particularly suggestive on this point. She begins by noting that medieval biographical dictionaries described Sufi shaykhs in terms that approximated and replicated those applied to jurists and other religious scholars—for example, as “imams of their time” and as “revivers of the sunna.” This was not a rhetorical sleight of hand but r­ eflected a discernible intellectual interest in and spiritual commitment to the Sunna on the part of medieval Sufis. The genealogical connection to the Prophet Muhammad is especially interesting, not least because it provides a link to the structure of authority in medieval Judaism described by Meir Ben Shahar (see below). The Sufi habit of tracing their spiritual genealogies through spiritual chains (silsilas) back to the Prophet no doubt encouraged the blending of mystical practice and religious knowledge by making the Sufis even more aware of and committed to the Sunna as an object of religious inquiry. This is not to say, however, that the changes in the nature and structure of Sufi life and authority that Ephrat describes brought about a complete reconciliation of mystical and juristic Islam. For one thing, of course, the prophetic model itself remained flexible. One individual’s unwarranted innovation (bidʿa) was another’s sunna. How did the Sufis understand the prophetic example? They may have been “revivers of the sunna,” but which sunna were they reviving? The dominant thrust of Ephrat’s analysis warns against minimizing the distinctiveness of the tradition that the Sufis brought to the table. Sufis had peculiar modes and frameworks of operation and their own mechanisms of defining spiritual power. In particular, Ephrat stresses the intense moral and personal nature of the relationship (suhba) between Sufi master and ­disciple, which involved not just the transmission of knowledge but the “total transformation of a disciple’s entire mode of life, even a transformation of his self.”



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The second question that Ephrat raises is the diffusion of the Sufi shaykh’s authority broadly among his followers and beyond them in the Muslim community at large. This is even more consequential to the larger construct of medieval Islamic religious authority. Was this development connected to the Sufi shaykhs’ growing reputation as “revivers of sunna”? One of the more intriguing points that Ephrat makes is the suggestion that the expansion of the authority of individual shaykhs was a consequence of the institutionalization of the Sufi path. In some ways this seems to reverse the usual way in which we think about these things. Most historians have emphasized the role of individual mystical figures in the emergence of Sufism and have seen the institutionalization of the Sufi path as a means of routinizing and thus in a sense regularizing and even sanitizing the shaykhs’ authority. But Ephrat sees the process of institutionalization itself as an essential step in the construction of the shaykhs’ authority, by providing them with a language in which to articulate that authority and mechanisms for its broad diffusion. As with the Ottoman case studied by Michael Winter, the political context must be considered. On the whole Sufis were more resistant to the encroachment of political authorities on their autonomy than were scholars of Islamic law. Something in the very nature of mystical life and its underlying values creates obstacles to the mystic’s immersion in political affairs. Particularly among the more popular orders, Sufi shaykhs operated in tension with established governments through the end of the middle period and well into the Ottoman period. But the relationship of Sufism to political authority was not one of binary opposition. There are many intriguing examples of Sufis playing symbiotic or supportive roles in medieval Islamic politics or even in some cases forming the basis for new structures of political authority. For example, ʿUmar al-Suhrawardi (d. 1234) was central to the efforts of the caliph Nasir li-Din Allah to reconstitute the power of the Abbasid caliphate in the early thirteenth century. Another example (in a very different way) is the role of the Sufi elements in the movement that brought the Safawiyya order to power in Iran in the early sixteenth century. The spread of new Sufi institutions, especially the khanqah, provided opportunities for political authorities at least to try to subordinate the mystical orders to political control, as a recent dissertation by Nathan Hofer suggests.3 Meir Ben Shahar’s essay changes the subject in a very suggestive way. He focuses on the nature of authority within the Babylonian talmudic community. This authority crystallized in the relationship between master and disciple, teacher and student. Much here is familiar to an Islamicist, in particular the oral nature of the transmission of religious

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knowledge. Ben Shahar quotes the Babylonian sages on why their Palestinian rivals could not be trusted. They may have rediscovered “hidden volumes of the Mishnah and Talmud,” but their interpretations of them were unreliable “since they did not acquire the practical teachings of the ‘first sages.’”4 They had the written books, in other words, but not the authority acquired through personal relationships with established and recognized masters, without which book learning was incomplete and unreliable—even dangerous. This is reminiscent of the remark of Ibn Khaldun, the great fourteenth-century Muslim jurist and historian, as to why the extinct Zahiri school of law could never re-form. The books written by earlier Zahiri jurists were well known, he said; but the school itself had died out, so a living tradition linking contemporary scholars to those who had gone before could never be reconstructed.5 Over time, however, it seems that what Ben Shahar describes as a “democratization” of religious authority took place within the broad community served by the Babylonian Talmud and its interpreters. Following the work of Brian Stock on Latin Christian culture in the Middle Ages,6 Ben Shahar attributes this democratization to the spread of “literate culture.” The hegemonic authority of the Babylonian rabbis, which had been buttressed by their insistence on the oral transmission of texts and of authority over them, was gradually undermined by the spread of books and the rise of independent voices of religious authority resting squarely on written texts. And here the question arises as to whether we encounter a subtle difference between medieval Jewish and Islamic constructions of religious authority. The oral nature and personal character of the transmission of knowledge in medieval Islam constituted a mechanism of control, at least on the surface, much as it did for the Babylonian rabbis. At the same time, however, it also allowed popular preachers and storytellers to challenge the authority of the ʿulamaʾ by competing with them for the allegiance of the larger body of lay Muslims.7 In particular the claims of some mystics to direct contact with the Prophet, such as those described in Ephrat’s essay, only weakened the system of control even more. Here again we are reminded of the importance of historical contingency in the construction of religious authority. Ben Shahar suggests that oral transmission served at first to reinforce the Babylonian rabbis’ authority in the face of competition from other religious communities, such as the ­teachers of the Palestinian academy. Over time, however, changes in the nature of the Babylonian academy (its metamorphosis into a “­political ­institution”) facilitated the rise of independent loci of authority. It is



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worth asking, too, whether the peculiar circumstances of a minority religious community living in a far-flung diaspora might have had some bearing on the question. Islamic contingencies were quite different. Muslims of course had competing “schools” of law as well—the madhhabs— but the story of their crystallization was very different from that of the rabbinical academies. In particular they moved from an original condition of competition to one of mutual acceptance, and that may also be part of the picture.

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Spiritual Heirs of the Prophet Sufi Masters in a Period of Sunni Revitalization Daphna Ephrat

In the course of the earlier middle period (from the late tenth to the mid-thirteenth centuries), a main Sufi tradition crystallized and integrated itself into a mainstream Sunni camp that emerged in the central Muslim world. Against the background of the politically divided and socially unstable world created by the dissolution of the Islamic caliphate and the rise to power of military regimes (Seljuks, Zangids, Ayyubids, early Mamluks), and in the face of various sources of contentions within Sunni communities, leaders in Islamic learning and piety joined hands to delineate a commonly accepted form of Islam and recast Islamic doctrine and religious life in light of the prophetic tradition. But while integrating themselves into the Sunnization movement, Sufi masters devised their own chains of transmission from the Prophet and claimed to be God’s friends (awliyaʾ Allah) and the truthful heirs of His Messenger. Similarly, alongside their adaptation to the traditional modes of authorization in transmitting and disseminating religious lore, Sufi masters developed their distinctive methods of centralizing and diffusing authority and formed their own associations and institutional frameworks. To use Pierre Bourdieu’s vocabulary, Sufism emerged as a subfield of cultural production within the Sunni milieu. On what grounds did the Sufi shaykh claim to be the living heir of the Prophet and the most qualified to recenter his message? What mechanisms did he employ to attain control over the path leading to proximity to God and His Messenger and sustain his authority over a committed community of followers? These major questions lie at the center of this essay, which focuses on the biographies of several Sufi shaykhs and friends of God in the Arab Near East during a seminal period in the development 98



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of the Sufi concepts and practices of authority and the genesis of the associations known as “orders” surrounding venerated spiritual guides.1

Resources of Authority The terms and expressions used in these Sufi biographies yield a variety of modes of knowing and sources of authority. Some Sufis are characterized as learned mystics (al-ʿulamaʾ al-ʿarifin) who combined experiential and discursive knowledge or the maʿrifa of the mystic and the ʿilm of the jurist. The qualifying adjectives “pious and righteous worshipper (wariʿ, salih), and ascetic (zahid or mutaqashif)” recur in Sufi biographies. One can also find the expressions “he was the religious leader (imam) of his time,” “peerless in his lifetime,” and “the reviver (muhyi) of the sunna.” Significantly, the term “Sufi” is used to cover a category of persons praised as much for the manifestations of their asceticism and moral attitudes as for their gnosis. At the same time, biographical compendiums are replete with descriptions of ʿulamaʾ of the legal schools bearing the appellations “ascetic and pious worshipper” (zahid and ʿabid) that are normally associated with the Sufis. The miraculous mingles with biographical accounts of Sufis and with pious and learned figures as a matter of course, testifying to the combination of what Max Weber termed “charismatic” and “legal-rational” authority, which would become more apparent in the Ottoman period (discussed by Michael Winter in chapter 6). Authors of medieval biographical dictionaries often apply the same terms and expressions to describe Sufis and legalists, which is a clear indication of the rapprochement between their traditions and the overlap in their sources of authority. By the time the biographies were composed, a mainstream Sufi tradition had consolidated and integrated itself into mainstream Sunnism. Sufi masters and judicially trained scholars were linked together in genealogies of transmission of religious lore, studied in the same scholarly circles and institutions of learning, and were grouped around a common shaykh who combined the role of the teacher of the law with the role of a Sufi guide.2 As a path embraced by many men of religious learning, asceticism (zuhd) and pietism (ʿibada)—both as a perception of proper conduct and as a mode of life—helped blur the lines between Sufis and the ­ʿulamaʾ of the established legal schools— especially the Hanbalis.3 The kind of asceticism that they practiced, for which they were regarded as models of conduct to be followed, was based on the simple ascetic piety of the Prophet as reflected in the hadith: a critique of materialism and

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worldliness without a complete renunciation of the world. The Baghdadi Sufi shaykh Abu l-Najib al-Suhrawardi (d. 1168) portrayed the figure of the ideal Muslim ascetic in his Kitab adab al-muridin (Rule of Conduct for Aspirants), one of the most widely read handbooks of mystical training. The Prophet said: Three persons will enter paradise while being exempted from any judgment; the one who washes his garment without having another for change, the one who does not have two pots on his portable stove, and the one who wishes to drink without having someone around to ask him the kind of drink he prefers.4 But while sharing their overzealous acts of worship and abstention from worldliness with their contemporary pious and ascetic figures, Sufis cultivated their own form of ascetic piety. In very simple terms the righteous Sufi shaykh would pay close attention to the underlying motives of his pious habits and infuse them with trust in God, self-control, as well as other virtues of the purity of the heart (safaʾ al-qalb) that lend them a deeper spiritual meaning. His ascetic practices, moderate as they may seem, were considered to be a stage in a mystical journey or path leading far beyond the ascetic ideal.5 Consider, for example, the figure of Abu l-Fadl Muhammad, known as al-Qaysarani (son of a man of Caesarea, d. 1113), one of the most renowned Sufis of his generation, who earned fame and attained authority in the fields of Arabic language and poetry and primarily hadith.6 His biographers depict him as an extremely zealous Sufi and ardent hadith collector; so sincere was his quest for accuracy and proficiency in recording prophetic traditions that he is quoted as saying that he copied the canonical six hadith compilations several times. Al-Qayasarani’s own testimony, even when stripped of its legendary layers, exemplifies the Sufi principle of trust in God that is common in descriptions of the journeys made by Sufis from earliest times. As al-Qayasarani related: “I bled twice in my search for hadith, once in Baghdad and the other time in Mecca. I was walking barefoot, enduring the heat, and suffered much from this. Yet never have I ridden an animal while in search of hadith. Nor have I asked anyone for anything while seeking; I have lived on whatever [God] has provided me.”7 ʿAbd al-Wahhab b. Sukayna, a Shafiʿi Sufi who lived in Baghdad about one hundred years later, is another example of an ardent hadith collector and transmitter. His biography is included in the biographical collection



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of the celebrated legal scholars of the Shafiʿi legal school by Taj al-Din al-­ Subki and in comprehensive biographical dictionaries.8 Ibn Sukayna’s biographers designate him as “the shaykh of his time in esoteric or experiential knowledge (maʿrifa) and certainty” (yakin: the highest station in the mystical ascent gained through esoteric knowledge) as well as “the muhaddith of Iraq” and “the shaykh of his time in the high isnad” (the shortest unbroken chain that brings the transmitter closer to the Prophet). He is also said to have surpassed all other religious leaders, ʿulamaʾ, and ascetics in his acts of supererogation. It is related that not a single hour passed by without him being immersed in Qurʾan and hadith recital or in recollection of God’s presence (dhikr) and night prayer. Ibn Sukayna made frequent pilgrimages to Mecca and the “minor hajj” (which need not be performed at a particular time of the year), faithfully adhering to the Sunna in every situation. He was so highly regarded that he was considered one of the abdal, a very high rank in the Sufi hierarchical order of God’s friends. Through their very existence, these elevated figures assure their fellow believers of rain, food, and victory over their enemies. Mentioned together with ascetics in a number of early Sufi texts, the abdal gradually acquired a high spiritual meaning: the term was used to designate a Muslim holy figure for whom another will substitute (badala) after his death.9 Yet another explanation of the word and hence of the place and role of the abdal in Islamic piety circulated within Sufi circles: those who have assumed the rank of abdal have transformed their lower soul, the inferior aspect of the human physiological constitution.10 Clearly an alternative form of religious authority was derived for the Muslim community from the Sufi premise that arduous spiritual endeavor leads to closeness to God. Moreover, to define the Sufi whose name appears in biographical collections written by ʿulamaʾ about other ʿulamaʾ as a learned mystic or moderate ascetic would be to play down another very significant component of his persona as perceived and presented by Sufis themselves: his role as God’s favorite and the spiritual heir of His Messenger. While integrating themselves into the culture of the ʿulamaʾ of the established legal schools and the world of religious learning, Sufi shaykhs elaborated a distinctive vision of true knowledge (knowledge of the things as they truly are) and devised their own ways of connecting to the ultimate source of authority and appropriating the prophetic model. The self-perception of the Sufis as the true heirs of the Prophet had its origins in the writings of the Sufi scholar ʿAbd al-Rahman Muhammad al-Sulami (d. 1021) and was elaborated upon by later authors of Sufi

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doctrinal and didactic works. It was lucidly expressed in the last c­ lassical handbook of Sufism, ʿAwarif al-maʿarif (The Gift of Divine Gnosis) by ʿUmar al-Suhrawardi (d. 1234), the Sufi master scholar and alleged founder of one of the earliest Sufi orders. The Prophet—may God bless and greet him—is reported as saying: Oh my son, keep your heart cleansed of injustice from the time you wake up in the morning until you lie in bed in the evening. Oh my son, this is my sunna; whoever revives my sunna revives me, and whoever revives me joins me in paradise . . . The Sufis revitalized this sunna. This is because the purification of the hearts from hatred and injustice is the pillar of their faith, their nature and visible merit. . . . The Sufis are the most successful of all other groups in following the Messenger of God in all what he commanded and commissioned, censured and enjoined . . . Their characters (akhlaq) have been polished through their perfection in molding themselves after the Prophet. They resemble him in shame, forgiveness and compassion, mediation, persuasion and good advice, humbleness, and altruism. They are also endowed with many of his spiritual states (ahwal): god-fearing piety, reverence, contentment, patience and peace of mind, asceticism, and absolute trust in God.11 Such self-reflecting views should be seen as part of the general framework of al-Suhrawardi’s intentions. Seeing himself as the representative of the genuine Sufis, he considered Sufism a matter of asserting identity, authority, and superiority as much as of searching for spiritual insight and perfection. The Sufis not only surpass any other learned and pious men in modeling their piety and moral behavior after the Prophet. Due to their perfection in coupling inner purification and faultless practice, they possess the true-experiential knowledge that was vouchsafed by the Prophet to his Companions and passed down from generation to generation of spiritual and moral guides.12 Their authority thus resides in the most perfect and closest connection to God that human beings can attain through imitation of the Prophet, who had reached the highest level of human perfection. Seen in this light the religious knowledge entrenched in texts is another source of authority of the learned Sufi shaykh, who possesses esoteric knowledge and embodies the Prophet himself.



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The revered Shaykh Abu Bakr b. Qawam al-Balisi of the village of Balis in the Arabian Peninsula (d. 1260) is a noteworthy example of a Sufi wali Allah who brought together the mystical and legalist paths to knowledge. Al-Subki devoted an extensive biography to him in his Tabaqat. His biography is also to be found in Tabaqat al-awliyaʾ by the Shafiʿi scholar Abu Hafs b. al-Mulaqqin in token of his inclusion in the elevated category of God’s friends and in several comprehensive dictionaries about a great number of ʿulamaʾ.13 Several treatises were compiled on his saintly life. But while highly estimated in the circles of the ʿulamaʾ of his legal school, Ibn Qawam overtly ranked himself above his counterpart madrasa-trained jurists because his esoteric knowledge allowed him better to apprehend the meanings and significations of exoteric knowledge. Shaykh Shams al-Din al-Khaburi, a former disciple of Ibn Qawam, related the following story: I mentioned the shaykh repeatedly among the jurists at the Nizamiyya madrasa in Aleppo, so they said: “We must visit him with you and ask him about matters of jurisprudence, exegesis, and more.” . . . So a group of jurists and I went out to visit him . . . As we entered into his presence and sat for a long time without any of them daring to speak, the shaykh said to them: “Why do you not speak? Why do you not ask?” But none of them had the courage to speak . . . Then the shaykh said to the man on his right: “Your question is so-and-so and the answer to it is so-and-so.” Then he continued so until he came to the last one. They then arose as one man, asked God for forgiveness [for doubting the shaykh’s extraordinary forces], and repented.14 Elsewhere in his biography, Ibn Qawam describes the mystical experience connecting him to the Prophet and bringing him close to God. Noteworthy is the use of the word silsila to signify direct contact with the Prophet and the light of his message rather than meaning a chain linking the mystic to the ultimate source of authority via authoritative transmitters and mediators of texts of knowledge. The silsila may thus be seen as the equivalent of God’s rope or cord, the Qurʾan, extended directly to the believers to be held fast (Q 3:103). Ibn Qawam related the following story: I have suffered many hardships while traversing the initial mystical stations of the Path, and shared my experience with the shaykh. The shaykh said: “If you dare tell anyone else, I shall whip

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you.” He ordered me to absorb myself in the worship of God and pay no attention to my mystical experience. I clung to the shaykh’s company and obeyed his orders, ­until that night when I asked his permission to visit my blind mother . . . The shaykh allowed me to go and said: “A wondrous event will occur to you tonight. Endure it, do not shy away.” While on my way, I heard a voice from heaven. I raised my head, and there was light in the shape of a chain (silsila), blended one into the other. The chain wound itself around my back until I could feel its chilliness. I returned to the shaykh and told him about the extraordinary experience. The shaykh extolled God and kissed me between the eyes. He said: “O my son, from now on, the grace of God will wind around you. Do you know what this chain is?” I said: “I do not.” He said: “This is the sunna of the Messenger of God,” and thereupon he allowed me to relate my mystical experience. One night [the prophet] al-Khadir appeared before me. I obeyed his order, stood up, and set out in a hurry with him until I was present before God’s Messenger, the Companions, and the awliyaʾ. The Prophet said: “Proceed, since the secret of sanctity (wilaya) is embedded in your advancement. It is also through your advancement that you will become a religious leader (imam), guardian of the believers.”15 This last story also provides us with a clear, firsthand testimony of the total dependence of the disciple on his shaykh for his mystical experience and ascent. Only through his shaykh could Ibn Qawam attain proximity to God and His Messenger. The shaykh lends meaning to the vision of his disciple, who cannot advance on his own the claim to have attained a direct connection with the Prophet. The interpretation of dreams by the shaykh, which would become a common practice in Sufi orders, was not only intended to relieve the disciple of preoccupation with his awesome experience. It also provided the shaykh with a means of access to the disciple’s inner life and thus a way of supervising his spiritual experience.16

Control of Spiritual Authority The insistence on obedience to an accomplished guide, which runs like a thread in Sufi manuals, was closely related to the institutionalization



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of Sufism as a path to God. It set limits to spiritual experience leading to proximity to the Divine and established ways of defining and attaining spiritual progress. This institutionalization, which had its origins as early as the late tenth century, was an integral part of the consolidation of the sober-moderate Sufi tradition, which was accepted as a legitimate version of the prophetic tradition (sunnat al-nabi). Whatever the veils separating the wayfarer from the beloved creator, every seeker of the Path must attach himself to an authoritative guide. This guide would guard the disciple’s steps and protect him from straying from the right path out of ecstasy and from endeavoring to experience the mystical states by himself.17 At the same time, to attain the status of an authoritative shaykh, a Sufi must have combined personal achievements of spiritual ascent with the qualifications of training and guiding disciples.18 The Conference of the Birds by the twelfth-century Persian mystic-poet Farid al-Din al-Attar provides us with a colorful illustrative allegory. The “hoopoe,” leading the birds of the world along the hazardous journey to the heavenly bird, is the equivalent of the qualified master leading a group of disciples along the stations and states of the Path to God. The best available documentation suggests that by the twelfth century calling upon an accomplished guide for traversing the Path had been firmly rooted in the culture of Sufism both in theory and in practice.19 Another account preserved in the biography of Ibn Qawam provides us with an illustrative testimony: the shaykh controls the mystical unveiling of his disciple and warns him of crossing the boundaries of knowledge with which the Prophet was blessed. Shaykh Shams al-Din al-Khaburi related the following story: I went out to visit the Shaykh [Abu Bakr b. Qawam], and it entered my mind to ask him about the Spirit (the ruh that engages in a tug-of-war with the nafs, the ego-soul). But when I came into his presence my awe of him made me forget the question I had intended to ask. When I bade him farewell and proceeded on my way he sent one of the Sufis after me, who said to me: “Speak to the shaykh.” So I returned to him. When I entered his presence, he said to me, “O Ahmad.” I said: “At your service, my master.” He said: “Do you not read the Qurʾan?” I said: “Indeed I do, my master.” He said: “Read my son: ‘They ask you about the Spirit. Say, the Spirit is part of my Lord’s domain. You have only given a little knowledge’ [Q 17:85]. My son, a matter on which the Messenger

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of God, may God pray for him and give him peace, does not speak, how can we speak about it?”20 As in hadith and the law, the unbroken chain (isnad) to the Prophet was a principal device for legitimizing and establishing authority in Sufism. Still, Sufi shaykhs cultivated their own kinds of isnad, known as the “chain of companionship” (isnad al-suhba) or the “chain of purification” (isnad al-tazkiya). This type of Sufi isnad was based on a simple premise: just as the Prophet’s committed Companions learned from him his pious and God-fearing ways, so would any committed students of the Sufi shaykhs in the subsequent generations. The second type, the silsila, represented a chain of spiritual authority transmitted from master to disciple back to the Prophet.21 The silsilas took some time to crystallize, and the biographies of the shaykhs studied for this essay do not provide any examples of masters tracing their teachings to spiritual ancestors. It is likely, however, that the growing significance of the concept of the silsila during the eleventh and twelfth centuries was bound up with an increasing emphasis on the role of the shaykh as “master of training” (shaykh al-tarbiyya) as opposed to his role as “master of instruction” (shaykh al-taʿlim). In his position of unquestionable authority, the master of training would be involved in the private inner life of his disciple and closely monitor his progress and supervise all his actions.22 Guides were believed to be endowed with divine grace, so initiation into their spiritual path often involved insertion into their isnad of spiritual blessing (baraka), transmitted from the Prophet to a Companion and later on from a friend of God to a disciple. Shaykh Ibrahim alBataʾihi, known as the “blind man,” related how Ibn Qawam singled him out to be one of his immediate companions after having recognized his sincere intentions and commitment: When I came to him I found many people in his presence, and he was speaking to them. I sat among the people and listened to his words. He spoke at length, and then gazed at me and said: “O Ibrahim.” I said: “At your service, my master.” He said: “You are mine and my disciple.” Then he said to those in his presence: “Look at his forehead.” They all looked. He then said: “What do you see on his forehead?” They said: “We see a crescent of light between his eyes.” He said: “That is the sign of my companions.” So I approached him and he made me take the pledge, and I became one of his companions.23



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New and more institutional forms gradually emerged that gave more concrete and tangible force to the master’s authority, which demanded complete submission to him and his spiritual genealogy and carried with it the adoption of vigils, litanies, devotions, and other forms of worship such as dhikr, all of which constituted his spiritual path (tariqa). Most common in the early phase of the crystallization of the spiritual paths were taking the oath of fidelity (ʿahd) and investiture with the patched cloak or shawl (libs al-khirqa) that would later be replicated and become the primary symbol of the binding relationship with a Sufi master and his blessing and a vehicle for building and perpetuating his spiritual authority.24 Thus the chain of transmission for the khirqa of initiation developed, based on the claim of Sufi shaykhs that it had come from the Prophet’s practice as reflected in the following hadith: “The Prophet donated his khirqa to his foremost companion, ʿAli b. Abu Talib, who passed it on to later spiritual authorities.”25 When Abu l-Najib al-Suhrawardi tells of a man who refused to wear the khirqa after having been informed about the strict duties and regulations imposed on those wearing it, we may assume that during his lifetime the practice already had carried enough weight to assure the surrendering of the disciple to his master and the binding relationships with him.26 His nephew, ʿUmar al-Saharawardi, anchors the special practice of the Sufis in the prophetic precedence. Being dressed with the khirqa is a token of the disciple’s willingness to submit to the authority of the shaykh, which is tantamount to the authority of God and the Prophet. This practice is a reenactment of the rite described in the custom of swearing allegiance (mubayaʿa) to the Messenger of God.27 Through the disciples and associates from various parts of the Muslim world who seek the guidance and blessing of a chosen shaykh, taking the patched cloak from him and swearing commitment to him, the authority of that shaykh is carried far beyond his homeland. To give a few examples: ʿUmar al-Suhrawardi attracted wayfarers from various lands: the ­disciples he trained in his Baghdad cloister are said to have outnumbered the stars in the sky. Among them was Muhammad b. al-Qastallani (d. 1287), a Shafiʿi hadith expert and Sufi known for his extraordinary asceticism and piety. Having heard traditions from his father, he embarked on a long journey to the East in search of prophetic traditions, visiting Damascus and Baghdad and from there Homs, Aleppo, and Jerusalem. Eventually he returned to Cairo and assumed the position of the shaykh of a school devoted to the study of the prophetic traditions. On one of his trips back to Mecca, he associated himself with al-Suhrawardi. He received from

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him a license of audition (ijazat al-samaʿ) for his ʿAwarif al-maʿarif and was invested by him with “the cloak of Sufism” (khirkat al-tasawwuf), passing both of them on in Egypt on the shaykh’s a­ uthority.28 An aspirant traveled from India to the Arabian Peninsula, traversing the vast distance to visit Ibn Qawam in his lodge in the village of Balis. Upon reaching his destination, he asked the shaykh to take the oath from him so that he might become his disciple. Ibn Qawam, who had already heard about his visitor’s qualifications, provided him access to companionship. He placed his hands on his head and uttered a secret formula of invocation. On the next day the shaykh granted permission to his newly committed disciple to return to his homeland and his people.29 Concurrently Sufi shaykhs developed another type of khirqa, the “cloak of benediction” (khirqat al-tabarruk), to be given to truthful imitators of the Sufis who did not intend to (or could not) become their formal disciples. This practice must have served both to provide an alternative mode of attachment to the shaykh and the Sufi community that clustered around him and to enlarge the scope of that shaykh’s authority beyond the small core of disciplined Sufis. “If we impose all the duties and strict regulations of the Path on our new follower he will turn away from us,” warns Abu l-Najib. “But if we invest him with the cloak and let him imitate the Sufis and participate in their gatherings, we expect that he will obtain some of their blessings, and by imitating their behavior and customs he most probably can also attain some of their inner states.”30 Moreover, at times the shaykh would bestow his cloak and diffuse his spiritual power more broadly among his fellow believers. What we have here is an extension of Sufi praxis in the public sphere. A telling example relates to Shaykh Ahmad b. ʿUjayil al-Yamani (d. 1290), whom his biographers characterize as a religious leader and scholar, ascetic, mystic, friend of God, and miracle worker. A layman turned to him pleading for his mediation with the Divine to better his fortune in this world and to assure him of attaining paradise (silʿat Allah) in the hereafter. The shaykh anointed the man’s hand and wrapped it with his patched cloak. He ordered him to keep the hand tightened all the way home. While en route the man became hungry. Unwrapping his hand, he noticed that the food that he had kept disappeared altogether. This, the biographer explains, was because the shaykh covered his marvel (karama) with his cloak, so that his extraordinary forces would not be revealed right away.31



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Authority Sustained: The Master-Disciple Tie Another dynamic crucial to the institutionalization of the Path leading to mystical ascent entailed increasingly systematic and conscious emphasis on proper conduct in traversing the Path and in training disciples. Al-Salumi, the author of Jawamiʿ adab al-sufiyya (A Collection of Sufi Rules of Conduct), apparently the first single work entirely devoted to describing many disparate ethics and manners (adab), attributed unprecedented significance to proper conduct. The acquisition of adab is described as more important and praiseworthy than the accumulation of exoteric knowledge or prolonged engagement in ascetic practices; any disrespect for proper conduct might lead to the loss of faith in God.32 In his Manahij al-ʿarifin (Manners of the Gnostics) al-Sulami traces the various stages through which the aspirant has to pass. First, one learns adab from his shaykh, which leads to the second station, morals (akhlaq). On this basis he advances to the final station of the mystical states (ahwal).33 “There is no increase in nearness to God without an increase in adab,” says the famous mystic of Nishapur, Abu l-Qasim al-Qushayri (d. 1072). In its secular usage adab refers either to literary styles or to moral and wise behavior. For the pivotal figures in the development of mainstream Sufism it signified a never-ending disciplining and refinement of the self for those seeking nearness to God.34 The perception that acquiring ethics and manners is the first and foremost objective of training in Sufism and a precondition for advancement along the spiritual path is nowhere more clearly expressed than in Abu l-Najib al-Suhrawardi’s manual. Sufism in its entirety is viewed in Adab al-muridin from the standpoint of adab. For “each moment [of m ­ ystical experience (waqt)], each state (hal) and each station (maqam) has its adab.”35 The shaykh’s central role, indeed the very essence of his guidance, is to serve those who call upon him. The prime goal of this service is to pass on to them his virtues and morals, even the divine blessing with which he was endowed—all these attributes that make him indispensable. This ultimate goal of transmitting religious lore was of course not peculiar to the Sufis but was shared by the religious elite generally as well as other religious traditions of learning—the significance attributed to education under the Jewish rabbi comes to mind. Still, in light of the purpose of cultivating virtues in the Sufi tradition, education under the Sufi guide acquired a special significance. Molding behavior is often described in terms

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of a total transformation of a disciple’s entire mode of life, even a total transformation of his self. The famous Abu Hamid al-Ghazali (d. 1111) presented the authoritative guide as a healer of souls. In his words, which were addressed to the seeker of the spiritual path, “Know that whoever treads this Path (tariqa) should attach himself to a shaykh, a guide and educator, through whose guidance his bad qualities will be rooted out.”36 ʿUmar al-Suhrawardi, following this line, stated: “The shaykh’s purpose is to cleanse the heart of the disciple from the rust and lust of nature. In it, by attraction and inclination, the rays of the unity’s beauty and the glory of eternity may be reflected.”37 Accordingly, recognition of an individual’s shaykhhood by a d­ isciple not only demanded the formal recognition that attachment to the shaykh is essential for traversing the Path but also absolute obedience to that shaykh. The disciple must enter a life dominated by his shaykh’s guidance or, in the language of the great Sufi thinkers, of constant service (khidma), which dictates that he owes total obedience to his shaykh, just as every individual owes obedience to God. Abu l-Najib al-Suhrawardi put it this way: The disciple should not leave his shaykh before the eye of his heart opens. Rather, during the period of khidma, he should forbear whatever his educator commands and forbids. One of the shaykhs said: “He who was not educated by the shaykhs’ words and ordinance, would not be educated by the Qurʾan and the Sunna.”38 The master-disciple tie at the very heart of the emphasis on spiritual and moral guidance was the crucial element in forming a committed group of disciples and sustaining authority.39 The shaykh is presented as the living heir of the Prophet, and the close albeit hierarchical relationship between a shaykh and his disciples is parallel to that between the Companions and the Prophet. Sufi masters and theoreticians would say: “The shaykh in the midst of his disciples is as Muhammad in the midst of his Companions.”40 Hence masters and disciples saw themselves as bound together in the personal “chain of companionship” reaching back to the Prophet and the Companions. Carrying a strong symbolic message, the links between a Sufi guide and those who devoted themselves to intense training under his tutelage are described as surpassing all other linkages in terms of attachment and reciprocal obligations. The disciple is totally committed to his shaykh



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and clings to his image wherever he turns. The shaykh, for his part, is fully devoted to the service of his disciple. Inducing him to the Path and closely monitoring his conduct, he combines the roles of authoritative guide, psychologist, and caring and protecting spiritual father. The ideal of companionship (suhba), which had its origins in early Sufi thought and practice, was nourished and reasserted in biographical and hagiographical accounts that were employed as a literary mechanism in the creation of enduring binding relationships between master and disciple.41 The following narrative conveys the notion of the master-disciple tie as a key metaphor and practice. The disciple asks the permission of his shaykh to travel. The shaykh knows every detail about his disciple’s journey even from a remote distance. In the vision of the disciple, the shaykh escorts and guards him wherever he turns to assure his safe return. Moreover, it is through the shaykh that the disciple attains spiritual enlightenment. Shaykh ʿAli b. Saʿid, the righteous and pious ascetic known as “little starling,” related the following story: The shaykh [Ibn Qawam] initiated me into the tariqa when I was a youth. It entered my mind to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and I asked him for permission to do so. He said: “My son, you are young and I fear for you.” But as I insisted, he gave me permission, saying: “I shall place my cloth over you like an iron cage” . . . He also said: “When you arrive at a village near Damascus, enter it, ask for Shaykh ʿAli b. al-Jamal, and visit him, for he is one of God’s friends.” When I entered the village, I asked for him and was given directions to his house. When I knocked on the door a member of his family came out to me and said to me: “Enter, ʿAli (he used my name), the shaykh had given us orders concerning you and said to us: ‘A Sufi (fakir) named ʿAli will come to you, a companion of Shaykh Abu Bakr b. Qawam. Let him in until I arrive.’” I stayed with him for some days and then left to make a pilgrimage to Abraham, may God pray for him and give him peace. When I approached Hebron, four highway robbers came toward me. When they were near me, they were startled and gazed at something behind me. I looked and saw a masked man wearing white clothes. He said to me: “Proceed on your way.” So I continued walking, and he remained with me until I came near Hebron

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and saw the town. I saw him standing and prompting. So I entered the town and performed the pilgrimage. When I returned to Balis the first thing I did was to greet the shaykh. After I greeted him, he informed me of everything that had happened to me during my journey and said: “Had it not been for the masked man the highway robbers would have taken your clothes.” So I knew that it had been the shaykh, may God be pleased with him. I said: “This is indeed how it is fitting for the shaykh to be toward his disciple, for it is said: ‘The shaykh brings you together when you are present, protects you when you are absent, improves you through his character, disciplines you by having you bow your head to him, and lights up your inside through his illumination.’”42 Initiating disciples into his spiritual route and carefully guarding their advancement along the Path, Ibn Qawam established his leadership over a local group of disciples and followers who orbited around him in his village cloister and disseminated his authority far beyond his homeland. His disciples transmitted his tradition and bestowed his patched cloak long after his death. His burial place in the village of Mount Qasyun (on the outskirts of Damascus) became a pilgrimage site. A cloister was erected in Damascus and named after him—al-Zawiya al-Qawamiyya al-Balisiyya—sustaining his disciples and commemorating his legacy.43

Conclusion This essay highlights the evolution of Sufi concepts and practices of authority during a crucial period in the history of Sufism and Sunni Islam as a whole. Significantly, Sufi leadership and associations in the historical setting discussed here emerged out of internal dynamics, relatively unaffected by the policies and patronage of the alien elites of military lords. The political rulers in the Arab Near East of the earlier middle period established madrasas for the benefit of legal scholars and institutions known as khanqahs for the righteous Sufis, where they were lodged, fed, and performed their rituals. Housed in glorious buildings in the great cities of Islam, the madrasas and khanqahs signified the dedication of the rulers to the revitalization of Sunni Islam in the face of enemies within (the Shiʿis) and without (the Crusaders, the Mongols). Authority and



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spiritual power were constructed around masters of the Path sitting in their zawiyas among their fellow believers, however, rather than around royal institutions.44 Seen from the broad theoretical perspective, the ascendancy of the authoritative charismatic Sufi shaykh was a product of the institutionalization of Sufism as a spiritual path to God and His Messenger based on the concept of a disciple having to trust and obey his spiritual ­master and the master having to monitor his disciple’s progress closely and to lead him on the right course. No matter how informal and intangible the practices of leadership and companionship that developed around the concept of guidance may appear, they were meaningful and powerful enough to assure their perpetuation. Authors of Sufi manuals and sacred biographies played a significant role in the process of institutionalization. Sufi masters and theoreticians did so by setting forth the rules of behavior to which masters and disciples should adhere, which they themselves exemplified and replicated, as well as defining the steps of spiritual progress and the qualifications for leadership status.45 By locating the Sufi shaykh in genealogies of spiritual authorities and highlighting his qualifications and the symbolic character of his activities, narratives in sacred biographies constructed and commemorated his image as an authoritative friend of God, a living heir of the Prophet. Detached from the worldly realm as they may seem, the traditional Sufi themes and practices of leadership and companionship that these textual formats echo, notably personal and communal loyalty to the supreme guide and the perception of the master as the healer of souls and channel to God, serve as a source of inspiration and simulation for Islamic movements aspiring to recast the mastership legacy of Islam’s glorious past and shape an ideal community of committed followers.

6

ʿUlamaʾ of Damascus and Ottoman ʿUlamaʾ Career Patterns and Types of Authority Michael Winter

The beginnings of the Ottomans started as a Gazi emirate in north­ western Anatolia in the early fourteenth century. The Ottomans were determined to establish a Muslim Sunni state but lacked trained ʿulamaʾ to fulfill the functions of imams, as teachers and jurists. Ahmad b. Mustafa Taşköprüzâde, the author of al-Shaqaʾiq al-nuʿmaniyya fi ʿulamaʾ aldawla al-ʿuthmaniyya, the first important work on Ottoman ʿulamaʾ and Sufis (the book clearly separates the two categories), describes the careers of the earliest ʿulamaʾ until his death in 1561.1 It was natural that these ʿulamaʾ had to learn the basics of Islam (Arabic: tafsir of the Qurʾan, Islamic law, and other disciplines) from scholars outside their region. Generally they looked east to the Persian lands, with a rich tradition of Islamic scholarship with which the early Ottoman ʿulamaʾ had some acquaintance. In addition, as the Ottoman emirate expanded and progressed, many Persian-speaking ʿulamaʾ arrived in Anatolia, as they were escaping from the upheavals in the eastern domains.2 Other Turkish-speaking ʿulamaʾ traveled west to the Arab lands to seek knowledge there. The earliest ʿalim (singular of ʿulamaʾ) and Sufi mentioned in the al-Shaqaʾiq al-nuʿmaniyya is Molla Edebeli. He is known to students of the Ottomans as the spiritual guide of ʿOsman Gazi, the second ruler and the eponym of the dynasty. According to the tradition, he interpreted ʿOsman’s dream and predicted that the small border emirate would grow into an empire. Edebeli was born in the region of Karaman. He traveled to Syria to study the Islamic religious and legal sciences. In addition to his Sufism, he became an accomplished ʿalim and gave advice in Shariʿa and state matters upon his return to Anatolia.3 Al-Shaqaʾiq al-nuʿmaniyya provides more names of early Ottoman 114



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ʿulamaʾ who also went to Syria and Egypt to pursue their religious ­studies. Even one century later ʿulamaʾ from the Turkish as well as the

Persian regions traveled to Egypt and Syria to study. The famous Persian ʿalim and religious philosopher ʿAli al-Jurjani, known as al-Sayyid alSharif (d. 1413), went to Cairo to study and stayed there for four years.4 More Turkish-speaking and Persian-speaking ʿulamaʾ had a firsthand knowledge of the Islamic scholarship in the great Arabic centers—Cairo, Damascus, and Aleppo—than the other way round.5 After the establishment of an elaborated and centralistic Ottoman system of madrasas (medreses in Turkish) under Sultans Mehmet II and Süleyman, the Ottoman Islamic scholars were self-sufficient and no longer felt the need to go to study in the Arab lands.

Organization of the ʿIlmiye from Mehmet II to Süleyman The Ottoman Empire was becoming a staunchly Sunni Muslim state and inherited much from older Islamic traditions. The Ottomans decided to implement the principles of the Shariʿa, so much care was invested in the training of scholars in Islamic law, who were to serve as madrasa teachers, muftis, and qadis. The empire developed a rigid bureaucratic and hierarchical structure of government, which included the ʿilmiye (learned establishment).6 Never before in Islam were the madrasas formally graded into several categories. As in other Muslim states members of the Ottoman legal profession—qadis, muftis, and bureaucrats—were trained in madrasas. The Ottoman innovation was that the training and teaching in the various ranks of the madrasas determined the exact rank of the judicial position to which the graduate or former müderris (professor) would be entitled. In classical Islam higher education was mainly individualistic, between a student and a teacher, who awarded a personal license to teach (ijaza). Under the Ottomans the madrasa awarded the license after the student passed formal examinations. The most important madrasas were established in Istanbul by three great sultans as annexes to their mosques. After conquering Constantinople and making it his capital, Fatih Mehmet II (r. 1451–81) built eight madrasas that were called sahn medreseleri (madrasas of the courtyard); the courtyard itself was known as sahn-i seman (courtyard of the eight). Later eight more madrasas devoted to preliminary studies were built, called “introductory to the courtyard” and “supplementary.” The madrasas of Sultan Bayezid II (r. 1481–1512) were devoted to the study of

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fiqh (jurisprudence). Sultan Süleyman Kanuni (the Lawgiver, r. 1520–66) reorganized madrasa education and the entire religious establishment ­under the supreme leadership of the şeyhülislâm (mufti of Istanbul).7

The Ottoman Conquest: First Encounters The Arab lands became Ottoman provinces after the Ottoman conquest of Syria and Egypt in 1516–17, and the relations between Arabic-­ speaking and Turkish-speaking ʿulamaʾ assumed a new form. Now the Turkish ʿulamaʾ represented the rulers. The senior scholars were called mollas (mawali in Arabic). Those who were appointed as chief judges in the cities of Syria and Egypt were superior to the Arabic-speaking local qadis, who could hold only the lower positions in the provincial judicial hierarchy. The Ottoman occupation of Syria in August 1516 and of Egypt in January 1517 was a traumatic experience for the people of these countries. The fallen Mamluks had been thoroughly familiar. Their rule was at times oppressive and extortive. Nevertheless, with all their failings, they maintained an orthodox Sunni state and applied the Shariʿa law under the guidance of the local Arabic-speaking ʿulamaʾ. The native population’s first impressions of the Ottomans were extremely negative. The occupation itself is directly and fully described by two excellent chroniclers who were eyewitnesses to the events: the wellknown Muhammad b. Ahmad b. Iyas of Cairo and Muhammad b. Ahmad b. Tulun of Damascus. Ibn Iyas’s chronicle reaches to the year 1522, covering the first five years of Ottoman rule in Egypt. Ibn Tulun’s work covers events until 1544.8 Both chroniclers wrote the history of their countries and societies during the last decades prior to the Ottoman occupation and after that event in great detail, sometimes day by day. Other, less detailed literary sources complement the narratives of Ibn Iyas and Ibn Tulun and provide more evidence of the feelings of the people toward the new masters. Ibn Iyas’s attitude toward the Ottomans is extremely hostile. He had much to criticize: Sultan Selim, his troops, his qadis, and the legal and administrative innovations they were introducing. Sultan Selim is presented as an uncivilized drunkard. Ibn Iyas describes the Ottoman army as rabble who did not pray and who drank and the qadi appointed by Selim as an old man, “more ignorant than a donkey, who understands nothing in sharʿi matters.” Ibn Iyas regarded the Ottomans as barbarians: in short, as bad Muslims.9



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Ibn Tulun in Damascus was also critical of the Ottomans, although not to the same extreme degree as Ibn Iyas. The Egyptian chronicler was a descendant of a Mamluk emir, and Selim was killing the Mamluks. Ibn Tulun was a moderate man, however, an accomplished ʿalim whose judgment was more balanced. For example, he was impressed by the orderliness of the Ottoman camp. He praised Sultan Selim for several good decisions that he made in punishing soldiers in his army for harming the people of Damascus and for taking back his initial decision to destroy buildings around the Citadel of Damascus for security reasons.10 Certain variations in reading religious texts and in performing the ritual, while not theologically controversial in most cases, created criticism and even ridicule among the Damascene ʿulamaʾ. A few examples demonstrate this point. Ibn Tulun mentions a disagreement about details of a prayer between the Shafiʿis and the Turks. He reports a dispute that he had with Qadi al-Feneri, the first chief Ottoman judge of Damascus, at the end of 1517 concerning the Hanafi system of deciding about the new month of Dhu l-Hijja. In 1521 the Ottoman governor dismissed Taqi al-Din al-Qari, an important Shafiʿi scholar, from all his positions and arrested him for saying that it was not permissible to pray behind the Hanafis (meaning the Ottomans) and for calling the Ottomans innovators (bidaʿiyya). Ibn Tulun complains that the Ottomans took books that had been consecrated by waqf (pious endowment) for students of religion for the use of their own people.11 Yet nothing created so much resentment as a new tax on marriage contracts, which was double in the case of a virgin versus a woman who had been married before. This tax, besides being unjust, was seen as a violation of the Prophet’s sunna. One of the ʿulamaʾ in Syria where the same tax had also been applied cried in anger: “This state [the Ottomans] has imposed illegal taxes on women’s genitalia. What outrage can be worse than this? (Darabat hadhihi al-dawla al-mukus ʿala furuj al-nisaʾ . . . ayyu fitna aʿzam min dhalika).”12 Also, the Ottoman administrative law, the Qanun (Turkish spelling “Kanun”), was misunderstood as anti-Islamic or at least un-Islamic. There are many expressions of disapproval of the Qanun in the Arab lands.13

The Improved Ottoman Image (and a Caveat) Later, during Sultan Süleyman’s long reign, the image of the regime greatly improved, as can be seen in the writings of several Egyptian chroniclers and other Arab writers. They realized that the Ottomans

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were committed to rule as a model Muslim state, implementing the Shariʿa, supporting Islamic institutions and ʿulamaʾ, and taking care of the hajj better than had been done before. Most importantly, the Ottomans were successfully fighting against Christian infidels in the West and Shiʿi heretics in the East. Observers in Cairo and Damascus initially had the impression that the qadis who were appointed over them were ignorant and could not speak Arabic. This too had changed for the better, as the chroniclers and biographers testify. The image of the Ottomans in later Egyptian chronicles improved dramatically, and several panegyric treatises and books laud them as ideal Muslim rulers. The historians and other writers were aware that the Ottoman state was the leader of Sunni Islam and was committed to Islamic law.14 While the loyalty to the dynasty seems genuine in most cases, however, it must be added that negative stereotypes of the Turks persisted. It was quite possible in those days for an Arabic-speaking writer or an ordinary person to praise the sultan and at the same time to dislike the pasha who governed the province or the Istanbul-appointed qadi or to hate the local Janissaries. Some Turks also held to negative stereotypes of Arabs.15 Arab ʿulamaʾ continued to officiate as qadis, muftis, and teachers of madrasas. The Ottomans respected the traditions of Islamic learning and piety that they found, particularly in Cairo. The chief qadis (­kazaskers), however, who were appointed annually from Istanbul, were ­invariably Turkish-speaking Hanafis. They were graduates of the Ottoman “Ivy League,” the top madrasas of Istanbul, Bursa, and Edirne, with the Ottoman capital gaining a monopoly over all the senior positions over time. The Ottoman system was more centralized and hierarchical than anything known in Islam until that period and was geared toward preparing graduates to serve as madrasa professors, judges, and jurisconsults. A system of career lines connected the scholarly degrees in the top madrasas to appointments in the Ottoman judiciary. So the Egyptian ʿulamaʾ could pursue their careers and become successful scholars and teachers and could reach the position of shaykh al-Azhar (which was created only toward the end of the seventeenth century) without any government intervention. Al-Azhar, where the language of instruction was Arabic, was not integrated in the Ottoman system. This is truer with regard to Cairo than for Damascus and Aleppo, where Ottoman governors and chief qadis did interfere in appointments. The reason was not ethnic discrimination but the state policy of closely controlling the training and



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promotion of the senior imperial judicial and administrative personnel from the center. In contrast to the rigid and hierarchical system of Ottoman higher education, Jonathan P. Berkey describes the merits of the important madrasas of Mamluk Cairo, the best in the Arab Sunni world. Yet throughout his work Berkey clearly shows the chaotic nature of higher education in terms of formal structures and the lack of a unified system.16 In a study about the situation of higher education in Damascus in the same period, Michael Chamberlain notes: “In Damascus it is difficult to speak of specialized education at all, much less of a ‘system’ of education, formal or otherwise.”17

The Problem of Language Ibn Tulun relates that when going to see the Ottoman camp he tried to talk to the Ottoman ʿulamaʾ as colleagues, but language barriers made that impossible. They could not speak Arabic, and he did not understand Turkish.18 This is noteworthy: as Muslim ʿulamaʾ, the Ottomans had to study Arabic in order to be able to read the sources but did not have practice in speaking the language. This problem improved with time but never disappeared entirely. Many Turkish ʿulamaʾ such as qadis or bureaucrats who came to the Arab lands for official business learned to speak Arabic. Conversely, many Arab ʿulamaʾ (more from Syria than from Egypt) spent time in the Ottoman center with the purpose of arranging matters with the Ottoman authorities and had to learn Turkish. Najm al-Din al-Ghazzi, the important seventeenth-century biographer of Damascus, praises a few qadis who were sent from Istanbul to serve in his city for their perfect Arabic. He names those whose Arabic was as perfect as that of native speakers.19 Even this compliment proves that they were the exceptions, however. In his biographical collections about the sixteenth century and the first third of the seventeenth century, al-Ghazzi also includes Ottoman personalities. It is interesting to note that his only source for these is Taşköprüzâde’s al-Shaqaʾiq al-nuʿmaniyya, which was written in Arabic. It is equally noteworthy that the two important Damascene authors of biographies (or rather obituaries) of notables, Muhammad Amin al-Muhibbi for the seventeenth century and Khalil al-Muradi for the eighteenth century, were also using sources written in Turkish. This is clear evidence that in time several educated ʿulamaʾ became more knowledgeable about

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Ottoman culture. Several personalities listed in the biographical dictionaries of al-Muhibbi and al-Muradi knew “the three languages”: Arabic, Turkish, and Persian as well.20 The status of Persian was indicative of cultural change. Educated persons in Istanbul from the sultan down knew at least some Persian. That language was important in poetry. Turkish Sufi literature has many Persian works. Ottoman-Turkish historical writing included Persian verses and even titles of treatises and chapters. But little of this admiration of the Persian language and literature existed in the Arab culture.21 The Persian language also played a significant role in the writings of ʿulamaʾ, whose influence extended into the Ottoman Islamic scholarship. Many Ottoman political terms were Persian. The name of the immensely influential ʿalim ʿAli al-Jurjani, “al-Sayyid al-Sharif, ” has already been mentioned. He wrote in his native Persian on grammar (Arabic grammar, of course) and logic. His writings were foreign to Arab-speaking scholars, not only because of the language (some of his works were translated into Arabic by his son) but also because of the philosophical subject matter.22 The contrast in the different images of Ahmad b. Ruhullah al-Ansari (d. 1599), a high-ranking Ottoman ʿalim in the Arab world and in the Ottoman system, is illustrated by the impression he made on ʿulamaʾ in Damascus and Cairo. He came to Istanbul from the Persian region as a lonely and poor man but eventually made a brilliant career as qadi in Damascus and Cairo and later as the chief Ottoman judge (qaziasker) of Anatolia and then of Rumeli. According to the biographer al-Hasan b. Muhammad al-Burini, who met Ibn Ruhallah in Damascus, he was strong in the rational sciences, logic, and speculative theology. Al-Burini writes that he was a generous and a kind man, although his Arabic was weak and so was his understanding, and that he was careless as a qadi. Someone who wanted to ridicule him made him sign a legal document concerning the sale of heaven and its inclusion in the earth. A cruel satirical poem was composed against him as the chief qadi in Egypt. “The donkeys of Shirwan have come to our Egypt, and here they can rest” (Shirwan is a region in the eastern Caucasus). Al-Burini tries to prove that Ibn Ruhullah was naïve and even senile in his old age for ­supposedly changing his name from Ibn Ruh to Ibn Ruhullah. Al-Burini did not know the qadi’s merits because he did not read the Turkish sources and judged Ibn Ruhullah on the basis of a superficial impression.23 Al-Muhibbi, a thorough biographer who also read the Turkish sources, reports that Ibn Ruhallah was an unusually innovative teacher. The Turks were immensely impressed



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by the public classes he gave, with many students participating in the debate and the class later summarized in writing. Ibn Ruhallah’s career was brilliant and brought him to the top, just short of the position of şeyhülislâm.24 Al-Muhibbi reports that al-Burini’s Persian was very good. He did study Turkish, but his knowledge of that language was not nearly as good as his Persian.25 The distorted image of the qadi in the view of the people in Damascus and Cairo is at least partly based on linguistic difficulties, cultural differences, and misunderstanding, as well as ignorance of the developments within the Ottoman ʿilmiye.

The Status of the Arab ʿUlamaʾ after the Conquest The fears of the ʿulamaʾ and other segments of the population in Egypt and Syria about the future of Islam under the Ottomans turned out to be exaggerated. For example, there were false rumors shortly after the occupation that the new rulers would abolish all madhhabs except the Hanafi. Yet the Arab ʿulamaʾ found their status inferior as compared to the Ottoman ʿulamaʾ, in particular if these held a position of power, such as qadis. The people who lived in Egypt were referred to in the sources simply as Muslims before the Ottoman conquest. This was natural: they were the majority, with no significant ethnic minorities. Under Ottoman rule it was sometimes necessary to make a distinction between Arabic-­speakers and Turkish-speakers. It was extremely rare to call an Arabic-­speaking person in Cairo (or in Aleppo or Damascus) an Arab. This term was usually reserved for the sedentary and nomadic Bedouin tribes. The new term coined to distinguish an Arabic-speaker from a Turkish-speaker was ibn ʿArab (plural awlad) or less frequently abnaʾ ʿArab. In some cases writers felt the need to state the ethnicity of their subject, like: “With him died the last Arab qadi (shaykh al-Islam) (wa-kana akhir al-qudat min awlad al-ʿArab inqiradan).”26 This means that the next ones to occupy the post will be Turks. The same term, evlâd-ı ʿArab, is used in both Ottoman-Turkish chronicles and official documents.27 Another term that reflects the tensions that existed between the Arab and Turkish ʿulamaʾ (these are admittedly anachronistic terms) is mawali, used by Arab writers when referring to Ottoman ʿulamaʾ. As is well known, this term has a long history of ambiguity. In the early periods of Arab history the word mawla (client) was used for a person

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who joined a tribe without having a blood relationship with the original members. In early Islam the term was used for new converts who were not Arabs. A mawla could be also a lord or master. In the Ottoman religious hierarchy, the title molla or mevla (derived from the Arabic mawla, master) was given to the highest order of the ʿulamaʾ, starting with the şeyhülislâm. No direct disrespect is implied by referring to the Ottoman ʿulamaʾ as mawali, but the ambiguity of the term (referring to the Turks as recent converts) is still there. Like the governor or the chief qadi in Damascus (and other provincial towns) the Ottoman authorities in Istanbul or their representative on the spot often decided on appointments of teachers of madrasas, deputy ­qadis, and the like. Many ʿulamaʾ went to Istanbul to try to achieve a desired appointment in Damascus. Cairo was a different matter; the Ottomans limited their interference to a minimum. Al-Azhar remained wholly independent throughout the Ottoman period. As H. A. R. Gibb and Harold Bowen noted more than half a century ago: “It speaks eloquently for the independence of the Egyptian ʿulamaʾ that, although the Hanafi rite was officially adopted by the Ottoman sultans, no Hanafi shaykh held the coveted post of Shaykh al-Azhar until the French occupation, and that it was monopolized during the greater part of the eighteenth century by the Shafiʿis.”28 The Ottomans respected al-Azhar and did not try to influence the internal affairs of that venerated institution.

Seeking a Career in Istanbul Obviously, ʿilm (religious learning) was the channel for an ʿalim’s progress. The usual course undertaken in the Ottoman period by many ʿ­ ulamaʾ, particularly in Syria, was studying in Damascus or Aleppo, where aspirants could find serious and respected shaykhs who taught them the various religious disciplines. Several students, but by no means all, went later to extend their studies and connections in Cairo. The great city offered illustrious teachers who gave the ambitious students ijazas (written permits to teach students what they had taught them) or even to issue fatwas. As was usual in the Muslim scholarly tradition, these certificates were personal and were not issued by a madrasa but by a teacher. The student returned to his native town to teach or to hold a certain post. After a short while he would go to study in Rum (the Turkish central parts of the Ottoman Empire), almost always to the Ottoman capital. By then he was



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already a mature ʿalim: his mastery in Arabic was certain to impress his Turkish-speaking peers, and thus his success was assured. The Arabic sources report that many ʿulamaʾ from Syria took the scholarly training program of the arwam (Turkish-speaking Ottomans) or mawali (mollas, the high-ranking Ottoman ʿulamaʾ) in Istanbul or less frequently in another major city. Another common strategy used by Arabic-speaking ʿulamaʾ was to choose a famous ʿalim in the Ottoman capital as their scholarly and religious mentor (mulazama, meaning close adherence). The phrase is lazama min shaykh fulan (he became a close disciple of Shaykh X). In some cases the mentor was no less than the şeyhülislâm himself, the mufti of Istanbul, the highest-ranking man of religion in the Ottoman Empire. The disciples from Syria naturally tried to establish good relations with their patron and to flatter him “in verse and prose.”29 After the Ottoman occupation many scholars were converted from the Shafiʿi madhhab to the Hanafi one—never the other way round. Joining the official legal school of the empire brought obvious benefits for acceptance and promotion in the Ottoman scholarly system. Examples abound in the contemporary chronicles and biographical dictionaries.30 Some Syrians stayed in Istanbul for long periods, but almost all of them came with the intent to return home to Damascus or Aleppo. They used their stay in the capital to gain the favor of influential people there, so that they would be able to obtain appointments to desired positions, such as the office of the head of the group of ashraf, descendants of the Prophet (naqib al-ashraf), if the aspirant was a sharif. They also sometimes acquired additional positions in the judicial and educational systems of their native town as deputy qadis or other offices or as an administrator (nazir) or a professor in a madrasa.31 The new appointee was often awarded an Ottoman educational degree such dakhil (or dahil), which was routine in the elaborate system of the time but unknown in the traditional Arab Muslim education outside the Ottoman center until then. Al-Muhibbi mentions that the rank of dakhil became widespread in Damascus, “following the people of Rum [the Turks].” This is an indication of the degree to which the Ottoman influence was growing among the ʿulamaʾ of Damascus. Some were given an honorary degree as a judge in a certain town, such as Jerusalem.32 This trend did not extend to Egypt, partly because of the Ottomans’ policy of minimal interference in the independence of the Egyptian ʿulamaʾ. Here are a few representative ʿulamaʾ who made such a career.

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Shaykh Ismaʿil b. ʿAbd al-Ghani al-Nabulusi (d. 1652) was a famous ʿalim from Damascus (although not nearly as famous as ʿAbd al-Ghani b. Ismaʿil (d. 1731), who was from the same family, probably Ismaʿil’s grandson). Al-Nabulusi was a legal scholar who changed his madhhab from Shafiʿi to Hanafi. He studied under the greatest teachers in his native city and taught in the Umayyad mosque. Then he traveled to Istanbul, where he became the disciple (mulazim) of Şeyhülislâm Yahya b. Zakariyya and taught according to the Ottoman system. Al-Nabulusi returned to Damascus after ensuring a madrasa for himself. Later he was appointed the teacher of the Salimiyya in the Salihiyya quarter of Damascus. Founded by Sultan Selim as a mosque for Ibn ʿArabi, that madrasa unofficially was considered one of the imperial colleges. When he retired, he devoted his time to teaching tafsir, writing, and study.33 Ahmad Shihab al-Din al-Khafaji (d. 1659) was an Egyptian scholar whose ambitions were fulfilled in Istanbul. But intrigues in Istanbul, and probably his own difficult character, put an end to his public achievements. In Istanbul he studied under several outstanding teachers and also studied mathematics and the books of Euclid with the Jewish scholar Rabbi Daud. Later Sultan Murad appointed him as the qadi of Üsküb and then as the qadi of Salonika. Through these positions al-Khafaji became rich and finally was appointed the chief qadi of Egypt. This career in the Ottoman judiciary would not have been possible had he not been a Hanafi, but no information indicates that he had been a Shafiʿi before. After a short while he was dismissed and decided to travel again to Istanbul. Al-Khafaji was disappointed and expressed his anger in writing. The mufti of Istanbul ordered him to return to Egypt as an ordinary qadi. He did not serve long and devoted his time to study and writing. He died in Cairo in 1659.34 The most famous ʿalim from Syria who made a great scholarly career in Istanbul was Ibrahim al-Halabi (d. 1549). He started his studies in Aleppo, his native town, then continued in Cairo. Finally he moved to Istanbul, where he lived for more than fifty years. Al-Halabi was the author of Multaqa al-abhur, a work that became the authoritative handbook of the furuʿ (applied fiqh) of the Hanafi madhhab in the Ottoman Empire. He became the leader and preacher of the Friday sermon in the mosque of Mehmet II and also held teaching positions. Al-Halabi died in 1549 at the age of more than ninety.35 The case of Abu l-Baqaʾ al-Saffuri (d. 1630) is unique, because he followed the path of the ʿulamaʾ in Istanbul and was very successful in

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attaining his goals by being not a true ʿalim but a clever charlatan. He started his career as a clerk in charge of drawing documents in the law court of his native al-Salihiyya. Then he was promoted to deputy qadi in a more important court in Damascus. He traveled often to Istanbul and changed his madhhab from the Shafiʿi to the Hanafi. Al-Saffuri found an opportunity for a mulazama. Then he was appointed qadi of several provincial towns: Safed, Saida, Hamat, and Beirut. He found a contact to the grand vizier and was awarded the honorary rank of qadi of Jerusalem and the revenues of a village for life. Returning to al-Salihiyya, he built a huge palace for himself and became known as “the owner of the palace in al-Salihiyya.” The place became one of the most beautiful resorts in town. Al-Saffuri was ignorant in terms of religious knowledge but was a master of occult and divinatory sciences.36 Sayyid Husayn b. Ahmad, known as Ibn al-Hajjar, did not come from the more common ʿulamaʾ background but was born into a family of merchants. He made his living in trade but decided to become an ʿalim. He soon found out that his inclination was not that of an ʿalim. He decided to go public and traveled to Amid to meet the grand vizier, Kara Mustafa (who was returning from a Baghdad campaign), in order to plead for the economically oppressed people of Damascus. The pasha liked him and gave him an appointment in the important madrasa al-Shamiyya al-Juwwaniyya. Husayn b. Ahmad later traveled to Istanbul to complain about the avariz-i sultaniye (the extraordinary taxes that the people of Damascus had to pay). Besides making certain financial arrangements, he received another madrasa position at Dar al-Hadith al-Ahmadiyya, at the Umayyad Mosque.37

Knowledge, Authority, and Charisma of ʿUlamaʾ in Early Ottoman Damascus ʿIlm

By definition religious knowledge (ʿilm) was the ultimate criterion for the advancement of the ʿulamaʾ. It was assessed by the consensus of the local ʿulamaʾ and the reputation attained by the individual ʿalim in the Arab centers—Cairo in particular. The biographer often referred to a man’s religious learning. The obituaries tended to be laudatory (as the bio­graphical collections were devoted to notables and distinguished people [aʿyan]), and the ʿulamaʾ chosen by the biographers were mostly

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famous for their learning. Yet many people who were socially and professionally recognized as ʿulamaʾ did not enjoy the reputation of men of wide and deep knowledge in the religious sciences and are described as lacking in ʿilm. Devotion to study and knowledge was highly appreciated in Islam.38 The verb ishtaghala (usually translated as “worked”) in the scholarly context came to mean a total devotion to study. Sometimes the text has al-ishtighal bi l-ʿilm. Biographers criticized ʿulamaʾ whose worldly interests lured them away from study. Others are castigated for their small literary and scholarly production. Some did not bring their writings to completion as clean copies and left them as drafts.39 ʿUlamaʾ were expected to be good teachers. Damascus had many madrasas: some of them prestigious, but most of them small or middle-sized. Several ʿulamaʾ are reported to have established themselves as teachers in the Umayyad Mosque. It was said of several ʿulamaʾ: Tasaddara ­li-­­l-tadris (He placed himself in a high place). In Damascus this expression is used only in connection with the Umayyad Mosque, a public place where a scholar could try to establish himself as a teacher. One of the ʿulamaʾ could become the head of the mutasaddirun (those who are seated in higher places, distinguished ones) in the mosque and the best students came to study with him. Candidates for a teaching position at a madrasa, of course, needed an appointment and received an allowance from waqf funds.40 ʿUlamaʾ were appreciated for issuing fatwas, engaging in debates (munazararat) with other ʿulamaʾ, and writing books and treatises about Islamic subjects (tasnif). Some ʿulamaʾ were praised for good memory and for their ability to cite or summon information from the sources. Beautiful handwriting was also considered an advantage. Sometimes ʿulamaʾ were compared to famous scholars from the past. Jamal al-Din al-Farfuri of Damascus was praised: “In his understanding, he was the second Avicenna [Ibn Sina], in grammar, he was like Sibawayhi, and his memory was like Yaqut’s.” Others were known as “the Shafiʿi of his time” and “the hadith expert (muhaddith) of Damascus.”41 In Egypt there was a dispute about who deserved the venerated (but unofficial) title of “the renovator (mujaddid) of the tenth (sixteenth) century”: the eminent Shafiʿi scholar, teacher, and qadi Zakariyya al-Ansari (d. 1520 at ninety-seven) or Jalal al-Din al-Suyuti (d. 1505), the famous and incredibly prolific writer. Some authorities preferred Zakariyya, whose writings on fiqh (jurisprudence) were useful. It was said that



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al-Suyuti wrote much, mostly about hadith, but without editing properly and mixing what was good with what was not.42 Authority Under Ottoman rule the supreme Ottoman religious official (şeyhülislâm, the mufti of Istanbul) represented the ultimate formal authority for the Arab ʿulamaʾ in a way that had been unknown before the Ottoman conquest of the Arab lands. Fully aware of the situation, ambitious ʿulamaʾ from Syria often traveled to Istanbul to seek the patronage of powerful Ottoman ʿulamaʾ, hoping to receive from them appointments in Damascus or Aleppo. Many Syrian scholars made multiple trips to the Ottoman capital, and some stayed there for long periods for the purpose of achieving their goals. Syrian ʿulamaʾ also had traveled to the capital Cairo for the same purposes during the Mamluk period, ­attempting to achieve appointments or preventing rivals from getting them. The difference was that in Cairo they were in a familiar social and linguistic milieu, unlike their Istanbul experience. Also, the structure of the top Ottoman learned hierarchy, the ʿilmiye, was much more rigid than in Mamluk Cairo, and the Ottoman rules were stricter and more formal. The proximity to the center of Ottoman power could be dangerous, as some ʿulamaʾ learned the hard way. An early event proves how vulnerable Ottoman ʿulamaʾ could be. During an examination for a prestigious teaching position, Çivizade, a promising aspirant and a future şeyhülislâm himself, had to write a treatise (risale). There he introduced an argument advanced by Kemalpaşazade (Sultan Süleyman’s şeyhülislâm at that time) simply by the term qila (it was said), without acknowledging or flattering him. Kemalpaşazade felt insulted and complained to the sultan, demanding Çivizade’s death. It took many intercessions by viziers and many presents to the mufti to save Çivizade’s life.43 The tragic death of a brilliant Sunni Persian ʿalim, poet, and intellectual shows the dangerous situation that awaited a talented but insufficiently cautious man who came too close to the center of power in the imperial capital. Molla Ahmad al-ʿAjami al-Nakhwajani, known as Mantiqi, was born in Damascus to a Persian family. He was educated as an ʿalim and taught in madrasas in Damascus and later in Istanbul. His lessons in Damascus attracted Kurdish and Persian students, a proof of his unusual upbringing for a Damascene ʿalim. He went to Aleppo to meet a vizier, who helped him get back his teaching position in Damascus. Later

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he traveled to Istanbul and found a mentor for his scholarly career. He taught in Istanbul and was successful, thanks to his Islamic learning and his fluency in Turkish. He knew Arabic, Persian, and Turkish and wrote fine Turkish poetry. In addition he had social charm, and people of the elite found him witty and entertaining, with his historical anecdotes and his wide knowledge. Sultan Murad IV invited him into his company. Other favorites of the sultan inevitably became envious. Political troubles broke out in Istanbul, and a grand vizier was killed. Mantiqi withdrew from the imperial court. He sought the company of other influential people, among them the şeyhülislâm. Mantiqi had the fatal habit of lampooning and imitating his enemies. He often showed lack of respect to powerful men in the Ottoman capital. Mantiqi finally left Istanbul and was appointed by the mufti as the chief qadi of Aleppo. He carried out his duties with justice and was praised by the local poets. Afterward he was appointed qadi of Damascus and tried to abolish oppressive measures that had been introduced by the local governor. He fell afoul of the acting governor, who was looking for an excuse to destroy him. A ceremony was set at the governor’s palace to celebrate an Ottoman victory against Shah ʿAbbas of Persia at Erivan, and Mantiqi was late to come down from his place in al-Salihiyya. The governor asked for an imperial order to put the qadi to death. Mantiqi was strangled at the citadel of his native town in 1635, at the age of forty-­ one, and his property was confiscated by the treasury. The chroniclers agree that it was his disrespectful talk to the powerful men in the capital that caused his execution.44 Although there was a popular assumption that the Ottomans did not put ʿulamaʾ to death, the historical record reveals a different reality. The most famous case of a şeyhülislâm who lost his life in a political upheaval was Feyzullah Effendi, who held the post from 1695 to 1703. He became a victim of mob violence because of his nepotism and corruption. More typical is the execution of the qadi of Iznik by order of Murad IV. The sultan was going to Iznik. The news of his arrival did not reach the qadi in time, and the roads were not well prepared during the harsh winter. The sultan accused the qadi of negligence and ordered to put him to death. The qadi tried to explain that the message came late and that he did his best. He attempted to plead for mercy but to no avail. The qadi was hanged on the town walls, where his body remained for three days. The people of Iznik were understandably shocked. So were qadis and ʿulamaʾ elsewhere.45



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The sultan was in Bursa at the time, so the mufti of Istanbul, Şeyhülislâm Molla Akhizade Hüseyin, wrote a letter to the sultan’s mother (the Valide Sultan), gently reminding her that ʿulamaʾ were not put to death according to the Ottoman practice; even those who were unjust were only banished. The mufti had powerful enemies in the capital at a time full of political upheavals and soldiers’ uprisings. He was always very much involved in the political struggles. The sultan’s mother suspected that the mufti was convening secret meetings and plotting against the sultan. She urged her son to return at once, which he did. The mufti tried to escape but was caught at the seashore, put to death, and buried there (1633–34).46 Charisma Charisma is by definition an individual quality. ʿIlm could confer charisma on a distinguished ʿalim, but this was by no means the rule. Many Sufis and saintly persons (awliyaʾ) were considered to be endowed with a blessing (karama), the ability to perform miracles (karamat). The biographers of this period described many ʿulamaʾ and Sufis as endowed with this kind of charisma. The personality of ʿAli b. Maymun (d. 1511), a Maghrebi Sufi who appeared in Syria shortly before the Ottoman conquest, can serve as an example for a charismatic Sufi and ʿalim. He was also a sharif, thereby increasing his reputation, and a man of a strong character who attracted to his Sufi circle several important disciples who continued his activities in Syria as an orthodox Sufi. Ibn Maymun prided himself on his independence and claimed that he would treat anybody according to the Shariʿa, even the Ottoman sultan.47 Inherited charisma is well known in Islam and other religions. An interesting example is Abu al-Saʿud al-Shaʿrani, an Egyptian-born ʿalim who made a career in Rum and stayed there. His father was the cousin of ʿAbd al-Wahhab al-Shaʿrani, the most famous sixteenth-century Sufi shaykh and writer. The Turks admired him as a member of the family of a Sufi and a saintly man. Abu al-Saʿud came to Rum with his father. He became the mulazim of Mustafa b. Jaʿfar Saniʿallah, the mufti of Istanbul. He taught in the top madrasas of the capital. Then he was appointed as the qadi of Edirne and later of Istanbul. He became the qaziasker of Anatolia and died in Istanbul in 1677.48 Another charismatic Sufi and ʿalim was ʿAbd al-Ghani al-Nabulusi (d. 1731), arguably the greatest Sufi in Ottoman Syria. He was a writer of

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original religious treatises and highly informative and interesting travelogues, in which he described his travels in Syria, Egypt, and the Hijaz. Although he was a member of the Naqshbandiyya Sufi order, which did not attract many adherents in the Arab world, al-Nabulusi attempted in his writings, public activity, and moral attitudes to create a consensus among the Sufis of all the tariqas as well as all the Arabic-speaking Muslims of the Ottoman Empire. A loyal Ottoman subject himself, he protested the unjust and violent actions perpetrated by the Ottoman officials and soldiers against the Muslims of Syria and against the Shariʿa. In an interesting treatise he argues for tolerance toward the non-Muslims (dhimmis), who are entitled to a place in paradise by assisting “their Muslim brethren [sic] by paying the jizya poll-tax.”49

Conclusion Despite the harsh beginnings the ʿulamaʾ in the Arab provinces of the empire adjusted to the Ottoman system. We should keep in mind that from approximately the mid-sixteenth century the Ottoman Empire was moving consistently toward more orthodoxy and stricter religiosity. This development narrowed the gap between the two sides, even though some differences and even serious tensions persisted. Nevertheless, the attitudes of Syrian ʿulamaʾ toward the Ottomans, even in later periods when the empire tried to maintain Muslim orthodoxy, were far from positive. In his article about identity and belonging in Ottoman Syria, Abdul-Kerim Rafeq shows that the ʿulamaʾ in Ottoman Syria wrote petitions, issued fatwas, and spoke vehemently against the injustice and oppression of the Ottoman rulers. Some of the leading ʿ­ ulamaʾ of the period justified disobedience to imperial edicts and regulation, if these contradicted the Shariʿa. The ʿulamaʾ cited by Rafeq include several of the historians mentioned here, including the fatwas of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Ghani al-Nabulusi. Among the advice given to the oppressed, fellahin are urged to leave their villages in order to escape oppression and extortion and even to kill their oppressors.50 Finally, it is important to note that the Arabs and the Turks (again the same useful anachronism) had one empire and one religion but were divided by two cultures.

