0021-1818_islam_98-1-2-i-259

2012 · volume 89 · number 1/2 

Der Islam 

journal for the hIstory 

anD culture of the mIDDle east 

founDeD by 

Carl Heinrich Becker 

eDItor In chIef 

Stefan Heidemann, Hamburg 

eDItors 

Gottfried Hagen, Ann Arbor (MI) 

Andreas Kaplony, München 

Rudi Matthee, Newark (DE) 

aDvIsory boarD 

Frédéric Bauden, Liège 

Thomas Bauer, Münster 

Michael Cook, Princeton (NJ) 

Suraiya Faroqhi, Istanbul 

Maribel Fierro, Madrid 

Nelly Hanna, Cairo 

Benjamin Jokisch, Hamburg 

Benjamin Kedar, Jerusalem 

Geoffrey Khan, Cambridge 

Alastair Northedge, Paris 

Jürgen Paul, Halle a.d. Saale 

Christian Robin, Paris 

Mansour Sefatgol, Tehran 

Florian Schwarz,Wien 

Maya Shatzmiller, London (ON) 

eDItorIal manager 

Ulrike Mitter, Hamburg

Content 

Editorial fi 1 

Articles 

The relationship between Der Arabic IslamAllāh and 2012 Syriac | Band Allāhā 89 | Heft 1/2 

III 

Görke / Motzki / Schoeler 

First Century Sources for the Life of Mu1ammad? A Debate fi 2 

Bacharach / Anwar 

Early Versions of the shahāda: A Tombstone from Aswan of 71 A.H., 

the Dome of the Rock, and Contemporary Coinage fi 60 

Wagner 

Yāh ˘ ād ˙ iba ˇs-ˇsaibi 

Arabische Verse für und wider das Färben des weißen Haares fi 70 

Bosworth 

Notes on Some Turkish Personal Names in Seljūq Military History fi 97 

van Ess 

Das Geburtsjahr des Åahrastan\ fi 111 

Rabbat 

Was al-Maqrīzī’s Khi5a5 a Khaldūnian History? fi 118 

Talmon-Heller / Ukeles 

The Lure of a Controversial Prayer fi 141 

Reviews 

Ervand Abrahamian, A History of Modern Iran. 2008. (Abbas Poya) fi 167 

Cyrille Aillet, Les Mozarabes. Christianisme, Islamisation et Arabisation en 

Péninsule Ibérique, IXe–XIIe siècle. 2010. (Matthias Maser) fi 168

IV Der Islam 2012 | Band 89 | Heft 1/2 

Roger Allen, Essays in Arabic Literary Biography 1850–1950. 

2010. (Lale Behzadi) fi 173 

Nelly Amri, Les saints en islam, les messagers de l’espérance. 

Sainteté et eschatologie au Maghreb aux XIV e et XV e siècles. 2008. 

(Mohamed Meouak) fi 175 

Rüdiger Arnzen (ed.), Averroes on Aristotle’s “Metaphysics”. An Annotated 

Translation of the So-called “Epitome”. 2010. (Taneli Kukkonen) fi 179 

Marcel Behrens, „Ein Garten des Paradieses“: Die Prophetenmoschee von 

Medina. 2007. (Harry Munt) fi 182 

François de Blois, Arabic, Persian and Gujarati Manuscripts – 

The Hamdani Collection in the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies. 

2011. (Rosemarie Quiring-Zoche) fi 185 

Arthur F. Buehler, Revealed Grace: The Juristic Sufism of Ahmad Sirhindi 

1564–1624. 2011. (Waleed Ziad) fi 188 

Said AlDailami, Erneuerungsdenken in der islamischen Welt. 

Orthodoxie-Kritik und neue Selbstvergewisserung als Mittel zur Überwindung 

der geistig-kulturellen Krise? Das Beispiel der Altajdeed Cultural & Social 

Society. 2011. (Monica Corrado) fi 193 

Diana Dressel, Bühne der Geschichte. Der Wandel lokaler Dramen in Palästina 

und Israel. 2010. (Brigitte Dalinger) fi 198 

Allen James Fromherz, Ibn Khaldun, Life and Times. 

2011. (Mohammad Salama) fi 203 

Andreas Görke and Gregor Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte 

über das Leben Mu1ammads: Das Korpus Ûrwa ibn az-Zubair. 

2008. (Stephen J. Shoemaker) fi 207 

Christiane Gruber und Frederick Colby, The Prophet’s Ascension. Cross-Cultural 

Encounters with the Islamic Mi’raj Tales. 2010. (Josef van Ess) fi 210 

Denis Hermann and Sabrina Mervin (eds.), Shiî Trends and Dynamics in Modern 

Times, XVIII th–XX th centuries. 2010. (Marco Salati) fi 214

The relationship between Der Arabic IslamAllāh and 2012 Syriac | Band Allāhā 89 | Heft 1/2 

V 

William Lancaster and Fidelity Lancaster, Honour is in Contentment: 

Life Before Oil in Ras al-Khaimah (UAE) and Some Neighboring Regions. 

2011. (Ronald Hawker) fi 220 

Astrid Meier et al. (ed.), Islamische Stiftungen zwischen juristischer Norm 

und sozialer Praxis. 2009. (Jan-Peter Hartung) fi 224 

Sabrina Mervin (Hrsg.), The Shiâ Worlds and Iran. 

2010. (Miriam Younes) fi 226 

Arnd-Michael Nohl und Barbara Pusch (Hrsg.), Bildung und gesellschaftlicher 

Wandel in der Türkei: Historische und aktuelle Aspekte. 2011. 

(Andreas Tunger-Zanetti) fi 232 

Peter E. Pormann (ed.), Epidemics in Context. Greek Commentaries on 

Hippocrates in the Arabic Tradition. 2012. (Fabian Käs) fi 237 

John Renard (ed.), Tales of God’s Friends. Islamic Hagiography in Translation. 

2009. (Mayasuki Akahori) fi 243 

Georges Tamer (Hrsg.), Humor in der arabischen Kultur/Humor in Arabic Culture. 

2009. (Reinhard Weipert) fi 247 

Luke Treadwell, Craftsmen and Coins: Signed Dies in the Iranian World, 

third to fifth centuries AH. 2011. (Stuart Sears) fi 250 

Étienne de La Vaissière, Samarcande et Samarra. Élites de’Asie central 

dans l’empire abbaside. 2007. (Christopher Melchert) fi 254 

Lukas Wick, Islam und Verfassungsstaat. Theologische Versöhnung mit der 

politischen Moderne? 2009. (Hans-Georg Ebert) fi 256

Editorial 

DOI 10.1515/islam-2012-0001 ISLAM Der Islam 2012; 89(2): 1 

Der Islam. Journal of the History and Culture 

of the Middle East 

About one hundred years ago, Carl Heinrich Becker authored his programmatic 

editorial for the newly founded Journal Der Islam – “Der Islam als Problem.” This 

inaugural text was an important step toward the creation of modern Islamwissenschaft, 

signalling a new way of studying Islam and its civilization. 

Becker understood “Islam” as a term denoting the history, culture, and civilization 

of the societies of the Islamic Empire and all its successor states until the 

present. Islam, he argued, in one way or another had put its imprint on the cultures, 

ethnics, and different religious belief systems of the societies it had come 

to rule. It was to be seen as the equivalent of the terms “Hellenistic” or “Roman” 

in the study of antiquity. This secular understanding of Islamwissenschaft had 

deep roots in nineteenth-century Western scholarship of the Middle East in its Enlightenment-inspired 

dissociation from the near-exclusive focus on Middle Eastern 

languages and texts. 

In some ways, the events of 9/11 and their aftermath have caused the meaning 

of “Islam” to shift back to a much narrower definition, at least in the public 

discourse, involving the religion and theology and, even more so, its political expression. 

Yet in its new incarnation, starting with the 2012 issue Der Islam maintains 

its name as conceived by its founder. It also represents continuity by 

wanting to be a forum for discussion about the history, culture, sociology and civilisation 

of the societies dominated, influenced and inflected by Islamic empires, 

from the seventh century to advent of the “modern” world in the nineteenth century. 

Its geography range runs from Iberian Peninsula to the India subcontinent, 

from the Ukrainian steppes to the highlands of Yemen. In keeping with its multiand 

interdisciplinary tradition, Der Islam seeks to transcend disciplines and to 

bring together contributions which blend fields such as history, art history, archaeology, 

philology, cultural studies, art, papyrology, archival studies, and numismatics, 

so as to pave the way for a renewed understanding of Islam-inflected 

societies. We welcome question-driven studies that combine various methodologies 

and that have implications for one or more fields of study. 

The new editorial board, consists of Stefan Heidemann (Universität Hamburg, 

editor in chief), Gottfried Hagen (University of Michigan), Andreas Kaplony 

(Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität, Munich) and Rudi Matthee (University of Delaware), 

and Ulrike Mitter (Editorial Manager and Review Editor).

2 Andreas Görke, Harald Motzki, DOI 10.1515/islam-2012-0002 Gregor Schoeler 

ISLAM 2012; 89(2): 2–59 

Andreas Görke, Harald Motzki, Gregor Schoeler 

First Century Sources for the Life of 

Mu1ammad? A Debate* 

Abstract: In a recent issue of Der Islam, Stephen R. Shoemaker has contributed 

an extensive article in which he challenged the processes and findings of a 

number of studies conducted by Gregor Schoeler, Harald Motzki, and Andreas 

Görke. 1 The following article offers a response to his findings. Whereas the three 

authors argued the case for the possibility that authentic traditions of the first 

century of the Hijra can be reconstructed, Shoemaker holds the contrary point of 

view, as already stated in the abstract of his study: “While az-Zuhr\ and occasionally 

other authorities of his generation can often be persuasively linked with the 

tradition in question, the reach back to Ûrwa is generally not convincing …” Yet 

he is not entirely consistent in his views. In his study several statements are to 

be found that in fact support the views of the authors whose studies he critically 

examines. Overall, Shoemaker makes more concessions towards the possible 

authenticity of some of the material traced back to the first century than any 

“sceptic” prior to him. Unfortunately, Shoemaker’s criticism and rendering of 

the three authors’ studies is fraught with misunderstandings and inconsistencies. 

They are the focus of attention in this critical review. In addition, hitherto unknown 

traditions as well as sources that Shoemaker mentions without quoting 

or paraphrasing them will be presented. This material also challenges a number 

of Shoemaker’s key conclusions. 

Andreas Görke: Edinburgh University, a.goerke@ed.ac.uk 

Harald Motzki: Nijmegen University, h.motzki@rs.ru.nl 

Gregor Schoeler: Universität Basel, Gregor.Scholer@unibas.ch 

I. Introduction 

It is well known that the extant Muslim narrative sources relating to the life of 

Mu1ammad date from at least 150 to 200 years after Mu1ammad’s death in the 

* The authors would like to thank Bertram Thompson MA for his accurate translation of parts 

II.2, II.3, and III and Dr Andrew Newman for his attention to the entire text. 

1 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira”, 257–344.

First Century Sources for the Life of Mu1ammad? A Debate 3 

year 11/632 and that these sources are highly problematic when used as sources 

for the life of Mu1ammad: since no archaeological surveys have been conducted 

in Mecca or Medina, there is no external evidence that could be adduced to support 

the accounts presented in the Muslim sources. The non-Muslim sources – 

several of which predate the Muslim sources – often are at variance with the Muslim 

accounts, if they mention Mu1ammad at all. Several of the Muslim accounts 

about the life of Mu1ammad appear to be interpretations of the Qur#anic text and 

do not constitute independent sources, but rather seem to have grown from exegetic 

speculations. Other accounts clearly reflect later theological, legal or political 

debates, while yet others constitute what can be termed salvation history. Moreover, 

the accounts often contradict each other regarding chronology, the persons 

involved or the course of events. 2 

Is it possible, then, to say anything about the life of Mu1ammad? A number 

of scholars have argued that it is not, some going even so far as to claim that 

Mu1ammad was not even a historical person and that all the accounts that allegedly 

refer to his life are later projections and purely fictitious. 3 Gregor Schoeler, 

Harald Motzki, and Andreas Görke in several articles have attempted to show 

that despite the apparent difficulties with the Muslim narrative sources, by a careful 

analysis of the different lines of transmission and the related contents of a 

given tradition it is possible to reconstruct earlier layers of these sources. They 

have argued that in some cases these earlier layers are likely to reflect traces of the 

historical Mu1ammad and that this is the case, for instance, in a number of traditions 

traced back to Ûrwa b. al-Zubayr, a nephew of the Prophet’s wife Â#isha 

and one of the persons understood to have been the first to write and teach about 

the life of the Prophet. 

Shoemaker in his article criticises these conclusions. First, he argues that 

Schoeler and Görke often push the evidence beyond what it can bear and that 

few traditions can with certainty be traced back to Ûrwa. However, Shoemaker 

would admit that a number of traditions can be traced back to Ûrwa’s student 

Ibn Shihab al-Zuhr\ (d. 124/744), but the reach back to Ûrwa to him “is generally 

not convincing,” 4 since there are too few isnads to securely establish this link. Secondly, 

he argues that in several cases Schoeler, Görke and Motzki withhold or 

invent evidence or adjust it in order to fit their arguments. And finally, he remarks 

that the method used – the isnad-cum-matn analysis – fails to reveal anything new 

2 Cf. Crone, “What Do We Actually Know About Mohammed?” and Görke, “Prospects and 

Limits,” 137–151, here 137–140 for a detailed description of the problems regarding the sources 

for the life of Mu1ammad. 

3 Nevo and Koren, Crossroads to Islam, 11. 

4 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 257.

4 Andreas Görke, Harald Motzki, Gregor Schoeler 

about the historical Mu1ammad, and that the traditional principles of matn analysis 

as advanced by Goldziher and Schacht produce much better results. 

Shoemaker is basically arguing from a “sceptic’s” point of view, but despite 

his criticism, which will be addressed more thoroughly below, he makes more 

concessions towards the possible authenticity of some of the material traced back 

to Ûrwa than any “sceptic” prior to him. Thus he says: “In all fairness it must be 

said that […] Schoeler and Görke have developed and deployed a very sophisticated 

method of analysis that represents perhaps the best effort thus far to identify 

early material within the sira traditions;” 5 “[…] analysis of the hijra itself reveals 

a slim core of tradition that might be associated with Ûrwa;” 6 and “[…] in 

certain instances it may be possible to isolate some basic details that have a rather 

high level of historical credibility.” 7 

Basically, this is not very different from what Schoeler, Görke and Motzki 

say – but it is assessed in a different way. In the following it will be shown that 

much more material can convincingly be ascribed to Ûrwa than Shoemaker 

would admit. An important tool for this is the corpus of sira traditions ascribed to 

Ûrwa, which has been completed and analysed in the meantime and the results 

of which Shoemaker did not yet take into consideration for his article. 8 

Shoemaker in general argues in a sound scholarly fashion, but he frequently 

misunderstands or misrepresents the positions Schoeler, Görke and Motzki 

hold and thus argues against points that haven’t been made. For instance he presents 

the works of Görke and Schoeler as an attempt to reconstruct Ûrwa’s sira, 

implying that Ûrwa wrote an actual book in this genre. This is already insinuated 

through the title of his article, and he explicitly refers to “Ûrwa’s sira” a couple of 

times, i.e., suggesting that Görke and Schoeler attempt to “reconstruct the ‘s\ra’ 

of Ûrwa ibn al-Zubayr,” 9 or aim “at reconstructing the biography of Mu1ammad 

as it was taught by Ûrwa in the later first century AH.” 10 He refers to what he calls 

a “proposed reconstruction of Ûrwa’s sira” 11 and claims that in their article on the 

hijra Görke and Schoeler “present an outline of Ûrwa’s sira.” 12 He then argues 

that his own analysis of the material – in contrast to this “rather sanguine analysis” 

– affirms Chase Robinson’s findings that Ûrwa should not be considered to 

5 Ibid., 267. 

6 Ibid., 302. 

7 Ibid., 325. 

8 Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte über das Leben Muhammads. 

9 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 257. 

10 Ibid., 264. 

11 Ibid., 267. 

12 Ibid., 268.


be an author, but rather should be considered a storyteller who took some interest 

in the past. 13 However, while it is true that Schoeler, in the outline of the project 

to collect and evaluate the corpus of traditions from Ûrwa b. al-Zubayr, indeed 

proposed such a goal, 14 in none of the studies Shoemaker analysed was it 

claimed that Ûrwa wrote a book on the sira or should be considered to be an 

author. Görke and Schoeler usually speak of “Ûrwa’s sira traditions”, and in 

their book Die ältesten Berichte über das Leben Muhammads, which Shoemaker 

unfortunately only had recourse to when his article was already accepted for publication, 

they even explicitly state that with their study they consider it proven 

that Ûrwa never wrote an actual book on the sira. 15 Other cases of misrepresentation 

of Görke’s, Motzki’s and Schoeler’s positions will be discussed below. 

Shoemaker’s arguments also occasionally display internal contradictions. 

Thus at the beginning of his article, Shoemaker praises Juynboll’s method of 

isnad analysis 16 and later reiterates his claim that an isnad analysis can only yield 

results when the traditions studied feature a dense network of transmitters (“in 

which several ‘partial common links’ transmit independently from the common 

link” 17). Nevertheless, in some cases two lines of transmission (through Hisham b. 

Ûrwa and al-Zuhr\) seem to suffice for Shoemaker to ascribe a tradition possibly 

or likely to the common link, Ûrwa. 18 However, elsewhere the same two lines of 

transmission are considered to be too few and not independent from each other. 19 

A further inconsistency can be observed in Shoemaker’s reference to Michael 

Cook’s study of eschatological traditions 20 and Görke’s response. 21 Cook 

himself had already acknowledged a number of methodological problems in his 

study, which basically stemmed from the material he studied, and Görke drew 

the attention to some additional problems. Shoemaker in general acknowledges 

these problems. 22 Nevertheless, he then completely ignores Görke’s conclusion 

(and does not even mention it) that these problems in fact make the traditions 

13 Ibid., 269. 

14 Schoeler, “Foundations for a New Biography of Mu1ammad,” 21–28, 27f. 

15 Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 267: “Die erhaltenen Überlieferungen Ûrwas zur 

Prophetenbiographie bieten also keinerlei Anhaltspunkte dafür, dass Ûrwa ein Buch zu diesem 

Thema verfasst hat. Im Gegenteil kann durch diese Studie endgültig als bewiesen angesehen 

werden, dass Ûrwa kein solches Buch verfasste.” 

16 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 265f. 

17 Ibid., 292. 

18 Ibid., 321, 324. 

19 Ibid., 327f. and see below on the traditions about al-0udaybiya. 

20 Cook, “Eschatology and the Dating of Traditions,” 25–47. 

21 Görke, “Eschatology, History, and the Common Link,” 179–208. 

22 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 264f.


studied by Cook unsuitable for an isnad analysis, while with other traditions (e.g. 

ones distributed more widely and in different sources) the isnad analysis indeed 

can provide an accurate dating which coincides with the external dating based on 

the matn (which for Shoemaker is more reliable). Instead, despite the acknowledged 

problems with Cook’s study, he uses it as key evidence against the reliability 

of the isnad analysis: “when tested against other more reliable criteria for dating, 

such isnad criticism often fails to provide an accurate date.” 23 

II. The Ûrwa Traditions 

The first part of Shoemaker’s article mainly deals with four studies by Gregor 

Schoeler and Andreas Görke on different traditions about the life of the 

Mu1ammad reported on the authority of Ûrwa b. al-Zubayr, namely on the hijra, 24 

the beginnings of Mu1ammad’s revelations, 25 the Â#isha scandal (hadith al-ifk), 26 

and al-0udaybiya. 27 As noted, Shoemaker could not fully consider the publication 

of Görke’s and Schoeler’s book on traditions ascribed to Ûrwa. Nevertheless, 

he referred to it in a footnote, where he claimed that, with regard to the 

four traditions treated in his article, the book “adds nothing that would impinge 

on the arguments presented,” and that the additional traditions treated in the 

book (dealing with the battles of Badr, U1ud, and the Trench, and the conquest of 

Mecca), are “even less persuasively assigned to Ûrwa.” 28 This assessment is only 

partly correct. While it is true that the long accounts about these additional 

events are less well attested than the four aforementioned events, this is not true 

for all of their parts. Thus the story about the Muslim al-Yaman, who was accidentally 

killed by Muslims during the battle of U1ud – an incident that must have 

been embarrassing for the early Muslims and is unlikely to be invented –, is very 

well attested by several independent transmissions of al-Zuhr\ and Hisham from 

Ûrwa. 29 Moreover, although the additional traditions are in general less well attested, 

they fit into the overall picture and display the same characteristics. For 

instance, traditions traced back to Hisham < Ûrwa reveal, on the whole, fewer 

embellishments and details than those traced back to al-Zuhr\ < Ûrwa. Thus, al- 

23 Ibid., 264. 

24 Görke and Schoeler, “Reconstructing the Earliest Sira Texts,” 209–220. 

25 Schoeler, Charakter und Authentie, 59–117 (= The Biography of Muhammad, 38–79). 

26 Ibid., 119–70 (80–116). 

27 Görke, “The Historical Tradition About al-0udaybiya,” 240–275. 

28 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 268–69, footnote 30. 

29 Cf. Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 125–30.


though there are fewer attestations of the additional events than there are of those 

referred to by Shoemaker, these attestations nevertheless corroborate the previous 

findings about the historicity and character of the different transmissions 

from Ûrwa. 

In any case, apparently there are – in contrast to Shoemaker’s assertion – 

only relatively few long traditions traced back to Ûrwa. This fact makes it unlikely 

that these traditions were systematically forged. Had Ûrwa had a reputation 

of being an (or the) indisputable authority in the field of the biography of 

Mu1ammad in the generations of al-Zuhr\ or Ibn Is1aq, why wasn’t more material 

ascribed to him regarding other important events in the life of Mu1ammad? There 

are, for instance, no reports ascribed to Ûrwa on the birth of Mu1ammad, the reconstruction 

of the Ka^ba, the night journey and the ascent to heaven, nor does he 

seem to have given longer accounts on the battle of U1ud, the affairs of the 

Banu l-Nad\r and Banu l-Qaynuqa^, the farewell pilgrimage, or the death of 

Mu1ammad. 30 

As regards the four tradition complexes that Shoemaker discussed in his article, 

a number of additional attestations of the traditions have been presented 

in Görke’s and Schoeler’s book, for instance on Mu1ammad’s first revelations, 

which render some of Shoemaker’s arguments obsolete, as will be seen below. 

Let us now study his arguments in detail! 

The Hijra (Andreas Görke) 

The largest single section of Shoemaker’s article deals with the hijra traditions 

attributed to Ûrwa b. al-Zubayr, to which Shoemaker devotes more than thirty 

pages. His analysis raises some important issues, but as will be shown, his arguments 

and conclusions are problematic. He is of course right in observing that 

the density and brevity of Görke’s and Schoeler’s article on Ûrwa’s hijra traditions, 

31 in which they discussed the contents of the traditions in only five pages, 

may be potentially misleading. 32 A case in point is the diagram, which indeed 

could be interpreted to indicate that all parts of the tradition complex were transmitted 

along all of these lines of transmission. This, however, was not what 

Görke and Schoeler intended, and they did not claim this to be the case anywhere 

in the article. The diagram was simply used to facilitate visualising the dif- 

30 Ibid., 262–63. 

31 Görke and Schoeler, “Reconstructing the Earliest Sira Texts.” 



ferent lines of transmission. In any case, the traditions are analysed in much more 

detail in Görke’s and Schoeler’s recent book, 33 and had Shoemaker had the 

chance to study this chapter more thoroughly, he might have reconsidered his 

assessment that the book basically adds nothing new to the findings made in the 

article. 