7

Books, Commentators, and the Democratization of Knowledge in the Geonic Period Meir Ben Shahar

In his introduction to the Mishneh Torah, Maimonides describes the chain of transmission of the Torah from the days of Moses onward. When he arrives at the Babylonian Talmud he remarks: “But it is incumbent upon all the house of Israel to comply with all that is contained in the Babylonian Talmud, and every city and country is compelled to conform to all the customs adopted by the talmudic sages to enforce their decrees and to follow their regulations. This is due to the fact that the entire people of Israel agreed to all the talmudic precepts.”1 When this was written in the second half of the twelfth century, the Babylonian academies were in an advanced stage of decline. The aim of this essay is to explain how the decline of the Babylonian academies as centers of instruction and leadership for most of the Jewish world is connected to the dissemination of the Babylonian Talmud and talmudic exegesis. The seventh and eighth centuries are called “the age of belief ” in the monotheistic world. Scriptures formed the core of society and commitment to a religious lifestyle that characterized Christian, Muslim, and Jewish civilizations. Jewish and Islamic religious endeavors were driven by religious law: these societies may be viewed as nomocracies.2 The basic work of halakhic code, the Babylonian Talmud, was fashioned in the Babylonian academies. On the political level the Muslim conquest united most of the Jewish people under a single political framework for the first time in a thousand years. The Rashei Yeshiva (heads of the academies) in Babylonia assumed the title of “geonim” at the beginning of the eighth century with the rise

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of its academies to even greater prominence.3 The relocation of the caliphate’s center to Iraq in the eighth century enabled Babylonian Jewry to lead the Jewish world through its long-standing institutions.4

The Ideological Basis for the Superiority of the Babylonian Academies In order to actualize leadership it was necessary to ground Babylonian preeminence on a solid theoretical foundation. This was especially vital because a parallel institution was operating in Palestine with concurrent leadership aspirations.5 This rivalry produced one of the most lucid and significant of the rare articulations of Babylonian ideology. It is well illustrated in an epistle composed in the early ninth century by Pirqoy ben Baboy, a disciple of a disciple of Rabbi Yehudai Gaon (d. 761): We have heard that students from the [Babylonian] academy are with you, some of whom are from the Land of Israel and who have learned the customs of the Land of Israel. Due to our sins a decree of apostasy was issued and the academy was removed from the Land of Israel and now, five hundred years later, the decree that they should refrain from Torah study has once again come into effect and as a result their customs are customs of persecution and remain so until this very day. And some have recovered hidden volumes of the Mishnah and the Talmud and each person delves into these books, interpreting them as they see fit, since they did not acquire the practical teachings of the “first sages.” And they do not expend the effort to fight in the war of Torah so as to elucidate issues and according to their custom they deem what is forbidden and what is permissible so as not to violate the words of the Torah and not to annul even one of the sages’ words.6 Pirqoy was probably aware that Palestinian students had been received by communities in North Africa and Spain and were imparting Palestinian customs to them, thus eroding the status of the Babylonian academies.7 His main assertion is the fallibility of the Palestinian halakhic tradition of the time. The religious persecutions plaguing Palestinian Jews resulted in the elimination of the Palestinian academies and had given rise to deeply erroneous traditions termed “customs of persecution.” We may surmise that Pirqoy was also aware that the persecutions



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had ceased and that Palestinian Jews had resumed Torah study, yet he doubted the validity of their autodidactic, book-acquired knowledge, apparently because the knowledge in books might allow each and ­every reader—Palestinian Jews among them—to bridge the knowledge gap engendered by various factors and to become halakhic authorities themselves. Fearing that books might undermine knowledge as the basis of Babylonian hegemony, Pirqoy sought to restrict the exploitation of book-acquired knowledge. He does not cast aspersions on the legitimacy of the knowledge contained within the books (they are, after all, volumes of the Mishnah and the Talmud) but rather doubts the appropriateness of utilizing them as a basis for halakhic rulings. According to Pirqoy, only knowledge transmitted as tradition by a talmudic master to his student is proper and authentic knowledge, exploitable as a basis for halakhic ­rulings. Thus he relates concerning Yehudai Gaon: And Rav Yehudai, of blessed memory, also said that you never asked me anything to which I responded that was not backed up by the Talmud and for which I learned a practical ruling from my rabbi and he from his rabbi. Anything that had talmudic backing but for which there was no practical ruling from my rabbi or anything for which I had a practical ruling from my rabbi but which lacked talmudic backing, I did not relate to you.8 The Talmud alone, according to Pirqoy, does not supply all the requisite knowledge for halakhic rulings; only the oral traditions of the Babylonian sages, containing the Talmud as well as additional rulings of earlier Babylonian sages, assure correct rulings. The requirement for oral transmission from a rabbi is also referred to by Rabbi Sherira Gaon (d. 1006), whose prominence in fashioning the attitude toward orality in talmudic culture is discussed by Gerald Blidstein in this volume. In an epistle to the sages of Fustat Sherira says: “And if you are greatly learned then undoubtedly there are doubts among you . . . and you know that the Torah is not taught other than by an authentic rabbi.”9 Sherira articulates a didactic principle according to which the hierarchal relationship between a rabbi and his disciple is everlasting: it is incumbent upon the disciple constantly to reveal his doubts before his rabbi. Elsewhere Sherira explains that the Babylonian academies serve as a surrogate for the Sanhedrin: “Since, even though Torah study flourishes in other places, the four cubits of the Halakha are here. And the academy replaces the

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Sanhedrin, and its head is in lieu of Moses and the rulings of the Sanhedrin are hence issued.”10 The Babylonian academies are thus the exclusive provenance of authentic tradition and serve as Sanhedrin and “authentic rabbis” for world Jewry.11 The centrality of the chain of oral transmission from talmudic master to student is articulated not only by familiarity with the halakhic rulings of the rabbi but also by the transmission of the formulation of the Talmud: “Since in our entire academy, about which it is known that our version was transmitted by the great sages, books are largely unknown.”12 These words of Rabbi Aaron ha-Cohen Sarjado (d. 960) reflect the situation of the Babylonian Talmud throughout the geonic era as an oral text transmitted from rabbi to student and from mouth to ear. Although the geonim were familiar with written volumes of Talmud, they did not regard them highly and preferred the oral versions of their academies in their stead.13 Babylonian oral culture was a continuation of the oral conception that developed in Palestine during the third to fourth centuries and ­allowed rabbinic circles to regulate the transmission of knowledge.14 Viewing actual learning from volumes of the Mishnah and the Talmud as unworthy and risky, the Babylonian position asserted that the exploitation of such knowledge toward halakhic rulings was possible only in the event of an extant oral halakhic ruling and exegetical tradition transmitted from master to student.15 Moreover, for Sherira Oral Law meant the fixed and stable text of the Misnah and the Babylonian Talmud (see Blidstein in this volume). In recent decades, in the wake of Jack Goody and Ian Watt’s groundbreaking study, sociological and historical research has paid close attention to the manner in which oral culture preserves the hegemony of the traditional institutions responsible for imparting knowledge as opposed to the “democratization” of knowledge in book-centric cultures.16 In the context of the dissemination of the Babylonian Talmud as a written book two implications of the “scholarly democratization” merit attention: the undermining of the existing authority and the reorganization of center-­ periphery relations. Brian Stock’s book The Implications of Literacy advances an understanding of this twofold process. Stock indicates that Europe underwent the transformation from an oral culture to an integrated culture (oral and written) in the eleventh century and analyzes the social and cultural implications of this transition. A sizable segment of his book deals with



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the phenomenon of heresy and the reform movements of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. According to Stock, these movements were communities that coalesced around written texts. Enabled by the written book, they “resorted to textual precedents for justifying deviations from what was considered to be merely customary or unwritten ecclesiastical norms.”17 The written text allowed the differentiation between customs and practice on the one hand and law and theory on the other. Hence the written text became a yardstick for social and cultural criticism. Written texts also reconfigured the relationship between center and periphery. The recording of local customs in writing allowed them to gain credence in many places and thus to be integrated into mainstream culture.18 Moreover, after the texts disseminated by the center reached their destination, they became the subject of exegesis, negotiation, and even criticism on the part of the community of readers.19 The geonic attitude toward talmudic exegesis should be viewed in this context. In an epistle addressed to the Qayrawan community Rabbi Samuel ben Hofni Gaon (d. 1012) stated: “If you, or some of you, desire [to have someone] elucidate for you one of the books of the prophets of God or to explain to you a tractate of the Mishnah or the Talmud, kindly let him notify us, for we will then hasten to do his will.”20 Rabbi Samuel’s motivation is worth noting: the gaon will record his interpretation only in response to an explicit request. Geonic commentaries were not aimed at all students in all places at all times. Rather they were tailored to “the status of the petitioners and their level according to the manner in which their request was expressly defined and in correspondence with the extent of their talmudic proficiency as reflected by their query.”21 Avraham Grossman argues that the elitist, authoritative concept adhered to by the Babylonian geonim was what stood in the way of their composing a comprehensive commentary on the Talmud: “Writing a commentary on the sources is by its very nature an activity that speaks of democratization. In other words: rendering the source accessible to the masses.”22 By favoring specific responsa the geonim safeguarded their status as teachers and instructors of the people; and by avoiding extensive distribution of the knowledge that they possessed (by not composing a comprehensive commentary) they perpetuated the knowledge gaps that assured them academic superiority and compelled questioners to seek their erudition on subsequent occasions.23 During the eighth to tenth centuries the hierarchal relationship between the Babylonian academies and the diaspora communities was

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maintained. This relationship was marked by ups and downs, however, and was influenced by the level of erudition of the Babylonian geonim as well as by broader political circumstances that either facilitated or hampered travel and the flow of correspondence. Toward the end of the tenth century the Babylonian geonim redoubled their efforts to reinforce ties with the Diaspora.24 Alongside these attempts, independent centers of Torah study began to spring up in the Diaspora that were no longer committed to the rulings and teachings of the Babylonian geonim. Following the death of Hai Gaon (in 1038) diaspora Torah scholars ceased directing queries to Babylonia altogether. The rise of the new centers was an issue that preoccupied even contemporaries of that era. Roughly 120 years ­after Hai’s death, Abraham b. Daud (d. 1180) authored the Book of Tradition (Sefer ha-Kabblah), detailing the chain of transmission of the oral tradition. Ibn Daud confirmed Hai as the final gaon and subsequently described the establishment of the Torah centers in North Africa and Spain.25 Ibn Daud’s objective was to create a “founding narrative” that would explicate and provide legitimacy for the transfer of Torah from Babylonia to the rest of the Jewish world.26 Simcha Assaf is astounded at Babylonia’s failure to supply worthy scholars but accepts Ibn Daud’s explanation that Hai’s death triggered Babylonia’s decline.27 But Assaf ’s incredulity remains valid: what transpired that caused the lack of noteworthy scholars among Babylonian Jewry, and how did it come to pass that autonomous Torah centers were created? Avraham Grossman addresses the issue of the cessation of halakhic activity in Babylonia. He asserts that from the mid-eighth century the academy metamorphosed into a political institution whose mission was to lead the Jewish world. The political aspect developed at the expense of the academic aspect, fostering a rigid hierarchal culture of discourse centered on the head of the academy, as related by Nathan Ha-Bavli in the mid-tenth century: “And everyone honors the head of the academy and turns to him for solutions. And no one may address him until he grants permission.”28 Almost everything committed to writing at the Babylonian academies was written in the words of the gaon, who seemingly objected to independent endeavors. The lack of competition and independent cultural-literary undertakings was undoubtedly repellent to young talents and repressive of their intellectual ability, leading to the waning of literary production in Babylonia.29 Robert Brody deals with the lapsed communications between Babylonia and the Diasporas, arguing that Hai’s death represented the pinnacle of a prolonged



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disengagement process between the Diasporas and the Babylonian geonim. The process had its roots in disputes between the Exilarch and the heads of the talmudic academies at the beginning of the tenth century that provoked a significant drop in the volume of queries dispatched to Babylonia. Though the tenures of Sherira and his son Hai were marked by the renewal of ties with diaspora communities, their correspondence reveals that the geonim were required to invest enormous efforts in this undertaking.30 Brody also incorporates the geopolitical factor—the onset of the process of the disintegration of the Abbasid caliphate at the beginning of the tenth century. The rise of the Fatimid dynasty in the West and the weakness of the Abbasid caliphate in the East created an insecure situation that hindered travel to and from Babylonia.31 But even if halakhic output in Babylonia dwindled, diaspora communities might be expected to continue to address queries to its geonim as long as the belief in the centrality and holiness of the Babylonian tradition held.32 The social and cultural factors that generated a sense of intellectual autonomy among diaspora communities must therefore be studied further. I propose that the dissemination of the Babylonian Talmud in a written form along with the internalization of literate culture in the Diasporas (as opposed to the preservation of the oral tradition in Babylonia) contributed greatly to the cessation of the Babylonian output on the one hand and to the independence of alternate Jewish centers on the other.

Exegetical Writing: Qayrawan As long as the preeminence of the oral text was acknowledged, the dissemination of the written Talmud beginning in the mid-eighth century (see below) did not undermine Babylonian authority. Yet the manner in which writing was perceived by the diaspora communities underwent modification in the early eleventh century. The written text, now recognized as definitive, paved the way for the commentator’s autonomy and the halakhic decision-maker’s independence. A survey of the exegetical and halakhic endeavors in Qayrawan and in Spain is instructive regarding the various phases in the centers’ progress toward independence. The most important commentary on the Talmud before Rashi was created in Hai’s lifetime by Rabbi Hananel ben Hushiel (d. 1055) in Qayrawan. Rabbi Hananel was the son of Rabbi Hushiel, who migrated from southern Italy with the intention of reaching Egypt, though he ultimately

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remained in Qayrawan.33 Many geonic commentaries—interestingly enough, Hai’s in particular—are embedded in Rabbi Hananel’s commentary.34 At the same time, however, his work demonstrates how composing a commentary on the Babylonian Talmud enabled him to undermine the exclusive authority of the Babylonian geonim as teachers and exclusive exegetes of the Halakha. In contrast to the geonic commentaries, Rabbi Hananel’s commentary was written on his own initiative for the universal benefit of students of Talmud of all generations and as such does not constitute a responsum to a specific query. For our purposes it is important to elaborate two topics: the Babylonian Talmud as a written text and the autonomy of the commentator. Rabbi Hananel composed his commentary with the full awareness that the Talmud is a written text. Though he summarizes many portions of the issue (sugiya) that is dealt with, we cannot make sense of the commentary without referring to the Talmud itself. In many instances Rabbi Hananel remarks that “the rest of the matter is simple” or something similar, assuming that the reader would refer back to the Talmud. Rabbi Hananel’s writing was instrumental in stabilizing the version of the Talmud: “It is simple and it was recorded only because there is a variation in the version” (Yoma 11b).35 The following remark is similar: “And because there is a mistake in some versions, it was recorded in its entirety” (Shabbat 116a). Rabbi Hananel was also sensitive to errors in the version that might have resulted from scribal errors or from mistakes by those who transmitted the version orally. In regard to scribal errors he says: “Rehava never met Rabbi Yehuda in his entire life. Rather it was Rabbi Yehuda whom he knew and the scribe erroneously recorded Rabbi Yehuda” (Brakhot 33b). Regarding mistakes deriving from the oral transmission he remarks: “I heard from the sages that this was not the original Halakha and I think that they were not proficient in this and that it was difficult for them so that they emended the teaching” (Shabbat 96b).36 Rabbi Hananel’s literate culture is manifested in the numerous references interspersed throughout his commentary. The references pertain to other portions of his commentary: “We already treated this law in Tractate Sukah” (Eruvin 86b); “And this is explained at the beginning of chapter ‘The Seller of the House’” (Pesakhim 8a); and many other examples. Rabbi Hananel’s commentary alludes to the existence of an extensive library. In many instances he refers to the Palestinian Talmud and Torat Cohanim (Sifra) and at times even to Midrash Rabbah on Genesis.



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The autonomy of the commentator is consequential to the autonomy of the talmudic text. Though Rabbi Hananel integrates a large portion of the geonic doctrine within his commentary, he not infrequently disputes geonic opinion. His disputes with the geonim are based on traditions received from his own masters, other sources (especially the Palestinian Talmud), and independent study. Divergent traditions are the principal motivation driving Rabbi Hananel’s disputes with geonic commentary: “And we have already encountered a different interpretation of our r­ abbis, the geonim, but we have chosen to record the tradition that we ourselves received” (Eruvin 26a).37 Rabbi Hananel’s willingness to interpret the Talmud according to other texts or his own line of thinking reveals that for him the Talmud was an autonomous text independent of any specific exegetical chain. “And we have seen that our rabbis, the geonim, interpreted it this way . . . yet we think otherwise since the meaning is clear . . . and furthermore, this is also found in the Palestinian Talmud” (Brakhot 27a). In many places Rabbi Hananel interprets the Babylonian Talmud in line with the Palestinian Talmud: “The entire issue is simple and is succinctly elucidated by the Palestinian Talmud” (Rosh Hashana 14b).38 Rabbi Hananel’s library was also useful to him for the purpose of proofreading the version: “And they are simple and were not recorded except that there are versions that are not so and we formulated them from Sifra” (Yoma 58b). His independence as a commentator peaks in those places where he rejects geonic interpretation in favor of his own line of reasoning: “And we have seen that our rabbis, the geonim, hold by a different interpretation but there is an answer and therefore we have not recorded it” (Yoma 33b). Rabbi Hananel does indeed construct his commentary around the Babylonian Talmud, thereby corroborating its centrality to religious life and in the house of study. Yet at the same time his commentary pits the Talmud and the geonim, who transmitted it, against a broader library that at times rounds out and elucidates the Talmud and at other times contradicts the Talmud and its transmitters.39 The textual culture, with its prolific inventory, confers discretionary ­ability on the commentator in arbitrating between texts and between tradition and text.40 Rabbi Nissim ben Yaakov Gaon (d. 1062) was a contemporary of Rabbi Hananel in both time and place. As opposed to Rabbi Hananel, who, as far as we know, did not maintain direct contact with the Babylonian geonim, Rabbi Nissim corresponded continuously with Hai.41 This did not prevent Rabbi Nissim from composing his own commentary on

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the Talmud. His writing is more personal than Rabbi Hananel’s, affording us an insight into his world and the manner in which he perceived his role as a commentator. Rabbi Nissim was a paragon of literary culture. His literary works included commentary on the Talmud, books of halakhic rulings, a popular book expounding the precepts of faith, and an encyclopedic composition that included talmudic commentary and more.42 Rabbi Nissim internalized the Arab format of writing, manifested in the significant names assigned to his compositions, such as The Book of the Key to the Talmudic Locks and The Scroll of Secrets. His works are prefaced with an explanation of the book’s name and objective and a brief overview of the contents.43 Rabbi Nissim authored two commentaries on the Babylonian Talmud. One is a comprehensive commentary: an exposition of the issues discussed in the Talmud so detailed that the reader has no need to refer to the talmudic text itself. The second commentary, The Book of the Key to the Talmudic Locks, is of a different character and assumes that ­readers have before them not just the Talmud itself but also an entire library. The Book of the Key is a system of references to the primary sources of various laws and expressions. It reflects the wide-ranging library at Rabbi Nissim’s disposal, which included the Tosefta, the Palestinian Talmud, the halakhic midrashim, and the Midrash Rabbah on Genesis.44 Rabbi Nissim views the Talmud as a written book: “It was necessary to commit the Talmud to writing when the nation began to deteriorate and diminish . . . and according to which those who recorded [the Talmud] were those who transmitted the oral tradition.”45 We might assume from this that the study of the Talmud was simultaneously both oral and text based, yet it is more probable that Rabbi Nissim meant that the Talmud was recorded “in one voice” (as one composition), and thus the authors of the Talmud touched only briefly on topics that they had expanded upon elsewhere.46 Though Rabbi Nissim avoided matters of divergent versions almost entirely, the following remark reveals his general approach: “This law is based on Tractate Brakhot chapter one and is flawed in all the versions, and we corrected it according to the version of the academies and thus we record our version in the manner of the academies.”47 The version of the academies is the definitive version, so Rabbi Nissim copied it to prevent flawed understanding of the Talmud.48 Rabbi Nissim’s commentary is based to a large extent on the geonic commentary, and he himself notes their interpretations.49 But Rabbi Nissim perceives his function as beyond that of a mere purveyor of



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their exegetical tradition. He is eminently aware of his role as commentator and thus takes it upon himself to interpret the words of the Talmud even in the absence of an exegetical tradition: “I had already been asked the reason for this by a Spanish student. But I had no received tradition pertaining to this matter and had never been asked about it before . . . However, it seems to me . . . and the person who posed the question accepted the interpretation as did all the students that were there and so I recorded it here” (The Key, Brakhot 56b). While his words resonate with the initial awkwardness of confronting a text both obscure and undeciphered, his responsibility to his students leads him to suggest an interpretation and his duty as commentator obliges him to commit the commentary to writing. Elsewhere Rabbi Nissim notes that he interprets what the geonim had omitted: “And I did not find even one geonic interpretation. So I took pains to study the matter and found an answer in Tractate Nezir . . . and I have already recently offered this interpretation to my students and explained the matter to them” (The Key, Shabbat 47a).50 How are we to understand Rabbi Hananel’s and Rabbi Nissim’s exegetical independence? First, we should note that their activities were not directed at filling a vacuum in geonic activity. The two sages of Qayrawan commenced their exegetical activity during the era of Hai, one of the most prolific of the geonim.51 Nor should their activity be viewed as an attempt to “revolt” against geonic authority. On the contrary, their works incorporate geonic commentary and refer to the geonim themselves with great reverence. Rabbi Nissim’s introduction to The Key is pertinent to understanding the situation of the sages and students outside of Babylonia: And since I have observed that many students at this time do not understand and they take pains to seek the evidence in vain, and the Halakha is difficult and not clear to them—I decided to compile and collate them in a book that will be as a key to the things that are unclear and that will enable students seeking any of the above to find what they need quickly and easily. (The Key, 15) Rabbi Nissim assumed that during the talmudic era all scholars were widely acquainted with the rabbinic bookshelf, while students of his generation were not. Unfamiliarity with this broad library impeded study and even generated halakhic errors. Therefore Rabbi Nissim authored

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a book that would render the beit midrash library more accessible and relevant to a greater number of students. The moment the Babylonian Talmud was perceived as one book among others in the beit midrash, it was only natural to examine the manner in which the other books treated topics that arose in the Babylonian Talmud. Grouping the Babylonian Talmud with the other books did not detract from its importance as the central text for halakhic rulings. On the contrary: the preparation of a commentary on the Babylonian Talmud was an undertaking that intrinsically demonstrated the centrality of the Talmud to Rabbi Hananel and Rabbi Nissim, though this commentary did detach the Talmud from the geonic tradition. At this point the commentator became responsible for elucidating the Talmud and toward this end utilized the entire range of books and knowledge at his disposal even if they did not accord with geonic exegesis.

Spain: From Books But Not from Authors The first Spanish talmudic commentator, Samuel ben Naghrela (Samuel ha-Nagid, d. 1056), recounts the transfer of the Babylonian Talmud to Spain by “Natronai Nasi bar Khachinai, and he was the one who recorded, for the Spanish community, the Talmud from his mouth so that they would not quarrel and they made peace among themselves so that they would occupy themselves with the Talmud.”52 This very same Natronai was a student of Yehudai Gaon and lived during the second half of the eighth century.53 Even before the time of Ibn Naghrela the culture of Spanish Jewry was a genuinely literate culture, as expressed in its poetry, grammatical literature, biblical exegesis, and responsa.54 The Spanish community was even a source for copying and disseminating volumes of Mishnah and Talmud to the entire Jewish world, as Ibn Daud relates regarding Ibn Naghrela: He achieved great good for Israel in Spain, the Maghreb, Ifriqiyya [Tunisia], Egypt, Sicily, indeed as far as the academy in Babylonia and the Holy City . . . Moreover, he retained scribes who would make copies of the Mishnah and Talmud, which he would present to students who were unable to purchase copies themselves, in the academies of Spain as well as of the other countries we mentioned.55



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Ibn Naghrela’s account of the transfer of the Talmud to Spain as well as his activity in disseminating the Talmud should be framed in a wider context: the establishment of Spain as a halakhic center, supplanting the Babylonian center. Ibn Naghrela’s exegetical works smoothed the way for the conclusion of the process of appropriation of Babylonian Jewry’s heritage. In the introduction to his commentary, he decries those who assert the inherent infallibility of the geonic teachings: “And a crowd of misguided people addressed me . . . and they said ‘who can charge that a gaon or a high ranking man has erred?’”56 The commentary itself is not a comprehensive interpretation of the Talmud; rather it elucidates complicated issues. Ibn Naghrela does not shrink from open conflict with Hai: “Rav Hai’s words have nothing in them.”57 Ibn Naghrela’s biting comments have led some talmudic scholars to view him as a “dissident” vis-à-vis Babylonia with the aim of buttressing the independence of the Spanish Torah center. But expressions of respect and appreciation for Hai are not lacking in Ibn Naghrela’s works.58 Israel Ta-Shma plausibly surmises that—though this might not constitute rebellion or opposition to the geonim—it does constitute an expression of far-reaching independence on the part of Ibn Naghrela in regard to his own ability and right to comment and to decide Halakha in accordance with his own judgment.59 The trend of independent commentary and halakhic ruling culminates with Rabbi Yitzhak Alfasi’s book Hilkhot Rabbati—a halakhic compendium based on the Babylonian Talmud. Excising tangential digressions and Aggadic sections, Rabbi Alfasi’s records the fundamentals of the talmudic deliberation in quotation or in paraphrase. His own halakhic ruling is appended to each individual discussion.60 Rabbi Alfasi spent most of his life in Fes and migrated to Spain in 1088. He was appointed head of the Lucena academy and presided over it until his death in 1103. Though he was well acquainted with geonic exegesis and rulings, this did not prevent him from sometimes rejecting their commentary in favor of his own: And this reason appears erroneously in all the versions . . . and Rabbi Hai was asked about this previously and he responded . . . yet his words have no basis in reason and though it is simple, he did not comprehend it and did not interpret it correctly . . . and thus his interpretation is nullified . . . and I sought the version of the academies and found the exact version and it is

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indeed clear and not difficult at all and that is the explanation of this chapter.61 Rabbi Alfasi stresses the importance of the version in understanding the issue at hand and therefore seeks out the academies to determine the correct one. He vociferously rejects interpretations based on an improper version, including Hai’s: though based on an exact version, it reveals a flawed understanding. Rabbi Alfasi also does not hesitate to disqualify geonic opinion in his halakhic rulings. Sometimes he labels the version found in the geonic books erroneous.62 At others he expresses an explicit difference of opinions: “Except if you have seen the responsa of the gaon, of blessed memory . . . that answer is incorrect.”63 The culture of literacy reaches full realization in regard to the question of the status of the written book as instructor: Question—I am asking what our master would have to say regarding someone who never studied under a rabbi and who is unfamiliar with the ways of Halakha—its interpretation and its reading—rather he saw a large amount of geonic responsa and books of law . . . and someone who does not understand the main precepts of the law and cannot say from where in the Talmud it derives—is it proper for this person to teach or is he unreliable in all contexts? Answer—Know that it is more proper that this person be allowed to teach than it is for many self-styled teachers, most of whom lack even one of two things: understanding of the Halakha and knowledge of geonic teaching. And those who purport to teach based on their study of Halakha and Talmud are the ones who should be prevented from doing so since in our generation there is no one who is worthy of this or anyone who, after studying the wisdom of Talmud, has arrived at a level that he can then teach without relying on the commentaries of the geonim. But the person who teaches geonic responsa and relies on it—even though he might not understand Talmud, he is finer and more decent than the person who thinks he knows Talmud and relies on himself. For the former, who teaches the reasons of the geonim, is not in error because he is acting according to what an expert high court has ruled.64



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This answer was composed by Rabbi Alfasi’s student Rabbi Yosef Halevi ben Migash (d. 1141). The petitioners sought to know whether a person whose knowledge is based on studying geonic books but who is unfamiliar with Talmud may teach. Rabbi Migash explained that the ability to understand Talmud and decide Halakha according to knowledge that is no longer extant at this time; therefore it is preferable to rely on the explicit words of the geonim. Scholars who addressed this passage focused on the issue of the relationship between teaching according to the Talmud and halakhic ruling according to the words of the geonim.65 Yet the questioners presented their query differently: “a person who never studied under a rabbi . . . but who saw a large amount of geonic responsa and books of law”—in other words, the doctrine was not imparted to the person by a rabbi who taught him the “way of Halakha”: rather he “saw” (read) geonic responsa and books of halakhic rulings. Rabbi Migash seemingly ignores this aspect of the question and focuses on the relationship between geonic rulings and rulings according to the Talmud. It is notable that the requirement to study with a rabbi is not even touched upon in his statement.66 Although Rabbi Migash preferred the geonic books, it is also important that he himself had no qualms about disputing their rulings and commentaries.67 In the situation of a multiplicity of books, a reverse policy of relying on the Talmud might also be adopted. This is expressed in a manner no less vehement than that of Rabbi Migash: “You are ignorant of the source, yet you come to do battle with me using the words of the geonim. Had you understood the source and known its talmudic provenance and had you studied and addressed it, then you would not have set yourself up for this failure . . . God has freed me of the need for the words of the geonim; I study the Talmud and discover its rules.”68 These are the words of Rabbi Yaakov Hasfaradi at the start of the twelfth century. Rabbi Yaakov adopted a stance diametrically opposed to that of Rabbi Migash.69 He contended that the Talmud is the source of the geonic doctrine, so their mediation can be waived: a person can delve directly into the books of the Talmud and decide Halakha accordingly. The common ground shared by Rabbi Migash and Rabbi Yaakov, despite the profound discrepancy between their opinions, is that both confront an ever-expanding library and each maps out his path based on books and not on authors, according to his own understanding and preference.

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Conclusion The Babylonian Talmud was created as an oral text and was studied in this form at the geonic academies. The oral tradition allowed the geonim over a long period to present themselves as the authentic heirs of the amoraic academies and the Sanhedrin of the Jewish Diaspora. This essay reexamines the causes of the decline of Babylonia and the rise of the Torah centers in Spain and North Africa in the eleventh century. My central proposition is that the rise of the literate culture explains to a great extent both sides of the historical process. The literate culture released the Babylonian Talmud from the grip of the geonic tradition and heritage. When the Talmud was perceived as a written text, it became an autonomous text in its own right and joined the rabbinic bookshelf. The introduction of the Talmud into the library allowed and obligated commentators to examine it in conjunction with other written texts—be they parallel compositions from the rabbinic era or geonic responsa and halakhic works. The textual autonomy therefore led to the autonomy of the commentator. Due to the close affinity between the Talmud and religious life and between scholarly learning and halakhic ruling, it was natural that halakhic autonomy would develop alongside exegetical autonomy. This independence reached its peak when Spanish sages internalized the significance of the literate culture on the deepest level and viewed their books and their own scholarly ability as proper and sufficient basis for halakhic decision-making.70 The oral tradition of the Babylonian academies was an obstacle, however, impeding any form of literary creativity—especially the creation of talmudic exegesis. Literary output took the principal form of responsa directed at diaspora communities;71 when they no longer required the instruction of the Babylonian academies, the geonic quill became less relevant.

III

Knowledge and Leadership Modern Constructions

Overview Itzchak Weismann

The momentous changes that overtook the Muslim lands in the past two centuries have transformed the conditions for the social construction of Islamic knowledge, as it did in Judaism and other cultures and religious belief systems. The introduction of print in modern times and later of radio, TV, and the Internet; the expansion of the official school system; the spread of scientific methods and technologies; and the rationalization of institutions, thought, and values have left an indelible mark on the modes of preservation and transmission of traditional knowledge and on the authority and power of its bearers, the ʿulamaʾ, as well as on the Sufis. These developments gave birth to a new rationalized religio-ideological construct—generally referred to in the Muslim Sunni world as the Salafiyya (best rendered as Salafism in parallel to other modern ideologies such as nationalism, socialism, and communism). The Salafis spoke out against popular customs and the mediating role of the men of religion in favor of a more direct link between people and God, the believer and the scriptures, citizens and their government.1 Thereby they opened the door for new modes of learning, new bases for authority, and new arts of charismatic religious preaching. Many of the changes were no doubt triggered by the painful e­ ncounter of the Muslim peoples with the West. The recurring defeats of once mighty empires—the Ottoman, the Mughal, and a myriad of lesser sultanates and emirates—by European colonial armies bred pervasive feelings of inferiority. The incorporation of indigenous economies as peripheral and semiperipheral areas in the world capitalist system broke down hallowed social and communal structures. And the growing acquaintance with Western culture and politics, which is also relevant for the Jewish case, introduced new notions of state control and people’s participation, individualism, secularization, human rights, and social justice.2 Still, the modernization of the Muslim world, as of other non-­ Western civilizations, has never been a mere imitation of the West, as the now largely discredited modernization theory once implied. It has rather been a response, eventually a variety of responses, to the multifaceted

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challenge of modernity by way of selective adoption and creative adjustment. The routes are far from smooth, often passing through formidable crises of identity, political oppression, and economic failure. The so-called Arab spring is only the last episode in one part of the Muslim world in this arduous itinerary. In this environment of multiple modernities,3 every society treads its own distinctive path in its struggle to cope with modernity. To some extent the different paths reflect the specific circumstances of each society’s encounter with the West; but no less important is the living tradition of that society, the material and intellectual legacy that provides it with the perspectives and toolkit through which the Western modern challenge is approached. Tradition and modernity are thus inextricably interwoven in a variety of complex, sometimes contradictory, and constantly changing combinations and mixtures, which together mark the ongoing evolution of societies and civilizations.4 Scholars of modern Islam have only gradually come to appreciate the persistence of older modes of religious authority and spiritual power in the contemporary resurgence of Islam. Muhammad Qasim Zaman has persuasively demonstrated the continuing influence of the ʿulamaʾ on the religious and political trajectories in South Asia,5 while Meir Hatina and Malika Zeghal have documented the continued vitality of their counterparts, the Azharites, in modern Egypt.6 The leading role of the ʿulamaʾ under Imam Khomeini in the Islamic revolution in Iran leaves little doubt as to their continuing centrality among the Shiʿa. The authority of the religious scholars still lies primarily in their traditional roles as muftis, exegetes, and teachers and is embedded in official religious hierarchies and in the prestigious madrasas.7 Various authors have shown that Sufis, too, have kept much of their spiritual power through their orders and shrines, as I have claimed in the case of the self-conscious orthodox and activist Naqshbandi tradition.8 Orthodox rabbis and hasidic courts show similar persistence and indeed revamping of their religious authority and spiritual powers as part of the Jewish resurgence in Israel.9 The continuing importance of traditional roles and institutions in the contemporary religious arena is ultimately predicated on their ability to adapt to and take advantage of modern technologies and ideas. This seemingly paradoxical situation is vividly captured by Zaman’s reference to the ʿulamaʾ as custodians of change, a term that may be applied to reformist Sufi shaykhs as well. Thus early in the process of modernization we find new forms of madrasa modeled in one way or another on European educational practices such as classes, curricula, examinations,



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and discipline.10 The Sufi order (tariqa) has likewise been influenced by new modes of association and at times transformed itself into a modern type of organization, the most prominent example being the Society of the Muslim Brethren.11 ʿUlamaʾ and Sufis have been assiduously seeking to augment their authority and standing through ample use of the new means of communication, which allow them to reach out to unprecedentedly large audiences.12 The authority of the conventional men of religion, however, has been increasingly contested and eventually eroded in the course of the past century as new types of  “religious experts” came to the fore. The fragmentation of sacred authority has created a continuum in the contemporary production and transmission of religious learning, from scholars to charismatic lay religionists. These lay leaders are often graduates of official secular school systems who acquired their religious knowledge and faith from books, pamphlets, and the electronic mass media. With little or no footing in the traditional knowledge, Muslim lay religionists base their authority on two complementary foundations. One is some version of the Salafi ideology, through which they pose as true followers of the exemplary pious forefathers of Islam (al-salaf al-salih); the other is social and political activism. Lay religionists have gained visibility in the Islamic public sphere after World War I and even more so since the beginning of the present Islamic resurgence in the 1970s and 1980s. They are most faithfully represented by the newly constituted figure of the preacher, the daʿi (or daʿiya) and more recently by the phenomenon of “the new preachers” (al-duʿa al-judud). Of course, the figure of the daʿi itself is not new. Daʿwa appears numerous times in the Qurʾan and the Sunna of the Prophet in reflection on the missionary nature of Islam. It conveys the related meanings of invitation or call to embrace the faith, the religious message itself, preaching, propaganda, mission, and proselytization. Daʿwa did not hold a place of pride among Sunni Muslims in the middle period of Islam, apparently due to its association with the Abassids’ political bid and especially the sectarian Ismaʿili propaganda.13 It was reinvoked by the zealot ­Wahhabis in the eighteenth century and subsequently embraced by the Muslim Brethren in the 1920s and 1930s. Hasan al-Banna, the charismatic founder of the Muslim Brethren and the paradigmatic modern daʿi,14 set the example to be followed, in various directions, by successive generations of Islamists to this day.15 The emergence of daʿwa at the center of modern Islamic activism has

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inevitably involved major innovations concerning both its application and content. These reflect the constraints as well as the opportunities open today before the invitation to Islam. One novelty is a marked shift of emphasis from the outward call to non-Muslims to convert to Islam to an inner preaching to fellow Muslims who have become oblivious to the precepts of their religion under the Western impact. Another innovation lies in the considerable extension of the semantic field of daʿwa, which has come to include not merely the use of new means of communication but also nonverbal strategies such as community leadership, social welfare projects, economic enterprise, and political contestation.16 These are vividly described by a close aide of Banna, who charted the differences between the modern and traditional preacher (khatib): The daʿiya is not a khatib. The preacher is preacher and that’s it; the daʿiya believes in an idea to which he calls by writing, preaching, normal talk, and serious work in his personal and general behavior and in all means of calling he can command. He is a writer and a preacher and a storyteller and a role model who influences the people in his work and personality. The daʿiya is also a social doctor who treats the ills of souls and fixes the circumstances of the corrupt society. He is a conscientious critic, whose life is based on setting right what God wishes. He is a companion and a friend, a brother to the rich and poor, the big and the small. From these attributes love radiates from his heart and mercy pours from his eyes . . . the daʿiya is commander in his environment, a politician in his milieu, a leader of his ideas among his followers. All this the old preaching [khitaba] cannot accomplish. There is need for psychological influence, spiritual domination, communication with God, and the aid of reason on the basis of the lessons of history and people’s circumstances.17 In this inner turn to the correction of co-religionists who have strayed from God’s prescribed way under the secular temptations of modernity contemporary Judaism, although nonmissionary in its essence, finds itself on common ground with Islam. The daʿwa of the Muslim Brethren and similar movements is paralleled by the Jewish haredi teshuva (repentance) movement, which likewise may be led by scholars but also by conscientious lay religionists who serve as leaders and preachers to their community.



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The seven essays in this section are devoted to religious knowledge and leadership in modern times and especially to processes of contestation of established authorities by charismatic new preachers. The first three essays (Eli Alshech, Meir Hatina, and Ksenia Svetlova) focus on two poles in the Islamic activist continuum: the armed struggle and martyrdom (jihad and shahada) and the civil lay preaching. Eli Alshech’s contribution deals with the jihadi-Salafi trend that emerged in Saudi Arabia in the wake of the Gulf War of 1991. This was an outgrowth of the political opposition (sahwa) to the official ʿulamaʾ of the Wahhabi establishment, who sanctioned for the Saudi rulers the deployment of American troops in the country. As Alshech explains, sahwa leaders were able to wrest authority from the official ʿulamaʾ by emphasizing the importance of understanding the modern real-life circumstances (ʿilm al-waqiʿ) at the expanse of traditional erudition and scholarship. The more radical jihadis, many of them veterans of the Islamic resistance in Afghanistan, went a step further and maintained that ultimate authority rests with those who best understand the specific circumstances for the conduct of jihad, namely, the mujahidun (fighters) themselves or jihadi scholars who combine religious erudition with experience in the battlefield. The concept of daʿwa is not mentioned in Alshech’s essay, but the works on which his discursive analysis of the jihadi teaching is based—mostly taken from the Internet—are undoubtedly another form of the call to Islam. This is most evident in his depiction of the martyrs’ biographies posted on the Salafi-jihadists’ forums. In this case the martyrs and mujahidun in general are turned into saintlike figures. Their charisma is further heightened by claims to their infallibility, a virtue normally attributed only to prophets that ensures that the mujahidun’s religious rulings will become absolutely binding. Meir Hatina takes a fresh look at the phenomenon of religious martyrdom, which has gained notoriety in the annals of modern Islamic activism in the wake of the Palestinian Intifada and the 9/11 attacks. His focus is on the discursive aspect of jihad and martyrdom, rather than on the deed itself. Examining the video-recorded and written wills of “suicide” bombers that are publicized and circulated after achieving martyrdom, Hatina observes that they are projected not merely as fighters for the cause but also as preachers (duʿa) who call upon others to return to the true path of Islam and follow their example of self-sacrifice in the struggle against its enemies. Their ultimate deed gives the martyrs the authority “to speak out” in the name of Islam and ensures that the

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message is conveyed in the strongest possible way. Hatina’s treatment of the “martyrs as preachers” emphasizes that jihad and daʿwa actually encompass each other as the two major strategies for the spread of Islam. The call to the faith may be exercised through violence when other means are blocked, while the struggle in the path of God refers to any effort to spread the faith, by the word as well as by the sword. No less interesting is Hatina’s observation that the martyr is treated by the public as a saint. He is al-shahid al-hay (a living martyr), who like the charismatic Sufi master of the past possesses spiritual powers that enable him to defy death and serve as a conduit of divine blessing. Ksenia Svetlova moves to the other end of the Islamic activist continuum: civil preaching by lay religionists. Her contribution examines the career, message content, and style of the Egyptian ʿAmr Khalid, one of today’s leading “new preachers” in the Arab Muslim world. Svetlova outright identifies the revolution in the information technologies as the channel for Khalid’s charismatic appeal, despite his self-admitted lack of religious authority. As she points out, the modern media—especially satellite TV and the Internet—have made Islamic sermons accessible to ever more people, while transforming them into mass commercial products. Khalid is a master in using the opportunities opened up by this process. In contrast to traditional patterns of preaching, he wears jeans and a sports jacket, deals with issues of direct concern for the contemporary individual, evokes positive emotions of love and happiness even when speaking on less congenial matters such as Arab and Muslim stagnation or divorce, conducts lively conversation with his audience, and often uses a true story to make his point and establish a personal connection with his audience. Such media techniques endear Khalid to the Arab masses, especially the youth, making him into what Svetlova terms a tele-Islamist or a star-preacher, perhaps the closest to sainthood that someone can get in the media age. The next two essays, by Meir Litvak and Muhammad al-Atawneh, shed light on the response of the ʿulamaʾ to the challenges posed to their authority and leadership by the militants and new civil preachers. The ʿulamaʾ adopted various strategies and activities to influence major social and political developments and utilized the new media to further their cause and enhance their presence in the public sphere. Meir Litvak analyses the evolving supreme authority of the Shiʿi scholars since the early nineteenth century. Shiʿi religious authority differed significantly from the Sunni model. While Sunni ʿulamaʾ were



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“officials,” deriving their authority from bureaucratic positions, Shiʿi mujtahids who stressed the use of reason as a source of law were informal leaders, well enrolled in communal life. Their charisma was based on attributes such as knowledge and piety but also on political activism, which became an important factor after the Constitutional Revolution (1905–11) and reached its peak with the rise of Ayatollah Khomeini and the Iranian Revolution of 1979. The politicization and formalization of Shiʿi religious authority also entailed a shift from charismatic to bureaucratic authority in Max Weber’s terminology as well as erosion in the importance of scholarship. In contrast with the upgraded authority of Shiʿi scholars, Sunni counterparts were harshly contested by lay rivals who posited an alternative moral guide for the believers. Nevertheless, they did not live in a secluded environment but rather responded to the changing reality and even integrated views of their ideological adversaries. Muhammad al-Atawneh’s contribution sheds light on the International Union of Muslim Scholars (IUMS), which was established in 2004 by a group of Muslim scholars from the Arab-Islamic world under the leadership of Shaykh Yusuf al-Qaradawi, also known as the “global mufti.”18 Beyond enhancing the religious awareness of Muslims and providing legal solutions to their everyday problems, the IUMS sought to create a new global religious authority, based on cooperation and legal pluralism among the schools of law. By forming a “new Islamic internationalism,”19 the IUMS aimed at reestablishing the senior status of Sunni ʿulamaʾ as the gatekeepers of Islam. The last two essays, by Haim Gertner and Nissim Leon, offer a glance at a parallel Jewish perspective on the encounter between lay preachers and rabbis in modern times. Haim Gertner’s contribution revises prevailing assumptions about the denigrated status of the rabbinical institution and its late and ineffective response to modernity in Eastern European Jewry in the mid-­ nineteenth and early twentieth century. These assumptions, he argues, were more relevant to the German case, while rabbinical initiative and creativity can be found in other Jewish communities in Eastern Europe. Such activism was mainly channeled via the printed market in publishing large amount of rabbinical texts, issuing new periodicals, and developing new frameworks for training scholars. The need to accommodate a wider community was also reflected in refreshing the traditional form and substance of preaching (derashah) and in the creation of new religious

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functionaries such as the rabad (head of rabbinic court) and dayan (rabbinical judge). These functionaries in many instances served as an anchor for preserving old traditions. Nissim Leon’s contribution shifts the focus of discussion from the Jewish Diaspora milieu to the contemporary Israeli milieu. His essay is an anthropological study of Hakham Aharon (Aharon the Sage), a selftaught preacher in a local synagogue in south Tel Aviv. Aharon belongs to the Mizrahi haredi teshuva movement, which, not unlike its Muslim daʿwa counterpart, aims at persuading nonobservant Jews to become religious and uses the dissemination of written and audio materials as well as social work to enhance its goals. Leon points out that his preacher’s sermons often differ from standard traditional interpretations, are emotional in their style, and are dominated by three major topics: repentance, rectification of the soul, and current politics. In the sphere of politics, as in the sharp denunciation of Ariel Sharon’s decision to withdraw from Gaza, the Jewish preachers clearly differ from Muslim preachers such as ʿAmr Khalid discussed by Svetlova. Another difference lies in their respective attitudes toward the religious establishment. While Muslim lay preachers tend to contest the authority of the official ʿulamaʾ, their Jewish counterparts regard themselves as merely helping their learned haredi rabbis, though not the rival Zionist rabbis, in the border regions with the secular world. Finally, like the jihadi preachers discussed by Alshech and Hatina, Hakham Aharon’s image is also associated with sainthood through the figure of the tzaddik, the holy man of the popular North African cult religion. Together the seven essays in this section point to the central role that preaching to fellow religionists has come to fill in a secularized and globalized world. The tone of modern daʿwa was set by lay intellectuals, but they were soon joined by modern-minded religious scholars, who remain important agents in molding the believers’ life.

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The Rise of a Charismatic Mujahid The Salafi-Jihadi Quest for Authority Eli Alshech

The authority of a Salafi religious scholar (his right and ability to shape and influence other people’s conduct) traditionally derives from his erudition, knowledge, and scholarly reputation, particularly but not only in Saudi Arabia. Events in recent decades, however, triggered a shift in the concept of religious authority—specifically, in what is considered grounds for such authority. The shift, which initially took roots in the Saudi religious context, had global manifestations after the American invasions of Afghanistan in 2001 and Iraq in 2003. The transition from the old basis of authority to the new unfolded gradually throughout the 1970s and 1980s and peaked with Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait in 1991. Following the invasion, senior traditional Salafi scholars in Saudi Arabia issued a legal opinion (fatwa) permitting American troops to enter Saudi Arabia. Many of the younger scholars in the kingdom vehemently opposed the fatwa, thereby creating an open rift within the Salafi camp. Underlying the disagreement was a long-standing struggle for authority within the Salafi movement between the older and the younger generations of scholars. The reputable and erudite scholars of the older generation (known as the “purists”)—represented by former Saudi mufti ʿAbd al-ʿAziz b. Baz (d. 1999), for example—believed that by virtue of their extensive knowledge and training they alone had the authority to rule on complex religious issues.1 Younger scholars like Safar al-Hawali and Salman al-ʿAwda who were willing to engage in politics and who wished to gain legitimacy and authority despite lacking the experience, knowledge, and training of their elders openly challenged the purists’ hegemony.2

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The younger scholars, whom Quintan Wiktorowicz labels “politicos,”3 founders of the Sahwa (Islamic awakening) movement in the late 1970s,4 criticized the older scholars for being rigid in their views and detached from contemporary politics. They argued that the purists focused on a fixed set of doctrinal issues, such as ultimate realization of God’s unity (tawhid) and purity, instead of also addressing issues related to current affairs.5 As Salman al-ʿAwda once complained: You come upon a preacher (who gives the Friday sermon), and you find that it is as if his ears have become deaf and he’s not able to hear anything. He is speaking about a subject that is far from the reality that we experience. Either he is speaking about the grave and death, or he is speaking about . . . Paradise, Hell, the Resurrection, the Reckoning.6 Challenging the purists’ status was no simple task in the Saudi milieu, however, where for generations religious authority had been closely (but not exclusively) linked to scholarly credentials and qualifications. Because the purists were clearly superior in their knowledge of Islamic law, the Sahwi shaykhs had to reconfigure the very concept of religious authority in order to gain legitimacy for their own rulings and views.7 To wrest authority from the purists, the Sahwis invoked the long-­ established principle of Islamic law that requires a mufti to base his rulings on thorough knowledge of all the specific real-life circumstances relevant to the issue at hand (ʿilm al-waqiʿ).8 They argued that the purists had little grasp of the modern world due to their age and narrow traditional training and therefore lacked an essential qualification to issue rulings in matters pertaining to modern reality. In contrast, the Sahwis presented themselves as well versed in current affairs and in the ­modern ways of thinking and thus better equipped to apply the Salafi creed to modern life.9 By emphasizing the importance of understanding the world while playing down the importance of erudition and scholarship, the Sahwis managed to shift the focus from the question of “who has a deeper understanding of the Salafi creed” to the question of “who can better interpret modern reality.” The debate peaked with the purists’ issuance of the Gulf War fatwa in 1991. In sanctioning the deployment of American troops in Saudi Arabia, the Sahwis argued, the purists had demonstrated their inability to



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understand a crucial aspect of current politics—the Americans’ true intentions. The Americans, they contended, were not using Saudi Arabia merely as a base from which to attack Saddam Hussein but as a springboard toward complete domination of the Islamic world and its invaluable economic resources. Suleiman al-ʿAlwan, for example, stated that the Americans had entered Saudi Arabia in order “to grab the necks of all those who would not profess servitude to them, just as they had usurped [the Muslims’] property and legal rights.”10

The Rise of the Salafi Jihadists During the mid-1990s key figures among the Sahwi shaykhs were imprisoned due to their outspoken criticism of the regime and the established clerics. This created a political vacuum, which was immediately filled by a new breed of Salafis who grew out of the Sawhis’ camp: the Salafi-­jihadists, many of whom were veterans of the jihad in Afghanistan. Unlike the Sahwis, the jihadists were not content with drawn-out, gradual political change. They demanded an immediate end to what they viewed as the corrupt state of the Islamic nation and hoped to achieve this through uncompromising jihad against both the Arab regimes and the non-Muslim powers. Their sense of urgency derived at least partially from their belief that the West, in collaboration with the Arab regimes, was waging a relentless economic, political, religious, and cultural war against the Muslims, aimed at weakening their faith and diluting their unique identity. The West, they believed, intended to infuse the Muslim world with non-Islamic values and norms, which would gradually erode the Muslims’ loyalty to Islamic values. Ultimately this would lead to the complete annihilation of Islam as a moral and religious system.11 Though the Sahwis and the Salafi-jihadists both opposed the purist scholars, they differed considerably in their ideological orientation, the jihadists being far more radical. For example, the Salafi-jihadists sanctioned the use of extreme violence and hastened to proclaim takfir (to accuse other Muslims of heresy)—positions that the Sahwis explicitly denounced.12 The rift between the two camps deepened when the Sahwis condemned the 9/11 attacks and later criticized the Riyadh bombing in 2003.13 As in the case of the 1991 Gulf War fatwa, the controversy about these issues was not a debate about the tenets of the creed but about their interpretation. The question at stake was whose interpretation of reality was correct, and whose ruling should thus be considered binding.

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The Jihadists’ Quest for Legitimacy: Claims of Exclusive Knowledge The jihadists could not claim an understanding of modern reality superior to that of the Sahwis, whose writings had clearly demonstrated their capability in this area. Therefore the jihadists now shifted the debate from the general question of “who has a better grasp of modern reality” to the question of “whose insight into specific issues of jihad is more profound and nuanced and thus more authoritative.” Yusuf al-ʿUyayri, one of the most distinguished representatives of the early Salafi-jihadi movement, set out the new line of argumentation in a 2003 article in which he supported “suicide” attacks in Chechnya. He wrote: Before criticizing [the use of martyrdom operations as a military and political strategy], one must understand the specific circumstances [in which they take place]. Not all martyrdom operations are forbidden and not all are permitted . . . It depends on various details . . . including the state of the enemy, the circumstances of the war, . . . and the conditions under which the operation is carried out. One cannot issue a religious legal opinion on this matter until one obtains full knowledge of the circumstances . . . How can you [politicos and puritans] accuse us [jihadists] of ignorance when you yourselves are not familiar with the circumstances [of the war in Chechnya]? Because the application of jihad-related laws requires familiarity with the circumstances . . . a person who wishes to issue a legal opinion about a specific matter of jihad must first of all consult the jihad fighters . . . Information about the reality of jihad must come from the mujahidun, not from the apostates.14 Al-ʿUyayri argues, then, that a scholar who wishes to rule on matters of jihad must consult the mujahidun, regardless of his own knowledge and qualifications. In fact, he presents the mujahidun as the only legitimate source of information on matters of jihad and implies that in the absence of such information the scholar’s ruling is insufficient and lacking in foundation. In a similar line of argumentation, Ayman al-Zawahiri, in his response to Sayyid Imam’s book titled Document of Right Guidance for Jihad, claimed that Imam had been away from the front for many years and thus was no longer an authority on matters of jihad. Al-Zawahiri



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wrote: “The author of Document of Right Guidance admits that he ceased [his active participation in] jihad fifteen years ago and that he has been a prisoner for the last six years. How then can we accept his statements regarding the mujahidun’s ability, strength, . . . and situation?”15 Al-ʿUyayri’s and al-Zawahiri’s argument is essentially a claim to and about authority. They both claim that the mujahidun are the sole authoritative source of information in this area because of their familiarity with the circumstances of jihad. Consequently, a scholar’s ruling on matters of jihad can only be valid if based on consultation with the mujahidun— just as his ruling on a medical question would only be well founded if grounded in information received from a physician. A more radical opinion is presented by Shaykh Abu Muhammad al-Maqdisi, a Jordanian scholar of Palestinian origin who is the leading religious authority among Salafi-jihadists (and is regarded as the mentor of Abu Musʿab al-Zarqawi). He not only characterizes the mujahidun the most insightful in matters related to the reality of jihad but claims that they possess divinely inspired knowledge: The faithful mujahidun are among the most knowledgeable of persons and possess superior insight. This is because the mujahid is forced to study the reality . . . around him [the circumstances of jihad] just as he masters the theoretical religious laws pertaining to jihad. [However, even] if he does not adequately master the laws of jihad, but is faithful in his efforts to wage jihad, God grants him insight as a reward for his jihad . . . [and as a result] his comprehension, knowledge, and grasp of the truth are much greater than [those of ] other people.16 In support of his view al-Maqdisi cites a Qurʾanic verse: “Those who fight for our cause, we will surely guide [them] to our path” (Q 29:69). According to al-Maqdisi, “God indicates [in this verse] that he bestows upon the mujahidun the ability to receive guidance to the truth, to prosperity, and to the right path to Him, [as well as] an understanding of Him and His way.”17 In al-Maqdisi’s view, then, the mujahid is not just an indispensable source of information on the facts and realities of jihad. He is also endowed by God with special jurisprudential insight superior to that of other human beings. Al-Maqdisi adds, however, that mujahidun should seek the advice of divinely inspired scholars (rabbaniyyin) from their own ranks when

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they require religious guidance. Despite their intellectual superiority, he argues, the mujahidun themselves are not qualified to issue religious rulings, for that is the prerogative of authorized scholars. Nevertheless, they “should not rely on the outdated (muhtari) jurisprudence of scholars who shirk the jihad (qaʿidin)” but should turn instead to the jihadi scholars. The knowledge of these scholars, he says, “emanates from the very womb of jihad, from the battlefield and trenches . . . where the mujahidun display the sincerest devotion to God [in their willingness to die for His cause], and where they are far removed from the deviant heretic tendencies and desires that cause [people] to slip. When one considers all this . . . along with the scholars’ jurisprudential knowledge and thorough grasp of the reality of jihad, one realizes that their insight will seldom be wrong.”18 According to al-Maqdisi, jihadi scholars embody an ideal combination: they are not only scholars of profound religious knowledge but also jihad fighters, who have firsthand knowledge of jihad and—more importantly—have attained the highest possible spiritual level. This spiritual state is attained only on the battlefield, where the believer is in a condition of constant readiness to sacrifice his life for the sake of God, far from all temptations and corrupting influences. Al-Maqdisi argues that this environment and this state of mind are conducive to attaining profound jurisprudential insights.19 The jihadi scholar, in al-­ Maqdisi’s view, is thus inevitably superior to the non-Jihadi scholar, whose legal opinions are necessarily less authoritative and more likely to be mistaken.

Claims of Infallibility While these individuals attribute superiority to jurisprudential rulings informed by the mujahid’s expert knowledge, they all maintain that such rulings can only be issued by qualified scholars. In other words, though information about and/or participation in jihad is seen as a necessary condition for possessing legal authority, it is not considered sufficient to confer such authority in and of itself. This notion was contested in a highly influential article from 2003 by Shaykh Hossein b. Mahmud, a respected albeit anonymous legal scholar and prolific contributor to Islamist websites.20 In an article titled “Presenting the Unbelievers with the Secrets and Mysteries of the Mujahidun,”21 Ibn Mahmud takes al-Maqdisi’s argument one step further by attributing infallibility to the mujahidun.



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In setting out his argument, Ibn Mahmud first explains that the “enemies of Islam” use three methods to divert the Muslims’ attention away from jihad: they arouse the Muslims’ desire for this world and its pleasures, cause them to fear death, and plant doubt in their minds. Ibn Mahmud then explains why these schemes will never work against the mujahidun: “With respect to the doubts, whoever . . . devotes his soul to God, God will render him immune (yaʿsimuhu Allah) to the lies of the deceitful . . . For God said, ‘Those who fight for our cause, we will surely guide [them] to Our path’ [Q 29:69]. This indicates that it is the mujahidun who are most likely to agree on the correct view.”22 The reference to agreeing “on the correct view” in this passage is very revealing. Islamic prophetic tradition (hadith) maintains that the Islamic nation as a collective can never err, because the Prophet Muhammad said, “My nation will never agree on an error” (Abu Daud, Sunan). Ibn Mahmud, however, attributes the inability to err exclusively to the mujahidun, who, in his opinion, are uniquely immune to deception and spiritual weakness. Accordingly, he maintains that the mujahidun have privileged access to “the ultimate truth.” Ibn Mahmud reiterates this argument in a 2004 article titled “Resolutions and Ideological Principles of Jihad.” In discussing the question of scholars who disagree with the mujahidun, he states: “Undoubtedly, whoever risks his life and rushes toward danger for the sake of his religion has total faith in the truth of his path and in the validity of his course of action . . . Whoever wishes to contradict the mujahidun in matters of jihad should first visit the fronts himself, witness the conditions there, and taste the taste of divine grace (karama) on the battlefield for a few moments. Then he can issue a fatwa based on the inspiration he receives from God.”23 According to this view, it is not erudition and scholarship that provide access to the truth but the willingness to sacrifice one’s life for the sake of God on the battlefield. In a 2006 article Ibn Mahmud stresses that, once the mujahidun attain this exalted spiritual level on the battlefield, “God guides them to His path, and prevents them from straying from the truth (yanfi ʿan al-mujahidin al-dalal).”24 In other words, while al-Maqdisi describes the mujahidun as intellectually superior, Ibn Mahmud regards them as actually infallible. It is important to note the crucial difference between the claims made by Yusuf al-ʿUyayri and al-Maqdisi, on the one hand, and those made by Ibn Mahmud, on the other.

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According to al-ʿUyayri and al-Maqdisi, the mujahid’s authority is grounded in unique—but essentially earthly—knowledge. This knowledge is obtained through direct familiarity with jihad and also by virtue of the mujahid’s exalted spiritual level, which can only be attained in a specific environment, on the battlefield. These factors, along with some divine assistance, endow the mujahid with profound jurisprudential insight. In contrast, Ibn Mahmud claims that the mujahid’s authority derives from a supernatural ability bestowed upon him by God. According to his view, which is endorsed by the mujahidun themselves, a mujahid who risks his life on the battlefield is actually granted infallibility, a virtue that Islamic tradition generally attributes only to prophets. This gift obviously grants the mujahid greater authority than that of a scholar who gained his authority through mere study and learning. Religious rulings issued by the mujahid are absolutely binding because his decisions, conduct, and statements are guided by God and thus represent the divine truth. In essence, these texts and others like them present a concept of authority that is grounded in charisma, defined by Max Weber as “a certain personal quality by virtue of which an individual is considered extraordinary and regarded as endowed with supernatural, superhuman, or at least exceptional power or quality.”25 The mujahid’s authority, as presented in these texts, is not based on his scholarship or intellectual credentials but is essentially metaphysical.26 It is anchored in a unique relation with God, which grants him at least some immunity from the human propensity to err.27 A 2005 article entitled “Known Prevalent Mistakes That Must Be Corrected” by Abu Basir al-Tartusi—a prominent scholar respected by the Salafi-jihadists—suggests that a belief in the infallibility of the mujahidun had indeed taken root in their circles. Al-Tartusi protests: I have long noticed . . . an erroneous approach among some of the youths who are eager to wage jihad . . . They regard the opinion of those on the front and of the mujahidun as the only valid opinion—even if it contradicts the Qurʾan and the Sunna . . . Apparently they believe in the infallibility (ʿismaʾ) of the mujahidun, even when there is [an apparent flaw in their views] . . . The youths refuse to accept the opinion of anyone who is not a jihad fighter, even if he is a devout man or a scholar whose view is the correct one. They think that, as long as the mujahid engages in jihad and combat, he is always right . . . while those who contradict the mujahid are always wrong, even if they are scholars . . . The claim [that



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the mujahidun are infallible] . . . is based on an erroneous understanding of the verse “Those who fight for Our cause, We will surely guide [them] to Our path” [Q. 29:69]. Some regard this verse as proof that God has promised to lead the mujahidun— and only the mujahidun—to the path of truth and right guidance . . . Hence [they think that] when the mujahidun disagree with others they must necessarily be right . . . while those who disagree with them must be wrong.28 Statements made by Osama bin Laden in an October 2007 audio recording provide further evidence that the notion of infallibility has taken root among the jihadists. Bin Laden condemned this new trend, saying: I address the jihad-fighters [in Iraq] in order to oppose the growing tendency that has appeared among them, [namely, the tendency] to assign great weight to the orders of the group and its commanders, to the extent that some of them have come to regard these orders as [representing absolute] truth. In practice, they regard [these orders] as infallible, even though they believe, in theory, that infallibility is a virtue that only God’s Messenger possesses. A person [who holds such a view] becomes a fanatical follower of his group and its commanders, instead of obeying a Qurʾanic verse or a hadith from the Sunna of God’s Messenger.29

Extreme Piety One of the genres that Salafi-jihadists have been using to entrench the mujahidun’s religious charisma is the biographical dictionary. In the past few years Salafi-jihadists and their sympathizers have posted electronic corpuses of martyrs’ biographies on their forums. Analysis of the texts ­reveals that these are not simply individualized descriptions of the lives and experiences of jihadi martyrs but instead represent a unified and carefully scripted body of texts. Their purpose is to transform the martyrs into saintlike figures, thereby boosting Salafi-jihadists’ religious legitimacy, generating wider social support for the mujahidun and increasing membership in their ranks. In a sense Salafi-jihadists use the corpus of martyrs’ biographies as a unified martyrology: a sacred literary tradition that structures, idealizes,

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and immortalizes the martyrs’ lives and stories.30 Jihadists draft the texts to create an image of the martyrs as extremely pious people. The biographies present all of the deceased mujahidun as adhering to religious standards that supersede those adhered to by common devout Muslims and at times surpass what Islamic law defines as normative religious behavior. For example, Salafi-jihadi martyrs are described in the biographies as devoting many hours daily to prayers and supplications inside the mosque and as passing most of the night chanting the Qurʾan. The landlord of one martyr is quoted as saying: “Whenever I woke up at night he would be praying.”31 Another martyr was described as followed: “He made God’s Book his intimate friend and his table companion (jaʿala anisahu wa-jalisahu kitab Allah).”32 Some martyrs are said to have had completed the Qurʾan in a three-day cycle (yakhtimun al-Qurʾan kull thalath),33 undoubtedly a high religious standard considering the common Islamic practice of completing the Qurʾan every thirty days. Martyrs are also described as adhering to high moral standards and as striving to hold society to the same level of morality by fulfilling the Islamic duty of commanding right and forbidding wrong (al-amr bi-lmaʿruf). One martyr, for example, is said to have “advised sinners on the street to cease their immoral conduct” and to have “rebuked taxi drivers who played music in their cars.”34 Another pietistic trait that the biographies attribute to mujahidun is altruism, sometimes on the verge of self-effacement. Abu Musʿab alZarqawi, for instance, was described as “a father to his group”: He would part with the little money [he had] . . . and would give it to any of his fellows whom he felt needed it more than he did. He would take off his garment and would hand it over to any of his fellows, if he felt that [this person] liked the garment . . . He used to check on his brothers at night and cover with a blanket anyone who was exposed so he would not be harmed by the cold . . . He would kiss the feet of his brothers out of love for them [even though he was the emir].35 Rigorous devotion to God, commitment to social morality, benevolence, and self-effacement are all manifestations of extreme piousness, which can undoubtedly boost the religious standing of martyrs in the eyes of society. The implicit claim here is that outstanding piety can form



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a legitimate basis for religious authority independently of erudition and scholarship.

Ascetic Tendencies In an attempt to reinforce the public perception of Salafi-jihadists as religiously authoritative figures the composers of the biographies attribute ascetic practices to martyrs and often confer the title of “the ascetic” (al-zahid) to them,36 a term that alludes to the early Muslim ascetics in the Arabian Peninsula. Martyrs are often described as having retired from society (ʿuzla) for limited or extended periods (“he liked withdrawing from society”).37 They are also reported to have applied themselves zealously to the service of God in the mosque (iʿtikaf).38 Many martyrs are said to have fasted twice a week (Mondays and Thursdays) and some every other day (siyam yaum wa-iftar yaum).39 The martyrs are described as individuals who replaced a comfortable life with the hardship of jihad (“He came from a rich family . . . but he hated sitting back [not participating in jihad], and thus he decided to leave everything behind and to pursue jihad”).40 In a strict Salafi environment, where worldly life and its pleasures represent corrupting temptations, the ability to renounce a life of comfort, to subdue what are otherwise viewed as normal compulsions such as eating and sleeping, and to withdraw even temporarily from mundane ­reality confers special religious status upon the ascetic. These forms of mild asceticism are often associated with high levels of spirituality.

Miracles and Sainthood Perhaps the most effective charisma-building materials in the biographies are the miracles attributed to the martyrs. Some are karamat (wonders) that are commonly ascribed to Sufi saints or jihadists in modern and classical Islamic literature, and some are pure supernatural powers. One of the most frequent marvels that the texts attribute to the martyrs is the scent of musk (misk). The biographies commonly state that martyrs’ corpses and personal belongings emit this odor (“the scent of musk spread all over the martyr’s house that the Americans destroyed”).41 The Qurʾan associates this fragrance with paradise;42 and the Islamic tradition (hadith) considers it proof that a martyr was admitted by God into paradise immediately upon death.43

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Some biographies go even further by implicitly claiming that the deceased was holy. For example, martyrs are depicted as having been surrounded by a halo (“I woke up in the middle of the night—said a martyr’s roommate—and saw the martyr praying while being surrounded by an aura”).44 One biography explicitly states that the light or halo indicates that the martyr had a special intimate relation with God (li-l-rajul sirran maʿa rabbihi aw ʿibada khassa).45 The depiction of a martyr as attaining such a level of intimacy with God indicates his standing in the eyes of the divine. Such intimacy may imply that the martyr is more likely to receive special divine guidance, unlike Muslim commoners. The martyrs’ sainthood is further bolstered by the special powers that the biographies attribute to them. Some martyrs, for example, are said to have predicted the exact time and place of their death (“I am going to die today at six”).46 Others are described as having become invisible in front of their enemy’s eyes, thus escaping an armed pursuit.47 At times the martyrs’ unique spiritual standing is manifested through the divine providence that they are said to have enjoyed during their lives and even after their death. For example, martyrs who were besieged in Faluja by the Western allies for a few days without water or food are reported to have found full water skins, which are not typically in use for drinking in Faluja (la tustakhdimu li l-shurb fi hadhihi al-mintaqa), and watermelons out of season. The martyrs in this case are reported to have recognized that the water and food were a divine gift (fama shakakna inaha min Allah wa-inaha min al-samaʿ).48 In another case a martyr’s corpse is said to have remained completely intact and in perfect shape despite being left unburied for days in extreme heat until the mujahidun were able to retrieve it from the battlefield and give it a proper burial.49 Finally, one martyr’s very deep wound, which would typically take months to heal, is said to have healed within just a few days.50 The attribution of miracles to the mujahidun and the depiction of them as being protected by divine providence portray these individuals and the group to which they belong as having been elected by God. The premise is that He performs miracles to and through individuals whom He perceives as chosen people. The legitimacy and authority of an ideological group that produces individuals of this spiritual caliber clearly should be unquestionable, at least in the eyes of those who accept the occurrence of such miracles as true.



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Redefining “Meaningful Scholarship” Although the Salafi-jihadists attempt to construct a notion of religious authority that is rooted in charisma rather than scholarship, the biographies that they publish do not discount the importance of learning altogether. The biographies depict the jihadists as having invested time in pursuing knowledge. Interestingly, however, they define “meaningful pursuit of knowledge” in a manner that turns the jihadists’ clear inferiority in this area, compared to traditional Salafis, into an advantage. Specifically, the biographies invoke the classical tenet that “knowledge should be sought for the sake of practice (al-ʿilm li l-ʿamal)” and depict the martyrs as having embraced this philosophy. Thus martyrs are described as people whose knowledge of Islamic law was immediately turned into practice (“whatever he learned he immediately implemented”).51 They are depicted as people who removed themselves from the world “of power and honor” found in the madrasa and “freed themselves from the chains of good reputation and fame (sumʿa wa l-sit),” preferring to be anonymous but practicing soldiers (jundiyan majhulan).52 In short, the biographies redefine the notion of scholarship and attribute to jihadists the highest level of scholarship possible.

Conclusion In attributing exclusive knowledge, divine guidance, infallibility, extreme piety, meaningful learning, asceticism, and miracles to the mujahidun, the Salafi-jihadi texts contest the traditional Salafi position that equates religious authority with extensive religious knowledge. Instead these texts construct a notion of authority that is essentially metaphysical: it is anchored in the Salafi-jihadist’s high spiritual standing, his supernatural power and unique relation with God. By endowing the mujahidun with charisma these texts avoid comparing them with traditional scholars and at the same time cloak the mujahidun in an aura of mystical power and divine grace. Shown in this light, the mujahidun can easily win the admiration of the general public, which awards them religious legitimacy and authority despite the purist scholars’ condemnation of their actions. With their charisma-based authority, the mujahidun can more easily increase membership in their ranks, receive logistical and financial support from society, bypass traditional

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authorities, and redefine the boundaries of legitimate jihad by eliminating the legal constraints imposed by traditional scholarship. Ironically, the Salafi movement, which opposed the worship of saints among the Sufis, gave birth to a cult that attributes supernatural powers to the mujahidun and thus sets them up as objects of admiration and worship.

9

Martyrs as Preachers Altruistic Death and Moral Authority Meir Hatina

Self-sacrifice or martyrdom (istishhad) constitutes an important component of modern Islamist discourse. It serves two purposes: revealing the authentic essence of Islam as a religion in revolt against social and political injustice and constituting living proof of Islam’s superiority over other cultures that sanctify life over the worship of God. Despite its assertiveness, however, the ethos of martyrdom reflected a religious culture on the defensive, which had triumphed in the glorious days of the past but lagged behind the Christian West in the race for progress and ­political viability in the modern era. The concept of jihad and martyrdom gained various interpretations and emphases during the twentieth century, from sustained devotion to communal activism, which was defined as “social jihad” (jihad ijtimaʿi); to violent struggle against deviant regimes; and eventually to “suicide” attacks/missions in ethno-national conflicts and globally.1 This last version, viewed from the perspective of over three decades since its manifestation, is the focus of this essay. “Suicide” attacks have been defined as an operational method in which the very act of the attack is dependent upon the death of the perpetrator.2 They are characterized by two main features, which have ignited debate and polemics in both Western and Arab-Muslim milieus. First, the attacker’s taking his own life before killing others raises the religious issue of differentiating between martyrdom and self-immolation (tahluka, intihar) in Islam. Second, targeting civilians or noncombatants raises the issue of ethical warfare in Islam. The roots and features of suicide attacks and whether or not they deviate from both traditional and

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modern Islamic thought, however, are issues beyond the scope of this discussion.3 Rather, this essay focuses on the religious language of the wills left by suicide perpetrators and traces the political and symbolic usage of this narrative. The wills provide a glimpse into the ideological world of the bombers and their political movements and their effective use of literary and media platforms to advance their cause. This chapter also reveals the linkage between idiom and content and between rhetoric and politics. A brief history of the Islamic concept of martyrdom and of the emergence of the phenomenon of suicide attacks provides a background for the topic.

Historical Evolution Seeking death for God exists in all three monotheistic creeds—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. While Judaism and Christianity fostered defensive martyrdom in their early history in the face of forced conversion or persecution, however, Islam, as a victorious religion, glorified the death of martyrs on the battlefield who fought unbelievers and apostates.4 The death of martyrs was considered an offshoot of jihad, and thus its legitimization was also defined as part of a war conducted according to a religious rationale—to disseminate the word of God or, alternatively, to block external aggression against His community. Any other self-inflicted death (for example, prompted by illness, imprisonment, or despair) was perceived as sinful, punishable by the torments of hell. Early and medieval Islamic traditions also distinguished between two types of fighters: one who was prepared to endanger his life for God but who also wished to emerge from the battle alive and victorious; and one who not only was prepared to sacrifice his life but actually sought an opportunity to do so. This behavior is known as seeking martyrdom; its reward is great, including the absence of torment in the grave and a seat of honor in paradise next to the prophets and the righteous. Beyond its operative importance in the battlefield, the ethos of martyrdom served a symbolic function of raising morale and reinforcing collective solidarity. Yet the twin ideals of jihad and martyrdom did not necessarily mold the history of the Muslim community over time. The ongoing war against unbelievers proved to be impractical and was frequently neglected in favor of armistices and peace agreements, mainly beginning in the ninth century. Early Muslim jurists also rejected the idea that offensive jihad



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was obligatory and gave primacy to other religious acts. Religious compensation for believers was provided by widening the parameters of martyrdom to include death while carrying out the duties of worship, such as praying and fasting, or as a result of natural disaster or disease. Moreover, a new concept—living martyrs—was applied to ascetics and mystics to describe persons who succeeded in overcoming their baser instincts.5 Nevertheless, the sustained elevated status of jihad and self-sacrifice in Islamic literature constituted a decisive difference between Islamic and non-Islamic societies, providing modern Islamist radicals with a source of inspiration and a corrective vehicle. Key molders of modern Islamic activism allocated an important role to the concept of martyrdom. Hasan al-Banna (d. 1949), who was a major inspiration for most of the contemporary Islamic movements from the 1930s onward, stated: “You should know that there is no escape from death, which occurs only once. If you dedicate it to God, you will earn the blessings of this world and be rewarded in the hereafter.”6 For al-Banna, death for the sake of God was the highest aspiration of the believer. The notion of martyrdom gained various interpretations and emphases, however, reflecting the historical context in which Islamic movements were active. In the case of the Muslim Brethren in Egypt in the 1930s and 1940s, martyrdom was aimed mainly at British imperialism and the Zionist presence in Palestine, while the struggle over the image of the Egyptian polity was waged nonviolently in the communal and political realms. Nonviolent orientation was even more pronounced regarding the Muslim Brotherhood in Syria, Jordan, and Sudan in the mid-twentieth century.7 A radical Pakistani ideologist, Abu al-ʿAla Mawdudi (d. 1979), relegated the notion of martyrdom to the status of an intellectual exercise when his movement, Jamaʿat-i Islami, chose to influence from within by entering establishment politics upon the formation of Pakistan in 1947.8 Only from the 1960s onward was political violence, and with it the readiness to die, put into practice by radicals such as Sayyid Qutb, ʿAbd al-Salam Faraj, Saʿid Hawwa, Marwan Hadid, and others in response to the repressive regimes under Gamal Abdel Nasser in Egypt and the Baʿth in Syria. The ideological blueprint was provided by Qutb (d. 1966), who stated: “If you live for an idea, life will appear to you to be a long-term process that began with the dawn of humanity and continues much beyond the moment you leave your earthly life.”9 The projection of violence as sacred and as an essential condition for a correct and intimate understanding of the will of God turned the

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ordinary believer into the bearer of a mission, capable of fomenting a revolution and bringing salvation. This upgrading of the believer was a distinctly modern perception, a by-product of the rise of mass politics as well as of the breakdown of the ʿulamaʾ’s monopoly over religious interpretation. The faithful were required to fight to the death in the struggle against “apostate” regimes. Nevertheless, this revolutionary mind-set did not turn into a pure cult of death. On the contrary, it had a restrained character in two respects. The first addressed the type of death of the fighters: their primary mission was to strike and kill without exposing themselves to intentional death. If they were killed by enemy forces, however, this would be considered an act of jihad. Underlying this premise was the theological prohibition of self-immolation, which condemns a person to the torments of hell. The second restraint addressed the targets of the attack, which focused on symbols of the state and excluded civilians, who were perceived as Muslims even if they had strayed from the authentic faith. The perception of these restraints changed, however, toward the late 1980s with the emergence of the phenomenon of martyrdom operations, commonly known as suicide attacks, whose success was dependent on the preliminary death of the perpetrator. An important contribution to the emergence of suicide attacks was the “awakening Shiʿa” thrust in Iran in the 1970s and early 1980s. Fomenters of the Islamic Revolution in Iran in 1979 such as ʿAli Shariʿati, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, Muhammad Taleqani, and Murtaza Mutahhari turned Shiʿism, which was traditionally fueled by a sense of deprivation and persecution, into a culture of rage and physical confrontation with the forces of injustice. Jihad and self-sacrifice became key concepts in Shiʿi indoctrination. The martyr (shahid) was portrayed as infusing new blood into the veins of society and as a candle that illuminates the darkness of tyranny. The ultimate historic model was Imam Husayn, who had walked toward his death in Karbala (in 680) consciously and deliberately in order to convey the message of sacrifice for the faith.10 The nurturing of initiated or offensive martyrdom was embodied in the dispatch of young boys to be blown up in Iraqi minefields during the Iran-Iraq War (1980–88).11 It served as an inspiration for the followers of Khomeini in Lebanon—the Hizballah. A series of suicide attacks by Hizballah against Western and Israeli military installations in 1983–85 constituted one of the key elements that enhanced the movement’s status in Lebanese politics.12



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The Shiʿi paradigm of martyrdom began penetrating Sunni discourse in the early 1990s, especially in arenas of ethnic-national conflict such as Palestine, Chechnya, and Kashmir, where suicide attacks were depicted as the weapon of the weak in their struggle for liberation from the yoke of foreigners. Presenting the campaign in these disputed zones as a defensive jihad whose goal was to restore Muslim lands to their rightful owners justified greater latitude in selecting different types of warfare, such as driving a booby-trapped car into the enemy’s ranks or wearing an explosive belt.13 The reality of living under infidel rule also minimized dilemmas regarding harming civilians, such as women, workers, farmers, and others who were depicted as contributing to the enemy’s war effort by providing moral or material support, especially because they were living on conquered Muslim land. Children and infants, by comparison, were depicted as exempt: any harm to them was considered to be unintentional, akin to collateral danger. The appearance of al-Qaʿida in the early 1990s introduced a transnational character to jihad, targeting the Western world but also its Muslim allies. It further radicalized the perception of martyrdom, including the legitimization of suicide attacks against Muslims, for example, in postSaddam Iraq and in Egypt. Al-Qaʿida’s cult of death reflected an assertive and uncompromised outlook aimed at setting new standards of morality for modern Muslim conduct.14 Within a short time in the 1990s the phenomenon of suicide attacks underwent a dynamic process of rationalization and systemization, projected by the Islamic movements that adopted it as having a dual rationale. The attacks were necessary, due to the presence of a foreign infidel conqueror, which demands an uncompromising struggle to eject him. And they offered an effective unconventional weapon—“living bombs” that cause numerous losses in the enemy’s ranks and create demoralization in its civilian sector, an optimal combination in any strategy of political violence.15 Furthermore, the martyrdom phenomenon was bonded to a more elementary psychological and emotional concept: the reinforcement of the weaker side of the power equation, whether visà-vis Israel in the case of Hamas in Palestine; Russia in the case of the Chechnyan jihad; or the West and its Arab-Muslim protégés in the case of al-Qaʿida.16 In controlling their fate by taking their own lives when and where they choose, and in rendering their victims helpless, the attackers claim power for those who are powerless. To quote Emmanuel Sivan, they are

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“walking dead men” who by their death symbolize the victory of theology over technology.17 This transfer of a sense of empowerment preserves the believers’ capacity for resistance and retaliation, humiliates the enemy, and leaves an impression of Islam deeply etched in the enemy’s consciousness. In this context a popular hadith held that “God made me victorious by awe, frightening my enemies, even if they are at a distance of a month’s journey.”18

Martyrs’ Wills: A Sanctified Example for the Living The image of the perpetrators or martyrs and their role in the drama, as viewed in the written and video-recorded will or testament (wasiya/ pl. wasaya) prepared before embarking on the mission, conveys a strong message to the particular audience in question. Foreign observers and researchers have tended to minimize the importance of these wills, which are displayed as a written text prepared in advance and read aloud by the martyrs, who are routinely staged in a rigid, dispassionate stance. These observers perceived the recruiting movement or organization as exerting absolute control over the perpetrators from the moment of their enlistment until their departure to carry out the mission. Some observers viewed the wills as a tool for the movement to demonstrate the perpetrators’ commitment to its authority and to the mission, with no point of return, as a change of heart would be tantamount to treason to the movement and would evoke a grave loss of self-dignity.19 More important, however, is how the ritual reading of the will is understood by the Muslim audience. A study of the wills shows clearly that the martyrs are not perceived merely as an operative executing a violent act but rather as preachers and pedagogic figures setting an exalted ­example for the living and thereby invested with the moral authority necessary to guide the reader or viewer. The art of preaching fills two main functions: conveying basic religious knowledge and encouraging ethical behavior.20 Thus these wills may be classified as ethical wills, belonging to a moral genre that was prevalent in early Christianity and in Judaism in the Middle Ages, aimed at providing spiritual and practical guidance for both the individual and the collective. They are phrased in a general rather than personal manner. In this sense ethical wills do not reflect the ego but rather set out the ­writers’ religious and social demands on their community, thereby affirming their function as preachers and guides.21



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The martyrs’ image as preachers exemplifies the fragmentation of religious authority in modern times (as discussed in the introduction to this volume), with the martyrs added to the growing list of preachers (duʿa), conveying their conviction through written, electronic, and digital media platforms. Indeed, in an era of globalization and proliferating modes of mass communication, Islamic preaching underwent a metamorphosis, becoming an open and contested arena for lay­people, mostly young Islamists and non-Islamists who attracted followers of all ages and social strata. Their audience was to be found not in the Friday mosque but in the bookshop or on the website, to use Bryan ­Turner’s phrase.22 The coalescence of a global network provided them with a platform by which to advocate their ideological vision as well as to defy adversaries. Moreover, the activity of the new intellectuals encompassed not only preaching but also social and political involvement. Trained ʿulamaʾ were forced to retreat or to adjust to the new reality of a vibrant and polymorphous religious milieu in order to survive and to influence.23 The martyrs bring the political ideology of their movement onto the street and into the living rooms of the public in the most effective way possible. Written and video wills aim to create a covenant sealed in blood between the movement and the audience, with the martyrs functioning as the connecting link. Form and content complement each other to heighten impact. In written wills the text is central, with the decorative aspect limited to a photograph of the martyrs and usually a few printed details about their identity, the act they performed, and its motives. In audiovisual wills the visual backdrop is more elaborate, introducing greater vitality and drama into the will. Here the martyrs appear in full figure and in an impressive stance. They look confident and determined, generally wearing a flak jacket armed with explosives and carrying a Qurʾan, with flags and religious slogans displayed in the background. The opening and closing segments are accompanied by rousing music and battle songs (hudaʾ). The video is largely documentary and projects authenticity, viewed on TV or computer screens by an audience that experiences the drama as if in real time, seeing the action and hearing the sounds. It is a visual presentation or, more accurately, a ceremony that evokes a sense of pride and reinforces group identity. It radiates moral fortitude, courage, and commitment both to the Islamic cause and, in the case of ethno-national conflicts, to the national cause, highlighting the altruistic rather than personal motives of the perpetrators.24

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In sociological terms the martyrs’ altruistic performance projects a sense of the total integration of the individual perpetrator in the collective entity, acting solely on its behalf and for its cause.25 The content of the wills themselves centers on preaching martyrdom in the name of a metaphysical authority. This reliance on a sublime authority defuses the tragedy, repulsion, and extremism of the act, especially when it is aimed at civilian victims. The wills are framed in an assertive terminology that presents a binary picture of the fateful struggle between truth and falsehood, purity and defilement, and heroes and villains. Alongside the idealization of death and the just cause of Islam, the enemy is dehumanized as evil, brutal, and repressive, undeserving of any empathy. A sharp distinction is made between heaven and hell, while at the same time blocking out the fear of death, which awaits everyone at any moment. It is therefore preferable to seek death in the battlefield, for God and the faith. These perceptions and stereotypes are supported by an array of verses from the Qurʾan and the hadiths and heroic episodes from Muslim history. The intensive delving into theological and judicial texts and early chronicles is aimed at endowing the sacrificial act with historical and normative depth, lest it be viewed as self-immolation, which is forbidden in Islam; or as violence and cruelty, especially when civilians are targeted. In essence the wills provide an alternative reading of reality and the encounter with its challenges. Martyrdom is presented as self-sacrifice impelled not by despair but by hope and the anticipation of the approaching redemption. Whoever actualizes it belongs to the elite, for “the privilege of martyrdom is not granted to all people on earth, but is the privilege of those whom God values.”26 The incentives for martyrdom are aptly summarized in a will dated July 2001 by Jamal ʿAbd al-Ghani al-Nasir, a young Hamas activist from Nablus, as follows: What prompted me to this path was nothing but: My love of God and martyrdom; my love of al-Aqsa and Palestine and the defense of them; and the desire to avenge the blood of martyrs at a time when the leaders of the Arabs and the Muslims forsook the defense of Palestine and contained themselves with providing certain types of aid. I tell you: We do not want your money, your flour and your medications, but we want your armies so that they will conquer Palestine.27



Martyrs as Preachers 179 ʿAbd al-Ghani goes on to emphasize that he is part of an endless

march of martyrs, a link in a genealogy of martyrs. He seeks not only to sanction his deed but also to glorify his movement, the ʿIzz al-Din al-­ Qassam battalions (the military wing of Hamas), for its success in producing numerous martyrs in the struggle against the occupation. ʿAbd al-Ghani’s preferred audience are students, who display fervor and devotion to the cause. He stresses the power of the suicide weapon to them as follows: My brothers, the students of al-Najah, the University that bestowed Zakariyya, Jihad, Fahd, Mahmud, Hashim, and Jamal [to the cause of martyrdom] is capable of bestowing more and more martyrs and sacrifice their souls. By the life of God, a single act of sacrifice performed by a Muslim young man shakes the Zionist entity and causes it losses greater than those caused by all the Arab armies together in their wars against the Zionists. My brother students, rally around the option of resistance! Be true to the option of “Islam is the solution!” Thwart the plots of the Jews that threaten your national unity! Shift your rally around the green flag of Islam to [the use of ] swords that will behead them, so that your sole option will be resistance. Raise the Qurʾan in one hand and a gun in the other . . . Indeed, this is jihad—victory or self-sacrifice.28 If ʿAbd al-Ghani lauds the merits of martyrdom, an al-Qaʿida follower in Iraq, Abu Anas al-Najdi, goes a step further in his will of February 2007. He positions martyrdom as the sole parameter that differentiates between a true Muslim and a sinner and criminal, as follows: All the ʿulamaʾ of the Muslim nation have agreed unanimously that there is no greater duty—after belief in God—than to repel enemies that enter Muslim lands. And this is the duty of every person, of every child, of every elder. No one is exempt unless he has a legal justification in regard to his own private situation. Jihad is a personal duty (fard ʿayn), so that if you are not enlisted in the ranks of the mujahidun, you are a sinner (athim), and on the day of resurrection you will be questioned regarding every Muslim who was slaughtered, whose honor was defiled, and whose land was stolen. Brothers, we know well that one of the greatest duties

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imposed on us now is repulsing the infidels . . . And the Qurʾan already makes it clear that “We shall certainly test you with fear and hunger, and loss of property, lives, and corps. But [the Prophet] gives good news to those who are steadfast, those who say, when afflicted with a calamity, ‘We belong to God and to Him we shall return’” [Q 2:155–56]. The Iraqi mujahid must be proficient in Islam and must read the fundamental writings of Islam and the hadith literature.29 This positioning of martyrdom as the definitive divide between faith and sin, and even between faith and heresy, reveals the rigid puritanism of al-Qaʿida, as reflected in its doctrine of loyalty and enmity (al-wallaʾ wa-l-baraʾ). The doctrine advocated an absolute allegiance to God and a dichotomous division of the world between truth and falsehood, between justice and tyranny. A perpetual state of animosity toward unbelievers, al-Qaʿida argued, will ensure a constant state of dissonance and confrontation until the victory aspired to.30 This dichotomous notion of loyalty versus enmity nurtured the sweeping martyrdom of al-Qaʿida’s global network, which, in contrast to other groups using such a weapon, sent out several units of perpetrators simultaneously for greater impact and, moreover, had no hesitation about attacking Muslims. Such a militant approach to martyrdom also exposed the elitist character of al-Qaʿida, which aimed at promoting a strategy of transforming the political reality by means of a vanguard group imbued with unshakable fervor, thereby signaling a rejection of the populist strategy of communal recruitment based on quantity over quality. The martyrs are not satisfied only with implementing jihad and attaining martyrdom. They also function as purifiers and preachers, bearing a message to follow the right path so as to free society from its moral ills. The importance of public prayers in mosques and religious lessons in groups as well as mortifying the body, making do with little, dressing modestly, and fasting in order to purify body and soul are recurring themes in the wills and are depicted as a priori conditions for carrying out sacrificial acts. Preaching for the right path is especially reinforcing in cases where the martyrs’ image had previously been socially or morally tarnished for reasons such as drug use, infidelity, divorce, infertility (in the case of women), or collaboration with the enemy (as in the case of Israel). Through martyrdom, such persons seek to repent for their deeds and



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purify their souls as a proper preparation for entering paradise and removing the mark of shame from themselves and their families. This trend has been described as “instrumental martyrdom,” that is, the use of wills as a platform not only for the purification of the soul but also for the social rehabilitation of the martyr and his or her family.31 The wills have fixed tenets that repeat themselves in a standard format aimed at entrenching the ethos of martyrdom in the public consciousness so that it becomes canonical. They begin by presenting the personal identity of the martyrs, followed by an explanation of the motives for the deed and instructions to the family regarding how to behave after the sought-for death, such as refraining from crying, distributing candies, and following the path of jihad and faith. The martyrs’ departure from their mother is given a special status meant to impart a humane aura to the act while emphasizing her critical role in bringing forth jihadists who sacrifice themselves on the altar of faith and homeland. Typically, in a will dated May 18, 2001, Mahmud Muhammad Marmash, a Hamas activist from Tul Karim, addresses his relatives thus: I do not know what to say to all of you and to my dear mother, who has suffered all her life to raise me, but I can only pray to God to take pity on her and bring her into paradise. I ask God to grant her patience when she learns that I have given my life to raise the flag [bearing the message:] “There is no God except Allah.” I call upon her to hear this notification and to go out and rejoice, since by the grace of God I have attained that which I have wished for all my life. As for my brothers and sisters, I call on them to cling to this creed, which is the right path for this life, and to be strict about prayer and the injunctions that God the Almighty has imposed. I remind you of the valuable deposit that is your responsibility, and that is your mother, who has suffered in this world for your comfort. And there is another deposit, and that is your little children. God imposed this deposit on you so that you should raise them in the path of the Islamic religion . . . I offer this act to every loyal Muslim who willingly accepts God as God, Islam as religion, and Muhammad as Prophet and Messenger.32 In a similar vein, Marmash’s colleague ʿAbd al-Basat ʿAwda, who carried out the suicide attack in the Park Hotel in Netanya on March 27, 2002, departs from his family thus:

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I know that the parting is difficult. But it is the way of God. In this world there is no eternal life for anyone. It might inflict worry and difficulties upon you, but these will be less important in comparison with the sacrifice for God and in comparison with the great reward and forgiveness of God. Know that God tests the faith of the believers. To my dear mother and worthy father and my beloved brothers and sisters: When you hear the news about the act of martyrdom I performed, hold your heads high till you embrace the heart of heaven, for your son wanted to meet God. And God honored him with a dignified and noble death. I command you to be God-fearing and close to God in every situation and be sure that God does not miss you. From your living martyr son.33 The wills provide the means by which the martyrs convey moral significance to their society, illuminate its flaws, and pave the way to its ultimate redemption and salvation. In the vocabulary of Shiʿi martyrdom, inspired by classical Persian mysticism, the martyrs’ fate is like a candle that, in burning, lights the path of society, which is overshadowed by the darkness of repression.34 Martyrs write the heroic history of their nation with their own blood and thus are worthy of claiming authority and obedience. Notably, until the act itself and the exposure of their identity, the martyrs have been anonymous figures. They burst into public awareness by virtue of the altruistic sacrifice and not beforehand. They project their personal and moral qualities only retrospectively. In the sociological terminology used by Max Weber, the martyrs lack the charisma of “office” by virtue of a high post, of “kinship” by virtue of a high genealogical status, or by heredity.35 They are unknown soldiers, usually from a low social background, and have acquired glory only after death. In this sense the martyrs ostensibly fit the criterion of “authority claimed” rather than “authority recognized.” Yet the martyrs belong to a political movement that has already established its authority, which is also extended to them. Moreover, the martyrs speak in the name of a divine authority. This case therefore might represent a blend of both types of authority—claimed and recognized.

The Politics of Commemoration The involvement of the Islamic movement with which the martyrs are affiliated does not end with the political capital that it gains from the



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exposure of the printed or video will or with the moral and financial support that it gives to the martyrs’ families. The movement also makes intensive efforts to perpetuate the martyrs’ image, portraying them as the foundation on which the survival of society is based. Thus the sacrificial act gains a collective interpretation, which depicts death as a religious ideal rather than a tragedy and as a normative rather than circumstantial deed, with the martyrs endowing the existence of the community with moral meaning and reinforcing its just cause. Moreover, the wills serve as a recruiting tool and form the nucleus of a well-organized commemorative campaign. Commemoration, as various scholars have shown, is in effect a social ritual that aims at molding the collective memory of the community. It grants internal cohesion and historical significance, provides a vision, and defines the distinctiveness of the community in comparison with others. Commemoration is an ongoing activity devoted to preservation and perpetuation, mainly through an expressive popular culture.36 In the case of Muslim martyrdom, it is textual, visual, and virtual, reflected in varied memorial sites: printed memoir texts, calendars, funeral and burial ceremonies, parades and speeches, songs, posters, graffiti, audiovisual tapes, and Internet sites. Textually the preservation of the martyrs’ memory and the entrenchment of the ethos of self-sacrifice in the public consciousness are handled by the mother movement, which edits the wills and compiles them together with short, telegraphic biographies of the perpetrators and their deeds, unifying them in a message of self-sacrifice and heroism.37 This process of normalization and standardization of martyrdom, which ultimately activates violence, aims to rationalize self-sacrifice and present it as part of the cultural repertoire of society. Notably, not all commemorated martyrs carried out suicide attacks; the texts also include those who were killed in armed clashes with enemy forces. Widening the parameters of the martyrdom category serves the sponsoring group, however, by enabling it to display an impressive amount of sacrificial activity and gain public and political exposure.38 Most of the biographies idealize the martyrs and exalt their act. They are generally depicted as highly moral, puritanical, and ascetic,39 perceiving the faith and the good of the community as paramount. Some of the biographies also reveal hagiographical elements (karamat) with a strong Sufi connotation, including visions, the ability to communicate with the Prophet, and miracles, thereby embellishing the personality of the martyrs and turning them into a source of inspiration and imitation.

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An early jihadist ideologist, Shaykh ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam (d. 1989), laid the foundations for this hagiographic martyr genre. ʿAzzam, of Palestinian origin, was one of the leaders of Afghan resistance to the Soviet occupation in Afghanistan in the 1980s, paving the way for the globalization of jihad. ʿAzzam defined jihad as the most preferred form of worship, higher than prayer and second only to the shahada—the declaration of belief in God and His Prophet, which must be proclaimed wherever Muslims are exposed to repression or occupation. Moreover, he held, the ultimate goal of jihad is self-sacrifice.40 Indeed ʿAzzam was one of the most systematic theoreticians of the martyrdom concept in modern Islam, alongside his Shiʿi colleagues ʿAli Shariʿati, Ayatollah Khomeini, Mahmud Taleqani, and Murtaza Mutahhari. In his view, “history does not write its lines except with blood. Glory does not build its lofty edifice except with skulls. Honor and respect cannot be established except on a foundation of cripples and corpses.”41 ʿAzzam found confirmation for the martyr ideal in the Afghan arena. He published two major compilations documenting karamat stories of Afghan warriors who survived bombings by Soviet planes and tanks unscathed, and shahids whose bodies were perfectly preserved even after many years, with an aroma of perfume arising from them that reached long distances. ʿAzzam also made use of the Sufi theme of the Friends of God (awliyaʾ) in its puritanical meaning by depicting their baraka as derived from strict adherence to what the Prophet allowed and prohibited.42 ʿAzzam’s hagiographical literature served as a source of inspiration for Hamas in Palestine, the Chechnyan jihad in the Caucasus, and most particularly the Salafi jihad trend and its outspoken representative, al-­ Qaʿida. That organization also emphasized that the mujahidun are immune from mistakes, an attribute that in Sunni Islam applies only to the prophets, and thus sought to entrench their status as endowed with religious authority and legitimacy to carry on global jihad and rebuff accusations from ʿulamaʾ and rival Islamists as to their ideological shallowness and unrestrained violence.43 In addition to print, electronic, and online media commemoration, the urban landscape also became saturated with visible martyr commemoration, as can be learned from the Lebanese and Palestinian cases. Streets, town squares, alleys, and shopping strips are named for martyrs and are covered by posters and graffiti images. These public places, in the words of Lori Allen, have contributed to the incorporation of violence into the everyday.44



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Visible commemoration in the public space, however, is less embedded in monuments and statues. Burial places, too, are modest and do not serve as sites for periodic ceremonies or pilgrimages, in contrast to mystical visits to the graves of holy figures.45 They also contrast with national military cemeteries.46 Apparently this downsizing stems from the desire of the political movements to contain the phenomenon and prevent trivializing the transcendental status of God. Nevertheless, it is difficult to discourage the spread of stories about miracles and folk beliefs such as the perfumed and scented aromas (musk) that rise from the graves of shahids or the supernatural powers attributed to them. Divine blessings attributed to the martyrs are hardly a surprising phenomenon: the martyr is depicted as al-shahid al-hay (a living martyr) who is ever-present and remembered and whose spirit is found in the ambiance of the prophets and righteous figures. The martyr therefore has the power to serve as a conduit or mediating agent (wisata) for requests for a place in paradise, healing, fertility, a livelihood, and so forth. This concept is also embodied in Qurʾanic verses inscribed in most of the wills, most prominently: “Do not say that those who are killed in God’s cause are dead; they are alive, though you do not realize it” (Q 2:154); and “Do not think of those who have been killed in God’s way as dead. They are alive with their Lord, well provided for, happy with what God has given them of His favour” (Q 3:169). In his commentary on these verses, Sayyid Qutb, one of the central founders of Sunni radicalism, stated that God Himself testified that these martyrs are living and have been granted a place of honor near His chair in Paradise. They were killed only ostensibly and are living in a different level of life that human beings cannot comprehend, while continuing to follow and care for the interests of their Muslim kin and the community.47

Conclusion The use of written and recorded wills left by suicide perpetrators before setting out on their mission serves as a pedagogic platform to embed the message of martyrdom as a mobilizing force. Through wills, self-sacrifice is projected both as the ultimate act of worship and as a crucial parameter for the defense of faith and community. In these texts the perpetrators present themselves as preachers conveying the ideological credo of their movement in the strongest possible way, calling for both self-sacrifice in the struggle against the occupier and a return to the true path. Their language reveals an assertive political

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theology that relies on heroic episodes from the Islamic past and projects a binary picture of struggle between truth and falsehood. An added element in the recorded wills is the use of background visual symbols and flags along with rousing music and singing. It is a presentation that conveys power and seeks to create a commemorative community that esteems the fallen and internalizes the message of protest. The wills constitute part of a culture of protest, a response of power and order in an era of weakness, confusion, and disorder. They create new symbols of resistance, steadfastness, patience, sacrifice, and victory. Martyrs’ wills dramatically document the struggle against the enemy and reaffirm an indigenous identity. They link the past to the present and the individual to the collective. Because of their unified and standard format, recycled from act to act, wills can also be seen as a ritual whose ultimate end is the death of the perpetrators. Through the veneration of their heroic deed in the print, electronic, and Internet media, the martyrs move from the private and familial realm to the public domain and become the property of the collective. They shift from anonymity to public recognition as cultural heros—symbols of revolution and liberation and as such worthy of emulation.

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The New Media and Islamic Activism The Case of ʿAmr Khalid Ksenia Svetlova

Every Friday millions of Muslims gather in mosques to attend the weekly sermon, while hundreds of millions watch these sermons on TV or on computer screens. Religious lessons and lectures (durus)—an offshoot of the traditional sermon (khutba)—are broadcast on satellite channels and on the Internet and can be viewed at any time. While it is true that modern technology has made Islamic sermons accessible to more people than ever before, the new media forms have also influenced and changed their content.1 The outcome of this technological revolution is obvious: the contemporary Islamic sermon has been transformed into an extremely appealing commercial product, while its message has been affected by the fast tempo of the contemporary media outlets: satellite TV and the Internet. On the one hand, modern “tele-Islamists” are almost entirely free of governmental pressure because they can broadcast from abroad and still be heard in their home base—unlike the traditional preachers of the past, whose salary was largely paid by central authorities and who were expected to accommodate the needs of these authorities. On the other hand, the new preachers (al-duʿa al-judad) have become slaves to ratings and to the personal preferences of viewers, who now have a wide variety of choices. The star-preachers of today are fascinated by the new media and believe that it is a God-given tool that can allow a quick and effective spread of Islamic messages. Nevertheless, they work tirelessly to meet the demands of their public, cater to their tastes, and analyze their needs and preferences. Most of them are young, have academic credentials, and

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come from a higher socioeconomic background. For the most part they lack formal religious training and are only loosely linked to the ­political establishment. ʿAmr Muhammad Hilmi Khalid, an ambitious young Egyptian preacher and a trained accountant, is one among the many New Age Islamic TV personalities, such as the Kuwaiti Tariq Suwidan, the Yemeni Habib ʿAli Jifri, and the Swiss-based Tariq Ramadan, who became extremely popular and influential after the technological revolution that swept the Middle East. These figures do not believe in alienation from the surrounding world or in creating a “counter society” that would clash with the regime. Rather, they focus on personal salvation and seek to modernize Islam while displaying an ecumenical approach toward the West, thereby also engaging in polemics with both ʿulamaʾ and radical Islamists.2 ʿAmr Khalid: A Star Shaykh in the Making ʿAmr Khalid started his preaching career in mosques and soon evolved

into an Islamic version of American televangelists Billy Graham and Oral Roberts. He is more than a preacher; he is a close confidant, a friend, and a role model for millions of young people across the Middle East and in the Muslim diaspora in Europe, the United States, and Australia. ʿAmr Khalid’s unique style of preaching has attracted millions of Muslim men and women from all over the Arab-speaking world. Since his early days as a preacher he has attempted to find the elusive equation between Islam and modernity. Some say that he has succeeded. His message is both personal and general and, though based on a strong individualistic approach, designed for mass consumption. Khalid’s target audience are young and belong to the upper-middle and middle class—“people with influence, those who have the power to change things,” as another TV personality, Husayn al-Guindi, put it.3 Allegedly ʿAmr Khalid is just a daʿiya, a person engaged in Islamic preaching (daʿwa). He is not a social or political leader; nor does he possess any Islamic credits. “I am not a mufti, and I don’t deliver legal judgments on what’s permitted or forbidden under Islamic law. What I want to do is to move Arabic youth,” Khalid stated.4 Yet, as someone who is currently followed by millions of fans, his influence on people’s minds and souls is coveted by many ambitious politicians, who can only dream of gaining a similar exposure. This became particularly obvious in 2002, when ʿAmr Khalid was banished from Egypt. The Egyptian authorities



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clearly were aware of the potential danger posed by this influential man. During the Egyptian Nile Revolution nine years later thousands of ʿAmr Khalid fans flocked to Tahrir Square, armed with brooms (to clean up the square), and later gathered to greet their champion, who had returned to his homeland after a long exile in Great Britain. ʿAmr Khalid was born in Alexandria in 1967 into a wealthy Egyptian family and grew up in Cairo in the trendy Muhandasin neighborhood. He graduated from Cairo University in 1988 with a degree in accounting. According to him, his family was not religious but “always respected religion and tradition.” Khalid testifies that his special relations with God began during Ramadan 1981, adding that he had suddenly felt the desire to develop his faith personally and become a better Muslim.5 In 1990 Khalid started preaching in mosques, while continuing to work as an accountant. Like many middle- and upper-class Egyptians, he belonged to a sport club, the Egyptian Shooting Club in Cairo (one of largest such clubs in the capital). The club was not a religious centrum: its swimming pool was not segregated by gender (though it became so a few years later), but it did have a mosque. According to Khalid’s official biography posted on his website, in 1997 the club’s administrator asked Khalid, who already enjoyed a reputation as a passionate and capable orator, to give a lesson on a religious topic because the mosque’s regularly scheduled Friday-afternoon speaker was unavailable. Khalid’s talk on the importance of good manners was a huge success: he was soon called on to speak at the club every week. Within just a few months the small mosque at the Shooting Club could no longer accommodate the audiences that gathered to listen to the new preacher, whose energetic, intelligible speeches and unusual appearance attracted much public attention. A clean-shaven face, jeans, and sports jacket took the place of the traditional preacher’s beard, galabiya, and turban. Khalid also broke the pattern of the traditional khutba, turning the monologue into lively conversation with the audience. Khalid next preached in al-Hussari Mosque in Muhandasin. His lectures were attended by residents of this neighborhood as well as by people from the other side of town and even from outside Cairo. Khalid’s sermons soon became available on audiotapes and CDs. They differed greatly from those of other preachers, mainly because of his passionate rhetoric and unique messages, which focused on moral and social issues. He dealt with topics such as mutual respect between Muslims, chastity, parental obedience, and marital life rather than with political matters,

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which he apparently preferred to avoid. When he addressed his audience, Khalid stressed the compatibility of the Shariʿa with modern life, talking freely about parties, swimming in public places, drug abuse, and unemployment.6 The focus was clearly on the individual and on material success, which would eventually result in the revival of the umma. In analyzing the impact of ʿAmr Khalid, Asef Bayat, an Iranian sociologist, observed that adherence to religious ethics and search for spirituality are not new among Egyptian Muslims, including the wealthy youth. The novelty is that affluent families, youth and women in particular, have begun to engage in an active search for religious devotion, exhibiting an extraordinary quest for religious ideas and identity. Not only do they practice their faith, they also preach it, wanting others to believe and behave like them.7 Khalid’s new daʿwa style seemed too lightweight in the eyes of many Muslim scholars and many of his rivals and critics. They considered his approach shallow and superficial and claimed that he did not provide the believers with answers to the thorny issues that they faced. “Islam is so much more than a means to feel good about yourself, and ʿAmr Khalid’s ‘Dr. Phil’ techniques touch only the surface, not the ground, and offer modernism without substance,” an Egyptian blogger wrote on one of the popular blog sites.8 Egyptian media, too, ironically labeled Khalid’s sermons “light daʿwa” and even “air-conditioned Islam.”9 His critics cite lectures in which he talks about fashion and morals, football, and politics, such as “Our Dreams of Education and the Relations between Our Countries,” in which he outlines his vision for the revival of the umma. They ridicule him for apparently giving equal weight to his dream of having a single capable Arab football team and the right of veto in the UN Security Council. Like other populist leaders or speakers, he often applies examples from everyday life to world politics and to socioeconomic and security issues. Until the late 1980s the majority of popular Muslim preachers, such as Mutwalli al-Shaʿrawi, ʿAbd al-Hamid Kishk, and Yusuf al-Qaradawi, were educated at al-Azhar or at some other major religious institution.10 When Khalid began preaching, he was immediately accused of not being enough of a scholar to serve as an Islamic authority. He himself admitted that he was not entitled to issue fatwas, although he was eventually to



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achieve some Islamic education later in his career. Other people called him a daʿiya (one who calls out to Islam) or rajul al-din, a term that does not refer to preaching specifically but has come to refer to public spokesmen of religion who validate their identity primarily by the teaching, administration, or performance of religion. According to Richard Antoun, the term has been favored by some modernists as a substitute for ʿulamaʾ.11 Having made a name for himself in Egypt, Khalid made a quite meteoric transition from the pulpit to the TV screen. In 1999 he delivered nearly two dozen lessons a week in socially prominent households, culminating at ninety-nine during Ramadan. Three years later Khalid’s audiotaped sermons became unparalleled bestsellers at the Cairo Book Fair.12 His sermons and lessons were very soon broadcast by the private Egyptian network Dream TV and by Iqraa (a popular, privately owned Saudi-Egyptian channel with Islamic orientation), Abu-Dhabi TV, and even LBC, a Lebanese private channel, strongly influenced by the Maronite elite in Lebanon. This private channel aired Khalid’s chat show Wa nalqa al-ahibbah (And Here We Meet the Loved Ones) during Ramadan in 2002, attracting vast audiences from the Persian Gulf and North Africa. Many Egyptians believed that ʿAmr Khalid filled the void left by Shaykh ʿUmar ʿAbd al-Kafi, one of the first star shaykhs on Egyptian TV. ʿAbd al-Kafi also used to preach at the Cairo Shooting Club, the preferred place of Egypt’s nouveaux riches, where he enjoyed tremendous popularity among the country’s elite youth in the early 1990s. ʿAbd alKafi graduated from the Department of Agriculture at Cairo University and was one of the first daʿwa preachers to come from a secular background. He was a disciple of Shaykh Muhammad Mutwalli al-Shaʿrawi, from whom he inherited his harsh views on a large number of issues (particularly women’s issues) and his overt disrespect for political correctness and accepted standards of behavior. ʿAbd al-Kafi became famous for his fatwa supporting Ayatollah Khomeini and for his anti-Christian statements. The press labeled him an “actress shaykh” or “star shaykh” because he became a spiritual mentor to many female actors and belly dancers. One of his most famous protégées was popular singer Yasmin al-Khayyam.13 The topic of repentant actresses was so widely discussed in the 1990s that it eventually became a commercialized, almost grotesque, gimmick. According to some Arab journalists, an actress or singer interested in boosting her career can always don a veil (hijab) or spread a “hijab

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rumor,” suggesting that she has decided to leave the public scene and do penance. In the mid-1990s Shaykh ʿAbd al-Kafi, who had already made several appearances on TV, was banned from preaching. After a few years ʿAmr Khalid replaced him in the pulpit. Quite recently an Egyptian pop star, Tamir Husni, was invited to participate in one of Khalid’s TV shows. He performed two songs with religious content, one at the beginning and one at the end of the show. Husni, who enjoys the reputation of a playboy in Egypt, was involved in many high-profile affairs with famous Egyptian actresses and singers in the past.14 His popularity was exploited to attract new admirers and to imply that he might be one of the “reborn” stars who had repented after listening to ʿAmr Khalid. It is too soon to tell, but Husni might in fact be just another instance of a repentant star, like Suheir al-Babili, Yasmin al-Khiyam, and many other Egyptian actresses, dancers, or singers who were influenced by the star shaykh and took up an Islamic lifestyle. Khalid, however, denied having delivered a single sermon to actresses or having tried to convince any of them to retire and take the veil.15 Today it is evident that the new shaykh has outgrown his master. He has modernized and polished his preaching techniques and avoided scandalous affairs and embarrassing statements. The press no longer compares them, and ʿAbd al-Kafi is now not nearly as famous as Khalid. At times, however, the two preachers still appear together on Iqraa TV and on various radio stations. Their religious programs are often advertised in joint ads, announcing their names together.16

The Message: Clean a Mosque for the Sake of the Umma Al-nahda al-Islamiyya (Islamic Revival or Resurgence) is probably one of the terms most commonly used by Islamic preachers, theologians, and ideologists since the end of the nineteenth century, starting with Muhammad ʿAbduh and Abu l-ʿAlaʾ Mawdudi. Al-Nahda is the name of a Pakistani Islamic monthly, of a Tunisian fundamentalist movement led by Rashid al-Ghanushi, and of a student association in Najaf, Iraq. Islamic resurgence can be defined in terms of an increase in political power, growing economic prosperity, and international respect shown to Muslim states. It also means that Islam is playing an increasing role in public life, especially striking in the return to religious fundamentals of a growing cross-cultural, proselytizing social movement.17 Muslim preachers



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consider this revival to be the ultimate response to the many challenges that Islamic nations face in modern times. Many, like Sayyid Qutb, Rashid al-Ghanushi, and ʿAbd al-Hamid Kishk, believe that Islamic revival should apply to both the personal and public spheres of life. These preachers share a pessimistic view of the current state of the umma. In their view Islam is in decline, Muslims are lured by hollow temptations of the West, and the umma is weak and helpless. Muslims are in urgent need of revival to avoid these traps. Islamic revival, which is activist and militant, is in a sense also defensive.18 Many Islamists fear that in its current state Islamic society cannot resist the challenges of modernity, which is why Islamic revival is crucial. The need for the revival of the Muslim nation is one of the most common leitmotifs in ʿAmr Khalid’s sermons and lessons. By “revival” he means the overall reform of the minds and souls of Muslims all over the world, which will in due course be translated into actions, so that Muslims will once again be in the vanguard morally, spiritually, and technologically. “In the golden age of Islam, we Muslims used to be the light of the nations,” he says. According to Khalid, a Muslim revival would affect the moral status of the umma as well as its economic and political life. He touches on the most burning and contemporary issues that concern every Arab and every Muslim—from the crisis in Iraq to losing football teams. “Why can we not change now?” Khalid asks his followers. Why are there no Muslims among Nobel Prize winners, famous painters, and researchers? . . . We dream of having a single currency, no borders between our countries, of praying in al-Aqsa, having a winning football team, veto power in the Security Council . . . Our main goal is to revive the Muslim umma. However, how realistic would it be to achieve this goal in a TV program that only lasts a single hour? This is a program that depends on the audience, the people, the street, and public opinion. They should all should act and try to change themselves, and our role is to help them by offering suitable projects. These programs are the guides that can lead them to success.19 Khalid believes that the key to a general Muslim revival lies in ­every Muslim’s soul and heart. “If everyone will change his way, be trustworthy and honest, work hard and follow the instructions of Islam, then our countries will progress in no time,” he says in this series

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of lectures, entitled Morals. The most powerful key to future Muslim revival is proactiveness—one of the most frequently repeated phrases in the televised show Life Makers. “Studies have proved that nations experience a renaissance when the people are highly motivated, ambitious, and resourceful. Thus history changes through people.” The first quality required for the revival of a nation, Khalid stresses, is a proactive approach. Karl Marx and Vladimir Lenin, who created the Communist movement, exemplify this. Mao Zedong revived China. Prophet Muhammad established Islam proactively, which is the most effective way to enlighten a world living in total darkness. “Is there anybody more positive than he?” asked Khalid.20 Highlighting the names of Lenin, Mao, and Muhammad (all three are mentioned in a single sentence), Khalid once more emphasizes the need for personal action and improvement. “Clean the mosque, teach the illiterate, volunteer to be a tutor in a neighborhood school, get rid of broken glass in your doorway” are some of the practical and populist guidelines that Khalid gives his audience, most of whom are young people with time on their hands. In a lecture delivered in Jordan entitled “The Battle of Muʾta” (629), Khalid goes as far as to say: “Brothers and sisters: the Muslims who fought in Muʾta did not remain in the mosque the entire day. They were successful; they were experienced and knowledgeable. Today the West is amazed by what happened in Muʾta, no less than we are by the current progress of the West.”21 Khalid urges his listeners to become successful and rich. Not surprisingly, he avoids criticizing extravagant spending and a profligate way of life because many of his female followers come to his lectures dressed in Armani abayas and Burberry hijabs, while male adherents drive to the mosques in Ferraris and Jaguars. Even when discussing one of the most pressing issues in the Arab world, unemployment, Khalid emphasizes the personal responsibility of each individual. “Instead of donating money to a graveyard, donate it to create a small enterprise, a small workshop that will provide more work space,” he explains in his lecture on unemployment.22 In the same lecture he speaks against devoting all of one’s time in scholarly activity or night prayers, stressing the importance of hard work. Not only does he relieve Arab governments of all responsibility for the deterioration of the Muslim community, but he also denies the complicity of the West in this process. In this he is notably different from other Islamist ideologists and preachers.



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Unlike his predecessors Kishk, al-Shaʿrawi, and al-Qaradawi, ʿAmr Khalid is not a proponent of scare tactics. He does not attempt to frighten his crowds with descriptions of hell and torture. Quite the opposite: he speaks in the style of a spiritualist from the 1960s or, more precisely, as a true evangelist. Khalid’s sermons are all about love: love between the ­believer and the Creator and love for both Muslims and non-Muslims: “It is love of God that should motivate you to practice your religion piously; it is love for your Muslim brother that should induce you to respect him; it is love for all of God’s creations that should stop you from speaking and thinking badly of others.”23 In a sermon about one of the names of God, “al-Rahman al-Rahim,” Khalid says: How to rejoice at the name of God, the All-Merciful, the Ever-­ Merciful: This joy is sensed throughout the universe. God’s mercy is manifested in all creatures since the beginning of Creation. When Adam was created, the first thing he did was to sneeze. The angels immediately asked him to say, “All praise be to God.” Then God said to Adam, “May My mercy be upon you.” In the same way, the beginning of the ever-glorious Qurʾan reads what can be translated as “In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate” [Q 1:1]. God loves His servants. That is why He grants us special blessings like this month.24 Khalid’s texts are nearly identical to those of American televangelists, as both put the emphasis on spiritual rebirth. Thus a sermon delivered at the Thomas Road Baptist Church stipulated: We need a spiritual rebirth. The New Birth is not an improvement on our old nature; it is the imparting of an entirely new nature. By the creative act of the Holy Spirit at salvation, the believer becomes a new creature in Christ (2 Corinthians 5:17). When we trust Christ as our personal Savior, the Holy Spirit enters our lives and causes us to be born again with spiritual life.25 The notion of rebirth is also evident in Khalid’s lectures, as can be seen in his response to a letter from a Muslim who had expressed his religious doubts:

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Repenting to Almighty God is like being born again. To repent truely [sic] means to regret whatever you have done, stop doing it, and take a firm decision never to go back again. I believe you have went [sic] through all these feelings and decisions. So cheer up, dear brother in Islam, and be sure that whoever repents truely [sic] to Almighty God, HE will convert all his wrong deeds into good deeds.26 Fear was commonly used by evangelists like John Donne and ­Lancelot Andrewes in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Their descriptions of hellfire and torture were as detailed and frightening as those of Shaykh Kishk and Shaykh ʿUmar ʿAbd al-Rahman, the spiritual guide of the radical group al-Jamaʿa al-Islamiyya. Many Christian preachers were castigated for delivering vivid sermons on hell rather than on love and forgiveness.27 By contrast, the majority of modern mainstream televangelists and tele-Islamists use behavior modification techniques, clearly favoring a positive message rather than one of awe and fear. It is evident that neither the televangelists nor the tele-Islamists try to alter the behavior of their audiences by scaring them; on the contrary, they do so by evoking positive emotions and equating a change of lifestyle with love, joy, hope, and happiness. ʿAmr Khalid promises his followers paradise, in contrast to Kishk, who used his powerful voice to create an atmosphere of awe and fear when he called upon his audiences to repent or be doomed. In Kishk’s lesson “The End of the World,” also produced on a video clip, he appeals to both Muslim and world leaders (of Russia, America, and the Arab world), warning them of the approaching end of all life, which will be brought on by sinful humanity.28 The video clip speaks of future natural disasters, such as floods, fires, earthquakes, and meteorites, which will destroy earth unless we change our ways. There is no doubt that fear motivates change. In that sense the “fear factor” has long been used by educators and preachers. Evidence in social psychology research, however, indicates that positive emotions induce persuasion and alter behavior more effectively.29 According to American psychologist Alice Isen, people who are contented with their lives tend to view the world in a more positive light. They become more sociable, generous, and positive in their thinking. They are also able to make decisions more quickly and without lengthy thought.30 The adverse effect is that positive feelings activate a superficial route to persuasion unless people are faced with issues that they care about deeply, allowing shallow



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cues to take on added importance. If an audience is motivated and interested in the message conveyed, the positive emotions aroused by the communicator will eventually result in an attitude change. If the group is hostile (holds attitudes that are very different from or negate those of the speaker), however, arousing positive emotions becomes even more crucial. Manuals issued by some corporations for their sales representatives include the following advice: “With hostile audiences, avoid negative emotions!”31 Whether ʿAmr Khalid is aware of research about the advantages of transmitting positive emotions rather than fear is not known. In any case, the outcome is clear: he wants his audience (consisting mainly of students, young professionals, and women belonging to the middle, upper-­middle, and upper classes who grew up in a consumer culture) to feel good. He thus stresses the attractive sides of faith, emphasizing the benefits for believers who are true to the Creator, Islam, and the Prophet, rather than focusing on potential misfortunes and punishments of illness, torture, and hell. Khalid seems to be using this technique very effectively. Many of his admirers claim that what attracted them most to the preacher was that “he made them feel good.”32 Every word that Khalid utters is geared to making his audience feel content, even when he speaks of difficult matters such as stagnation in the Arab and Muslim worlds, progress in the West, or high divorce rates. He identifies a problem and immediately offers a reasonable solution to it. His words offer comfort and a promise of hope. The lighting in the studio is soft, the music is gentle, and the nature scenes shown in the video clips are peaceful, not chaotic as in Kishk’s videos. After all, Khalid is fighting two battles simultaneously: the first is for the souls of the viewers and the second is for a high popularity rating. Unlike those who attend a Friday sermon at the mosque or a Thursday-night religious lesson and are compelled to stay until the end of the event, TV viewers can easily switch to another channel if they disagree with the content of the sermon or find it boring. Therefore the message has to be attractive and interesting enough to keep the audience happy and alert. Hence the positive emotions pouring from the screen, the encouraging tone, and the pacifying message. A “true story” or “testimony” is part and parcel of the discourse of quite a few revivalist groups, whether Christian or Muslim. The context of these stories differs from one group to another. For Christian evangelists, a “true story” usually involves a miraculous cure, generally after the

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decision of the sick person to embrace religion, following his or her “spiritual rebirth.” In the Muslim version, however, such a story may not have a classic happy ending. Nevertheless, the goals of these stories are similar: to create community spirit within the group and arouse feelings of fear, excitement, or amusement in the audience. ʿAmr Khalid’s lectures and lessons nearly always include a “true” story, related by a friend or relative of the story’s protagonist or by Khalid himself. Here is an example of such a story told by a preacher and broadcast by the Muslim Association of Britain: Three weeks ago I received the following email from a girl who lives in Australia. I am of Lebanese origin; my father is a Muslim. I am a young Lebanese lady that has a Muslim father and a Christian mother . . . I am currently 22 years old and after migrating to Australia, my association with my religion also ended completely. The only thing I know is that I am a muslima. That’s it . . . I am fully westernized . . . During this time I used to visit a Lebanese family residing in Australia and I sow [sic] a Ramadan episode on television talking about modesty, the episode had its web addressed [sic] displayed; I went through a nervous breakdown. It was as though this episode was addressing me directly. I am sending you this email to ask, is it possible for God to accept me, in other words forgive me? And this is where Sarah’s mail ends. Subhanallah! [Glory to God]! . . . This caller to Islam wrote back advising her about the conditions of repentance and that God will of course forgive her if she repents. Two days later she contacts ʿAmr Khalid and she says: I have repented to God and have left my boyfriend . . . After another two days she contacts him and says: I want to learn how to pray, then another two days passed and she says: I would like some Quranic audio tapes, so he sends her some tapes via DHL Korea. A week goes by and he doesn’t hear from her until she contacts him and informs him that she has retracted her beauty title of that particular city . . . Then came the surprise, she contacted him saying, I have put on the hijab. However the story doesn’t end here, two days after putting on the hijab she experienced a sharp pain so she goes to the doctor who diagnoses her with brain cancer and that her days are limited.33



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This is a typical story, told to anxious listeners who are comforted by the knowledge that the girl died after repenting and donning the veil. The details of the story may change, but the plot remains more or less unchanged: a young Muslim girl who lives abroad suddenly shows an interest in Islam and starts wearing the hijab, following the advice of an acquaintance or a close friend. Shortly after her miraculous return to religion she either gets hit by a car or dies from a mysterious disease. The stories’ strong dramatic tone and emotional elements have a profound effect on the audience. A few authentic story elements suffice to allow Khalid to establish a personal connection between himself and the protagonist and the ­viewers at home or in the studio, making it possible for the audience to participate actively (by asking questions about or commenting on the events) or passively (by applying the story to themselves, friends, or relatives). Sometimes the viewers can call the studio directly; they are then urged to send emails and make suggestions so that they may become personally engaged. “We have a practical assignment for next time until we meet. I want your suggestions concerning what we should do to succeed? [sic] What should we do to get out of this dark pit? Think and send us your proposals and we will be waiting for every word from you because it will definitely help us to bring success of our project [sic].”34 This is one of the assignments given to viewers of the Life Makers serial. The preacher uses the word “us” intentionally to give the audience a sense of togetherness and common destiny and enhance feelings of comradeship between himself and his viewers. Khalid never says: “Beware, it is your responsibility; it is your mistake; it is your fault” but rather: “It is our responsibility; it is our goal; it is our dream.” ʿAmr Khalid’s speech rate—approximately 170–80 words per minute, which researchers consider an abnormally high rate—is so fast that it is sometimes hard to follow his line of thought.35 Apparently people tend to consider a fast-speaking orator to be more intelligent, understanding, and honest than a slow-speaking one. Although the understanding of the subject does not change, the credibility of the orator rises significantly, because the audience does not have the time to look for counterarguments.36 In two field experiments in 1976 social psychologists N. Miller and his colleagues demonstrated that rapid speech augments source credibility and as a result enhances receiver agreement with a source.37 Personality perception research supports this thesis by indicating that

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dynamic speakers (those with faster delivery and more pitch variety) tend to be perceived as aggressive, bold, energetic, and tough minded, while a conversational delivery (slower rate and less pitch variety) is associated with being honest and people oriented. It is suggested that a fast vocal rate moderately distracts receivers, disrupts their attempts to argue against a message that could effectively change their attitudes, and makes them more susceptible to persuasion. Other researchers also argue that inducing listeners to focus on delivery rather than content constitutes a distraction and reduces their ability to counter the speaker’s arguments. Another study on fast speech and persuasion, however, shows that an increased vocal rate only enhances some credibility judgments, which in turn have no apparent effect on the listener’s attitudes.38 Whether ʿAmr Khalid is inherently a fast speaker or alters his speech rate to achieve a maximum effect on his audience is irrelevant: his speech rate probably has something to do with his impressive success in changing attitudes and behavioral patterns.