Even without recourse to the book, however, some of his arguments can be 

shown to be based on misconceptions. This already starts with his statement that 

“[a]ccording to Görke and Schoeler, this assemblage of traditions was originally 

a single, extended narrative composed by Ûrwa, beginning with the Meccans’ 

opposition to Mu1ammad’s preaching, followed successively by the emigration 

of some early Muslims to Abyssinia (including the story of Abu Bakr 

and Ibn al-Dughunna), the spread of Islam in Mecca, the return of the refugees 

from Abyssinia, the renewed hostility of the Meccans, the meetings of Âqaba, the 

departure of many Muslims for Medina, and concluding with Mu1ammad’s hijra 

to Medina in the company of Abu Bakr.” 34 Yet, this is not what Görke and 

Schoeler said. They did indeed conclude that Ûrwa composed or transmitted a 

narrative made up of several elements. But, as they made clear, their conclusion 

was: “We can therefore assume that Ûrwa’s reports comprised at least the following 

elements: 1) The harassment of the Muslims in Mecca, 2) The subsequent emigration 

of some Muslims to Abyssinia, 3) The ongoing harassment of the Muslims 

in Mecca and the emigration of many of them to Medina, 4) The emigration of the 

Prophet to Medina together with Abu Bakr and Âmir b. Fuhayra.” 35 Thus among 

the material that Görke and Schoeler assumed to be traced back to Ûrwa they 

did not include the story of Abu Bakr and Ibn al-Dughunna, nor the spread of 

Islam in Mecca, nor the return of the refugees from Abyssinia, nor the meetings of 

Âqaba, as Shoemaker claimed. 

Shoemaker takes particular interest in the story of Abu Bakr and Ibn al-Dughunna. 

Over nine pages he argues that this story cannot be traced back to Ûrwa, 

but instead has to be credited to al-Zuhr\ at best, and that even this attribution 

is questionable. 36 This result of his, he claims, stands in contrast to Görke’s and 

Schoeler’s position, as – according to Shoemaker – they maintain that this narrative 

“also belongs to this complex of ‘authentic’ Ûrwa material.” 37 However, in 

the article Shoemaker refers to, what Görke and Schoeler actually say is quite 

the opposite from what Shoemaker claims their position to be: “It is difficult to 

33 Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 38–77. 


35 Görke and Schoeler, “Reconstructing the Earliest Sira Texts,” 219f. 

36 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 284–92. 

37 Ibid., 284, cf. 289.


tell whether the elements found in only one of the recensions go back to Ûrwa 

or to a later transmitter, e.g. if the story of Ibn al-Dugunna was already part of 

Ûrwa’s report or if this story was introduced by al-Zuhr\.” 38 Thus while Görke 

and Schoeler do not exclude the possibility that Ûrwa also told a version of the 

story, including the encounter of Abu Bakr and Ibn al-Dughunna, they do not 

claim that this story should be considered to be part of the authentic Ûrwa material. 

As a result, some of Shoemaker’s findings are in fact not at variance with 

Görke’s and Schoeler’s, although he claims that they are. However, one major 

difference that remains is the question whether the story of Abu Bakr and Ibn al- 

Dughunna is linked to the emigration of some Muslims to Abyssinia prior to the 

hijra to Medina. In their study Görke and Schoeler indeed made this connection. 

They came to the conclusion that both al-Zuhr\ and Hisham b. Ûrwa in their 

narrations combined the story of the harassments of Muslims in Mecca that lead 

to the emigration of some of them to Abyssinia and the story of the hijra proper. 

As both al-Zuhr\ and Hisham b. Ûrwa claim to base their narrations on Ûrwa, 

Görke and Schoeler conclude that this connection of the events already goes 

back to him, although many details in the narrations recorded in the written 

sources may in fact be later elaborations and additions. 

Shoemaker argues, on the contrary, that “the story of Ibn al-Dughunna’s patronage 

does not appear to be linked with the ‘first hijra’ to Ethiopia, as Görke 

and Schoeler propose.” 39 He observes that in Ibn Hisham’s version of the account 

no such connection is made (which is correct) and although the connection 

is made explicit in the versions of al-Bukhar\, al-Bayhaq\ and Âbd al-Razzaq, he 

dismisses their versions because the chronology to him seems not to be convincing. 

In addition, he draws attention to the limited attestation of these versions – 

according to Shoemaker there are only three versions (Ma^mar < al-Zuhr\, as adduced 

by Âbd al-Razzaq, Ibn Is1aq < al-Zuhr\, as adduced by Ibn Hisham, and 

Ûqayl < al-Zuhr\, as adduced by al-Bayhaq\ and al-Bukhar\) which are all only 

preserved in single strands. Following Juynboll in his requirements for the historicity 

of traditions, Shoemaker concludes that the ascription of these versions to 

al-Zuhr\ has to be called into question. Instead he argues that “these three hadith 

collections [i.e., al-Bukhar\, al-Bayhaq\ and Âbd al-Razzaq] likely preserve an account 

of this event that over the course of transmission has fused together several 

earlier and independent elements into a single condensed narrative. In essence, 

we have here a sort of ‘mini-history’ of Islam from the initial reaction against 

38 Görke and Schoeler, “Reconstructing the Earliest Sira Texts,” 219. 



Mu1ammad’s early preaching to his hijra, focused on themes of persecution and 

flight.” 40 

Basically, this ‘mini-history’ is exactly what Görke and Schoeler proposed, 

with the difference that they argued that the process of combining traditions into 

a single narrative did already start with Ûrwa, continued with al-Zuhr\, and went 

on in the next generations. That the whole complex is indeed a composition of different 

elements can probably best be seen in the version of Âbd al-Razzaq, who 

relates the whole complex on the authority of Ma^mar b. Rashid. 41 Âbd al-Razzaq 

begins his tradition with a summary of the events leading to the emigration 

of some Muslims. This part is traced back via Ma^mar < al-Zuhr\ to Ûrwa. Then 

follows a comment that is only traced back to Ma^mar < al-Zuhr\, not mentioning 

Ûrwa. The next part comprises the story of Abu Bakr and Ibn al-Dughunna 

(explicitly mentioning that this happened on the way to Abyssinia) and the subsequent 

hijra to Medina. This part is traced back via Ma^mar < al-Zuhr\ < Ûrwa 

to Â#isha. Then follow two insertions from Ma^mar, which do not go back to al- 

Zuhr\, before the story of the hijra is taken up again. Again some traditions follow 

that are traced back to other sources of al-Zuhr\ and Ma^mar. Finally the tradition 

ends with the report of the arrival of Mu1ammad and Abu Bakr in Medina, told on 

the authority of Ma^mar < al-Zuhr\ < Ûrwa, not mentioning Â#isha. In this case the 

isnads clearly indicate the composition of the story. A comparison of this version 

with the other versions traced back to al-Zuhr\ as well as quotations of parts of this 

compilation further indicates that the first part of the story is probably wrongly 

traced back to Ûrwa by Âbd al-Razzaq (or by his student and transmitter of the 

Musannaf, Is1aq b. Ibrah\m al-Dabar\) and in fact goes back to al-Zuhr\ only: this 

part is missing in several later quotations of the Âbd al-Razzaq tradition and is 

also transmitted as a single tradition traced back to al-Zuhr\ only. The other versions, 

quoted among others by al-Bukhar\ and al-Bayhaq\, also do not contain this 

part. 42 We shall later come back to the composition of this tradition complex. 

What about the limited attestations? Shoemaker remarks that the version 

traced back to Ibn Is1aq < al-Zuhr\ is recorded by Ibn Hisham only. According to 

him, the failure of al-Tabar\ and others “to associate this tradition with Ibn Is1aq 

leaves some doubt regarding the authenticity of Ibn Hisham’s attribution, and it 

is certainly not out of the question that he himself invented the isnad through Ibn 

Is1aq.” 43 While Ibn Hisham is known for shortening Ibn Is1aq’s text where he 

40 Ibid., 289. 

41 Âbd al-Razzaq al-Sanân\, al-Musannaf V, 384ff. 

42 Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 54. 



deemed it appropriate for different reasons, nobody so far has ever suggested that 

he invented traditions and ascribed them to Ibn Is1aq, and Shoemaker fails 

to provide any evidence why this would be likely. In any case, it is not true that 

the story is recorded by Ibn Hisham only. Al-Ûtarid\ also quotes Ibn Is1aq on 

this passage (on the authority of Yunus b. Bukayr), and while the order of the elements 

is slightly different, the wording is close to the one given by Ibn Hisham. 44 

We can therefore assume that the story indeed was told in this way (without mentioning 

Abyssinia as Abu Bakr’s destination) by Ibn Is1aq. 

In addition to the three versions mentioned so far (Ma^mar, Ûqayl, and Ibn 

Is1aq), Shoemaker suddenly notes that there is a fourth one, traced back to al- 

Zuhr\ through Âbdallah (b. Wahb?) < Yunus b. Yaz\d. However, he immediately 

discards this version on the grounds that it is only quoted by al-Bukhar\ and only 

in a single – minor – edition of al-Bukhar\’s collection, while all the major editions 

of his work name Ûqayl instead of Yunus. Shoemaker concludes that this 

isnad cannot be trusted and he omits it from his figure on the transmission of the 

story of Abu Bakr and Ibn al-Dughunna. 45 However, Shoemaker is wrong in his 

observation. The tradition is indeed included in the major editions of al-Bukhar\’s 

collection with the isnad Yunus < al-Zuhr\. 46 Possibly he overlooked it as it is 

usually not numbered separately, but is adduced by al-Bukhari as a confirmatory 

tradition directly following the one of Ûqayl. In addition, parts of this version are 

also quoted by Ibn Khuzayma on the authority of Âbdallah < Yunus < al-Zuhr\. 47 

So we may infer that there are indeed four versions of al-Zuhr\’s tradition, not 

three, as Shoemaker maintains. Thus altogether, the version according to al- 

Zuhr\ is better attested than Shoemaker claims. Three of these versions are very 

similar in content and in wording (Ma^mar, Ûqayl, and Yunus); all indicate that 

the story of Abu Bakr and Ibn al-Dughunna took place on the way to Abyssinia. 

The versions of Ma^mar and Ûqayl also connect this story to the account of 

the hijra. Yunus’ version as quoted by al-Bukhari is shorter than the other two 

versions and does not include the hijra, but the quotations by Ibn Khuzayma 

indicate that this version originally was also longer and included mention of 

the hijra. 48 On the other hand, Ibn Is1aq’s version is much shorter, does not have 

a link to Abyssinia and does not include the hijra. With three versions agreeing 

that the story is linked to Abyssinia and only one that disagrees, it might seem 

44 Ibn Is1aq, Kitab al-Siyar wa-l-Maghazi, 235. Cf. Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 

62. 


46 This information was kindly provided by Christopher Melchert. 

47 Ibn Khuzayma, Sahih, 1:133ff., 4:132. Cf. Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 54. 

48 Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 54.


apparent that Ibn Is1aq’s version is the one that is likely to have been tampered 

with. But the case is not that simple. The three versions of Ma^mar, Ûqayl, and 

Yunus are so close to each other that it must be assumed that they are based on 

a single written source. This may have been a version of al-Zuhr\, but although 

each of the versions displays some characteristics that distinguish it from the 

others, it cannot be ruled out completely that one of these versions served as a 

model for the other two. Thus, basically, we have one tradition that combines several 

elements to a longer narrative and identifies Abu Bakr’s destination as Abyssinia 

(the versions of Ma^mar, Ûqayl, and Yunus) and one tradition that does not 

link the story either to Abyssinia or to the subsequent hijra to Medina (the version 

of Ibn Is1aq). 

As we have seen, Shoemaker argues that the second variant is more likely 

to be correct, based on chronological considerations. In Ibn Hisham’s sira the 

return of the emigrants from Abyssinia was already related before the story 

of Abu Bakr and Ibn al-Dughunna, indicating – according to Shoemaker – that 

“the emigration of some early Muslims from Mecca to Ethiopia not only had 

already taken place but had come to an end before Abu Bakr’s meeting with Ibn 

al-Dughunna.” 49 Likewise, despite the mention of Abyssinia as Abu Bakr’s 

intended destination in the other traditions, Shoemaker concludes that the position 

of the story in al-Bukhar\’s Sahih – directly prior to Mu1ammad’s hijra – does 

not allow for a connection of this event with the emigration to Abyssinia, which is 

not narrated at all in al-Bukhar\’s work. This argument is based on questionable 

premises, namely that the different narratives all display a consistent chronology 

and that the authors of the hadith collections tried to create coherent accounts. 

However, as Görke and Schoeler showed in their analysis of the Ûrwa corpus 

of sira traditions, the interest in chronology apparently only started in the generation 

of al-Zuhr\ and became of major interest only in the generation of Ibn Is1aq 

and Musa b. Ûqba. 50 As apparently there was no generally accepted chronology 

prior to the generation of Ibn Is1aq and Musa b. Ûqba and probably no consensus 

apart from very few key dates, the attempts of creating a consistent chronology 

display a lot of contradictions. This is not only apparent when comparing different 

chronologies as those of Ibn Is1aq, Musa b. Ûqba and al-Waqid\, 51 but 

also within the single works. Ibn Hisham, for example, mentions that Khalid 

b. al-Wal\d converted to Islam shortly before the conquest of Mecca (qubayla 

l-fath), but he actually places the story before the expedition to al-0udaybiya, two 



51 Cf. J.M.B. Jones, “The Chronology of the Maghazi,” 244–280.


years earlier. 52 Thus we cannot simply rely on the chronology of any of the sira 

authorities. 

Relying on the presentation of the material in the hadith collections is even 

more problematic. As has been shown by Muhammad Qasim Zaman, the hadith 

collectors did not necessarily attempt to provide a consistent narrative of events 

in their collections. 53 They collected traditions that were in some way connected 

to an event as long as they had reliable isnads. They may have attempted to provide 

some chronological order, but this was not their main interest. Thus drawing 

any far reaching conclusion from the place where a tradition is found in a hadith 

collection seems unwarranted. 

Finally, Shoemaker’s argument is based on the assumption that the emigration 

to Abyssinia was a single event, that at a certain point of time a number of 

Muslims went there together and eventually returned. While this is not impossible, 

it is by no means certain. It would be just as reasonable to assume that the emigration 

was rather a process which took place over a certain period of time. This 

would also explain the apparent disagreement over when this actually happened 

and whether the Muslims returned to Mecca or went to Medina from Abyssinia. 

Whatever the historical basis, the traditions traced back to al-Zuhr\ < Ûrwa 

ultimately leave us with two possibilities to explain their dissimilarities: either 

Ibn Is1aq quoted only a part of a longer tradition from al-Zuhr\, changed the text 

of the tradition (eliminating the reference to Abyssinia) and quoted the rest of the 

tradition with a different isnad. Or, either Ma^mar, Ûqayl or Yunus (or their respective 

transmitters) combined different stories from various authorities without 

acknowledging this and eliminated some of the isnads to create the impression 

that all parts in fact were traceable to al-Zuhr\ < Ûrwa, while the other two 

copied his version, again without acknowledging it. Both scenarios involve some 

intentional manipulation of the text, but the second scenario requires that at least 

three persons intentionally suppressed their real sources. When we take into account 

the results from the assessment of the complete Ûrwa corpus, it seems 

more likely that it was indeed Ibn Is1aq who made the changes: Ibn Is1aq can be 

shown in other cases to have introduced changes to the traditions he transmits 

from al-Zuhr\ < Ûrwa; for instance he seems to have given Âl\ a more prominent 

role in the account of al-0udaybiya. 54 Ma^mar, on the other hand, seems to have 

been a more reliable transmitter. 55 Another point indicating that the changes may 

52 Ibn Hisham, al-Sira al-nabawiyya, 2:276ff. 

53 Muhammad Qasim Zaman, “Maghazi and the Muhaddithun,” 1–18, esp. 6, 10. 

54 Cf. Görke, “The Historical Tradition About al-0udaybiya,” 260. 

55 Cf. Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 250.


be due to Ibn Is1aq is the presentation of the agreement between Abu Bakr and 

Ibn al-Dughunna in the different versions. In the versions related on the authority 

of Ma^mar, Ûqayl and Yunus, it is Abu Bakr who breaches the agreement with Ibn 

al-Dughunna as he prays publicly although he initially had accepted not to do so. 

In Ibn Is1aq’s version, there is no agreement that Abu Bakr should not pray publicly, 

thus in his version it is Ibn al-Dhughunna who is unhappy with the agreement 

and asks Abu Bakr to cancel it. Based on the principles of matn criticism, 

it would be easy to argue that Ibn Is1aq’s version constitutes an example of the 

overall tendency to present the early Muslims in a better light and the unbelievers 

in a more unfavourable light, while it is difficult to find a reason why in the other 

version Abu Bakr is presented as the one who breaches the agreement if this was 

not the case in the original story. 56 

Furthermore, if we turn back to Âbd al-Razzaq’s long presentation of the 

hijra tradition complex, it does not give the impression that Ma^mar or Âbd al- 

Razzaq tried to suppress isnads; on the contrary, several insertions are clearly 

marked as such. If we further compare this and the related versions of Ûqayl and 

Yunus as well as shorter quotations from these versions, we can observe that the 

isnads are rather consistent: we have already seen that the first part of the complex, 

which describes the events that lead to the emigration of some Muslims to 

Abyssinia, is usually only traced back to al-Zuhr\. The story of Abu Bakr and Ibn 

al-Dughunna and the story of the hijra are always traced back via al-Zuhr\ to 

Ûrwa < Â#isha, while the story of the arrival in Medina is always traced back via 

al-Zuhr\ to Ûrwa only. Ibn Is1aq, on the other hand, does not relate the story of 

Abu Bakr and Ibn al-Dughunna on the authority of Â#isha, but only traces it back 

to Ûrwa. Taking all these findings into consideration, a plausible explanation 

would be that Ûrwa already combined some stories into a single narrative, for 

which he named Â#isha as his source. He seems also to have addressed the arrival 

of Mu1ammad in Medina in his teaching, but did not claim that he had this information 

from Â#isha. Whether Ûrwa had already combined this story with the 

ones he allegedly had heard from Â#isha or whether this was done by al-Zuhr\, we 

cannot tell for sure. Apparently, al-Zuhr\ added more to this story, as for instance 

the introductory summary of the situation in Mecca which resulted in the emigration 

of some Muslims to Abyssinia and some comments. Again, we cannot tell 

if he already linked his additions to the narrative of Ûrwa or if this was only done 

by Ma^mar. Finally, Ma^mar also contributed to the narrative with a couple of additional 

comments. Why Ibn Is1aq did not quote the whole story on the authority 

of al-Zuhr\, but only that part dealing with Abu Bakr and Ibn al-Dughunna, we do 

56 Cf. ibid., 62.


not know. Possibly he did not hear the complete story from al-Zuhr\ and thus did 

not have the authority to relate the whole story. In any case, it is very likely that 

he adapted the story, both eliminating the reference to Abyssinia and presenting 

Abu Bakr in a more favourable light. 

One accusation of Shoemaker’s which must be rejected outright is that 

Görke and Schoeler invented isnads to “multiply the lines of transmission.” 57 

Shoemaker argues that they used the tradition on the hijra quoted by Ibn Is1aq 

from either “someone he does not distrust” (Ibn Hisham) or Mu1ammad b. Âbd 

al-Ra1man (al-Tabar\) to authenticate Ibn Is1aq’s hijra tradition from al-Zuhr\, 

thereby inventing an isnad Ibn Is1aq < al-Zuhr\ < Ûrwa for the story of the hijra 

that is unfounded. 58 But in fact Görke and Schoeler never claimed that Ibn 

Is1aq quoted al-Zuhr\ on the hijra. It is true that their statement “the version recorded 

by Ibn Is1aq (d. 150/767) tells the same story, but in a completely different 

wording” 59 could be misunderstood to refer to the whole story – and apparently 

Shoemaker did so. But the next paragraph should make clear that this is not 

what Görke and Schoeler claimed: “Ibn Is1aq only gives the first part of the 

story (which deals with Ibn al-Dugunna), on the authority of al-Zuhr\ < Ûrwa, 

while the second part (the story of the hijra itself) is narrated by Ibn Is1aq, either 

on the authority of ‘someone he does not mistrust’ < Ûrwa (in Ibn Hisham) or 

Mu1ammad b. Âbd al-Rahman b. Âbdallah al-Tam\m\ < Ûrwa (in al-Tabar\). Ibn 

Is1aq thus combines in his report a version of the al-Zuhr\ recension with a third 

recension we shall call the Mu1ammad b. Âbd al-Rahman recension.” 60 Thus 

Görke and Schoeler do not take Ibn Is1aq’s version as evidence that al-Zuhr\ related 

both the story of Ibn al-Dughunna and the hijra. They do, however, see evidence 

for this connection through the versions of Ma^mar, Ûqayl and Yunus, as 

explained above. They also regard the version of the hijra story quoted by Ibn 

Is1aq as additional evidence that Ûrwa indeed related the story, despite the difference 

in the isnad. The actual text of the tradition is the same in the versions of 

Ibn Hisham and al-Tabar\, and perhaps al-Tabar\ simply polished the isnad or Ibn 

Hisham omitted the name for some reason. In any case, Ibn Is1aq apparently 

claimed – despite possibly concealing his direct source – that the tradition originated 

with Ûrwa. And a comparison of the texts with that of al-Zuhr\ (in the versions 

of Ma^mar and Ûqayl) and the letter ascribed to Ûrwa also make this likely. 

But nowhere do Görke and Schoeler take this tradition as evidence for the Zuhr\ 

version. Thus again Shoemaker argues against a fictitious position. 


58 Ibid., 298–299. 


60 Ibid.


Possibly the most important part of Shoemaker’s article is his analysis of the 

letters Ûrwa allegedly wrote to one of the Umayyad caliphs. These letters, some 

of which contain lengthy narratives about different episodes from the life of 

Mu1ammad, 61 had been accepted as historical by many scholars. Shoemaker is 

astonished that apparently even critical scholars have never raised doubts about 

the authenticity of Ûrwa’s letters, and he sets out to offer the first thorough criticism. 

His main arguments can be summarized as follows: 

1) The letters are only 62, or practically only 63, attested by al-Tabar\; except for 

the letter on the hijra, none of the letters is attested by any other early Islamic 

source. 64 

2) The isnads given by al-Tabar\ are highly problematic: al-Tabar\ names only 

one authority (Âbd al-Warith) from which he has received the information in 

his Tafsir, while he names a second authority (Âl\ b. Nasr) in his History. This 

fact had been explained by von Stülpnagel by assuming that al-Tabar\ wrote 

the History after the Tafsir and that he had also heard the letters by the second 

authority in the meantime. This view, however, overlooks the fact that in his 

Tafsir al-Tabar\ indicates that he heard the letter with a completely different 

isnad as well – traced back via Abu l-Zinad to Ûrwa – which he does not mention 

in his History. This would rather indicate that the Tafsir must have been 

the later work. In addition, the recipient is given as Âbd al-Malik’s son al- 

Wal\d in this version. 65 Shoemaker suggests that the additional isnads offered 

by al-Tabar\ may “reflect two different strategies for shoring up a tradition 

that al-Tabar\ himself thought had a weak transmission history.” 66 

3) There is a very small fragment of the letter about the hijra which Ibn 0anbal 

includes in his Musnad, which has a similar isnad from Âbd al-Samad, the 

second authority in al-Tabar\’s isnad, down to Ûrwa. According to Shoemaker, 

it is possible that al-Tabar\ expanded on Âbd al-Samad’s brief letter 

and created new letters ascribed to Ûrwa. 67 

4) Had Ûrwa in fact written these letters, it would be difficult to comprehend 

why other scholars failed to mention them – these letters, if existent, must 

61 One letter, however, is very short. For this letter and its genuineness cf. below the chapter on 

the slander about Â#isha, 59 with footnote 157. 