Vocal Inflections Many sales representatives, public speakers, and consultants who realize the importance and the profound effect of the human voice choose to undergo special vocal training in order to achieve the utmost impact on their audiences. The agencies that offer such training emphasize that: With the help of a more compelling voice you will cause people to trust you, buy from you, seek you out and hear more of what you have to say. Your voice actually connects you to your audience in many unconsciously powerful ways. It can create more vivid pictures, stronger emotions, and sharper hearing and awareness in your audience—placing them in the palm of your hand (or the tip of your tongue).39 Every preacher’s voice is his or her most important instrument. The voice can help preachers convey to their audience a sense of awe, happiness, and importance—or sarcasm. They can imply certain views simply by altering their intonation and build up tension toward the climactic point of the message, at the same time expressing the most elusive emotions. A monotonic voice makes it much more difficult for the audience



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to stay focused during a lengthy lecture or a lesson, whereas the use of emotional shades and unexpected crescendos and pianissimos helps the listener to stay alert and concentrate on what is being said. The voice of the speaker can also affect his or her credibility.40 The issue of the speaker’s theatrical skills was first raised in the 1970s by Shaykh ʿAbd al-Hamid Kishk (d. 1996). Among contemporary ­Islamic preachers, Kishk had the status of a virtuoso performer, whose vocal range and dynamics often brought an audience to great emotional heights. Yet he remained solidly grounded in the authoritative traditions of Islamic argumentation and exegesis. His rapid repetitions of words “Ya Rab,” “Ya Malik,” “Ya Allah,” and “Ya Habib,” delivered with strong emotion and a thunderous voice, often induced states of ecstasy in the audience. ʿAmr Khalid can truly be considered the master of vocal manipulations, taking his audience through the ups and downs of religious preaching and skillfully expressing amusement, joy, fear, or astonishment. He never speaks in a monotone: his voice rises and drops suddenly when he is trying to make a point. It is rather high and very flexible. Some of his admirers admit that they find his voice somewhat irritating, but apparently it does help him keep his audiences alert. Khalid’s speech is extremely theatrical and is influenced by contemporary media, where emotions are expressed overtly. His sermons and lectures bring to mind the Oprah Winfrey show, rather than a traditional khutba, such as those of al-Shaʿrawi, ʿAbd al-Kafi, or Muhammad Sayyid Tantawi. He frequently uses slang and colloquial dialect in his sermons and lessons, his voice changing when he recites a Qurʾanic verse or relates a hadith and explains its meaning in colloquial Egyptian. When he relates a hadith or a story from the Qurʾan, he impersonates the characters, using different vocal timbres and a different emotional coloration—that is, not according to the general rules of pronunciation and intonation (tajwid). When praying with an audience he may break into tears and bring the people in the studio and at home to tears as well. “I always cry during Ustadh ʿAmr’s lectures. They are bursting with emotion and I just cannot stop the tears,” says Dalia Abbas, a 32-year-old Cairene who has listened to Khalid’s lectures and lessons for nearly seven years.41 Although not a trained orator, Khalid has mastered the art of oratory to perfection. He constantly alters the tempo of his speech, makes expressive pauses, and surprises his audience with unexpected crescendos and fortes, at times nearly whispering. Perhaps this skill explains how he

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succeeds in keeping his audience alert and interested during his long lessons—some of which last as long as ninety minutes. The use of repetition to etch a message into the minds of the audience is a common device, used by nearly all orators. If a word or phrase is used frequently, it will soon be accepted, whether it has meaning or not. In the literature of Jehovah’s Witnesses, for instance, phrases, words, and ideas are repeated throughout the texts. The group’s preachers are known for repeating particular words and phrases until they become permanently fixed in people’s minds. The phrase “faithful and discreet slave” was mentioned twenty-four times in a sermon read in the fall of 1995. Through repetition members of Jehovah’s Witnesses become conditioned to associating the “faithful and discreet slave” with positive and righteous values, while the words “Christendom,” “Trinity,” and “religionist” are associated with evil and godlessness.42 ʿAmr Khalid on his part makes frequent use of words such as “revival,” “rebirth,” “life maker,” “proactivity,” and “let us break the chains together,” as he tries to create a sense of unity in his audience, induce it to action, and affect its views. In his lecture on unemployment the word “revival” is mentioned twelve times. In one of the Life Makers episodes the term “proactivity” is mentioned eleven times.43

The Media Televangelists recognize the power of the new media: “I believe that God has raised up this powerful technology of radio and television expressly to reach every man, woman, boy, and girl on earth with the even more powerful message of the gospel.”44 When looking down on the urban forest from the height of the Cairo tower, it is impossible to avoid noticing what has become nearly mandatory for every Egyptian rooftop—a satellite dish. Not only in Egypt but throughout the entire Arab world the dish aerial is seen as a symbol of social status and progress. They can be spotted not only in the urban environment of Cairo, Amman, Tehran, or Damascus but also in Bedouin tents in Libya. The World Wide Web has taken root in Arab soil, and households all over the Arab world have become interconnected by satellites. The satellite dish first appeared on Arab roofs in the early 1970s. Back then it was both expensive and dangerous (in Syria as well as in Iran), because the authorities would punish the owners and confiscate the devices. By the end of 1980s, however, satellite dishes had mushroomed



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despite the bans and laws interdicting them. Governments found it difficult to confiscate hundreds of thousands of satellites that were now less costly and could be situated on roof corners or in windows. But the true dish revolution occurred shortly after the birth of pan-Arab satellite television. Channels such as the news giant al-Jazeera (1996), the entertainment magnate Orbit (1994), and Dream Networks (2001, Egypt) as well as the religious-oriented Art-Iqraa (1998, Saudi Arabia and Egypt) competed for the hearts and minds of their audiences.45 The new media were more colorful, interesting, and diverse than the dull, anemic government channels. Most importantly, they were almost impossible to control and censor. Al-Jazeera, a Qatar satellite media pioneer that pushed many boundaries, breaking scores of taboos, was repeatedly banned in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Bahrain, and Syria. Its bureaus were shut down, and its reporters were arrested or expelled. Modern technology, however, easily overcame geographical borders and censorship. The Arab regimes were unable to discontinue the operations of al-Jazeera, just as they had been unable to eliminate the legendary Egyptian radio station Voice of the Arabs back in the 1950s. The brand-new media reality proved to be invincible.46 It was al-Jazeera that opened the door to a hitherto unheard of phenomenon: an unrelenting critique of Arab governments and rulers—the only taboo being Qatar and its leaders. Every issue was addressed, every topic discussed, no matter how outrageous. Odd, dangerous, or outrageous guests were invited to the studio or interviewed personally. The new media outlet also cleared the way for many dissident Islamic scholars and preachers, allowing them to disseminate their ideas and beliefs among unprecedentedly large audiences from all over the Arab world. People who could not even dream of appearing on government television in their own countries—Egypt, Jordan, Saudi Arabia—suddenly gained access not only to their own fellow citizens but also to millions of people across the region. The new gurus of religious broadcasting had almost unlimited freedom, because governmental censors could not touch them. They were free to talk about the most burning issues that concerned Muslims in the Arab world, Europe, and the United States. Issues such as global jihad, martyrdom, and participation in warfare against fellow Muslims were discussed, alongside questions about marital relations, mutʿa marriage (the so-called marriage of convenience), and adultery. The new satellite stars did not have to face strict governmental censorship. But there was

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also a catch: the message and format had to be changed to win over potential viewers. At the same time the interviews had to become increasingly outrageous and revealing, because the format had to be appealing and cater to every taste. The rise of Arab satellite channels utterly changed the format of religious broadcasting. A preacher who knew that his khutba or dars (lesson) would be transmitted all over the globe would have to shift the emphasis from local problems to global issues relevant to many Muslim communities. Hence focusing on moral questions and dilemmas, like growing divorce rates, late marriages, and sinful behavior, became crucial. Other relevant issues such as unemployment and a low development level also had to be addressed. This shift in emphasis is clearly seen in ʿAmr Khalid’s preaching. When he began appearing on Iqraa TV, after he moved out of Egypt, his message became less Egypt-oriented than it had been in the early years when he was addressing mainly Egyptian audiences.47 Having been forced out of Egypt in 2002, he started focusing on the broader frame of the Arab and Islamic world. He spoke in general terms about problems and issues that all Arabs and Muslims were facing. His message became “one size fits all,” so to speak, suitable to audiences not only in Arab countries but also in the huge Arab Diasporas in Europe and the United States.48 When addressing international audiences, Khalid easily crossed geographical and social borders. His messages underwent a “globalization process” and had a unique influence on its consumers. By encouraging similar social norms and behavior patterns Khalid consciously or unconsciously brought the Egyptians, Libyans, Kuwaitis, Lebanese, Bahrainis, and Saudis closer together. They were all getting the same news on al-­ Jazeera and other transnational TV stations and the same religious content during Friday sermons or Islamic talk shows.

Conclusion ʿAmr Khalid is a fascinating figure. The young daʿiya was successful not

only in the religious sphere but also in the field of mass communication. He exploited the modern media to the utmost and adjusted effortlessly to its challenging format, with the help of speech techniques, a Westernized physical appearance, and simplified messages tailored to specific sectors of the population that he was targeting: young, educated, and middle



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and upper-middle class. Khalid succeeded where many of his peers had failed: he was not only a daʿiya but a TV personality as well. Khalid’s influence on the younger generation was considerable and eventually brought about his forced exile from Egypt, soon after rumors spread around the country about one of Husni Mubarak’s female relatives who had donned hijab following his sermons. His message, largely fashioned after American televangelists, remained private and individualistic. The revival of the Islamic umma was only possible after the individual revival of every single Muslim, said Khalid, who chose to put the weight of responsibility for the fate of the umma not on an amorphous society but on every single member. After the 2011 revolution Khalid returned to Egypt and began hosting a number of successful Islamic programs on Egyptian TV. Whether he will want to translate his success as a preacher to the political arena remains an open question.

11

Charisma and Politics in the Evolution of Modern Shiʿi Leadership Meir Litvak

Shiʿi religious leadership and particularly the institution of Supreme Exemplar (marjaʿiyyat al-taqlid) evolved as the logical conclusion of two interrelated doctrines, which culminated in the nineteenth century. The first was the development of the concept of general deputyship (niyaba ʿamma), through which the Shiʿi ʿulamaʾ gradually appropriated to themselves the duties and powers of the Hidden Imam and claimed charismatic authority inherited from him. The second was the victory of the rationalist Usuli school, which advocated the centrality of ijtihad in deducing religious rulings, over the Akhbari school. While the concept of emulation (taqlid) and the prerequisites for ijtihad were instrumental in designating a religious elite of mujtahids, however, they were insufficient to create a clear hierarchy within it. Shiʿi religious leadership differed significantly from the Sunni model. Members of the Ottoman religious establishment, which was headed by the shaykh al-Islam of Istanbul and the office of shaykh al-Azhar in Egypt, were “officials,” who derived their authority from organizational and bureaucratic positions. By contrast, the Shiʿi mujtahids fit the definition of informal leaders, who, in the often quoted words of the nineteenth-­ century British historian John Malcolm, “fill no office, receive no appointment, [and] have no specific duties but who are called, from their superior learning, piety and virtue, by the silent but unanimous suffrage of the inhabitants . . . to be their guides in religion, and their protectors against the violence and oppression of their rulers.”1 As the vicissitudes of Shiʿi leadership in the nineteenth century have been described elsewhere,2 the aim of this essay is to focus on several case studies in order to examine more closely the interplay between charisma and politics in the determination of modern Shiʿi religious leadership. 206



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A theory in contemporary Shiʿism suggests that at any given time in Shiʿi history one ʿalim was recognized as the supreme religious authority. Consequently, historiographic attempts are made to draw a continuous line of marajiʿ (sing. marjaʿ) going back to the days of the Twelfth Imam.3 This theory, however, is relatively new and ungrounded. The institution of a supreme religious authority under one mujtahid first appeared under the Safavids when Shah Tahmasp bestowed the title “Mujtahid of the Age” (mujtahid-i zaman) upon ʿAli al-Karaki al-ʿAmili in 1533. Still, the title entailed neither systematic doctrinal authority nor formal leadership over the administration of religious institutions. Only the office of Mullabashi established in the late seventeenth century formally recognized a mujtahid as the highest religious authority in Safavid Iran.4 The destruction of the Safavid state in 1722 marked the demise of that institution. The integration of the clerical community into an independent establishment during the early years of the Qajar (1796–1925) dynasty prompted both the ʿulamaʾ and their constituents to search for a more systematic line of authority. The recognition of a “head” or leader was intended to fulfill the need for a superior model who, by embodying both rational capacity and moral piety, could sanctify the righteousness of the entire ʿulamaʾ establishment.5 Theoretically the designation of the spiritual leader or the Supreme Exemplar was determined by his superiority in the three major qualifications ʿilm (knowledge of the law), ʿadl (justice in the practice of law), and waraʿ (piety). Of the three, aʿlamiyat (superiority in learning) was held to be the most important. The idea of emulating the most learned mujtahid was implicit in the writings of Muhammad Baqir Bihbihani (d. 1791) writings. Mirza Abu al-Qasim Qomi (d. 1816) advanced it by reestablishing the concept of mutabaʿa, the conscious following of the opinion of a superior mujtahid both in doctrine and in practice, thereby facilitating the emergence of an informal hierarchy among the mujtahids. Ahmad Naraqi (d. 1829) went further describing the marjaʿ as being of the same superior level of knowledge as the imam.6 Yet both the coherent concept and institution of marjaʿiyya appeared only during the second half of the nineteenth century, when Murtaza Ansari (d. 1864) formulated the concept, which nullified all religious acts not performed in emulation of the marjaʿ.7 The rationalism propounded in Usuli theory largely contradicted the spiritual standing attributed to the marajiʿ in order to enhance their prestige in the eyes of their followers. In order to conceal this paradox, unworldly practices such as asceticism and devotions were often attributed

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to them.8 Miracles (karamat) that happened to or were performed by the mujtahid and dreams in which the imams appeared to him endowed him with the needed charismatic aura. Such descriptions of mujtahids are found in abundance in the Shiʿi sources. The Usuli concept of religious leadership and hierarchy was different from the spiritual hierarchy espoused by Sufi Islam, which culminates in the Perfect Man (al-insan al-kamil). The Sufi concept stipulates a hierarchical order in which people are defined in terms of their spiritual dimension. It discusses the attainment of spiritual perfection in three grades: first, by deed, through the Shariʿa, second, through the Sufi path (tariqa), and finally through the vision of the truth (haqiqa), which is reached only by the Perfect Man. The Sufi concept speaks of gnosis: profound knowledge and consciousness of God. By contrast the Usuli notion of hierarchy refers more to rational knowledge of the law rather than of divinity itself or of spiritual qualities per se. The Perfect Man—clearly a charismatic figure—is described as the heart of the umma or even as the imam. Yet he has no worldly power and lives with his wishes unfulfilled.9 The mujtahid, by contrast, is only partially a charismatic figure, and his authority extends to every aspect of religious life. Moreover, the very concepts of emulation and marjaʿiyya were intended to ensure the authority and power of the mujtahids over the Shiʿi community. These various qualifications were too vague and subjective. Even the simple question of whether the evaluation of knowledge is a prerogative of the ʿulamaʾ or of every believer is left ambiguous. Consequently they could hardly be applied in a systematic and practical way to determine scholastic superiority among the mujtahids. In practice these criteria enabled believers to choose or shift from one marjaʿ to another as they pleased and whenever it suited their interests. Equally important, doctrinal obstacles inhibited the full institutionalization of a religious hierarchy and particularly the position of supreme marjaʿ. The presence (or actually the material absence) of the Hidden Imam made any attempt toward theoretical elaboration of a supreme authority a matter of controversy and conflict. The impermissibility of one mujtahid emulating another set further limits to formal stratification. The absence of a centrally organized structure in the learning complex in the shrine cities (ʿatabat) of Najaf and Karbala in Iraq or in Iran and the ability of any mujtahid to pass ijazat ijtihad on to his students made the ranking of mujtahids difficult. A certain incompatibility also existed between the stress of otherworldliness attributed to marjaʿiyya and the requirements in carrying out the actual role of social and communal leadership.10



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In practice the status of marjaʿ was achieved by recognition by peers, students, and ordinary believers and not by any formal institution or procedure. Three factors were required. Learning was a necessary but not sufficient condition for status. The most common practice for mujtahids who wanted recognition as marajiʿ was to publish a risala ʿamaliyya, a collection of fatwas aimed at the community of believers at large and not just at fellow clerics. The second prerequisite was the cultivation of a broad network of disciples, who served as a crucial link between the mujtahid and his constituencies by collecting donations, sending new students to his court, and passing legal questions to him and disseminating his rulings among the lay believers. The final requirement was having close links with the Iranian bazaar merchants, who were the most important donors to the mujtahids.11 Ever since the Constitutional Revolution in Iran (1906–12) the political position and activities of various mujtahids had become an important element in deciding leadership status, sometimes overshadowing learning. The importance of political activism and its role in endowing clerics with a charismatic aura was most evident in the rise of Ayatollah Khomeini since the 1960s. Consequently, while the theory of marjaʿiyya spoke of one scholar emerging as the universally recognized supreme marjaʿ (marjaʿ aʿla li l-taqlid), only in very few cases since the late eighteenth century had ­mujtahids achieved such status. Continuous rivalries among competing mujtahids were more common. The interest of most mujtahids apparently was to preserve their scholarly and financial independence rather than be subordinated to one supreme leader, thereby further hindering the unification of the marjaʿiyya under one person. Because the establishment of great scholarly reputation required years of writing and teaching and network building was a time-consuming endeavor, mujtahids often achieved the coveted recognition as marajiʿ late in life. Hence their tenure of leadership did not last for many years, and struggles for succession among their former students began soon after. The following section surveys several case studies that examine the interplay of scholarship, charisma, and politics in the consolidation of Shiʿi religious leadership.

Charisma versus Orthodoxy The emergence of the Shaykhi movement, which was founded on the teachings of Ahmad Ahsaʾi (d. 1826) and his successor Sayyid Kazim Rashti (d. 1844), presented the first charismatic challenge within the

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ranks of the ʿulamaʾ since the reinstatement of the Usuli school. Shaykhism brought together three trends of thought: the theosophical school of Isfahan (hikmat-i ilahi); the Akhbari “traditionalist” school of Bahrayn, which traced its chain of transmission to the early narrators of hadith mostly by way of “intuitive” perception; and gnosticism, which was diffused in Shiʿism. Borrowing from these three trends, Ahsaʾi developed a new set of ideas seeking to incorporate both exoteric (zahir) and esoteric (batin) knowledge in one comprehensive system.12 Ahsaʾi criticized the Usulis’ emphasis on rational and deductive reasoning as the basis of their knowledge and consequently of their authority. The ʿulamaʾ, he wrote, “derive their knowledge from each other” and are therefore prone to error. He himself, he claimed, obtained his knowledge directly from the imams and the Prophet: therefore “error cannot find its way into my words.” Such intuitive knowledge, which he described as kashf or mukashafa (hence one of the movement’s names: Kashfiyya), enabled him to “unveil” the inner meaning (batin) of knowledge and, by comparison, rendered the knowledge of the ʿulamaʾ both fallible and superficial.13 Borrowing from the Sufi concept of the Perfect Man, Ahsaʾi and even more so his successors advocated the necessity of the continued presence of the “Perfect Shiʿi” (al-Shiʿi al-kamil), who is inspired directly by the Hidden Imam and acts as an intermediary between him and the world. Ahsaʾi was ambiguous as to whether or not he claimed to be the Perfect Shiʿi of his age, but his disciples regarded him as such. Equally important, the Usuli mujtahids suspected him of advancing the claim, which put him above the collective body of the ʿulamaʾ.14 Although Ahsaʾi had claimed intuitive knowledge from the imams, he attained ijazat from the most prominent mujtahids of his time. In other words, he did not disassociate himself from mainstream Shiʿism. By the late eighteenth century, however, the scope of orthodoxy and pluralism in Shiʿism had been narrowed considerably. The introduction of takfir by Muhammad Baqir Bihbihani as a weapon in the struggle against the Akhbaris during the eighteenth century added greater effectiveness to the efforts of the ʿulamaʾ to eliminate any threats to their authority.15 After completing his studies in the shrine cities, Ahsaʾi spent most of his life teaching and traveling in western Iran. He attracted a following mainly from the middle and lower ranks of ʿulamaʾ, local merchants and officials, and various members of the Qajar family. Ahsaʾi’s teachings had great appeal because they responded to public yearnings for a spiritual religious leadership that by its purity and otherworldliness could stand



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above temporal or “orthodox” authority. His saintly figure evoked popular enthusiasm, standing in stark contrast to the more worldly-minded image of many Usuli mujtahids. The attribution of excessive devotion and asceticism to leading mujtahids at the time probably reflected attempts by the Usulis to appropriate such spiritual virtues to themselves in response to these yearnings.16 The combination of doctrinal challenge and popular appeal aroused hostility among various Usuli mujtahids both in the shrine cities and in Iran. After having been excommunicated by Mulla Muhammad Taqi Baraghani (the Imam Jumʿa of Qazvin in 1238/1822) Ahsaʾi decided to go to Karbala. By the time he reached the town, he faced a hostile reception, led by Sayyid Mahdi b. ʿAli Tabatabaʾi. Sayyid Mahdi, who was known as an ascetic and inclined toward undue severity, convened a meeting of ʿulamaʾ that declared Ahsaʾi a kafir (infidel). The Shaykhis asserted that Mahdi spent large amounts of money to ensure that the declaration was accepted by the masses.17 Several ʿulamaʾ went so far as to denounce Ahsaʾi to the governor in Baghdad, Daʾud Pasha, claiming that Ahsaʾi had slandered the first three caliphs, probably in the hope that he would be executed or at least deported from Karbala. In fear of Mamluk reaction against himself or even against the town, Ahsaʾi left Karbala for Mecca. On his way to Medina he died in Dhu al-Hijja 1241/July 1826.18 Prior to his death Ahsaʾi designated his disciple Sayyid Kazim Rashti as his successor. Such nomination, which was common among Sufis, was rare among mujtahids. This was probably deemed necessary in view of its charismatic nature, since Rashti was being named as the direct recipient of the body of knowledge derived from the imams and through them from God. At the time of his death Ahsaʾi’s position was still that of a respected member of the mujtahid elite despite the excommunication pronounced against him, as he made no attempt to set up a separate school within Shiʿism. The reaction of the mujtahids to Ahsaʾi and his teachings varied greatly, indicating that pure theological considerations were not the crux of the matter. Rather, their attitudes were largely determined by perceptions of the threat to their collective authority, by personal relations with Ahsaʾi or his opponents, and by personal aspirations toward leadership.19 The formation of the Shaykhis as a movement gave greater grounds to the animosity of the Usulis. The vast majority of the mujtahids in the shrine cities gradually joined the anti-Shaykhi front. In turn, this hostility further contributed to the consolidation of the Shaykhi community.

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The various doctrinal objections raised against the Shaykhis became secondary to the more important issue of the basis of authority: individual charismatic as opposed to collective and more legal-traditional. The disagreements over the relation between exoteric and esoteric interpretations of the scriptures reflected the deeper objection on the part of the mujtahids against bringing the esoteric factor of religion within reach of the common people, preferring it to remain the domain of the elite alone. The Usuli persecution in the shrine cities did not eliminate Shaykhism as a doctrine or a movement. It did succeed in obstructing its spread in Iranian society, however, and the mujtahids succeeded in maintaining their dominant position.20 Overall the struggle against the Shaykhis had the effect of better defining the collective authority of the Usulis by setting them against a common rival and by drawing clear boundaries vis-à-vis the “other.” The community’s external boundaries were thus clearly established.

Scholarship versus Charisma After marginalizing the Shaykhis, the Usuli ʿulamaʾ faced a much more serious charismatic challenge to their authority from the Babi movement, which offered a messianic alternative to the preoccupation of the ʿulamaʾ in the law. In addition the Babis accused the ʿulamaʾ of having usurped the imam’s authority and of having mired themselves in excessive worldliness. This shook the foundations of the religious establishment in Iran. As the leading marjaʿ in Najaf, Muhammad Hasan Najafi (d. 1850) understood the need for the ʿulamaʾ to present to the ordinary believers a new and more appealing model of leadership. Consequently on his deathbed, in the presence of all the first rank ʿulamaʾ of Najaf, Najafi designated Murtaza Ansari as the supreme marjaʿ after him. Although Ansari had been recognized as a distinguished scholar, he was not considered a candidate for supreme leadership.21 Najafi probably realized that in view of the threat to their authority the ʿulamaʾ needed a leader whose scholarly credentials would be beyond dispute and whose personal qualities of piety and asceticism would overshadow the charismatic figure of the Babi. The designation of a successor was unprecedented among the orthodox ʿulamaʾ, as Kazim Rashti’s nomination carried a Sufi flavor. Equally important, Najafi did not formalize the nomination of a successor as a rule for future cases or make it the prerogative of the preceding leader.



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Ansari established his preeminence throughout the Shiʿi world thanks to a combination of several personal qualities and accommodating circumstances. In his background and personality he could unify the various factions among the ʿulamaʾ and respond to the aspirations of the populace for a new type of spiritual leadership.22 While most mujtahids mastered one scholarly field, Ansari excelled in both fiqh and usul. He established his scholarly fame by reconstructing the methodology of fiqh (usul al-fiqh) and by the founding of a new school in usul that has dominated Shiʿi learning to the present day. His major work in fiqh (al-Makasib, dealing with commercial law) opened a new era in that field too.23 Ansari’s distinction in usul and fiqh made him the most sought-after teacher in Najaf for both Iranians and Arabs, who numbered in the hundreds. His popularity as a teacher was also due to his reputation as a master who looked after his students.24 Ansari’s reputation for asceticism, otherworldliness, and piety, which was manifested inter alia by keeping his distance from Qajar officials and a refusal to engage in politics, provided the orthodox establishment with a badly needed contrast to the excessive worldliness of various mujtahids in Iran and to the Babi’s otherworldly figure. This image earned Ansari wide recognition outside the community of ʿulamaʾ, because it responded to a widespread public yearning for a morally reformed leadership. Past charismatic figures such as the Niʿmatallahi Sufi Nur ʿAli Shah, Ahmad Ahsaʾi, and the Babi had attracted such yearnings. But when all alternative heterodoxies were effectively suppressed, they were channeled to Ansari.25 ­Probably in response to the Babi challenge to the authority of the ʿulamaʾ, Ansari composed his treatise Sirat al-najat (The Path to Salvation), which systematized the concept of emulation of the mujtahids and specifically of the Supreme Exemplar.26

Leadership and Politics in the Twentieth Century The Constitutional Revolution marked the entry of political considerations as a major factor in determining leadership status among the ʿ­ ulamaʾ. The changing influence and prestige of the leading mujtahids in Najaf, such as Muhammad Kazim Akhund Khorasani (d. 1911) and Kazim Tabatabaʾi Yazdi (d. 1919), as well as Fazlallah Nuri and ʿAbdallah Bihbihani in Tehran was determined more by their political stance vis-à-vis the Constitutional Revolution than by purely scholarly considerations. The two Najaf scholars earned their fame prior to the Revolution thanks to their scholarly works, Khorasani with his Kifayat al-usul,

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which developed Ansari’s methodology of usul al-fiqh, and Yazdi with his al-ʿUrwa al-wuthqa and al-Hashiyya ʿala al-makasib, which became the standard fiqh work in the Shiʿi madrasa. Initially Khorasani was more popular. But he gradually lost ground to Yazdi for several reasons. Khorasani was far less generous than Yazdi in providing stipends to his students, even though he was a recipient of steady funds from the Oudh Bequest and his sons, who were not great scholars, amassed great property.27 In addition Yazdi’s expertise in fiqh presumably made his works more relevant to ʿulamaʾ who were in constant contact with ordinary believers than Khorasani’s work on the methodology of the law, which appealed more to specialized scholars. But the political issue gradually emerged as the most important. Khorasani supported the constitutionalist camp from the start, while Yazdi remained neutral and refrained from political activity. Yazdi came to resent the constant and apparently rough pressure from his disciples to support the constitution, however. When Fazlallah Nuri’s son came to Najaf to solicit support for the royalist camp against the constitution, Yazdi granted his support to Nuri. The final blow to Khorasani, both literally and metaphorically, was a violent clash between followers of the two mujtahids. Yazdi’s disciples, who were reinforced by neighboring Arab tribesmen, soundly defeated Khorasani’s disciples. Henceforth Khorasani’s position in Najaf was significantly weakened, whereas Yazdi’s influence increased.28 Politicization played a greater role among Tehrani ʿulamaʾ, who were split along the lines of conditional support for and opposition to the constitutionalist cause. Nuri, who had initially been a reserved supporter of the Constitutional Revolution, was an important leading mujtahid in Tehran, albeit only one among several. After his turn against the constitution and his unequivocal support for Muhammad ʿAli Shah’s countercoup against the Majlis in June 1908, however, he became the undisputed leader of the conservative ʿulamaʾ in Iran.29 Nuri’s main rival was Sayyid ʿAbdallah Bihbihani, who aligned himself with the “moderate” faction in the newly formed Majlis. He sought to prevent the enactment of any legislation incompatible with Islamic law and to avoid a breach between the court and the Majlis. Bihbihani opposed Nuri’s criticism of the constitutionalist cause and was banished to Najaf after the 1908 coup by Muhammad ʿAli Shah.30 More importantly, politics determined the ultimate fate of both mujtahids. Before the revolution Iran’s rulers could try to influence the



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elevation of specific mujtahids to leadership positions by bestowing gifts upon them, by soliciting doctrinal works from them, or by gestures of respect toward them. During the Constitutional Revolution politics superseded all of these factors. Following Muhammad ʿAli Shah’s defeat by the Constitutionalists, Nuri was tried before a special tribunal on July 26, 1909, and sentenced to death, in an unprecedented act in the history of modern Shiʿism.31 Scholarly production was also influenced by the political developments: tracts on the relationships between politics and religion acquired increasing importance at the expense of more traditional issues of ʿibadat (acts of worship) and muʿamallat (laws dealing with relations between people). Nuri became much more renowned historically for his political tracts denouncing constitutionalism as incompatible with Islam than for works on traditional aspects of the law.32 Likewise Muhammad Husyan Naʾini, who had been Khorasani’s leading disciple, earned his historical fame thanks to his tract defending the cause of constitutionalism.33 Politics also sealed Bihbihani’s career. After the shah’s defeat Bihbihani returned to Tehran and tried to regain his old position; but, as Vanessa Martin has stated, “he was no longer useful to the constitutionalists.” Bihbihani retained his following among guild members, forged a strong alliance with the ʿulamaʾ of Najaf, and joined the more conservative faction in the Majlis in order to continue to play an active political role. But he was assassinated on July 16, 1910, by activists indirectly associated with the Social Democrats.34 The scars left by the internal disputes within the ʿulamaʾ establishment during the Constitutional Revolution and the growing disillusionment with constitutionalism or even with their involvement in politics produced a backlash among the ʿulamaʾ. The new trend of political quietism and focusing on learning was manifested in the prominence of two persons: ʿAbd al-Karim Haʾiri (d. 1927), who revived Qom as a center of learning in the early 1920s; and Husayn Boroujerdi, who served as the undisputed Supreme marjaʿ in Iran and the entire Shiʿi world from the 1940s till his death in 1961. Only ʿulamaʾ in the major provincial towns such as Shiraz and Isfahan, who never enjoyed the same scholarly status as their colleagues in Qom, were engaged in political protest against Reza Shah during the 1920s. Likewise Abu al-Qasim Kashani, who emerged as the quintessential political-­ mujtahid during the 1940s, never enjoyed the same status or prestige as Boroujerdi.35

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Khomeini and Political Charisma The rise of Ruhollah Khomeini (1902–89) to national prominence marked a new period in the history of Shiʿi leadership in demonstrating the centrality of political activism in establishing leadership status. It also reflects an intriguing combination of traditional and more modern politicized notions of charismatic aura. As a young scholar in Qom Khomeini inclined toward mysticism and ʿirfan (mystical philosophy). His earliest writings dwelt extensively on these issues. Writing on human leadership, Khomeini combined two ideal charismatic figures. One is the Sufi Perfect Man, who is free from sin and is imbued with wisdom and knowledge of the divine and who constitutes “God’s great sign, created in God’s image.” The other is ʿarif: the person who acquires an enlightened inner awareness of the transcendent and the true inner knowledge of the intelligible order that lies behind the ­visible world. Those who attain such knowledge reach sainthood (wilaya), the highest of all human levels, and are also spiritual heirs of the Prophet. Similarly the Perfect Man, who emerges after a four-staged spiritual journey, returns to earth to establish wilayat—the deputyship or vice-regency of God. God thus has vice-regents on earth (khulafa). They receive their authority directly from God, and there is no contradiction between their judgment and that of the Prophet. They are also expected to take care of the special needs of all people. As a jurist Khomeini emphasized in his later writings the centrality of knowledge of the Shariʿa as essential: only with its implementation under the ʿulamaʾ could a true and just Islamic government exist. The ʿarif, in his mystical writings, held the knowledge conferred by the holy law. But in addition he possessed exceptional spiritual qualities. Thus the ʿarif was eminently equipped to be the guide and leader (imam and rahbar) of the community. Through this concept Khomeini laid the foundation for fusing together the charismatic and jurisprudential components as the basis of Shiʿi political leadership.36 As is well known, charisma is composed of two essential and complementary elements: the person’s own belief in his or her supernatural qualities and the belief of the followers that he or she possesses these qualities. Although Khomeini never claimed publicly to be the Perfect Man or to have attained the rank of ʿarif, it is likely that he aspired to both. In developing his ideas he created the basis for a leadership status for himself. Moreover, his followers’ bestowal upon him of the titles imam and rahbar



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during the revolution and his acceptance reflected the understanding of the charismatic meaning and power that they implied. Although Khomeini remained true to his mystical ideals until his death, he did not highlight the ʿirfani (mystical-theosophical) aspect in his later scholarly production and political activism. Rather, he made it clear that his claim for authority rested on his knowledge as a jurist. He probably understood, as Vanessa Martin has stated, that people turned to religion leaders to seek guidance in matters of law, social conduct, and sometimes politics. Thus mastery of the law was of greatest importance in securing popular support and political mobilization. In addition he probably wanted to avoid suspicions about his orthodoxy by mainstream ʿulamaʾ in view of their historical ambivalence toward mystics.37 ʿUlamaʾ who “brought down” esoteric secrets to ordinary lay believers were particularly disapproved, as was the case against Ahmad Ahsaʾi. Khomeini had established himself as a scholar since the 1940s with the publication of his risala ʿamaliyya, Kashf al-asrar, which indicated his aspirations for marjaʿiyya. He first acquired national stature much later, when he assumed the most active and radical position against Muhammad Reza Shah’s 1963 reforms, known then as the White Revolution. At the time Khomeini was only an ayatollah, belonging to the second tier of clerical leadership. He was elevated to the rank of grand ayatollah (ayatollah ʿuzma) in an unprecedented move by the six other grand ayatollahs in order to deter the shah from executing him after his strong personal attack on the shah in 1964. In other words Khomeini owed his most senior religious rank first and foremost to his political activity rather than to pure scholarship.38 Khomeini’s exile from 1964 to early 1979 enhanced his charismatic appeal. Whereas most other senior ʿulamaʾ who remained in Iran followed a quietist approach or had to compromise with the shah’s regime, Khomeini was able to preserve an aura of uncompromising ideological and personal purity. The premature death of his son Mustafa in 1977 added the dimension of suffering and perhaps even martyrdom to his charisma. Unlike Kashani, however, Khomeini never neglected the scholarly aspect of religious leadership. While in exile he completed his large compendium on Shiʿi law, Tahrir al-wasila (Najaf, 1968), in which he extended the authority of the ʿulamaʾ to every aspect of life. He contributed to the development of the Ansari school in usul al-fiqh with his Tahdhib al-usul (Qom, 1954–63). Khomeini also continued to issue fatwas on a wide variety of issues, from minor details of ritual purity to politics, thereby preserving his ties with his constituencies.39

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Khomeini succeeded in attracting a large number of disciples among the younger ʿulamaʾ thanks to his political activism rather than his scholarly contributions to Shiʿi law. He was also adept in attaching the right disciple to the appropriate social constituency.40 His supporters and disciples inside Iran proved very effective in using Shiʿi traditional imagery in equating the shah with “Yazid,” the ultimate evil ruler in Shiʿi parlance, thereby associating Khomeini with the struggle of the Shiʿi imams. His political astuteness was also visible in his ability to absorb and use modern ideas from lay religious intellectuals, such as Jalal Al-e Ahmad’s concept of gharbzedegi (West-struckness) and ʿAli Shariʿati’s revolutionary ideas.41 Charisma often emerges in times of crisis, as was the case in Iran during the post-1973 oil boom. Iranian society experienced massive socioeconomic dislocation as a result of the billions of dollars that poured into Iran and the shah’s megalomaniac development plans. Large sections in Iranian society, according to Said Amir Arjomand, experienced a state of anomie and crisis of identity and sought comfort in religion.42 The excessive and conspicuous consumerism of the Westernized elites and rampant corruption in all government ranks reinforced the deep-seated Shiʿi-Iranian cultural tradition of the dichotomy between the pure inside (batin) and “our own” (khodiha) associated with Iranian culture and tradition versus the impure outside (zaher) and “not our people” (gheyr-e khodiha) associated with the outside world. Khomeini and the shah represented the two opposite poles.43 As the shah was increasingly perceived as a conduit to the importation of corrupt Western culture, Khomeini came to personify the purity of Shiʿi-Iranian identity. In a conscious effort to boost Khomeini’s charisma and probably under the influence of ʿAli Shariʿati’s ideas of the modern concept of the imam, Khomeini’s followers bestowed on him the title of imam, with its mighty charismatic baggage, which hitherto had been preserved solely for the Twelve Shiʿi Imams. The charismatic and even messianic aura surrounding Khomeini reached new heights during the revolution. Khomeini was thought to be the Mahdi himself or at least his precursor. He was prudent enough to remain silent on the matter. Revolutionary posters published in the early months of 1979 with the slogan Shah raft Imam amad (The shah has gone, the imam has come) both reflected and in turn intensified these feelings, intentionally blurring the distinction between Khomeini and the Hidden Imam. In the early 1980s Khomeini “let currency be given to



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the idea that he was the forerunner of the Mahdi.” In this way he was able to harness millenarian yearning as a mobilizing force behind the revolution, without taking the risk of disappointing his followers once utopia failed to materialize.44 Khomeini’s charisma was also evident in his undisputed personal authority as supreme legislator even before the new Islamic constitution was legislated in 1979. His fatwas decided several intense legal-ideological and political legislative controversies that erupted between the Majlis and the Council of Guardians, whose duty was to veto any law contradicting the Shariʿa or the constitution. Significantly, Khomeini’s fatwas, based on the principle of maslahat (public or state interest), often overruled the council’s decisions, thereby placing him and his charismatic authority above sharʿi texts.45 In December 1987 Khomeini went further and declared that an Islamic state had the right to ignore Islamic ordinances when passing laws if that was required by the interest of maslahat. In a relevant decree that he issued on January 7, 1988, Khomeini declared that government rule was “derived from the absolute dominion of the Prophet of God” and that this was “the most important of God’s ordinances (ahkam-e elahi),” which stood above “all ordinances that were derived or directly commanded by Allah.” Thus, in the interest of the state or Islam, it was permissible for the state temporarily to ban all other Islamic ordinances, including prayer, fasting, and pilgrimage to Mecca, and to destroy mosques.46 Khomeini’s ruling was greeted with a chorus of approval over the “depth” of the leader’s thinking and wisdom. Then president ʿAli Khameniʾi declared that the “commandments of the ruling jurist (vali-ye faqih) are like the commandments of God.”47 The Council of Guardians declared that any law that contradicted Khomeini’s books Tahrir al-­ wasila and Touzih al-masaʾil would not be permissible.48 Unlike that of most other Shiʿi mujtahids, Khomeini’s charisma outlasted his death. He is still referred to as “imam” by all political trends and groupings within the Iranian religious establishment, with each claiming to be the one that remained truly faithful to his legacy. Equally important, the post-eighteenth-century Usuli tradition banned the emulation of deceased mujtahids and annulled the validity of their fatwas after their death in order to enable Shiʿi law to adapt itself to changing circumstances but also to protect the authority of each new generation of mujtahids. Following Khomeini’s death, however, the then radical opposition sought to restrict Khameneʾi’s authority by arguing that Khomeini’s statements and rulings constituted ahkam (divine ordinance) and

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would thus enjoy timeless authority that could not be contradicted by any mortal, including the vali-ye faqih.49

Khameneʾi and the Bureaucratization of Charisma The election of Sayyid ʿAli Khameneʾi as the new leader (rahbar) to succeed Khomeini marked not only the routinization of Khomeini’s charisma but also the victory of pure power politics over scholarship in the formation of Shiʿi leadership in Iran. By the time of his election Khameneʾi, who held the middle rank of hojjat al-Islam, had not distinguished himself in any field of scholarship and had not even published a risala ʿamaliyya, the essential prerequisite for the marjaʿiyya status. He was not elected for his scholarly achievements but thanks to his loyalty and proximity to Khomeini. With the assassination of the two intellectual disciples Murtaza Mutahhari and Muhammad Husayn Beheshti and the removal of the politically inept scholar Husayn ʿAli Muntazeri, Khomeini’s loyalists realized that they faced a political dilemma. The choice of successor lay between politically reliable and skillful ʿulamaʾ who were mediocre scholars or those who were true scholars albeit unskilled politicians, whose loyalty to the revolutionary elite was not secured.50 The election of Khameneʾi, who clearly belonged to the former group, marked the failure of Khomeini’s concept of velayat-i faqih (governance of the jurist), which envisaged the platonic ideal of the philosopher-king embodied in the office of rahbar of the revolution. Khomeini was aware of the problem. Before his death on July 3, 1989, he assigned a special committee to revise the constitutional requirements for leadership. The revised version (article 109) dropped the essential prerequisite for marjʿiyya: that the rahbar be “recognized and accepted as a leader by the majority of the people.” Instead the new version (articles 5, 109) stressed that preference should be given to those who were versed in “political and social issues” in addition to having expertise in religious jurisprudence. In other words scholarly qualifications were lowered, while political skills were elevated. Concurrently the amended version expanded the leader’s authority.51 The constitutional expansion of the leader’s authority reflected an inherent weakness. Whereas Khomeini exercised his authority based on his leadership skills and charisma, his successor needed to anchor them in written law, because he lacked the



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necessary prestige and stature. In other words charisma was both routinized and also formalized into the office of rahbar. Khameneʾi was nominated as leader based on the revised constitution, even though it was officially ratified only after the fact. Khameneʾi lacked the necessary qualifications for marjaʿiyya, so the ruling elite declared the 94-year-old ayatollah ʿAli Araki as the new supreme marjaʿ. This choice split the religious authority from the political one, in sharp contrast to Khomeini’s original ideas. The split between the spiritual (marjaʿiyya) and political leadership (rahbari) emerged again following the death of Grand Ayatollah Abu al-Qasim Khoʾi of Iraq in August 1991, whose stature outside Iran outshone even Khomeini’s. It became even more pronounced after the death of Muhammad Reza Golpayegani on December 9, 1993. The emergence of several candidates for the supreme marjaʿiyya as well as the lack of mechanisms for electing a new marjaʿ showed that the Iranian government could not fully overcome the Shiʿi tradition of the gradual informal consolidation of leadership status. Still, the Iranian ruling establishment now sought to secure the marjaʿiyya for Khameneʾi and reunite the two functions.52 Ayatollah Muhammad Yazdi, then head of the judiciary, who led the campaign, stated that Khameneʾi possessed all the necessary qualifications for marjaʿiyya—learning, piety, integrity, and above all “awareness of the contemporary age.” He should know “what state the world is in, what state the people are in, who are friends, who are foes . . . [he] should recognize the social, economic, cultural, and military conditions of the state.” Yazdi maintained that the last quality was the most important, particularly after Islam “has become sovereign.” It revolves around issues of war and peace, compared with simple knowledge of the law, which the ʿulamaʾ had needed in the past when they had dealt with issues of secondary importance such as ritual purity.53 Despite Khameneʾi’s efforts, the members of the Qom Association of Teachers, who were regarded as the most respected religious scholars in Iran, voted for Ayatollah Araki as the sole marjaʿ when they met to elect Golpayegani’s successor. In other words they gave precedence to the traditional religious criteria for leadership over the regime’s political considerations. Following Araki’s death on November 24, 1994, Khameneʾi’s supporters repeated their efforts to elevate him to the rank of supreme marjaʿ and began calling him grand ayatollah to endow him with the necessary religious prestige. The renewed effort met only partial success. When the members of the Qom Association met on December

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2, 1994, they issued a list of seven marajiʿ, with Khameneʾi among them, but avoided declaring any one of them superior to the others. Moreover, they insisted that the free election of marajiʿ had always been a positive principle in Shiʿi belief. The plurality of marajiʿ formerly had been accepted as an undesirable reality, but now it was presented as a positive development.54 Khameneʾi’s problematic status exposed him to unprecedented criticism by few senior mujtahids. Ayatollah Montazeri, who had resented his dismissal as Khomeini’s successor, charged that the prevalent system in Iran distorted the true meaning of the velayat concept. He further insisted that Khameneʾi lacked the scholarly stature necessary for the marjaʿiyya and implied that Khameneʾi was not even qualified for the more political position of rahbar because he was not the most knowledgeable in Islam. Ayatollah Azeri-Qomi, who had been a member of the Council of Experts, joined the criticism of Khameneʾi’s claim for marjaʿiyya. He branded Khameneʾi as an oppressive ruler, who unjustly and usurped and held the position of vali-ye faqih.55 As Khameneʾi failed to attain the necessary credentials to consolidate his status as a supreme marjaʿ he embarked upon a systematic effort to assert his control over the scholarly establishment in Qom using his vast financial resources and coercive powers as head of state.56 His actions brought to full fruition the process begun by Khomeini, in which religion did not dominate or guide politics, which had been the ideal and claim of the Islamist revival since the early 1970s, but the contrary: religion was subjugated by political maneuvering and interests.

Conclusion An examination of the marjaʿiyya in historical perspective shows a process of institutionalization in the sense of established patterns and conventions through time as far as the prerequisites, processes of consolidation of status, and authority are concerned. But all of these issues were never formalized, as was the case in Christian churches. In the absence of formal procedures mujtahids most often consolidated their leadership only after a prolonged process of scholarly activity and patronage building, which earned them recognition by followers and peers. Charisma, which has always played an important part of the Shiʿi belief system, could not be divorced from the leadership issue. The more the ʿulamaʾ emphasized knowledge and reason as the foundations of their



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socio-religious position, the more charisma emerged as an external challenge to their collective authority. It responded to deep-rooted yearnings for outstanding leadership figures among ordinary believers. Consequently the ʿulamaʾ sought to counter the charismatic challenge in several ways: closing ranks and excommunication in the case of the Shaykhi challenge and resort to governmental support and repression against the new threat in the Babi case. At the same time the ʿulamaʾ rallied behind leaders who acquired fame due to their otherworldly conduct, scholarship, and piety, as was the case with Ansari and Boroujerdi, in order to present an appealing model of orthodox religious leadership. Occasionally, however, various ʿulamaʾ cultivated or used the charismatic appeal to gain advantages over their rivals within the establishment, with Khomeini serving as the prime example. Moreover, as charisma often came out against the established traditions and written laws, Khomeini’s charismatic aura enabled him to issue rulings that bluntly overruled Shariʿa legislation. Politics have always been an integral part of Shiʿi leadership struggles. But it is necessary to distinguish between internal politics within the ʿulamaʾ establishment and the role of mujtahids in the broader political field, which advanced their status within the religious establishment. Governments played only a limited role in influencing leadership status. An appeal by the shah to a certain mujtahid to produce a ruling on a certain issue or an Ottoman decision to work with a certain mujtahid as a mediator usually served as a sign of an already established superior status but could also bolster the position of the mujtahid. At other times, however, being too close to the rulers could tarnish a scholar’s image of piety and purity and undermine his leadership aspirations. During the nineteenth century political activism of the ʿulamaʾ played a relatively minor role in the struggle for leadership. It became an increasingly important factor after the Constitutional Revolution and has assumed central importance since the 1960s, particularly during the years leading to the 1979 Revolution. The reasons for this process are obvious. The increasing challenges of secularization and the growing role of the interventionist modern state in religious affairs, which threatened the ʿulamaʾ’s religious and social position, drove them to take a more active role in politics. The spread of education and of modern ideologies among believers forced the ʿulamaʾ to adapt themselves and incorporate some of these ideas into their own writings, thereby influencing the emergence of new concepts or even patterns of leadership.

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Ironically, the ʿulamaʾ’s seizure of power in Iran after the 1979 Revolution brought about excessive politicization of their ranks to the detriment of scholarship, piety, and justice. The revolution produced the first attempt ever to formalize the election of a supreme marjaʿ through elections by the eighty-six members of the Council of Guardians and simultaneously deprive the ordinary believers of any say in the matter. Both attempts were only partially successful. The preference for politics over purer religious principles in selecting the rahbar led to the actual split between political and spiritual authority. Nor did it prevent ordinary Shiʿis, particularly outside Iran, from following their own spiritual leaders, based on the traditional criteria of learning and piety. In addition, charismatic authority was harnessed by constitutional measures into a political office. Moreover, the increasing role of politics exacerbated rather than diminished the divisions within the clerical establishment. To the old disputes over the interpretation of the law and personal rivalries over influence and funds were added struggles for power as well as disagreements over policy and ideology. The past ideal of having one supreme marjaʿ was replaced by the public statement that multiplicity of marajiʿ is the right and natural thing. While Khameneʾi was able to amass great personal power and subordinate other scholars under his control, he failed in the long run to marginalize or eliminate the more traditional marjaʿiyya, as manifested in the continued prestige and influence of scholars such as ʿAli Sistani in Iraq. Moreover, in addition to its failure to solve Iran’s pressing socioeconomic problems and the spread of corruption within the ranks of the ʿulamaʾ and of the Iranian government in general, the excessive politicization of the Shiʿi clerical establishment ultimately eroded the legitimacy of the Islamic government and of the ʿulamaʾ. The ʿulamaʾ could no longer rely on education and persuasion to survive but had to resort to coercion and oppression to retain their leadership and power, thereby becoming increasingly dependent on the state organs employing coercion measures. These developments, which are manifested in the creeping militarization of the Iranian political system, in the long run threaten the foundations not only of the traditional leadership institutions but of the entire ʿ­ ulamaʾ stratum in Iran.

12

In Search of Religious Authority The International Union of Muslim Scholars Muhammad al-Atawneh

Religious authority in Islam has drawn the attention of scholars from various disciplines in modern Islamic studies. These scholars raised different questions related to authority and authoritativeness under the nation-state and have provided considerable insight into the issue. For example, in a recent study John Esposito and Dalia Mugahid examined Islamic religious authority in the wake of 9/11 events, while focusing on the question “Who speaks for Islam?” in modern times. These authors conclude that Islam has no single locus of religious authority today, while multiple groups in a variety of states are simultaneously claiming to speak on Islam’s behalf.1 This study adds to current scholarship on religious authority in the contemporary Islamic world yet from another angle. It describes an ongoing attempt to centralize religious authority made since 2004 by the International Union of Muslim Scholars (IUMS). A quick glimpse at the aims and objectives stated by the IUMS indicates that they center on the creation of a supreme religious authority (marjiʿiyya) that should take precedence over all regional jurisprudential councils. Shaykh Yusuf al-Qaradawi, the founding chairman, noted in his opening remarks, for example, that one of the lofty aims of IUMS is “to create a global Islamic authority . . . to constitute a platform for Muslim unity and to present a unified Muslim attitude towards their own problems and the international events.”2 The purpose of this essay is to explore the IUMS search for recognized religious authority, with emphasis on the mechanisms and methodologies to promote this goal. Contrary to its name, the IUMS attempts

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to establish religious authority are not actually meant to unify the Muslim schools of thought but rather to create an environment of legal pluralism and religious tolerance among them. Therefore the IUMS sought to unite as many Muslim scholars as possible under the same umbrella organization, in order to promote trust and gain respect from Muslim communities around the world. This essay examines the methods and means used by the IUMS to establish an internationally recognized religious authority. Let us begin, however, with a snapshot of the Muslim debate over religious authority in Islam.

Religious Authority in Islam: An Overview The notion of authority is one of the most controversial concepts found in legal and political philosophy. This literature suggests various definitions by scholars from different disciplines.3 For our purposes, I found Richard Friedman’s distinction between “being in authority” versus “being an authority” very useful. According to Friedman, “being in authority” refers to a person who holds a structural position that empowers him or her to issue commands or directives. There is no “surrender of private judgment” in this case, because individuals may disagree with the person in authority and yet feel that they have no choice but to comply. That is, the private conscience is rendered irrelevant because of the recognition that those in authority ought to be obeyed. Obeying “an authority” involves different dynamics. Here a person surrenders private judgment in deference to the perceived special knowledge, wisdom, or insight of an authority. In Friedman’s words: “it is this special knowledge that constitutes the vindication of the layman’s deferential acceptance of the authority’s utterances even though he does not or even cannot comprehend the grounds on which those utterances rest.”4 It should be noted that these two concepts of authority may exist simultaneously in Islam, yet the discussion here is primarily based on the notion of “an authority,” as a theoretical framework. Religious authority in Islam is related to the problem of God’s visà-vis human sovereignty, an age-old issue that emerged during the very early stages of Islam and is still being debated today.5 Khaled Abou ElFadl notes that disputes in this regard go back as early as the reign of ʿAli b. Abi Talib, the fourth Rightly Guided Caliph (656–61). A group in his camp, called Khawarij, opposed the dissolution of a political dispute with a competing political faction (led by Muʿawiya, the founder of the



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Umayyad Dynasty, 661–750) by arbitration.6 According to the Khawarij, this act of arbitration represented the acceptance of human dominion rather than God’s alone, following the Islamic saying: la hukm illa li-Allah (judgment is God’s alone), meaning that all political decisions must be based solely on the words of God. ʿAli responded by calling upon the people to gather around him and brought a copy of the Qurʾan, instructing it to speak to the people and inform them regarding God’s law. The people were shocked and exclaimed: “What are you doing? The Qurʾan cannot speak, for it is not a human being!” ʿAli then explained that this was exactly his point—that the Qurʾan is merely paper and ink and does not speak for itself. Instead it is human beings who enact it, according to their limited judgments and opinions.7 In principle jurists from all generations stress that sovereignty ultimately rests with God, the supreme law-maker, who has defined good and evil, the legal and the illicit (al-halal wa-l-haram). For example, Abu Hamid al-Ghazali (d. 1111) stressed that the ultimate sovereignty of God is even more important than God’s unity.8 For Abu l-Aʿla Mawdudi (d. 1979), subsequently supported by Sayyid Qutb (d. 1966), God is the sole sovereign over all creatures.9 Qutb insists that “no sovereignty except God’s, no law except from God, and no authority of one man over another.” That is, members of the Muslim community (umma) are God’s subjects; the community’s laws are divine; all its property belongs to God; its army is His army and its enemies are also His.10 This omnipotent sovereignty is manifested through divine legislation, which seeks to regulate all human actions.11 Thus worship (ʿibada) must include all human actions, both explicit and implicit; people must completely submit to God’s will as it manifests itself particularly in the Quʾran and the Sunna. The Qurʾan is much more than just the highest source of the Islamic corpus juris; it is a constant source of inspiration. It constitutes an eternal constitution, appropriate for any time and place. As such it contains all the basic principles of Islamic law and provides the platform for developing political, legal, and moral norms. Therefore any ruler or government that does not implement the strictures revealed in the Qurʾan and the Sunna does not merit obedience.12 God does not seek to regulate all mundane human affairs, however, because human beings are taken to be vice-regents of God, with abilities approaching the divine (the miracle of the human intellect). Humanity has been given considerable latitude in regulating its own affairs, as long as it observes certain standards of moral conduct, including the

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preservation and promotion of human dignity and well-being. This is primarily based on Qurʾanic verses: “[Prophet], when your Lord told the angels, ‘I am putting a sucessor on earth,’ they said. ‘How can You put someone there who will cause damage and bloodshed, when we celebrate Your praise and proclaim Your holiness?’ But He said: ‘I know things you do not’” (Q 2:30). Based on this and other related sources, jurists and commentators authorized a measure of human authority, arguing that God’s sovereignty from the beginning of Creation has taken the form of human agency. This raises the questions: Who exactly should fulfill this human agency? To whom may authority be granted? And what form of domination shall human agency take? Most jurists from various generations and schools of thought associate human agency with authority-holders (wulat al-umur or ahl al-hall wa-l-ʿaqd)—religious scholars and rulers. It must be noted that human agency still evokes disputes among modern Muslim scholars and jurists. For example, Hasan al-Turabi, a leading Sudanese activist and thinker, differentiates between God’s (hakimiyya) (sovereignty) and humanity’s vice-regency (istikhlaf). According to him, the proper political and social structures can be established on the basis of mutual contracts. The Qurʾan speaks to the individual consciousness, so individuality should be maintained against any power of the state.13 In any event Taqi al-Din ibn Taymiyya (d. 1328) divided the ruling hegemony of the state between the ʿulamaʾ, who were the authorities in matters of jurisprudence, and the umara (political rulers), who presumably consulted the ʿulamaʾ. Accordingly, the Shariʿa needs the ruler’s commitment and enforcement, while the state requires the Shariʿa for its legitimacy. Ibn Taymiyya based this interpretation on the premise that the purpose of government in Islam is to preserve the Shariʿa and to enforce its dictates. A temporal ruler is necessary to maintain and enforce the Shariʿa, and obedience to this ruler is a religious obligation. However, the ruler must consult the religious scholars, who are designated as those most authorized to clarify the instructions of the Shariʿa.14 Applying Friedman’s notion of authority in the Islamic context, it is possible to claim that temporal rulers are principally authorized as being “in authority,” while religious scholars are expected to function as “an authority.” It must be noted, however, that distinguishing between in authority and an authority in the Islamic context can be misleading, because these two notions of authority are not necessarily dichotomous. That is, a religious scholar may be politically empowered, as in the Shiʿi



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case of wilayat al-faqih religious-political theory, by which the supreme religious leader assumes both in and an authority. Moreover, official religious authorities in the modern nation-state are acting as integral parts of their governments, often making these notions of authority inseparable.

The International Union of Muslim Scholars The practice of ifta (the issuing of religious-legal opinions) in the modern Muslim world is characterized by the emergence of the haya (fatwa organization), where more than one mufti may submit and sign the same fatwa.15 Modern religious scholars often stress the importance of collective ifta in facing challenges of modernity. ʿAli al-Salus, a Shariʿa professor at Qatar University, for example, argues that in complex modern societies individual ifta no longer makes sense. According to him, the mufti is still entitled to give his opinion, but ijtihad on important questions must be collective.16 Similarly Shaykh Yusuf al-Qaradawi argues that ijtihad in important legal problems, especially those related to public affairs, should be conducted in a collective manner. According to him, the opinion of a group of scholars is much better than that of an individual, because a group of scholars may consult each other, addressing neglected aspects of the problem under discussion. Therefore collective decisions are considered to be much more solid, regardless of the intellectual prowess of an individual scholar. Al-Qaradawi goes further, contending that collective ijtihad today must be conducted by an international Islamic scientific council of ʿulamaʾ (majmaʿ Islami ʿilmi wa-ʿalami) that cuts across sociocultural and political differences. Such a council must be independent—free from any governmental or political pressure. Most importantly, its decisions should be adopted as binding consensus (ijmaʿ), thus obligating Muslims all over the world. According to al-Qaradawi, only by this means will Muslims succeed in coping with the problems faced by modern Islamic societies.17 Indeed official bodies of collective ifta have existed since the start of the twentieth century, such as the Board of Senior ʿUlamaʾ (hayat kibar al-ʿulamaʾ) founded in 1911 at al-Azhar. This board consisted of thirty leading ʿulamaʾ from whom the shaykh al-Azhar was selected.18 Other fatwa boards were established during the twentieth century, both in the Islamic world and in the West, such as Nahdatul ʿUlamaʾ in Indonesia (1926); the Council of Islamic Ideology in Pakistan (1962); the World Muslim League in Mecca (1962); Islamic Society of North America

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(1963); the Board of Senior ʿUlamaʾ in Saudi Arabia (1971); the Islamic Fiqh Academy (1981); the European Council for Fatwa and Research (1997); and others.19 The International Union of Muslim Scholars (IUMS) was established in July 2004 in Dublin, Ireland, by a group of scholars under the leadership of Shaykh al-Qaradawi. In October 2010 the IUMS headquarters was moved to Doha, Qatar, and two additional branches were established in Egypt and Tunisia. The structure and composition of the IUMS has been transformed since its creation. Today the IUMS is considered the largest-ever Islamic religious body, with about 60,000 members representing thousands of religious councils and organizations from all over the Arab and Islamic worlds: Sunnis, Shiʿis, Sufis, and Ibadis. This is evident in the makeup of the IUMS leadership: Shaykh Yusuf al-Qaradawi (chairman, Sunni); Shaykh Ahmad b. Hamad al-Khalili (grand mufti of Oman, Ibadi); Shaykh ʿAbdallah b. Biyyah (vice president, Sufi); Ayatollah Waʿiz Zade Muhammad (vice president, Shiʿi).20 The goals and objectives of the IUMS are varied, but one major goal is “preserving the Islamic identity of the Muslim umma so that it retains its moderate stance and lofty goals of enjoining what is good and forbidding what is evil.”21 Other goals described by the IUMS Charter are as follows: 1. To raise the awareness of Muslims about their religion and enlighten them in regard to the pure message of Islam. 2. To alert Muslims to the perils threatening their ideological and cultural identity. 3. To strengthen the Islamic spirit of individuals and groups in a way that paves the way for the umma to play its original role and carry out its mission of disseminating the message of monotheism on earth and to spread welfare on earth. 4. To guide Muslims and find optimal solutions to their present and ever-emerging intellectual and everyday problems through the rulings of Shariʿa; to encourage authentic, contemporary ijtihad by authorized organizations and trustworthy scholars. 5. To unify the ranks of Muslim scholars when dealing with the umma’s major and crucial issues. 6. To align the positions of eminent scholars on issues of concern to Muslims worldwide.22 A quick glimpse at these goals indicates that the major purpose of the IUMS is to promote unity among diverse Muslim groups—a central



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strategy in the search for religious authority. This is accomplished by building the trust of all these communities in the IUMS, which provides an independent, unified Muslim front, thus paving the way for global religious authority.

Strategies for Establishing Religious Authority: An Independent Umbrella Organization The IUMS presents itself as an independent international body that cuts across sociopolitical and cultural differences. According to Shaykh al-­ Qaradawi, the IUMS “is neither local, nor regional, not Arab, Eastern, or Western, but represents Muslims all over the world.”23 Moreover, article 1 of the IUMS regulations states: “The International Union for Muslim Scholars is an international, Islamic, and public institution that consists of members of the Muslim world and Muslim minorities in many countries around the world. It is an independent entity that enjoys a fully distinct legal and financial standing.”24 In his opening remarks at the founding conference, al-Qaradawi stated: It is well known that Muslims do not have a religious or priestly leadership like the Jews, Christian, and others . . . Muslims seem to be orphans since the collapse of the Islamic Caliphate in 1924, which left a tremendous vacuum in their life. Jews have their rabbis to whom they refer, Christians have their spiritual fathers, bishops, and priests, and the Catholics have their famous pope in the Vatican, Protestants have their World Council of Churches . . . The same is true for Buddhists, Hindus, and Sikhs, all have their religious leadership. Yet the Muslims are the only ones who do not have religious leadership to which they may refer.25 Therefore membership in the IUMS is open to scholars from all over the Arab and Islamic worlds. Article 4 of the Basic Regulations reads: “Membership is open to scholars who graduated from Shariʿa universities and Islamic studies departments at various universities all over the Muslim world. It is also open to those who are highly interested in Shariʿa sciences and Islamic culture.” In this sense the IUMS differentiates itself from other existing religious institutions. According to the IUMS, the current national religious

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institutions are suffering from mistrust by their communities because they were “founded and funded by governments that also appoint their members. This gives such governments the chance to influence them to a greater or lesser extent, or, to say the least, people perceive them in this way.” Therefore the IUMS often presents itself both as independent and as an international religious body that aims at serving the global Muslim community: The IUMS chose to act by means of direct communication with the Muslim community worldwide via the mass media. To this end, the following actions are being taken: 1. To correct misconceptions about Islam and reaffirm pure Islamic tenets. 2. To provide advice to Muslim leaders, political decision-makers, influential figures, and those who fashion public opinion, guiding them toward mainstream Islam. 3. To promote cooperation with various organizations and institutions all over the Islamic world. 4. Constantly to raise awareness of the crucial issues and events that are relevant to Islam and the Muslims . . . The IUMS shall determine its own stand toward these issues and events . . . after studying them well. 5. To encourage inter-Islamic dialogue in search of unity. 6. To open channels of communication and cooperation with international organizations and NGOs working in different fields, so as to raise awareness regarding global issues related to Islam and the Muslims, such as human rights violations. 7. To hold academic and public conferences and seminars to discuss issues related to Islam and the Muslims. In practice the IUMS shows full interaction with regional and global affairs in the Arab and Muslim worlds. This is clearly indicated by ongoing statements published on the IUMS website on topics such as the religious reality of Muslim minorities in the West, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, Somalia, Sudan, Iraq, and recently the Arab revolutions.26 For instance, the following statement was published in regard to the face veil (niqab) and Islamic and Jewish method of slaughter (halal and kosher) in the Netherlands:



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The International Union of Muslim Scholars closely followed the first vote of the Dutch Parliament on prohibiting the slaughter methods prescribed by religious regulation (Islamic, Jewish) through a draft law presented by Party for Animals and welcomed by secular parties and the extreme right wing anti-Islamists. If this resolution is adopted by the Supreme Council, the regulation regarding the Islamic and Jewish methods of slaughter (halal and kosher) will become illegal and around a million and a quarter Muslims in the Netherlands will be affected, as will be the Jews [see the entire statement in appendix A of this essay].27 Another example is the IUMS comment in regard to the Syrian uprising: In more than one statement, the IUMS has rejected and condemned the brutal manner in which the security apparatus of the Syrian regime handles these peaceful protesters. Furthermore, the IUMS has expressed its lack of conviction and its refusal to accept the weak and shallow justifications and allegations promoted by the Syrian authorities and the so-called presence of terrorist elements targeting citizens [see the entire statement in appendix B in this essay].28 This last statement was rejected by the official Syrian religious institutions and scholars, including Shaykh Saʿid Ramadan al-Buti and the grand mufti, Shaykh Ahmad Hassuna, who issued a counterstatement: The statement by the International Union of Muslim ʿUlamaʾ acknowledges that President Bashar al-Asad decided to lift the state of emergency, put into effect within a week, and gave orders concerning the issuance of a new Party law, but they paid no heed to all of that, because they are tied to a foreign scheme that seeks to destabilize Syria.29 The Syrian official religious leadership not only refused to comply with the IUMS statement but accused it of presenting a foreign, non-Islamic agenda, targeting the Syrian nation.

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“The Middle Path” (Wasatiyya) as Mechanism of Unity The major challenge faced by the IUMS was not only bringing together scholars with various religio-legal and theological backgrounds under the same umbrella organization but also bridging the gaps among these diverse views. To achieve this goal the IUMS adopted a strategy of creating an environment of legal pluralism, while furnishing a new mechanism of cooperation based on the “golden” principle of wasatiyya—the “middle path” or “moderate” or “centrist way.”30 As for legal pluralism, the following methodological key principle was proclaimed: “We shall cooperate regarding issues upon which we agree while debating issues upon which we disagree.”31 According to IUMS secretary general Shaykh ʿAli al-Qurrah Daghi, in the IUMS “no one can impose his opinion on the rest . . . We aim at bridging the gap between the sons of the same nation.”32 Shaykh ʿAli al-Taskhiri (Shiʿi), the former deputy of the IUMS, noted that the agreed-upon areas among Muslim schools of thought far outweigh the areas of disagreement and may reach 90 percent in some fields, such as ethics and morals. According to him, these areas should be explored for the sake of rapprochement.33 With regard to disagreements, the IUMS suggested reconsidering the historical doctrine of fiqh al-ikhtilaf (differences of opinion and diversity of views, especially among the experts of Islamic law). Note that fiqh al-ikhtilaf is widely recognized in Islamic tradition and used as an apparatus for coexistence among the various schools. Thus the major objective of fiqh al-ikhtilaf is to promote legal pluralism and tolerance among the various schools of thought. Yet the IUMS suggests going beyond the doctrine of fiqh al-ikhtilaf to fiqh al-iʿtilaf (cooperative methods), trying to reconceptualize wasatiyya as a mechanism of cooperation. Thus far this has been demonstrated in two issues of the IUMS electronic quarterly magazine, Al-Umma al-Wasat (Intermediate Nation), whose title was derived from the concept of wasatiyya.34 The term wasatiyya often refers to the maintenance of balance between old and new as well as among the different Islamic legal schools and doctrines (including the Shiʿa), based on the concept of ummatan wasata (just community) mentioned in the Qurʾan: “We have made you [believers] into a just community, so that you may bear witness [to the truth] before others and so that the Messenger may bear witness [to it] before you” (Q 2:143). The term wasatiyya was used by al-Qaradawi as



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early as the 1970s and gained much support after 9/11.35 For al-Qaradawi, in a time when the Islamic arena is filled with varying perspectives, some to the far left and some to the far right, it is necessary to create a “median way” to understand Islam. Briefly, this path should mediate between the following extremes: 1. Advocates of narrow sectarianism/excessive nondenominationalism. 2. Followers of puritanical Sufism/opponents of mysticism. 3. Rationalists who rely totally on reason/traditionalists who severely restrict the usage of reason, even in understanding the sacred texts. 4. Those who negate inspiration as a source for legislation/those who rely on inspiration as a source of legislation. 5. Conservatives with regard to Shariʿa fundamentals/practitioners of positive law (furuʿ). 6. Traditionalists/modernists. 7. Idealists/realists. 8. Liberals/Marxists. 9. Fundamentalists/reformers. 10. Advocates of ijtihad/advocates of taqlid. 11. Those who accept broad interpretations of the Shariʿa based on the concept of intent (maqasid al-shariʿa)/those who accept only strict literal-textual interpretations of the sacred sources. 12. Advocates of openness to the world/isolationists. 13. Extremists who declare others to be apostates/tolerant, pluralistic l­ iberals. 14. Those who prohibit almost everything/those who permit almost everything. 15. Those who live entirely in the past/those who shun the past.36 These principles indicate the IUMS attempt to promote wasatiyya as a worldview, shunning both conservative and liberal approaches with regard to a wide array of Islamic topics, while suggesting a middle path. According to al-Qaradawi, this is principally based on a balanced understanding of obligation and action in light of Islamic fundamentals (usul) and substantive law (furuʿ). If there must be any firmness, it should be in the fundamentals, not in the furuʿ. That is, wasatiyya can be applied in the area of furuʿ rather than usul. By this means the IUMS has tried to create a common ground around which various schools of thought could converge.

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Conclusion In this essay I have attempted to provide a snapshot of an Islamic search for religious authority in modern times by discussing the IUMS and emphasizing its methods to achieve this goal. For the IUMS the crisis in religious authority in the modern Islamic world stems from two major problems: the desperation of Muslim scholars and religious institutions and the dependence of religious institutions on their national governments. These have led to mistrust between Muslim scholars and religious institutions and their communities, thus undermining religious authority. Acknowledging this reality, the IUMS has taken care to differentiate itself from existing institutions, stressing global unity and independence as its main characteristics. Thus the major strategy for establishing religious authority is based on creating an independent international umbrella organization for Muslim scholars everywhere. The IUMS realizes that a global religious authority needs to absorb the many doctrines, trends, and affiliations of Muslims by creating an environment of legal pluralism and by promoting religious tolerance among the various schools of thought. The concept of wasatiyya has been found to be the most appropriate to achieve this goal. Indeed the suggested redefinition of wasatiyya indicates the lenient approach toward absorbing almost all the Muslim schools of thought. Such a broad definition of wasatiyya promotes feelings of commonality among the various IUMS members. Finally, the IUMS demonstrates creativity in terms of gathering an unprecedented number of Muslim scholars under the same umbrella organization. In this sense the IUMS is distinct from existing religious institutions. Moreover, the IUMS is an unofficial organization, addressing the global Muslim community in a direct manner, which may contribute to a new dynamic in the realm of religious authority in Islam. Yet the IUMS’s attempt at winning the hearts of the masses in order to establish its religious authority is still premature. Meanwhile the IUMS seems to be facing obstacles in its search for authority (for example, the critique on its intervention in national affairs of countries such as Syria). The IUMS has taken its first step in a journey of a thousand steps in search of religious authority.