62 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 278, 284. 

63 Ibid., 273, 281. 

64 Ibid., 280. 

65 Ibid., 277–278. 

66 Ibid., 279. 

67 Ibid., 296.


have been important sources for al-Zuhr\, Ibn Is1aq and others – but none of 

these early scholars mention them. 68 

5) Other scholars have shown the adducing of letters to be a literary topos in 

both the Greco-Roman and the Islamic historical tradition, and the invention 

of letters was so widespread that a very careful approach has to be taken. 69 

6) The content of the letters is not ascribed to Ûrwa in other sources. 70 

7) The letters, in contrast to the Constitution of Medina, are not in conflict with 

the later tradition. While this dissonance with the later tradition in the case 

of the Constitution of Medina both explains its weak attestation and lends it 

credibility, the same cannot be said for Ûrwa’s letters. 71 

Let us examine these arguments more closely. Ad 1 and 2: It is true that the letters 

are not widely attested. However, al-Tabar\’s works are not the only sources mentioning 

these letters of Ûrwa. As Shoemaker himself observed, Ibn 0anbal quotes 

a short version of the letter about the hijra also according to Âbd al-Samad, the 

second link in al-Tabar\’s isnad. Shoemaker’s argument that al-Tabar\ may have 

invented the additional isnad through Abu l-Zinad to shore up the tradition is not 

convincing: if al-Tabar\ had wanted to do so, why did he not quote the text in more 

detail? Why should he have provided the text with a different addressee? This 

would rather undermine the authority of the original text instead of enhancing it. 

Why should he mention this isnad only in the case of the hijra and not to support 

any other letter? This seems to make little sense. It is much more likely that al- 

Tabar\ indeed knew of the letter in the version traced back to Ûrwa via Abu 

l-Zinad – regardless of the question whether this letter indeed originated with 

Ûrwa or is a later forgery. This is corroborated by the fact that a passage from another 

letter – on the conquest of Mecca – in a version of Abu l-Zinad is quoted by 

Ibn 0ajar al-Âsqalan\ on the authority of Ûmar b. Shabba. 72 Ibn 0ajar claims not 

to just have heard the tradition, but to have taken it from Ûmar b. Shabba’s (now 

lost) Kitab Makka, and there is no reason to doubt this statement. As in the case 

of the letter al-Tabar\ quoted on the authority of Abu l-Zinad, this letter, too, is addressed 

to al-Wal\d and not to Âbd al-Malik, and again it is close in content and 

wording to the respective passages in the respective letter in the recension of Hisham 

b. Ûrwa, but shows some deviations. Although the attestation of the letters 

therefore remains weak, there are more indications that at least some letters of 

68 Ibid., 276. 

69 Ibid., 279–280. 

70 Ibid., 280. 

71 Ibid., 275–276. 

72 Cf. Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 229–230.


Ûrwa were transmitted in two recensions by the time of Ibn 0anbal (d. 241/855) 

and Ûmar b. Shabba (d. 262/876), i.e., one to two generations before al-Tabar\. 

Point 1 of Shoemaker’s arguments is thus simply not correct. The isnads for the 

letters in the version of Hisham as given by Ibn 0anbal and al-Tabar\ are identical 

for the first generations (Hisham > Aban al-Âttar > Âbd al-Samad), as are the isnads 

given by al-Tabar\ and Ibn Hajar for the respective versions of Abu l-Zinad 

(Abu l-Zinad > Ibn Ab\ l-Zinad > Ibn Wahb). Therefore, we may assume that if the 

letters were indeed forged, this would have happened at the latest by the time of 

Ibn Wahb (d. 197/812) and Âbd al-Samad (d. ca. 207/822). 

Ad 3: Shoemaker’s idea that al-Tabar\ expanded on the letter quoted by Ibn 

0anbal and then invented other letters is likewise not convincing. Firstly, Ibn 

0anbal explicitly says that he is only quoting part of the letter, i.e., that the tradition 

he had was longer than what he includes in his Musnad. Secondly, if al- 

Tabar\ were indeed responsible for the long letters, why would he write them in 

a way that does not fit his works? Most of these letters describe a sequence of 

events. Therefore al-Tabar\ frequently only quotes parts from a letter and then 

complements this description with other material from different sources, before 

he proceeds to quote the next passage from the letter. If al-Tabar\ invented the 

letters, why did he not produce shorter and more focused letters that would not 

require addressing the separate sections of a particular letter in this manner? He 

also quotes other traditions that are not in accord with the letters. Why should he 

invent letters that neither fit into the format of his works nor are in accordance 

with his other material? 

Ad 4: If Ûrwa indeed wrote the letters, why have other authorities of the sira 

not included them in their works? This, indeed, seems a crucial question, but 

the answer perhaps lies in the character of the letters. As Shoemaker rightly observes, 

what al-Tabar\ (and Ibn 0anbal and Ibn 0ajar) record are not transcripts 

of documents, but reports about these letters that were transmitted as other sira 

traditions. The letters themselves – assuming that they were indeed sent by Ûrwa 

to an Umayyad caliph – would have been out of reach for the scholars of the sira. 

What al-Tabari and others recorded thus can only have been based on the notes or 

copies of these letters, which Ûrwa may have kept. It seems not to have been uncommon 

to keep an archive of copies of letters, and we have evidence of letters 

that apparently constitute copies from a personal archive and not the letters actually 

sent. Thus there is a papyrus that includes two letters from the same sender 

to two different addressees on a single page, 73 which can only be explained by as- 

73 Papyrus Nessana 77. This information was kindly provided by Robert Hoyland. See his forthcoming 

publication “P. Nessana 77 revisited” in Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam.


suming that these are personal archival copies. It is not implausible that Ûrwa 

also kept an archive of letters he had sent. These letters would then have only 

been known in scholarly circles if he indeed taught them in his classes. But when 

teaching on the hijra, the battle of Badr or another topic on which he may have 

written a letter, why should he quote verbatim from the letter? Imagine a scholar 

today, who has written an as-yet-unpublished article or encyclopaedia entry on a 

certain topic and then teaches a course on the topic. We would assume that while 

the contents will be very similar, our scholar will not necessarily actually read his 

article verbatim in class. But he might quote from it when asked to do so, or he 

might actually even send the article to someone interested in the topic. Coming 

back to Ûrwa, it seems plausible that he did not usually refer to the letters when 

teaching about a topic, but that his son Hisham – and possibly Abu l-Zinad – 

eventually asked about these letters. It is also conceivable that his son Hisham actually 

inherited the archive after Ûrwa’s death. After all, in the time of Hisham 

and probably also a generation later, most probably these letters were not regarded 

as being any more authoritative or important than other traditions. We 

also have to bear in mind that the letters could not have been written before 

73/692, when Ûrwa acknowledged Umayyad rule after the defeat of his brother 

Âbdallah b. al-Zubayr, and that they may date from a decade or more after that 

event. Thus it is likely that much of Ûrwa’s teaching took place before he even 

wrote the letters. Of course all these considerations remain speculative – but they 

could provide an explanation why the letters were not quoted as frequently as one 

may have assumed. 

Ad 5: It is true that adducing letters was a literary topos both in the Greco- 

Roman and the Islamic historiographical tradition and that invented letters are 

not uncommon. However, the literature Shoemaker uses to prove the problematic 

character of the letters at least partially refers to a completely different use of 

letters in the historiographical tradition. A case in point is Shoemaker’s use of 

Noth’s study of the early Islamic historical tradition. 74 What Noth had studied 

were in fact letters which formed part of the historical narratives of the early Islamic 

conquests. Noth argued for instance that it is inconceivable that the commanders 

of the conquests were in constant correspondence with the caliphs and 

that it were the caliphs who ultimately took the military decisions. He saw these 

letters as a result of a later tendency to attribute a degree of central authority to 

the caliphs which they probably did not have in the time of the conquests. He argued 

that from the military point of view such letters did not make sense at all, 

given that the caliph did not know the situation on the ground and that the cor- 

74 Noth, The Early Arabic Historical Tradition.


respondence would have taken at least three to six weeks, during which time the 

situation would have changed. 75 While Noth makes clear that his findings refer to 

this kind of letters, Shoemaker omits the reference to the first century and takes 

Noth’s conclusion to refer to all kinds of letters. In the following, the passages 

omitted by Shoemaker are given in italics: “Our first task in these instances 

would not be to determine whether or not such letters are literary fictions, but 

rather whether or not they are original documents. As of now, I am unaware of any 

letters in the tradition on the period of the pre-dynastic caliphate to which the character 

of documents can clearly be attributed. Again, this does not mean that no one 

wrote or corresponded in the period of the early caliphs. But if we wish to use the 

testimony of the transmitted letters, then we must begin with the assumption that 

they are not ‘authentic’, if by this term one has in mind a verbatim or largely verbatim 

transcription of a documentary text which originated at the time to which the 

later tradents attribute it.” 76 Ûrwa’s letters, however, – whether historical or not – 

are of a completely different type. They are not part of the historical narrative, but 

are said to contain information about a completely different topic (namely the life 

of Mu1ammad). Noth’s conclusions cannot simply be taken to refer to all letters, 

as Shoemaker insinuates. 

Ad 6: It is simply not true that the content of Ûrwa’s alleged letters is not 

otherwise recorded on the authority of Ûrwa. Part of the contents of his letters 

is recorded in traditions mostly traced back via his son Hisham, and in other 

cases parts of the letters have parallels in traditions reported on the authority of 

al-Zuhr\ as well. 77 What is true, though, is that not all elements recorded in 

the letters have parallels in other traditions. But in their analysis, Görke and 

Schoeler treated these elements like other elements traced back via a single 

source only: they argued that these elements cannot securely be traced back to 

Ûrwa. 

Ad 7: It is true that the letters of Ûrwa are not in conflict with the later tradition 

as is partly the case with the constitution of Medina. But the letters differ 

in several regards from other traditions traced back to Ûrwa (and to other early 

authorities of the sira). They contain far fewer miraculous elements than the 

traditions traced back to Ûrwa via al-Zuhr\, for instance; they also contain much 

fewer names, and sayings from the prophet are frequently adduced by “it is alleged 

that the prophet said” and not with a complete isnad. Details are usually 

75 Ibid., 76–87. 

76 Ibid., 84–85. 

77 Cf. Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 43–48, 74–75, 92–93, 227–229, 

233–234.


less elaborate than in the regular traditions, and there are fewer quotations from 

the Qur#an. Thus while the content does not conflict with the later tradition, the 

style does: it seems that the letters preserve a more rudimentary version in which 

several later tendencies – as the growing elaboration of the stories, the tendency 

to identify anonymous persons, the increase of miraculous elements and the increase 

of Qur#anic references – have not yet been at work or have been so on a 

much smaller scale. 78 

Thus, most of the arguments brought forward by Shoemaker against the 

authenticity of Ûrwa’s letters are not convincing. A production of these letters in 

the time of al-Tabar\ or his direct authorities seems highly unlikely. As at least 

some points of the letters do have parallels in other traditions on the authority of 

Ûrwa, it is rather probable that the letters did indeed in some way originate with 

Ûrwa. This does not mean that they were transmitted verbatim – on the contrary, 

this can be ruled out already by comparing the different versions of the existing 

letters. It is quite possible that in the course of transmission parts of the letters 

were omitted and other parts added, intentionally or unintentionally. In addition, 

the relation between the letters of Ûrwa and the traditions traced back to Abu 

l-Aswad and Musa b. Ûqba, which are partially identical in wording, still needs 

to be clarified. 79 Precisely for this reason Görke and Schoeler argued that only 

those parts of the letters should be assumed to go back to Ûrwa that have parallels 

in other traditions traced back to him. 

As can be seen, Görke and Schoeler were much more careful and hesitant 

in concluding that material originated with Ûrwa than Shoemaker claims. 

Nevertheless, it could be shown that more material on the hijra can convincingly 

be traced back to Ûrwa than Shoemaker admits, and that many of Shoemaker’s 

proposed scenarios of possible forgery can easily be dismissed. 

What about the historicity of Ûrwa’s accounts of the hijra? In their article, 

Görke and Schoeler suggested that the reconstructed contents of Ûrwa’s reports 

“reflect the general outline of the events correctly.” 80 This general outline 

should not be confused with Watt’s basic framework, as Shoemaker does. 81 

Watt had argued that the basic framework of the sira – consisting of a list of expeditions, 

their main protagonists, the number of people involved, the outcome, 

and the chronological data –, was generally known to scholars and was usually 

78 Cf. ibid., 264. 

79 For some thoughts on this relation, see ibid., 66–68, 83–92, 235–236, 274. 




narrated without an indication of sources. 82 In contrast, Görke’s and Schoeler’s 

general outline describes the basic line of events of the reconstructed traditions. 

Shoemaker challenges the view that Ûrwa’s reports on the hijra probably contain 

historical facts by referring to “the early hijra traditions recorded in the Wahb 

b. Munabbih papyrus” that “call into question nearly every aspect of the Ûrwan 

hijra narrative.” 83 The papyrus referred to is dated to 229 AH and thus is not early 

at all. 84 It is true that this papyrus is traced back to Wahb b. Munabbih through its 

isnad, but one may wonder why Shoemaker accepts this ascription – attested 

only in a single source with a single strand – as genuine. The story presented in 

the papyrus is a mythological version of the hijra, which contains numerous miraculous 

elements (in contrast to the version narrated by Ûrwa). The existence of 

traditions like the one ascribed to Wahb only shows that in parallel to a “historical” 

tradition, “non-historical” traditions also existed, and that the scholarly 

transmission as practiced by Ûrwa and his students was quite (although not 

completely) successful in keeping the tradition free from legendary transformations. 

85 One could even reverse Shoemaker’s argument by saying that a 

study of the traditions ascribed to Wahb shows how good Ûrwa’s traditions are in 

contrast. 

The Beginning of Revelation: the Iqra# # Narration (Gregor Schoeler) 

Shoemaker deals extensively 86 with Schoeler’s treatment of Mu1ammad’s first 

revelation experience. 87 In this regard, Islamic tradition traces the most important 

relevant accounts – according to which Sura 96 was the first to be revealed – 

to al-Zuhr\ < Ûrwa (< Â#isha), the so-called iqra#-narration. This tradition complex 

thereby forms a part of the corpus of sira traditions traced back to Ûrwa. 88 

Shoemaker designates the isnad-bundle set up by Schoeler as “indeed impressive;” 

89 it would clearly show al-Zuhr\ as the likely source for a tradition about 

82 Watt, “The Materials Used by Ibn Is1aq,” 23–34, 27f.; idem. “The Reliability of Ibn Is1aq’s 

Sources,” 31–43, 32–35. This has meanwhile shown to be wrong: Schoeler, Character und 

Authentie, 16; Cf. Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 4. 


84 Khoury, “Der Heidelberger Papyrus des Wahb b. Munabbih,” 558. 

85 Cf. Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 269. 






Mu1ammad’s first experience of revelation. Thus far he is in agreement with 

Schoeler. Unlike Schoeler, however, Shoemaker is of the opinion that the precise 

nature of what al-Zuhr\ may have taught his students about this pivotal event 

is not exactly clear. While Schoeler considers the long version of the story – as 

preserved by Âbd al-Razzaq (< Ma^mar < al-Zuhr\ < Ûrwa), al-Bukhar\ and Muslim 

i.a. (LV I) 90 – to be the archetype of the narrative, according to Shoemaker 

some other accounts of the event transmitted by al-Zuhr\ diverge so extensively 

from it that it is methodologically questionable whether all of them can be represented 

in the same isnad-bundle. Here Shoemaker refers to two short versions 

which are transmitted by Ibn Is1aq 91 and Ibn Sa^d 92 respectively; he terms them 

‘identical’. 93 Later in his article, they are only ‘highly similar’ and ‘almost identical’! 

94 Shoemaker holds these short versions to be the original version, ‘inherited’ 

by al-Zuhr\ from the earlier Islamic tradition and initially taught to his 

students; the long version (LV I) would possibly be his own composition, which 

he created on the basis of this brief report utilizing, in addition, other traditions 

he discovered later, and subsequently also disseminated in the course of his 

teaching activities. Shoemaker sees his assumption confirmed by the fact that 

besides al-Zuhr\, Hisham b. Ûrwa also had disseminated a short version, allegedly 

very similar to al-Zuhr\’s, on the authority of his father, Ûrwa (see below). 95 

All three short versions are held by Shoemaker to have the same origin. 

Why this construction? For one, Shoemaker wishes to establish that in the 

generation before al-Zuhr\, i.e., in Ûrwa’s time, the parts of Zuhr\’s long version 

that Shoemaker assumes to have been added afterwards, and indeed the entire 

conglomerate, did not yet exist. 96 For the other, he probably wants to show – in 

terms of a hypothesis proffered by U. Rubin 97 – that al-Zuhr\’s original version, 

and a fortiori Ûrwa’s tradition on which it is based, only contain Mu1ammad’s 

visions of light and hearing of voices (i.e., ‘biblical’ motifs), not, however, the 

Qur#anic ‘embellishments’ (e.g., no mention of the ufuq motif, i.e., the angel 

visions from Suras 53 and 81) and no mention of Sura 96 as the first one revealed). 

The development from the short to the long version would thus be evidence of 

90 Âbd al-Razzaq, al-Musannaf V, 321–324. For further references see the ‘Corpus’ (= Appendix 

1) in Schoeler, Charakter und Authentie, 171 (= The Biography of Muhammad, 124). 

91 Apud Ibn Hisham, Sirat sayyidina Muhammad rasul Allah, I, 151. 

92 Ibn Sa^d, Tabaqat, I, 1, 129; al-Baladhur\, Ansab, I/1, 259f. (no. 71). 


94 Ibid., 306, 313. 

95 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 307ff. 

96 Ibid., 306. 

97 Rubin, The Eye of the Beholder, 108–110.


Rubin’s thesis of a process of ‘Qur#anisation’ which seized the traditions concerning 

the beginning of revelation (and also others). 98 

Schoeler, in contrast, had taken the position that Ibn Is1aq had shortened 

al-Zuhr\’s account (LV I) for his own purposes (Ibn Is1aq quotes only the first four 

sentences or so of al-Zuhr\’s long version). 99 Schoeler based his rationale for this 

on the observation that Ibn Is1aq shortly thereafter gives a very similar long version 

of the story (LV III, traced to Wahb b. Kaysan < Ûbayd b. Ûmayr), and his 

argument was: The abridgement was done for redactional reasons in order to 

avoid repetitions (or redundancy). – Now it is to be admitted that both possibilities 

exist: the dissemination of two different versions by al-Zuhr\ on the one 

hand, and abridgement of the long version (LV I) by Ibn Is1aq on the other. Shoemaker’s 

argumentation for the validity of the first possibility has feet of clay and 

can even be turned against him. He argues that if Schoeler’s abridgement theory 

is correct, it would be difficult to explain why both authors, Ibn Is1aq and Ibn 

Sa^d, abridged the account in identical fashion. 100 

Now, the two abridgements are by no means identical, as Shoemaker claims; 

in fact, Ibn Sa^d quotes a substantial bit more from the long version (LV I) 101 than 

does Ibn Is1aq. 102 While the latter addduces the first four sentences or so of the 

text, and closes with the solitariness of which the Prophet has grown fond, Ibn 

Sa^d cites a number of sentences more; he additionally reports that Mu1ammad 

visited Mount 0ira# and performed devotions (al-tahannuth) for several nights, 

that he subsequently returned to Khad\ja to pick up supplies, and that in the end 

‘the truth’ (al-haqq) came to him on Mount 0ira#. This shows that Schoeler’s allegedly 

‘off-hand remark’ (Shoemaker) that Ibn Sa^d and Ibn Is1aq had independently 

shortened al-Zuhr\’s (archetype) long report (LV I) 103 is by no means improbable, 

but rather very probable. 

On the basis of his hypothesis Shoemaker had to assume that al-Zuhr\ had 

circulated not only two, but at least three different short versions of the narrative. 

That of course is not impossible – there are in fact quite many more short versions 

of the account, and, in addition, a medium-length version, 104 all of which theoretically 

could likewise have been abridged by al-Zuhr\ himself – although this is 

98 Ibid., 307–313. 

99 Schoeler, Charakter und Authentie, 75f. (= The Biography of Muhammad, 48f.). 


101 Ibn Sa^d, Tabaqat, I, 1, 129; al-Baladhur\, Ansab, I/1, 259f. (no. 71). 

102 Ibn Hisham, Sirat sayyidina Muhammad rasul Allah, I, 151. 


104 Schoeler, Charakter und Authentie, 171–173; 185 (= The Biography of Muhammad, 

124–125; 138).


rather improbable. That, at least in the case of Ibn Sa^d, an abridgement of the 

text by Ibn Sa^d is the more probable alternative and that no mention of Sura 96 

being the first message is to be expected at this place arises from the following observation: 

In the chapter in question Ibn Sa^d treats only ‘the coming-down of the 

revelation to the Messenger of God’ (dhikr nuzul al-wahy âla rasul Allah sl^m) – 

this is, by the way, also the chapter’s heading – and at no time in this chapter does 

he designate any sura as the first one revealed. And this for good reason, because 

the mention of the first piece revealed to the Prophet of the Qur#an’ is the subject 

of the subsequent chapter (entitled: dhikr awwal ma nazala âlayhi min al-Qur#an) 

and is reserved for it! Correspondingly, another such version (abridged in another 

way) of the al-Zuhr\ tradition in which Sura 96 is named as the first revealed is 

found in the chapter just named; indeed, it is immediately adduced there as the 

first tradition. 105 

In summary it can be said that – contrary to Shoemaker’s claims – it is much 

more probable that Ibn Sa^d and likewise Ibn Is1aq produced the abridged versions 

in question by shortening the long version (LV I), because their short versions 

are in no way identical. 

Now, Shoemaker considers the previously mentioned tradition according to 

Hisham b. Ûrwa < Ûrwa, 106 which, much like the traditions cited by Ibn Is1aq 

und Ibn Sa^d, likewise deals with the beginning of the revelation (but additionally 

also conveys the Khad\ja II, i.e., consolation motif! 107), to be quite similar to these 

two accounts, as it too contains no Qur#anic motifs (rather only the ‘biblical’ ones: 

mention of seeing light and hearing voices). Although Shoemaker – quite correctly 

– considers it ‘certainly possible’ that Hisham’s tradition is from Ûrwa, 108 

this report would, according to Shoemaker, provide no basis for Schoeler’s conclusion 

that Ûrwa might have transmitted more than this tradition. 

This contention of Shoemaker’s has meanwhile become obsolete as during 

the compilation of the Ûrwa corpus two more traditions going back to Hisham < 

105 Ibn Sa^d, Tabaqat, I, 1, 130. 

106 Ibid. 

107 Shoemaker levels a charge that, “Schoeler invokes close parallels (sc. of Khad\ja’s 

response in the Hisham b. Ûrwa tradition) with Khad\ja’s response to Mu1ammad in a few other 

versions of the al-Zuhr\ recension, although he fails to specify which ones [italics GS]” 

(“In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 308). – Here they are: The phrase in question in the Hisham tradition 

(Ibn Sa^d, Tabaqat, I, 1, 130) reads: innaka tasduqu l-hadith wa-tu#addi l-amana wa-tasilu 

l-rahim; compare with this the corresponding phrase in the al-Zuhr\ version in al-Tabar\ (Ta#rikh, 

I, 1147): innaka la-tasilu l-rahim wa-tasduqu l-hadith wa-tu#addi l-amana; and the al-Zuhr\ 

version in Âbdarrazzaq (al-Musannaf, V, 322): innaka la-tasilu l-rahim wa-tasduqu l-hadith 

wa-taqri l-dayf wa-tuînu âla nawa#ib al-haqq. 

108 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 313, 307.


Ûrwa came to light, which are independent of al-Zuhr\’s tradition. 109 They corroborate 

that Ûrwa has by no means conveyed only the beginning of the conglomerate, 

but other parts also spread by al-Zuhr\, as well. One tradition 110 

includes a part of the Waraqa account, whereby the Namus (here it is the Namus 

of Jesus, not of Moses!) and Mu1ammad’s Qur#anic proclamations are mentioned 

(a specific sura, however, is not named); the other tradition 111 refers to the period 

of the fatra which – according to this tradition – was ended by the revelation of 

Sura 93. Here Gabriel is mentioned by name as the purveyor of the earlier revelation! 

It is not said expressis verbis, however, that Sura 96 was the first; but 

Sura 93 is named and cited as being the one that was revealed after the first revelation. 

In summary it can be said that in the three mentioned traditions according to 

Hisham < Ûrwa, the following four elements are attested, which are also found to 

be similar or identical in the comprehensive Zuhr\ version: 

1. The motif of appearances of light and the hearing of voices as the first sign of 

revelation 

2. Khad\ja II: The consolation motif (Khad\ja consoles and praises Mu1ammad) 

3. The Waraqa account 

4. The fatra account. 

Furthermore, it can be deduced with certainty that it must have also included: 

5. An account concerning the conveyance of an initial revelation which (or the 

conveyor of which) is designated by Waraqa as Namus, and the conveyor of 

which is later identified by the Prophet as Gabriel. 

On the other hand, it is to be admitted that (up to now) it cannot be proven that 

Hisham, like al-Zuhr\, on the authority of Ûrwa mentioned Sura 96 expressis verbis 

as the first one revealed; this element can thus (up to now) not be traced 

to Ûrwa with certainty. At present, it has likewise not yet been verified that Ûrwa 

transmitted the conglomerate as a whole; but he has demonstrably transmitted 

three related traditions which contain substantially more elements than the 

non-Qur#anic ones of the appearance of light and hearing of voices, also including 

several Qur#anic elements; special attention should be paid to the mention of 

Sura 93! 

109 Görke and Schoeler, Die älteste Berichte, 27–32; Schoeler, The Biography of Muhammad, 

51–54. 

110 al-Zubayr b. Bakkar, Jamharat nasab Quraysh, 419 (no. 720). 

111 Ibn Ishaq, Kitab al-Siyar wa-l-Maghazi, 135; al-Tabar\, Tafsir, XII, 624. – Rubin is aware of 

the existence of this other tradition of Hisham and quotes it (The Eye of the Beholder, 117), but, he 

fails to mention and discuss its ‘Qur#anised’ nature!


The three traditions are enough to refute the assertion that a ‘Qur#anisation’ 

of the account of the first revelatory experience, as assumed by Shoemaker 

following Rubin, took place first with al-Zuhr\, and not until a later stage of his 

lecturing activities. Rather, Ûrwa, according to an account transmitted by both 

al-Zuhr\ and Hisham, had already included Qur#anic elements, as attested by the 

appearance of Gabriel and the mention of Sura 93, which was revealed after the 

fatra. 112 For this reason, Rubin’s thesis, to the extent that it relates to Hisham’s 

version of the beginnings of revelation, must be considered refuted, and Rubin’s 

entire thesis must be reviewed anew; because the Qur#anic motifs in this account 

(mention of Gabriel and at least one early revealed sura) are obviously not later 

than the non-Qur#anic (biblical) motifs (light and voices); the former have not 

overlaid the latter but had existed beside them already in the last third of the first 

century in Ûrwa’s store of traditions about the initial revelation experience. 

Although Shoemaker in many places does not seriously doubt that the Hisham 

< Ûrwa tradition on the beginning of the revelation is independent of the al- 

Zuhr\ < Ûrwa < Â#isha version and goes back to Ûrwa, 113 he contests an argument 

brought forth by Schoeler which admittedly, as he grants, is ‘well-grounded’ in 

Schacht’s analysis. Schoeler had argued that the non-elevation of the isnad to 

Â#isha in Hisham’s traditions is a strong indication of its authenticity and, at 

any rate, of its independence from al-Zuhr\’s version. 114 In contrast, Shoemaker 

here 115 again follows Rubin 116 who had asserted that the traditions about the first 

revelation do not exhibit any backward growth in the isnads, and that the appearance 

in particular of the name Â#isha is not such a backward growth (whereby 

according to Rubin the isnad is purely a literary tool, 117 not a credible indication 

of origin!). 118 This assertion by Rubin, however, is no longer tenable; it can now – 

owing to the meanwhile completely compiled and evaluated corpus of Ûrwa 

traditions – be refuted. It has been shown, namely, that in the entire Ûrwa corpus 

reports transmitted by al-Zuhr\ on the authority of Ûrwa are as a rule traced 

112 Likewise Waraqa’s expression of his strong trust in the Prophet and his divination regarding 

Mu1ammad’s eventual triumph, which Shoemaker calls a strongly Qur#anised motif (“In Search 

of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 312), is already found in this tradition of Hisham < Ûrwa! Waraqa even wants to 

help the Prophet in the foreseen jihad! 

113 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 313, 316, 317. 

114 Schoeler, Charakter und Authentie, 80 (= The Biography of Muhammad, 51f.) 

115 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 307f. 

116 Rubin, The Eye of the Beholder, 234–238, 249–250. 

117 Ibid., 237. 

118 Shoemaker also expresses the same criticism with respect to a similar argumentation by 

Motzki. See below 71f.


back to Â#isha or (more seldom) to other informants as original transmitter(s), 

whereas corresponding traditions on the authority of Hisham usually end with 

Ûrwa as original transmitter. 119 This, however, means that Ûrwa had not, or at 

any rate very frequently had not, indicated his sources, and it is very probable 

that al-Zuhr\ often elevated the Ûrwa traditions to Â#isha or other informants. 

This could indeed have been done in good faith without any intent of deception; 

al-Zuhr\ may have believed that the bulk of Ûrwa’s store of traditions goes back to 

his aunt Â#isha. Therefore the absence of Â#isha in the isnad of Hisham’s Ûrwa 

tradition (quoted by Ibn Sa^d) is indeed an indication of its old age and genuineness, 

and an even stronger piece of evidence for its independence of the al-Zuhr\ 

transmission. 

On the following point, however, Shoemaker is to be agreed with: The reconstruction 

of the reports that Ûrwa circulated about the first revelation experience 

(and of all of his sira traditions, indeed) must essentially be based on the transmission 

lines of al-Zuhr\ and Hisham; 120 some other extant transmission lines, in 

particular the line Ibn Lah\â < Abu l-Aswad < Ûrwa, are unusable for that purpose. 

Schoeler had described the Abu l-Aswad version from the start as ‘extremely 

problematic’ 121 (also for the reason that it is mixed with another version, 

that of Musa b. Ûqba < al-Zuhr\); in Görke’s and Schoeler’s book, in which this 

line of transmission could be better assessed than in the earlier study, owing to 

the meanwhile completely compiled corpus of Ûrwa traditions, Schoeler used 

this version only as an example of a problematical ‘apocryphal’ Ûrwa tradition. 122 

The puzzle represented by this line, however, is not solved. This is because the 

traditions with the isnad Ibn Lah\â < Abu l-Aswad < Ûrwa clearly include, apart 

from additions, embellishments and miracle stories, also elements going back to 

Ûrwa (i.e., found likewise in corresponding traditions of al-Zuhr\ < Ûrwa and 

Hiåam < Ûrwa), but which are deformed through later additions and alterations. 

Shoemaker then deals with a hypothesis by means of which Schoeler – 

with reference to A. Sprenger 123 – had attempted to determine Ûrwa’s sources 

for his version of the revelation experience. As explained above, according to Hisham’s 

tradition, Ûrwa had not named any informant at all; and the fact that 

al-Zuhr\’s tradition indicates Â#isha as Ûrwa’s source is based in all probability, 

pursuant to what was said above, on elevation of the isnad. Regarding Ibn Is1aq’s 

long version of the revelation experience (LV III; transmitted on the authority of 

119 Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 16, 255f. 

120 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 314–317, in particular 317. 

121 Quoted by Shoemaker, ibid., 314. 

122 Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 18f., 33f. 

123 Sprenger, Das Leben und die Lehre des Mohammad, I, 339f.


Wahb, a client of the al-Zubayr family), which is so similar to al-Zuhr\’s Ûrwa 

version (LV I) that a common origin has been assumed for a long time already, 

Schoeler has expressed the following supposition: 124 The person indicated by 

Wahb as his informant, the qass (popular story teller) Ûbayd b. Ûmayr, who is to 

have recited the story at al-Zubayr’s estate in the presence of Ûrwa’s brother Âbdallah, 

is possibly the original narrator of the story and ultimately also Ûrwa’s 

source. This conjecture is supported by another, independent, very well attested 

short awa#il-tradition according to which Ûbayd is to have indicated Sura 96 as 

the first one revealed. 125 It must be emphasized that Schoeler termed this conclusion 

only a hypothesis. 126 He still holds it to be just a hypothesis, but a good 

one; also because it could be a prop for an interesting theory which should actually 

also appeal to Shoemaker: namely, the view espoused by M. Jones 127 and 

M. Cook 128 that the traditions on the life of Mu1ammad are based in great part on 

material spread by qussas. 

Shoemaker’s imputation that Schoeler would manipulate isnads 129 has to 

be strongly rejected. As Ûrwa, in transmitting the story of the first revelation experience, 

obviously did not name his informant (see above) – and in other cases 

also often did not do so – and as a story about the beginnings of the revelation, almost 

identical in content, is said to have been recited by a story-teller at the court 

of Ûrwa’s brother Âbdallah, it immediately suggests itself that Ûrwa’s direct or 

indirect source for his narration might be found in this story of the said qass. The 

intention is by no means to present this hypothesis as the only or ‘correct’ one. 

Shoemaker’s argument that Ibn Is1aq’s version from Ibn Wahb (LV III) is 

more recent than al-Zuhr\’s version because (in terms of Rubin’s thesis) it is 

even more ‘Qur#anized’ 130 is unconvincing because it cannot be determined from 

which link in the transmission chain the Qur#anic elements originate. They could 

have come from Ûbayd, the story-teller, from Wahb, the transmitter from him, or 

from Ibn Is1aq. It is likewise possible that all three were involved to different degrees 

in the embellishment of the story with Qur#anic elements and allusions. An 

124 Schoeler, Charakter und Authentie, 98f.; cf. the figure on p. 100b (= The Biography of 

Muhammad, 66f.; cf. the figure on p. 68). 

125 Schoeler, Charakter und Authentie 108 (= The Biography of Muhammad, 74). The awa#iltradition 

in question (with the isnad n.n. < Âmr b. D\nar < Ûbayd) is quoted in Ibn Sa^d, Tabaqat, 

1,1, 130 and elsewhere. 

126 Schoeler, Charakter und Authentie, 100 (= The Biography of Muhammad, 67). 

127 Jones, “Ibn Is1aq and al-Waqid\.” 

128 Cook, Muhammad, 66. 


130 Ibid., 319.


early ‘Qur#anisation’ has already been proven above for a tradition traceable with 

certainty back to Ûrwa (appearance of an angel). Moreover, even if Shoemaker’s 

assertion that Ibn Is1aq’s Wahb version might contain more Qur#anic elements 

and references than al-Zuhr\’s version was accurate, this could not be used as 

an argument for a later emergence; because al-Zuhr\’s version, as well, contains 

many such elements and references. It even contains a distinctive Qur#anic allusion 

not included in Wahb’s version, the zammiluni motif, i.e., the report that the 

Prophet had hurried to Khad\ja and shouted: ‘Cover me,’ which heralds the revelation 

of Sura 73. 131 When Shoemaker writes: “ … Ibn Is1aq’s Wahb-account must 

explain the meaning of tahannuth for its audience while the al-Zuhri version can 

take this knowledge for granted …” (italics GS), 132 this is clearly wrong: Al-Zuhr\’s 

version 133 likewise includes an explanation of al-tahannuth (wa-huwa al-taâbbud 

al-layali dhawat al-âdad)! 

There is evidence of the circumstance that the iqra# story already existed at 

the end of the first century – and indeed in the form transmitted by Ibn Is1aq 

(LV III; appearance of the angel during sleep) –, and from then onwards was disseminated, 

possibly by qussas, ‘throughout the world.’ Schoeler has called attention 

to a highly interesting discovery made by the specialist in Nordic studies 

Klaus von See. 134 Von See had noted that a tradition in the Venerable Bede’s Historia 

Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum completed in 731, namely, the story about the 

monk Caedmon, 135 exhibits highly notable parallels to the iqra# story. These parallels 

are indeed so precise that von See argues that Bede’s tradition must somehow 

be dependent on the iqra# story. 136 Shoemaker, however, with reference 

to Bell and Rubin, holds, to the contrary, that the similarities between the two 

reports can better be explained through the common influence of the biblical 

tradition. Besides that, the interval for any transmission to England would be too 

brief. 137 

With these assertions, Shoemaker misappropriates the entire line of argument 

furnished for this thesis by von See and, in his wake, Schoeler. Moreover, 

since Shoemaker fails to quote or paraphrase the parallel texts, it remains concealed 

from the reader that “none of the many parallels to Caedmon’s vision 

believed up to now to be furnishable shows even remotely a similarity as does 

131 Abd al-Razzaq, al-Musannaf, V, 322; al-Tabar\, Ta#rikh, I, 1147. 


133 Âbd al-Razzaq, al-Musannaf, V, 322. 

134 von See, “Caedmon and Muhammed.” 

135 Beda Venerabilis, 396–399. 

136 von See, “Caedmon and Muhammed,” 231–233. 

137 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 320–321.


Mu1ammads vision.” 138 This holds in particular for Isaiah 40, 6 (cf. also Isaiah 29, 

12), i.e., the specific biblical verse envisaged by Bell, Rubin and Shoemaker to 

be the possible model of Mu1ammad’s first revelation experience. Let us take a 

look at the text! 

In Isaiah 40, 6 it is said: “The voice said, ‘Recite/read.’ And I said: ‘What 

shall I recite/read?’” (qôl ômêr q erâ w e-âmar mâ äqrâ) – “All flesh is grass […]” Cf. 

Isaiah 29, 12: “But deliver the book to one who is unlearned, and say ‘Read this’ 

(q era-na zäh), and he replies ‘I cannot read’ (lô yâda^ti sêfär) […]” 

Juxtaposed to this in the following is the relevant Bede tradition, the story of 

the unlearned laybrother Caedmon who received the gift of singing praise of God in 

the vernacular (i.e., in English). In slightly abbreviated form, it reads as follows: 139 

As he (sc. Caedmon) gave himself there (sc. in the cattle sheds) […] over to sleep, someone 

joined him in his dream, greeted him, called him by his name and said: Caedmon, sing 

something to me (canta mihi aliquid). But he answered: “I cannot sing […] (nescio, inquit, 

cantare).” Thereupon said he who had spoken to him: “Yet you should nonetheless sing for 

me!” “What”, said he, “should I sing (Quid, inquit, debeo cantare)?” And the other said: 

“Sing of the beginning of creation.” Upon receiving this answer, he began forthwith to sing 

verses in praise of God, the Creator, verses he had never heard before […]: “Now we shall 

praise the author of the kingdom of heaven, the power of the Creator and his guidance […], 

how he […] as originator of every miracle came forth, who first created the heavens as a roof 

for the children of mankind […]” 

In comparison, Ibn Is1aq’s version of Mu1ammad’s first revelation experience 

can be sumarised as follows: 140 

One night, when Mu1ammad exercised his religious practices in solitude atop Mount 0ira#, 

the angel Jibr\l appeared to him unexpectedly in his sleep and commanded him: “Read/ 

recite”. Mu1ammad replied: “I cannot read/recite (ma aqra#u).” After that, the angel 

pressed him and repeated his command, whereupon the future prophet said. “What shall I 

recite?” Then the Angel told him: “Recite in the name of your Lord who created […]” (beginning 

of sura 96), which Mu1ammad repeated. Then the angel dissappeared and Mu1ammad 

woke up. 

Dealt with in this account and in the story of Caedmon’s vision alike are ‘initiation 

scenes’, the conveyance of initial messages harking back to a divine commission. 

Caedmon’s and Mu1ammad’s visions are the same in all of the essential details. 

Above all it is the succession of motifs that is exactly identical: The first demand 

138 von See, “Caedmon and Muhammed,” 231. 

139 Beda Venerabilis, 398, 399 (IV, 24 [22]). 

140 al-Tabar\, Ta#rikh, I, 1149f.; Ibn Hisham, Sirat sayyidina Muhammad rasul Allah, I, 151ff.


of the heavenly messenger to sing/recite is followed by a refusal; the second 

demand is followed by the question as to ‘what’ should be sung/recited; the 

answer is the hymn/sura, which in both cases involves praise of the creator god! In 

Isaiah 40, 6 by contrast, it is not a matter of an initiation scene, an initial revelation. 

Moreover, it is not a heavenly messenger that is speaking, but only a voice; 

and the single demand is followed by a text which rather than extolling the creator 

god has a completely different subject (‘All flesh is grass!’). 

It is quite possible, or even probable, that the motifs of the Isaiah verse(s) – 

particularly the invitation of the voice to recite and the subsequent reaction of the 

Prophet – inspired the story of Mu1ammad’s first revelation experience. And it 

is natural to assume that Bede knew the Isaiah verse(s). However, it is to be ruled 

out that the Islamic tradition and Bede, independent of each other, developed 

from these verses stories that are identical in so many motifs and details, and 

even in the succession of motifs. So, only the assumption that the Islamic narration 

somehow found its way to England and influenced the Caedmon vision is 

left. 

One possible manner of the conveyance has been long known. Von See, who 

here follows the historian E. Rotter, 141 first of all calls attention to the historical 

situation: 142 When Bede wrote his Historia, the rapid advance of Islam in Europe 

was ‘the main topic’ in the Christian Occident, and at the close of his work Bede 

makes explicit mention of the Arab threat (V, 23). Following Rotter, von See furthermore 

points out that after years of warlike confrontations between Muslims 

and Christians the years 726–730 were marked by reciprocal efforts towards an 

understanding – one of the external signs thereof was the marriage of the Berber 

emir Manu(n)za with a daughter of Duke Eudo of Aquitaine. 143 “In verbal communications 

– particularly during such periods of peace – knowledge of religious 

texts and customs could effortlessly have been passed back and forth.” 144 The 

agents for the widespread dissemination of the story into Christian Europe would 

likely have been qussas, popular preachers and story tellers who crossed the 

Strait of Gibraltar with the Muslim armies. 

Therefore there is still no plausible alternative to deriving the European Caedmon 

story from Mu1ammad’s initial revelation experience. It is not enough to 

assert ‘the Bible’s clear impact’ in shaping both stories; whoever makes such a 

claim must also explain how a motif was independently spun in two locations 

141 Rotter, Abendland und Sarazenen. 

142 Ibid., 228. 

143 Ibid.; von See, “Caedmon and Muhammed,” 232. 

144 Ibid.


into the same story. This type of explanation is what Shoemaker owes us. Bede’s 

story thus remains an important piece of evidence that the Arabic story – in the 

form which was to find its classical design through Ibn Is1aq (appearance of an 

angel in a dream) – existed already decades before the redaction of Ibn Is1aq’s 

K. al-Maghazi, and had spread throughout the world in this form. 

The ^ Â#isha # Scandal (Gregor Schoeler) 

In discussing the second component of Schoeler’s monograph, the story of the 

Â#isha scandal, Shoemaker is much less harsh in taking Schoeler to task than 

in his treatment of the first revelation experience. 145 Surprisingly, he follows 

Schoeler here in every essential point. He holds it to be probable that the story 

was passed along at the end of the first century by Ûrwa, and considers it at 

least to be possible that Ûrwa got it from his aunt, Â#isha. 146 The rumors about 

Â#isha’s infidelity thus belong – according to Shoemaker – “to the earliest layers 

of Islamic Tradition.” 147 

The argument that convinced Shoemaker in this case was Schoeler’s observation 

that “the main outlines of the story go against the usual pattern” (later 

Sunni tradition looked to Â#isha as ‘the mother of the faithful’), and “that the entire 

story (like the story of the Satanic verses, f.i.) must have been a matter of extreme 

awkwardness for the Prophet, something that his disciples would hardly 

have invented.” 148 The ‘criterion of embarrassment’ (or ‘dissimilarity’), according 

to Shoemaker, is indeed also a cornerstone in the Life-of-Jesus research. By the 

way, Shoemaker also concurs with Schoeler on the evaluation of the story of 

the Satanic verses (which is not in the Ûrwa corpus), which Schoeler holds to 

be historical, 149 whereas J. Burton, R. Hoyland and U. Rubin believe the story to 

be unhistorical. 150 Rubin would see it as an absolute intensification of the story of 

Mu1ammad’s total isolation. 151 

Shoemaker then vacillates back and forth as to whether he should also agree 

with Schoeler on the assumption that the events reported by Ûrwa about the 


146 Ibid., 325. 

147 Ibid., 322, 324. 

148 Schoeler, Charakter und Authentie, 164 (= The Biography of Muhammad, 113); Shoemaker, 

“In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 322. 

149 Schoeler, “Review of Uri Rubin: The Eye of the Beholder,” 220. 

150 Cf. Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 322–324. 

151 Rubin, The Eye of the Beholder, 156–166; cf. 162.


scandal story did in fact take place in the way they were described. 152 He finally 

decides that Ûrwa’s account might indeed mirror the event of the accusation with 

some precision, and he even thinks it possible that Â#isha herself was the original 

informant. 153 After having taken this step forward, he immediately takes 

a half-step back in that he expresses doubt that the account of the Qur#anic revelation, 

by means of which Â#isha was ultimately acquitted (near the end of 

the scandal story), could be a later embellishment by Ûrwa. In closing the discussion, 

Shoemaker nonetheless notes: “In any case, the Â#isha scandal does 

indeed appear to be an especially early tradition, attesting that … in certain instances 

it may be possible to isolate some basic details that have a rather high 

level of historical credibility.” 154 The like of it hasn’t been expressed by any sceptic 

at all up until now! 

After this statement, what nonetheless comes at the end of the chapter is 

yet again – as expected – a caveat: Shoemaker remarks, first, that “Schoeler’s 

painstaking analysis of the various matns and the accompanying isnads serves 

merely to confirm in this instance what can otherwise be determined through applying 

standard criteria of historical criticism,” and, second, that the historical 

‘kernel’ yielded by the study is quite lean. 