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Appendix A: The IUMS Statement on Niqab (the Face Veil) and the Islamic and Jewish Method of Slaughter (Halal and Kosher) in Europe (July 16, 2011) The international Union of Muslim Scholars closely followed the first vote of the Dutch Parliament on prohibiting the slaughter methods ­prescribed by religious regulation (Islamic, Jewish) through a draft law presented by the Party for Animals and welcomed by secular parties and the extreme right wing anti-Islamists. If this resolution is adopted by the Supreme Council, the regulation regarding the Islamic and Jewish methods of slaughter (halal and kosher) will become illegal and around a million and a quarter Muslims in the Netherlands will be affected, as will be the Jews. Therefore, the International Union for Muslim Scholars made the following statement: 1. The Union praises the Dutch Parliament, people, and government for caring about the rights of religious minorities (Muslim, Jews, and others) in protecting their identities and concern for religious tolerance, which have been advocated by democratic societies where animal rights may not be protected at the expense of human rights and religious freedom. 2. The Union confirms that the strict laws against religious minorities in the West—such as banning the niqab and prohibiting the minarets—will lead to extremist ideas among the religious minorities, evoke hatred, resentment, and tension, and confirm the arguments of extremists in the West against Islam. Therefore the Union calls upon all non-Muslim countries to work hard at building societies based on real religious tolerance, to disseminate friendship and love among all, and to remove all causes of hatred. 3. We, the International Union for Muslim Scholars, stand with legitimate animal rights on the grounds that our religion calls the mercy for all creatures including animals and the environment, as the Holy Qurʾan says: “It was only as a mercy that We sent you [Prophet] to all people” [Q 21:107], and that our religion orders us to treat animals kindly, especially at the time of slaughter. The Prophet said, “Allah made mercy a duty on everything and if you kill do it kindly and when you slaughter do it kindly and let one of you sharpen his

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knife and make the animal easy at the slaughter” (narrated by Imam Muslim and others).37 Hence we are confident that the slaughter according to religious law does not contradict legitimate rights of the animal, because the slaughter is more merciful and less painful than other means. We therefore call on Western governments to initiate a scientific symposium inviting specialists on the animal world, religious scholars from minorities, and the European Council for Fatwa and Research to discuss the means of scientific slaughter. We, the Union, are ready to contribute to that.

Appendix B: The IUMS Statement concerning the Events in Syria (June 6, 2011) Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds, and may there be good consequences for those who fear Allah. Let there be no aggression except against the oppressors, and prayers and peace be upon the Messenger of mercy, Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) and upon his family and companions. Today, after more than two and a half months of peaceful protests demanding freedom, democracy, and human dignity, the killing machine of the Syrian regime continues to claim dozens of lives every day in all the cities and rural areas of Syria. These numbers multiply every Friday. The number of martyrs has reached more than 1,200, and thousands of people have been wounded or imprisoned since the beginning of the demonstrations on March 15 in the struggling town of Deraa. In more than one statement, the IUMS has rejected and condemned the brutal manner in which the security apparatus of the Syrian regime handles these peaceful protests. Furthermore, the IUMS has expressed its lack of conviction and its refusal to accept the weak and shallow justifications and allegations promoted by the Syrian authorities and the socalled presence of terrorist elements targeting citizens. Since the beginning of these events, the IUMS has called on the authorities to take these matters and demands seriously and to respond to the aspirations of the Syrian people for freedom, democracy, political



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pluralism, and alternation of power and immediately to stop confronting the peaceful demonstrators by opening fire on them and besieging towns with tanks and heavy weaponry. However, the Syrian authorities have ignored all these requests and have launched strong attacks against the IUMS and its leadership—­ especially its president, Shaykh Yusuf al-Qaradawi. The Syrian authorities persist in their outrageous stance, continuing the murderous assaults against the brave and noble Syrian people, who are now courageously demanding a “regime change” in lieu of their initial demands for “reform” and “freedom.” Due to these atrocities, the people of Syria have lost all interest in the seemingly insincere offers of dialogue and promises of reform made by the authoritarian powers, while the regime refuses to state any intention to make such reforms. The last of the regime’s attempts was the general amnesty announced by President Bashar al-Asad for all the political “crimes” committed before May 31, 2011, and the formation of a commission to coordinate a comprehensive national dialogue starting this week. As evidence that the Syrian people have made up their minds and no longer trust any action taken by the authorities, the demonstrations have continued and are stronger than ever before. The most recent were the demonstrations last Friday in the city of Hama, where the regime martyred more than 37 people, as well as those on Saturday and Sunday in Jesre al-Shighour and Wadi al-Zur, where another 30 or so were martyred. The marches last Friday were the strongest and the most numerous since the beginning of the uprising, and this confirms that the Syrian people—after the number of martyrs reached 1,200 over two months— have decided that any action taken by this regime is hopeless. All classes and strata of Syrian people, men, women, and children, have been murdered. It is important to note that according to UNESCO more than thirty children have been killed. Hamza al-Khatib is the most famous of these unfortunate children. He was arrested and tortured to death by Syrian security forces, who mutilated his body after he was murdered. The world has been informed of what happened to Hamza al-Khatib via alternative media on the web and televised news reports— providing further evidence of the brutality of the Syrian regime and the weakness of its will to reform and change. The Union expresses its grave concern at the continuation of the tragic situation in Syria, and therefore the Union has announced the following:

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1. The Syrian authorities must stop the killing machine and lift the siege on the cities and villages. The Syrian authorities should remove the army and tanks from the center of cities and allow the Syrian people to express their aspirations for freedom, democracy, justice, and dignity. The authorities must cease using the fabricated story about so-called infiltrators and extremists, because this is no longer convincing, even to those who are loyal to the regime. The Syrian authorities should move boldly and courageously toward introducing real, genuine, and concrete reforms that would be felt by Syrian citizens in the hope of regaining the people’s confidence. 2. The Union is surprised at the complete silence of the Arab League and the Organization of the Islamic Conference toward what has been happening in Syria for the last two and a half months. Therefore we call upon these two organizations to declare a clear position, similar to the positions already voiced toward the revolution in Libya. They should not be silent about injustice and should never tolerate it. 3. The Union warns the Syrian regime and holds it responsible for the innocent blood that has been or may be shed in the future. The Union also holds the regime responsible for allowing the international p­ owers—the West in particular—to intervene in Syrian affairs through international organizations, including the UN Security Council. The Union states that if the Syrian regime expects Russia and China to prevent the issuance of any resolution against its atrocities, it should take into consideration the positions that Russia and China are currently voicing in regard to the oppressive regime of Muammar Qaddafi. Today both countries, as permanent members of the Security Council, show full support for the Libyan people and their transition. Now Russia and China are working together to find a way out for Colonel Qaddafi before it is too late, because these countries only care for their own interests. 4. We call on Turkey, as a neighbor that has a good relationship with the present regime in Syria, to exert more pressure on this regime to stop the mass murder that is taking place. We call upon Prime Minister Erdoğan personally to redouble his efforts to prevent Syria from becoming a new Libya (with respect to international intervention, which we completely reject, as we look forward to Arab and Islamic intervention to save Syria and its people from anything that would make it an arena for international forces that are hostile to our nation, because in such a case the picture would be much more complicated).



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We also support the emerging initiatives that seek to unite the opposition within Syria and abroad to support the protesters and the legitimate demands of the people until they are realized. Finally, we call upon the Arab and Islamic nation—especially the ʿ­ ulamaʾ, scholars, and writers—to stand by the Syrian people, materially and morally, and to pray for them.

13

Maggid or Prediger? Knowledge and Religious Leadership in Nineteenth-Century Eastern European Jewry Haim Gertner

The history of traditional Jewish culture in premodern times is to a large extent identical with the history of its learned leaders—rabbis, halakhic authorities, heads of yeshivas, scholars, and authors of religious literature. The function of rabbis in a Jewish community was never ritual in ­character and was therefore unlike the role of Catholic priests. Nevertheless, the status of the rabbi transcended his “official” and traditional formal duties, as it also enabled him to express religious and social values. The rabbi and the institution of the rabbinate were seen as representatives of the traditional “holy community” par excellence. For that very reason the lack of a comprehensive discussion of the history of the rabbinate in the modern period is conspicuous. Modern scholars have regarded other topics as important and as defining the changes undergone in the modern era: the Enlightenment, modernity, secularization, nationalism, and so forth. The prevailing assumption in modern scholarship until several decades ago was that the modern processes of change had skipped over the institution of the rabbinate, which had progressively degenerated even further after its initial decline at the end of the eighteenth century.1 Consequently discussion of the history of the rabbinate has been limited. First, the institution of the rabbinate was only examined when it was in confrontation with institutions or groups that criticized it.2 The processes of inner accommodation, which did not necessarily result from an external institutional threat but rather from the very encounter with modernity, have been examined much less often. Therefore the rabbinate was usually described

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as responding sluggishly to external threats instead of acting dynamically and taking the initiative. The present study shows that we have to revise those assumptions. In the larger communities in Eastern Europe we find a common pattern of what we may define as a “reactive rabbinate.” The rabbinate’s response could be one of rejection or adaptation. The rejecters took steps to raise protective walls against the “other,” demanding greater obedience to the Halakha and its masters, as is apparent from the growth of orthodoxy in central Europe, especially in Hungary and Germany. The most adaptive response was in the fields of creativity, writing, and study. A large group of religious functionaries responded promptly to the new areas of study and research: they began to collect rabbinic manuscripts and published them, produced annotated and corrected editions of texts, and took an active part in historical-chronographic research (chronographic research focuses on ranging historical events in the order of occurrence). It was the Eastern European version of the Wissenschaft des Judentums (Science of Judaism, a nineteenth-century movement that engaged in a critical investigation of Jewish literature and culture).3 They expanded orthodox publishing, operated printing houses, and published an enormous amount of rabbinical literature, both old and new. These religious functionaries were fully aware of the changes brought on by new periodicals and made both direct and indirect use of them. Finally, they adapted the structure of the curriculum and training in the traditional communal beit midrash to meet the new challenges, and some also developed new frameworks for training scholars and halakhic authorities.4 The process of adaptation went hand in hand with the growth of a new elite, such as the head of a rabbinic court (rabad) faithful to tradition or a charismatic supracommunal rabbinical judge (dayan). The dayan, who assumed the role of traditional rabbi and in many instances served as an anchor for preserving old traditions, became more prominent. It must be pointed out that all these areas of interest did not develop ex nihilo. The rabbinical elite had also dealt with them in the past. The process of innovation was clearly reflected in the social composition of the group of “responders,” however, and in the scope of the response. The circle of “rabbinical respondents” included many prominent rabbis and dayanim in large and middle-sized communities as well as very large support and identification groups within the community elite. The response derived from a conservative point of view. Hence chronographic research was intended to strengthen the validity of tradition and to provide people

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who were loyal to tradition with the tools for experiencing strong feelings of identification and continuity with a long line of rabbis.5 Nevertheless, it is difficult to ignore the fact that the rabbinical elite responded within the same discourse to the scholarly activity of the enlightened elite, the maskilim. In the process the status of several long-standing traditional professions changed. The orthodox publisher and rabbinical scholar, for example, were no longer marginalized. They gained considerable prestige and drew closer to the center of rabbinical activity. Changes in the nature of preaching, as viewed by religious rabbinical scholars in Eastern Europe, clearly illustrate this claim. I focus on preaching because it was (and still is) one of the main tools for the dissemination of religious knowledge. Jewish preaching was “modernized” quite early. The history of the modern German-Jewish preacher was recognized as a significant chapter in the history of the reform movement in Germany and in central Europe.6 Alongside the growth of progressive congregations and the significant changes in the traditional prayer book at the beginning of the nineteenth century, a new kind of preacher emerged in many German communities. The prediger or sermonizer-moralizer preached in German and was involved in the local Jewish education system. By the late 1830s the delivery of such newly minted sermons had become a common practice. It is often assumed that the maggid, the traditional preacher in the communities of Eastern Europe, preserved the old type of traditional sermon, a scholastic, talmudic type of preaching delivered in Yiddish and printed in Hebrew. I have observed, however, that the variety of types of preachers in Eastern Europe during the first half of the nineteenth century affected the role of the maggid there, both directly and indirectly. These findings help in drawing a more varied and heterogeneous picture of the “new preaching.” Already in the middle of the eighteenth century, the first Jewish German maskilim introduced the maskilic scholar as an alternative moral guide to the traditional preacher. Yet the new type of preacher finally emerged only after several decades. The new German style of preaching has been described by a number of leading scholars, including Alexander Altman. These German-Jewish sermons, which Altman calls “edificatory sermons,” followed the Protestant rhetoric doctrine, which developed in the second half of the eighteenth century in Germany: The nineteenth century witnessed the rise and development of a new type of Jewish preaching, replacing the traditional drashah



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[sermon]. The changes involved in this innovation concerned not only the outward form and structure of the sermon but also its substance. The very concept of the purpose of preaching as well as the theology behind it underwent a radical transformation . . . The modern Jewish sermon arose at a time when the Protestant pulpit in Germany had reached its zenith in the art of rulebound (schulgerecht) preaching . . . There is a wealth of evidence testifying to the fact that at its initial stage, if not later, Jewish preachers took the Protestant Erbauungspredigt (edificatory sermon) for their model . . . The moralizing type of sermon known as the Erbauungspredigt held sway in the Jewish pulpit until the late thirties of the nineteenth century.7 The sermons were clear, systematic, aesthetically pleasing, and easy to comprehend. They dealt with subjects such as moral aspirations and relations to fellow humans. Preachers used terms like “edification,” “the human vocation,” and “moral improvement,” borrowed from both the Christian and the Aufklärung (Enlightenment) vocabulary. Altman was trying to describe a linear process of development in the structure of modern German-Jewish homiletics. In the first stage the sermons were nearly always based on biblical texts and did not allude to midrashic, talmudic, or rabbinical literature. According to Altman, at the end of the 1830s a certain change took place in the structure of the sermons. Preachers such as Michael Sachs of Prague, Isak Noa Mannheimer of Vienna, and Ludwig Philippson of Magdeburg tried to free themselves of the early type of sermon and were inclined to a more complex use of rich Jewish sources as an integral part of the sermon’s language: “It was increasingly felt that Jewish preaching should free itself from Christian tutelage and evolve a more genuinely Jewish approach . . . The prevailing sentiment was for a return, in some limited way, to a more exegetical type of sermon and a more liberal use of midrashic material.”8 The content of the sermon changed as well: the whole congregation, not only the individual, was now expected to better itself morally. Yet the sermons were still given in German. The problem with Altman’s concept is his view that the real reaction to modernity took place only in the German sphere in places like Berlin, Vienna, and Prague. He assumes that in the eastern parts of Europe the old unchanged versions of the traditional drashah were still dominant. Here too we must free ourselves from the paradigm that places the German model and the maskilic ideology at the center of the scholarship of modernism.

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Galicia in the Nineteenth Century “Galicia” (“Galizien” in German) was an area of southern Poland that was annexed to the Habsburg Empire at the end of the eighteenth century during the partition of Poland. The annexation of the traditional Jewish community in Galicia to the German-speaking Austrian realm exposed them to the central European version of modernity. The Galician case study very briefly examined here is useful in expanding our view of the encounter of Jewish society with modernism. A group of rabbis and preachers that operated in Galicia in the eastern part of the Habsburg Empire began to preach in German while partially adopting the style of the German preachers. This group included rabbis of German origin who served in major district communities in Galicia, such as Abraham Kohn of Lvov and Samuel Deitsch of Sambor. Abraham Kohn was born in Bohemia and served as rabbi and teacher in Hohenems. He then moved to Lvov, serving as preacher and religious teacher (prediger und religionsweiser) in the synagogue of the liberal Jewish community in the city beginning in 1844. From then until his assassination by one of his opponents in Lvov in September 1848, Kohn confronted the orthodox opposition in the city.9 In 1847 Samuel Deitsch was elected as religious teacher in the district of Sambor, serving in this capacity at least until 1851. Apparently he had come from Bohemia or Moravia and was thus the second “German” rabbi in Galicia.10 Both Kohn and Deitsch chose to preach in German and adopted the moral-­ didactic style of preaching. But this imported German-Jewish style of preaching was only one modern challenge to the old drashah, and not a successful one at that. The old style of preaching in Galicia was also challenged by the hasidic movement. Jacob Katz assumed that the expansion of the hasidic movement caused harm to the status of the traditional maggid. Katz claimed that the hasidic leader, the tzaddik, took upon himself the task of preacher and moral guide, so that nonhasidic rabbis had to abandon this function.11 Indeed the majority of nonhasidic rabbis in Galicia kept on delivering sermons of the traditional type, mostly only twice a year (on the Shabbat before Yom Kippur and on Shabbat Hagadol, before Passover) although sometimes also during the holidays. But I also found that some nonhasidic rabbis saw preaching as one of their main duties. One of the most prominent preachers to do so was Rabbi Shlomo Kluger, who served as the chief rabbinical judge (dayan) and also as the maggid of Brody in the mid-nineteenth century.12



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The city of Brody had a large Jewish majority. It boasted an important commercial center and a long-standing center of rabbinical learning. Until the 1830s the rabbinical and economic elites were connected with one another. Prominent wealthy men in the community leadership supported the Jewish Enlightenment (Haskalah) as well as the rabbinate. Some of them were themselves Jewish scholars and halakhic authorities. Ultimately, however, a number of authors noted the gradual process of dissociation between the elites, similar to that which was taking place in Hungary at the time. Eventually two parallel models of community rabbinates crystallized—the integrative and the conservative model—while two circles of support within the community oligarchy developed concurrently. The rabbinical elite and the scholarly elite were henceforth subject to a conscious process of having to choose sides.13 Rabbi Shlomo Kluger served for almost fifty years as the local dayan and maggid. He began to serve the community in the 1820s and soon stood out as one of the leading conservative rabbis in Galicia. Although he became involved in direct confrontations with rabbis who had adopted the integrative model and were supported by the maskilic elite in the community, he achieved a high status and moral authority thanks to a wide circle of supporters both outside and inside the community. Because of this and because of his charismatic personality, he was widely regarded as a halakhic authority throughout Galicia and beyond. He and his colleagues responded to the challenges of modernism in a continuous series of debates and public polemics. In many senses this prepared the ground for institutional orthodox political activity in Galicia in the 1870s and 1880s. The national library in Jerusalem contains sixty-nine huge handwritten volumes of Rabbi Shlomo Kluger’s writings, including thousands of the sermons that he delivered every Shabbat and holiday for over fifty years. Kluger therefore evolved into a cognizant conservative-reactive type of preacher. He denounced both the hasidic tendency to take control of the preacher’s traditional tasks and the maskilic criticism of traditional sermonizing. He understood that he had to view the sermon as a conservative educational instrument and was convinced that believers devoted to tradition must be well versed in halakhic law in all its complexity. All of Kluger’s sermons were therefore scholastic-halakhic and almost totally lacking in allusions to actual events. Alongside conservative-traditional preaching in Galicia, a growing number of rabbis and preachers as well as moderate maskilic leaders developed new models of preaching. Our case study here is preaching in

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the town of Tarnopol at the end of the 1830s, where we can find at least two new models. One of them is the pro-German maskilic preaching of Joseph Perl, the well-known patron of the Galician Haskalah.14 In 1813 he established the first modern maskilic school in his town and a modern new synagogue near it. He became known mostly for his struggle against hasidism. Perl stressed the edifying and propagandist value of sermons. In his polemic satire Bochen Tsaddik (Testing the Righteous, composed in the early 1830s and printed in 1838) he let the principal character speak in his stead; Ovadia b. Petahia voices harsh criticism against the Galician rabbis for not providing an activist education and for not addressing actual events. In Perl’s mind the didactic sermon was the major tool for a successful implementation of such education: Previously, each city had its preachers or maggids. Now there are none, and the rabbi would deliver his sermon only once a year. And what do they sermonize? They confine themselves to the Talmud, Rashi, and Tosafot [medieval commentaries on the Talmud], and their words are often obscure to the audience . . . Never would the rabbi include words of wisdom or moral guidance in his sermon in order to provide righteous guidance to his fellow believers. Indeed, never have I heard one of the rabbis reprimand the people for theft, robbery, and adultery, warning them off falsehood, gossip, slander, fraud, and deception and arousing in the hearts the will to hold true scales [to act morally] and to show love for one’s neighbor.15 Perl’s visions reflected in this passage remind us of some of the sayings published by other central European maskilim from the 1820s onward. His comments were thus entrenched in the maskilic critical strand in central Europe—against scholastic argumentation in general and the traditional sermon in particular. It turned out that in his later years, from 1836 until his death in 1839, Perl also preached in his own “new synagogue.” He used the German language, even though some of his close friends urged him to use Yiddish. He refused, explaining that “I do not want to preach in a stammering language.”16 None of his sermons is available today except for one long drashah, which he quite exceptionally delivered in Yiddish.17 The sermon was composed of a learned and rich collection of biblical, talmudic, and midrashic sources, but Perl chose not to use



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halakhic and scholastic arguments. It actually dealt with real events and demanded moral improvement and a reshaping of the rabbi’s role. Perl internalized the edifying style of preaching but in a traditionalist Galician way, based only on traditional Jewish sources. Besides the maskilic pro-German preaching, another style of sermonizing was heard in Tarnopol: traditional-maskilic preaching. This type is exemplified in the preaching of Shlomo Judah Leib Rapoport (Shir).18 Shir, who lived and taught in Prague from 1840 onward, was a leading well-known maskil. Altman, as mentioned earlier, refers to him as a typical central European German-Jewish pioneer preacher. But before serving in Prague Rapoport served as the rabbi of Tarnopol in Galicia, from 1838 to 1840. He was appointed as rabbi with the active support of Joseph Perl. Shir was the first maskil to serve as a rabbi in Galicia and the first to be conspired against by fanatics loyal to tradition. Manifestos that classified him as a heretic were scattered throughout the town; his chair was smeared with pitch; and some zealots spread rumors that discredited his moral and religious standing. Nevertheless, it seems that the majority of the population in Tarnopol supported him. Even the famous orthodox Hungarian leader Rabbi Moshe Soffer strongly supported him.19 The rabbinate prototype developed by Shir was quite conservative. He supported the view that the rabbi had to be a talented scholar, ­capable of formulating halakhic decisions. The relative innovations that Shir tried to implement touched upon the rabbi’s functions as educator and preacher. He developed an innovative model of a “didactic sermon,” which he delivered in Yiddish. He combined scholarly insights with the conventional structure of the traditional sermon, which he regarded as a tool for social and religious change. All this was accomplished while he served as rabbi in Galicia, before moving to Prague. Shir and his colleagues noted with great interest the profound impact of his very first sermon. Shir arrived in Tarnopol on Friday, January 12, 1838. On the next day, Shabbat morning, he gave his first sermon in Perl’s new synagogue in front of a large audience. Several people who attended the service described their excitement when listening to him.20 One of them even kept the text of the sermon and published it forty years later.21 What caused that sermon to become so meaningful to his listeners? Shir delivered his first sermon in the framework of a traditional sermon. At its center was a long, erudite, meticulous argumentation (pilpul) about the first paragraphs in the talmudic tractate of Sanhedrin.22 It also made use of the typical ornamentation of homiletics and ethical remarks of

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rabbinical sermons.23 Still, the content of Shir’s sermon was much more complex. He applied the critical-historical methods that he had become familiar with as a maskilic researcher. The opening lines of his sermon, for example, included a learned exposition of the historic sources of public sermons. Indeed Shir was unable to free himself from the critical-scholastic method that he had used in all of his writings; nor did he try to conceal this tendency. His scholarly insights were scattered throughout his sermon, which, as he himself explicated, was based on his scholarly conclusions. He constantly shifted back and forth between the flow of the sermon and an outsider’s observations, as if inviting his audience into a preacher-workshop, drawing them to his work desk, and sharing with them the methodological considerations for the construction of his sermon. The sermon began with a series of erudite discussions about the historical origins of the public sermon. First, Shir asked his audience’s permission to do so “with the authorization of this sacred and distinguished congregation, and of the city’s righteous sages.” He then interrupted the flow of his own sermon and clarified his reasons for beginning it in this fashion. He did so on the basis of his inquiries into the historical evolution of rabbinical sermons: “The rabbis used to ask the permission of the Lord, the town sages, and the sacred congregation, before they started preaching in public. Seemingly, it is an old custom that I follow.” The second section of the sermon also began with an “outside” reflection. Here Shir explicated the structure of his sermon: he had selected a structure that combined and balanced two tendencies common among preachers through the ages. He argued that all talmudic sermons had opened up with homiletics, whereas later preachers changed the order and started right off with halakhic discussions. For his sermon Shir chose the middle road between the two methods. Indeed his sermon began and ended with homiletic passages that made up nearly three-quarters of the text (about thirty of the forty sermon pages).24 Shir’s sermon was used almost entirely to back his personal actual agenda. The sermon served as a tool for elucidating and proving the legitimacy of his appointment as rabbi. He responded directly to his detractors, clarifying the considerations behind his nomination and justifying its appropriateness despite his lack of experience. At the same time he pointed out precedents, mentioned in the Talmud, of people who opted for trade in troubled times but eventually changed their minds and



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immersed themselves in the study of Torah to become rabbis. He also defended himself against the claim that he had never mastered erudite writing, meticulously enumerating his commentaries and scholarly compositions.25 Thus the main objective of Shir’s sermon was to respond to the dispute surrounding his appointment as a rabbi and to justify its legitimacy. In addition Shir’s sermon was designed to accommodate his own aspirations to those of his audience and to formulate his view of a model rabbinical authority in public. This took the form of an official statement. The sermon, in its entirety, posited an educational program regarding the roles and duties of the rabbi. One of Shir’s goals was to convince his audience of the need to appoint a rabbi versed not only in the rabbinic literature but also in secular “wisdom” (khokhmot): “and this is all in contrast with our custom today, especially in this land, where often we do the opposite, searching for a rabbi who knows nothing about the Wisdoms, and whatever he does know is considered to be a deficiency. ”26 Rabbis should opt for a middle-of-the-road approach rather than oppose or ignore the “new.” They should draw the elders to novel ideas and the sons to more traditional ones and show fellow believers how to accept “the good new, and, at the same time, adhere to the old and ancient.” To support his approach, Shir dedicated a whole chapter in his sermon to proving that the needs of individuals and groups developed naturally throughout history and referred his listeners to books about “the traits of the nations” (contemporary geographical-chronographic literature). Therefore, he concluded, people should realize and accept that even beliefs and ideas can be modified over time.27 It is important to note that Shir did not claim to be an innovator but rather someone who aimed to restore the ancient talmudic homiletics. Thus he did not try to copy the style of the German prediger but developed a Galician traditionalist-maskilic version of the modern maggid. Contrary to his patron, Perl, he did not neglect the halakhic argumentation, seeing it as an integral part of the sermon. He also continued to use Yiddish in his sermon, although he was well versed in German.28 Altman claims that Shir was one of the pioneer preachers who led the process of development in the structure of modern German-Jewish homiletics: “He seems, however, to have developed a modern type of drashah, which greatly appealed to the more progressive section of the Prague community . . . combining the ancient with the modern.”29 In my view Shir should not be regarded as a pioneer of the inner change in the

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sermons of the “enlightened” rabbis, as argued by Altman, but rather as a pioneer of the modern-orthodox sermon. His sermons should be examined as part of a general pattern that evolved within the circles of modern-orthodox maggids in central Europe, not only in the Austrian-­ Hungarian sphere but also in some cities in Germany.30 Preachers of this type are still to be researched. But even without a thorough investigation of the corpus of sermons that they produced, we may at least point out a common trait of modern-orthodox, proactive, and conservative interplay. The typical sermon of this kind was “orthodox” because it preserved the basic theological assumptions and rejected demands for religious reforms and because of the preachers’ commitment to traditional halakhic structure. Legal discussion was still an integral part of the sermon, as the rabbi had not yet detached himself from his role as legalist and instructor. Conversely, the sermons incorporated maskilic insights, basic scholarly assumptions, and a historical approach as well as a basically positive attitude toward modernity. These findings undermine the common image of a dichotomous “culture war” between the traditional rabbinical and maskilic elites. During the first third of the nineteenth century the Haskalah in Galicia and in Eastern Europe in general did not produce a “secular revolution,” like the Enlightenment in Germany several decades earlier. The majority of the maskilic elite in Galicia did not promote the appointment of an alternative, nonrabbinical leadership. Rather, they called for a change in the character of the role of the rabbi and demanded a new definition of his areas of responsibility. On the whole these case studies show that the modernization of ­Jewish homiletics was not a linear process and was not only the concern of the modern German-speaking new liberal elite. They also demonstrate that between the prediger and the maggid lay a wide range of varied and compound styles of preaching throughout central and Eastern Europe. On the whole they reflected an inner Galician elitist discourse between traditional maskilim and reactive orthodox leaders and an attempt to cope with the new challenges of the modern era. The later maskilic critique, especially the radical anticlerical attitude, often treated the traditional rabbinate as a degenerate body that had outlived its usefulness. Later academic scholarship usually viewed the maskilic critique as reflecting reality and was contemptuous of the casuistic study and meticulous concern for halakhic rulings. The critique no doubt reflected the flaws of the rabbinate in Eastern Europe and its



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difficulties in coping with the challenges of modernity. But it did not draw an accurate picture. The areas criticized by the maskilim were precisely those in which the traditional scholarly elite introduced conservative innovations. Preaching, scholarly pilpul, fostering of a wide-ranging system of halakhic rulings, a flourishing religious press, and an extensive system of rabbinical “approbations” that assisted in fostering this new publishing wave were not remnants of a degenerate old rabbinate but rather a new and well-designed development of a conservative-proactive rabbinate. From this perspective the conservative institution of the rabbinate seems to have taken a varied and independent approach to modernism, not merely responding inertly, out of habit, to the maskilic challenge.

14

The Religious Career Opportunities of Lay Preachers A Study of Folk Preaching in the Haredi Teshuva Movement Nissim Leon

Among the most prominent figures in the twentieth-century religious revival movements are grass-roots believers, who do not emerge from the religious establishment and sometimes even lack any formal religious education but nevertheless become local preachers. As products of the community itself, they are often autodidacts. The local community becomes the focus of small-scale projects that they are involved in: they take responsibility for the religious communal reality that surrounds them. The local preachers’ way of life conveys a message to the closer and more distant social milieus with which they keep in contact during their everyday activities and which they seek to influence. To the extent that they succeed in raising resources and attracting believers the possibilities for their religious development remain unlimited. In the past the lay preachers could be constrained by the religious establishment and even be viewed as subversive elements. The changes wrought by modernization not only include the Internet and technological devices that challenge these constraints, however, but also underline the importance of lay preachers in the religious establishment’s struggle for survival and status in light of ongoing processes of secularization. To the extent that secularization made way for a renewed influence of the religious establishment, the influence of the lay preachers has become more limited. The crux of the power of lay preachers lies in their liminal position—serving as links between community and establishment

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but also as intermediaries between a weak institutionalized religion and a powerful popular religion in the face of institutionalized secularization. This essay depicts the social, local, and organizational environment that has produced a significant number of lay leaders, through a brief ethnography of the diffusion of the ultra-orthodox teshuva (repentance) movement among Israeli Jews of Middle Eastern and North African origin. This essay deals with lay preachers in the Mizrahi–haredi teshuva movement.1 Both in scholarship and in Israeli religious discourse, this term refers to a complex set of organizations and initiatives that for the past three decades have been engaged in persuading nonobservant Jews to adhere to Jewish religious law. The movement uses modern techniques, including promotional campaigns, to encourage Jews to follow Jewish tradition and conduct social and religious activities in order to further individual and community empowerment.2 The haredi teshuva movement is presented here as a religious and ­social renewal that acts both from above (through establishment teshuva initiatives) and from below (through initiatives by the grassroots). Through its preaching and community activity the Mizrahi teshuva movement seems to create a wide border region that separates the haredi enclave from the Mizrahi religious community and simultaneously links them together. Within this border region a complex new religious culture is developing that does not always meet the conservative standards of the haredi rabbis. “Lay preachers” illustrate this point quite clearly. The term refers to preachers who emerge from among the people, not from the yeshiva world, and carry ethical messages of support and reproof. According to the historian Jacob Katz, no such thing as a “lay preacher” existed in Jewish history: preaching had always been the task of people educated in yeshivas and batei midrash (prayer and study centers).3 Katz’s argument can certainly be rejected, because some preachers had no yeshiva background. But his view is relevant in the case of contemporary haredi society, in which preaching has always been related to the traditional rabbinical hierarchy.4 Even so, the situation is complicated by the prominence of folk preaching in the culture of the haredi teshuva movement, including folk preachers who come from the culture of the teshuva movement rather than from the haredi scholarly world. What makes it so complex is that the folk preachers attempt to inculcate their immediate surroundings with the values and dictates of haredi culture, which they see as an ideal tradition, but in fact undercut the authority, tradition, and boundaries

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of haredi society. This complexity frequently undermines the logic of the authority, hierarchy, and way of thinking in which both the haredim and the scholars of haredi society are trapped. Here I present a case study based on observations between 2001 and 2005 while doing fieldwork entailing the description and analysis of the changes in ethnic Mizrahi synagogues in urban Israel that resulted from the impact of the haredi teshuva movement.5

Hakham Aharon: A Local Story Our story begins in an ethnic synagogue, Ahavat Olam (literally, eternal love), founded in the 1950s in one of the southeastern neighborhoods of Tel Aviv. Like many ethnic synagogues in Israel, over the years it went from being monoethnic to multiethnic and its worshippers represented a wide range of religious observances. I visited the Ahavat Olam synagogue at a time when people from the haredi teshuva movement started joining the congregation. Prominent among them was Hakham Aharon (Aharon the Sage), a man of about fifty who had become a key figure in Ahavat Olam over the years. He had become a local leader by virtue of his knowledge of the Torah and the lack of anyone else to deliver Torah discourses before the congregation, especially during Shabbat services. Aharon, a fabric merchant with a white skullcap, sidelocks, and a long white beard, gradually earned a reputation as Hakham Aharon. Important stages in this process were short classes delivered at the third Sabbath meals held at the synagogue, then regular sermons during the Sabbath morning services, and eventually regular classes scheduled on weekdays. At first the audience was composed of worshippers from the congregation, especially people who had long since become religious or more strictly observant. Another stage in Hakham Aharon’s development was the clear intimation that he was engaging in mystical activities. At first he would mention in his classes as an aside, the tikkunim (recitations of certain prayers and texts as a kabbalistic way of healing the soul) that he conducted. He also said that every Rosh Hodesh (the first day of the month in the Hebrew calendar) he would pray at one of the tombs said to be the burial sites of the sons of Jacob and that his prayers were usually answered. I joined Hakham Aharon for one of these tikkunim, held near Kefar Sava at a tomb attributed to Benjamin. Late at night I found myself reading Psalms out loud, stumbling over the Aramaic of the Zohar, and huddling with eight



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other men who had joined Hakham Aharon, only some of whom I knew. From time to time Hakham Aharon blew a long Yemenite shofar. Eventually the small group of regulars who attended the third meal,6 like the group that took part in the tikkunim (which were publicized by word of mouth), was supplemented with a larger, more diverse religious group. These were mainly people who had become newly observant or more observant long before but also included some yeshiva students who had come to see what Hakham Aharon was all about. The larger audience apparently turned Hakham Aharon from just another local folk preacher into an inscrutable “spiritual” figure. This can be seen from a comment by one of the regular attendees at the classes. He had previously opposed Hakham Aharon’s activities but became more observant during the spiritual sessions, mainly because he attributed the solutions that he found to problems in his everyday life to Hakham Aharon’s tikkunim. “Being near Hakham Aharon,” he told me once, “is like touching one of the tsaddikim (righteous men) I’ve heard about in stories. But he’s our own tzaddik.”

Presentation, Content, and Reception of the Sermons Hakham Aharon’s sermons focused for the most part on topics from the weekly Torah portion (the section of the Torah read publicly). From time to time he would discuss a Midrash (commentary on a biblical text) from the Talmud that he expanded on. It struck me that Hakham Aharon’s sermons tended to be intuitive and that he did not stick closely to a written text.7 The sermons did not always agree with standard traditional interpretations; in fact they often differed. The style of the sermons was emotional. Not uncommonly they were accompanied by emotional outbursts. “The Divine Presence,” Hakham Aharon said in one class, “is right here, right now. At one with us. Come on, folks, let’s get up and sing in honor of the King.” He stood up and started dancing, and some of the audience joined in. These sounds and actions left a deep impression on listeners won over by his charismatic personality. Hakham Aharon’s preaching followed fixed yet dramatic patterns.8 He would frequently sit at a table, flip over the pages of a Bible, and scan the words. From time to time he would mutter something, as if studying. When everyone was listening, he would lift his head from the Bible. The intense concentration showed in his face, which turned red. He would sway slightly then stop and look straight ahead at some invisible spot. His

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voice was heard in a mantra that he had regularly repeated over a period of nearly four years, in every sermon and every class: “Lord, open my lips and may my mouth tell Your praise. Gentlemen, everything I am about to say about our Torah portion is by virtue of the Creator of the world, the source of abundance and wisdom in all the worlds. Some of the things are patent, others are hidden. I will say everything that the Holy One, blessed be He, allows me to say, and may the listeners gain wisdom.” This statement seemed to assume magical significance for his audience. Hakham Aharon appeared to be hinting that he had received the words he was about to pronounce straight from God. In fact, although Hakham Aharon did not see himself as a conduit for God’s word, he believed that there are no coincidences and that everything comes from God. Therefore the materials that he prepared and his thoughts (his intuitive interpretations) were not mere coincidences. “There are no coincidences in the world,” he said. “Mikre [coincidence] consists of the same letters as kara H[ashem]—what the Master of the world wants to happen is what will happen.” Though Hakham Aharon did not explicitly say so to his listeners, they perceived his words as inspired by an external source. The blurred lines between what he intended his own words to convey and their prevalent interpretation paralleled the vagueness on which the perception of his charismatic character was based. Vagueness was indeed important in the drama that Hakham Aharon created. It helped him evade criticism of the nature of his authority, by laypeople or by Torah scholars. It also allowed him to go back and forth in his sermons between Rashi’s commentary and his own interpretations (for which he had no written support) and between these ideas and remarks about “deep matters.” He could not expand on these, but anyone who studied Kabbalah should eventually be able to understand. This was hinted at repeatedly in his classes. For instance in one class he suddenly stopped in the middle of an explanation and said, “This is deep and we’ll only touch on it slightly, since one can’t talk about everything.” At such moments the audience knew that Hakham Aharon was about to unravel an obscure kabbalistic enigma. Three topics came up in nearly all his sermons: repentance, tikun hanefesh (renewal or healing of the soul), and current politics. Hakham Aharon was very good at linking them. At times a reference to current political affairs triggered an argument, creating tension. The audience, perhaps unsure of where Aharon was going with his sermon, could



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never­theless be sure that he would not hesitate to touch on topics directly relevant to the week’s news. For example, during my fieldwork Hakham Aharon made a series of blunt statements about prime minister Ariel Sharon’s decision to withdraw Israeli troops from Gaza and to dismantle the Jewish settlements there (the Disengagement Plan, summer 2005). Every Sabbath, for about half an hour, Hakham Aharon related the weekly Torah portion to this decision. Wherever the Torah portion mentioned a dilemma or an act for which the Israelites were punished, Hakham Aharon linked it to Ariel Sharon’s political decision, which he considered catastrophic. The world, he stressed over and over again, does not teach us about the weekly Torah portion; the Torah portion teaches us about the world. The Torah is the “Torah of life” and as such serves as a sort of map that believers can use to understand what is happening around them. After all, he would tell his listeners, “there is a Creator of the world and everything is His doing.” Hakham Aharon’s sermons and ideas frequently diverged from the standard ways of understanding things and sometimes upset the audience, but no one ever tried to silence him. If his viewpoint was criticized, this was expressed only after class, not in front of him—not even by implication. “He scares me,” said one worshipper. “Don’t you see that he’s a tzaddik?” another said. “He has powers,” said a third. Over time I discovered that Hakham Aharon’s preaching career had not developed smoothly and that he had been opposed by two main groups. First, some people seemed concerned that Hakham Aharon was trying to transform the synagogue into a haredi synagogue: “We never brought a rabbi here. We were afraid it would end up like what happens in the synagogues of the newly religious. It is total chaos there—ongoing arguments about who is more religious than the next guy.” The second source of opposition, interestingly, consisted of people who had attended Zionist yeshivas. At first some of them were charmed by Hakham Aharon, by his initiatives and his ability to interact with a diversified group of synagogue-goers. But when they realized the inherent contradictions between the intuitive sermon and the authoritative texts that they had studied in the yeshiva, they tried to undermine his authority. Interestingly, the Sephardi chief rabbi of Tel Aviv was not one of Hakham Aharon’s detractors. The 60-year-old rabbi was an alumnus of the Sephardi yeshiva Porat Yosef in Jerusalem and was familiar with the activities of the teshuva movement in the city. Although he was not one of the initiators, he occasionally took part in rallies, especially those held

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by established organizations. He had heard of Hakham Aharon’s sermons and activities, but whenever he visited the synagogue he chose to ignore him. When he was asked how one should relate to Hakham Aharon, his somewhat ambivalent advice was to take the good and ignore the bad.

The Lay Preacher in the Culture of the Haredi Teshuva Movement Hakham Aharon was what Jacob Katz would describe as a lay preacher. He had no formal education in rabbinic texts. In terms of his religious education, he was mainly self-taught, having taken only intermittent evening classes. His sermons and messages dealt mainly with reproof, morality, and calls to repent and become religiously observant. His remarks were mostly based on statements from traditional texts, with special emphasis on Midrash and on basic commentaries that he developed intuitively. In the Mizrahi teshuva movement lay preachers like Hakham Aharon are not uncommon. Prominent rabbinical figures in the teshuva movement and Mizrahi Jewry include Daniel Zar, Amnon Yitzhak, Leon Levy, and Haim Cohen. The case of Hakham Aharon, in itself quite interesting, can give us a deeper understanding of how the haredi teshuva movement has become a cultural system that creates its own symbols, myths, and narratives. The result is a “gentle” haredi environment, very different from the rigidly scholarly one widely known through the academic literature on haredi society. The case of the lay preacher—whose story should be placed in three main contexts: conceptual, local, and narrative—is a significant manifestation of this. The Conceptual Context: The Preacher as a Representative of the Teshuva Movement Folk preachers and folk preaching occupy a central place in the haredi teshuva movement. Both regular and sporadic classes attract a variety of audiences: traditionalists, Jews who have become observant or have increased their level of observance, kollel students (a kollel is an institute for advanced yeshiva learning), and students of established yeshivas. The teshuva movement preachers hold their events in large venues familiar to most Israelis: soccer stadiums and basketball courts, cultural centers and neighborhood community centers, reception halls and synagogues.9 For one evening these places become batei midrash, packed with men and women who have come to hear the preacher. The sermons themselves



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tend to focus on religious commentary—“Jewish” commentary, as the preachers put it—and issues relevant to the audience’s everyday lives. The preachers’ language is sensitive to the world of the listeners, whose lives color the content of the sermon and give it vitality and intimacy. Sometimes the event consists of an hour-long lesson; at other times it may be a three-hour show, including films or ceremonies that have become part of the folklore and culture of the teshuva movement over the years. The events are usually recorded by skilled professionals and widely distributed by an efficient, well-organized system of audiotape and videotape production and recently by more advanced technology as well. The recordings make their way to listeners’ homes, neighborhood synagogues, and local batei midrash and are sometimes heard on haredi radio stations.10 Some of the content, ideas, and figures of speech in the sermons become part of the community’s language, distinguishing listeners from nonlisteners. Preaching in the teshuva movement, with its distinctive language and symbols, has thus become not only an integral part of the religious landscape of Mizrahi Jewry in Israel but also part of the foundation of this population’s social life. Over the years the movement has developed its own corpus of Jewish religious knowledge, separate from classical texts such as the Talmud, books of Jewish law, and Midrash. Mizrahi Jews have been exposed to this corpus for more than a generation, to the point that they see it as an integral part of their religious discourse. When Hakham Aharon speaks the language of the teshuva movement culture, he is perceived as being on the same level as speakers who discourse on the Talmud, Halakha (the body of Jewish religious law), or Midrash. His language reflects intensive exposure to the rhetoric of preachers of the haredi teshuva movement, such as Nissim Yagen and Daniel Zar. His home library includes audiotapes and discs of teshuva movement preachers. This is no coincidence: the language, messages, parables, and sounds of the recordings are central to the process of legitimizing lay preachers. Furthermore, lay preachers like Hakham Aharon see themselves as fulfilling one of the basic ideological directives of the teshuva movement—spiritually uplifting the people. Such directives are common in teshuva movements and are integral to the genre of “ethical sermons.”11 They go hand in hand with the movement’s social and educational activities, which aim to persuade nonobservant Jews to change their way of life, to move closer to Jewish observance, to “become stronger,” and to do so according to haredi standards. The methods of persuasion are

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diverse and include intensive seminars, sermons, recruitment to religious schools, and dissemination of written and audio materials. This process is part of the movement’s program leading to teshuva: people who have become observant are expected to take an active part in the effort to instill the new principles of their lives in those around them by setting a personal example, participating in local religious projects, and reproving the people around them for not following religious directives.12 In brief the preaching activities of the lay preacher do not take place in a vacuum. The preacher expects the newly religious Jews to be actively involved and urge others to become observant, bringing about a religious change in their lives. This is part of a larger plan that culminates in a spiritual revolution and religious redemption. Preachers like Hakham Aharon thus have no conflict with the religious elite and do not see themselves as authoritative alternatives to them. On the contrary, they think of themselves as helping the rabbis regain their strength and their authority. This may be the reason for the chief rabbi’s indifference to Hakham Aharon’s activities; he saw him not as a competitor but as someone playing a complementary and vital role. The religious Zionist yeshiva students, in contrast, viewed Hakham Aharon’s local redemption efforts as competition. After all, his efforts were aimed at forming a connection with the haredi world, despite his criticism of it, whereas the religious Zionist yeshiva students’ theological view of redemption was not based on folk belief. The Local Context: The Preacher as Repairer Hakham Aharon held a privileged position in an ethnic congregation like Ahavat Olam because of this synagogue’s chronic crisis: an aging leadership, a dwindling number of regular worshippers, and the ethnic and religious heterogeneity of its new members. The religious and community crisis of the ethnic synagogue is confronted with two main categories of religious entrepreneurs. One consists of Mizrahi haredi yeshiva students looking for a way out of the scholarly society, in which their status is shaky. It is ethnically shaky because of the arrogance and patterns of discrimination and rejection that Mizrahim experience in the Ashkenazi scholarly society and financially shaky because of the limited upward mobility allowed by the shoestring budgets of the scholarly society and the intense competition for limited resources and for low-paying jobs as religious functionaries. A symbiotic relationship with an ethnic congregation located outside the haredi enclave can give these young people a new opportunity to earn a livelihood and establish



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their authority and identity:13 for example, through the hiring of yeshiva students to serve as cantors at synagogues or to deliver sermons to the community and provide guidance in religious observance. The second category of religious entrepreneurs consists of newly religious Jews, like Hakham Aharon. They fill the leadership vacuum in the synagogue and attempt to improve the religious life of the community while empowering their own identity.14 The conspicuous integration of newly religious Jews into local ethnic congregations is clearly associated with the fact that not all newly religious Jews actively move into the haredi enclave, even though they have chosen to mold the rest of their lives in its pattern. For financial, family, or community reasons many of them remain in the surroundings where they decided to become observant. In the past decade books of responsa by Mizrahi rabbis—both those focusing on Jewish law and those on issues of faith—have contained numerous questions from newly religious Jews concerning daily life in the new, complex setting they have chosen.15 In any case newly religious Jews living outside the haredi enclave often feel a lack of connection between their religious and community lives. Even in an age of rapid transportation, which often facilitates their ties to a much-wanted way of life, the immediate environment can be quite challenging. Hakham Aharon’s home situation, for instance, would seem quite strange to an outside observer. Although he himself became religious and chose the path of piety, his family did not; his wife and children remained “traditionalists”—that is, secular in his view. They were religious and perhaps even understood the path taken by their husband/father, but their everyday lives were rooted in a nonreligious environment. At times such situations may lead to the breakup of families, but the Mizrahi teshuva movement allows for a different option: a religious life in an environment in which the boundaries between observant Jews and mere believers are not so sharp. A life on the borderline between two different lifestyles—“in the religious desert,” as Hakham Aharon phrased it—may lead to a perception of having the mission of giving people “spiritual direction,” putting their present situation to rights. Hakham Aharon’s preaching was the means by which he tried to fulfill this mission. The challenges that he faced were perceived by him as trials placed in the path of someone who wishes to act fittingly in a world bereft of holiness. According to this view, the lay preachers are not part of the preaching environment familiar to scholars. They are not preachers who teach Torah commentary to their listeners but people whose way of life is

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supposed to set an example for others. Hakham Aharon thus engaged in ­fixing, not in preaching. By turning the traditional ethnic synagogue into a center for the pursuit of these or similar aims, the newly religious Jew can build a more coherent identity. The lay preacher’s personal project can thus include involvement in synagogue management, renovation of the synagogue, or fund-raising and the recruitment of worshippers. The Narrative Context: The Preacher as an Actor in a Religious Drama The teshuva movement relies mainly on professional preachers trained in intensive seminars and special courses. The preachers, many of them part of the haredi scholarly society, are at the forefront of recruitment and religious rehabilitation activities and of relief work by the teshuva movement. These activities sometimes enhance the influence of professional preachers, so that they may achieve quite a high status and perhaps even financial security. Professional teshuva preachers, such as Daniel Zar and his young brother Rafael, Nissim Yagen, Amnon Yitzhak, Yosef Mugrabi, and Haim Rabi, are well known among Mizrahi Jews in Israel and abroad. In many ways they reflect the change that has occurred in the religious and social environment of Mizrahi Jewry in recent decades. Their status is often perceived as equal to that of rabbis who teach Jewish law, and some of them have even become community rabbis. Their pictures can be found next to those of renowned halakhic authorities and kabbalists—whether as a sign of faith in their magical power or in obedience to the instruction “May your eyes see your teacher.” Stories of people’s origins occupy a central place in the mythology of the teshuva movement and in the development of folk preaching by yeshiva students or laypeople and are part of the young rabbi’s or student’s progress from the scholarly society to the ethnic synagogue. They are ­often stories of key figures in the teshuva movement, such as rabbis Reuven Elbaz and Haim Rabi, figures who started out in small synagogues that were on the verge of closing and turned into the foundations of a glorious system of institutions. Examples would include schools and kindergartens, study halls, and other established study frameworks. These stories have their roots in tales from Mizrahi groups within haredi Jewry, which are gradually filling the hagiographies accumulating on the shelves of the Mizrahi haredi beit midrash.16 The phenomenon of newly observant Jews becoming lay preachers is more complex, however. The stories that these people encounter as they become preachers are not necessarily those of yeshiva students and



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renowned rabbis but those of people like Shalom Arush, Daniel Zar, and Amnon Yitzhak, who started out just like them and became a cultural mainstay in the Mizrahi world. They changed their lives, studied (sometimes on their own), and very quickly captured the hearts of the people. Parallel to this is the tsaddik narrative, of which the case of Hakham Aharon is a typical example. Here we have to look at developments in folk religion relevant to the lay preacher, such as the religious cults of North African Jewish holy men or Christian saints.17 These cults go hand in hand with a fertile religious imagination in which the creative narrative occupies a central place that appeals to what Anat Feldman terms the “community of miracle-seekers.”18 To this we may now add the “community of story-seekers.” One interesting detail in the story of Hakham Aharon is the way he dressed. Unlike many newly religious Jews, he did not dress in the haredi style, in a white shirt, dark trousers, a suit, and a wide-brimmed hat or fur hat. Instead he wore a black beret and/or white cloth skullcap embroidered with silver threads, and his suits were usually in various colors. As we shall see, the beret, commonly worn by observant and nonobservant Jews in the 1940s and 1950s, is a key to understanding the mythic path taken by Hakham Aharon, through the stories of unknown tsaddikim of our times. In recent years haredi society has taken great interest in unknown tsaddikim. It is commonly believed that their blessings, and even mere contact with them, can be very powerful. In a sense they form the basis for a sort of haredi adventure culture. Stories are told about trips to the tombs of tsaddikim, about their practice of going without sleep, about how they perform tikkunim and especially about their concealment of their religious activities from the public. Tsaddikim were ostensibly ­simple Jews, mostly Sephardim, such as Rabbi Yehuda Leon and Rabbi Haim Berakhya, who became famous precisely because they were unknown tsaddikim and people perceive them as carrying the world on their shoulders. The idea is that certain prominent rabbis—halakhists, rabbis, and yeshiva deans—are manifest tsaddikim but that there are also unknown tsaddikim. Some people in the Mizrahi haredi community believe that the very existence of the world depends on these unknown tsaddikim, who are tsaddikim by virtue of devoting their lives to “rectifying the Jewish people,” not because of their knowledge of the Torah. Hakham Aharon did not see himself as an unknown tsaddik, but he had constructed his identity on the margins of the teshuva movement, based on his saintly image as perceived by the people around him—even

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if this image did not come from the core haredi society. As I discovered, the key element was Hakham Aharon’s beret, which revealed a great deal about the career opportunities of a lay preacher and about the possibility of starting as a local preacher and becoming a folk tsaddik. A large picture in Hakham Aharon’s home showed a Mizrahi Jew, Rabbi Yosef Dayan, wearing a black beret similar to Hakham Aharon’s. At the bottom of the picture are the words “The hidden tsaddik and kabbalist, experienced in miracles, R. Yosef Dayan, may his righteousness shield us.” The picture seems to reveal the story that Hakham Aharon seeks to emulate. Dayan was a simple Jew from Aleppo who made his living as a truck driver. He became religious in the 1940s, when he was in his twenties, apparently following a crisis in his personal life, after which he devoted his time and energy to prayer and kabbalistic tikkunim at the graves of tsaddikim. He was not a preacher and stayed far from the public eye. His hidden activity consisted mainly in leading groups that recited prayers and psalms and frequently visited sites where rabbis of the Mishnah or Talmud were said to be buried. Exemplary stories about R. Yosef Dayan were collected posthumously in a hagiography in his memory, a copy of which can be found in Hakham Aharon’s library. The book emphasizes the disparity between Dayan’s modest appearance and his carefully guarded secret: that he was one of a group of unknown kabbalists: Rabbi Yosef ’s appearance was extremely simple. He looked like an ordinary person, but when he stood up to pray aloud, one could see that here was a tsaddik who spoke in the light of love and conciliation . . . He determined which prayers people should offer and what words should be recited in the special tikkun for tikkun hayesod [special prayers to rectify spiritual damage], and everyone awaited his words. From time to time, R. Yosef would introduce minor changes in the tikkun. These changes were the result of a prolonged study of the books of tikkunim and the Kabbalah. Once he told his students that a prayer was introduced only after he received authorization for it from Heaven.19 By linking himself to the narrative of an unknown folk tsaddik like R. Yosef Dayan (who became a synagogue Jew rather than a beit midrash Jew) a lay preacher like Hakham Aharon could avoid the yardstick by which he would originally have been measured by preachers in the



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scholarly society or by the local community, both of which saw him as a newly religious Jew. In addition to preaching, Hakham Aharon now used Dayan’s story to situate himself in a position that was highly thought of in haredi culture. This is what was behind his turnabout from folk preacher to folk kabbalist, thus following Dayan’s model of tikkunim and prayers. The mythology of the unknown tsaddik became a career option for the lay preacher who had overcome obstacles placed in his path by the scholarly culture.

Conclusion The case of a lay preacher like Hakham Aharon teaches us a great deal about the culture of the Mizrahi haredi teshuva movement. Comparing lay preachers with folk preachers in traditional and Orthodox Jewish society, Ashkenazi and Mizrahi alike, does not help us understand the roots of the development of lay preachers and, as Jacob Katz phrases it, their evolution from imaginary to real figures. Moreover, the lay preacher is not the classical rabbinical or folk preacher but a product of the haredi teshuva culture and a manifestation of its development outside the haredi enclave and a formative factor for Mizrahi Jewry. A pattern of softer religious-haredi symbiosis was created as the teshuva movement took up residence outside the rigid haredi enclave: a “gentle haredism.” This pattern emerged in a constantly shifting border region between haredi demands for religious piety and the religious lives—comfortable yet inconsistent, from the haredi point of view—of Mizrahi traditionalists.20 The result is a complex religious and social interaction that connects the haredi scholarly society with a world that it views as a cluster of semisecular population groups. Within this border region the Mizrahi haredi teshuva movement has gone from being a movement engaged in religious and political recruitment to being a cultural system centered on teshuva as a religious perspective—a focal point for religious rationalism, backed by institutions, theology, liturgy, political activity, and media outlets. Religious life in this border region is influenced by two salient forces. One is institutionalized religion, with its educational and welfare projects that try to instill haredi religious observance patterns in Mizrahi traditionalists. These projects further the social mobility of former yeshiva students or young rabbis. As a result of their teshuva activity they become heads of institutions, neighborhood rabbis, and community rabbis,

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thereby circumventing the ethnic, economic, and political processes of a haredi scholarly society.21 The second force consists of religious folk initiatives in the teshuva movement, which encompass local and ethnic traditions faithful to the various forms of Jewish folk mysticism.22 These traditions serve the teshuva movement’s ultimate aim of rectifying the world.23 Life in the border region is tense, stormy, and poses innumerable challenges. On the one hand people who have accepted a life of Jewish observance, increased their level of religious observance, or enrolled in yeshivas clearly want to comply with the haredi demand for an all-encompassing religious life—including insularity and avoidance of contact with the “secular world.” On the other hand they face the constraints of everyday life. These include constant contact with the secular and non-haredi yet religious world within the nuclear and extended family, at work, in the local synagogue, in the neighborhood, and beyond. All these preclude a purely haredi existence. Some strive to establish an environment like that in the Ashkenazi haredi enclave. But the gulf that separates them from the established religious center, together with a complex reality that requires conceptual and practical solutions, necessitates much religious creativity and a sense of religious calling that cannot always be subjected to outside supervision. All of these patterns are manifested in the lay preacher’s position in the Mizrahi teshuva culture. Our understanding of the preacher’s position is affected by our perception of preaching and sermons as a folk institution. But the presence of lay preachers in the Mizrahi haredi teshuva movement shows that preaching is a personal religious empowerment strategy that helps newly religious Jews cope with a modern-day religious and community environment. The idea, the word, the message, the criticism, and even the “tsaddik appeal” become sources for the symbolic structuring of niches that help construct a haredi identity, create a dynamic distance from and proximity to the surrounding society, and are backed by a common sense of purpose. Teshuva-oriented preaching paves the way for a direct dialogue between individual and religious authority. It addresses a wide range of questions pertaining to identity, faith, and daily conduct, which concern believers and their religious communities.24 Its purpose is to strengthen listeners so that they are not tempted to search for a new life outside the religious enclave. But if this is true in the enclave, it is even more so in the border regions, the periphery that comes into contact with the secular



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world. References to sin, purification, rectification, and ethics, which go hand in hand with the rhetoric of the teshuva movement, are essential to a proper religious life in the border regions of religious enclaves. The same is true of preaching and reproof, both useful tools in the religious-­ empowerment and imagination processes of the religious environment in which newly religious Jews live, outside the haredi enclave. The haredi teshuva movement retains the spirit and energy of earlier Jewish teshuva movements, such as that of the early Ashkenazic pietist movement in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries and the movement active at the time of Shabbetai Zvi (1626–76).25 But the haredi teshuva movement differs from them in at least one respect. Previous teshuva movements often worked against religious routine and fit in with a heterodox dynamic that contributed to the vitality of Judaism.26 In contrast, the present-day haredi teshuva movement seems to be trying to reconstruct or re-create the routine of religious life; in other words, it is not heterodox but quintessentially orthodox. Nevertheless, we perceive a creative approach that hints at a different view from that of standard orthodoxy. The case of the lay preacher is a good example. Discussion Throughout the course of Jewish history preaching has frequently served to mediate between the elite rabbinical culture of the beit midrash and the folk culture of lay believers.27 While professional preachers are folk preachers who mediate between the demands of haredi society and synagogue Jews, lay preachers mediate between the demands of the teshuva movement and everyday life. As such they clearly express and reflect the impact of the teshuva movement on the religious life of Mizrahi Jews. From the outset we have to take into account the limitations imposed on lay preachers. The formal rabbinical elite may cast doubts on their knowledge of the Torah and certainly on their authority to provide spiritual and religious guidance. This elite may fear that lay preachers will lead people astray with their messages, pointing them in undesirable heterodox directions. In addition the impact of lay preachers will most certainly also be limited by the fact that people see them as their equals, not as their superiors. In modern and certainly in postmodern times institutionalized religion is nevertheless no longer hegemonic: people are either born into it or freely choose to abide by its rules. Therefore, as hierarchies collapse and boundaries are breached, the career of a lay preacher cannot be

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obstructed by traditional hierarchies. The combination of personal religious ambition (that may be spiritually motivated) and local, symbolic, and structural legitimization contributes to the development of the lay preacher’s career as a religious leader. For example, a significant point in the career of all lay preachers is the moment when people from the religious elite join their audience. This is when they cease to be marginal, local religious figures and gain the power to challenge well-established institutions. This is an advanced stage in the career of the lay preachers. We have seen the beginnings thereof in Hakham Aharon’s career as well as in other, more mature preachers, such as the folk kabbalist Rabbi Haim Cohen. This may be the juncture at which the religious establishment will start paying attention to the lay preacher’s place in religious life. At this stage questions will most certainly surface regarding the comprehensive role of lay preachers and whether they should be allowed to continue their pursuits or whether their activities should be curtailed.28

Notes Foreword 1. Thomas Beidelman, O. W. Robertson Smith and the Sociological Study of Religion (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974), 1322. 2. Wilfred Cantwell Smith, The Meaning and End of Religion: A New Approach to the Religious Traditions of Mankind (New York: Macmillan, 1963). 3. Peter Brown, The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981); Sarah Stroumsa, Maimonides and His World: Portrait of a Mediterranean Thinker (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009). 4. Robert Wuthnow, Communities of Discourse: Ideology and Social Structure in the Reformation, the Enlightenment, and European Socialism (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989), 3. 5. Al-Qaeda Videos, vol. 1: The Nineteen Martyrs. Washington, DC: IntelCenter, 2004.

Introduction 1. Pierre Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production, 1st ed. (New York: Columbia

University Press, 1993), and elsewhere.

2. Hadith quoted in Hamza al-Sahmi, Taʾrikh Jurjan; cited and translated by Richard

W. Bulliet, Islam: The View from the Edge (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994), 101. 3. Al-Bukhari, Sahih, 3rd ed., 7 vols. (Beirut: Dar al-Kathir, 1987), 1:37. 4. Quoted in Ibn Hajar al-ʿAsqalani, Lisan al-mizan, 3rd ed., 7 vols. (Beirut: Muʾasasat al-ʿIlmi li-l-Matbuʿat, 1986), 5:225. 5. Recent contributions include Peter Burke, A Social History of Knowledge: From Gutenberg to Diderot (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000); and Fritz K. Ringer, ed., Toward a Social History of Knowledge: Collective Essays (New York: Berghahn Books, 2000). For the social elements of the transmission of knowledge in various Islamic traditions and medieval contexts, see Jonathan Berkey, The Transmission of Knowledge in Medieval Cairo: A Social History of Islamic Education (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992); Michael Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice in Medieval Damascus, 1190–1350 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994); Arthur F. Buehler, Sufi Heirs of the Prophet: The Indian Naqshbandiyya and the Rise of the Mediating Shaykh (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1998); Daphna Ephrat, A Learned Society in a Period of Transition: The Sunni ʿUlamaʾ of Eleventh-Century Baghdad (Albany: SUNY Press, 2000). For the medieval and modern Jewish contexts, see Micha Perry, Tradition and Transformation: Knowledge Transmission among European Jews in the Middle Ages (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2010; in Hebrew); and Education and Religion: Authority and Autonomy, ed. Immanuel Etkes et al. ( Jerusalem: Scholion, 2011; in Hebrew). 271

272

Notes to pages 2–10

6. Yaakov Raz makes this observation in his preface to Raanan Rein’s book Populism

and Charisma: Peronist Argentina 1943–1955 (Tel Aviv: Modan, 1998; in Hebrew), 8. 7. See Avraham Grossman, “The Yeshivot in Babylonia, Germany and France,” in Education and History, Cultural and Political Contexts, ed. Rivka Feldhay and Imanuel Etkes ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 1999; in Hebrew), 79–99. 8. Hamid Dabashi, Authority in Islam: From the Rise of Muhammad to the Establishment of the Umayyads (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, 1989), 120. 9. Jonathan P. Berkey, The Formation of Islam: Religion and Society in the Near East, 600–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 229. 10. On knowledge and power, see Michael Apple, Official Knowledge: Democratic Education in a Conservative Age (New York: Routledge, 1993); Cleo Cherryholmes, Power and Criticism: Post-structural Investigation in Education (New York: Teachers and College Press, 1988), 58. 11. On ʿAbd al-Halim Mahmud and his Sufi outlook, see Moshe Albo, “al-Azhar Sufism in Post-revolutionary Egypt,” Journal of Sufi Studies 1 (2012): 225–45. 12. Farhan A. Nizami, “Madrasahs, Scholars, Saints: Muslim Response to the British Presence in Delhi and Upper Doab 1803–1857” (PhD diss., Oxford University, 1983); Masooda Bano, “Beyond Politics: The Reality of a Deobandi Madrasa in Pakistan,” Journal of Islamic Studies 18/1 (2007): 43–68; also Muhammad Qasim Zaman, The Ulama in Contemporary Islam (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2002), mainly chaps. 1–2; Farish A. Noor, Yoginder Sikand, and Martin van Bruinessen, eds., The Madrasa in Asia: Political Activism and Transnational Linkages (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2008). 13. See, e.g., Olivier Roy, Globalised Islam: The Search for a New Ummah (London: Hurst, 2004), 158–71; and John L. Esposito and John O. Voll, Makers of Contemporary Islam (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). 14. See also Meir Hatina, “Restoring a Lost Identity: Models of Education in Modern Islamic Thought,” British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 33/2 (November 2006): 185–90. 15. See, e.g., Hamid Algar, Islam and Revolution: Writings and Declarations of Imam Khomeini (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981). 16. See note 4 above. 17. S. N. Eisenstadt, ed., Max Weber on Charisma and Institution Building (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968). See also Clifford Geertz’s criticism in The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays (New York: Basic Books, 1973), 164–65. 18. See especially George Makdisi, “Hanbalite Islam,” in Studies on Islam, ed. and trans. M. L. Swartz (New York: Oxford University Press, 1981), 216–74. For ­examples of popular Hanbali leaders in medieval Baghdad, see also Ephrat, A Learned Society, 4, 130, 140–43; and Nimrod Hurvitz in this volume. 19. See, e.g., R. P. Mitchell, The Society of the Muslim Brothers (London: Oxford University Press, 1969). 20. This argument is put forward by Aviad Kleinberg in relation to preachers and martyrs in early Christianity: Flesh Made Word: Saints’ Stories and the Western Imagination (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2008),



Notes to pages 11–15 273

mainly 1–8. See also F. D. Barnes, “Charisma and Religious Leadership: An Historical Analysis,” in Magic, Witchcraft, and Religion: An Anthropological Study of the Supernatural, ed. C. A. Lehman and M. E. James (Palo Alto and London: Mayfield Publishing Company, 1985), 94–104. 21. Daniella Talmon-Heller has provided ample examples of what she calls “the blessing of religious knowledge” (barakat al-ʿilm) in the medieval context. Talmon-Heller, “ʿIlm, Shafāʿah and Barakah: The Resources of Authority of Ayyubid and Early Mamluk ʿUlamaʾ,” Mamluk Studies Review 13/2 (2009): 1–23. On the charismatic ʿulamaʾ in the Ottoman era, see Michael Winter in this volume. 22. See, e.g., Rabbi Shmuel Eliyahu, ed., Avihem shel Israel: the Late Rabbi Mordechai Eliyahu, 3 vols. ( Jerusalem: Methods of Instruction for Rabbis, 2010–11; in Hebrew). 23. See, e.g., Hasan al-ʿIdwi, Mashariq al-anwar (Cairo: al-Matbaa al-ʿAmira al-Sharafiyya, 1886), 88–196; idem, al-Nafahat al-shadhiliyya fi sharh al-burdan al-busiriya, 2 vols. (Cairo: al-Matbaʿa al-ʿAmira, 1879), 2:4, 59–71; also Meir Hatina, ʿUlamaʾ, Politics and the Public Sphere (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2010), 172–73; R. S. O’Fahey and Bernd Radtke, “New-Sufism Reconsidered,” Der Islam 70 (1993): 52–87. 24. For the routinization of authority in the Shiʿi formative period, see Liyakat N. Takim, The Heirs of the Prophet: Charisma and Religious Authority in Shiʿite Islam (Albany: SUNY Press, 2006), mainly chaps. 3–4. 25. On the social significance of universities and academies in early modern Europe, see Burke, A Social History, 32–80. For the Islamic madrasas as a social institution for acquiring knowledge and building careers in the academic world, see Berkey, The Transmission of Knowledge, 95–127. For a slightly different interpretation, see Ephrat, A Learned Society, 95–124. For the Shiʿi context in a later period, see Meir Litvak, Shiʿi Scholars in Nineteenth Century Iraq: The ʿUlamaʾ of Najaf and Karbala (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). 26. See, e.g., C. F. Petry, The Civilian Elite of Cairo in the Later Middle Ages (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981), 37–81; Mahmoud Abu al-Eyoun, alAzhar: A Short Historical Survey (Cairo: al-Azhar Press, 1949). 27. George Makdisi, The Rise of Colleges (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1981), 255–64. On the early development of the European university, see also Hastings Rashdall, The Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages, 2nd ed., 3 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1936), 1:4–15. On the counterpart Babylonian yeshiva, see Isaiah Gafni, Babylonian Jewry and Its Institutions in the Period of the Talmud ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 1986; in Hebrew). 28. An overview of the traditional mode of transmission of knowledge in Islam is found in Berkey, The Formation of Islam, 224–30. For studies on related topics, see Claude Gillot, ed., Education and Learning in the Early Islamic World (Farham: Ashagate Variorum, 2012). 29. Jonathan Brown makes these observations in his overview of the functions of hadith in Sufism: Hadith: Muhammad’s Legacy in the Medieval and Modern World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 188–90. See also Daphna Ephrat in this volume. 30. For Syria, see Janine Thomine-Sourdel, Guide des lieux pèlerinage par Abū l-H  asan

274

Notes to pages 16–18

ʿAlī al-Harawī (mort 611/1215), traduction annotée (Damascus: Institut Français d’Études de Damas, 1957); for Egypt, see Christopher S. Taylor, In the Vicinity of the Righteous: Ziyara and the Veneration of Muslim Saints in Late Medieval Egypt (Boston: Brill, 1998). 31. See also Malcolm B. Hamilton, The Sociology of Religion: Theoretical and Comparative Perspectives (London: Routledge, 1995), 101–5. 32. For a recent contribution, see David Morgan, ed., Religion and Material Culture: The Matter of Belief (Abington, Oxon: Routledge, 2010). For an innovative approach to the study of the medieval Sufis’ notion of “embodiment,” see Scott Kugle, Sufis and Sufi Bodies: Mysticism, Corporeality, and Sacred Power in Islam (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2007); Bashir Shahzad, Sufi Bodies: Religion and Society in Medieval Islam (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011). 33. Nelly Hanna, In Praise of Books (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2003). 34. Although the return to ijtihad is still awaiting its authoritative historical treatment, several studies have made substantial contributions. Examples are Rex O’Fahey, The Enigmatic Saint: Aḥmad ibn Idrīs and the Idrīsī Tradition (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1990); Natan DeLong-Bas, Wahhabi Islam: From Revival and Reform to Global Jihad (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), chaps. 1 and 2; David D. Commins, The Wahhabi Mission and Saudi Arabia (London: I. B. Tauris, 2006), chap. 5. 35. See, e.g., Hatina, ʿUlamaʾ, Politics and the Public Sphere, chap. 6; David D. Commins, Islamic Reform: Politics and Social Change in Late Ottoman Syria (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990); Itzchak Weismann, Taste of Modernity: ­Sufism, Salafiyya and Arabism in Late Ottoman Damascus (Leiden: Brill, 2001), chap. 8. 36. Ami Ayalon, The Press in the Arab Middle East: A History (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995). 37. Dale F. Eickelman and Jon W. Anderson, eds., New Media in the Muslim World: The Emerging Public Sphere (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999); Jon W. Anderson, “The Internet and Islam’s New Interpreters,” in ibid., 41–56; idem, “The Internet: Shaping the Post-modern Public Sphere of Islam,” in Crossing Boundaries: Gender, The Public and the Private in Contemporary Muslim Societies, ed. Kazuo Ohtsuka and Dale F. Eickelman (Tokyo: Research Institute for Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa, 2008), 119–34; Jan Scholz et al., “Listening Communities? Some Remarks on the Construction of Religious Authority in Islamic Podcasts,” Die Welt des Islams 48 (2008): 457–509. 38. See, e.g., Esposito and Voll, Makers of Contemporary Islam, 3–22. 39. Patrick D. Gaffney, The Prophet’s Pulpit: Islamic Preaching in Contemporary Egypt (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994); Malika Zeghal, “Religion and Politics in Egypt: The Ulema of al-Azhar, Radical Islam and the State, 1952–1994,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 31 (August 1999): 371–99; Richard T. Antoun, Muslim Preacher in the Modern World (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989). 40. See, e.g., Bakan Rahimi, “The Virtual Ulama: Dissent, Internet and Shiʿi Clerics in Post-revolutionary Iran,” Orient 14 (2010): 81–89.