152 Citing Robinson’s remark: “[…] in societies undergoing rapid social and political change 

(such as early Islam), oral history tends to be much less accurate,” Shoemaker wants to “provide 

a needed counterweight to Schoeler’s general trust in the reliability of ‘early’ oral transmission” 

(“In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 325). – While Robinson’s assessment may be valid as a 

general rule (cf. the introductory quotations in Schoeler, The Biography of Muhammad, XIII– 

XVI), we are able, in the present case, to determine the nature and reliability of the transmission 

(namely, to and from Ûrwa) in a more specific and more accurate way. It is beyond dispute that 

Â#isha’s accounts, in particular that of her scandal story, reflect Â#isha’s subjective versions of 

these events, but it is also clear that she reported, in the case of her scandal for sure, an event 

that actually took place. Ûrwa’s reports – mostly based on eye witness and earwitness reports – 

may have been selected by his memory and interpreted and coloured by his personality, but they 

are not made out of thin air. (They display almost no miracle stories! cf. above 46). We can safely 

assume that they give the general outline (or basic line) of the events correctly. The nature and 

the reliability of the transmission from Ûrwa to his students can even often be discerned accurately: 

as in many cases we have reports from both of his main transmitters, al-Zuhr\ and Hisham 

b. Ûrwa, we are able to compare these reports. It is true that they often display a considerable 

degree of variation. But, by establishing the intersection (shared material) of these versions we 

can find out what Ûrwa actually reported about an event. 

153 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 324–326. – An important piece of evidence for 

this, not mentioned by Shoemaker, is the fact that in this case not only al-Zuhr\, but also Hisham, 

in a rare exception, says that Ûrwa has received this story from Â#isha! In Hisham’s traditions 

on the authority of his father, the isnad, as a rule, ends with Ûrwa (see above 51f.). 



As to the first point, it can be said that it is for the story of the Â#isha scandal 

in particular that the isnad-cum-matn analysis has proven to be an excellent tool. 

Through attention to the isnads, the corpus could be structured into Ûrwa traditions 

according to al-Zuhr\ and those according to Hisham b. Ûrwa; here the 

matn-analysis corroborated in full what the isnads ‘assert’, namely, that both 

tradition complexes must have a common source, namely, Ûrwa’s lectures. In the 

absence of isnads, how could it be known that the tradition comes from Ûrwa, 

which even Shoemaker doesn’t doubt? And how could it be known that al-Zuhr\ 

and Hisham transmitted them further? 

According to the isnads, Hisham relied solely on his father’s reports, while al- 

Zuhr\ indicates having questioned further informants for his version. The matnanalysis 

confirms this: Al-Zuhr\ gives more material than Hisham, particularly 

the story of the lost necklace; in addition, he gives the names of many persons 

who remain anonymous in Hisham’s version. 155 Ûrwa’s very short letter to the 

caliph Âbd al-Malik regarding the scandal story 156 was transmitted further by 

Hisham, according to the isnad; and the content indeed shows that the short text 

exhibits only features that distinguish the Hisham recension. 157 It is particularly 

in the case of this letter that Shoemaker’s thesis deeming Ûrwa’s letters forged 

is absolutely unconvincing; why would a forger, based on a genuine, detailed 

report by Hisham – even Shoemaker considers it authentic – have produced a 

short version (consisting of three lines only!) in which many essential elements 

of the story are missing and in which the respondent (Ûrwa) is quite obviously 

merely responding to a specific (incriminating) question of the caliph? 

Furthermore, even forgeries can often be determined by means of the isnadcum-matn-analysis; 

other versions of the story, attributed by the isnads to Ibn 

Ûmar, Ibn Âbbas, Abu Hurayra and other standard traditionists, could clearly 

be recognized, through confronting the texts with those of the ‘genuine’ versions 


This is also a strong argument against Shoemaker’s reservation expressed elsewhere that 

Hisham’s versions might be based on the al-Zuhr\ versions and dependent on them (see 62ff.); 

that is absolutely out of the question here. If any version here could be dependent on another, 

then it is more likely al-Zuhr\’s comprehensive version of Hisham’s terser one! But this, too, is 

improbable; Hisham has special material as against al-Zuhr\, and several characteristically 

divergent motifs. 

156 Schoeler, Charakter und Authentie, 149–150 (= The Biography of Muhammad, 103–104); 

Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 155f. 

157 While in al-Zuhr\’s version, Â#isha mentions only Âbdallah b. Ubayy as one of the slanderers, 

in Hisham’s version, she lists in addition the following culprits: 0assan b. Thabit, Mista1 b. 

Ûthatha, 0amna bt. Ja1sh. In the letter which belongs to the Hisham recension, the same names 

occur, as expected; however, Âbdallah b. Ubayy is absent from the list.


(according to al-Zuhr\ and Hisham b. Ûrwa), as dependent on them and counterfeit. 

158 

Finally, another serious contradiction in Shoemaker’s argumentation should 

be mentioned. 159 Whereas at the end of this chapter and of his conclusion he 

would grant viability to matn-analyses only, at other places he insists on pure 

isnad-analyses, invoking one of Juynboll’s methodological principles, that a 

common link (CL) can only be identified as authentic when at least three transmission 

lines emanate from him going directly to at least three different partial 

common links (PCLs) who, according to the isnads, also transmitted the tradition 

in question to at least three pupils, and so forth. He overlooks the advantages of 

the combined approach. Unlike Juynboll’s pure isnad-analysis, an isnad-cummatn 

analysis – particularly when a tradition complex is as widely attested as the 

scandal story and when the relevant reports display as long and elaborate texts as 

in this case 160 – can come up with safe assumptions about the existence of a genuine 

CL, even if only two transmission lines link the CL with two different transmitters 

of whom the texts show that their transmissions are independent of each 

other. 

As to the seond point, however, Shoemaker is indeed right: We will have to 

reconcile ourselves to the fact that only few historical facts about the life of 

Mu1ammad can be determined with certainty or high probability. This is no different 

in the Life of Jesus research! Nevertheless, much has been gained from 

what little we have: The generally recognized historical kernel contained in Islamic 

tradition has been expanded through evaluation of the Ûrwa corpus and is 

no longer restricted to the Constitution of Medina (and, possibly, the story of the 

Satanic verses) alone. 

One accomplishment derived from having compiled the Ûrwa corpus and 

having utilised the isnad-cum-matn analysis is surely also that many theories 

brought forward by ‘sceptics’ have now become even less probable or irrelevant, 

like, for instance, that the Hijra originally referred not to an emigration from 

Mecca to Medina, but to an emigration to Palestine, 161 or the – truly absurd – 

assertion that there was no prophet named Mu1ammad. Another accomplishment 

could be that in the future we will be spared the corpulent Mu1ammad biographies 

the authors of which draw on late compilations exclusively, paraphras- 

158 Schoeler, Charakter und Authentie, 154–158, 161–166 (= The Biography of Muhammad, 

106–109, 111–114). 

159 Cf. above 29f. and below 71f. 

160 The scandal story is altogether the longest report in the Islamic tradition! 

161 Crone and Cook, Hagarism, 24f.; more cautiously presented by Cook, Muhammad, 

76.


ing the reports of the compilers (Ibn Is1aq, al-Waqid\, etc.) and adding to it what 

just crosses their minds – as already happened with the Mu1ammad biographies 

in the 19 th century. 

Al-0udaybiya (Andreas Görke) 

In the account of al-0udaybiya, Shoemaker rather surprisingly comes up with 

completely new arguments, not related to the texts at all. At first he correctly characterizes 

the situation of the sources: there are many versions going back to al- 

Zuhr\ that “offer compelling evidence that an early version of the story can with 

some confidence be assigned to al-Zuhr\.” 162 He also correctly mentions that the 

Abu l-Aswad tradition is problematic and “cannot be used to assign the traditions 

of al-0udaybiya to Ûrwa,” 163 thus making the possible association of the story 

with Ûrwa dependent of the traditions on his son Hisham. It is likewise true that 

the version of the story of al-0udaybiya transmitted by Hisham from Ûrwa is 

not attested frequently. In fact, there are only two long versions of this tradition. 

However, in the study of the complete corpus of Ûrwa traditions, a couple of additional 

references to this tradition can be found. Thus for instance al-Bayhaq\, 

Ibn Kath\r, and Ibn 0ajar al-Âsqalan\ all refer to Hisham’s tradition, as he gives 

a date for the event (in Ramadan/Shawwal – one of the rare incidences where we 

find a dating, though without a year, in traditions ascribed to Ûrwa), which is 

in contradiction to the later Muslim tradition, in which the event is dated to Dhu 

l-Qa^da. 164 Thus while the long tradition is only attested in two sources, it seems to 

have been well known among Muslim scholars. What could be adduced in favour 

of the authenticity of Hisham’s tradition is the fact that the sources in which it is 

included are rather early collections and that they are in close textual agreement, 

so that we must assume a common source. One of the sources is the Kitab al-Kharaj 

of Abu Yusuf (ca. 113/729–182/798), who according to the Muslim biographical 

tradition heard traditions directly from Hisham b. Ûrwa. As Hisham is commonly 

assumed to have died in 146/763, it is not unlikely that Abu Yusuf indeed transmitted 

traditions on the authority of Hisham. 

Shoemaker, however, does not care that Abu Yusuf may have heard the 

tradition directly from Hisham but instead argues that “it would seem that both 

Abu Yusuf and Ibn Ab\ Shayba encountered a tradition about al-0udaybiya that 


163 Ibid., 326. 

164 Cf. Görke and Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte, 192.


was attributed to Hisham ibn Ûrwa” and “it seems quite possible, for instance, 

that someone else composed this narrative on the basis of al-Zuhr\’s account and 

placed it into circulation under Hisham’s name sometime before its discovery 

by Abu Yusuf and Ibn Ab\ Shayba.” 165 How and when this “encounter” or “discovery” 

should have taken place, we are not told. Should we, on the one hand, 

assume that they both found (“discovered”) a written tradition, but did not hear 

it from anybody? This would be rather unusual in the Muslim system of transmission, 

which apparently from a very early time was based on study circles and 

the combination of oral and written transmission. If on the other hand we assume 

that someone invented the tradition and then passed it on, why should both 

Abu Yusuf and Ibn Ab\ Shayba independently omit this person’s name? Thus, 

this possibility is extremely speculative and leaves us with more questions than 

answers. 

Possibly, Shoemaker saw this himself, as he later argues that “it is no less 

plausible that Hisham himself composed this narrative on the basis of al-Zuhr\’s 

account, eliding his debt to this source and attributing the story directly to his 

father instead.” 166 Thus, while Shoemaker might be willing to accept the ascription 

to Hisham as correct, he now doubts whether the transmission of Hisham 

from Ûrwa can be trusted. And, according to him, this “possibility [of falsely 

attributing traditions to his father] applies to other traditions bearing his name as 

well.” 167 While Shoemaker’s main argument against the reliability of Hisham’s 

transmission from Ûrwa to this point was the comparably limited attestation of 

these versions, he now attempts to discard them altogether. To this end, however, 

he does not look at the texts to see to what extent they support such an assumption, 

but instead he looks at the death dates of Hisham, al-Zuhr\, and Ûrwa and 

on general life expectancy in the European (sic) Middle Ages. His argument is 

that when we assume a life expectancy of slightly over 50 years for men who had 

reached the age of 25, as calculated by a statistical analyses of medieval archives, 

and assume that these data are roughly comparable to medieval Arabia, then Hisham 

(d. 146/763) can only have been a child when his father Ûrwa died (about 

94/712). Therefore he is likely to have had the knowledge not directly from his 

father, but rather from his father’s students as al-Zuhr\ (d. 124/742). Moreover, 

even if the traditions were not taken directly from al-Zuhr\, al-Zuhr\’s teaching 

must have influenced them. 168 It need not be discussed at this place whether the 


166 Ibid. 

167 Ibid. 

168 Ibid., 328.


data from the European Middle Ages can be transferred to medieval Arabia, but to 

draw conclusions from an average value to a single case is always problematic. 

As it is an average value, it includes both those persons who died at a considerably 

younger age and those who grew considerably older. Even with an average 

life expectancy of around 50 years, there will have been quite a number of people 

who lived for more than 75 or 80 years. This assumption is corroborated when we 

have a look at what was considered to be old in the Middle Ages. Shulamith Shahar 

studied the conception of “old” in the works of several authors and legal 

texts of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. 169 She observed that for several 

authors “old age” begins at 60 or 70, with some only after 72. 170 In many legal texts 

of the time, the age of exemption from military or administrative duties is set at 

either 60 or 70. 171 She also discusses retirement of higher clergy from their positions 

or possible exemptions from non-salaried public duties, and finds that in 

the 11 th to 13 th century (the data that Shoemaker adduces are from the 14 th century) 

retirement from such positions was apparently impossible before the age 

of 60 or 70, and exemptions from public duties were usually only granted after 

reaching the late 60s or 70. 172 Among the persons she studied, some reached the 

age of 89 or even 95, and several more examples of persons reaching at least their 

80s could easily be adduced. 

Coming back to the Muslim tradition, it is quite feasible that it were the 

people who happened to live longer who became important transmitters, just 

because of their greater age. 173 According to the Muslim biographical tradition, 

Hisham is said to have been born around 61/681, which would make him about 82 

at the time of his death – admittedly most probably much longer than the average 

life expectancy, but not at all impossible. 

If we leave aside the speculation about Hisham’s age, how far do the texts 

ascribed to Hisham < Ûrwa and al-Zuhr\ < Ûrwa support Shoemaker’s thesis? 

Firstly, it has to be remarked that the different versions traced back to al-Zuhr\ < 

Ûrwa differ considerably. There are a number of elements that occur in only one 

or two of the three longer recensions (Ibn Is1aq, Ma^mar and Âbd al-Ra1man b. 

Âbd al-Âz\z); i.e., only Ibn Is1aq mentions that Âl\ actually wrote the contract, 

the number of the participants differs between 700, 1300–1900, and 1800 in the 

respective versions, the order of the delegates differs, there are differences in the 

169 Shahar, “Who were Old in the Middle Ages?,” 313–341. 

170 Ibid., 317–319. 

171 Ibid., 329–335. 

172 Ibid., 337–339. 

173 See also Motzki, “Quo vadis Hadi©-Forschung? 62–64 (Engl. transl. “Whither Hadith 

Studies?,” 69–70).


actual clauses of the treaty, etc. The crucial question is how the version ascribed 

to Hisham < Ûrwa relates to these versions. At first glance, it seems that the Hisham 

version could indeed just be another variant of the al-Zuhr\ version in that it 

shares some elements with only one of the different recensions – i.e., it mentions 

that the A1ab\sh were offered khazir, which is otherwise only mentioned by Âbd 

al-Ra1man b. Âbd al-Âz\z < al-Zuhr\, or it includes the discussion of Mu1ammad 

with Abu Bakr on which way to proceed, which is recorded by Ma^mar and Âbd 

al-Ra1man, but not by Ibn Is1aq. A closer examination of the material, however, 

reveals that the versions traced back to al-Zuhr\ despite their differences are 

much closer to each other both in structure and in wording than any of these version 

is to the one(s) traced back to Hisham. Only in the Hisham version do we find 

a date, and only here al-Miqdad, who claims that in contrast to the Jews, the Muslims 

would not leave their prophet alone, figures in the narrative. In Hisham’s version 

there are fewer delegates mentioned than in the versions of al-Zuhr\. In all al- 

Zuhr\ versions, there are four delegates, of which three are named in all versions – 

Budayl b. Warqa#, Mikraz b. 0afs and Ûrwa b. Masûd. In Ibn Is1aq’s and Âbd al- 

Ra1man’s versions, the fourth delegate is given as al-0ulays b. Âlqama, while in 

Ma^mar’s version it is a man from the Banu Kinana. In all versions al-Suhayl b. 

Âmr comes to sign the treaty. Although the order of the delegates differs, they all 

have a specific role – one is identified by Mu1ammad as a pious man, another as a 

wicked man, one has a dispute with Abu Bakr etc. In Hisham’s version, in contrast, 

there are only two delegates, one of the Banu 0ulays (with a similar role as the 

pious al-0ulays in al-Zuhr\’s version), and Ûrwa b. Masûd, before Mikraz b. 0afs 

and al-Suhayl b. Âmr both come to conclude the treaty. The whole story of the 

delegates is much briefer and less developed than in any of al-Zuhr\’s versions. 

Al-Zuhr\’s versions also have elements which are not found in Hisham’s version, 

as the protests of Abu Bakr and Ûmar against the signing of the treaty. Taking all 

the evidence together, it seems unlikely that the Hisham version is just another 

variant of al-Zuhr\’s teachings. As it differs more from the versions traced back to 

al-Zuhr\ than these differ among each other, it is more likely that it is indeed an 

independent tradition (as the isnad indicates) and that it has a common source, 

namely the teaching of Ûrwa. 

Conclusion (Andreas Görke) 

Shoemaker raised a number of important points regarding the authenticity of the 

sira traditions traced back to Ûrwa b. al-Zubayr, and in some points he is undoubtebly 

right: it is true, for instance, that the sira traditions – not only those of 

Ûrwa, but sira traditions in general – have been preserved in considerably fewer


versions than many legal traditions. This is not very surprising, however, as from 

the third/ninth and fourth/tenth centuries many more legal and hadith works 

have been preserved than historical works or works specifically dealing with 

the life of Mu1ammad. As only a few hadith collections include sections on 

Mu1ammad’s biography, the number of possible sources in which sira traditions 

were likely to be included is much smaller than the number of sources which 

comprise mainly legal traditions. Thus, we simply have fewer versions for almost 

any sira tradition than we have for most legal traditions, and this makes isnad 

analysis more difficult. 

But Shoemaker’s conclusion, that therefore using isnad-critical methods on 

sira traditions is less likely to yield relevant results, is unfounded, or possibly 

based on a too strict focus on the isnad. While it is true that usually there are fewer 

versions of sira traditions than of legal traditions, on the other hand, many sira 

traditions are much longer than legal traditions. This, too, is not surprising, as 

sira traditions in general needed to provide a context and some line of events, 

while legal traditions can (and often do) only contain a legal maxim without mentioning 

any context. The longer a tradition is, however, the easier it is to compare 

different versions regarding contents, wording, or the line of events. Thus while 

in legal studies there are usually many versions of a tradition but the differences 

between the versions are often rather small, in sira traditions it is much easier to 

see whether one version can be derived from another or whether they more likely 

have a common source. 

This is an aspect that is totally disregarded by Shoemaker, who only argues 

with the isnads. But as can be demonstrated, very often a careful comparison of 

the matns can reveal if a text is dependent on another and could indeed be derived 

from it or not. In several cases a careful comparison of matns thus immediately vitiates 

Shoemaker’s speculative assumptions on the possible invention of different 

variants of a text. Insisting, as Shoemaker does, on Juynboll’s criteria for dense 

network of transmitters may be useful when focusing on the isnad; however, when 

taking into account the variants of the matn, secure statements about the interdepencency 

of texts can already be made with a less dense network of transmitters. 

Shoemaker also fails to see several of the other benefits of the isnad-cummatn 

analysis. With this method for instance, it is possible to detect later insertions 

and transformations of a tradition. The method aims not only at reconstructing 

earlier layers of a tradition, but also at studying its transformation process. 

Thus by using this method it can be shown that attempts at establishing a chronology 

of events begin only in the generation after Ûrwa, scarcely only with Hisham, 

slightly more with al-Zuhr\, and systematically only in the generation of Ibn 

Is1aq. Observations such as this one cannot be achieved by resorting to matn 

criticism alone.


Employing criteria of ‘embarrassment’ and ‘dissimilarity’ indeed may reveal 

‘authentic’ traditions, but the exclusive focus on traditions that are in conflict 

with the later Muslim view or that present Mu1ammad or other early Muslims in 

a negative light necessarily results in a distorted image of Mu1ammad and the development 

of Islam. 174 

Shoemaker is undoubtedly correct in his assessment that the amount of ‘historical’ 

information gathered using the isnad-cum-matn analysis is small compared 

to the voluminous and detailed depictions of the later Islamic sources, 

but in this he is in line with Görke and Schoeler. 175 In his main points of criticism 

regarding the sira traditions of Ûrwa b. al-Zubayr, however, Shoemaker 

is wrong: There are several traditions that can convincingly be traced back to 

Ûrwa, and these traditions contain historical information that significantly exceeds 

what can be gained by matn criticism alone. 

III. The Traditions About the Murder 

of Ibn Ab\ l-0uqayq (Harald Motzki) 

Shoemaker’s description of Harald Motzki’s methods and publications must be 

critically reviewed. To start with, in his introduction 176 Shoemaker approvingly 

cross-references the views of the exponents of “hermeneutics of suspicion,” such 

as Goldziher, Schacht, Cook and Juynboll, yet either conceals 177 or plays 

down the substantial criticism of their premises and methods expressed by 

Motzki, Schoeler, Görke and others. 178 When describing Motzki’s method, 

Shoemaker writes: “Motzki, however, has argued for removing some of Juynboll’s 

safeguards, seeing them as overly restrictive. In particular, he contends 

that the single strands excluded by Juynboll should be taken into account, en- 

174 Cf. Fück, “The Role of Traditionalism in Islam,” 16; Görke, “Prospects and Limits,” 

141–142. 

175 Cf. Görke, “Prospects and Limits,” 148–149. 


177 Ibid., 264f., note 17. 

178 Motzki’s critique of the views expressed by Goldziher, Schacht and Cook can be found in 

Die Anfänge der islamischen Jurisprudenz (Engl. transl. The Origins of Islamic Jurisprudence); 

“Der fiqh des -Zuhr\,” 1–44 (Engl. transl. “The Jurisprudence of Ibn Shihab al-Zuhr\,” 1–46); 

“Dating Muslim Traditions. A Survey,” 204–253. See also Schoeler, Charakter und Authentie 

(Engl. transl. The Biography of Muhammad) and Görke “Eschatology, History, and the Common 

Link,” 179–208.


abling him to use such isnads to establish a much earlier common link for certain 

traditions.” 179 

Shoemaker fails to mention that Motzki has provided detailed reasons explaining 

his divergence from Juynboll’s method. Juynboll excluded traditions 

that are attested to by only single strand isnads: He considered them unhistorical, 

i.e., unusable for a historical reconstruction, because he based his dating solely 

on the isnads. This made sense for his approach. Motzki, on the other hand, uses 

not only the isnads but also the texts (matns) of the traditions. Under certain 

conditions, which are explained below, these texts enable him to take the single 

strand traditions into account as well. 180 

Motzki’s arguments in support of his approach are not even discussed by 

Shoemaker: He simply dismisses them as “not persuasive,” relying on critical 

remarks by Christopher Melchert that he does not verify. Melchert objects to 

Motzki’s study “Quo vadis 0ad\©-Forschung,” which, inter alia, advocates the 

use of single strand traditions and also introduces the isnad-cum-matn analysis, 

because, according to Melchert, no clear and meaningful text can be attributed 

to the supposed common link, Nafi^: “Nafi^ is quoted every way. Motzki talks of 

identifying a kernel of historical truth, but if that is taken to be whatever element 

is common to his multiple versions, it seems to be normally so small as to be virtually 

worthless.” 181 

Melchert’s criticism, however, is unjustified. An examination of the zakat 

al-fitr tradition with the aid of the isnad-cum-matn analysis shows that Nafi^ is the 

real common link. This conclusion is not undermined by the facts that it is possible 

to reconstruct several text variants traceable to Nafi^ and that the text common 

to the main variants is rudimentary in comparison with the variants. Although 

the text, which is certainly attributable to Nafi^, is rudimentary compared 

to some traditions from students, it is definitely a comprehensible tradition: “The 

Messenger of God made the almsgiving of the fast-breaking (zakat/sadaqat al-fitr) 

a duty, one sa^ dates or one sa^ barley for each freeman or slave.” This text contains 

three essential elements: the obligation of zakat al-fitr, the type and quantity 

of alms, and the persons obliged to distribute alms. This text is not “virtually 

worthless.” 

The evidence pointing to Nafi^ as the author of the rudimentary text of the 

tradition is not undermined by the fact that the traditions traced back to Nafi^’s 


180 This is explained in Motzki, “Quo vadis Hadi©-Forschung?,” 40–80; 193–231 (Engl. transl. 

“Whither Hadith Studies?,” 47–124), a study quoted by Shoemaker in this context. 

181 Melchert, “The Early History of Islamic Law,” 293–324, esp. 303.


students contain supplements to this text or render only snippets of it. The divergences 

in the traditions of Nafi^’s students can be explained by editing: on the 

one hand by Nafi^ himself – in the course of his teaching career he may have expanded 

the original version several times or quoted it only partially on occasion – 

and, on the other hand, by his students, who supplemented the original text with 

further details and specifications, or transmitted only parts of the original text. 

Although it is not possible to establish with any certainty who was responsible for 

the divergences, this is not an argument against attributing the rudimentary text 

to Nafi^. 

Melchert’s arguments therefore do not vitiate the usefulness of the rule followed 

by the isnad-cum-matn analysis, according to which text versions substantiated 

only by single strand isnads can also be included in the investigation 

if these texts diverge from those of the partial common link (PCL) transmitters. 

Shoemaker’s conclusion that “it seems preferable that the more cautious principles 

set forth by Juynboll should remain in place” 182 is therefore based on unsound 

arguments. Juynboll’s principles hold only for the pure isnad analysis for 

which he formulated them and not for the isnad-cum-matn analysis in which the 

matn is just as important as the isnad. 

Shoemaker’s brief description of the isnad-cum-matn method 183 advocated 

by Motzki is correct. This cannot, however, be said of Shoemaker’s bibliographic 

references. He quotes Motzki’s The Origins of Islamic Jurisprudence: 

Meccan Fiqh before the Classical Schools (Leiden/Boston 2002) and notes that 

this is the work in which the method “has been most thoroughly applied.” 184 In 

this work, however, Motzki does not use the isnad-cum-matn method, which relates 

to single traditions or textually interrelated tradition complexes. Instead he 

applies the source reconstruction method, which is not based on single traditions 

but on a multiplicity of textually discrete traditions attributed in a source or collection 

to one and the same transmitter. A detailed description and rationale 

for the isnad-cum-matn method was initially provided by Motzki in “Quo vadis 

Hadi©-Forschung” (1996) and in “The Prophet and the Cat” (1998). 185 

Shoemaker admits, on the one hand, that Motzki “has utilized this method 

with much success in various studies of early Islamic tradition” and calls 

Motzki’s datings of traditions to the early second century H. “persuasive” and 


183 Ibid., 266. 

184 Ibid., 266, note 23. 

185 Die Anfänge and “Der Fiqh des -Zuhr\,” which Shoemaker quotes, contain only the beginnings 

of an isnad-cum-matn analysis.


“convincing.” 186 On the other hand, he criticizes Motzki’s attempts to date traditions 

back to before the common links of the early second century, i.e., into the 

first century, as “occasionally […] rather speculative,” “more conjectural” and 

therefore “far less persuasive,” 187 citing Melchert and Robert Hoyland in support 

of this view. 188 Melchert, however, correctly describes Motzki’s own characterization 

of his conclusions on the history of a tradition before the common 

link as hypothetical rather than certain. 189 

Motzki sees the last two decades preceding the death of the common link as 

a tolerably certain terminus post quem. He does, however, challenge the assumption 

of Schacht and his followers that it is generally impossible to trace a tradition 

beyond the last decades of the common link’s lifetime back to the first century. It 

does not makes sense to Motzki to assume that all of the common links invented 

the informants they name or that all their traditions are based on “rumors and 

legends” that, in Shoemaker’s opinion, were put into circulation by “anonymous 

individuals.” 190 Motzki thinks it is possible that common links were able to 

at least partly remember the person from whom they heard something concerning 

a tabi^, sahabi or the Prophet, or that they wrote down the name(s) of their informant(s) 

together with the information received from them. In these cases, the common 

link would be seen as a terminus ante quem. On the other hand, Motzki does 

not rule out the possibility that a common link no longer knew whom he had received 

the tradition from and simply named a person who seemed to be the most 

probable source. Motzki also takes into account the possibility that common 

links themselves invented the content and isnad of traditions. 191 It might be difficult 

to find out what really happened but there are cases where the evidence 

points to one of these possibilities. 

Motzki thus acknowledges that statements regarding the provenance and 

content of a tradition prior to the common link must necessarily be more tentative 

than statements regarding the identification of the common link and the texts 

traced to him. Nonetheless, Motzki does make a case for not discarding, a priori, 

the possibility of finding out more about the history of a pre-common link tradition 

based on the available evidence. 192 Insights gained in this way are more 


187 Ibid., 267. 

188 Ibid., note 24. 

189 Melchert, “The Early History,” 302 (not 301, as Shoemaker has it). 


191 This problem has been addressed by Motzki in several publications, e.g., Die Anfänge, 

“Der Fiqh des -Zuhr\,” “Quo vadis” and “The Prophet and the Cat.” 

192 The similarity to texts or customs of other religious traditions can also be an indication.


grounded than Shoemaker’s speculation that the transmission of a common link 

was based on “rumors and legends” circulated by “anonymous individuals” 193 or 

that it was invented by the common link himself. 194 

As has been seen, the introduction to Shoemaker’s critical review of 

Motzki’s study “The Murder of Ibn Ab\ l-0uqayq: On the Origin and Reliability of 

some Maghazi-Reports” (2000), already hints at weaknesses in Shoemaker’s arguments 

that become more obvious as one proceeds in reading the review. 

Al-Zuhr\’s Version 

There are several stories about the murder of the Jew Ibn Ab\ l-0uqayq. Motzki 

demonstrates through an isnad-cum-matn analysis of the numerous variants that 

al-Zuhr\ propagated one of these stories. He is clearly the common link in the 

isnads and the common source of this version. 195 Shoemaker accepts Motzki’s 

result as “very likely” 196 because of the “complex transmission history” of the 

variants of the story in question, i.e., he accepts it solely because of the variegated 

isnads that accompany these variants. 

Motzki attempts to go even further: he tries to determine al-Zuhr\’s source for 

these stories because he sees the common link primarily as the first systematic 

propagator of a tradition, and not necessarily as its forger. 197 Identification of the 

source proves to be difficult because the transmitters from al-Zuhr\ give different 

names for his informant: Âbd al-Ra1man b. Ka^b b. Malik, Âbdallah b. Ka^b b. 

Malik, Ibn Ka^b b. Malik and Âbd al-Ra1man b. Âbdallah b. Ka^b b. Malik. These 

differences in names led Motzki to the obvious conclusion that al-Zuhr\ did not 

always designate his source by the same name. However, each case concerns 

a son or grandson of Ka^b b. Malik. Motzki therefore identifies Ka^b b. Malik’s 

children as al-Zuhr\’s likely sources for his version of the incident. Motzki points 

to two pieces of evidence that support this argument. Firstly, it is noticeable that 

al-Zuhr\’s isnad is defective in most of the variants, i.e., it ends with his informant’s 

name(s) and does not name an eyewitness to the event or, at least, a Com- 


194 Motzki has addressed the problem of a tradition’s history before its circulation by the common 

link in his studies “Der Prophet und die Schuldner,” 1–83 and “Ar-radd âla r-radd,” 

147–163 (Engl. transl. “The Prophet and the Debtors” and “Al-Radd âla l-Radd,” 125–230). 

Shoemaker does not mention these publications. 

195 Motzki, “The Murder,” 177–179, 190–207. 


197 See the references in note 191.


panion of the Prophet who may have heard the story from an eyewitness. Secondly, 

the information from Islamic sources says the Ka^b b. Malik family was part 

of the same clan as Ibn Ab\ l-0uqayq’s murderers, namely, the Banu Salima. 

Shoemaker vehemently rejects Motzki’s identification of al-Zuhr\’s sources. 

He has two objections: Firstly, the differences in names “perhaps reflect [ital. 

HM] the efforts of later transmitters seeking to ‘grow’ the isnad back to al-Zuhr\’s 

source” and secondly, “the early authors of Islamic history […] may themselves 

have invented [ital. HM] this connection between the Ka^b family and Ibn Ab\ 

l-0uqayq’s murder.” 198 

Shoemaker’s objections are unconvincing. Who are the “later transmitters” 

and the “early authors” of Islamic history? Are they al-Zuhr\’s students, later 

transmitters or the compilers of anthologies in which the variant traditions are 

found? Are Shoemaker’s vague speculations reasonable in light of the names 

evidenced by multiple variants of the tradition? 

Motzki rules out any backwards growth of the isnads because one would then 

expect the isnads to extend back to an eyewitness to the event, which is not the 

case. Using the isnads, he dates the difference in names to no later than the generation 

of al-Zuhr\’s students. Motzki assumes that al-Zuhr\ himself rather than 

his students was responsible for the difference in names, arguing as follows: Al- 

Zuhr\’s informant was presumably Âbd al-Ra1man b. Âbdallah, Ka^b b. Malik’s 

grandson, who transmitted from both his father, Âbdallah b. Ka^b, and his uncle, 

Âbd al-Ra1man b. Ka^b. Al-Zuhr\ was probably unsure from which of the two 

Âbd al-Ra1man b. Âbdallah heard the story, or he assumed that both of Ka^b b. 

Malik’s sons told it in a similar way. This is why he sometimes indicated his direct 

informant for the story, Âbd al-Ra1man, as his source but at other times Âbd al- 

Ra1man’s presumed sources. 199 

Shoemaker’s conclusions concerning al-Zuhr\’s sources are inconsistent. On 

the one hand he writes: “There is no reason to assume that al-Zuhr\ simply received 

the surviving narrative as ‘a condensation of the reports’ already made by 

members of the Ka^b family; the resulting account is more than likely al-Zuhr\’s 

own composite, based on rumors and legends about the event that were then 

circulating in Medina.” 200 On the other hand, he adds that “al-Zuhr\ […] presumably 

pieced together the various traditions about this episode, many of which 

may have originated among the members of the Ka^b family as tall tales about the 

198 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 332. 

199 Motzki, “The Murder,” 179. Similar differences in the names of al-Zuhr\’s informant can 

also be found in other transmission complexes, see Boekhoff-van der Voort, “The Raid of the 

Hudhayl,” 312–313, 366. 

200 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 332–333.


eminence of their ancestors.” 201 On the one hand anonymous “rumors and legends,” 

on the other, the Ka^b b. Malik family’s “tall tales”? Motzki assumes the 

latter to be the case, although he suspects that the “tall tales” had already been 

condensed to story-form by al-Zuhr\’s informant. Shoemaker considers this improbable 

arguing, unconvincingly, that the names of al-Zuhr\’s source were “invented.” 

202 Otherwise, Shoemaker and Motzki agree that al-Zuhr\ is the author 

of the account. 203 Motzki emphasizes at the end of his study that al-Zuhr\ did not 

necessarily report his informant’s tradition word for word. 204 

The methodological problem that emerges in this discussion between 

Motzki and Shoemaker concerns the evaluation of the informant(s) or source(s) 

of the common link. Is it methodologically responsible to critically and cautiously 

use the information about the source(s) available in the traditions themselves and 

in other Islamic works, or must all of this information generally be disregarded 

because it is potentially counterfeit? Motzki considers the latter approach too extreme 

because the assumption of counterfeit is based on generalizations that are 

methodologically unacceptable. All unprovable information is rejected simply 

because of some individual, provable cases of forgery. In the case at hand, it is the 

names of the informant(s) of the common link that Shoemaker considers bogus, 

without concrete proof in that regard. Motzki, however, argues that the possibility 

that a common link received at least the essence of his tradition from the person 

he indicated as his informant should not be excluded a priori. Whether and 

how convincingly this can be proved depends on the available evidence. In the 

present case, the evidence points to one or more of Ka^b b. Malik’s children as 

sources for al-Zuhr\’s tradition. 

Abu Is1aq al-Sab\^\’s ^ Version 

As already noted, Shoemaker accepts Motzki’s conclusion that the Medinan 

scholar al-Zuhr\ is the common link of one of the lines of transmissions, i.e., he 

was the first systematic propagator of one of several different accounts regarding 

the murder of the Jew Ibn Ab\ l-0uqayq. However, Shoemaker disputes Motzki’s 

identification of al-Zuhr\’s Kufan contemporary, Abu Is1aq al-Sab\^\, as a common 

link and therefore also Motzki’s dating of the traditions attributed to him. Shoe- 

201 Ibid., 333. 

202 Ibid., 332. 

203 Ibid., 333. 

204 Motzki, “The Murder,” 207.


maker suggests “for the time being to leave this Abu Is1aq tradition to the side in 

any historical analysis.” 205 

Shoemaker’s arguments against Motzki’s dating are weak. His observation 

that the “network of transmission [is] considerably less dense than is the case 

with the al-Zuhr\ version” 206 is correct: A comparison of Motzki’s diagrams of the 

isnad variants of both versions makes this visible. 207 Nonetheless, Shoemaker 

admits that “on the surface at least, there could appear to be a reasonable probability 

that this Kufan contemporary of al-Zuhr\ placed this second account of Ibn 

Ab\ l-0uqayq’s murder into circulation.” 208 However, he identifies two obstacles 

to this: firstly, the name Abu Is1aq and secondly, Juynboll’s devastating verdict 

on traditions that base themselves on a transmitter of this name. 

Shoemaker writes: “None of the various isnads actually identifies Abu Is1aq 

al-Sab\^\ as a transmitter, referring instead to an otherwise unidentified ‘Abu 

Is1aq’ who emerges the tradition’s common link. Motzki does not bring either 

this ambiguity or its significance to his reader’s attention …” 209 This demand is 

exaggerated: Most of the isnads of traditions contain only single elements of a 

name and only rarely full names with kunya, ism, nasab, nisba and laqab – a mere 

glance at Motzki’s diagrams would have shown Shoemaker this. 210 Shoemaker 

is inconsistent because the same objections could be made to al-Zuhr\, who is 

only called “al-Zuhr\” in most of the isnad variants. The name al-Zuhr\, however, 

is just as ambiguous as Abu Is1aq, and there are dozens of transmitters with the 

nisba al-Zuhr\. For the transmitters, compilers and hadith scholars, such abbreviations 

of names in the isnads were generally not a problem because, by virtue of 

the transmitters named before and after the relevant name, they could identify 

the person who was meant. This is also Motzki’s approach: The fact that two of 

the direct transmitters of Abu Is1aq, Isra#\l and Yusuf, are grandsons of Abu Is1aq 

al-Sab\^\ leads him to conclude that Abu Is1aq al-Sab\^\ is meant. 211 Abu Is1aq’s informant 

for his account of the murder of Ibn Ab\ l-0uqayq, al-Bara# b. Âzib, likewise 

supports the view that al-Sab\^\ is the transmitter because he is the only 


206 Ibid., 333. 

207 See Motzki, “The Murder,” 237, 238. 


209 Ibid. 

210 See Motzki, “The Murder,” 237–239. In the diagrams, Motzki reproduces the names as 

they appear in the traditions. Where the same person is named differently in the isnad variants, 

he reproduces all the given name elements. A case in point is Ibn Shihab al-Zuhr\. 

211 Motzki, “The Murder,” 176.


Abu Is1aq who transmits from al-Bara#. 212 The other transmitters, who are known 

under the name Abu Is1aq, 213 are ruled out based on the said criteria, i.e. al-Bara# 

b. Âzib as Abu Is1aq’s informant and two of al-Sab\^\’s grandsons as direct transmitters 

from him. 

Shoemaker criticizes Motzki’s failure to respond to Juynboll’s extremely 

negative verdict regarding isnads “with one unspecified Abu Is1aq at the Successor 

level.” 214 This criticism is not completely unjustified, but for the sake of 

consistency Shoemaker should have criticized this in Motzki’s analysis of al- 

Zuhr\’s version as well. Juynboll’s critical study “An Appraisal of Muslim Hadith 

Criticism. Rijal Works as Depositories of Transmitter’s Names” 215 addresses not 

only Abu Is1aq but also the names of some other famous transmitters, such as 

Nafi^ and al-Zuhr\. Concerning the traditions exhibiting the name al-Zuhr\ at the 

Successor level (tabiûn), Juynboll writes: “[…] it is no longer possible to sift the 

genuine Zuhr\ traditions from the fabricated ones, or as is my contention, even 

the genuine Ibn Shihab az-Zuhr\ traditions from the possible hundreds of pseudo- 

Zuhr\ ones.” 216 

Motzki’s long study of traditions dealing with the murder of Ibn Ab\ 

l-0uqayq was not the appropriate place to go into Juynboll’s reading of Ibn 

0ajar’s Tahdhib al-tahdhib and other biographical works on hadith transmitters. 

While it is true that Juynboll’s reading did contain a series of interesting observations, 

he also reached a number of highly speculative and excessively sceptical 

conclusions. Since Motzki has proven for al-Zuhr\ and Nafi^ that it is indeed possible 

to identify genuine al-Zuhr\ and Nafi^ traditions, 217 he did not have to take 

seriously Juynboll’s verdict on Abu Is1aq (“dubious in the extreme irrespective 

of the texts they support”) 218. All the more because Juynboll in his last opus magnum, 

the Encyclopedia of Canonical Hadith, 219 backed away from his previous extreme 

assumptions and identified both al-Zuhr\ and Abu Is1aq as in all probability 

authentic common links in some traditions, including a tradition of Abu Is1aq 

al-Sab\^\ from al-Bara# b. Âzib. 220 In his Encyclopedia, Juynboll did not address 

212 See Mizz\, Tahdhib al-kamal, vol. 8, 230 and vol. 5, 431. 

213 See Mizz\, Tahdhib al-kamal, vol. 8, 230–231. 


215 In Juynboll, Muslim Tradition, 134–160, esp. 146–159. 

216 Ibid., 158. 

217 See Motzki, “Der fiqh des -Zuhr\” and “Quo vadis Hadi©-Forschung?” 

218 Juynboll, Muslim Tradition, 142. 

219 See also Motzki’s review of the book in Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 36 (2009), 

539–549. 

220 Juynboll, Encyclopedia, 48.


the tradition of Ibn Ab\ l-0uqayq’s murder that is attributed to Abu Is1aq. However, 

he would certainly not have considered Abu Is1aq a genuine common link in 

this tradition but only a seeming common link, because the isnad complex only exhibits 

a seeming partial common link under the direct transmitters of Abu Is1aq 

alongside three single strands. In contrast, Motzki’s analysis, which takes not 

only the isnad variants into account but also the matn variants, shows that Abu 

Is1aq should indeed be seen as a real common link. 221 

Âbdallah b. Unays’ Version 

Shoemaker also criticizes Motzki’s analysis of this third version of traditions 

about the murder of Ibn Ab\ l-0uqayq. He writes: “It is not at all clear that these 

two accounts should be understood as conveying a single tradition, as Motzki 

presents them, and despite his assertions to the contrary, the two reports differ so 

markedly in their content that they are best viewed as in fact two independent 

accounts.” 222 This is an imprecise rendering of Motzki’s argumentation. Motzki 

summarizes both versions as “the tradition of Âbdallah b. Unays,” since their isnads 

end with this companion of the Prophet. This does not mean that he sees 

them as a “single tradition.” In his examination of the matns Motzki emphasizes 

that both traditions “differ in extent and content from each other much more than 

the variants of the other two traditions on this event did, to wit, those of Abu 

Is1aq and al-Zuhr\ discussed above.” 223 He speaks of “two stories” that “differ 

substantially in many details” and “real contradictions which cannot be explained 

by assuming that they derive from either elaboration or abbreviation of 

the original narrative.” 224 “These differences, as well as the variation in the elaboration 

of some episodes […] corroborate our conclusion that both texts do not depend 

directly on each other.” 225 They are thus “largely independent accounts”. 

Shoemaker’s assertion that Motzki considers the two accounts “as conveying a 

single tradition” is not correct. 

However, despite the clear differences between the texts, Motzki discovers 

common features not only in the isnads but also in the matns. 226 He differentiates 

221 Motzki, “The Murder,” 175–177, 182–190. 


223 Motzki, “The Murder,” 211. 

224 Ibid., 213. Shoemaker’s assumption that there is only one original narrative is not convincing. 

There could be more. See below. 

225 Ibid., 214. 

226 Ibid., 180–181, 207–214.


between correspondences in content and similarities in content. The similarities 

naturally have a certain margin of fluctuation. Moreover, Motzki sees structural 

correspondences between both texts: The sequence of their units of content follows 

a similar scheme. This becomes visible when the units of content of al- 

Waqid\’s tradition are numbered, combined in groups and compared with the sequence 

of the units in al-Tabar\’s account that is said to derive from one of Ibn 

Unays’ daughters. This is what Motzki did in his study. Motzki even succeeds in 

reconstructing the skeleton of a complete narrative out of the units of content 

that correspond or show similarities in both versions. 227 The structural correspondence 

in the sequence of units of content and the common kernel of content cannot 

be a coincidence. How are they to be explained? Forgery is unlikely, neither 

by the Medinan al-Waqid\ (d. 207/822), who could have used as a model the version 

of Ja^far b. Âwn al-Kuf\ (d. 206/821 or 207/822), one of the transmitters in al- 

Tabar\’s isnad; nor by Ja^far b. Âwn, who could have used al-Waqid\’s version as a 

model: both versions differ too starkly in details and vocabulary. It is more plausible 

to assume that both narratives – al-Waqid\’s and al-Tabar\’s – are based on 

oral traditions and have a common origin in the far past. Motzki considers 

it possible that both traditions have their origin in accounts from Âbdallah b. 

Unays, whom both traditions designate as the murderer of Ibn Ab\ l-0uqayq. 

The isnads of both of the traditions point to Âbdallah b. Unays as the original 

source, 228 and the common kernel of content might go back to him. Motzki therefore 

calls him “the common source.” 229 

Shoemaker rejects the result of Motzki’s analysis of the two narratives that 

point to Âbdallah b. Unays as the common link of the isnads. Shoemaker’s 

objection is based on the precarious state of the transmission: “The network of 

transmitters in this instance is not sufficiently dense that their convergence 

on Âbdallah b. Unays reveals any meaningful evidence that he is its author 

[ital. HM], particularly since he is the story’s central actor [ital. HM].” 230 The first 

part of Shoemaker’s objection would apply if this were a case of pure isnad 

analysis. However, in this case Motzki relies primarily on the matns; the isnads 

are secondary. 

The second part of Shoemaker’s objection, “particularly since he is the 

story’s central actor”, is curious. Why can the “central actor” of an event not have 

reported about it himself? Shoemaker does not explain his objection. Does he 

227 See ibid., 212–213. 

228 Ibid., 239. 

229 Ibid., 212. 



mean that if Âbdallah b. Unays really was the source of the narratives he would 

have told them in the first person? If this is what Shoemaker means, his argument 

is unsound. According to the isnads, the accounts we have before us were 

transmitted by Âbdallah b. Unays’ children (his son and daughter). It is thus obvious 

that they worked their father’s information about the event into narratives 

about him. The transmitters of the following generation named in the isnads – 

who, as in al-Zuhr\’s version, belong to the Ka^b b. Malik family – might also have 

been responsible for content and style of the accounts. The designation “author” 

for Âbdallah b. Unays, which Shoemaker uses and which he erroneously portrays 

as Motzki’s view, is applicable in a figurative sense at best. For his part, 

Motzki does not speak of an “author” but rather of the “common source,” i.e., the 

person to whom the pivotal pieces of information of the account can be traced. As 

Âbdallah b. Unays was himself a participant in the event, these main pieces of information, 

i.e., the common core of the content, might reflect historical facts. 

To recapitulate, Motzki concludes that both of the accounts reported in al- 

Waqid\’s and al-Tabar\’s works are family traditions from the circle of the Ka^b b. 