Notes to pages 19–22 275

41. On the Naqshbandiyya in premodern and modern times, see Dina le Gall, The

Culture of Sufism: Naqshbandis in the Ottoman World, 1450–1700 (Albany: SUNY Press, 2005); Itzchak Weismann, Naqshbandiyya: Orthodoxy and Activism in a World Wide Sufi Tradition (London: Routledge, 2007). 42. Muhammad ʿAbd al-ʿAziz al-Musnad, ed., Fatawa Islamiyya, 8 vols. (Riyad: Dar alDaʿwa, 1994), 4:276–78; [no author], Sharh riyad al-salihin, 6 vols. (Riyad: Dar alAthar, 2004), 2:109; ʿAli bin Husayn Abu Luz, ed., Fitnat al-takfir (Riyad: Dar Ibn Hazima, 1997), 18–19; also Zaman, The Ulama in Contemporary Islam, 144–91. 43. Hatina, “Restoring a Lost Identity,” 192–93; Itzchak Weismann, “Saʿid Hawwa and the Islamic Revivalism in Baʿthist Syria,” Studia Islamica 85 (1997): 143–49; ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam, Fi al-jihad: Fiqh wa-ijtihad (Pashawar: Maktab Khadamat al-Mujahidin, n.d.), 63–65. 44. M. Kabha and H. Erlich, “al-Ahbash and the Wahhabiyya—Interpretations of Islam,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 38 (2006): 519–38; M. Sedgwick, “In Search of a Counter-Reformation: Anti-Sufi Stereotypes and the Budshishiyya’s Response,” in An Islamic Reformation, ed. M. Browers and C. Kurzman (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2004), 133–41. 45. Malika Zeghal, “The Recentering of Religious Knowledge and Discourse: The Case of al-Azhar in Twentieth-Century Egypt,” in Schooling Islam: The Cultural and Politics of Modern Muslim Education, ed. Robert Hefner and Muhammad Qasim Zaman (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2007), 107–30; Meir Hatina, ed., Guardians of Faith in Modern Times: ʿUlamaʾ in the Middle East (Leiden: Brill, 2008). 46. Leor Halevi, “The Consumer Jihad: Boycott Fatwas and Nonviolent Resistance on the World Wide Web,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 44 (2012): 45–70. 47. Shammai Fishman, Fiqh al-Aqalliyyat: A Legal Theory for Muslim Minorities (Washington, DC: Hudson Institute, October 2006); Bettina Graf and Jakob Skovgaard-Petersen, eds., Global Mufti: The Phenomenon of Yusuf al-Qaraddawi (London: Hurst, 2009); Gudrun Krämer and Sabine Schmidtke, eds., Speaking for Islam: Religious Authorities in Muslim Societies (Leiden: Brill, 2006). 48. Meir Hatina, “Where East Meets West: Sufism, Cultural Rapprochement and Politics,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 39 (August 2007): 398–404; Weismann, Naqshbandiyya, mainly chap. 9; idem, “Sufism in the Age of Globalization” (unpublished paper); Jamal Malik and John Hinnells, eds., Sufism in the West (London: Routledge, 2006). 49. See also Mordechai Zalkin, From Heder to School: Modernization Processes in 19th Century East European Jewish Education (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2008; in Hebrew). 50. Marc Saperstein, Jewish Preaching in Times of War, 1800–2001 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 25. 51. Ibid., 12–30. 52. See also Nissim Leon, Gentle Ultra-Orthodoxy: Religious Renewal in Oriental Jewry in Israel ( Jerusalem; Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 2010; in Hebrew), mainly chaps. 4–5. 53. Kimmy Caplan, “The Media in the Ultra-Orthodox Society in Israel,” Kesher 30 (2001): 18–30 (in Hebrew).

Notes to pages 22–29

276

54. Yitzchak Yosef, ed., Halakhot shel sefirat ha-omer ( Jerusalem: Or Haderekh,

1986), 69.

Part 1 Overview 1. Manuela Marín, “Law and Piety: A Cordovan Fatwa,” British Society for Middle

Eastern Studies Bulletin 17/2 (1990): 129–36; and idem, “Learning at Mosques in al-Andalus,” in Islamic Legal Interpretation: Muftis and Their Fatwas, ed. M. Kh. Masud, B. Messick, and David S. Powers (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996), 47–54. 2. Al-Barbahari is credited with a Sharh kitab al-sunna, although the work seems in fact to have been written by Ghulam Khalil (d. 888), according to Sebastian Günther in his paper “Takfīr in 9th Century Conservative Muslim Circles: Evidence from a Manual of Islamic Orthodoxy by Ghulam Khalil (d. 888),” read at the Conference “Takfir: A Diachronic Perspective,” Madrid, October 24–27, 2011. 3. As shown by Dominique Urvoy, Le monde des ulémas andalous du V/XIe au XII/ XIIIe siècle: Étude sociologique (Geneva: Droz, 1978); Richard Bulliet, The Patricians of Nishapur: A Study in Medieval Islamic Social History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1972); Carl Petry, The Civilian Elite of Cairo in the Later Middle Ages (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981); Elias N. Saad, Social History of Timbuktu: The Role of Muslim Scholars and Notables 1400–1900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994); Michael Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice in Medieval Damascus, 1190–1350 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994); Fernando Rodríguez Mediano, Familias de Fez (ss. XV–XVII) (Madrid: CSIC, 1995); Daphna Ephrat, A Learned Society in a Period of Transition: The Sunni ʿUlamaʾ of Eleventh-Century Baghdad (Albany: SUNY, 2000). 4. On this point for the case of al-Andalus, see Maribel Fierro and Manuela Marín, “La islamización de las ciudades andalusíes a través de sus ulemas (ss. II/VIII–comienzos s. IV/X),” in Genèse de la ville islamique en al-Andalus et au Maghreb occidental, ed. P. Cressier and M. García-Arenal (Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 1998), 65–98. 5. Heinz Halm, The Empire of the Mahdi: The Rise of the Fatimids, trans. M. Bonner (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 346–54. 6. Wilferd Madelung, “A Treatise on the Imamate of the Fatimid Caliph al-Mansur bi-Allah,” in Texts, Documents and Artefacts: Islamic Studies in Honour of D. S. Richards, ed. Chase Robinson (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2003), 69–77. 7. Messianism was not limited to the Ismaʿilis and the Fatimids: see Hayrettin Yücesoy, Messianic Beliefs and Imperial Politics in Medieval Islam: The ʿAbbasid Caliphate in the Early Ninth Century (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2009). 8. Halm, The Empire of the Mahdi, 21. 9. Wilferd Madelung, “The Religious Policy of the Fatimids toward Their Sunni Subjects in the Maghrib,” in L’Égypte Fatimide: Son art et son histoire, Actes du colloque organisé à Paris les 28, 29 et 30 mai 1998, ed. Marianne Barrucand (Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris–Sorbonne, 1999), 97–104. 10. Sumaiya Abbas Hamdani, Between Revolution and State: The Path to Fatimid



Notes to pages 30–34 277

Statehood—Qadi al-Nuʿman and the Construction of Fatimid Legitimacy (London: I. B. Tauris in association with the Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2006). 11. Heinz Halm, The Fatimids and Their Traditions of Learning (London: I. B. Tauris in association with the Institute of Ismaili Studies, 1997); Paul Walker, “Fatimid Institutions of Learning,” Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt 34 (1997): 175–200. 12. Maribel Fierro, “Why and How do Religious Scholars Write about Themselves?: The Case of the Islamic West in the Fourth/Tenth Century,” Mélanges de l´Université Saint-Joseph 58 (2005): 403–23. 13. Christopher Melchert mentions the existence of a work entitled Akhbar ahl al-zahir by Ibn al-Akhdar (d. 1038): The Formation of the Sunni Schools of Law (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 186. The work has not been preserved, so its contents are not clear. I owe this reference to Camilla Adang. 14. Jonathan Brockopp, “Theorizing Charismatic Authority in Early Islamic Law,” Comparative Islamic Studies 1/2 (2005): 129–58. 15. Camilla Adang, “‘This Day Have I Perfected Your Religion for You’: A Zahiri Conception of Religious Authority,” in Speaking for Islam, ed. Gudrun Kraemer and Sabine Schmidtke (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 15–48. 16. Michael Brett has proposed that Ismaʿilism was the result of a process taking place during the ninth–tenth century: The Rise of the Fatimids: The World of the Mediterranean and the Middle East in the Tenth Century CE (Leiden: Brill, 2001). 17. Devin Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy: Twelver Shiite Responses to the Sunni Legal System (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1998). 18. See, for example, Farouk Mitha, Al-Ghazali and the Ismailis: A Debate on Reason and Authority in Medieval Islam (London: I. B. Tauris in association with the Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2001). 19. Maribel Fierro, “La política religiosa de ʿAbd al-Rahman III,” Al-Qantara 25 (2004): 119–56. 20. M. A. Makki, “al-Tashayyuʿ fi l-Andalus,” Revista del Instituto Egipcio de Estudios Islámicos (1954): 93–149, especially 109–11. 21. For the process that led to this result, see Patricia Crone and Martin Hinds, God’s Caliph: Religious Authority in the First Centuries of Islam (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986); and Muhammad Qasim Zaman, Religion and Politics under the Early ʿAbbasids: The Emergence of the Proto-Sunni Elite (Leiden: Brill, 1997). 22. See Fierro, “La política religiosa.” 23. Chase Robinson, “Prophecy and Holy Men,” in The Cult of Saints in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages: Essays on the Contribution of Peter Brown, ed. James Howard-Johnson and Paul Antony Howard (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 241–62. 24. Daphna Ephrat, Spiritual Wayfarers, Leaders in Piety: Sufis and the Dissemination of Islam in Medieval Palestine (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008). 25. Denise Aigle, Les autorités religieuses entre charisme et hiérarchie: Approches comparatives, sous la direction de D. Aigle (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011). 26. Camilla Adang, chapter 2 of this volume. 27. Kecia Ali, Imam Shafiʾi: Scholar and Saint (Oxford: Oneworld, 2011).

278

Notes to pages 35–38

28. Yasin Dutton, Original Islam: Malik and the Madhhab of Madina (London and

New York: Routledge, 2007), 51, 56, 59, 63, 65, 94. On the diverse conceptions of authority among the early Malikis, see Jonathan Brockopp, “Competing Theories of Authority in Early Maliki Legal Texts,” in Studies in Islamic Legal Theory, ed. Bernard G. Weiss (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 3–22. 29. Brockopp, “Theorizing Charismatic Authority,” 129. 30. R. Kevin Jaques, Authority, Conflict, and the Transmission of Diversity in Medieval Islamic Law (Leiden: Brill, 2006).

Chapter 1 1. On construction of authority among scholars, see Wael Hallaq, The Origins and

Evolution of Islamic Law (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 57–68.

2. For studies on the connection between piety and the standing of scholars, see Roy

Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980), 147–48; Daphna Ephrat, A Learned Society in a Period of Transition, The Sunni ʿUlamaʾ of Eleventh-Century Baghdad (Albany: SUNY Press, 2000), 144–47. 3. For an assessment of al-Marwadhi’s scholarly and teaching achievements, see Nimrod Hurvitz, The Formation of Hanbalism, Piety into Power (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2002), 76–80. For references in biographical dictionaries about al-Marwadhi, see Abu al-Husain Muhammad b. Abi Yaʿla, Tabaqat al-hanabila, ed. M. Hamid al-Fiqi, 2 vols. (Cairo: Dar al-Kutub al-Misriyya, 1952), 1:56. The Tabaqat al-hanabila was assembled in the eleventh century. It is composed of two volumes: the first describes hundreds of Ibn Hanbal’s direct students, and the second covers the rest of the generations of Hanbali scholars up to the eleventh century. One of its most interesting features is the attention it occasionally gives to social matters, hence enabling scholars to get a glimpse of social aspects of the Hanbali madhhab. Also in al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, Taʾrikh Baghdad, 14 vols. (Beirut: Dar al-Kitab al-ʿArabi, 1965–67), 4:423. 4. Michael Cook, Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong in Islamic Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 119. 5. For an event that reveals the emphasis that Ibn Hanbal placed on piety and leadership among the Hanbalis, see the case of ʿAbd al-Wahhab b. ʿAbd al-Hakam in Hurvitz, The Formation of Hanbalism, 94. 6. This point has already been made by Christopher Melchert, The Formation of the Sunni Schools of Law (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 150. For another characterization that is in line with this description, see Cook, Commanding Right, 116, where he observes “the career of the preacher and demagogue Barbahari.” 7. Ibn Abi Yaʿla, Tabaqat, 2:18. 8. Shams al-Din Muhammad al-Dhahabi, Siyar aʿlam al-nubalaʾ, ed. Shuʿayb al-­Arnaʾut et al., 25 vols. (Beirut: Muʾassasat al-Risala, 1981–85), 15:90, 15:99; al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, Taʾrikh Baghdad, 6:161; Abu al-Mahasin b. Taghribirdi, al-Nujum al-zahira fi muluk misr wa-l-qahira, 16 vols. (Cairo: al-Muʾassasat al-Misriyya al-ʿAmma, 1963–72), 3:273. 9. On Sahl al-Tustari, see Ahmet T. Karamustafa, Sufism: The Formative Period (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2007), 38–43; G.



Notes to pages 38–45 279

Bowering, “Sahl al-Tustarī,” in Encyclopedia of Islam, New Edition (Brill: 1954– 2004; hereafter EI2): 8:840–41. 10. Ibn Abi Yaʿla, Tabaqat, 2:62. 11. The entry of Abu al-Hasan b. al-Bashshar appears in Ibn Abi Yaʿla, Tabaqat, 2:57–63. 12. Ibid., 2:64–65; see also al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, Taʾrikh Baghdad, 1:309. 13. Ibn al-ʿImad, Shadharat al-dhahab fi akhbar man dhahab, 8 vols. (Beirut: al-­ Maktab al-Tijari li-l-Nashr wa-l-Tawziʿ, n.d.), 2:322; al-Dhahabi, Siyar, 15:92. 14. See Hurvitz, The Formation of Hanbalism, 63–66, for further discussion. For information on Ibn Hanbal’s inheritance, see Abu al-Faraj ʿAbd al-Rahman b. al-Jawzi, Manaqib al-imam Ahmad b. Hanbal (Beirut: Misr: Maktabat al-Khanji, 1973), 226. On his refusal to accept gifts, see Salih b. Ahmad, Sirat al-imam Ahmad b. Hanbal (Alexandria: Muʾassasat Shahab al-Jamiʿa, 1981–), 30. 15. ʿIzz al-Din ʿAli b. al-Athir, al-Kamil fi l-taʾrikh, 12 vols. (Beirut: Dar Sadir, 1966), 8:14–16. This translation appears in Nimrod Hurvitz, “From Scholarly Circles to Mass Movements: The Formation of Legal Communities in Islamic Societies,” American Historical Review 108/4 (October 2003): 985–86. 16. Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, 8:16. 17. Ibn Abi Yaʿla, Tabaqat, 2:44; the story also appears in Muhammad b. ʿAbd al-­ Malik al-Hamdani, Takmilat taʾrikh al-Tabari, 2nd ed., ed. A. Y. Kanaʿan (Beirut: al-Matbaʿa al-Katholikiyya, 1961), 91. 18. Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, 8:204. 19. Ahmad b. Muhammad al-Miskawayh, Tajarib al-umam, 6 vols. (Cairo: Sharikat al-Tadammin al-Sinaʿiya, 1914), 1:322. Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, 8:230. The letter in al-Kamil emphasizes different aspects such as anthropomorphism. Both letters refer to the low standing of Ibn Hanbal and the hypocrisy of preventing visitation of graves while visiting Ibn Hanbal’s grave. 20. Ibn Abi Yaʿla, Tabaqat, 2:35. 21. Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, 8:307. For a different translation of this passage, see Bernard Lewis, Islam, 2 vols. (New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1974), 2:19. Some parts of Lewis’s translation appear verbatim in this translation. 22. For a comprehensive study of al-amr bi-l-maʿruf, see Cook, Commanding Right. 23. Ibid., 116–18. 24. Hurvitz, “From Scholarly Circles,” 999. 25. On the use of terms such as zahid and ʿabid in the tenth and eleventh centuries, see Ephrat, A Learned Society, 48–49. 26. Wael Hallaq, Sharia, Theory, Practice Transformations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 128. For a general statement on the importance of styles of piety and their impact on Islamic history, see Marshall G. S. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilization, 3 vols. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974), 1:359–409. 27. This paragraph is a terse summary of Nimrod Hurvitz, “Biographies and Mild Asceticism: A Study of Islamic Moral Imagination,” Studia Islamica 85 (1997): 57–64. 28. Karamustafa, Sufism, 39. 29. For a detailed study of the connection between expressions of piety and social standing, see Daphna Ephrat, Spiritual Wayfarers, Leaders in Piety, Sufis and the

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Dissemination of Islam in Medieval Palestine (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008). 30. Most of the information about “commanding and forbidding” is based upon Cook, Commanding Right. 31. Ibid., 488. 32. Ibid., 72. 33. See C. E. Bosworth, “Karrāmiyya,  ” in Encyclopedia of Islam, 2nd ed., 12 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1954–2004), 4:667–69. 34. Cook, Commanding Right, 489, n. 166. 35. Ibid., 489.

Chapter 2 Research for this article was carried out at the Netherlands Institute for Advanced Study in Wassenaar, where I was a fellow during the academic year 2009–10. 1. Miguel Asín Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba y su historia crítica de las ideas religiosas, 5 vols. (Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 1927–32; reprint Madrid: Ediciones Turner, 1984), 1:136–39. 2. David Wasserstein, The Rise and Fall of the Party-Kings: Politics and Society in Islamic Spain, 1002–1086 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985), 78–81. 3. See Christopher Melchert, The Formation of the Sunni Schools of Law, 9th–10th Centuries C.E. (Leiden: Brill, 1997), for a discussion of the origins and spread of the different schools of law, including the Zahiriyya. 4. On the history of the Zahiri school in al-Andalus before and during the lifetime of Ibn Hazm, see Ignaz Goldziher, The Zāhirīs,  Their Doctrine and Their History: A Contribution to the History of Islamic Theology, trans. and ed. Wolfgang Behn with an introduction by Camilla Adang (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2008); Camilla Adang, “The Beginnings of the Zahiri Madhhab in al-Andalus,” in The Islamic School of Law: Evolution, Devolution, and Progress, ed. Peri Bearman, Rudolph Peters, and Frank E. Vogel (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005), 117–25, 241–44; idem, “The Spread of Zahirism in al-Andalus in the Post-Caliphal Period: The Evidence from the Biographical Dictionaries,” in Ideas, Images, and Methods of Portrayal: Insights into Classical Arabic Literature and Islam, ed. Sebastian Günther (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2005), 297–346; Tawfiq al-Ghalbzuri, Al-Madrasa al-zahiriyya bi-l-Maghrib wa-l-Andalus (Riyadh: Maktabat wa-Dar Ibn Hazm, 1427/2006). 5. On Ibn Muflit, see al-Ghalbzuri, Al-Madrasa al-zahiriyya, 213–17. The Arabic sources devote no more than a few lines to the modest and self-effacing Ibn Muflit. Ibn Hazm, who often took center stage in politically or religiously motivated drama, is the object of numerous lengthy entries in the Arabic biographical dictionaries and the author of a great many works. For a biographical sketch, see José Miguel Puerta Vílchez, “Abū Muhammad ʿAlī Ibn Hazm,  ” in Ibn Hazm  of Cordoba: The Life and Works of a Controversial Thinker, ed. C. Adang, M. Fierro, and S. Schmidtke (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 3–24. 6. According to Ibn Hazm, Muslims who take other fallible humans as models to be imitated are in clear transgression; they are no better than the Jews and the Christians, who are scolded in the Qurʾan for paying excessive reverence to their religious leaders.



Notes to pages 51–54 281

7. On Malik and the school carrying his name, see Joseph Schacht, “Mālik b. Anas,”

in The Encyclopaedia of Islam, new ed., 12 vols. (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1954–2004; hereafter EI2), 6:262–65; and N. Cottart, “Mālikiyya,” in EI2, 6:278–83. On the veneration of Malik in al-Andalus, see Abdel-Magid Turki, “La vénération pour Mâlik et la physionomie du mâlikisme andalou,” Studia Islamica 33 (1971): 41–65; and R. Brunschvig, “Polémiques médiévales autour du rite de Mâlik,” Al-Andalus 15 (1950): 377–435. 8. These views are expressed by Ibn Hazm in several of his numerous works. See, for example, al-Risālah al-bāhirah (The Magnificent Epistle), trans. Muhammad Saghir Hasan al-Maʿsumi (Kuala Lumpur: ISTAC, 1996); al-Nubdha al-kāfiya fī usūl ahkām al-dīn, translated in Adam Sabra, “Ibn Hazm’s  Literalism: A Critique of Islamic Legal Theory,” in Ibn Hazm  of Cordoba, ed. Adang et al., 97–160; and my essay “‘This day have I perfected your religion for you’: A Zahiri Conception of Religious Authority,” in Speaking for Islam: Religious Authorities in Muslim Societies, ed. Gudrun Krämer and Sabine Schmidtke (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 5–48, for a discussion of his views. 9. Interestingly, we find echoes of these ideas in Al-Halal wa-l-haram fi l-Islam (also available in an English translation under the title The Lawful and Prohibited in Islam) by the influential contemporary thinker Yusuf al-Qaradawi, who also writes that the truth is not the monopoly of any of the madhhabs. For further discussion of al-Qaradawi’s perception of authority, see Muhammad al-Atawneh’s essay in this volume. 10. On these kingdoms, see Wasserstein, The Rise and Fall of the Party-Kings. 11. Quoted by al-Dhahabī, Siyar aʿlam al-nubalaʾ, ed. Shuʿayb al-Arnaʾut et al., 25 vols. (Beirut: Muʾassasat al-Risala, 1410/1990), 18:189. 12. Maribel Fierro, “The Introduction of Hadīth  in al-Andalus (2nd/8th–3rd/9th Centuries),” Der Islam 66 (1989): 68–93; idem, “Proto-Malikis, Malikis, and Reformed Malikis in al-Andalus,” in The Islamic School of Law, 57–76, 227–33. 13. Referred to by name in the epistle translated below, and see note 25 below. 14. See Samir Kaddouri, “Identificación de un manuscrito andalusí anónimo de una obra contra Ibn Hazm  al-Qurtubī (m. 456/1064),” al-Qantara 22/2 (2001): 299–319. 15. For a brief biographical entry, see Ibn al-Abbar, al-Takmila li-Kitab al-sila, ed. Francisco Codera, 2 vols. (Madrid: Miguel Romero, 1889), 1:126. 16. On al-Baji, see Maribel Fierro, “Al-Baŷi, Abu l-Walid,” in Enciclopedia de al-­ Andalus: Diccionario de autores y obras andalusíes, ed. Jorge Lirola Delgado and José Miguel Puerta Vílchez (Granada: Junta de Andalucía, Fundación El Legado Andalusí, n.d.), 1:118–23. 17. MS Shahid ʿAli Pasha 2704, ff. 163r–67v. I thank Dr. Nevzet Kaya, the former director of the Süleymaniye Library, for permission to consult the manuscript in 2006. Most of the rasaʾil contained in the manuscript were edited by Ihsan ʿAbbas in Rasaʾil Ibn Hazm, 4 vols. (Beirut: al-Muʾassasa al-ʿArabiyya li-l-Dirasat wa-lNashr, 1981). For the present epistle, see ibid., 3:117–28. Our text is closely related to another entitled Risalatān ajaba fihima ʿan risalatayn suʾila fihima suʾal taʾnif (Two Epistles in Which He Replied to Two Earlier Epistles in Which He Was Queried in a Rude Manner: 3:71–116). These so-called risalatan (which in fact

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only contain the replies to one real or fictitious epistle) should probably be read together with the one presented here, even though they do not appear consecutively in the manuscript, unlike in Ihsan ʿAbbas’s edition. It may even be the earlier anonymous letter referred to by Ibn Hazm that he refutes here. I propose to publish an analysis and translation of the risalatan elsewhere. 18. See Wasserstein, The Rise and Fall of the Party-Kings, 202–3. 19. See Kaddouri, “Identificación de un manuscrito,” 316–18. 20. A prime example of Ibn Hazm’s well-known polemical style. 21. According to a saying attributed to the Prophet, anyone engaging in ijtihad will be rewarded in the afterlife for those efforts; if the believer should arrive at the truth, the reward will be doubled. 22. This verse would seem to have been written by Ibn Hazm himself; see Diwan al-imam Ibn Hazm al-Zahiri, ed. Subhi Rashad ʿAbd al-Karim (Tanta: Dar al-­ Sahaba li-l-Turath, 1410/1990) (89), in which all known fragments of Ibn Hazm’s poetry have been collected (apart from those included in Tawq al-hamama). 23. The idea expressed in this tradition is that as time goes by the religion will become increasingly corrupted and ever fewer people will remain who are prepared to stand up and defend true Islam. On this hadith and its interpretations, see Maribel Fierro, “Spiritual Alienation and Political Activism: The Ġurabāʾ in al-Andalus during the Sixth/Twelfth Century,” Arabica 47/2 (2000): 230–60; and Sebastian Günther, “‘In our days, religion has once again become something alien’: Al-Khattabi’s Critique of the State of Religious Learning in Tenth-Century Islam,” American Journal of Islamic Social Sciences 25/3 (2008): 1–30. This hadith must have had a particular appeal for Ibn Hazm, who regarded himself as one of the few Muslims who remained loyal to the legacy of the Prophet and had not turned to an alternative source of authority. He saw it as his mission to bring people back to the original and unadulterated teachings of Islam. 24. See Kaddouri, “Identificación de un manuscrito,” 314–16. 25. This would be Ibn Sahl if Kaddouri’s identification of “the one who shouts from afar” is correct. I have not been able to identify al-ʿUtaqi, but he must have been another Maliki opponent who earned Ibn Hazm’s scorn. 26. Apparently a verse by Ibn Hazm’s own hand, even though it is not included in the Diwan; see note 22 above. 27. Jarir is not known to have written these verses, but they occur, with some variations, in the Diwan of al-Shafiʿi and are also ascribed to others.

Chapter 3 I would like to thank Etan Kohlberg, Arzina Lalani, and Michael Ebstein for reading and commenting on early drafts of this essay. 1. Asma Afsaruddin, Excellence and Precedence: Medieval Islamic Discourse on Legitimate Leadership (Leiden: Brill, 2002); Moshe Sharon, “Notes on the Question of the Legitimacy of the Government in Islam,” Israel Oriental Studies 10 (1980): 116–23; idem, “The Development of the Debate around the Legitimacy of the Authority in Early Islam,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 5 (1984): 121–41. 2. For recent contributions, see Maria Massi Dakake, The Charismatic Community: Shiʿite Identity in Early Islam (Albany: SUNY Press, 2007).



Notes to pages 65–67 283

3. Najam Haider, The Origins of the Shiʿa: Identity, Ritual, and Sacred Space in

Eighth-Century Kūfa (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 189–214; Arzina R. Lalani, Early Shiʿi Thought: The Teachings of Imam Muhammad al-Baqir (London: I. B. Tauris, 2000), 48–52; Wilferd Madelung, “Imāma,” in Encyclopedia of Islam, 2nd ed., 12 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1954–2004; hereafter EI2), 3:1166. 4. Etan Kohlberg, “The Evolution of the Shīʿa,” in Belief and Law in Imāmī Shīʿism (Aldershot: Variorum, 1991), chap. 1, 4; Heinz Halm, Shiʿism (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1991), 206–7. Said Amir Arjomand points put that the sectarian boundary between the Imamiyya and the Zaydiyya was still tenuous in the beginning of the ninth century: Arjomand, “The Crisis of the Imāmate and the Institution of Occultation in Twelver Shiʿism: A Socio-historical Perspective,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 28 (1996): 496. 5. Henry Corbin, History of Islamic Philosophy (London: Kegan Paul, 1993), 3–4, 61–70; Patricia Crone, Medieval Islamic Political Thought (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2005), 117. 6. Wilferd Madelung, “Imāmism and Muʿtazilite Theology,” in Le Shîisme Imāmite, ed. Toufic Fahd (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1970), 28–29; Uri Ribin, “Prophets and Progenitors in Early Shiʿa Tradition,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 1 (1979): 45–51. 7. Charles Pellat, “Fatra,” in EI2, 2:865; Etan Kohlberg, “Some Shiʿī Views of the Antediluvian World,” Studia Islamica 52 (1980): 47–48, note 5. The fatra period between Idris and Noah (Q 5:19) serves as a proof text for the main fatra period between Jesus and Muhammad. See also A. J. Wensinck, “Muhammad and the Prophets,” in The Life of Muhammad, ed. Uri Rubin (Aldershot: Ashgate 1998), 325. 8. See Yohanan Friedmann, “Finality of Prophethood in Sunnī Islām,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 7 (1986): 177–215. 9. Wilferd Madelung, Religious Trends in Early Iran (Albany NY: Persian Heritage Foundation, 1988), 78. 10. See Binyamin Abrahamov, “Al-Asim ibn Ibrāhīm’s Theory of Imamate,” Arabica 34 (1987): 88, 96–99, for an example of a Zaydi writer basing his refutation of the Imami doctrine of wasiyya on the historical argument of fatarat. 11. James W. Morris, ed. and trans., The Master and the Disciple—An Early Islamic Spiritual Dialogue (London: I. B. Tauris, 2001), 164–65, for a fierce polemic defending the argument of uninterrupted historical guidance against the argument of fatarat by the Ismaʿili writer Jaʿfar b. Mansur al-Yaman (d. 957). See also Meir M. Bar-Asher, Scripture and Exegesis in Early Imāmī-Shiism (Leiden, Brill/Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1999), 140ff., for a comprehensive discussion on the relations between prophets and imams in the Imami literature. 12. Uri Rubin, “Prophets and Progenitors in Early Shiʿa Tradition,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 1 (1979): 45–51; Etan Kohlberg, “Wasī,” in EI2, 11:161. 13. Patricia Crone and Martin Hinds, God’s Caliph: Religious Authority in the First Centuries of Islam (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 2–3, 17, 19, 99ff.; Etan Kohlberg, “In Praise of the Few,” in Studies in Islamic and Middle Eastern Texts and Traditions in Memory of Norman Calder, ed. M. G. A. Hawting, J. A. Mojaddedi, and A. Samely (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 149–62;

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idem, “‘Evil’ in Shiʿism,” in Encyclopedia Iranica, 16 vols. (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1982–; hereafter EIr), 9:82–84; Mohammad ʿAli Amir-Moezzi, The Spirituality of Shīʿī Islam: Beliefs and Practices (London: I. B. Tauris: 2011), 279–81. 14. Uri Rubin, “Pre-existence and Light: Aspects of the Concept of nūr Mu hammad,” Israel Oriental Studies 5 (1975): 62–119; idem, “Prophets and Progenitors,” 41–65; Muhammad ʿAli Amir-Moezzi, The Divine Guide in Early Shīʿism: The Sources of Esotericism in Islam (Albany: SUNY Press, 1994), 40–24; Amir-Moezzi, The Spirituality of Shīʿī Islam, 158–68; Lalani, Early Shīʿī Thought, 79–82. 15. Azim A. Nanji, “An Ismāʿīlī Theory of Walāyah in the Daʿāʾim al-Islām of Qā dī alNuʿmān,” in Essays in Islamic Civilization: Presented to Niyazi Berkes, ed. Donald P. Little (Leiden: Brill, 1976), 270; Paul E. Walker, Early Philosophical Shīʿism: The Ismāʾīlī Neoplatonism of Abū Yaʿqūb al-Sijistānī (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 3–4; Tahera Qutbuddin, al-Muayyad al-Shīrāzī and Fātimid Daʿwa Poetry: A Case of Commitment in Classical Arabic Literature (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 149–50. 16. On the disagreement between Ismaʿili authors concerning Adam’s status as a bearer of written divine law, see Shin Nomoto, “Early Ismāʿīlī Thought on Prophecy according to the Kitāb al-Islāh by Abū Hātim  al-Rāzī (d. ca. 322/934–35)” (PhD diss., McGill University, 1999), 98–105; Daniel de-Smet, “Adam, premier prophète et législateur? La doctrine chiite des ulû al-ʿazm et la controverse sur la pérennité de la sharîʿa,” in Le Shîisme Imâmite quarante ans après: Hommage à Etan Kohlberg, ed. M. A. Amir-Moezzi and S. Hopkins (Turnhout: Brepols, 2009), 187–202. 17. Wilferd Madelung, “Aspects of Ismāʿīlī Theology: The Prophetic Chain and the God Beyond Being,” in Ismāʿīlī Contributions to Islamic Culture, ed. Seyyed Hossein Nasr (Tehran: Imperial Iranian Academy of Philosophy, 1977), 54–55; idem, “Imāma,” in EI2, 3:1167; Henry Corbin, Cyclical Time and Ismāʿīlī Gnosis (London: Routledge, 1983), 42–43; Farhad Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs: Their History and Doctrines (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 131–32. 18. Amir-Moezzi, The Divine Guide, 28; Said Amir Arjomand, “The Consolation of Theology: Absence of the Imam and the Transition from Chiliasm to Law in Shīʿism,” Journal of Religion 76/4 (October 1996): 551–52. 19. Etan Kohlberg, “Shīʿī Hadīth,  ” in Arabic Literature at the End of the Umayyad Period, ed. A. F. L. Beerson, T. M. Johnstone, R. B. Serjeant, and G. R. Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 1983), 299–307; idem, “Al-usūl al-arbaʿumia,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 10 (1987): 128–66; Wilferd Madelung, Religious Trends in Early Islamic Iran (Albany, NY: Persian Heritage Foundation, 1988), 78–82; Hossein Modarressi, Tradition and Survival: A Bibliographical Survey of Early Shīʿite Literature, vol. 1 (Oxford: Oneworld, 2003); Najam Haider, The Origins of the Shīʿa: Identity, Ritual and Sacred Space in Eighth-Century Kūfa (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011). 20. See Scott C. Lucas, Constructive Critics, Hadīth  Literature, and the Articulation of Sunnī Islam: The Legacy of the Generation of Ibn Saʿd, Ibn Maʿīn and Ibn Han bal (Leiden: Brill, 2004); Andrew J. Newman, The Formative Period of Twelver Shīʿism: Hadīth  Discourse between Qumm and Baghdad (Richmond: Curzon Press, 2000).



Notes to pages 69–73 285

21. See Etan Kohlberg, “Imām and Community in the Pre-Ghayba Period,” in Authority and Political Culture in Shīʿism, ed. Said Amir Arjomand (Albany: SUNY

Press, 1988), 25–37, for a nuanced discussion of this problem. See also Ismail K. Poonawala, “The Imām’s Authority during the Pre-Ghaybah Period: Theoretical and Practical Considerations,” in Shīʿite Heritage, ed. L. Clarke (Binghamton: Eagle’s Nest Publications, 2001), 105–10. See also Amir-Moezzi, The Spirituality of Shīʿī Islam, 147, for an example of a tradition in which the chain of transmission goes back from imam to imam as far as the Prophet. 22. For the routinization of the imam’s authority and the evolution of the circles of hadith transmitters in the pre-ghayba period, see Liyakat N. Takim, The Heirs of the Prophet: Charisma and Religious Authority in Shīʿite Islam (Albany: SUNY Press, 2006), chap. 3. 23. See Friedmann, “Finality of Prophethood,” 206–7, for references to this saying in the hadith literature. 24. Wilferd Madelung, “Authority in Twelver Shīʿism in the Absence of the Imām,” in La notion d’autorité au moyen âge, ed. G. Makdisi, D. Sourdel, and J. Sourdel-Thomine (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1982), 163–73; Devin J. Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy: Twelver Shīʿite Responses to the Sunnī Legal System (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1998), 209ff; Takim, The Heirs of the Prophet, 35–36. 25. Heinz Halm, The Empire of the Mahdi: The Rise of the Fatimids (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 5–140. 26. Farhad Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs in Medieval Muslim Societies (London: I. B. Tauris, 2005), 62–88; idem, The Ismāʿīlīs, 107–16, 216–22; Heinz Halm, “Methods and Forms of the Earliest Ismāʿīlī Daʿwa,” in Shīʿism, ed. Etan Kohlberg (Aldershot: Variorum, 2003), 277–90; idem, The Fatimids and Their Traditions of Learning (London: I. B. Tauris, 1997), 56–70. 27. Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs, 221–22; Ismail K. Poonawala, “Al-Qā dī al-Nuʿmān and Ismāʿīlī Jurisprudence,” in Mediaeval Ismāʿīlī History and Thought, ed. F. Daftary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 125–26. 28. Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs, 361–66, 381–82, 431–34, 464, 473–74, 484, 487. 29. Ibid., 275–76, 292–94, 298; idem, The Ismāʿīlīs in Medieval Muslim Societies, 75–76, 83, 98. 30. Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs, 222; Poonawala, “Al-Qā dī al-Nuʿmān,” 125–31; idem, “Hadīth  in Ismāʿīlīsm,” in Eir, 11:449–50. The known Ismaʿili hadith literature is scant and is not the product of circles of Ismaʿili transmitters but rather of one author: al-Qadi al-Nuʿman (d. 974). Al-Nuʿman based his hadith works on Imami and Zaydi collections of traditions available to him. Cf. Wilferd Madelung, “The Sources of Ismāʿīlī Law,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 35 (1976): 29–40. 31. Daftary, The Ismāʿīlīs, 238ff. 32. Amir-Moezzi, The Divine Guide (especially the appendix); idem, The Spirituality of Shīʿī Islam (especially chap. 14).

Chapter 4 This essay is a revised and updated expansion of a Hebrew study that first appeared in Daat 4 (Winter 1980): 5–16. Source material in Hebrew and Aramaic is given in fuller form in the earlier version.

286

Notes to pages 73–75

1. For a survey of the geonic epoch and its impact on medieval Jewish culture,

see Robert Brody, The Geonim of Babylonia and the Shaping of Medieval Jewish Culture (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998). For a treatment of the geonic attitude to Oral Law, see Moshe Halbertal, People of the Book: Canon, Meaning, and Authority (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), 55–59. For different rabbinic perspectives on Oral Law as a whole, see Yohanan Silman, The Voice Heard at Sinai—Once or Ongoing? ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 1999; in Hebrew). For a developmental account, see Martin S. Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); for a somewhat different view of the significance of orality in talmudic culture, see Menahem Hirshman, The Stabilization of Rabbinic Culture, 100 CE–350 CE (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). S. Havelin, “On Literary Closure as the Marker of Halakhic Periodization,” in Studies in Talmudic Literature ( Jerusalem: Israel Science Foundation, 2003; in Hebrew), touches as well on the role and posture of Sherira (180–83). 2. For Sherira, the most ample treatment is the nineteenth-century work by I. H. Weiss, Dor Dor (New York: Platt and Minkus, 1924), part 4, 106–74. See also S. W. Baron, Social and Religious History of the Jews, 2nd ed. (New York: Columbia University Press, 1952–93), 204–6, 425–27; Gerald J. Blidstein, “Sherira Gaon,” in Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. Mircea Eliade, 16 vols. (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1987), 13:241; M. Havazelet, “Sherira ben Hanina Gaon,” in Encyclopedia Judaica, ed. Fred Skolnik, 2nd ed., 22 vols. (Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA in association with the Keter Pub. House, 2007; hereafter EJ2), 18:463. On Sherira’s impact, see also Martin S. Jaffee, “Oral Tradition in the Writings of Rabbinic Oral Torah: On Theorizing Rabbinic Orality,” Oral Tradition 14/1 (1999): 9, note 12, though as we shall see Sherira’s contribution is more nuanced than is sometimes thought. For the impact of Sherira on medieval (and modern!) terminology, see Yona Frankel, Rashi’s Methodology in His Exegesis of the Babylonian Talmud ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 1975; in Hebrew), 29ff.; and Chanoch Albeck, Introduction to the Talmud ( Jerusalem: Mosad ha-Rav Kuk, 1969; in Hebrew), 3–5. Given the frequency of Sherira’s co-authorship of many works with his son Hai, the possibility has been raised that the Epistle also reflects Hai’s contribution. See H. Z. Hirschberg, A History of the Jews in North Africa, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1974), 1:314, note 5. 3. See Benjamin M. Lewin’s edition of the Epistle (Haifa: Hevra le-Sifrut ha-Yahadut, 1921; in Hebrew), 5–10 (quotations from the Epistle are from this edition). Lewin printed the Epistle in matching versions, based on the assumption that these versions represented distinct “French” and “Spanish” recensions. This assumption is no longer current: see Ismar Elbogen, “Wie steht es um die zwei Rezensionen des Sherira-Briefes?” Festschrift des Judisch-Theologischen Seminars Fraeckelscher Stiftung 2 (Breslau, 1929): 61–84. The assumption that the Karaite challenge provided the cultural context for Sherira’s Epistle is challenged in Menahem Ben-Sasson, The Emergence of the Local Jewish Community in the Muslim World— Qayrawan 800–1057 ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 1996; in Hebrew), 41–53. 4. Brinkley M. Messick makes this observation in his book The Calligraphic State: Textual Domination and History in a Muslim Society (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 16–17. 5. Steven D. Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary: Torah and Its Interpretation in



Notes to pages 75–79 287

Sifre to Deuteronomy (Albany: SUNY Press, 1991), chap. 2; idem, “Literary Composition and Oral Performance in Early Midrashim,” Oral Tradition 14/1 (1999): 43–46. See Michael L. Chernick, A Great Voice That Did Not Cease: The Growth of the Rabbinic Canon and Its Interpretation (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 2009), 215–16, for discussion and a bibliography. 6. See Shlomo Naeh, “On the Writing of the Torah in Rabbinic Literature, I,” Leshonenu 70 (2008): 125–48 (in Hebrew); idem, “On the Writing of the Torah in Rabbinic Literature, II,” Leshonenu 72 (2010): 89–123 (in Hebrew). 7. Epistle, 22. 8. See Martin S. Jafee, “Oral Transmission of Knowledge as Rabbinic Sacrament: An Overlooked Aspect of Discipleship in Oral Torah,” in Study and Knowledge in Jewish Thought, ed. Howard T. Kreisel, vol. 1 (Beer Sheva: Ben Gurion University of the Negev Press, 2006), 65–79. 9. Epistle, 18, 21–22. 10. Epistle, 18, 20, 29, 48. See also Benjamin M. Lewin, Otsar ha-geʿonim, I (Berakhot) ( Jerusalm: H. Vagshai, 1984), part 1, 6. 11. The Mishnah is generally dated to 220 CE and was compiled in the Land of Israel. With its compilation by Judah the Patriarch, who lent it his authority, it became gradually acknowledged as the central extrascriptural text of rabbinic Jewry. The two Talmuds—of Babylon and of the Land of Israel—devolve from and relate to the Mishnah. For broad surveys and bibliography, see Hermann Strack and Günter Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992), 119–67; Menachem Elon, Jewish Law, vol. 3 (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1994), 1049–78; and S. Wald, “Mishnah,” EJ2, 14:319–31; on the literary and ideological characteristics of Mishnah, see David Halivni, Midrash, Mishnah, and Gemara (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1986), 38–66. 12. Epistle, 18, 21–22. This position of Sherira’s is confirmed in Jaffee’s observation: “Rabbinic oral-performative tradition . . . incorporates aspects of rote memorization of documents (fixed-text transmission) and more fluid oral performative aspects (free-text transmission). The former activity . . . was eventually used for mastery of the Mishnaic tractates alone” (ibid., note 24). 13. The enactment itself is found in b. Rosh ha-Shana 34a; the geonic responsum is given in Otsar ha-geʾonim, V (Rosh ha-Shana), 3. i, 60ff.; the relevant section is on 63ff. Interestingly, the addressee of this responsum, also sent to Qayrawan, was identical with the recipient of Sherira’s Epistle. 14. Epistle, 8. 15. Eruvin, 13b. 16. Peschim, 66a, and Epistle, 7–8. 17. Epistle, 51–52. From the talmudic period on, a fundamental distinction was made between knowledge of the body of a text and understanding of it. This didactic perspective found broad application in the Epistle. 18. Eruvin, 54b. Maimonides cites this tradition in his Introduction to the Commentary on the Mishnah. 19. Epistle, 20–21, 24–25, 29, 48. 20. See Frankel, Rashi’s Methodology, 23–30. 21. Epistle, 31.

288

Notes to pages 79–81

22. Epistle, 10. See also Isador Twersky, Introduction to the Code of Maimonides (New

Haven: Yale University Press, 1980). The theory that the dispersion had a deleterious effect upon the transmission of the tradition is found already in Seadia: “the ancients began to compile the Mishnah forty years after the building of the Second Temple . . . [when] prophecy ceased they saw themselves dispersed and feared lest the tradition be forgotten.” Cited by Abraham A. Harkavy, Zikhron la-rishonim, 8 vols. (St. Petersburg: Studien und Mittheilungen aus der Kaiserlichen Oeffentichen Bibliothek, 1892), 5:194. For a general discussion of the historical and ideational significance of geographic dispersion, see Isador Twersky, “Maimonides and Eretz Israel: Halakhic, Philosophic, and Historical Perspective,” in Perspectives on Maimonides, ed. J. Kraemer (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 257–90. 23. See Arukh, s. v. “Abaye”: “The (men) of the earlier generations were so great that there was no need to confer ordination and its titles upon them . . . the custom [of ordaining] began, we have heard, only from the time of Rabban Gamliel the Elder and his son Rabbi Simeon, who was killed during the destruction of the Second Temple.” Similarly Hai and Sherira believed that the original Hebrew script degenerated from the time of the destruction (of the First Temple) on: Abraham A. Harkavy, ed., Responsa of the Geʾonim ( Jerusalem, 1966; in Hebrew), 181; compare Rashi, Sanhedrin, 22a, s.v. bekhtav. 24. Epistle, 31. 25. Epistle, 62–64. 26. These are two of the chambers of the Temple in Jerusalem. The width of the door of ulam was 20 cubits; that of the hekhal, 10 cubits. 27. Eruvin, 53a. 28. For the history of these motifs in Jewish historiography, see Twersky, Introduction to the Code of Maimonides, 62–74, esp. 71ff.; and idem, Rabad of Posquières (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1962), 166ff. For a survey of the motif of continuous decline in the ancient world, see Ludwig Edelstein, The Idea of Progress in Classical Antiquity (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1967), xi–xxxiii. Generally both Sherira and the talmudic tradition as a whole prefer to describe the phenomenon of decline without pinning its etiology on human nature. For more recent treatment of these motifs in the context of the writing of Oral Torah, see Moshe Halbertal, “What Is the Mishneh Torah: On Codification and Ambivalence,” in Maimonides after 800 Years, ed. Jay M. Harris (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007): 87–88, note 7. 29. Lewin claims in his “Introduction” to the Epistle (xii) that this attitude toward the Talmud explains why Sherira prefers communal custom to the talmudic norm. But despite his explicit statement in this spirit, it appears from Sherira’s halakhic decisions (or at least Hai’s) that he preferred the talmudic norm to the communal custom; see Z. Groner, “Rav Hai Gaʾon and His Halakhic Method” (PhD diss., Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1974; in Hebrew), 142ff. 30. Epistle, 52–53, 63–64, 69; see also Frankel, Rashi’s Methodology, 1–32; Israel M. TaShma, Ritual Custom and Reality ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 1996; in Hebrew), 72–74. See also M. Kellner, Maimonides on the “Decline of the Generations” (Albany: SUNY Press, 1996), 7–26.



Notes to pages 82–84 289

31. Epistle, 12, 17. 32. Epistle, 22. 33. Epistle, 21. 34. Yaakov N. Epstein, Mevoʾot le-sifrut ha-tannaim ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 1957), 71. 35. Epistle, 20. 36. Epistle, 23: “Providence was at work.” The possibility that “one could infer much

from even a single detail in the Mishnah was a product of heavenly aid” (Epistle, 36). The status of the Mishnah is such that one “should not add to it or subtract from it” (7), a formula that is reminiscent of the status of scripture and of the traditions of Great Assembly (17, 21). The Mishnah of Judah was formulated similarly to Moses repeating what he heard from the mouth of God (23; note textual variants). So, too, divine aid was extended to those who studied Torah during Second Temple days (22). Maimonides likewise claimed that the Talmud in “the beauty of its composition and its great usefulness testifies that it contains the spirit of God” (Introduction to the Commentary on the Mishnah, translated J. Kapah [Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson Inc. 1995]), I, 22b, 25b at note 50. Some of these claims are reminiscent of similar claims made for the Qurʾan. 37. On the variety of opinions presented in the Mishnah, see Elon, Jewish Law, 1070–72. 38. Epistle, 29–30. According to Samson of Sens, the first opinion reflects the aphorism that “these and these [are both] words of the living God.” This aphorism is lacking in the Epistle, as already pointed out; cf. Maimonides, Introduction to the Commentary, 12–13. But Sherira also knew that Judah the Patriarch sometimes adopted the minority opinion; see Epistle, 53–54; and Simha Assaf, The Geonic Period and Its Literature ( Jerusalem: Mosad ha-Rav Kuk, 1955; in Hebrew), 235, par. 37. 39. Epistle, 30. 40. This assertion is somewhat puzzling, because the pre-mishnaic compilations did not claim authoritative status, according to Sherira. 41. Epistle, 30. See the so-called Spanish revision, which limits the consensus to the population of the Land of Israel and recalls certain Maimonidean themes. See also Yaakov Blidstein, Authority and Dissent in Maimonidean Law (Tel Aviv: haKibutz ha-Meuhad, 2002; in Hebrew), 93–95); and G. Libson, “Maimonides and the Islamic Law of His Period,” in Maimonides: Conservatism, Originality, Revolution, ed. Aviezer Ravitzky, 2 vols. ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 2008; in Hebrew), 1:278–85. Maimonides used the idea of a “double consensus”— of the entire people of Israel and of the sages of Israel—to establish the authority of the Talmud, not the Mishnah; Sherira also asserted that the majority of the sages of Israel participated in the house of study of Rava (Epistle, 86). The Maimonidean identification (Laws of  Talmud Torah, 1, 11) of Midrash with Talmud apparently derives from Sherira. 42. Epistle, 49, 51. 43. Sifra and Sifrei are tannaitic collections. See Strack and Stemberger, Introduction, 254ff. 44. B. De Vries, Toldot ha-halakha ha-Talmudit (Tel Aviv: Abraham Tzioni, 1962), 10. The determination of precedence (midrash or mishnah) is a major crux of scholarship. See Halivni, Midrash; Jay M. Harris, “How Do We Know This?”—Midrash

290

Notes to pages 84–99

and the Fragmentation of Modern Judaism (Albany: SUNY Press, 1995), 1–25 and 73–86, for the geonim specifically. 45. Epistle, 52. 46. Epistle, 29, 52, 66. 47. Epistle, 9. I discuss further adoption of this perspective by the tenth-century north African Rabbi Hananel in “The Ideological Dimensions of Rabbi Hananel’s Comments to the Talmud,” Sidra l5 (1999): 5–11 (in Hebrew). 48. Hullin 6b. 49. This idea is also not found in Muslim jurisprudence; see Joseph Schacht, An Introduction to Islamic Law (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982), chaps. 7, 26. 50. See note 13 above. 51. Inasmuch as Jewish law allows—even encourages—decision-making by majority vote on both the theoretical and judicial levels, it is apparent that assignment of majority status will be significant. 52. Hullim 85a, Epistle, 26–27, 54–55. 53. See Gerald J. Blidstein, ”Maimonides on Oral Law,” Jewish Law Annual 1 (1978): 108–22; and idem, “Oral Law as Institution in Maimonides,” in The Thought of Moses Maimonides, ed. Ira Robinson et al. (Lewiston, NY/Lampeter: Mellen, 1990), 167–82. Halbertal, “What Is the Mishneh Torah,” touches in a number of places on the contrast between Sherira and Maimonides.

Part 2 Overview 1. On this period and the construction of religious authority, see Jonathan Berkey,

The Formation of Islam: Religion and Society in the Near East, 600–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 177–257. 2. On the ruling authorities who severely punished theosophist and antinomian Sufis, see Daniella Talmon-Heller, “Religion in the Public Sphere: Rulers, Scholars, and Commoners in Syria under Zangid and Ayyubid Rule (1150–1260),” in The Public Sphere in Muslim Societies, ed. Miriam Hexter, Shmuel N. Eisenstadt, and Nehemia Levtzion (Albany: SUNY Press, 2002): 51–52. 3. Nathan C. Hofer, “Sufism, State, and Society in Ayyubid and Early Mamluk Egypt, 1173–1309” (PhD dissertation, Emory University, 2011). 4. Meir Ben Shahar, chapter 7, p. 132 in this volume. 5. Ibn Khaldun, al-Muqaddima, ed. M. Quatremère, trans. Franz Rosenthal, 3 vols. (Paris: Didot, 1858), 3:3–4; 2nd ed. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967), 3:5–6. 6. Brian Stock, The Implications of Literacy: Written Language and Models of Interpretation in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983). 7. See my book Popular Preaching and Religious Authority in the Medieval Islamic Near East (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2001).

Chapter 5 This research was supported by the Israel Science Foundation (Grant No. 46/11). 1. For recent contributions on the religious and institutional evolution of Sufism during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, see Erik S. Ohlander, Sufism in an Age



Notes to pages 99–102 291

of Transition: ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī and the Rise of the Islamic Mystical Brotherhoods (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2008); and Jamil M. Abun-Nasr, Muslim Communities of Grace: The Sufi Brotherhoods in Islamic Religious Life (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), 57–78. For a local setting, see my book Spiritual Wayfarers, Leaders in Piety: Sufis and the Dissemination of Islam in Medieval Palestine (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008), 70–128. 2. For examples in the context of eleventh-century Baghdad, see Daphna Ephrat, A Learned Society in a Period of Transition: The Sunni ʿUlamaʾ of Eleventh-Century Baghdad (Albany: SUNY Press, 2000), 54–55, 90. 3. See Nimrod Hurvitz’s contribution to this volume and the references there. 4. Abu l-Najib al-Suhrawardi, Adab al-muridin, ed. with an introduction by M. Milson ( Jerusalem: Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 1978), 3. 5. For the importance of ascetic piety in the mystical journey and the contribution of ascetic ideals and actual practices to the mystic’s self-transformation and spiritual ascent, see Sara Sviri, “Self and Its Transformation in Sūfīsm, with Special Reference to Early Literature,” in Self and Self-Transformation in the History of Religions, ed. David Shulman and Guy G. Stroumsa (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 197. For a different outlook suggesting a linear transition from the early, lesser stage of asceticism to mysticism and the existence of a clear borderline between ascetic and mystical piety, see Christopher Melchert, “The Transition from Asceticism to Mysticism at the Middle of the Ninth Century C.E.,” Studia Islamica 83/1 (1996): 51–70. 6. On Muhammad al-Qaysarani and his treatises, see ʿUmar Rida Kahhala, Muʿjam al-muʾallifin, 10 vols. (Damascus: Matbaʿat al-Taraqi, 1960), 10:98–99; C. Brockelmann, Geschichte der Arabischen Literatur (GAL), 1 (pt. I): 355–56, Suppl. 1 (pt. I):306 (see also full bibliographies there). 7. Shams al-Din Muhammad al-Dhahabi, Siyar aʿlam al-nubalaʾ, ed. Shuʿayb al-­ Arnaʾut et al., 25 vols. (Beirut: Muʾassasat al-Risala, 1981–85), 19:363. 8. Taj al-Din al-Subki, Tabaqat al-shafiʿiyya al-kubra, ed. ʿA. F. M. al-Hilw and M. M. al-Tanahi, 10 vols. (Cairo: Matbaʿat ʿIsa al-Babi al-Halbi, 1964–76), 8:324–25; Ibn Kathir, al-Bidaya wa-l-nihaya, 14 vols. (Cairo: Matbaʿat al-Salafiyya, 1351 AH), 13:61; Ibn al-ʿImad al-Hanbali, Shadharat al-dhahab fi akhbar man dhahab, 10 vols. (Beirut: al-Maktab al-Tijari li l-Tinaʿa wa l-Nashr wa l-Tawziʿ, 1986–93), 5:52, 62; Shams al-Din Muhammad al-Dhahabi, al-ʿIbar fi khabar man ghabar, ed. S. al-Din Munajid and F. Sayyid, 4 vols. (Kuwait: Daʾirat al-Matbuʿat wa-l-Nashr. 1961–66), 5:23–24; Ibn Taghribirdi, al-Nujum al-zahira fi muluk misr wa l-qahira, 16 vols. (Cairo: al-Muaʾsassat al-Misriyya al-ʿAmma, 1963–72), 6:201–2. 9. Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1975), 199ff.; H. J. Kissling, “Abdāl,” in Encyclopedia of Islam, 2nd. ed., 12 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1954–2004), 1:94–95. 10. Sviri offers this explanation in “Self and Its Transformation,” 196. 11. Abu Hafs ʿUmar al-Suhrawardi, ʿAwarif al-maʿarif (Beirut: Dar al-Kitab al-ʿArabi, 1966), 45–47. 12. For an in-depth discussion of the distinctiveness and superiority of the Sufis in ʿUmar al-Suhrawardi’s writing, see Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, especially 140–48.

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Notes to pages 103–108

13. These include al-Dhahabi, al-ʿIbar, 4:250–51; Ibn Shakir Muhammad al-Kutubi, Fawat al-wafayat wa l-dhayl ʿalayhi, ed. Ihsan Abbas, 4 vols. (Beirut: Dar al-Sadir), 1:148–50; and Ibn al-ʿImad, Shadharat, 7:511–12. 14. Al-Subki, Tabaqat, 8:407–8. 15. Ibid., 8:401–2. 16. For examples, see Albrecht Hofheinz’s discussion of what he calls “visions in prac-

tice” in “Internalizing Islam: Shaykh Muhammad Majdhūb, Scriptural Islam and Local Context in the Early Nineteenth-Century Sudan” (PhD dissertation, University of Bergen, 1996), 471–77. 17. For further discussion and examples of instructions to seekers of the Path, see Ephrat, Spiritual Wayfarers, 48–49. 18. Arin Shawakat Salamah-Qudsi makes this point in “Institutionalized Mashyakha in the Twelfth Century Sufism of ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 36 (2009): 39. 19. For examples, see Margaret Malamud, “Sufi Organizations and Structures of Authority in Medieval Nishapur,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 26 (1994): 432–35; and Arthur F. Buehler, Sufi Heirs of the Prophet: The Indian Naqshbandiyya and the Rise of the Mediating Sufi Shaykhs (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1998), 29–44. 20. Al-Subki, Tabaqat, 8:403. 21. See Jonathan A. C. Brown, Hadith: Muhammad’s Legacy in the Medieval and Modern World (Oxford: Oneworld, 2009), 188–90. 22. Ahmet T. Karamustafa makes this important observation in his book Sufism: The Formative Period (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2007), 116. The designations of shaykh al-tarbiyya and shaykh al-taʿlim were coined by Ibn ʿAbbad al-Rundi (d. 1390). They were first borrowed by Fritz Meier in “Hurasan und das Ende der klassischen Sufik,” Atti del Convengo Internationale sul Tema: La Persia nel Medioevo (Rome: n.p., 1971): 131–56; idem, “Khurāsān and the End of Classical Sufism,” in Essays on Islamic Piety and Mysticism, trans. John O’Kane with the editorial assistance of Bernd Radtke (Leiden/ Boston: Brill, 1999), 190–92; idem, “The Mystic Path,” in The World of Islam: Faith, People, Culture, ed. Bernard Lewis (London: Thames and Hudson, 1992), 117–28. 23. Al-Subki, Tabaqat, 8:410–11. 24. See Jamal Elias, “The Sufi Robe (Khirqa) as a Vehicle of Spiritual Authority,” in Robes of Honor: The Medieval World of Investiture, ed. Gordon Stewart (New York: Palgrave, 2001), 275–89. 25. See Brown, Hadith, 190–92, for the hadith tradition of the chain for the khirqa and the debates over its strength. 26. Al-Suhrawardi, ʿAwarif, 68. 27. Yusuf Ismaʿil al-Nabhani, Jamiʿ karamat al-awliyaʾ, 2 vols. (Cairo: al-Maktaba al-Tawfiqiyya, 1911), 2:61. 28. On Ibn al-Qastallani, see al-Subki, Tabaqat, 8:43; al-Kutubi, Fawat, 3:310; Ibn Kathir, al-Bidaya, 13:310: Ibn al-ʿImad, Shadharat, 7:694–95; Ibn Taghribirdi, al-Nujum, 7:373; Khalil b. Aybak al-Safadi, Al-wafiʾ bi l-wafayat, 30 vols. to date



Notes to pages 108–114 293

(n.p.; imprint varies, 1931–2004), 2:132–34; and Abu ʿAbdallah al-Yafiʿi, Mirʾat al-jinan wa-ʿibrat al-yaqzan, 4 vols. (Hyderabad: Daʾirat al-Maʿarif al-Nizamiyya, 1970), 4:202–3. 29. Al-Sabki, Tabaqat, 8:405–6. 30. Al-Suhrawardi, ʿAwarif, 68. 31. Al-Subki,Tabaqat, 8:40–41. 32. Abu ʿAbdallah al-Rahman al-Sulami, Jawamiʿ adab al-sufiyya and ʿUyub alnafs wa-mudawathuha, ed. M. J. Kister, with an introduction by E. Kohlberg ( Jerusalem: Institute of Asian and African Studies, Hebrew University, 1976), introduction, 11 (summary of paragraph 7). See also Elena Biagi’s discussion of the sacralization of adab in early Sufi works in the introduction to her translation of Abu ʿAbdallah al-Rahman al-Sulami’s Jawamiʿ adab al-sufiyya: A Collection of Rules of Conduct (Cambridge: Islamic Text Society, 2010). 33. Abu ʿAbdallah al-Rahman al-Sulami, Manahij al-ʿarifin, ed. E. Kohlberg ( Jerusalem: Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 1979), 31, 38. 34. See the discussion of al-Qushayri’s understanding of adab in Kristin Zahra Sands, “On the Subtleties of Method and Style in the Latāʾif al-ishārāt of al-Qushayrī,” Journal of Sufi Studies, special issue: “Al-Qushayri and His Legacy,” 2/1 (2013): 15. 35 Al-Suhrawardi, Adab al-muridin, 17. 36. Al-Ghazali, Ayyuha al-walad (Beirut: n.p., 1959), 37. 37. Al-Suhrawardi,ʿAwarif, 187. 38. Al-Suhrawardi, Adab al-muridin, 31. 39. For a more detailed discussion of the suhba as understood and as practiced in the Sufi milieu of ʿUmar al-Suhrawardi, see Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, 199–200. 40. For example: al-Hujwiri, The Revelation of the Veiled (Kashf al-Mahjub), trans. Reynold A. Nicholson (London: Luzac, 1976), 55. 41. For the all-embracing meaning of the term suhba in early Sufi parlance, see Khaliq Ahmad Nizami, “Suhba,” in The Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. Mircea Eliade, 16 vols. (New York: Macmillan, 1987), 13:123–24, and the biographical references there; Laury Silvers-Alario, “The Teaching Relationships in Early Sufism,” Muslim World 93 ( January 2003): 88–90. 42. Al-Subki, Tabaqat, 8:414–15. 43. On this Sufi cloister, see al-Nuʿaymi, al-Daris fi taʾrikh al-madaris, ed. Jaʿfar alHusni, 2 vols. (Damascus: Majmaʿ al-ʿIlmi al-ʿArabi, 1988), 2:208. 44. For the importance of the zawiya as a Sufi center and the realm of its shaykh in Palestine under Seljuk, Ayyubid, and Mamluk rule, see Ephrat, Spiritual Wayfarers, 114–17, 161–65. For the zawiyas in Mamluk Egypt, see Leonard F. Fernandes, The Evolution of the Sufi Institution: The Khanqah (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1988), 16–32. 45. This is what Erik Ohlander eloquently calls “writing authority”: Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, 137. For the institutionalization of the master and disciple status in the writing of al-Suhrawardi, see also Salamah-Qudsi, “Institutionalized Mashyakha,” 386–403.

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Notes to pages 114–118 Chapter 6

1. Ahmad b. Mustafa Taşköprüzâde, al-Shaqaʾiq al-nuʿmaniyya fi ʿulamaʾ al-dawla al-ʿuthmaniyya, ed. Ahmad Subhi Furat (Istanbul: Istanbul University, 1984–85). 2. Ibid., 9, 64, 99, 105, 120, 161, 183, 457, 392. 3. Ibid., 4–5. 4. Ibid., 161. See also A. S. Tritton, “al-Djurdjānī,” Encyclopedia of Islam, 2nd ed., 12

vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1954–2004; hereafter EI2), 2:602–3.

5. Taşköprüzâde, al-Shaqaʾiq, 5, 10–11, 46, 49, 64, 168, 219. 6. See R. C. Repp, The Müfti of Istanbul: A Study in the Development of the Ottoman

Learned Hierarchy (London: Ithaca Press, 1986), chap. 2, 27–72.

7. Halil İnalcık, The Ottoman Empire: The Classical Age, 1300–1600, trans. Norman

Itzkowitz and Colin Imber (New York: Praeger, 1973), chap. 16, 165–72.