Malik family and go back to Âbdallah b. Unays’ children who might have narrated 

to members of the Ka^b b. Malik family, at least the core of facts common to 

both accounts as recounted to them by their father. Both of the narratives thus 

possibly go back to the first century H., and the common core might even date 

back to the first half of the first century. This dating is based on the isnads and 

matns of both of the accounts. These results of the isnad-cum-matn analysis are 

admittedly based on only two traditions that, moreover, are extant with only 

single strand isnads. Owing to this precarious state of the tradition, any dating of 

Âbdallah b. Unays’ version is much less certain than is the case for al-Zuhr\’s 

version, which is available in numerous matn and isnad variants. On this point, 

Shoemaker and Motzki are in agreement. 

In contrast to Motzki, however, Shoemaker thinks that the paucity of isnads 

makes them useless for dating: “On the whole the evidence of the isnads does not 

present a very compelling case for any connection with Âbdallah b. Unays.” 231 

This leaves Shoemaker with only one option: To use the texts for dating. The first 

possible contenders for the origin of both texts would consequently be both authors, 

al-Waqid\ (d. 207/822) and al-Tabar\ (d. 310/923), in whose works the traditions 

are found. But without giving any reasons, Shoemaker rules them out as authors 

(Shoemaker: “producers”) of the narratives: “Both compilers very likely [ital. HM] 

found these traditions more or less in the state that they transmit them.” 232 Accord- 

231 Ibid., 335. 

232 Somewhat hesitantly in the case of al-Waqid\. Ibid., 336.


ing to Juynboll’s criteria that Shoemaker favours, this is questionable; Juynboll, 

as a rule, made the authors of the collections or their teachers responsible 

for traditions with single strands. 233 Shoemaker suspects that “some earlier, 

anonymous individuals” created the two traditions, modeling them on other, extant 

traditions about the murder of Ibn Ab\ l-0uqayq, in particular al-Zuhr\’s version: 

“Presumably some earlier, anonymous individuals produced these accounts 

from traditions already in circulation.” 234 Thus, due to the precarious isnad situation 

(only single strands), Shoemaker concludes that the two traditions are 

forgeries that could have emerged only after al-Zuhr\ at the earliest, i.e., in the second 

quarter of the second century or later. 

For this dating, Shoemaker relies on Motzki’s matn analyses of the traditions 

about the murder of Ibn Ab\ l-0uqayq. Motzki found that the matns of 

both traditions whose isnads end with Abdallah b. Unays exhibit structural similarities 

and correspondences in wording with the matn variants transmitted 

by al-Zuhr\. 235 Motzki, however, rejected the hypothesis “that al-Waqid\ or his 

informant may have created a new, much more elaborate narrative based on a 

version of al-Zuhr\’s tradition without mentioning that,” 236 and he puts forward 

three arguments in that regard. 237 He considers it much more probable “that 

al-Zuhr\’s version and the two traditions which are ascribed to Ibn Unays are 

not dependent on each other, but derive from common older sources.” 238 Motzki 

identifies them as stories circulated by members of the Ka^b b. Malik family, and 

they should therefore be dated to the last quarter of the first century at the latest, 

and perhaps even further back, to Âbdallah b. Unays’ children. Shoemaker 

rejects Motzki’s arguments, objecting that they “are not decisive and cannot exclude 

this possibility” that al-Waqid\’s story is dependent on al-Zuhr\’s 

version, 239 but he does not put forward any arguments in support of his objection. 

Shoemaker’s forgery hypothesis must therefore be rejected: It is unconvincing, 

as is his attempt to refute Motzki’s dating, which moves to the first century 

the origin of the three versions in which the murder of Ibn Ab\ l-0uqayq is 

reported. 

Moreover, Shoemaker’s rejection of Motzki’s dating is somewhat incomprehensible 

since he accepts al-Zuhr\’s version as believable (“an account of these 

233 See, e.g., Juynboll, “Nafi^, the Mawla of Ibn Ûmar,” 212. 


235 Motzki, “The Murder,” 214–221. 

236 Ibid., 217. 

237 See ibid., 217–218. 

238 Ibid., 221. 



events can be traced with some credibility to al-Zuhr\”), 240 and assumes that al- 

Zuhr\ did not invent the story himself but instead “pieced together the various 

traditions about this episode, many of which may have originated among the 

members of the Ka^b family [ital. HM].” 241 Motzki shares this view but, for good 

reason, he also includes the versions of Âbdallah b. Unays and Abu Is1aq al- 

Sab\^\ among these “various traditions,” which were already in circulation prior 

to al-Zuhr\, i.e., in the first century. 

At the end of his critical discussion of Motzki’s study, Shoemaker concedes 

that the murder of Ibn Ab\ l-0uqayq might indeed be a historical fact. However, he 

does not exclude the possibility that the entire story is an invention modeled on 

reports of murders of other Jewish opponents of Mu1ammad. Shoemaker provides 

a taste of how this invention might have taken place. 242 Of course, it must be 

said in this regard that there are no limits to the imagination: Hypothetically, anything 

is possible. Researchers should, however, rely on the evidence available in 

the sources at hand. For early Islam these are primarily the Islamic traditions with 

their texts and chains of transmission and, occasionally, extra-Islamic sources. 

The possible influence of other literatures on the texts must naturally also be 

taken into account. Shoemaker sees in the narratives about the murder of Ibn 

Ab\ l-0uqayq a “rather clear imitation and influence of biblical models.” 243 In 

contrast, Motzki, while not excluding the possibility that biblical texts had some 

influence, considers the relevant evidence too weak. 244 

One of Shoemaker’s final arguments aimed at playing down the significance 

of studying the transmission material is the meagerness of the historical kernel 

so painstakingly reconstructed by Motzki: “It ultimately does not reveal much 

about the ‘historical Mu1ammad’ or the nature of his religious movement.” 245 The 

first part of this two-pronged attack is admittedly true, yet it does not detract from 

the value of this type of study. After all, acknowledging how little we know with 

certainty about the historical Mu1ammad is in itself progress. Yet a multitude of 

individual stones can indeed impart an idea of the original, complete mosaic. The 

second part of Shoemaker’s attack, i.e., that the reconstructed historical kernel 

240 Ibid., 336. 

241 Ibid., 333. 

242 Ibid., 337–338. 

243 Ibid., 339. 

244 Motzki, “The Murder,” 229. See also Schoeler’s arguments concerning Mu1ammad’s first 

experience of revelation mentioned above 56. 

245 Shoemaker, “In Search of Ûrwa’s Sira,” 338. See also 339: “It holds extremely little 

information of any value for reconstructing either the beginnings of Islam or the life of 

Mu1ammad”.


“ultimately does not reveal much about […] the nature of his [Mu1ammad’s, HM] 

religious movement,” is questionable. Does the historical fact that the Muslims 

in Medina murdered a Jewish opponent outside Medina with the consent of the 

Prophet reveal nothing “about the nature of his religious movement”? 

Furthermore, studies that implement the isnad-cum-matn method are aimed 

at reconstructing not only the historical core of the traditions but also – and this 

is just as important – their history, i.e., the development of the traditions in the 

course of the transmission process. 

Finally, it is striking that Shoemaker in his “conclusions” characterizes the 

method of Schoeler, Görke and Motzki as “use of the isnads for dating traditions,” 

“isnad criticism,” 246 “isnad-critical study/approach.” 247 He has apparently 

not realized that isnad analysis is only a part of the method, and that text analysis 

also plays a crucial role. It is in fact the combination of both analytical methods 

that leads to new results. Shoemaker’s opinion that “the antiquity of these 

traditions can generally be determined even more definitely using traditional 

criteria of matn analysis,” that “matn criticism remains the most valuable tool for 

mining the early Islamic tradition to recover its oldest traditions” 248 and that “for 

knowledge of this period [the first century, HM] we must continue to rely largely 

on the traditional principles of matn analysis as advanced by Goldziher and 

Schacht,” 249 is curious. Without isnad analysis, traditions can normally be dated 

only to the period in which the compilations emerged. This would mean that al- 

Zuhr\’s version of the tradition of the murder of Ibn Ab\ l-0uqayq and most other 

sira traditions could have originated only around the end of the second and 

the beginning of the third century, the period in which Ibn Hisham (d. 218/833) 

passed on his Sirat rasul Allah to his students and Âbd al-Razzaq (d. 211/826) 

passed on his Musannaf to his students. Without isnad-analysis, the traditions 

contained in their works cannot even be dated to Ibn Is1aq (d. 151/768) or Ma^mar 

(d. 153/770), let alone to al-Zuhr\ (d. 124/742). Dating of this sort opens the floodgates 

to far-fetched forgery conspiracies. 

In closing, it should be emphasized that the results of Görke and Schoeler’s 

reconstruction of the Ûrwa ibn al-Zubayr corpus, which made it possible to date 

246 Ibid., 340. 

247 Ibid., 343. On 330 Shoemaker writes: “In contrast then to Motzki’s claims that isnad criticism 

provides ‘more sophisticated methods of dating than relying either on the compilations 

containing the traditions or on the matn’.” This, too, is an inaccurate account of Motzki’s writings. 

The quotation is taken out of context: Motzki is not referring to isnad criticism but to the 

isnad-cum-matn method. 


249 Ibid., 344.


with certainty a part of the traditions attributed to him to the second half of the 

first century, also provide indirect support for Motzki’s dating of the traditions 

about the murder of Ibn Ab\ l-0uqayq. 

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60 Jere L. Bacharach, Sherif DOI 10.1515/islam-2012-0003 Anwar 

ISLAM 2012; 89(2): 60–69 

Jere L. Bacharach, Sherif Anwar 

Early Versions of the shahāda: 

A Tombstone from Aswan of 71 A.H., 

the Dome of the Rock, and Contemporary 

Coinage 

Abstract: The article investigates the earliest appearance of a group of words 

which are identified in the literature as the shahada but are rarely defined on the 

assumption that everyone knows what the shahada is. The basic argument is that 

there was more than one version of the shahada circulating in the Islamic world 

at the beginning of the eighth decade A.H./690s C.E. and that scholars need to 

define which version they mean when using the term “shahada” for this early 

period. Evidence for the argument includes data from stelae from Aswan to the 

Fatimid era, the Dome of the Rock and early Muslim coinage. 

Jere L. Bacharach: University of Washington (Seattle), jere@uw.edu 

Sherif Anwar: Cairo University, sherifcoins@yahoo.com 

We will investigate the earliest appearance of a group of words which are identified 

in the literature as the shahada but are rarely defined on the assumption that 

everyone knows what the shahada is. We shall argue that there was more than 

one version of the shahada circulating in the Islamic world at the beginning of the 

eighth decade A.H./690s C.E. Since the term shahada evokes in most minds in the 

twenty first century the phrases la ilaha illa llahu muhammadun rasulu llah, “There 

is no deity except God, Muhammad is the Messenger of God”, we shall use the term 

“Affirmation of Faith” proceeded by an adjective indicating the place of origin to 

differentiate them. There was an Egyptian version known from an Aswan stele, a 

Syrian one known from the Dome of the Rock, an “Eastern” form known from numismatic 

evidence, and a different wording known from the all-epigraphic dinars 

and dirhams which were first struck in 77/697 and 78/698 respectively and none of 

them are exactly like the form of the shahada as we know it today. 

Our contribution builds upon points made by Frédéric Bauden in his presentation 

“Tombstone inscriptions and their potential as textual sources for social 

history,” which he gave at an international conference on the Aswan stele (held in 

Aswan, Egypt in 2010). One of Bauden’s critical observations was that a phrase, 

once having appeared on a tombstone, it can be repeated over time without carry-

Early Versions of the shahāda 61 

Figure 1: The tombstone of Âbbasa b. Jurayj dated 71 H. 

Reproduced from Hassan M. El-Hawary, JRAS 1932: 290. 

ing its original meaning, that is, it becomes formulaic. If we wish to understand 

the possible reasons for the inclusion of these words on a tombstone we must try 

to ascertain when the specific phrasing first appeared. Bauden’s example was related 

to where exactly on the Aswan stelae texts references to the Prophet were 

made. He found that in the early stelae from the first and second/seventh and 

eighth centuries, they appeared in the middle or near the end of the inscribed text 

but by the forth/tenth century references to the Prophet and his family appeared 

near the beginning. He did not offer an explanation for this shift but challenged 

us to think about this change as an example of the type of question which can 

arise from studying a significant database of stelae inscriptions.

62 Jere L. Bacharach, Sherif Anwar 

In 1932 the Egyptian scholar Hassan El-Hawary, who was to establish his international 

scholarly reputation with volumes on Egyptian Islamic funerary inscriptions 

and a volume on the stele inscriptions in Mecca, published an article 

entitled “The Second Oldest Islamic Monument Known Dated A.H. 71 (A.D. 691).” 1 

El-Hawary shared with the readers of the Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society how 

he had been sent on a special mission to Aswan by Gaston Wiet, the director of 

the Museum of Arab Art (now the Museum of Islamic Art), and was told to examine 

some tombstones which Wiet had heard were to be found in some of the numerous 

tombs in the “ancient cemetery east of Aswan.” 2 Following this advice, 

El-Hawary examined all the tombstones until he finally found the one dated 71 

Hijra. He noted that “it was in a mausoleum on a hill with two domes in which 16 

slabs were fixed.” 3 He asked where the tombstone had been originally found 

and could only learn that it was part of a large number of tombstones found in 

Aswan’s cemeteries. These were eventually sent to Cairo’s Museum of Arab Art 

where this example was registered as No. 9291: 

1 Hassan Mohammed El-Hawary translated Gaston Wiet’s Album du Musée arabe du Caire 

into Arabic and was (next to Wiet and Hussein Rached) one of the co-authors of the CIA volume 

Catalogue général du Musée arabe du Caire. Stéles funéraires. Le Caire, Imprimerie de l’Institut 

Français d’Archéologie Orientale, 1932. See also his Matériaux pour un Corpus Inscriptionum 

Arabicarum. Quatrième partie. Arabie. Inscriptions et monuments de la Mecque. Haram et Ka^ba. 

Tome I, fascicule 1. Le Caire: Imprimerie de IFAO, 1939. 

2 Hassan Mohammed El-Hawary, “The Second Oldest Islamic Monument Known, Dated A.H. 71 

(A.D. 691). From the Time of the Omayyad Calif ’Abd-el-Malik ibn Marwan,” Journal of the Royal 

Asiatic Society (JRAS) 1932 (no. 2), 289–93. 

3 Ibid.


El-Hawary’s article focused on epigraphy and how the script fit with what was 

known 80 years ago of early Kufic. This Egyptian scholar also noted that Âbbasa, 

the woman named on the stele, was the daughter of Jurayj [Little George] son 

of Sanad, and that both names were associated with Copts [lines 5–6]. Therefore, 

he concluded that she must have converted to Islam. From the data on the tombstone 

he also determined that the date of her death was 14 Dhu l-Qa^da 71 or 

21 April 691 C.E. [lines 8–10]. 4 Based upon his knowledge of the material remains 

from early Islam this tombstone was the second oldest known Muslim tombstone 

and, to the best of our knowledge, it still is. 

The only other scholar we know who has dealt with this tombstone is Yeor 

Halevi who studied it in the context of his 2007 book on funerals and the afterlife 

in early Islam. 5 Halevi noted how the tombstone’s language reflected a very 

clear Muslim identity unlike earlier evidence from the one earlier Aswan tombstone 

dated 31 A.H. which El-Hawary had published in 1930. 6 As Halevi argued, 

the tombstone’s language reflected Âbbasa’s sense of belonging to the 

“People of Islam” (ahl al-islam) [lines 2–3], a phrase which would continue to 

be used on tombstones from Aswan into the third/tenth centuries. 7 His other important 

point was that this old tombstone lacked any Qur’anic verse. Therefore 

one of the opportunities raised by creating a corpus of the Aswan tombstones 

is not only the opportunity to identify specific Qur’anic verses used on tomb- 

4 El-Harawy’s calculation is, however, wrong. 21 April 691 was a Friday. If we take Monday as 

the unmistaken date, it is probably Monday 17 April 71 which is closer to 12 Dhu l-Qa^da. 

5 Yeor Halevi, Muhammad’s Grave: Death Rites and the Making of Islamic Society. New York: 

Columbia University Press, 2007. Published in Egypt as Rites for the Dead and the Afterlife in 

Early Islam. Cairo: AUC Press, 2008. 

6 Hassan Mohammed El-Hawary, “The Most Ancient Islamic Monument Known Dated A.H. 31 

(A.D. 652), from the Time of the Third Calif Ûthman,” JRAS 1930 (no.2), 121–33. 

7 Halevi, Muhammad’s Grave, 20–21. Cf. also G. Wiet (references given above note 1), ‘Abd al- 

Rahman M. Âbd al-Tawab (Stèles islamiques de la nécropole d’Assouan, 3 vol., Le Caire: 

Imprimerie de l’Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale, 1977–1982), and a more recent publication 

of Ahmed bin Umar al-Zayla’i, Tombstones in the Dar al-Athar al-Islamiyyah, Kuwait. 

Kuwait: Dar al-Athar al-Islamiyyah, 1989/1409.


stones from Aswan but also to specify when they were first included on tombstones. 

Turning now to the issue of the formula for the Muslim “affirmation of faith”, 

we read on ‘Abbasa’s tombstone her confessing (wa-hiya tashhadu): alla ilaha illa 

llahu / wahdahu la sharika lahu wa-anna / muhammadan âbduhu wa-rasuluhu 

salla llahu âlayhi wa-sallama, “there is no deity except God, He alone, He has no 

partner, and that Mu1ammad is His Servant and His Messenger” [lines 11–14]. 

Obviously there are a few parts not found in modern versions. The first is the 

use of the word wahdahu, “He alone”, which demonstrates that from the earliest 

material evidence Muslims were emphasizing their strict monotheism. The next 

element which is different is la sharika lahu, “He has no partner”. Considering 

that the Muslims must have constituted a tiny minority in Egypt in late 71/691, the 

inclusion of the phrase la sharika lahu emphasizes the critical difference between 

Muslims and Christians. Christians believe in the One God, but they also accept a 

belief in the Trinity. Muslim rejection of this latter concept is encapsulated in the 

phrase la sharika lahu. The third element which differs is the final phrase with 

its reference to the Prophet Muhammad. The word rasul is present but not in the 

modern form of Muhammadun rasulu llah but as part of a compound phrase in 

which Muhammad’s roles as both God’s servant and apostle are mentioned. 

Reviewing the large selection of dated Aswan tombstones illustrated in the 

publications of Gaston Wiet, Hassan El-Hawary, Hussein Rached, and the later 

work of Âbd al-Rahman M. Âbd al-Tawab, the same form of the “affirmation of 

faith” can be found on many tombstones into the first decades of the fourth/tenth 

century. 8 Whatever meaning this combination of words carried at the time 

‘Abbasa was buried and her tombstone carved, it is hard to imagine that it carried 

the same meaning over the next two and a half centuries. What was once a form of 

the Muslim “affirmation of faith” in the first century of Islam became a formulaic 

element which was expected to be included on a tombstone assuming there 

was enough room for it. It is probably with the Fa5imid dynasty that this formula 

ended, but this last point will only be proved when a large enough body of tombstone 

inscriptions is available to scholars. 9 For purposes of this short essay, the 

form of the “affirmation of faith” found on the late first century/seventh century 

Aswan tombstone is called the Egyptian “affirmation of faith.” 

8 For references see note 1 and 7. 

9 In the published collection of tombstones owned by the Dar al-Athar al-Islamiyyah in Kuwait, 

the tombstone dated 269 A.H. contains the early Egyptian version of the shahada while one 

dated 438 A.H. does not, but the latter includes surat al-Ikhlas. Ahmed bin Umar al-Zayla‘i, 

Tombstones in Dar al-Athar al-Islamiyyah Kuwait. Kuwait, 1989–1409: Tombstones 2 and 4.


Contemporary with ‘Abbasa’s tombstone another version of the shahada can 

be found in Jerusalem, specifically in the Dome of the Rock, which is traditionally 

dated to 72/692. The Dome of the Rock, a commemorative building rather than a 

mosque, was built in the form of an octagon with a double ambulatory. Dominating 

the interior are magnificent mosaics of complex images of jeweled vases created 

specifically for this building. 10 The second most obvious visual element in 

the Dome of the Rock is a series of neutral designs such as geometric patterns that 

appear to carry no meaning. Finally there are the inscriptions which were placed 

“just below a cornice that supports the ceiling on either side of the octagonal arcade.” 

11 

The use of long inscriptions in Arabic on this building as on ‘Abbasa’s tombstone 

signals a major shift for some Muslims as to what constituted an “Islamic” 

symbol, in addition to being a means of transmitting messages. 12 The placement 

of these inscriptions in the outer and inner arcade below the ceiling may not have 

been an innovation but an adoption of a tradition long practiced in the region by 

Christian and Jewish communities. 13 On the other hand the appearance of an extensive 

text in Arabic marks a significant break from the first six decades of Muslim 

rule where public inscriptions in Arabic were relatively few and short as can 

be concluded from the existing archaeological remains, material evidence including 

coinage, and textual references. 

The inscriptions in the outer arcade of the Dome of the Rock can be divided 

into six segments divided by rosettes in which the wording in five of them closely 

parallel one another. They all begin with the full basmala or bismi llahi l-rahmani 

l-rahim, “In the name of God, the Magnificent, the Merciful”. The sixth segment is 

a dedicatory statement which does not begin with the basmala and originally referred 

to Âbd al-Malik as patron of the building with the date 72. The parallel 

texts in the outer arcade create what we label as the Syrian “affirmation of faith.” 

10 For recent scholarship on the Dome of the Rock with an extensive bibliography see Gülru 

Necipoglu, “The Dome of the Rock as Palimpsest: ‘Abd al-Malik’s Grand Narrative and Sultan 

Süleyman’s Glosses,” Muqarnas 25 (2008), 19–105. More has been written by Islamic art historians 

about the Dome of the Rock than on any other single building while more has been written on 

the coinage of ‘Abd al-Malik to the all-epigraphic issues of 77 and 78 than on any Islamic numismatic 

topic. The lack of contemporary historical narratives as well as the importance of both 

topics for the subsequent history of Muslim sponsored material culture may be the primary reason 

for this intensive scholarly interest. 

11 Oleg Grabar, Mohammed al-Asad, Abeer Audeh, and Said Nuseibeh, The Shape of the Holy: 

Early Islamic Jerusalem. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996, 56. 

12 Estelle Whelan, “Forgotten Witness: Evidence for the Early Codification of the Qur’an,” JAOS 

118 (1998), 1–13. 

13 Ibid. 28.


In all five versions which began with the full basmala, it was followed by la ilaha 

illa llahu wahdahu, “There is no god except God, alone”. Four of them continue la 

sharika lahu, “He has no partner”. In two segments the phrase la sharika lahu is 

followed immediately by the words muhammadun rasulu llah, “Muhammad is the 

Prophet of God”, while in the other three segments that began with the basmala 

the words muhammadun rasulu llah are separated from la sharika lahu by additional 

pious phrases and/or Qur’anic verses. In this case we are defining the 

Syrian “affirmation of faith” as bismi llahi l-rahmani l-rahim la ilaha illa llahu 

wahdahu la sharika lahu muhammadun rasulu llah, “In the name of God the Magnificent, 

he Merciful, There is no deity except God, alone, He has no partner, Muhammad 

is the Prophet of God.” 14 

Therefore the Syrian version differs from the Egyptian “affirmation of faith” 

by the physical connection of the basmala with the rest of the words while on the 

Aswan tombstone they are separated by many lines of text. Second, this version 

ends in the more familiar muhammadun rasulu llah rather than the more complex 

formula on the Egyptian tombstone. The inclusion of the phrase la sharika lahu 

reaffirms how Muslims differ from the majority of the Syrian population who were 

Christians. Unfortunately all we can conclude is that the Egyptian and Syrian 

forms of the “affirmation of faith” are different but not why, particularly since 

both media – a monument and a tombstone – had enough space to have exactly 

the same wording. 