8. Muhammad b. Ahmad b. Iyas, Badaʾiʿ al-zuhur fi waqaʾiʿ al-duhur, 2nd ed., vol.

5, ed. Muhammad Mustafa (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1960–61); Muhammad b. Ahmad b. Tulun, Mufakahat al-khullan fi hawadith al-zaman, vol. 2, ed. Muhammad Mustafa (Cairo: al-Muʾassasa al-Misriyya al-ʿAmma li-l-Taʾlif wa-l-Tarjama wa-l-Tibaʿa wa-l-Nashr, 1962–64). 9. Ibn Iyas, Badaʾiʿ, 150, 153–55, 162, 170, 207–8. 10. Ibn Tulun, Mufakahat al-khullan, 32, 33, 36, 40, 68, 70, 80. 11. Muhammad b. Ahmad b. Tulun, Hawadith dimashq al-yawmiyya ghadat al-ghazw al-ʿuthmani li-l-sham, ed. Ahmad Ibish (Damascus: Dar al-Awaʾil, 2002), 135. 12. Najm al-Din Muhammad al-Ghazzi, al-Kawakib al-saʾira bi-aʿyan al-miʾa alʿashira, ed. Jibraʾil S. Jabbur, 2nd printing, 3 vols. (Beirut: Dar al-Afaq al-Jadida [1945], 1979), 2:193. 13. See, for example, Michael Winter, Society and Religion in Early Ottoman Egypt: Studies in the Writings of ʿAbd al-Wahhāb al-Shaʿrānī (New Brunswick/London: Transaction, 2007 [1982]), 187–88, citing al-Shʿarani’s treatise al-Jawahir wa-l-durar. Another passage worth mentioning is the report by the Damascene historian Najm al-Din al-Ghazzi of a conversation he held with a pasha of Gaza, who also served as the amir al-hajj, about the severe punishments (siyasa, Turkish siyaset, here meaning the amputation of limbs for theft) that are imposed by the Shariʿa (Muslim law) and those imposed according to the Qanun. The writer is proud that he convinced the pasha of the advantages of the Shariʿa penalty. Najm al-Din Muhammad al-Ghazzi, Lutf al-samar wa-qatf al-thamar min tarajim al-tabaqa al-ula min al-qarn al-hadi ʿashar, ed. Mahmud al-Shaykh, 2 vols. (Damascus: Wazarat al-Thaqafa wa-l-Irshad al-Qawmi, 1981), 1:305. 14. Among prominent pro-Ottoman Arab writers in early Ottoman Egypt was Qutb al-Din al-Nahrawali (d. 1582), a Mecca chronicler of Indian origin who influenced later historians and was knowledgeable about events in Egypt, the Hijaz, and Istanbul. Marʿi b. Yusuf al-Karmi was a scholar born in Tul Karm in Palestine who lived in Egypt and wrote a panegyric of the Ottoman dynasty until the early seventeenth century in addition to a chronicle of the Ottomans. See M. Winter, “A Seventeenth-Century Arabic Panegyric of the Ottoman Dynasty,” Asian and African Studies 13/2 (1979): 130–56, on the Egyptian Muhammad ʿAbd al-Muʿti al-Ishaqi (his chronicle ends in 1623–24). The leading historian of the first half of the seventeenth century is Muhammad b. Abi al-Surur al-Bakri al-Siddiqi (d. 1661). He



Notes to pages 119–126 295

belonged to a famous aristocratic Sufi family in Egypt that had close relations with the Ottoman authorities. 15. See, for example, Evliyâ Çelebi, Seyahatnâmesi, 10 vols. (Istanbul: Devletmatbaai, 1938), 10:195, 206, 216, 235, 467. More examples are the many negative stereotypes of the Egyptians in A. Tietze, ed. and trans., Mustafa ʿĀlī’s Description of Cairo of 1599 (Vienna: Austrian Academy of Sciences, 1975), 38, 40, 44, 53, 64. 16. Jonathan P. Berkey, The Transmission of Knowledge in Medieval Cairo: A Social History of Islamic Education (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992). 17. Michael Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice in Medieval Damascus, 1190–1350 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 177. 18. Ibn Tulun, Mufakahat al-khullan, 2:31. 19. Al-Ghazzi, Lutf al-samar, 1:102–6, 2:607–10. 20. See, for example, Muhammad Amin al-Muhibbi, Khulasat al-athar fi aʿyan al-qarn al-hadi ʿashar, ed. M. Hasan Ismaʿil, 4 vols. (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2006), 1:207, 227–32, 424–28, 2:50–62. 21. Dina Le Galle, The Culture of Sufism: Naqshbandīs in the Ottoman World, 1450– 1700 (Albany: SUNY Press, 2005), 93–94. 22. See Taşköprüzâde, al-Shaqaʾiq; and Tritton, “al-Djurdjānī.” 23. See al-Hasan b. Muhammad al-Burini, Tarajim al-aʿyan min abnaʾ al-zaman, ed. Salah al-Din al-Munajjid, 2 vols. (Damascus: al-Majmaʿ al-ʿIlmi al-ʿArabi bi-Dimashq, 1959–63), 1:161–62. 24. al-Muhibbi, Khulasat al-athar, 1:219–20. 25. Ibid., 2:52. 26. See, for example, ʿAbd al-Wahhab al-Shʿarani, al-Tabaqat al-sughra, ed. ʿAbd alQādir Ahmad ʿAta (Cairo: Matbaʿat al-Qahira, 1970), 81; al-Ghazzi, al-Kawakib, 2:22, 113. 27. See, for example, Michael Winter, Egyptian Society under Ottoman Rule, 1517–1798 (London/New York: Routledge, 1992), 31, 46, 47, 54–56, 69, 76, 77, 159, 191, 215, 237, 248. 28. H. A. R. Gibb and Harold Bowen, Islamic Society and the West, 2 vols. (London: Oxford University Press, 1957), vol. 1, part 2, 100. 29. See, for example, al-Muhibbi, Khulasat al-athar, 4:60–63. 30. In addition to the examples mentioned in this essay, see al-Ghazzi, Lutf al-samar, 1:164, 334–53, 2:446. 31. The chief judgeship was always reserved for a Hanafi Turkish-speaking graduate of the top madrasas of the Ottoman Empire. 32. Al-Muhibbi, Khulasat al-athar, 1:362–63. Kharij is literally “outside,” the seventh grade of Ottoman madrasa professors; dakhil, literally “inside, interior,” a high level of madrasa professors. 33. Ibid., 452–54. 34. Ibid., 371–84. See F. Krenkow, “Al-Khafadji, Ahmad b. Muhammad, Shiab al-Din al-Misri al-Hanafi,” in EI2, 4:912. 35. J. Schacht, “Al-Halabi, Burhan al-Din Ibrahim,” in EI2, 90–91. 36. Al-Muhibbi, Khulasat al-athar, 1:136–38. 37. Ibid., 2:15–16. 38. For a masterly treatment of the wide subject, see Franz Rosenthal, Knowledge

296

Notes to pages 126–132

Triumphant: The Concept of Knowledge in Medieval Islam, 2nd ed. (Leiden: Brill 2007). 39. See, for example, Taşköprüzâde, al-Shaqaʾiq, 370, 487. 40. See ʿAbd al-Qadir b. Muhammad al-Nuʿaymi (d. 978), al-Daris fi taʾrikh almadaris, 2 vols. (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1990), 1:112, 176, 206, 2:206. 41. Al-Burini, Tarajim al-aʿyan, 2:121–22. 42. Al-Muhibbi, Khulasat al-athar, 3:332. 43. Repp, The Müfti of Istanbul, 248–49. 44. Al-Muhibbi, Khulasat al-athar, 1:227–32; Sheyhi Mehmet Effendi, Waqaii al-­ fudalaʾ, zeyl al-shaqaiq, ed. A. Özcan (Istanbul: Çağrı Yayınları, 1409/1989), part II: 23–24, 30, 77, 79, 192. 45. Naima Mustafa, Tarih-i Naima, 6 vols. (Istanbul: Âmire, 1866), 3:179–80. 46. Ibid., 182–85. 47. Michael Winter, “ʿAli ibn Maymun and Syrian Sufism in the Sixteenth Century,” Israel Oriental Studies 7 (1977): 281–308. 48. Al-Muhibbi, Khulasat al-athar, 1:144–46. 49. Michael Winter, “A Polemical Treatise by ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulusī against a Turkish Scholar on the Religious Status of the Dhimmīs,” Arabica 35 (1988): 92– 103 (quotation). On al-Nabulusi, see also Barbara Rosenow von Schlegell, “Sufism in the Ottoman Arab World: Shaykh ʿAbd al-Ghani al-Nabulusi (d. 1143/1731)” (PhD diss., University of California, 1997); Samer Akkach, Letters of a Sufi Scholar: The Correspondence of ʿAbd al-Ghanī al-Nābulusī (1641–1731) (Leiden/ Boston: Brill, 2010). In the year 1730 the local Janissaries of Damascus and roughnecks rioted in the streets. Al-Nabulusi went to Istanbul to complain about the suffering of the people and the violations of the Shariʿa. See Muhammad b. Kannan al-Salihi (d. 1152), Yawmiyyat Shamiyya min 1111 h hatta 1153 h–1699 m hatta 1740 m (Safahat nadira min taʾrikh Dimashq fi l-ʿasr al-ʿUthmani), ed. Akram Hasan al-ʿUlabi (Damascus: Dar al-Tibaʿa, 1994), 413. 50. Abdul-Karim Rafeq, “The Syrian ʿUlamaʾ: Ottoman Law and Islamic Shariʿa,” Turcica 26–27 (1994–95): 9–32.

Chapter 7 1. Isadore Twersky, Introduction to the Code of Maimonides (Mishneh Torah) (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1980). 2. Daphna Ephrat and Yaakov Elman, “Orality and the Institutionalization of Tradition: The Growth of the Geonic Yeshiva and the Islamic Madrasa,” in Transmitting Jewish Traditions: Orality, Textuality, and Cultural Diffusion, ed. Yaakov Elman and Israel Gershoni (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 108. 3. On the end of the Patriarchate, see Günter Stemberger, Jews and Christians in the Holy Land: Palestine in the Fourth Century, trans. Ruth Tuschling (Edinburgh: T and T Clark, 2000), 261–68. On the beginning of Exilarchy, see Isaiah M. Gafni, The Jews of Babylonia in the Talmudic Era: A Social and Cultural History ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 1990; in Hebrew), 98–104. On the beginning of the academies, see Gafni, The Jews, 177–92. Brody and Gil discussed the rising power of the academies at the beginning of the ninth century: Robert Brody, The Geonim of Babylonia and the Shaping of Medieval Jewish Culture (New



Notes to pages 132–134 297

Haven: Yale University Press, 1998), 80–82; Moshe Gil, Jews in Islamic Countries in the Middle Ages, trans. David Strassler (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 105–11. On the title “gaon,” see Brody, The Geonim, 49; Gil, Jews, 121–24. 4. Mordecai Margalioh, The Differences between the Eastern People and the People of Eretz-Israel ( Jerusalem: Rubin Mass: 1938; in Hebrew), 5. Brody points to the advantages of the geopolitical position of Palestine at the beginning of the Umayyad Caliphate (Brody, The Geonim, 101, 103). 5. The contest between the Palestinian and Babylonian academies involved both the question of seniority and the issue of financial resources. The rivalry between the institutions continued throughout the geonic era. By the beginning of the tenth century the influence of the Palestinian academy was clearly waning. See Moshe Gil, A History of Palestine, 634–1099 (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 527–38, 562–69; and Brody, The Geonim, 100–122, for this conflict. 6. The epistle is quoted from Shalom Spiegel, “On the Affair of the Polemic of Pirqoy ben Baboy,” in Harry Austryn Wolfson Jubilee Volume on the Occasion of His Seventy-­Fifth Birthday, ed. Saul Lieberman et al., 3 vols. ( Jerusalem: American Academy for Jewish Research, 1965; in Hebrew), 272–37; quoted by B. M. Lewin, “Genizah Fragments,” Tarbiz 2/1 (1931): 397 (in Hebrew). The fragments of the epistle were discovered and have been published since the beginning of the twentieth century until recent years: see Robert Brody, Pirqoy ben Baboy and the History of Internal Polemics in Judaism (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 2003; in Hebrew), 7–8; Neil Danzig, “Between Eretz-Yisrael and Bavel—New Leaves from Pirqoi ben Baboi,” Shalem 8 (2009): 1–4 (in Hebrew). 7. Menachem Ben-Sasson posits that Palestinian influence over the Maghreb was minor at most. He contends that Pirqoy was mainly concerned with expunging customs that he deemed unworthy, rather than assailing Palestine (Menachem Ben-Sasson, “The Jews of the Maghreb and Their Relations with Eretz Israel in the Ninth through Eleventh Centuries,” Shalem 5 [1987]: 36–39). Nonetheless, Pirqoy hinges his charges on events in Palestine, which demonstrates, in my view, that he regarded Palestine and its sages as a potential threat to Babylonian leadership (see Brody, The Geonim, 113–17). 8. Louis Ginzberg, Genizah Studies in Memory of Doctor Solomon Schechter, 2 vols. (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1929), 2:558–59. 9. Cited by Moshe Gil, In the Kingdom of Ishmael, 4 vols. (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 1997; in Hebrew), 2:77. 10. Gil, In the Kingdom, 2:73. 11. On the Babylonian academy as a surrogate for the Sanhedrin, see Avraham Grossman, “The Yeshivot in Babylonia, Germany and France from the Ninth to the Eleventh Centuries,” in Education and History: Cultural and Political Contexts, ed. Rachel Feldhay and Immanuel Etkes ( Jerusalem: Merkaz Zalman Shazar, 1999; in Hebrew), 85–87; idem, “The Decline of Babylonia and the Emergence of the New Jewish Centers in Europe in the Eleventh Century: Legend and Reality,” Proceedings of the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities 8 (2000): 165–67 (in Hebrew). 12. Benjamin M. Lewin, ed., Otsar ha-geʾonim ( Jerusalem: H. Vagshal, 1936). 13. Robert Brody, “Geonic Literature and the Talmudic Text,” Talmudic Studies 1 (1990): 243–44 (in Hebrew); idem, Geonim, 156–61; Neil Danzig, “From Oral

298

Notes to pages 134–135

Talmud to Written Talmud: On the Methods of Transmission of the Babylonian Talmud and Its Study in the Middle Ages,” Bar-Ilan 30–31 (2006): 72–85 (in Hebrew). 14. Martin Jaffe, Torah in the Mouth: Writing and Oral Tradition in Palestinian Judaism, 200 BCE–400 BCE (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001): 140–52. Yaʿacov Sussmann has given a broad description of the oral culture in Palestine in the Amoraic era: Yaʿacov Sussmann, “Oral Torah—Plain and Simple—The Power of the Edge of the Letter Yod,” Talmudic Studies 3/1 (2005): 209–384 (in Hebrew). 15. Ephrat and Elman describe the hegemonic aspect of the oral tradition, though in their conclusion they stress economic considerations. To maintain a limited number of students, extremely stringent academic standards and the prerequisite of possessing excellent memory skills were upheld (Ephrat and Elman, “Orality,” 131). Talya Fishman focuses on the political advantages of the oral tradition in the context of center-periphery relations, though she addresses oral traditions in general rather than the transmission of the oral Talmud: Talya Fishman, “Guarding Oral Transmission: Within and between Cultures,” Oral Tradition 25 (2010): 45–47. 16. Jack Goody and Ian Watt, “The Consequences of Literacy,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 5 (1963): 332–33. Goody’s theory has been criticized severely by Brian V. Street (Literacy in Theory and Practice [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984], 44–65). A survey of the different attitudes is provided by James Collins, “Literacy and Literacies,” Annual Review of Anthropology 24 (1995): 76–80. 17. Brian Stock, The Implications of Literacy: Written Language and Models of Interpretation in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983), 88. 18. Stock, The Implications, 71. Though the ability to disseminate messages across distances also allows the center effective and close supervision over the periphery, and this is exactly what the geonim attempted to achieve through the dispatch of epistles to the Diasporas. 19. Wolfgang Iser elaborates in detail the role of the reader in internalizing and processing the written message. The degree of control exercised by the writer over the text obviously is a variable of the level of clarity/obscurity of the text itself as well as the reader’s own exegetical abilities (Wolfgang Iser, The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978]). 20. Simha Assaf, Tekufat ha-geʾonim ve-sifruta ( Jerusalem: Mosad ha-Rav Kuk, 1955), 285; trans. Brody, The Geonim, 271. 21. Israel M. Ta-Shma, Talmudic Commentary in Europe and North Africa: Literary History, 2 vols. ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 1999; in Hebrew), 28. 22. Avraham Grossman, “The Relationship between the Social Structure and Spiritual Activity of Jewish Communities in the Geonic Period,” Zion 53/3 (1988): 266 (in Hebrew). 23. It appears from Samuel ben Hofni Gaon’s words that he endeavored to write commentary, and we are indeed familiar with the commentaries of his contemporaries, Sherira Gaon and Hai Gaon. Israel M. Ta-Shma notes that these commentaries bore a close affinity to geonic responsa and that they were in effect largely composed of responsa segments (Studies in Medieval Rabbinic Literature, 4 vols.



Notes to pages 136–139 299

[ Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 2010; in Hebrew], 4:9–10). According to Avraham Grossman, Hai was indeed “compelled to compose a commentary due to fear of competition between Babylonia and the new centers” (The Early Sages of France [ Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1995; in Hebrew], 429, note 4). It is also significant that the oral character of the Talmud was an impediment to the recording of commentary (Brody, The Geonim, 163–64). 24. On the relationships between Babylonia and the Diaspora, see Brody, The Geonim, 123–34; Gil, Jews, 150–206. On the renewal of the connections between Babylonia and the western Diaspora at the end of the tenth century, see Menachem Ben-­ Sasson, “Fragmentary Letters from the Genizah: Concerning the Ties of the Babylonian Academies and the West,” Tarbiz 56/2 (1987): 171–209 (in Hebrew). 25. Abraham b. Daud, The Book of Tradition, ed. Gershon D. Cohen (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1967), 59–63. In contrast to Ibn Daud’s view, we know that the Babylonian academies continued to exist more than 200 years after Hai Gaon’s death (Gil, Jews, 448–68). 26. Gerson D. Cohen, “The Story of the Four Captives,” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 29 (1961): 93–94. See also Sarah Zfatman, The Jewish Tale in the Middle Ages: Between Ashkenaz and Sepharad ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1993; in Hebrew), 111–20; Grossman, “The Decline,” 162–64. 27. Assaf, The Geonic Period, 126. 28. Quoted in Adolf Neubauer, Mediaeval Jewish Chronicles, 2 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1887–95; in Hebrew), 2:88. 29. Grossman, “The Decline,” 164–69; idem, “The Yeshivot,” 84–88. 30. Brody, The Geonim, 14–17. 31. Ibid., 17–18. 32. I have dealt with this argument in detail in describing Pirqoy’s epistle. But the diaspora communities also recognized the importance of Babylonia: see Menachem Ben-Sasson, The Emergence of the Local Jewish Community in the Muslim World: Qayrawan, 800–1057 ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 1996; in Hebrew), 412. 33. On the migration of Rabbi Hushiel and his son, see ibid., 221–29. 34. There is no evidence of any connection between Rabbi Hushiel and Rabbi Hananel with the geonim (ibid., 224, 228–29). 35. The references in Rabbi Hananel’s commentary to the tractate and to the page are from Metzger’s edition: David Metzger, Rabbenu Hananel’s Commentaries, 7 vols. ( Jerusalem: Makhon Lev Samech, 1990–96; in Hebrew). 36. On the oral transmitters and their “corrections,” see Danzig, “From Oral Talmud,” 94–102. 37. A few of the instances were collected by Ta-Shma, Talmudic Commentary, 1:131–33. See also Shraga Abramson, Rabbenu Hananel’s Commentary on Talmud ( Jerusalem: H. Vagshal, 1995), 94–102. 38. For more instances, see Abramson, Rabbenu Hananel’s Commentary, 71–74. 39. One of the most salient topics in the study of Rabbi Hananel’s exegesis is the role played by the frequent quotations from the Palestinian Talmud. Some scholars view this as an attempt by Rabbi Hananel to “rebel” or to proffer an alternative to the Babylonian tradition in the form of the Palestinian-Italian tradition. Others regard this merely as an intellectual exercise. Yet even if the latter view is correct,

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Notes to pages 139–143

grouping the Babylonian Talmud as a written text together with other texts is in and of itself an act that undermines the exclusivity of the Babylonian Talmud. For a summary of this topic, see Ta-Shma, Talmudic Commentary, 1:126–28. 40. The set of considerations is obviously rather complex. The following words testify to the deliberations surrounding the weight assigned to reasoning versus received tradition: “This is what I received from my rabbis. And I studied it well and it does not seem to be the best solution . . . and had I not received this I would have ruled according to my own understanding since this is what I think but we only rely on the received tradition” (Baba Batra 74b; Hananel Ben Hushiel, Rabbenu Hananel’s Commentary on Baba Batra, ed. M. J. Blau [New York: M. Y. Blau, 1983], 58). 41. On these ties, see Shraga Abramson, Rav Nissim Gaon: hamisha sefarim ( Jerusalem: Mosad ha-Rav Kuk, 1965), xxix–xxxiv; idem, Topics in Geonic Literature ( Jerusalem: Mosad ha-Rav Kuk, 1974), 126–32; Ben-Sasson, The Emergence, 231; Gil, Jews, 185–86. 42. On Rabbi Nissim’s literary works, see Abramson, Rav Nissim Gaon. 43. On the Arabic literary model and its influence on the rabbinic literature, see Rina Drory, Models and Contacts: Arabic Literature and Its Impact on Medieval Jewish Culture (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 126–46. 44. On the library of the Qayrawan academy, see Ben-Sasson, The Emergence, 255–59. 45. Nissim ben Yaakov Gaon, Sefer ha-mafteah shel manʿulei ha-Talmud (Vienna: K. K. Hof-und Staats-Druckerei, 1847), introduction, 13 (hereafter cited in the text as The Key). David Metzger edited all Rabbi Nissim’s commentaries on the Talmud in his edition of Rabbi Hananel’s commentary (see note 35 above). 46. Abramson, Rav Nissim Gaon, 29, note 2. 47. Lewin, Otsar ha-geʾonim, 1:3. On Rabbi Nissim and version problems, see TaShma, Talmudic Commentary, 1:141. 48. Danzig clarified that there was not one “official” copy of the Talmud at the academy and that Rabbi Nissim mistakenly believed that the version he had received from Babylonia was the actual version of the academy (Danzig, “From Oral Talmud,” 73). 49. On the affinity of Rabbi Nissim for the geonic commentaries, see Abramson, Rav Nissim Gaon, xxix–xxxiv. 50. For more instances, see Ta-Shma, Talmudic Commentary, 1:142–43. 51. Rabbi Hananel mentioned Hai Gaon with the living benediction (Shabbat 114b, 228). Ta-Shama assumed that Rabbi Nissim wrote his commentary before 1015 (Ta-Shma, Talmudic Commentary, 1:139). 52. Judah ben Barzilai al-Barceloni, Sefer ha-ʿitlim, ed. Jacob Schor (Cracow: Y. Fisher, 1903), 267. 53. On the various traditions concerning the transition of the Babylonian Talmud to Spain and its historical kernel, see Danzig, “From Oral Talmud,” 62–64. 54. On the cultural and literary flourishing of the Jews in Islamic Spain, see Haim Beinart, ed., The Sepharadi Legacy, 2 vols. ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1992), 1:115–219. 55. Ibn Daud, The Book of Tradition, 75. 56. Shmuel Hanagid, Diwan Shmuel Hanagid, ed. David Solomon Sasson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1934), 83. 57. Samuel Hanagid, Hilkhot Hanagid: A Collection of the Extant Halakhic Writings



Notes to pages 143–146 301

of Rabbi Samuel Hanged, ed. Mordecai Margalioth ( Jerusalem: Keren Yehudah Lev and Mini Epstein, 1962; in Hebrew), 203. On the Nagid’s commentary, see TaShma, Talmudic Commentary, 1:160–61. 58. Mordecai Margalioth maintains that Ibn Naghrela’s motivation was to disconnect Spanish Jewry from the Babylonian center (Hilkhoth Hanagid, 16–19). Abramson strenuously asserts, to the opposite effect, that it is wrong to attribute such rebellious tendencies to Ibn Naghrela and that on the contrary most of his doctrine is grounded in the Babylonian Talmud and on the commentaries and halakhic rulings of the geonim: Sharaga Abramson, “From Samuel b. Naghrela’s Doctrine,” Sinai 100/1 [1987]: 9–15 (in Hebrew). 59. Ta-Shma, Talmudic Commentary, 1:161. 60. On Alfasi’s commentary on the Talmud, see ibid., 1:145–54. 61. Alfasi, Sanhedrin 16b. 62. Rabbi Isaac ben Jacob Alfasi, Responsa, ed. Zeez Wolf Leiter (Pittsburgh: Makhon ha-Rambam, 1954; in Hebrew), §82, §97. 63. Alfasi, Responsa, 197. On Alfasi’s disagreements with the geonim, see also in his book Hilkhot Rabbati, Berkhot 24a, Shabbat 55a; Taanit 3b, Ketubot 51a, Baba-­ Metiza 26b, 32b; Baba-Batra 42a, 50b; Sanhedrin 7a. 64. Cited by Yosef Halevi ben Migash, Responsa, ed. Simha Hasidah ( Jerusalem: Mekhon Lev Sameah, 1991; in Hebrew), §114. 65. See Ta-Shma, Studies, 2:41–44; Grossman, The Early Sages of France, 437, note 31. 66. Another of Rabbi Yosef Migash’s answers seemingly supports the requisite nature of study with a master. He contends that those who disputed him would not have made mistakes if they had studied Talmud with a master, but “their indolence that prevented them from studying with the great rabbis of their generation is what caused this” (Ben Migash, Responsa, §195). But Rabbi Migash presents himself as one who transmits what he “received from his master, the great rabbi of blessed memory who taught me this law, its meaning and intentions” (ibid.). Indeed TaShma surmises from this that a “received exegetical tradition from an ordained rabbi, pertaining to study of the Talmud” is compulsory according to Rabbi Migash (Ta-Shma, Studies, 2:44). Contrary to this conclusion, however, it should be noted that here too Rabbi Migash explicitly states that the interpretation of the issue might be readily apparent to anyone “who possesses the analogous method and is accustomed to studying Talmud, without the need to rely on a rabbi.” Elsewhere he favors the Halakha derived from “authentic study” over Alfasi’s practical contingency-based Halakha (Ben Migash, Responsa, §65). 67. Ta-Shma, Studies, 2:28–31, 45–46. 68. Shlomo Dov Goitein, Jewish Education in Muslim Countries Based on Records from the Cairo Geniza ( Jerusalem: Mekhon Ben-Tsevi, 1962), 168–69. 69. Goitein and Ta-Shma note the connections between Rabbi Migash and Rabbi Yaakov (Goitein, Jewish Education, 167; Ta-Shma, Studies, 43–44, note 49). 70. A similar process occurred in Ashkenazic society, where the authority of books gradually superseded that of the oral traditions, which became customs transmitted from one generation to the next and doctrines transmitted from rabbi to student. See Danzig, “From Oral Talmud,” 108–11; E. Kanarfogel, “Rabbinic

302

Notes to pages 149–151

Authority and the Right to Open an Academy in Medieval Ashkenaz,” Michael 12 (1991): 233–50. 71. Brody, The Geonim, 185.

Part 3 Overview 1. On the Salafiyya, see David D. Commins, Islamic Reform: Politics and Social

Change in Late Ottoman Syria (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990); Bernard Rougier, ed., Qu’est-ce que le Salafisme? (Paris: Presses Universitaires des France, 2008); and Roel Meijer, ed., Global Salafism: Islam’s New Religious Movement (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009). 2. See the seminal collection of articles Beginnings of Modernization in the Middle East: The Nineteenth Century, ed. William R. Polk and Richard L. Chambers (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968). 3. S. N. Eisenstadt, “Multiple Modernities,” Daedalus 129 (2000): 1–29. 4. Mary Robinson Waldman, “Tradition as a Modality of Change: Islamic Examples,” History of Religions 25 (1986): 318–40. 5. Muhammad Qasim Zaman, The Ulama in Contemporary Islam: Custodians of Change (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2002). 6. Meir Hatina, ʿUlamaʾ, Politics and the Public Sphere (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2010); Malika Zeghal, Gardiens de l’Islam: Les ulama d’al-Azhar dans l’Egypt contemporaine (Paris: Presses de la Fondation Nationale des Sciences Politiques, 1995). On the ʿulamaʾ in the very different setting of Syria, see Thomas Pierret, Baas et Islam en Syrie: La dynastie Assad face aux oulemas (Paris: Presses Universitaires des France, 2011). 7. Meir Hatina, ed., Guardians of Faith in Modern Times: ʿUlamaʾ in the Middle East (Leiden: Brill, 2009); Robert W. Hefner and Muhammad Qasim Zaman, eds., Schooling Islam: The Culture and Politics of Modern Muslim Education (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2007); Farish A. Noor, Yoginder Sikand, and Martin van Bruinessen, eds., The Madrasas in Asia: Political Activism and Transnational Linkages (New Delhi: Manohar, 2009). 8. Itzchak Weismann, The Naqshbandiyya: Orthodoxy and Activism in a Worldwide Sufi Tradition (London: Routledge, 2007), chaps. 7–8. 9. Aviezer Ravitzki, Messianism, Zionism and Jewish Religious Radicalism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996). 10. Barbara Dali Metcalf, Islamic Revival in British India: Deoband 1860–1900 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982); Benjamin C. Fortna, Imperial Classroom: Islam, the State and Education in the late Ottoman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). 11. Itzchak Weismann, “Modernity from Within: Islamic Fundamentalism and Sufism,” Der Islam 86 (2011): 142–70. 12. Francis Robinson, “Technology and Religious Change: Islam and the Impact of Print,” Modern Asian Studies 27 (1993): 229–51. 13. Egdunas Racius, “The Multiple Nature of the Islamic Daʿwa” (PhD diss., University of Helsinki, 2004). 14. Hasan al-Banna, Majmuʿat rasaʾil (Cairo: al-Maktaba al-Tawfiqiyya, n.d.). 15. Gilles Kepel, The Prophet and Pharaoh: Muslim Extremism in Egypt (London:



Notes to pages 152–158 303

al-Saqi, 1985), 103–28; Barbara H. E. Zollner, The Muslim Brotherhood: Hasan al-Hudaybi and Ideology (London: Routledge, 2011); Lorenzo Vidino, The New Muslim Brotherhood in the West (New York: Columbia University Press, 2010). 16. Dale F. Eickelman and James Piscatori, Muslim Politics (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 35–36. 17. Al-Bahi al-Khuli, Tadhkirat al-duʿa (Cairo: Andalus al-Jadida, 2009), 6–7. 18. Betina Graf and Jakob Skovgaard-Petersen, eds., The Global Mufti: The Phenomenon of Yusuf al-Qaradawi (London: Hurst, 2009). 19. Jakob Skovgaard-Petersen, “In Defense of Muhammad: ʿUlamaʾ, Daʿiya and the New Islamic Internationalism,” in Guardians of Faith in Modern Times, ed. Hatina, 291–309.

Chapter 8 1. I introduced some of the ideas in this essay in a 2008 Middle East Media Research

Institute publication: Eli Alshech, “The Emergence of the ‘Infallible Jihad Fighter’: The Salafi Jihadists’ Quest for Religious Legitimacy.” The purists do not regard themselves as a political movement but as a circle of pious scholars who aim to protect Islam—and in particular the belief in tawhid (the unity of God)—from corruptive influences. 2. For background on Hawali and his views, see Mamoun Fandy, Saudi Arabia and the Politics of Dissent (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1999), especially chap. 2. See also Stephane Lacroix, Awakening Islam: The Politics of Religious Dissent in Contemporary Saudi Arabia, trans. George Holoch (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2011), esp. 145ff. 3. Quintan Wiktorowicz, “Anatomy of the Salafi Movement,” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 29 (2006): 207–39. 4. The term sahwa was coined by the young generation of Salafis to describe their shift to political activism. The members of this camp refer to themselves as shabab al-sahwa (the youth of the awakening). For a brief description of their activism, see Dale F. Eickelman and James Piscatori, Muslim Politics (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 60–63. For a comprehensive study of the Sahwa movement in Saudi Arabia, see Madawi al-Rasheed, Contesting the Saudi State (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 59–101. See also Lacroix, Awakening Islam. 5. In fact the purists actively discouraged involvement in political affairs by both scholars and the public at large. As Madawi al-Rasheed points out, the purists, who were affiliated with the Saudi regime, “removed not only themselves but the rest of society from political matters. They prohibited engagement in public affairs. Their religious discourse, especially that which confirmed the potential corruption and blasphemy of the umma, reinforced the marginalization of the public and their exclusion from the political decision-making process” (al-Rasheed, Contesting the Saudi State, 59). 6. Abu Ibraaheem al-Canadee, “The Knowledge of Current Affairs of Safar al-­ Hawaalee and Salmaan al-Awdah Weighed upon the Scales,” 9 (accessed April 4, 2010): http://www.spubs.com/sps/downloads/pdf/GRV070023.pdf.

304

Notes to pages 158–162

7. Wiktorowicz writes that “the popularity of the younger generation had very little

to do with their depth of religious knowledge. At the time of the Gulf War fatwa, most of the popular preachers like Safar al-Hawali and Salman al-Awadah were only in their late thirties and early forties, hardly seasoned enough to contend with the religious training and experience of the senior purists, who were much older. There were hardly any politicos . . . who would have claimed greater religious knowledge. Their sense of authority and legitimacy was instead rooted in their political analysis” (Wiktorowicz, “Anatomy of the Salafi Movement,” 224–25). 8. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, Iʿlam al-muwaqqiʿin ʿan rabb al-ʿalamin, 4 vols. (Cairo: Maktabat al-Kulliyat al-Azhariyya, 1968), 1:87. This principle was also evoked by Ibn Taymiyya in his well-known fatwa about fighting the Tatars. Ibn Taymiyya, Majmuʿ al-fatawa, 34 vols. (Al-Iskandaria: Dar al-Wafaʾ, 2005), 28:510. 9. Wiktorowicz “Anatomy of the Salafi Movement,” 225. 10. Shaykh Suleiman al-ʿAlwan, “ʿAla ikhraj al-mushrikin min jazirat al-ʿArab.” 11. Roel Meijer, “Yousef al-ʿUyairi and the Making of a Revolutionary Salafi Praxis,” Die Welt des Islams 47 (2007): 431–32. 12. This is evident, for example, in an open letter by Yusuf al-ʿUyayri, founder of al-Qaʿida in Saudi Arabia and the organization’s most prominent ideologist (who died in 2003 in a clash with the Saudi police). In the letter al-ʿUyayri complains that politico Safar al-Hawali publicly condemned the mujahidun, characterizing them as “violent” people who “thoughtlessly rush to excommunicate people [accuse them of heresy]” and who have been “overtaken by extremism” (Yusuf al-ʿUyayri, “Difaʿan ʿan al-mujahidin risala maftuha lifadilat al-shaykh Safar al-­ Hawali” (accessed May 17, 2010): http://www.tawhed.ws/r?i=trrei4g6, 8–9. 13. This is in contrast to the jihadists who justified the bombings. See, for example, Bashir b. Muhammad al-Najdi’s article “A Legal Perspective on the Riyadh Events” (“al-Nazra al-sharʿiyya li-ahdath al-Riyadh”) (accessed May 17, 2010): http://taw7ed.110mb.com/Nabe3-03.htm. 14. Al-ʿUyayri, “al-ʿAmaliyyat al-istishhadiyya” (accessed May 20, 2010): http://www.tawhed.ws/pr?i=3377, 5–6. 15. Ayman al-Zawahiri, al-Tabriʿa: Risala fi tabriʾa ummati al-qalam wa-l-sayf min manqasa tuhmati al-kawar wa-l-duʿf (e-book) (accessed February 28, 2008): http://www.tawhed.ws/a?a=3i806qpo, 52. On Sayyid Imam’s book, see MEMRI Special Dispatch No. 1826, “Major Jihadi Cleric and Author of Al-Qaeda’s Shariʿa Guide to Jihad Sayyed Imam vs. Al-Qaeda,” January 25, 2008 (accessed February 28, 2008): http://www.memri.org/bin/articles. cgi?Page=archives&Area=sd&ID=SP182608. 16. Shaykh Abu Muhammad al-Maqdisi, al-Kilab tanbahu wa-l-qafila tasir (accessed January 27, 2007): http://www.tawhed.ws/r?i=5sdde6vx. 17. Ibid. 18. The view that only jihadi scholars are qualified to issue rulings on matters of jihad is also expressed in an August 2006 article titled “An Open Letter to the Sunnis in Iraq” by “Shihab al-Thaqib”—a prolific contributor to Islamist websites whose real identity is unknown. The websites characterize him as a prominent scholar of Islamic law who has so far posted over 400 articles online (accessed April 29, 2013): www.muslm.net/vb/showthread.php?173954.



Notes to pages 162–166 305

19. A similar view extolling the intellectual and moral superiority of jihadi scholars is presented by Shaykh ʿAbd Al-Salam al-Wahhab, a frequent contributor to Islamist

websites (accessed April 29, 2013): www.tawhed.ws/r?i=np5xmh6e.

20. Jihadists’ websites recently published an 800-page e-book containing Ibn Mah-

mud’s major articles. The book contains approximately 200 articles on a wide range of subjects, from purely jurisprudential matters to issues of jihad and politics. 21. Hossein b. Mahmud, Majmuʿ maqalat Hossein Ibn Mahmoud (e-book) (accessed April 22, 2013): http://www.scribd.com/doc/15946153. 22. To substantiate his argument, Ibn Mahmud cites classical Qurʾan commentators such as Abu l-Fidaʾ Ibn Kathir al-Dimashqi and Abu ʿAbdallah al-Qurtubi. 23. (Accessed April 28, 2013): http://www.tawhed.ws/r?i=dinbo5ay. 24. (Accessed April 29, 2013): www.tawhed.ws/dl?i=28111123. 25. Max Weber, Economy and Society, cited in Hamid Dabashi, Authority in Islam from the Rise of Muhammad to the Establishment of the Umayyad (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 2006), 34. 26. Charismatic authority, in a slightly different sense, has also been attributed to Shiʿi imams. See Dabashi, Authority in Islam, 95–120. 27. According to some academics, charisma-based authority was an attribute of the Prophet Muhammad and ceased to exist after his death. In contrast, Patricia Crone proposes that later Muslim leaders also possessed charisma-based authority and that the transition from this type of authority to knowledge-based authority took place in the post-Umayyad or even early Abbasid period: “the caliphs (or the caliphal institution) [of the Umayyad period] are described as a ‘refuge’ or ‘stronghold’ (ʿisma), a word with Qurʾanic resonances (cf. 3:96, ‘he who seeks refuge in/ holds fast to God [yaʿtasimu biʾllah] is guided to the straight path’). The metaphor coveys that it was the caliphs who saved the believers from error in both a political and a religious sense . . . [and not the scholars, as happened once scholars turned themselves the guardian of the Prophet’s tradition]” (Patricia Crone, God’s Caliph: Religious Authority in the First Centuries of Islam [New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003], 38). For further discussion of the separation of the sacred and the political in early Islam, see Ira Lapidus, “The Separation of State and Religion in the Development of Early Islamic Society,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 6 (1975): 363–85. 28. (Accessed February 11, 2008): http://www.abubaseer.bizland.com/articles.htm. 29. MEMRI Special Dispatch No. 1751: “Bin Laden Calls on All Jihad Groups to Unite under One Banner,” October 26, 2007 (accessed May 5, 2008): http://www.memrijttm.org/content/en/report.htm?report=2437. 30. For a discussion of the sociopolitical function of martyrological writings, see Eugene Weiner and Anita Weiner, The Martyr’s Conviction: A Sociological Analysis (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990), 87–127. 31. Abu Ismaʿil al-Muhajir, Siyar aʿlam al-shuhadaʾ (accessed April 28, 2013): http://www.archive.org/details/seira3lamalshuhda (2008). The book is a compilation of online biographies of martyrs of al-Qaʿida in Iraq. It lacks pagination, so references cite specific entries instead of pages. See the biography of Abu ʿAbdallah al-Turki. 32. Al-Muhajir, Siyar aʿlam al-shuhadaʾ: the biography of Abu Khalid al-Suri.

306

Notes to pages 167–169

33. Ibid.: the joint biography of Abu Dajana and Abu Nasir. 34. Ibid.: the biography of Thamer Mubarak. 35. (Accessed March 10, 2008): http://www.muslm.net/vb/showthread.

php?t=312502, 8. Similar conduct is attributed to Abu Dajana al-Khurasani, the suicide bomber who carried out the December 30, 2009, attack against the Central Intelligence Agency post in Khost (accessed April 29, 2013): hanein.info/vb/ showthread.php?t=171515. 36. Al-Muhajir, Siyar aʿlam al-shuhadaʾ: see, for example, the biographies of Abu Turab al-Najdi and Abu al-Ghadiyya. 37. Ibid.: see, for example, the biography of Abu Usama al-Maghribi. 38. Ibid.: see, for example, the biography of Jalibib al-Janubi. 39. Ibid.: see, for example, the joint biography of Abu Dajana and Abu Nasir. 40. Ibid.: the biography of Abu Turab al-Libi. 41. Ibid.: the biography of Abu Hamza al-Urduni. See also the biography of Tariq al-Wahsh. 42. In describing the fate of the righteous, the Qurʾan states: “Truly the Righteous will be in bliss. On thrones [of dignity] will they command a sight . . . their thirst will be slaked with pure wine sealed. The seal thereof will be musk” (83:22–26). Most exegetes explain that the wine served to the dwellers of heaven either tastes or smells of musk. See, for example, Abu Ja-ʿfar al-Tabari, Jami al-bayan fi taʾwil al-Qurʾan, 25 vols. (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1997), 12:497–98; Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, Hadi al-arwah ila bilad al-afrah (Beirut: Dar al-Kitab al-ʿArabi, 2003), 229. Note that the association of paradise with a pleasant odor is not unique to Islam. As Clifford Davidson points out, in Christian writings heaven was always characterized by delightful and sweet fragrance, in contrast to “the stench of hell with its fecal odor, its decaying flesh, and its chemical brew of brimstone and other unpleasant smells” (Clifford Davidson, “Heaven’s Fragrance,” in The Iconography of Heaven, ed. Clifford Davidson [Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, Western Michigan University, 1994], 110). 43. See, for example, al-Bukhari, Sahih, 3 vols. (Beirut: Dar al-Jil, n.d.), 1:68. See also Ibn Hajar al-ʿAsqalani, Fath al-bari bi-sharh Sahih al-Bukhari, 3 vols. (Cairo: Maktabat wa-Matbaʿat Mustafa al-Babi, 1959), 1:358, where the author explains that the reason the law prohibits washing a martyr’s corpse before its burial is because his blood and its musk-smell serve as a testimony to his martyrdom. See also Abu ʿAbdallah al-Qurtubi, al-Jamiʿ li-ahkam al-Qurʾan, 21 vols. (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1996), 4:173, where the author cites a hadith that explains that on the day of Resurrection the martyr’s blood will emit a scent of musk (as a sign that God has accepted the deceased as a martyr). 44. Al-Muhajir, Siyar aʿlam al-shuhadaʾ: the biography of Abu ʿAbdallah al-Turki. The joint biography of Abu Dajana and Abu Nasir describes the latter’s face as “a face not from this world.” 45. Ibid.: the biography of Abu Khalid al-Suri. 46. Ibid.: the biographies of Al-Hizbar al-Nahdi and Abu Radwan al-Tunisi. 47. Ibid.: see the biography of Abu Jaʿfar al-Maqdisi. 48. Ibid. 49. Ibid.: see the biography of Abu Muhammad al-Jazaʾiri.



Notes to pages 171–173 307

50. Ibid.: see the biography of Abu Jaʿfar al-Maqdisi. 51. Ibid.: the biographies of Abu Khalid Al-Suri and Abu Faris al-Ansari. 52. Ibid.: the biography of Jalibib al-Janubi.

Chapter 9 1. See, e.g., Rudolph Peters, Jihad in Classical and Modern Islam (Princeton: Markus

Wiener Publishers, 1996); Johannes J. G. Jansen, The Neglected Duty (New York: Macmillan, 1986); and David Cook, Martyrdom in Islam (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007). 2. On definitions and characteristics of “suicide” attacks, see, e.g., Diego Gambetta, ed., Making Sense of Suicide Missions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); David Cook and Olivia Allison, Understanding and Addressing Suicide Attacks: The Faith and Politics of Martyrdom Operations (Westport, CT: Praeger Security International, 2007); and Ariel Merari, Driven to Death: Psychological and Social Aspects of Suicide Terrorism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010). On the Islamic discourse on suicide attacks, see Meir Hatina, “ʿUlamaʾ and the Cult of Death in Palestine,” Israeli Affairs 12 ( January 2006): 29–51. 3. A discussion of these issues can be found in my articles “Theology and Power in the Middle East: Palestinian Martyrdom in a Comparative Perspective,” Journal of Political Ideologies 10 (October 2005): 241–67; and “ʿUlamaʾ and the Cult of Death.” 4. Notably, the Qurʾan’s primary use of the word shahid is in the meaning of “witness,” meaning that the Muslims are living testimony for the rest of the humanity. Muslim exegetical literature, however, expended the meaning of shahid to martyr, apparently under the influence of Syriac usage of the term as harboring both witness and martyr. See, e.g., Jan A. Wensinck, “The Oriental Doctrine of the Martyrs,” in Mededeelingen der Koniklijke Akademie van Wetenschappen, Afdeeling Letterkunde 53 (1921): 147–74; Daniel Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999); Glen W. Bowersock, Martyrdom and Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995); Mahmoud Ayoub, “Martyrdom in Christianity and Islam,” in Religious Resurgence: Contemporary Cases in Islam, Christianity and Judaism, ed. R. T. Antoun and M. E. Hegland (New York: Syracuse University Press, 1987), 67–77; and Michael Bonner, Jihad in Islamic History (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2006). 5. See, e.g., Roy P. Mottahedeh and Ridwan al-Sayyid, “The Idea of the Jihad in Islam before the Crusade,” in The Crusades from the Perspective of Byzantium and the Muslim World , ed. Angeliki E. Laiou and Roy P. Mottahedeh (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2001), 23–29; Cook, Martyrdom in Islam, 3–36, 63–73, 98–115; and Keith Lewinstein, “The Revaluation of Martyrdom in Early Islam,” in Sacrificing the Self: Perspective on Martyrdom and Religion, ed. Margaret Cormack (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 81. 6. Hasan al-Banna, “Risalat al-Jihad,” in Majmuat rasaʾil al-imam al-shahid (Beirut: al-Muʾassasa al-Islamiyya, n.d.), 264. 7. See, e.g., Lia Brynjar, The Muslim Brotherhood: The Rise of a Mass Movement (London: Ithaca Press, 1991); R. Bayly Winder, “Islam as State Religion: A Muslim Brotherhood View from Syria,” Muslim World 44 (1954): 215–26; and Meir

308

Notes to pages 173–176

Hatina, “Restoring a Lost Identity: Models of Education in Modern Islamic Thought,” British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 33 (November 2006): 179–97. 8. Abu al-ʿAla Mawdudi, “al-Jihad fi Sabil Allah,” in Thalit rasaʾil fi-l-jihad (Amman: Dar al-ʿUmar, 1992), 5–65. 9. Qutb quoted in Emmanuel Sivan, The Clash within Islam (Hebrew/Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2000), 60. 10. M. Abedi and G. Legenhausen, eds., Jihad and Shahadat: Struggle and Martyrdom in Islam (Houston: Institute for Research and Islamic Studies, 1986); Jill D. Swenson, “Martyrdom: Mythro-Cathexis and Mobilization of the Masses in the Iranian Revolution,” Ethos 13/2 (Summer 1985): 121–49; W. R. Husted, “Karbalaʾ Made Immediate: The Martyr as Model in Imami Shiʿism,” Muslim World 83 (1993): 263–78; also Haggai Ram, Iranophobia: The Logic of an Israeli Obsession (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2009), chap. 4. 11. Amir Taheri, Holy Terror: The Inside Story of Islamic Terrorism (London: Hutchinson, 1987), 80–83. 12. Martin Kramer, “Sacrifice and Fratricide in Shiite Lebanon,” in Violence and the Sacred in the Modern World, ed. Mark Jurgensmeyer (London: Frank Cass, 1992), 30–47; H. Jaber, Hezbollah: Born with a Vengeance (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997). 13. See, e.g., Gambetta, Making Sense of Suicide Missions; Mohammed M. Hafez, Suicide Bombers in Iraq: The Strategy and Ideology of Martyrdom (Washington, DC: US Institute of Peace Press, 2007); Anne Speckhard and Khapta Ahkmedova, “The Making of a Martyr: Chechen Suicide Terrorism,” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 29/5 (2006): 1–65; and Farhad Khosrokhavar, Suicide Bombers: Allah’s New Martyrs (London: Pluto Press, 2005). 14. Khosrokhavar, Suicide Bombers; Marc Sageman, Leaderless Jihad: Terror Networks in the Twenty-First Century. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004); idem, Understanding Terror Networks (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004); Gilles Kepel and Jean-Pierre Milelli, eds., al-Qaeda in Its Own Words (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2008). 15. See, e.g., Saʿd Abu Diya, Dirasa tahliliyya fi-l-ʿamaliyyat al-istishhdiyya fi junub Lubnan (Amman: Jamʿiyat ʿUmmal al-Matabiʿ al-Taʿawuniyya, 1986); and Naʿim Qasim, Hizbullah: The Story from Within (London: Dar al-Saqi, 2005), 34–50, 69–76. 16. On the concept of symbolic empowerment, see Mark Juergensmeyer, Terror in the Mind of God (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 214–15. 17. Sivan quoted in Haʾaretz, April 21, 2002 (in Hebrew). 18. See, e.g., Hamas leader ʿAbd al-ʿAziz al-Rantisi (d. 2004), in al-Sabil, July 3–9, 2001, 19. On the cited hadith, see Abu ʿAbdallah Muhammad b. Ismaʿil al-Bukhari, Sahih al-Bukhari, 7 vols. (3rd ed., Beirut: Dar Ibn Kathir, 1987), 1:128. 19. Nasra Hassan, “An Arsenal of Believers”; idem, “Are You Ready? Tomorrow You Will Be in Paradise,” Times (London), July 14, 2005 (accessed July 11, 2011): http:// www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and style/article543551.ece; Merari, Driven to Death, 162–63; Bruce Hoffman and Gordon H. McCormick, “Terrorism, Signaling, and Suicide Attack,” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 27 (2004): 243–81; Nicholas W. Bakkan, “The Anatomy of Suicide Terrorism: A Durkheimian



Notes to pages 176–182 309

Analysis” (2007; accessed August 17, 2012): http://www.ifpo.org/articlebank/Bakken_Suicide_Terrorism.pdf. 20. See, e.g., Bruce E. Rosenberg, The Art of the American Folk Preacher (London: Oxford University Press, 1970); Jonathan P. Berkey, Popular Preaching and Religious Authority in the Medieval Islamic Near East (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2001); see also Boaz Shoshan, Popular Culture in Medieval Cairo (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), mainly 9–22, 67–78. 21. Brad S. Gregory, Salvation at Stake: Christian Martyrdom in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 23–29; Avriel Bar-Levav, “When I Was Alive: Jewish Ethical Wills as Egodocuments,” in Egodocuments and History: Autobiographical Writing in Its Historical Context since the Middle Ages, ed. Rudolf Dekker (Rotterdam: Erasmus University Rotterdam, 2002), 47–59. Wills in premodern Islam are dealt with mainly in the context of inheritance. See R. Peters, “Wassiah,” in Encyclopedia of Islam, 1st ed. (1960), 171–72. 22. Bryan S. Turner, “Religious Authority and the New Media,” Theory, Culture and Society 24/2 (2007): 117–34. 23. Ibid.; see also Eli Alshech’s and Ksenia Sevatlova’s essays in this volume; P. D. Gaffney, The Prophet’s Pulpit: Islamic Preaching in Contemporary Egypt (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994); Dale F. Eickelman and Jon W. Anderson, “Redefining Muslim Public,” in New Media in the Muslim World: The Emerging Public Sphere, ed. Dale F. Eickelman and Jon W. Anderson (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999), 1–18; Bunt Gary, Islam in the Digital Age: E-Jihad, Online Fatwas and Cyber Islamic Environment (London: Pluto Press, 2003); Gudrun Krämer and Sabine Schmidtke, “Introduction,” in Speaking for Islam: Religious Authorities in Muslim Societies, ed. Gudrun Krämer and Sabine Schmidtke (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 1–14. 24. See, e.g., the recorded will of Abu Anas al-Najdi, an al-Qaʿida activist in Iraq (February 2007; accessed February 2, 2011): http://irak-info.blogspot.com/2009/01/ cosecha-comprendida-para-diciembre-del.html. 25. Bakkan, “The Anatomy of Suicide Terrorism,” 1–11. 26. Quoted in the will written by Hanadi Jaradat, a member of the Palestinian Islamic Jihad who carried out a suicide attack in Haifa in October 2003 (accessed June 10, 2011): http://www.saraya/ps/index/php?act=Show&id=2382. 27. ʿAbd al-Ghani’s will in al-Sabil, July 3–9, 2001, 5. 28. Ibid. 29. The recorded will of Abu Anas al-Najdi (see note 24 above). 30. For a detailed discussion of this doctrine, see Ayman al-Zawahiri, “Loyalty and Enmity,” in Raymond Ibrahim, The al-Qaeda Reader (New York: Broadway Books, 2007), 66–115. 31. See also Mira Tzoref, “The Palestinian Shahida,” in Female Suicide Bombers: Dying for Equality, ed. Yoram Schweitzer (Tel Aviv: Jaffe Center for Strategic Studies, 2006), 13–22; Anat Berko, The Path to Paradise: The Inner World of Suicide Bombers and Their Dispatchers (Westport: Praeger Security International, 2007); and idem, The Smarter Bomb: Women and Children as Suicide Bombers (Hebrew/Tel Aviv: Yedioth Ahronoth, 2010); mainly 15–29. 32. Marmash’s will in al-Sabil, July 3–9, 2001, 6.

310

Notes to pages 182–185

33. (Accessed March 15, 2011): http://arabna.com/vb/showthread.php?t=40614 34. Murtada Mutahhari, “Shahid,” in Jihad and Shahadat, ed. Abedi and Legenhau-

sen, 126; Asghar Seyed-Goharb, “Martyrdom as Piety: Mysticism and National Identity in Iran-Iraq War Poetry,” Der Islam 87/1–2 (2010): 248–73. 35. Max Weber on Charisma and Institution Building, ed. S. N. Eisenstadt (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), xxi–xxii. 36. B. Schwartz, “The Social Context of Commemoration: A Study in Collective Memory,” Social Forces 61 (December 1982): 374–76; Commemorations: The Politics of National Identity, ed. John Gillis (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994). 37. See, e.g., the Hamas website (accessed March 18, 2011): http://www.palestine-info. info/arabic/hamas/shuhda; al-Qaʿida’s website, http://www.alsunnah.info; Hizballah’s website, http://www.hizballah.org; and also Eli Alshech, “Egoistic Martyrdom and Hamas’ Success in the 2005 Municipal Elections: A Study of Hamas Martyrs’ Ethical Wills, Biographies, and Eulogies,” Die Welt des Islams 48 (2008): 23–49. 38. For example, see (accessed March 15, 2011): http://www.alqassam.ps/arabic/ sohdaa5.php?id=517; and www.hteenmosq.com/vb/showthread.php?t=59. 39. See also Eli Alshekh’s essay in this volume. 40. On ʿAzzam and his ideology, see Husni Adham Jarrar, al-Shahid ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam: Rajul daʿwa wa-madrasat jihad (Amman: Dar al-Diyaʾ, 1990); Andrew McGregor, “‘Jihad and the Rifle Alone’: ʿAbdullah ʿAzzam and the Islamist Revolution,” Journal of Conflict Studies 33/2 (Fall 2003): 92–113; and Fawaz A. Gerges, The Far Enemy: Why Jihad Went Global (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 125–38. 41. ʿAbdullah ʿAzzam, “Martyrs: The Building Blocks of Nations” (accessed May 24, 2011): http://www.religioscope.com/info/doc/jihad/azzam_martyrs.htm. 42. ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam, Aayat al-rahman fi jihad al-Afghan (Amman: Maktabat al-Risalah al-Hadithah, 1986); idem, ʿUshshaq al-hur (accessed May 5, 2011): http:// www.4shared.com/dir/dEglkHus/_online.html. 43. See also Eli Alshech, “The Emergence of the Infallible Jihad Fighter—The Salafi Jihadists’ Quest for Religious Legitimacy,” Middle East Media Research Institute: Inquiry and Analysis 30 ( June 2008): 1–11. 44. Augustus R. Norton, “Ritual, Blood, and Shiite Identity: Ashura in Nabatiyya, Lebanon,” Drama Review 49/4 (Winter 2005): 140–55; Lori Allen, “Getting by the Occupation: How Violence Became Normal during the Second Palestinian Intifada,” Cultural Anthropology 23/3 (2008): 462–73; also Anne Oliver Marie and Paul F. Steinberg, The Road to Martyrs’ Square: A Journey into the World of the Suicide Bomber (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 53–110. 45. See, e.g., Peter Brown, The Cult of Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981), mainly chap. 1; and Christoph S. Taylor, In the Vicinity of the Righteous: Ziyara and the Veneration of Muslim Saints in Late Medieval Egypt (Boston: Brill, 1999). 46. George L. Mosse, Fallen Soldiers: Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), mainly chap. 3; Yael Zerubavel, Recovered Roots: Collective Memory and the Making of Israeli National Tradition (Chicago:



Notes to pages 185–192 311

University of Chicago Press, 1995); idem, The Nation and Death: History, Memory and Politics (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 2002; in Hebrew). Commemoration in the public space, however, was more noticeable in the Iranian case: a martyrs’ museum was built in Tehran, while bodies of fallen soldiers in the war with Iraq were later reburied on academic campuses. Joyce M. Davis, Martyrs: Innocence, Vengeance and Despair in the Middle East (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), 45–49. 47. Sayyid Qutb, Fi zilal al-Qurʾan, 2nd ed., 6 vols. (Beirut: Dar al-Shuruq, 1986), 1:200–203, 517–18.

Chapter 10 1. On the new media and its functions, see Dale Eickelman and Jon W. Anderson,

eds., New Media in the Muslim World: The Emerging Public Sphere (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999); Gary Bunt, Islam in the Digital Age: E-Jihad, Online Fatwas and Cyber Islamic Environment (London: Pluto Press, 2003); and Bryan S. Turner, “Religious Authority and the New Media,” Theory, Culture and Society 24/2 (2007): 117–34. 2. Other new preachers, such as the Egyptians Safwat al-Hijazi and Khalid ʿAbdallah, adopted a more puritanical Salafi orientation. 3. Asef Bayat, “From Amr Diab to Amr Khalid,” al-Ahram Weekly, no. 639 (May 2003), 22–28. 4. Mona Naggar, “I Want to Move Arabic Youth” (accessed January 12, 2006): www.qantara.de/webcom/show_article.php/_c-478/_nr-373/i.html. 5. Amr Khalid, “About Amr Khalid” (accessed May 1, 2007): http://www.alkalima. com/?page=Archives&vol=8&issue=2&id=112. 6. Bayat, “From Amr Diab to Amr Khalid.” 7. Ibid. 8. Mahmoud El-Gamal, “Asking Difficult Questions, Seeking Easy Answers: The Amr Khalid Phenomenon” (May 2, 2006; accessed May 1, 2007): http://elgamal. blogspot.co.il/2006/05/asking-difficult-questions-seeking.html. 9. Patrick Haenni and Husam Tammam, “Egypt’s Air-Conditioned Islam,” Le Monde Diplomatique (September 2003; accessed May 1, 2007): http://mondediplo. com/2003/09/03egyptislam. 10. On these preachers, see Johannes J. G. Jansen, The Neglected Duty: The Creed of Sadat’s Assassins and Islamic Resurgence in the Middle East (New York: Macmillan, 1986), 90–150; Hava Lazarus-Yafeh, “Muhammad Mutawali al-Shaʿrawi: A Portrait of a Contemporary Alim in Egypt,” in Islam, Nationalism and Radicalism in Egypt and the Sudan, ed. G. R. Warburg and U. M. Kupferschmidt (New York: Praeger, 1983), 281–97; Gilles Kepel, The Prophet and the Pharaoh (London: Dar al-Saqi, 1985), 172–90; Bettina Graf and Jakob Skovgaard-Petersen, eds., Global Mufti: The Phenomenon of Yusuf al-Qaradawi (London: Hurst, 2009); and P. D. Gaffney, The Prophet’s Pulpit: Islamic Preaching in Contemporary Egypt (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 218. 11. Richard T. Antoun, Muslim Preacher in the Modern World: A Jordanian Case Study in Comparative Perspective (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989), introduction. 12. Bayat, “From Amr Diab to Amr Khalid.”

Notes to pages 192–199

312

13. On ʿAbd al-Kafi, see Ksenia Svetlova, “The Case of ʿAmr Khalid: Teleislamism”

(PhD diss., Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2007), 34–35.

14. “Tamir Husni Will Sing with ʿAmr Khalid,” al-Misri al-Yaum, February 23, 2007,

22.

15. “Preaching with Passion,” interview with ʿAmr Khalid, al-Ahram Weekly, no. 614

(November 28–December 4, 2002).

16. For example, the advertisement of Qurʾan Radio in the daily al-Quds, which first

appeared on October 6, 2005, and ran for several weeks until the end of Ramadan, included the names and pictures of both men, while all the other names (Tariq Suwidan, Tariq al-Hidaya, and Muhammad Husayn Yaʿaqub) were listed below. 17. Antoun, Muslim Preacher in the Modern World, 239. 18. Emmanuel Sivan, Radical Islam: Medieval Theology and Modern Politics (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), 3. 19. ʿAmr Khalid, “Life Makers: An Introduction to the First Phase” (May 1, 2007): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FmRr8ZG4zpE (in Arabic). 20. Ibid. 21. ʿAmr Khalid, “The Battle of Muʿta” (May 1, 2007): http://amrkhaled.net/newsite/ articles1.php?articleID=NTIzMg==&id=5232 (in Arabic). In the Battle of Muʿta, a town in the east of Jordan, the Muslims confronted the Byzantine army but lost the war. 22. ʿAmr Khalid, “Unemployment” (accessed May 1, 2007): http://forum.amrkhaled. net/group.php?do=discuss&discussionid=1923 (in Arabic). 23. “Akhlaq” audiocassette series, 1999–2000, No. 5 (in Arabic). 24. Khalid, “In Thy Name, We Live—Ar-rahman Ar-raheem” (accessed May 1, 2007): http://imanflash.wordpress.com/2006/10/20/amr-khaled-besmika-na7ya, episode 11. 25. “Who Is Jesus? Get to Know Him Personally!” Thomas Road Baptist Church (accessed May 1, 2007): http://unityfwbc.org/find/abundantlife.php. See also the reborn web evangelist Grantley Morris (accessed May 1, 2007): http://net-burst. net/hope/special.htm. 26. Letter from ʿAmr Khalid (accessed May 1, 2007): http://www.imanway.com/en/ archive/index.php/t-2894.html. 27. Elizabeth J. Morgan, “Effective Preaching” (accessed May 1, 2007): http://www. christianethicstoday.com/Issue/038/Effective%20Preaching%20-%20An%20Ethical%20Obligation%20By%20Elizabeth%20J.%20Morgan_038_21_.htm. 28. (Accessed May 1, 2007): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rUqgjYXFf Tc. 29. David G. Myers, Social Psychology (7th ed., St. Petersburg: Peter, 2005), 465. 30. Ibid., 466. 31. Mark Obrinsky and Debra Stein, Overcoming Opposition to Multifamily Rental Housing (Boston: Joint Center for Housing Studies of Harvard University, November 2006). 32. (Accessed May 1, 2007): amrkhalid.net. See also Myers, Social Psychology, 302. 33. “Believer True Story,” Muslim Association of Britain (accessed June 25, 2007): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZJArpYb3fug. 34. ʿAmr Khalid, “Life Makers—Introduction Part II” (accessed May 1, 2007): http://groups.yahoo.com/group/7ob_Allah/message/574.



Notes to pages 200–207 313

35. W. Gill Woodall and Judee K. Burgoon, “Talking Fast and Changing Attitudes,”

Journal of Nonverbal Behavior 8/2 (Winter 1983): 126–42.

36. Myers, Social Psychology, 296. 37. N. Miller et al., “Speech of Speech and Persuasion,” Journal of Personality and So-

cial Psychology 34 (1976): 615–24.

38. Woodall and Burgoon, “Talking Fast and Changing Attitudes”; also Ronald N.

Bond et al., “Vocal Frequency and Person Perception,” Journal of Pshycholinguistic Research 4 (1987): 16–20. 39. Jonathan Altfeld, “Do You Want a World Voice?” (accessed June 25, 2007): www.altfeld.com/mastery/products/voicetapes.html. 40. Bond et al., “Vocal Frequency and Person Perception.” 41. Interview with Dalia Abbas, Cairo, October 2005. 42. Nathan C. Bell, A Study of the Persuasion Techniques Used by Jehovah’s Witnesses and the Watchtower (Adelaide: Tabor College, November 1997). 43. ʿAmr Khalid, “Our Dreams of Education and Our Countries’ Interrelations” (accessed May 1, 2007): http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:31tNfrM8s64J:www.gawaher.com/topic/6279-our-dreams-for-education-and-our-countries-interrelations/+&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=il. 44. Ben Armstrong, The Electric Church (Nashville: T. Nelson, 1979), 133. 45. Naomi Sakr, ed., Arab Media and Political Renewal (London: I. B. Tauris, 2007). 46. On al-Jazeera, see Mohammed El-Nawawy, The Story of the Network That Is Rattling Governments and Redefining Modern Journalism (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 2003); and Mohamed Zayani, ed., The Al Jazeera Phenomenon: Critical Perspectives on New Arab Media (London: Pluto Press, 2005). 47. ʿAmr Khalid, “Morals” audiotapes, 1999–2000, No. 3. 48. ʿAmr Khalid, Life Makers lectures, Iqraa TV, 2004–5.

Chapter 11 1. John Malcolm, The History of Persia: From the Most Early Period to the Present

Time, 2 vols. (London: J. Murray, 1829), 2:432. The definitions of officials and informal leaders are based on Edward Gross and Amitai Etzioni, Organizations in Society (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1985), 114. 2. For such analyses, see Meir Litvak, Shiʿi Scholars of Nineteenth Century Iraq: The ʿUlamaʾ of Najaf and Karbalaʾ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 41–114; Ahmad Kazemi Moussavi, “The Institutionalization of Marjaʿ-i Taqlid in the Nineteenth-Century Shiʿite Community,” Muslim World 83/3–4 (July–­ October 1994); idem, “The Establishment of the Position of Marjaʿiyat-i Taqlid in the Twelver-Shiʿi Community,” Iranian Studies 18/1 (Winter 1985): 35–51; and Abbas Amanat, “In Between the Madrasa and the Marketplace: The Designation of Clerical Leadership in Modern Shiʿism,” in Authority and Political Culture in Shiʿism, ed. Saʿid Amir Arjomand (Albany: SUNY Press, 1988), 98–131. 3. See such lists in ʿAli Davani, Zindigani-yi zaʿim-i buzurg-i ʿalam-i tashayyuʿ ʿalama-yi ʿaliqadr hadrat-i Ayatollah Burujerdi (Qom: Hikmat, 1961), 31–34. See also Sayyid Ahmad Husayni Eshkivari Asaf-Agha, al-Imam al-hakim (Najaf: Dar al-Thaqafa, 1384/1964), cited in Michael M. J. Fischer, Iran: From Religious Dispute to Revolution. Harvard Studies in Cultural Anthropology, No. 3 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980), 252–54.

314

Notes to pages 207–212

4. Said Amir Arjomand, “The Mujtahid of the Age and the Mulla-Bashi: An Intermediate State in the Institutionalization of Religious Authority in Shiʿite Iran,” in Authority and Political Culture in Shiʿism, 80ff.; idem, The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam: Religion, Political Order and Societal Change in Shiʿite Iran from the

Beginning to 1980 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), 135.

5. Abbas Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal: The Making of the Babi Movement in

Iran, 1844–1850 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989), 41.

6. Muhammad Baqir Bihbihani, Risalat al-ijtihad wa-l-akhbar (n.p., 1895), 1–20, Mirza

Abu al-Qasim Qummi, Qawanin al-usul (Tehran: Lithograph, 1378/1958), cited in Kazemi Moussavi, “The Institutionalization,” 282ff.; and Mulla Ahmad Naraqi, Manahij al-ahkam (n.p., 1896), 275–77, cited in Kazemi Moussavi, “The Establishment,” 38–39. 7. J. R. I. Cole, “Imami Jurisprudence and the Role of the Ulama: Murtaza Ansari on Emulating the Supreme Exemplar,” in Religion and Politics in Iran, ed. Nikki Keddie (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1981); Amanat, “In Between the Madrasa and the Marketplace,” 102. 8. Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 42. 9. Hamid Dabashi, “The Sufi Doctrine of the ‘Perfect Man’ and the Question of Hierarchy,” Islamic Quarterly 30/2 (1986): 118, 121. 10. Amanat, “In Between the Madrasa and the Marketplace,” 99, 101. 11. For an analysis of the prerequisites for leadership, see Litvak, Shiʿi Scholars, 96–114. 12. Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 48. 13. Ahmad Ahsaʾi, Sharh al-fawaʾid (n.p., 1272/1856), cited in Dennis MacEoin, “Changes in Charismatic Authority in Qajar Shiʿism,” in Qajar Iran: Political, Social and Cultural Change, 1800–1925, ed. C. E. Bosworth (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1983), 165. 14. Mangol Bayat, Mysticism and Dissent: Socio-Religious Thought in Qajar Iran (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1982), 50–51; Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 54; Juan R. I. Cole, “Shaykh Ahmad al-Ahsaʾi on the Sources of Religious Authority,” in The Most Learned of the Shiʿa: The Institution of the Marjaʿ Taqlid, ed. Linda S. Walbridge (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 82–92. 15. Kazim Rashti, Dalil al-mutahayyirin (Kirman: Chapkhana Saʿadat, 1980), 51–53; Dennis MacEoin, “Ahsaʾi Shaykh Ahmad,” Encyclopedia Iranica, Electronic Edition (online); Arjomand, The Shadow of God, 252. 16. Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 62–65. 17. Muhsin al-Amin, Aʿyan al-shiʿa, 60 vols. (Beirut: Matbaʿat al-Insaf, 1960), 48:155ff.; Muhammad Mahdi al-Kazimi, Ahsan al-wadiʿa fi tarajim ashar mashahir mujtahidi al-shiʿa (Najaf: al-Matbaʿat al-Haydariyya, 1930), 11–12; Muhammad Mirza Tunukabuni, Qisas al-ʿulamaʾ (Tehran: Kitabfurushi ʿIlmiyya Islamiyya, 1378/1967), 88–89; Rashti, Dalil, 76–83. 18. Rashti, Dalil, 62–64, 76–83; A. L. M. Nicolas, Essai sur le Chéïkhisme, 4 vols. (Paris: Paul Geuthner and Ernest Leroux, 1910–14), 1:51–56, 60. 19. Rashti, Dalil, 62–64, 76; Nicolas, Essai, 1:51–56; Muhammad Hasan Astarabadi, Mazahir al-athar, cited in Murtada Chehardihi, Shaykhgari va-Babgari (Tehran: Furughi, 1966), 30.



Notes to pages 213–215 315

20. Rashti, Dalil, 90–104, 115–16, 118, 127–33; Nicholas, Essai, 1:21–22; Amanat, Res-

urrection and Renewal, 62–63, 67.

21. Jaʿfar al-Mahbuba, Madi al-najaf wa-hadiruha, 3 vols. (Najaf: Matbaʿat al-Adab, 1955–58), 2:134; Abu Turab Dizfuli, Lumʿat al-bayan, cited in Morteza Ansari,

Zindigani va-shakhsiyati-i Shaykh Ansari quddisa sirruhu (n.p., 1960), 72–73; Muhammad Rida al-Muzaffar, “Tarjamat al-muʾallif,” in Muhammad Hasan Najafi, Jawahir al-kalam fi sharh sharaʿiʿ al-Islam, ed. ʿAbbas Quchani-Najafi, 23 vols. (Tehran: Dar al-Kutub al-Islamiyya, 1972), 1:19. 22. Ansari, Zindigani, 72, Muhammad Kalantar, “Muqaddima,” in Murtada Ansari, Kitab al-makasib (Najaf, 1392/1972), 106; Lumʿat al-bayan, cited in Ansari, Zindigani, 77. 23. Hossein Modarresi Tabatabaʾi, An Introduction to Shiʿi Law: A Bibliographical Study (London: Ithaca Press, 1984), 57. Ansari, Zindigani, 354–87, lists 144 mujtahids who had written commentaries on Ansari’s writings. 24. Ansari, Zindigani, 78ff., 111; Muhammad Hirz al-Din, Maʿarif al-rijal fi tarajim al-ʿulamaʾ wa-l-ʿudabaʾ, 3 vols. (Najaf: Matbaʿat al-Najaf, 1964–65), 2:112; Kalantar, “Muqaddima,” 131ff. 25. Amanat, “In Between the Madrasa and the Marketplace,” 113; 115; Abdul Hadi Haʾiri, “Ansari,” Encyclopedia Iranica, 2nd ed. online. 26. Cole, “Imami Jurisprudence.” 27. National Archives India Foreign Department, Secret-E June 1908—Extracts from the Political Diary of the Baghdad Residency for the Week Ending 7 January 1908, FO195/2274, Baghdad no. 484–50: Political Diary of the Baghdad Residency for the Week Ending 2 June 1908. For the Oudh Bequest and its role in internal ʿulamaʾ politics, see Meir Litvak, “Money, Religion and Politics: The Oudh Bequest in Najaf and Karbalaʾ, 1850–1903,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 33/1 (February 2001): 1–21; and idem, “Failed Manipulation: The British, the Oudh Bequest and the Shiʿi ʿUlamaʾ of Najaf and Karbalaʾ,” British Journal of Middle East Studies 27/1 (2000): 68–89. 28. Hadi Najafi-Quchani, Siyahat-i sharq ya zendeginamah-yi aqa Najafi Quchani, ed. A. Shakeri (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1351/1972), 460–62. 29. For Nuri’s politics, see Vanessa Martin, Islam and Modernism: The Iranian Revolution of 1906 (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1989), particularly 165–200. 30. Hamid Algar, “Abdallah Behbahani,” in Encyclopaedia Iranica online. See also Martin, Islam and Modernism, 39–40, 58–59, 63–64, 114–22, 153–55, 157–58. 31. Edward G. Browne, The Persian Revolution of 1905–1909 (London: Frank Cass, 1966), 444. 32. For an analysis of these writings, see Said A. Arjomand, “The Ulama’s Traditionalist Opposition to Parliamentarianism: 1907–1909,” Middle East Studies 17/2 (April 1981): 174–90; and Vanessa Martin, “The Anti-Constitutionalist Arguments of Shaikh Fazlallah Nuri,” Middle East Studies 22/2 (April 1986): 181–96. 33. Muhammad Husyan Naʾini, Tanbih al-umma wa-tanzih al-milla, 3rd ed. (Tehran: Sirkati-i Shiham-i, 1955). Neither Nuri’s name nor Naʾini’s name appeared in Tabatabaʾi’s important book An Introduction to Shiʿi Law, which enumerates the leading works of Shiʿi jurisprudence. 34. Martin, Islam and Modernism, 191–92; Algar, “Abdallah Behbahani”; Said Amir

316

Notes to pages 216–221

Arjomand, The Turban for the Crown: The Islamic Revolution in Iran (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 58–59. 35. On the return to political quietism, see Vanessa Martin, Creating an Islamic State: Khomeini and the Making of a New Iran (London: I. B. Tauris, 2000), 50ff.; and Mohammad Hassan Faghfoory, “The Ulama–State Relations in Iran: 1921–1941,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 19 (1987): 413–32. On the activism of provincial ʿulamaʾ, see Stephanie Cronin, “Modernity, Change and Dictatorship in Iran: The New Order and Its Opponents, 1927–29,” Middle East Studies 39/2 (April 2003): 3–4. On Kashani, see Mohammad Hassan Faghfoory, “The Role of the Ulama in Twentieth-Century Iran with Particular Reference to Ayatullah Haj Sayyid Abul-Qasim Kashani” (PhD diss., University of Wisconsin–Madison, 1987); and Minoo Derayeh, “Religion and Nationalism in Iran, 1951–1953: Dr. Muhammad Musaddiq and Ayatullah Abul-Qasim Kashani” (PhD diss., McGill University, 1995). 36. For Khomeini’s mystical ideas, see Alexander Knysh, “Irfan Revisited: Khomeini and the Legacy of Islamic Mystical Philosophy,” Middle East Journal 46/4 (Autumn 1992): 631–53; Martin, Creating an Islamic State, 34–45; Daniel Brumberg, Reinventing Khomeini: The Struggle for Reform in Iran (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 45–48; Baqer Moin, Khomeini: Life of the Ayatollah (London: St. Martin Press, 1999), 46–52. 37. Martin, Creating an Islamic State, 44–45. 38. For Khomeini’s role in the 1963 uprising, see Moin, Khomeini, 75–128. 39. Tabatabaʾi, Introduction to Shiʿi Law, 12, 58, 94, 100. 40. Martin, Creating an Islamic State, 66–75. 41. Brumberg, Reinventing Khomeini, 55–79. 42. Arjomand, The Turban for the Crown, 110; Brumberg, Reinventing Khomeini, 5. 43. For this division in modern Iranian discourse, see Mary Catherine Bateson et al., “Safa-ye Batin: A Study of the Interrelationships of a Set of Iranian Ideal Character Types,” in Psychological Dimensions of Near Eastern Studies, ed. L. Carl Brown and Norman Itzkowitz (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1977), 257–74; Navid Kermani, “The Fear of the Guardians: 24 Army Officers Write a Letter to President Khatami,” in Twelver Shiʿism in Modern Times: Religious Culture and Political History, ed. W. Ende and R. Brunner (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 358–59. 44. Arjomand, The Turban for the Crown, 152. 45. For an analysis of this process, see Asghar Schirazi, The Constitution of Iran: Politics and the State in the Islamic Republic, trans. John O’Kane (London: I. B. Tauris, 1998), particularly 60–71; and Shaul Bakhash, “The Politics of Land, Law, and Social Justice in Iran,” Middle East Journal 43/2 (Spring 1989): 186–201. 46. Ettelaʿat, January 7, 1988. 47. Kayhan, January 10, 1988; Jomhuri-ye Islami, January 23, 1988. 48. Schirazi, The Constitution of Iran, 68. 49. Brumberg, Reinventing Khomeini, 162–63. 50. Mohsen Milani, “The Transformation of the Velayet-e Faqih Institution: From Khomeini to Khamene’i,” Muslim World 82 (1992): 175–90; Brumberg, Reinventing Khomeini, 137ff. 51. David Menashri, “The Islamic Republic of Iran,” in The Middle East Contemporary Survey 1989 (Boulder: Westview Press, 1992; hereafter MECS), 347–50.



Notes to pages 222–229 317

52. Martin Kramer, “The Global Village of Islam,” MECS 1992 (Boulder: Westview

Press, 1995), 210–12; idem, “Rallying Around Islam,” MECS 1993 (Boulder: Westview Press, 1996), 126–29. 53. R. (= Radio) Tehran, December 17, 1993—BBC Summary of World Broadcasts, December 20, 1993. 54. Roy P. Mottahedeh, “The Islamic Movement: The Case for Democratic Inclusion,” Contention 4/3 (Spring 1995): 113–14. 55. Kayhan (London), December 4, 1997. 56. For his efforts, see Mehdi Khalaji, The Last Marja: Sistani and the End of Traditional Religious Authority in Shiʿism, Policy Focus 59 (Washington, DC: Institute for Near East Policy September 2006), 25–36.

Chapter 12 1. John Esposito and Dalia Mugahid, eds., Who Speaks for Islam? What a Billion

Muslims Really Think (New York: Gallup Press, 2007). See also Gunder Krämer and Sabine Schmidtke, eds., Speaking for Islam: Religious Authorities in Muslim Societies (Leiden: Brill, 2006). 2. BBC Arabic, July 11, 2004 (accessed July 14, 2011): http://news.bbc.co.uk/hi/arabic/middle_east_news/newsid_3876000/3876047.stm. 3. See Richard Tuck, “Why Is Authority Such a Problem?” in Philosophy, Politics and Society, 4th series, ed. P. Laslett, W. Runciman, and Q. Skinner (Oxford: Blackwell, 1972), 194–207. 4. Richard Friedman, “On the Concept of Authority in Political Philosophy,” in Concepts in Social and Political Philosophy, ed. Richard Flathman (New York: Macmillan, 1973), 127, 142. 5. On religious authority in Islam, see Wael Hallaq, Authority, Continuity, and Change in Islamic Law (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 24–85; Khaled Abou El Fadl, Speaking in God’s Name (Oxford: Oneworld Press, 2001), 23–85; and idem, And God Knows the Soldiers: The Authoritative and Authoritarian in Islamic Discourses (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2001), chap. 2. 6. Abou El Fadl, Speaking in God’s Name, 23–25. 7. Ibid.; see also Muhammad al-Shawkani, Nayl al-Awtar Sharh Muntaqa al-Akhbar 8 vols. (Cairo: Dar al-Hadith, n.d.), vol. 7, 166; Ibn Hajar al-ʿAsqalani, Fath al-Bari bi Sharh Sahih al-Bukhari, 15 vols. (Beirut: Dar al-Fikr, 1993), vol. 14, 303; and Montgomery Watt, Islamic Political Thought: The Basic Concepts (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1968), 54. 8. Ann Lambton, State and Government in Medieval Islam: An Introduction to the Study of Islamic Political Theory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981), 109. 9. Abu l-Aʿla Mawdudi, The Islamic Law and Constitution (Lahore: Islamic Publications, 1969), 204. 10. Sayyid Qutb, Milestones (New Delhi: Islamic Book Service, 2008), 26. 11. Khaled Abou El Fadl, “Islam and the Challenge of Democratic Commitment,” Fordham International Law Journal 27/1 (2003): 68. 12. Ibid.; see also Bernard Lewis, “Politics and War,” in The Legacy of Islam, ed. Joseph Schacht and C. E. Bosworth (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974), 159. 13. Ahmad Moussalli, “Hasan al-Turabi’s Islamist Discourse on Democracy and Shura,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 30 (1994): 61.

318

Notes to pages 229–234

14. ʿAbd Allah al-ʿUthaymin, Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhab: hayatuhu wa-fikruhu (Riyadh: Dar al-ʿUlum, 1987), 136. 15. See Muhammad Masud, Brinkly Messick, and David Powers, eds. Islamic Legal In-

terpretation: Muftis and Their Fatwas (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996), 3–30. 16. Jakob Skovgaard-Petersen, Defining Islam for the Egyptian State: Muftis and Fatwas of the Dar al-Ifta (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 284–85. 17. Yusuf al-Qaradawi, al-Ijtihad al-muʿasir bayna al-indibat wa l-infirat (Beirut: al-Maktab al-Islami, 1998), 103–5. 18. Ibid., 147; Jomier Jacques, “al-Azhar,” in The Encyclopedia of Islam, 2nd ed., 12 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1954–2004), 1:818. 19. For more on the emergence of the collective practice of ifta, see Masud, Messick, and Powers, Islamic Legal Interpretation, 28; Skovgaard-Petersen, Defining Islam, 284–86; Muhammad Mudzhar, “Fatwas of the Council of Indonesian Ulama: A Study of Islamic Legal Thought in Indonesia, 1975–1988” (PhD diss., University of California, Los Angeles, 1990), 6–7; and Muhammad al-Atawneh, Wahhabi Islam Facing the Challenges of Modernity: Dar al-Ifta in the Modern Saudi State (Leiden: Brill, 2010), chap. 2. 20. More on the IUMS composition is found at its website (accessed August 9, 2011): http://www.iumsonline.net/ar/default.asp?MenuID=3. 21. See article 21 of the IUMS Basic Regulations (accessed August 9, 2011): www.iumsonline.net/ar/default.asp?MenuID=2. 22. Ibid. 23. Al-Qaradawi’s address at the founding conference (accessed April 29, 2013): http://www.alwihdah.com/fikr/scholar/2010-04-26-1673.htm. 24. Interview with IUMS secretary general Shaykh ʿAli al-Qurrah Daghi (accessed August 12, 2011): http://www.iumsonline.net/en/default.asp?word=arabspring&contentID=5609&menuID=62; IUMS Basic Regulations (al-nizam al-asasi), published first on November 10, 2005 (accessed September 6, 2011): www.iumsonline.net/ar/default.asp?MenuID=4 (hereafter Basic Regulations are cited in the main text). 25. Al-Qaradawi’s speech in the IUMS founding conference on July 11, 2004 (accessed April 29, 2013): http://www.qaradawi.net/2010-02-01-08-43-29/4529.html. 26. (Accessed July 22, 2012): http://www.iumsonline.net/ar/default.asp?MenuID=7; and http://www.iumsonline.net/ar/Default.asp?ContentID=1101&menuID=7. 27. (Accessed July 26, 2012): http://islamopediaonline.org/fatwa/statement-international-union-muslim-scholars-praising-netherlands-caring-about-rights-religio. 28. (Accessed September 22, 2011): http://www.ikhwanweb.com/article. php?id=28697. More statements may be found online (accessed September 22, 2011): http://www.iumsonline.net/ar/default.asp?MenuID=7. 29. (Accessed September 22, 2011): http://www.assafir.com/MulhakArticle. aspx?EditionId=2157&MulhakArticleId=408959&MulhakId=3533. 30. Despite the widespread use of the term wasatiyya in modern Islamic theological discourse, it is noteworthy that it still has no precise and comprehensive definition. For the usage and meaning of the term, see the examples in al-Sharq al-awsat, November 15, 2001; Al-riyadh, March 18, 2009; and “Islamic Umma: Unity and



Notes to pages 234–244 319

Difference,” al-Umma al-Wasat 2 (2010; accessed September 22, 2011): http:// www.iumsonline.net/ar/default.asp?ContentID=17&menuID=14. For further discussion of the wasatiyya trend in contemporary Arab and Muslim thought, see Michaelle Browers, Political Ideology in the Arab World: Accommodation and Transformation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). 31. This principle is the elaborated version of the principle of Rashid Rida (d. 1935): “We shall cooperate regarding issues upon which we agree and forgive each other our disagreements.” Yusuf al-Qaradawi, al-Sahwa al-Islamiyya bayna al-amal wa-l-mahazir (Cairo: Maktabat Wahba, 2004), 40–41. 32. Interview with IUMS secretary general Shaykh ʿAli al-Qurrah Daghi (accessed August 12, 2011): http://www.iumsonline.net/en/default.asp?word=arab spring&contentID=5609&menuID=62. 33. Muhammad ʿAli al-Taskhiri, “al-Wasatiyya al-Islamiyya bayna al-Ghuluw wa-l-irhab wa-l-tahallul wa-l-istilab,” al-Umma al-Wasat 1 (2009): 301–29. 34. (Accessed August 12, 2011): http://www.iumsonline.net/ar/default. asp?ContentID=17&menuID=14. 35. On al-Qaradawi’s view of wasatiyya, see Bettina Graf and Jakob Skovgaard-Petersen, eds., The Global Mufti: The Phenomenon of Yusuf al-Qaradawi (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009). For more on the concept of wasatiyya, see Baker Raymond, Islam without Fear: Egypt and the New Islamists (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003); and Raymond William, “Building the World in a Global Age,” in Religion, Social Practice, and Contested Hegemonies: Reconstructing the Public Sphere in Muslim Majority Societies, ed. Armando Salvatore and Mark Le Vine (New York: Palgrave, 2005), 109–31. 36. Chapter 10 of the IUMS Charter, 25–26. 37. Ibn al-Hajjaj al-Qushayri al-Naysaburi, Abu l-Husayn Muslim, Sahih Muslim, 5 vols. (Beirut: Dar Ihyaʾ al-Turath al-ʿArabi, n.d.), vol. 3, 1548.

Chapter 13 1. Jacob Katz, The Shabbes Goy: A Study in Halakhic Flexibility (Philadelphia: Jewish

Publication Society, 1989); idem, Halacha in Straits: Obstacles to Orthodoxy at Its Inception ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1992; in Hebrew); Moshe Samet, Chapters in the History of Orthodoxy ( Jerusalem: Merkaz Dinur le-Heker Toldot Israel, 2005; in Hebrew). 2. Israel Bartal, “Haskalah Literature and the Study of the Hasidic Movement,” Jewish Studies 32 (1992): 7–17 (in Hebrew). 3. Haim Gertner, “The Beginning of ‘Orthodox Historiography’ in Eastern Europe: A Reassessment,” Zion 67 (2003): 293–336 (in Hebrew); idem, “Epigonism and the Beginning of Orthodox Historical Writing in 19th-Century Eastern Europe,” Studia Rosenthaliana 40 (2007–8): 217–29. 4. Haim Gertner, “Battei Midrash in Galicia in the 19th Century as Institute for Developing Talmudic Schools,” in Yeshivot and Battei-Midrash, ed. E. Etkes ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 2006; in Hebrew), 163–86. 5. Gertner, “The Beginning of ‘Orthodox Historiography,’” 322–27. 6. See, e.g., A. Kober, “Jewish Preaching and Preachers,” Historia Judaica 7 (1945): 103–34; A. Altman, “Zur Frühgeschichte der Jüdischen Predigt in Deutschland:

320

Notes to pages 245–248

Leopold Zunz als Prediger,” Publications of the Leo Baeck Institute, Year Book, 6 (1961): 3–59; idem, “The New Style of Preaching in Nineteenth-Century German Jewry,” in Studies in Nineteenth Century Jewish Intellectual History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1964), 190–245; Michael Mayer, Response to Modernity: A History of the Reform Movement in Judaism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), mainly 122–31; and Marc Saperstein, Jewish Preaching, 1200–1800: An Anthology (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989) 1–5. Virtually no systematic research has yet been published on sermons in Jewish traditional society in nineteenth-century Eastern Europe, with two exceptions: Kimmy Caplan, Orthodoxy in the New World: Immigrant Rabbis and Preaching in America, 1881–1924 ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 2002; in Hebrew), especially 39–66, 175–79; and Marc Saperstein, Jewish Preaching in Times of War, 1800–2001 (Oxford-Portland: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2008). 7. Altman, “The New Style of Preaching,” 191–92. 8. Ibid., 200–201. 9. Michael Stanislawski, A Murder in Lemberg: Politics, Religion, and Violence in Modern Jewish History (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2007). 10. Wiener Blätter 1 (1851): 19; Rachel Manekin, “Deutsche, Poles, or Austrians? The Identity-Dilemma of Galician Jews 1848–1851,” Zion 68 (2003): 255 (in Hebrew). 11. Jacob Katz, Tradition and Crisis: Jewish Society at the End of the Middle Ages (New York: Syracuse University Press, 2000), 281. 12. Haim Gertner, “New Use of Old Tools: Borders of Influence of the Galician Rabbis in the 19th Century in Light of a Statistical Analysis of the Rabbinical Responsa Literature,” in Proceedings of the Twelfth World Congress of Jewish Studies, Division B ( Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 2000; in Hebrew), 127–36. 13. Yoseph Ben-David, “Beginnings of Modern Jewish Society in Hungary during the First Half of the Nineteenth Century,” Zion 17 (1952): 101–28 (in Hebrew); Haim Gertner, “Rabbis and Rabbinical Judges (Dayanim) in Galicia in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century: A Typology of Traditional Leadership in Crisis” (PhD diss., Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 2004; in Hebrew), 69–111. 14. Perl was the subject of extensive research, especially his literary-satiric work. See, e.g., Yisrael Vaynlez, “Yosef Perls lebn un shafn” (Vilno: YIVO, 1937; in Yiddash) vii–lxx; Raphael Mahler, Hasidism and Jewish Enlightenment: Their Confrontation in Galicia and Poland in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1985), 115–208, 393–461; Shmuel Werses, “The Satiric Methods of Joseph Perl,” in idem, Story and Source: Studies in the Development of Hebrew Prose (Ramat-Gan: Masada, 1971; in Hebrew), 9–45; idem, “Between Reality and Fiction: Joseph Perl’s Megaleh Temirin [Revealer of Secrets] in Maskilic and Hasidic Eyes,” in Within Hasidic Circles, ed. Immanuel Etkes et al. ( Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1999; in Hebrew), 209–35; Abraham Rubinstein, “Haskalah and Hasidism: The Activity of Joseph Perl,” Bar-Ilan 14 (1974): 166–78 (in Hebrew); Dov Taylor, Joseph Perl’s Revealer of Secrets: The First Hebrew Novel (Colorado: Westview Press, 1997). 15. Joseph Perl, Bochen Tzadik (Prague: M. L. Landa, 1838), 54–56, 60. 16. Perl’s archive in the National Library of Israel, 11534, file 45, page 6. This sermon was delivered at the end of September 1838.



Notes to pages 249–255 321

17. The sermon was delivered in Yiddish eight months after Perl’s appointment, on

Shabbat Parashat Nitzavim (September 15, 1838). Yisrael Vaynlez copied a few sections of the sermon, which was not preserved in its entirety and was lost along with most of Perl’s archive. Shmuel Werses was able to trace earlier drafts of the sermon, written in Hebrew in Perl’s handwriting, which were found in the remains of Perl’s archive, located in the National Library of Israel. Shmuel Werses, “How Maskilic Writers Viewed Yiddish,” Chulyot 5 (Winter 1999): 24–27 (in Hebrew); idem, “From Language to Language: Characteristic Traits of Perl’s Megale Temirin,” Chulyut 3 (Spring 1996): 59–108 (in Hebrew). A careful look at the contents of the two drafts reveals that they are two different versions: one shorter and incomplete (Perl’s archive in the National Library of Israel, 11534, file 95) and another longer and nearly complete (ibid., file 45). There are similar paragraphs in the two versions: for example, a paragraph in which Perl equates the preacher to the Prophet Ezekiel’s “Seer,” whose task it was to warn the people of dangers ahead. Ibid., file 95, p. 1; file 45, p. 4. According to Vaynlez, the Yiddish draft was no less than fifty-seven pages long, while the Hebrew draft was much shorter, less than half that length. 18. On Shir, see Gertner, “Rabbis and Rabbinical Judges,” 63–110. 19. Ibid. 20. Kerem Hemed 4 (1838): 244. A full account of the first sermon was also published in Allgemeine Zeitung des Judentums 2 (1838): 91–92, 95. 21. The manuscript was kept by the Cracow maskil Yitzhak Miezes, later a preacher in Thorn. He gave the copy to his friend Shmuel ha-Cohen Grinboim, a teacher also from Thorn, who printed it in a pamphlet, Rosh Divrei Shir, 1877 (in Hebrew). 22. Rosh Divrei Shir, 5–10. 23. Ibid., 1–4. 24. Ibid., 1–4, 10–20. 25. Ibid., 1, 4. 26. Ibid., 10. 27. Ibid., 2–3, 17, 19–20. 28. Traditional sermons were always delivered in Yiddish and written in Hebrew. See Chava Turniansky, “Oral and Written Sermons as Mediating between Canonical Culture and the Public,” in Studies in the History of Popular Culture, ed. Benjamin Z. Kedar ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 1996; in Hebrew), 183–95; Shaul Stampfer, “What Did ‘Knowing Hebrew’ Mean in Eastern Europe?” in Hebrew in Ashkenaz: Language in Exile, ed. L. Glinert (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 129–41; Caplan, Orthodoxy in the New World, 58–60. 29. Altman, “The New Style of Preaching,” 200–201. 30. See, e.g., Joseph Haim Kara (1800–1895), rabbi of the city of Pardon and disciple of Rabbi Akiva Iger of Poznan. On his biography, see Efraim E. Urbach, “On Joseph Haim Kara,” in Studies in Judaica, ed. M. D. Herr and J. Frankel, 2 vols. ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1999), 1:420–27.

Chapter 14 1. In this essay the term “Mizrahi” refers to two aspects of identity: the cultural

and religious features that Jews from Islamic countries share and the ethnic and

322

Notes to pages 255–257

class circumstances of their lives in Israel. See Shaul Shaked, “On the Study of Jewish Communities in the East,” Peamim 92 (2002): 8–10 (in Hebrew); and Yaron Harel, “Twenty-Five Years of ‘Oriental Jewish Heritage’: Thoughts about the Past and Directions towards the Future,” Peamim 92 (2002): 117–28 (in Hebrew). “Haredism” (ultra-orthodoxy) refers to the insular worldview and social organization of tens of thousands of devout Jews, who seek to defend themselves against the effects of modernization and secularism. See Samuel Heilman and Menachem Friedman, “Religious Fundamentalism and Religious Jews: The Case of the Haredim,” in Fundamentalisms Observed, ed. Martin Marty and Scott Appleby (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 197–264; Benjamin Brown, “Orthodox Judaism,” in The Blackwell Companion to Judaism, ed. Jacob Neusner and Alan J. Avery-Peck (Oxford, UK: Blackwell Publisher, 2001), 311–33. In orthodox Jewish tradition the term teshuva (repentance) means abandoning the path of sin and adhering to the observance of religious commandments. The teshuva movement engages in spreading this idea and attracting as many Jews as possible to the religious way of life. 2. On the haredi teshuva movement, see Tamar El-Or, Reserved Seats: Religion, Gender, and Ethnicity in Contemporary Israel (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2006; in Hebrew); Judah Goodman, Persuasion to Become Observant and New Religious Identities in Israel at the Beginning of the 21st Century (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, December 2002; in Hebrew); Shaul Mayzlish, Becoming Observant: The Phenomenon and the People (Givatayim: Masada, 1984; in Hebrew); Kimmy Caplan, Internal Popular Discourse in Israeli Haredi Society ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish Studies, 2007; in Hebrew), 94–138; Benjamin Beit-Hallachmi, Despair and Deliverance: Private Salvation in Contemporary Israel (Albany: SUNY Press, 1992); and David Lehmann and Batia Siebzehner, Remaking Israeli Judaism: The Challenge of Shas (London: Hurst and Oxford University Press, 2006). 3. Jacob Katz, Tradition and Crisis: Jewish Society at the End of the Middle Ages (New York: Syracuse University Press, 2000), 144–45. 4. On Torah study as a fundamental principle of contemporary haredi society, see Menachem Friedman, Haredi [Ultra-Orthodox] Society ( Jerusalem: Machon Yerushalim le-Heker Yisrael, 1991; in Hebrew), 70–88; Nurit Stadler, “Earn a Living or Wait for a Miracle: The Haredi Trap and Its Reflection in Relations between Torah and Work,” in Israeli Haredim: Integration without Assimilation? ed. Emanuel Sivan and Kimmy Caplan ( Jerusalem: Van-Leer Institute, 2003; in Hebrew), 32–55; Shlomo Tikochinski, “The Transfer of Lithuanian Yeshivot to the Land of Israel: The Story of Hebron and Ponivez Yeshivot,” in Yeshivot and Batei Midrash, ed. Imanuel Etkes ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 2006; in Hebrew), 273–314. 5. Parts of this ethnographic study were published in my book Gentle Ultra-Orthodoxy: Religious Renewal in Oriental Jewry in Israel ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2010; in Hebrew). 6. In Jewish tradition three meals are eaten on Shabbat. The first is served Friday evening, the second follows the Saturday-morning services, and the third is served between the afternoon and evening services, toward the end of Shabbat. During the third meal rabbis and teachers generally deliver a sermon to the people gathered around the table. 7. See Kimmy Caplan, Orthodoxy in the New World: Immigrant Rabbis and



Notes to pages 257–268 323

Preaching in America, 1881–1924 ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 2002; in Hebrew), 49–53; and Joseph Dan, “Some Notes on Homiletic Literature in Jewish Medieval and Early Modern Culture,” in Studies in the History of Popular Culture, ed. Benjamin Z. Kedar ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 1996; in Hebrew), 141–53. 8. On the sermon as a performance, see Menachem Blondheim, “Divine Comedy: The Jewish Orthodox Sermon in America, 1881–1939,” in Multilingual America: Transnationalism, Ethnicity, and the Languages of American Literature, ed. Werner Sollors (New York and London: New York University Press, 1998), 191. 9. El-Or, Reserved Seats, 71–82. 10. See Merav Amran, “The Media in the Service of Ultra-Orthodox Community: The Use of Audiotapes and Other Media as Indicators of Continuity and Change in the Ultra-Orthodox Community” (PhD diss., Jerusalem: Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2006; in Hebrew). 11. Caplan, Orthodoxy, 177–79. 12. See Goodman, Persuasion. 13. Nissim Leon, “Constructing Local Haredi Authority in the Mizrahi Haredi Teshuva Movement,” in Leadership and Authority in Israeli Haredi Society, ed. Kimmy Caplan and Nurit Stadler ( Jerusalem: Van-Leer Institute, 2009; in Hebrew), 164–85. 14. El-Or, Reserved Seats; Goodman, Persuasion. 15. See, e.g., Haim Rabi, Kuntres anshei kodesh (Holon: Ateret Hachamim, 1996/97); Ovadia Yossef, Yabia omer, part 8 ( Jerusalem: Machon Maʿor Israel, 1999); and Yaakov Lugasi, Dor ha-temurot ( Jerusalem: n.p., 2000). 16. See, e.g., Aaron Surasky, Orot mi-mizrah (Bnei Brak: n.p., 1973/74); Matitiau Shrem, Vayaal Eliyahu (Tel Aviv: Torha ve-Horaha, 2001); and M. Katzir, Ba-asher Telekh ( Jerusalem: Yechave Daat, 1996/97). 17. Alex Weingrod, “The Righteous Gallop Ahead: Comparative Notes between North Africa and Israel,” in Israel: A Local Anthropology, ed. Orit Abuhav et al. (Tel Aviv: Tchrikover, 1998; in Hebrew), 625–40; Yoram Bilu, Without Bounds: The Life and Death of Rabbi Yaaqov Wazana (Detroit: Wayne State University, 2000); Moshe Shokeid, “The Moroccan Jewish Cult of Saints in Israel Revisited,” Israeli Sociology 1 (1998): 39–53 (in Hebrew); Eyal Ben-Ari and Yoram Bilu, “Saints’ Sanctuaries in Development Towns,” in Israeli Judaism, ed. Shlomo Deshen et al. (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, 1995), 255; and Aviad Kleinberg, Prophets in Their Own Country (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997). 18. Anat Feldman, “Constructing Charisma of Non-Establishment Religious Leadership in Today’s Israel: The Case of the So-called ‘Röntgen,’” Social Issues in Israel 7 (Winter 2009): 85–119 (quotation on 85; in Hebrew). 19. Abraham Levy, Od Yosef hai ( Jerusalem: n.p., 1985/86), 57. 20. See Leon, Gentle Ultra-Orthodoxy. 21. Nissim Leon, “Modernism, Secularization and Religious Mobility: The Case of the Rabbinical Leadership Renovation among Jewish Communities of Oriental Descent in Israel,” Social Issues in Israel 4 (2007): 5–31 (in Hebrew); Lehmann and Siebzehner, Remaking Israeli Judaism. 22. See, e.g., Yoram Bilu, The Saints’ Impresarios: Dreamers, Healers, and Holy Men in Israel’s Urban Periphery (Brighton, MA: Academic Studies Press, 2010); Asaf Sharabi, “Social-Drama in the Teshuva Movement: An Ethnographic Investigation

324

Notes to pages 269–270

of the Conventions of Rabbi Amnon Yitzchak—Focusing on the Audience” (MA thesis, Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University, 2004; in Hebrew). 23. See, e.g., El-Or, Reserved Seats; Goodman, Persuasion. 24. See Caplan, Internal Popular Discourse; Emanuel Sivan, Clash within Islam (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2005; in Hebrew), 110–27; Sharabi, Social-Drama. 25. Joseph Dan, R. Judah He-Hasid ( Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 2006; in Hebrew); Gershon Scholem, Sabbatai Sevi: The Mystical Messiah, 1626–1676 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1973). 26. Shmuel N. Eisenstadt, The Transformation of Israeli Society: An Essay in Interpretation (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1985). 27. Dan, “Some Notes”; Caplan, Orthodoxy. 28. An example of aggressive opposition is the attitude of Rabbi Shlomo Aviner, one of the leading Zionist rabbis, toward magician-preachers. See Shlomo Aviner, Al or ve-hoshekh ( Jerusalem: Sifriyat Beit El, 2000).

Contributors Camilla Adang is associate professor of Arabic and Islamic Studies at Tel Aviv University. She has published widely on Ibn Hazm and the Zahiri school as well as on social and intellectual contacts between Muslims and Jews. She is currently engaged in research on translations of the Bible into Arabic. Her most recent book is Ibn Hazm of Cordoba: The Life and Works of a Controversial Thinker (Brill, 2013), co-edited with Maribel Fierro and Sabine Schmidtke. Eli Alshech earned his PhD in the field of early Islamic law from Princeton University. He is currently a visiting scholar at the Hebrew University. Among his publications are “Out of Sight and Therefore Out of Mind: Early Sunni Islamic Modesty Regulations and the Creation of Spheres of Privacy,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 66 (2007), and “Egoistic Martyrdom and Hamas’ Success in the 2005 Municipal Elections: A Study of Hamas Martyrs’ Ethical Wills, Biographies, and Eulogies,” Die Welt des Islams 48 (2008). Muhammad al-Atawneh is senior lecturer in the Department of Middle Eastern Studies at Ben Gurion University. His research focuses on contemporary Islamic politics and governance, Islamic law and modernity, Islam in Israel, Islamic movements, and the relationships between religion and state in the Arab and Islamic worlds. He has published a number of articles on related subjects and is the author of Wahhabi Islam Facing the Challenges of Modernity: Dar al-Ifta in the Modern Saudi State (Brill, 2010). Meir Ben Shahar earned his PhD in the field of ancient Judaism from the Hebrew University. In the academic year 2011–12 he was Starr Fellow in Judaic Studies at Harvard University. His research focuses on the cultural memory in late ancient Jewish society and the transmission of knowledge and traditions. He teaches at the Hebrew University and is currently a fellow at Yad Ben Zvi Institute. Jonathan P. Berkey is James B. Duke Professor of International Studies and chair of the Department of History at Davidson College in North Carolina. He is the author of several books, including The Formation of Islam: Religion and Society in the Near East, 600–1800 (Cambridge University Press, 2004). Gerald J. Blidstein is professor emeritus in the Department of Jewish Thought at Ben Gurion University in Beersheba, Israel. He is an Israel Prize recipient for his work on Maimonides and is a member of the Israel National Academy of Science and Art. He was a Straus and Tiqvah Fellow at NYU School of Law for 2012–13. Dale F. Eickelman is Ralph and Richard Lazarus Professor of Anthropology and Human Relations in the Department of Anthropology at Dartmouth College. He is the author of several books, including Knowledge and Power in Morocco: The Education of a

325

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Contributors

Twentieth-Century Notable (Princeton University Press, 1992), also available in Arabic translation. Daphna Ephrat is associate professor of Islamic history in the Department of History, Philosophy, and Jewish Studies at the Open University of Israel. She is the author of A Learned Society in a Period of Transition: The Sunni ʿUlamaʾ of Eleventh-Century Baghdad (SUNY Press, 2000) and Spiritual Wayfarers, Leaders in Piety: Sufis and the Dissemination of Islam in Medieval Palestine (Harvard University Press, 2008) and coauthor of the Israeli Open University series Introduction to Islam. Maribel Fierro is research professor at the Centre of Human and Social Sciences at the Higher Council for Scientific Research (CSIC) in Spain. She has worked and published on the religious and intellectual history of al-Andalus and the Islamic West and on Islamic law. Among her recent publications are Abd al-Rahman III, The First Cordoban Caliph (Oneworld, 2005) and The Almohad Revolution: Politics and Religion in the Islamic West during the Twelfth–Thirteenth Centuries (Variorum, 2012). She is the editor of volume 2 (The Western Islamic World, Eleventh–Eighteenth Centuries) of The New Cambridge History of Islam (Cambridge University Press, 2010) and co-editor with Camilla Adang and Sabine Schmidtke of Ibn Hazm of Cordoba: The Life and Works of a Controversial Thinker (Brill, 2012). Haim Gertner received a PhD in modern Jewish history from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, followed by a postdoctorate at the Center for Jewish Studies at Harvard University. He has held various senior positions in Yad Vashem Institute and has been the director of the institute’s Archives Division since 2008. Meir Hatina is associate professor in the Department of Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies and director of the Levtzion Center for Islamic Studies at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. His publications include Identity Politics in the Middle East: Liberal Thought and Islamic Challenge in Egypt (I. B. Tauris, 2007) and ʿUlamaʾ, Politics, and the Public Sphere (University of Utah Press, 2010). He is also the editor of Guardians of Faith in Modern Times (Brill, 2008) and co-editor of Narrating the Nile: Politics, Cultures, Identities (Lynne Rienner, 2008) and The Muslim Brothers: A Religious Vision in a Changing Reality (Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2012; in Hebrew). Nimrod Hurvitz is senior lecturer at Ben Gurion University in the Department of Middle East History. He has published The Formation of Hanbalism: Piety into Power (RoutledgeCurzon, 2002) and several articles on related subjects, such as “From Scholarly Circles to Mass Movements: The Formation of Legal Communities in Islamic Societies,” American Historical Review (2003). Ehud Krinis earned his PhD in the field of Jewish thought from Ben Gurion University. In the academic years 2008–11 he was Mandel Scholar at The Hebrew University. He was a Dalck and Rose Feith Family Fellow at the Center for Advanced Judaic Studies at the University of Pennsylvania for 2012–13. His book God’s Chosen People: Judah Halevi’s Kuzari and the Shīʿī Imām Doctrine is forthcoming from Brepols publishers.



Contributors 327

Nissim Leon is a lecturer in the Department of Sociology and Anthropology at Bar-Ilan University. He is the author of Gentle Ultra-Orthodoxy: Religious Renewal in Oriental Jewry in Israel (Yad Ben Zvi, 2010; in Hebrew) and of a number of articles on related topics. Meir Litvak is associate professor in the Department of Middle Eastern History and director of the Alliance Center for Iranian Studies at Tel Aviv University. He is the author of Shiʿi Scholars of Nineteenth-Century Iraq: The ʿUlamaʾ of Najaf and Karbalaʾ (Cambridge University Press, 1998), co-author of From Empathy to Denial: Arab Responses to the Holocaust (Hurst, 2009), and co-editor of The Sunna and Shiʿa in History: Division and Ecumenism in Islam (Palgrave Macmillan, 2011). Ksenia Svetlova earned her master’s degree in the field of Islamic and Middle Eastern studies from the Hebrew University. Her MA thesis, “Teleislamism,” focused on the phenomenon of popular preachers in Egypt. Svetlova is an Arab affairs correspondent and analyst at Israeli Channel 9 TV as well as for the Jerusalem Post, Jewish Forward, the British Broadcasting Corporation, and others. She is currently a PhD candidate at Hebrew University. Her dissertation topic is Egyptian media coverage of Israel, from 1977 to 2011. Itzchak Weismann is associate professor of Islamic studies and head of the JewishArab Center at the University of Haifa. He is the author of Taste of Modernity: Sufism, Salafiyya, and Arabism in Late Ottoman Damascus (Brill, 2001) and The Naqshbandiyya: Orthodoxy and Activism in a Worldwide Sufi Tradition (RoutledgeCurzon, 2007) and coeditor of Ottoman Reform and Islamic Regeneration (I. B. Tauris, 2005) and Islamic Myths and Memories: Mediators of Globalization (forthcoming from Ashgate). Michael Winter is professor emeritus of the history of the Middle East at Tel Aviv University. His research focuses on social, cultural, and religious themes (such as ʿulamaʾ, Sufis, qadis, and ashraf) in Egypt and Syria under the Mamluks and the Ottomans and political thought in Islam. He published Society and Religion in Early Ottoman Egypt: Studies in the Writings of ʿAbd al-Wahhab al-Shaʿrani (Transaction Books, 1982; first paperback printing, 2007) and Egyptian Society under Ottoman Rule, 1517–1798 (Routledge, 1992; Arabic translation, 2001). Winter has co-edited four books and published numerous articles. During recent years he has been working on the transition of the judicial system of Damascus from Mamluk to Ottoman rule.

Index Abbasid caliphate, Abbasids: 95, 137 ʿAbd al-Halim, Mahmud, 6, 272n11 ʿAbd al-Kafi, ʿUmar, 191–92, 201, 311n13 ʿAbd al-Rahman, ʿUmar 7, 196 ʿAbduh, Muhammad, 16, 192 ʿabid (pious worshiper), 99, 279n25. See also ʿibada Abu l-Asbagh ʿIsa b. Sahl, 53 adab (ethics and manners), 109, 293n32, 293n34 ʿadl (justice in the practice of law), 207 admor (hasidic rabbi), 18, 21 Afghanistan, 8–9, 153, 157, 159, 184 Aharon, Hakham, 156, 256–67, 270 ahl al-hadith (“the people of hadith”), 4. See also ashab al-raʾy Ahsaʾi, Ahmad, 209–211, 213, 217 Akhbari (Shiʿi traditionalist school): 206, 210. See also Usuli al-ʿAlwan, Suleiman 159 Aleppo, 103, 107, 115, 118, 121–24, 127–28 Alfasi, Yitzhaq, 143–45, 301n60,63,66 ʿAli b. Abu Talib, 67, 107 ʿAli Shah, Muhammad, 213–15 al-amr bi-l-maʿruf (commanding right and forbidding wrong), 41–43, 166, 279n22) anbiyaʾ. See prophets al-Andalus 27, 31–33, 50–51, 53–54, 276n4, 280n4, 281n7. See also Spain Ansari, Murtaza, 207, 212–14, 217, 223, 315n23 al-Aqsa mosque, 178, 193 Araki, ʿAli, 207, 221 al-Asad, Bashar, 233, 239 ashab al-raʾy (“masters of opinion”), 4. See also ahl al-hadith ʿashura, 12 al-ʿAwda, Salman, 157–58 awliyaʾ/awliyaʾ Allah sing wali Allah

(friends of God), 98, 103–4, 129, 184. See also saints Ayyubid state, Ayyubids: 98 Azeri-Qommi, Ahmad, 222 al-Azhar, Azharites, 6, 13, 118, 122, 150, 190, 206, 229 ʿAzzam, ʿAbdallah, 19, 184, 310n40 Babi(Shiʿi movement), 212–13, 223 Babylonia/Babylonian, vii, 2, 5, 12–14, 22–23, 73, 95–96, 131–43, 146, 273n27, 297n5,ʿ7,11, 298n23, 299n24, 300n48, 301n58 Baghdad, 5–6, 10, 12, 28, 32, 37, 39–43, 48, 51, 100, 107, 272n18, 291n2, 315n27 al-Baji, Abu l-Walid Marwan, 54, 281n16 al-Balisi, Abu Bakr b. Qawam. See Ibn Qawam al-Banna, Hasan, 7, 48, 151–52, 173 al-Baqir, Muhammad b. ʿAli, 65 baraka (blessing), 11, 106, 184, 273n21 Baraghani, Muhammad Taqi, 211 Baʿth (party), 173I batin (esoteric/internal dimension of religious knowledge), 30, 67, 71, 210, 218. See also zahir Bihbihani, ʿAbdallah, 213–15 beit midrash (study hall for Jewish learning), 21, 142, 243, 264, 266, 269 Bihbihani, Muhammad Baqir, 207, 210 bidʿa (innovation),94 bin Laden, Osama, 7, 48, 165 Boroujerdi, Husayn, 215, 223 Bourdieu, Pierre, 1, 98 al-Buti, Saʿid Ramadan, 233 Cairo, vii, 12, 16, 18, 93, 107, 115–16, 118– 22, 124–25, 127, 189, 192, 202 caliph(s), 28–29, 32–33, 35, 39, 40–41, 50, 91, 95, 211, 226, 305n27

329

330

Index

Central Europe, 243–44, 246, 248–49, 252 Chechnya, 8, 160, 175, 184 Cohen, Haim, 260, 270 Cordoba, 27, 32–33, 50–51, 53 Companions, 14–15, 40–42, 51–52, 56–57, 59–63, 102, 104, 106, 110, 238 Damascus, 12, 92–93, 107, 111–12, 114–28, 202, 296n49 Daghi, ʿAli al-Qurrah, 234 daʿiya (preacher), 9, 19, 151–53, 177, 187– 88, 191, 204–5 daʿwa (preaching/communal activity), 18, 151–54, 156, 188, 190–91 dayan (rabbinical judge), 156, 243, 246– 47 Dayan, Yosef, 266–67 Deitsch, Samuel, 246 dhikr (recollection/invocation), 14, 20, 107 Diaspora, 97,135–37, 146, 156, 188, 204 Donne, John, 204 drashah (sermon), 244–46, 248, 251 Eastern Europe, 18, 21, 155, 242–43, 252, 319n6 Elbaz, Reuven, 264 European Council for Fatwa and Research, 230, 238 evangelists, 195–97 faqih (Muslim jurist), 13, 44, 219–20, 222, 229 Faraj, ʿAbd al-Salam, 7, 173 Fatimid caliphate, Fatimids: 29–30, 70, 137, 276n7 fatwa (legal opinion), 15, 20, 50, 56, 122, 126, 130, 157–59, 163, 190–91, 209, 217, 219, 229–30, 238, 303n7, 304n8. See also iftaʾ fiqh (Islamic science of jurisprudence) 4, 38, 116, 124, 126, 213–14, 217, 230, 234 fiqh al-ikhtilaf (science of legal disputes), 234

furuʿ (fundamentals of positive law/substantive law), 124, 235 Galicia, 246–49, 251–52 gaon (the head of the Babylonian academies), vii, 3–5, 73, 76, 79, 81, 131, 134– 39, 141, 143–46, 296n3 289n44, 298n18, 298n23, 299n25, 299n34, 301n58, 301n63 Germany, 3, 73, 243–45, 252 al-Ghanushi, Rashid, 192–93 ghayba (the imam’s occultation), 31, 69, 285n22 al-Ghazali, Abu Hamid, 46, 110, 227 al-Guindi, Husayn, 188 Hadid, Marwan, 7 hadith (accounts of the words and deeds of the Prophet Muhammad), 1, 4, 9, 11, 13, 31, 34, 37–39, 46, 52–53, 57, 69–72, 99–101, 106–7, 126–27, 163, 165, 167, 176, 178, 180, 201, 210, 273n29, 282n23), 285n, 285n23, 287n30, 292n25, 306n43, 308n18 hagiography (saints stories), 12, 266 Hai Gaon, 76, 136, 298n23, 299n25, 300n51 Haʾiri, ʿAbd al-Karim, 215 hakimiyya (God’s sovereignty), 228 Halakha (the body of Jewish laws/particular legal ruling), 85, 133, 138, 141, 143– 45, 243, 261, 301n66 Hamas (Hirkat al-Muqawama al-Islamiyya), 7, 175, 178–79, 181, 184, 308n18 Hanafi school, Hanafi(s): 54, 117, 121–25, 295n31 Hananel ben Hushiel, 137 Hanbali school, Hanbali(s): 6, 10, 33, 36– 44, 47–49, 99, 272n18, 278n3, 278n5 haqiqa (esoteric truth), 11, 208 haredi (ultra-Orthodox Jew), vii, 9, 152, 156, 254–56, 259–69, 321n1, 322n4 hasid (“pietist”), 18, 150, 246–48 Haskalah ( Jewish enlightenment movement), 18, 21, 247–48, 252. See also maskil



Index 331

Hassuna, Ahmad, 233 al-Hawali, Safar, 157, 303n7, 304n12 Hawwa, Saʿid, 7, 19, 173 Hidden Imam, 3, 12, 206, 208, 210, 218 hijab (veil), 191, 194, 198–99, 205. See also niqab Hizballah, 8, 174 hudaʾ (battle songs), 177 Husayn (imam), 65, 174 ʿibada (pietism), 99, 168. See also ʿabid

Ibadi school, Ibadi(s), 230 Ibn al-Baz, ʿAbd al-ʿAziz, 19, 157 Ibn Biyyah, ʿAbdallah, 230 Ibn Hanbal, 5, 33, 37–9, 42–3, 48, 278n3, 278n5, 279n14, 279n19 Ibn Iyas, Muhammad b. Ahmad, 116–17 Ibn Mahmud, Hossein, 162–64, 305n20, 305n22 Ibn al-Qastallani, Muhammad, 107 Ibn Qawam, Abu Bakr al-Balisi, 103–6, 108, 111–12 Ibn Taymiyya, Taqi al-Din, 228, 304n8 Ibn Tulun, Muhammad b. Ahmad, 116– 17, 119 iftaʾ (the issuing of religious-legal opinions), 229, 313n19. See also fatwa ijmaʿ (consensus), 4, 83, 229 ijtihad (personal inquiry into the sacred sources), 5, 16, 34–35, 52, 56, 62, 206, 208, 229–30, 235, 274n34, 282n21 ʿilm (religious knowledge), 2, 6, 68, 99, 122, 125–26, 129, 153, 158, 169, 207, 229 ʿilmiye (Ottoman learned establishment), 115, 121, 127 Imamate, Imami, imam(s), 3, 12, 30–31, 64–72, 283n10, 283n11, 285n30. See also Shiʿism, Shiʿa, Shiʿis intihar, 171. See also self-immolation; tahluka Iran, 8, 18, 46, 72, 92, 95, 150, 174, 202, 207–15, 217–18, 220–22, 224 Iranian Revolution, 155 Iraq, 8, 72, 101, 132, 157, 165, 174–75, 179– 180, 192–93, 208, 221, 224, 232, 305n31, 310n46

ʿirfan (mystical philosophy), 216–17 Ireland, 230 Isfahan, 215 Islamic asceticism, 3, 7, 44–5, 47, 99, 102, 107, 167, 207, 211–13, 291n5. See also zuhd; zahid Islamic Society of North America, 229 Ismaʿilism, Ismaʿiliyya, Ismaʿilis: 29–32, 64, 67–68, 70–72, 151, 276n7, 277n16, 284n16, 285n30 isnad (chain of transmitters/authority), 13–14, 56, 101, 106 Israel (land of, people of ), 67, 75–76, 79, 83, 131–32, 142, 287n11, 289n41 Israel (state of ), Israeli(s), xiii, 7, 9, 16, 18, 21, 23, 150, 156, 174–75, 180, 186, 232, 255–56, 259–61, 264 Istanbul, 54, 93, 115–16, 118–20, 122–25, 127–29, 206, 294n, 296n49 Istishhad, 8, 171 ʿIzz al-Din al-Qassam, 7, 179

Jaʿfar al-Sadiq, 65 Al-Jazeera (satellite), 203–4, 313n46 Jamaʿat-i Islami (in Pakistan), 173 al-Jamaʿa al-Islamiyya (in Egypt), 7, 196 Jifri, Habib ʿAli, 188 jihad 8, 9, 16, 153–54, 156, 159–67, 169–75, 179–81, 184, 203, 304n18, 305n20 jihadis, 153, 159–61, 164–67, 169, 181–84, 304n13, 306n20 Judah the Patriarch, 75–84, 86–7, 287n11, 289n36, 289n38 al-Karaki, al-ʿAmili, ʿAli, 207 karamat (miracles/divine grace), 9, 11, 129, 167, 183–84, 208 Karbala, 12–13, 174, 208, 211 Kashmir, 8, 175 Katz, Jakob, 246, 255, 260, 267 khalifat Allah (God’s vice-regent), 66 al-Khalili, Ahmad b. Hamad, 230 Khalwatiyya (Sufi order), 20 Kashani, Abu al-Qasim, 215, 217, 315n35 Khameniʾi, ʿAli, 219

332

Index

khatib (preacher), khitaba (preaching), khutba (sermon), 152, 187, 189, 201, 204 khirqa (the Sufi robe), 94, 107–8, 292n25 Khomeini, Ayatollah Ruhollah, 8, 12, 150, 155, 174, 184, 191, 209, 216–23, 316n38 Khorasani, Muhammad Kazim Akhund, 213–15 Kishk, ʿAbd al-Hamid, 190, 193, 195–97, 201 Kabbalah, 9, 12, 22, 258, 266 Kluger, Shlomo, 246–47 Kohn, Abraham, 246 kollel (an institute for advanced yeshiva learning), 260 Lebanon, 8, 174, 191 Levy, Leon 260 madhhab (Sunni legal school), vii, 4–6, 14, 16, 27, 29, 30, 36–37, 43–44, 50–51, 91, 97, 121, 123–25, 281n9 madrasa (college of Islamic law), vii, 12– 14, 103, 112, 115–16, 118–19, 122–27, 129, 150, 169, 214, 273n25, 295n31,295n32 maggid (traditional preacher in the Jewish communities of Eastern Europe), 244, 246–48, 251–52 mahdi, 29 Maimonides, ix, 86, 131, 287n18, 289n36, 289n41, 290n53 Majorca, 53–55 maqasid al-shariʿa (the concept of intent), 235 al-Maqdisi, Abu Muhammad, 161–64 makhloket (legal dispute), 76 Malik b. Anas, 31, 34–35, 51, 59, 61, 281n7 Maliki school, Maliki(s): 27, 34–35, 50– 54, 278n28, 282n25 Mamluk state, Mamluks: vii, 92, 98, 116– 17, 119, 127, 211, 293n44 Mannheimer, Isak Noa, 245 maʿrifa (mystical/esoteric knowledge), 6, 99, 101 marjaʿiyya/marjaʿ (legal and political leadership of the mujtahid in the

absence of the imam), 206, 208–9, 217, 220–22, 224 martyr, x, 1, 7–9, 15–16, 153–54, 165–69, 172–74, 176–86, 238–39, 272n20, 305n31, 306n43, 307n4, 310n46. See also shahid Marx, Karl, 194 maskil, 244–45, 247–53. See also Haskalah maslaha (public or state interest), 219 Mawdudi, Abu al-Aʿla, 8, 173, 192, 227 mawlid(s) (anniversary of a saint), 15 Midrash (compilation of homilies), 73, 84, 138, 140, 145, 248, 257, 260–61, 289n41,44. See also Talmud Migash, Yosef Halevi ben, 145, 301n64, 301n66, 301n69 Mishnah (Oral Law), 5, 73–87, 96, 132–35, 142, 266, 287n11, 288n22, 289n36, 289n37, 289n41, 289n44. See also Oral Torah misk (musk), 9, 167. See also martyr; shahid Mizrahi haredi teshuva movement, 156, 255–56, 260, 262–63, 267–68 Mizrahi Jewry, 260–61, 264, 268 molla (high ranking Ottoman religious scholar), 116, 122–23 mosques, 17, 27, 38, 50, 115, 124–26, 166– 67, 177, 180, 187–89, 192–94, 197, 219 mufti(jurisconsult), 35, 115–16, 118, 123– 24, 127–29, 150, 155, 158, 188, 229. See also fatwa muhaddith (hadith transmitter), 38, 56, 101, 126 mujaddid (renovator),126 mujahid (jihad warrior), 153, 160–66, 168–70 mujtahid,17, 155, 206–15, 219, 222–23, 315n23. See also ijtihad mulazama (close adherence to a master), 15, 123, 125 Muntazeri, Husayn ʿAli, 220 Muslim Brethren, 7, 10, 20, 49, 130, 151– 52, 173 murid (Sufi aspirant), 100, 109



Index 333

Mutahhari, Murtaza, 174, 184, 220 al-Nabulusi, ʿAbd al-Ghani, 6, 129–30, 296n49 Najaf, 13, 192, 208, 212–15, 217 Najafi, Muhammad Hasan, 212 Naqshbandiyya, Naqshbandis (Sufi order), 18, 20, 130, 150, 275n41 Naraqi, Ahmad, 207 niqab (face veil), 232, 237. See also hijab Nissim ben Yaakov Gaon, 139 North Africa, 13, 23, 132, 136, 146, 156, 191, 255, 265, 290n47 Nuri, Fazlallah, 213–15, 315n29, 315n33 Oral Torah, 35, 74–75, 83, 85–86, 288n28. See also Mishnah Ottoman Empire/state, Ottomans: 22, 92–93, 114–19, 121–24, 128, 130, 294n14, 295n31 Palestine, 7–9, 12, 14, 132, 134, 173, 175, 178, 184, 293n44, 294n14, 297n4, 297n7, 298n14 Perl, Joseph, 248–49, 251, 320n14, 320n16, 320–21n17 pilpul (erudite argumentation), 249, 253 Pirqoy ben Baboy, 132–33, 297n7, 299n32 Prague, 245, 249, 251 prediger (sermonizer-moralizer preached in German), 244, 246, 251–52 Prophet Muhammad, 2–3, 6, 13–15, 19– 20, 22, 28–35, 38, 40, 44–45, 51–53, 55– 57, 59, 61–63, 64–66, 68–70, 90, 94, 96, 98–107, 110, 113, 117, 123, 151, 163, 180–81, 183–84, 194, 197, 210, 216, 219, 228, 237–38, 283n7, 305n27 prophets, 1, 3, 11, 19, 30, 55, 65–68, 70–71, 135, 153, 164, 172, 184–85, 293n11 qadi (judge), 27, 32, 93, 115–16, 118–26, 128–29 al-Qadi al-Nuʿaman, 29, 285n30 al-Qaʿida, x, 9, 20, 49, 175, 179–80, 184, 304n12, 305n31, 309n24 Qajar dynasty, Qajars: 207, 210, 213

Qanun (Ottoman administrative law), 117, 294n13 al-Qaradawi, Yusuf, 19–20, 155, 190, 195, 225, 229–31, 234–35, 239, 281n9, 318n23, 318n25, 319n35 Qatar, 203, 229–30 Qayrawan, 73, 135, 137–38, 141, 287n12, 300n44 qiyas (analogical deduction), 51, 56, 63 Qomi, Abu l-Qasim Mirza, 207 quʿud (political passivism), 65 Qom, 69, 72, 207, 215–17, 221–22 Qurʾan, Qurʾanic, vii, 2, 19, 27, 33, 41, 46, 52–54, 56–59, 61–63, 65, 75, 101, 103, 105, 110, 114, 151, 161, 164–67, 177–80, 185, 195, 198, 201, 227–28, 234, 237, 280n16, 289n36, 305n22, 305n27, 306n42, 307n14, 312n16 al-Qushayri, Abu al-Qasim, 109, 293n34 Qutb, Sayyid, 7, 48, 173, 185, 193, 227, 308n9 rabbinate, rabbinic: 18, 21–23, 73, 75. 77, 81, 87, 97, 134, 141, 146, 155–56, 242–47, 249–53, 255, 260, 267, 269, 286n1, 287n11, 300n43 rabad (head of rabbinic court), 156, 243 rahbar (leader of the revolutionary Iranian regime), 220 Ramadan, Tariq, 188 Rapoport, Shlomo Judah Leib (Shir), 249–51, 321n18 Rashei Yeshiva (heads of the Babylonian academies), 131 Rashi (Rabbi Shelomoh Ben Yishaq), 73, 137, 248, 258 Rashti, Sayyid Kazim, 209, 211–12 raʾy (personal opinion), 51, 56. See also ashab al-raʾy Reza Shah, Muhammad, 215, 217 Rum, 122–23, 129 Russia, 175, 196, 240 Sachs, Michael, 245 Safavid state, Safavids: 207 Sahwa (Islamic awakening movement), 153, 158, 303n4

334

Index

saints, 15, 20, 34, 167, 170, 265. See also awliyaʾ/awliyaʾ al-salaf (pious ancestors), 16, 52, 56, 151 Salafism, Salafis: 16, 149, 169, 302n1, 303n4 Samuel ben Naghrela (Samuel ha-Nagid), 142 Saudi Arabia, 19, 153, 157–59, 203, 230, 303n4, 304n12 South Asia, 150 secularization, 149, 223, 242, 254–55 self-immolation, 171, 174, 178. See also intihar; tahluka Seljuk state, Seljuks: 98, 293 şeyhülislâm (supreme Ottoman religious official/the mufti of Istanbul), 116, 121– 24, 127–29 Shabbetai Zvi, 269 shahada (martyrdom), 153, 184. See also shahid; martyr al-Shafiʿi, 34–35, 282n27 Shafiʿi school, Shafiʿi(s): 35, 51, 100–101, 103, 107, 117, 122–26, 282n27 shahid (martyr), vii, 154, 174, 184–85, 307n4. See also martyr Shariʿa (Islamic law), 6–7, 11, 17–20, 32, 53, 92, 114–16, 118, 129–30, 190, 208, 216, 219, 223, 228–31, 235, 294n13, 296n4 Shariʿati, ʿAli, 174, 184, 218 al-Shaʿrawi, Mutwalli, Muhammad, 190– 91, 195, 201 al-Sharif, Sayyid Imam, 115, 120 Shiʿism, Shiʿa, Shiʿi(s): x, 3, 8, 12–13, 17– 18, 22–23, 30–32, 34, 40, 54, 64–72, 91, 112, 118, 150, 154–55, 174–75, 182, 184, 206–25, 228, 230, 234, 273n24, 273n25, 305n26, 315n33 sisila (chain of spiritual authority), 14, 94, 103–4, 106 Soffer, Moshe, 249 Spain, 5, 23, 132, 136–37, 142–43, 300n53, 300n54 Sudan, 173, 232 Sufi order/fraternities, 14–15, 21, 30, 48, 92, 95, 99, 102, 104, 150–51. See also tariqa

Sufism, Sufi(s): 6–7, 11–12, 14–16, 18–22, 27–28m 33–34, 38, 44–45, 48, 91–95, 98–114, 120, 129–30, 149–51, 154, 167, 170, 183–84, 208, 210–13, 216, 230, 235, 272n11, 273n29, 274n32, 290n2, 290n1(chapter 5), 291n12, 292n18, 293n32, 293n39, 293n41, 293n44, 294n14 suhba (companionship), 13–14, 94, 106, 111, 293n39, 293n41. See also mulazama al-Suhrawardi, Abu Hafz ʿUmar, 95, 102, 107, 110, 291n12, 293n39, 293n45 al-Suhrawardi, Abu l-Najib, 100, 107, 109, 110 suicide attacks/bombers, 8–9, 153, 160, 171–72, 174–75, 179, 181, 183, 305–6n35, 307n2 al-Sulami, ʿAbd al-Rahman Muhammad, 101, 109 Sunna/sunna/sunnat al-nabi,4, 39, 53–54, 56–58, 60–63, 70, 94–95, 99, 101–2, 104–5, 110, 117, 151, 164–65, 227 Sunnism, Sunni(s):x, 3–5, 8, 17–18, 22–23, 28–29, 31, 39–40, 66, 69–70, 91–93, 98–99, 112, 114–16, 118–19, 127, 149, 151, 154–55, 175, 184–85, 206, 230 Suwidan, Tariq, 9, 188, 312n16 synagogues, 9, 21, 156, 246, 248–49, 256, 259–64, 266, 268–69 Syria, 6, 15, 91–93, 114–17, 119, 121–24, 127, 129–30, 173, 202–3, 233, 236, 238–41, 273n30, 290n2, 302n6 Tabatabaʾi, Sayyid Mahdi b. ʿAli, 211 tahluka, 171. See also self-immolation; intihar takfir (accusing other Muslims of apostasy), 159, 210 Taleqani, Muhammad, 174, 184 Talmud, talmudic, 5, 12–14, 73–77, 80–81, 83–85, 87, 95–96, 131–35, 137–46, 244– 45, 248–51, 257, 261, 266, 286n1, 287n17, 288n28, 288n29, 289n36, 289n41, 298n15, 298–99n23, 222n39. See also Oral Law Tannaim ( Jewish sages from first and second centuries), 81



Index 335

Tantawi, Muhammad Sayyid, 201 taqlid (imitation/emulation/unquestionable following), 5, 16, 30, 33, 51–52, 54, 56–60 tariqa(s) (spiritual path/route; Sufi order), 14, 92, 107, 110–11, 130, 151, 208 al-Tartusi, Abu Basir, 164 al-Taskhiri, ʿAli, 234 tawhid (God’s unity), 158, 303n1 teʿamim (rationales), 83–84 Tehran, 8, 202, 213–15, 310n46 tikkunim sing tikkun (recitation/kabbalist method of healing the soul), 205, 256– 56, 266–67. See also Kabbalah Torah, 22–23, 74–75, 82–83, 85, 131–33, 136, 143, 146, 250–51, 256–59, 263–65, 289n36, 322n4 tsaddik (righteous man), vii, 257, 265–66 Tunisia, 142, 192, 230 al-Turabi, Hasan, 228 ʿulamaʾ sing ʿalim (Muslim religious

scholars), vii, 1–2, 7, 9, 11–12, 16–20, 22, 28, 31–32, 34, 49, 61–62, 70—71, 91– 94, 96, 99, 101, 103, 114–30, 149–51, 153–56, 174, 177, 179, 184, 191, 206–8, 210–18, 220–24, 228–30, 233, 241, 273n21, 306n6, 315n27, 316n35 umaraʾ (political rulers), 228 Umayyad Caliphate, Umayyads: 27, 31, 40, 50, 226, 297n4, 305n27 umma (the Islamic community), 65, 190, 192–93, 205, 208, 227, 230, 234, 303n5 United States, 21, 188, 203–4 Usul/usul al-fiqh (Islamic fundamentals), 213–14, 217, 235 Usuli (rationalist Shiʿi) school), Usuli(s): 206–8, 210–12, 219. See also Akhbari al-ʿUyayri, Yusuf, 160–61, 304n12 velayat-i faqih/wilayat al-faqih (the rule of the jurist), 12, 220, 222, 229 Wahhabiyya, Wahhabis, 16, 18, 48, 151, 153 al-wallaʾ wa-l-baraʾ (the doctrine of loyalty and enmity), 180

waqf (pious endowment), 117, 126 waraʿaynʾ (piety), 207 wasatiyya (legal doctrine of the “middle path”), 243–38, 318n30, 319n35 wasi (legatee/trustee), 30, 66 wasiyya (Shiʿi model of prophetic legacy/ succession),3, 29, 66, 68, 283n10 wasiyya (testament), 176 Weber, Max, 10–11, 99, 155, 164, 182 World Muslim League, 229 Written Law (scripture), 74, 87. See also Torah Yagen, Nissim, 261, 264 Yasin, Ahmad, 7 Yazdi, Kazim Tabatabaʾi, 213–14 Yazdi, Muhammad, 221 Yehudai Gaon, 132–33, 142 yeshiva (academy of Jewish law), vii, 3, 13, 21–22, 242, 255, 257, 259–60, 262–65, 267–68, 273n27 Yiddish, 21, 244, 248–49, 251, 320n17,321n17, 321n28 Yitzhak, Amnon, 260, 264–65 Yossef, Ovadia, 22 Zade Muhammad, Waʿiz, 230 zahid (ascetic), 44, 46, 99, 167, 279n25. See also Islamic asceticism zahir (exoteric/external dimension of religious knowledge), 52, 67, 71, 210. See also batin Zahiri (literalist) school, Zahiri: 5, 27, 30, 32–33, 51–53, 96, 280n3, 280n4 Zar, Daniel, 260–61, 264–65 al-Zarqawi, Abu Musʿab, 161, 166 zawiya (Sufi lodge/establishment), 12, 92, 112–13, 293n44. al-Zawahiri, Ayman, 160–61 Zaydi Shiʿi school, Zaydi(s): 65–66, 283n4, 285n30 Zionism, Zionist: 7, 156, 173, 179, 259, 262, 324n28 zuhd (asceticism),44–45, 99

Utah Series in Middle East Studies M. Hakan Yavuz, series editor

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