As we know from numismatic evidence, there was a different version of the 

“affirmation of faith” circulating in Eastern Muslim lands. 15 This version was introduced 

into Syria in 72/692 but originated in Iraq. An excellent example is found 

on the new style gold solidi minted by the Caliph Âbd al-Malik in Damascus. 

The coin imitates earlier Byzantine gold solidi which had images of the Byzantine 

ruler Heraclius and his two sons Heraclius Constantinus and Heraclonas on the 

obverse and on the reverse a cross on a four-stepped 16 and the mint name for 

14 The inscription in the inner arcade begins with the Syrian “affirmation of faith” through 

la sharika lahu. The specific phrase Muhammadun rasulu llah does not appear in the extended 

text although references to his prophethood and mission do. Most of the interior text relates to 

Muslim beliefs about Jesus as a Prophet. 

15 There are many scholarly discussions of the Arab-Sasanian and Arab-Byzantine coinage and 

the appearance of pious phrases. An excellent place to begin with is the long introduction 

by Album and Goodwin in Stephen Album and Tony Goodwin, Sylloge of Islamic Coins in the 

Ashmolean Museum: Vol. I: The Pre-Reform Coinage of the Early Period, Oxford: Ashmolean 

Museum, 2002. 

16 For a fascinating discussion of the changes on this coinage see Stefan Heidemann, “The 

Standing Caliph Type – the Object on the Reverse,” Coinage and History in the Seventh Century 

Near East, Andrew Oddy, ed. (London: Archetype Publications, 2010): 23–34.


Figure 2: Arab-Byzantine solidi of Heraclius, Heraclius Constantine and Heraclonas attributed 

to Damascus, 72 H. Sylloge of the Islamic Coins in the Ashmolean Museum 1, 607. Reproduced 

with the permission of the Visitors of the Ashmolean Museum. 

Constantinople across the bottom. The caliph removed some symbols such as the 

cross but retained the general layout so that the coins would be accepted in the 

market. For our purposes, the marginal inscription written in Arabic on the reverse 

in a clockwise direction is important. It reads bismi llahi la ilaha illa llahu 

wahdahu muhammadun rasulu llah, “In the name of God, There is no deity except 

God, He alone, Muhammad is the Messenger of God. 

It differs from the other two contemporary versions of the “affirmation of 

faith” in a few ways. The opening phrase has been reduced to bismi llahi, “In the 

name of God”. This may reflect a simple continuation of the same phrase which 

first appeared on the earliest Arab-Sasanian silver coinage or the lack of space on 

a coin to write the full basmala. The more important difference is that in contrast 

to the Syrian and Egyptian versions, the Eastern text does not include the phrase 

la sharika lahu, “He has no partner”. To put it another way, while all three versions 

emphasize God’s unity and Muhammad’s mission, there is nothing specifically 

anti-Trinitarian about the Eastern “affirmation of faith.” This is not surprising 

since Christians were only one of a number of religious populations within 

Muslim lands east of Greater Syria such as Iraq and there was no reason for anyone 

ruling the eastern lands to single them out on the coinage. 17 

17 Malek Iradj Mochiri, “A Pahlavi Forerunner of the Umayyad Reformed Coinage,” Journal of 

the Royal Asiatic Society (1981), 168–72.


Figure 3: Umayyad dirham, 79 H. without mint. Published with the permission of the Egyptian 

National Library and Archives. Reg. 73. S. 

Obverse Reverse 

The final version of the “affirmation of faith” for which we have material evidence 

rather than later narrative texts is found on the all-epigraphic coinage stuck in 

77/697 and 78/698 by order of the Caliph Âbd al-Malik (65–86/685–705) in the 

form of new style gold coins (dinars) and silver ones (dirhams). In numismatics 

the most important information the ruler wished to transmit is placed in the 

center of a coin. On the dinars and dirhams the center of one side reads la ilaha 

illa llahu wahdahu la sharika lahu, “There is no deity except God, He alone, He has 

no partner”. Unlike the evidence from the Dome of the Rock or the coinage that 

can be dated from 72/692, there is no bismi llah or full basmala at the beginning of 

this version of the “affirmation of faith.” The message the caliph wished to transmit 

with his new coinage related to God’s unity. This message was re-enforced by 

placing in the center of the other side of the coin the well-known part of surat 

al-Ikhlas which rejects the concept of the Trinity. To find a reference to Mu1am-


mad’s role as Prophet, the reader of the coin has to look on the inscription in the 

margin encircling the center. The sense of a connection between the first phrases 

and the words muhammadun rasulu llah “Muhammad is the Messenger of God” 

is made even weaker because the reference to the Prophet appears on different 

sides of the dinars and dirhams. 

The version of the “affirmation of faith” on pre-all-epigraphic Umayyad 

copper coins is almost the same one as found on the pre-77 gold and pre-78 silver 

coins. 18 Sometimes the version on the copper issues includes the basmala and 

other times it does not. In the first case, the Arabic reads bismi llahi la ilaha illa 

llahu wahdahu muhammadun rasulu llah, in the second case la ilaha illa llahu 

wahdahu muhammadun rasulu llah. 

The evidence for a specific policy for which version to use is not clear from 

the limited numismatic evidence and it is safest to assume that both circulated as 

equally valid. The possibility for variations only increased with the production of 

the all-epigraphic copper coinage after Âbd al-Malik’s monetary reform. One of 

the more widely used coin types has la ilaha illa llahu wahdahu on one face and 

muhammadun rasulu llah on the other. There are cases where only the first part of 

the “affirmation of faith” appears without a reference to the prophethood of Muhammad. 

In conclusion, the evidence from one Muslim tombstone found in Aswan 

allows us to demonstrate the growing use of religious language by Muslims and 

how the language used was geographically specific. A careful reading of the 

words on this tombstone demonstrate that the form of the “affirmation of faith” 

used by these Muslims at the end of 71/691 in Egypt emphasized their difference 

with Christians but, also, included a wording not found in Bilad al-Sham, and the 

Eastern provinces of the Umayyad empire, nor on the dinars and dirhams produced 

less than a decade later. On the other hand, although different versions of 

the Muslim “affirmation of faith” existed and must have circulated in Egypt, even 

if only in the form of coinage, the tombstones continued to carry forward the 

words first found on ‘Abbasa’s tombstone of 71 A.H. The formulaic power of the 

earliest version of an “affirmation of faith” was so attractive that it was used on 

many Egyptian tombstones for over the next 250 years. This does not mean that 

other versions were not circulating in Egypt, only that they rarely appeared on 

tombstones. Nor can our contribution answer the interesting question of when 

Muslims adopted the modern version as the standard form of the shahada. 

18 For examples see Clive Foss, Arab-Byzantine Coins: An Introduction with a Catalogue of the 

Dumbarton Oaks Collection (Dumbarton Oaks Collection Publications 12), Cambridge: Harvard 

University Press, 2008.

70 Ewald Wagner 

Ewald Wagner 

Yāh ˘ ād ˙ iba ˇs-ˇsaibi 

Arabische Verse für und wider das Färben 

des weißen Haares 

Abstract: The question as to whether or not it was allowed to dye one’s hair, became 

heavily discussed in early Islam. So we find controversial traditions (hadi©) 

on this problem. Dyeing the hair however, was not only under discussion in religious 

circles, but also in topics taken by poets. In Arabic poetry, grey hair meant 

old age. As a consequence, it was the end of love and youthful life. Dyeing the hair 

therefore, was a means to cheat the ladies about the real age of the poet. The poets 

did not have so much religious scruples, since for them the effectiveness of dyeing 

was the point. On this however, some poets had their doubts. 

The article gives an overview on how Arabic poets treated the pro and contra 

of dyeing the hair – some doing it in a self-ironical way. 

Ewald Wagner: Universität Gießen, idewwaggi@t-online.de 

In der altarabischen Poesie war das weiße Haar (ˇsaib) das untrügliche Zeichen 

dafür, dass das Alter gekommen und damit die Hoffnung geschwunden war, bei 

den Damen Erfolg zu haben. Susanne Enderwitz hat in ihrem Artikel Die grauen 

Haare 1 gezeigt, dass sich in der späteren Dichtung die schicksalhafte Bindung 

von weißem Haar und Ende der Liebe auflöst und einerseits die nicht nach Erfüllung 

strebende Liebe der Ûüriten über den Tod hinaus endlos ist und andererseits 

in der frühen Âbbasidenzeit die unerfüllte Liebe den Dichter vorzeitig 

ergrauen lässt, er sich aber doch in einer unbestimmten Zukunft die Erfüllung seiner 

Liebe erhofft. 

Neben dieser Entwicklung lebte aber die alte Vorstellung vom Ende der 

Liebe und auch des geselligen Lebens unter Zechgenossen, kurzum vom Ende 

der Jugend (ˇsabab), beim Auftreten des weißen Haares in der arabischen Poesie 

fort und wurde von zahlreichen Dichtern immer wieder behandelt. So nimmt es 

nicht Wunder, dass bereits ein mittelalterlicher arabischer Gelehrter, Âlam al- 

Huda aˇs-Åar\f al-Murtada (gest. 1044) Gedichte zu diesem Thema zusammenge- 

1 Enderwitz 1988. 

DOI 10.1515/islam-2012-0004 ISLAM 2012; 89(2): 70–96

Arabische Verse für und wider das Färben des weißen Haares 71 

stellt hat, 2 ganz zu schweigen von Kapiteln in thematisch oder anderweitig geordneten 

Anthologien, 3 in mahasin wa-masawi-Werken, 4 in Sammlungen von Vergleichen 

5 usw. 

Da das weiße Haar seine ersten Boten zumeist bereits zu einem Zeitpunkt 

sendet, da das Interesse am weiblichen Geschlecht noch nicht erloschen ist, muss 

die Männerwelt zu Hilfsmitteln greifen, die die verräterische Erscheinung verbergen. 

Das wichtigste Mittel hierfür war das Färben des Haares. Das Färben von 

Haupthaar und Bart scheint nach der awa#il-Literatur und nach dem unten zu zitierenden 

Vers (Nr. 12) von Yaz\d b. Dirar Muzarrid, der den größten Teil seines 

Lebens in der Pahil\ya verbrachte, 6 schon in vorislamischer Zeit bekannt gewesen 

zu sein. Nach Juynboll 1986 verbreitete es sich aber erst durch die Eroberungskriege 

unter fremdem Einfluss. Es war also sozusagen eine bidâ, die eine 

Flut von hadi©en dafür und dagegen auslöste und noch Ibn al-Pauz\ (gest. 1200) 

dazu veranlaßte, eine paränetische Schrift zu verfassen, die das Färben sogar im 

Titel führt. 7 

Die Dichter auf alle Fälle hat das Problem der religiösen Zulässigkeit, über 

das muhaddi©un und fuqaha# stritten, kaum interessiert. In der Dichtung gibt es 

nur wenige Beispiele für religiöse Skrupel. So heißt es bei Ibn ar-Rum\ (gest. 896) 

(tawil): 8 

2 Åar\f al-Murtada 1884. Das Werk ist keine allgemeine Anthologie zu dem Thema, sondern 

beschränkt sich auf die Dichter Abu Tammam (gest. 845), al-Bu1tur\ (gest. 897), den Bruder des 

Verfassers aˇs-Åar\f ar-Rad\ (gest. 1016) und den Verfasser selbst. Andere Dichter werden nur 

zum Vergleich genannt. Zu dem Thema vgl. auch den ausführlichen EI-Artikel Arazi 1997, in dem 

auch moderne arabische Arbeiten genannt werden. Von ihnen wurden mir zwei zugänglich 

(Mah . ˇgūb 1980 und Haiba 1981), allerdings erst, als ich meinen Artikel im Rohbau bereits fertiggestellt 

hatte. Ich musste feststellen, dass beide Bücher auch Kapitel über das Färben des weißen 

Haares enthalten, so dass meine Sammeltätigkeit praktisch schon getan worden war. Ich 

konnte meine Zusammenstellung nur noch aus den beiden Werken an einigen Stellen ergänzen. 

Obwohl den arabischen Kollegen natürlich die Priorität zukommt, mag das hier Dargebotene 

vielleicht nicht ganz überflüssig sein, da es in einer europäischen Sprache erfolgt. 

3 Z.B. Âskar\ 1933, II, S. 152–164; 0usr\ 1953, II, S. 892–904; Mapmuât al-maâni 1992, I, 

S. 571 bis 584; Nuwair\ 1924, II, S. 21–31. 

4 Z.B. Baihaq\ 1902, S. 376–379. 

5 Z.B. Ibn Ab\ Âun 1950, S. 221–224. 

6 Vgl. Sezgin 1975, S. 241. 

7 Üikr aˇs-ˇsaib wal-äidab oder Husn al-äidab fi ã-ãaib waã-ãabab.Das Werk ist handschriftlich 

erhalten, aber in dem das Färben enthaltenden Teil noch nicht ediert, vgl. Haiba 1981, S, 5, wo 

auf den folgenden Seiten weitere verlorene Werke über das Färben des weißen Haares verzeichnet 

sind. 

8 Ibn ar-Rum\ 1973–81, III, S. 1119 = Nr. 872; Åar\f al-Murtada 1884, S. 80; erster Vers auch 0usr\ 

1953, II, S. 902.


1. aba llahu tadbira bni Adama nafsahu * wa-anna yakunu l-âbdu illa mudabbara? 

wa-la sibga illa sibgu man sabaga d-dupa * dapupiyatan was-subha anwara 

azhara. 

1. Gott wollte nicht, dass der Mensch über sich selbst verfügt. Und wie 

könnte der Diener (Gottes) existieren, wenn nicht (von Gott) über ihn verfügt 

würde? 

Es gibt keine Färbung außer der Färbung dessen, der die Finsternis (der 

Nacht) schwarz färbt und den Morgen leuchtend und glänzend. 

Auch Ibn 0amd\s (gest. 1133) scheute sich, in die Färbung Gottes einzugreifen 

(äafif): 9 

2. sibgatu llahi lastu asturu minha * bi-yadi fi l-qaüali qubhan bi-qubhi. 

2. Von der Färbung Gottes verberge ich durch meine Hand auf dem Kopf 

nicht ein Hässliches durch ein (anderes) Hässliches. 

A©-®aâlib\ (gest. 1038) zitiert einen anonymen Vers, der das Färben sogar in 

die Nähe des ˇsirk stellt (sari^): 10 

3. ya äadiba l-lihyati ma tastahi * tuˇsariku r-rahmana fisibgatih. 

3. O du, der du den Bart färbst, schämst du dich nicht? Du machst dich zum 

Gesellschafter des Barmherzigen bei seinem Färben. 

Abu A1mad A1mad an-Nahrapur\ al-Ârud\ (gest. 1012) weist den Vorschlag 

der Damen, das Haar doch zu färben, ebenfalls mit einer religiösen Begründung 

zurück (wafir): 11 

4. wa-qa#ilatin: taäaddab! fal-gawani * quûdun ân musahabati l-kuhuli 

fa-qultu laha: l-maˇsibu rasulu rabbi *wa-lastu musawwidan wapha r-rasuli. 

4. Eine sagte zu mir: „Färbe! Denn die Mädchen sind unwillig, alten Männern 

Gesellschaft zu leisten.“ 

Ich erwiderte ihr jedoch: „Das weiße Haar ist ein Bote meines Herrn, und 

ich schwärze nicht das Gesicht des Boten.“ 

Für die Autoren der genannten Verse handelte es sich um ein rein theologisches 

Problem, nämlich um den Eingriff in die Rechte Gottes, um die Anmaßung, 

es Gott gleich zu tun, während es den muhaddi©un und fuqaha# um 

die Rechtmäßigkeit einer menschlichen Handlung, also um ein Problem der 

muâmalat ging, das mit dem Rückgriff auf die Handlungsweise des Propheten 

und seiner Genossen zu lösen war. Das spielte für die Dichter anscheinend 

gar keine Rolle. Höchstens hatten sie gelegentlich allgemeine moralische Be- 

9 Ibn 0amd\s 1960, S. 107 = Nr. 66; zitiert Haiba 1981, II, S. 569. 

10 Maqdis\ 1993, S. 211. Zitiert Mah . ˇgūb 1980, S. 92. 

11 Ibn Sa^\d 1967, S. 7. Zitiert Mah . ˇgūb 1980, S. 92.


denken wegen des Betruges, wie sie Saf\ ad-D\n al-0ill\ (gest. 1339) äußerte 

(sari^): 12 

5. qalu: ädibi ˇs-ˇsaiba! fa-qultu: qsiru! * fa-inna qasda s-sidqi min ˇsimati 

fa-kaifa arda ba^da üa anni * awwalu ma aküibu fi lihyati? 

5. Sie sagten: „Färbe die weißen Haare!“ Ich erwiderte: „Haltet euch zurück! 

Zu meinem Charakter gehört es, die Wahrheit zu erstreben. 

Wie sollte es mir dann gefallen, dass das erste, worin ich lüge, über meinen 

Bart sein sollte?“ 13 

Bereits al-Mutanabb\ (gest. 965) lehnte das Färben ab, allerdings nicht in 

Widerspruch zu Ratschlägen, sondern weil auch er ungeschminkte (Beduinen)frauen 

liebte (basit): 14 

6. wa-min hawa kulli man laisat mumawwatan * taraktu launa maˇsibi gaira 

mahdubi 

wa-min hawas-sidqi fi qauli wa-âdatihi * ragibtu ân ˇsaârin fi l-waphi maküubi. 

6. Und aus Liebe zu allen (Frauen), die ungeschminkt sind, ließ ich die 

Farbe meines weißen Haares ungefärbt. 

Und aus Liebe zur Wahrheit in meinen Worten und (meiner) Gewöhnung 

an sie leide ich kein erlogenes Haar im Gesicht. 

Den meisten Dichtern machten jedoch weder religiöse noch ethische Probleme 

zu schaffen, sondern die mangelnde Wirksamkeit der Färbemittel. In der 

Frühzeit stand zum Färben der Haare das Henna (hinna#) zur Verfügung, das 

auch die Frauen zum Schminken der Hände und Füße benutzten. Durch das Färben 

mit Henna wurden die Haare rot. Damit war das verräterische Weiß zwar weg, 

aber manch einem gefiel auch das Rot nicht. Zu ihnen gehörte al-Farazdaq (gest. 

um 730) (wafir): 15 

7. äadabtu bi-payyidi l-hinna#i ra#si * li-yu^qiba humratun ba^da bayadi 

huma launani min haüa wa-haüa * kila launaini lastu lahu bi-radi. 

7. Ich färbte meinen Kopf mit vorzüglichem Henna, damit nach dem Weiß 

Röte folge. 

Das sind zwei Farben, sowohl die eine wie auch die andere, mit beiden 

Farben bin ich nicht zufrieden. 

12 0ill\ 1962, S. 677. 

13 Vgl. auch aˇs-Åar\f al-Murtadas Einwand gegen den Vorschlag seiner Geliebten, sich den Bart 

zu färben (Nr. 50). 

14 Mutanabb\ 1861, S. 630–631; 0usr\ 1953, II, S. 903; Nuwair\ 1924, II, S. 31. Zitiert Mah . ˇgūb 

1980, S. 91. 

15 Farazdaq 1966, S. 391. Zitiert Haiba 1981, S. 239.


Viel schlimmer als die eigene Unzufriedenheit war natürlich, dass die Weiblichkeit 

an dem Wechsel von Schwarz zu Rot sofort erkannte, dass es mit der Jugend 

des Mannes vorbei war. Das musste schon Pam\l (gest. um 701) von seiner 

Bu©aina erfahren (mutaqarib): 16 

8. taqulu Bu©ainatu lamma ra#at * fununan mina ˇs-ˇsaâri l-ahmari: 

kabarta Pamilu wa-auda ˇs-ˇsababu * fa-qultu: Bu©aina ala fa-qsiri! 

8. Bu©aina sprach, als sie allerlei rot (gefärbtes) Haar (an mir) sah: 

„Du bist alt geworden, Pam\l, die Jugend ist vorüber!“ Ich sagte: „Bu©aina, 

laß nach!“ 

Noch peinlicher wurde die Situation für einen anonymen Dichter, den Abu 

Hilal al-Âskar\ zitiert (ramal): 17 

9. âpibat lamma ra#atni * gadatun ma baina gidi 

dahikat iü absaratni * qad tazayyantu li-îdi 

©umma nadaina pamiân: * yaâtiqan fi padidi! 

garrana minka äidabun * qad tara#a min baîdi 

la tugalitna! fa-ma tas- * luhu illa lis-sududi. 

9. Ein junges Mädchen aus einer Gruppe wunderte sich, als sie mich sah, 

und fing an zu lachen, als sie mich erblickte. Dabei hatte ich mich doch 

gerade zum Fest herausgeputzt. 

Dann riefen sie alle zusammen: „O du Alter in neuem (Outfit), 

deine Färbung, die von Ferne blendet, hat uns getäuscht. 

Beschwindle uns nicht! Du taugst nur noch dazu, gemieden zu werden. 

Dass die Damen das Färben sofort durchschauten, musste auch Ibn al- 

Mu^tazz (ermordet 908) erfahren. Wenigstens schreibt ihm al-Baihaq\ entsprechende 

Verse zu (mupta©©): 18 

10. fa-taâllaltu bil-äidabi li-ahza * îndaha saâtan bi-launi l-äidabi 

fa-ra#athu fa-a^radat ©umma qalat * sitru sau#in âla äarabin yababi. 

10. In meiner Not behalf ich mich mit der Färbung, um mir durch deren 

Farbe noch eine Zeitlang ihre Gunst zu erhalten. 

Aber sie erkannte es und wandte sich ab. Dann sagte sie: „Ein hässlicher 

Schleier über einer wüsten Ruine.“ 

16 Pam\l 1961, S. 59; Pam\l 1967, S. 106 (mit Quellenangaben). Übersetzt Enderwitz 1988, 

S. 136; Übersetzung hier übernommen. 

17 Âskar\ 1933, II, S. 160. 

18 Baihaq\ 1902, S. 378.


Zu Ibn al-Mu^tazz’ Zeiten hatte man neben dem Henna bereits andere Färbemittel, 

die auch schwarz färbten (z.B. Indigo). So ist in den folgenden Versen von 

Ibn ar-Rum\ ausdrücklich von „schwärzen“ und „Raben“ die Rede (kamil): 19 

11. ya ayyuha r-rapulu l-musawwidu ˇsaibahu * kaima yuâdda bihi mina 

ˇs-ˇsubbani 

iqsir! fa-lau sawwadta kulla hamamatin * baida#a maûddat mina l-girbani. 

11. O Mann, der du dein weißes Haar färbst, damit du so als einer der Jünglinge 

betrachtet wirst, 

Laß davon ab! Auch wenn du jede weiße Taube schwarz färben würdest, 

würde man sie doch nicht zu den Raben zählen. 

Offensichtlich erkannten die Mädchen, denen man Jugend vortäuschen 

wollte, auch die schwarze Farbe als unecht. Es gab nämlich beim Färben noch 

ein weiteres Handicap: Das weiße Haar wuchs nach und das Färbemittel verblich. 

Das erfuhr schon aˇs-Åamma3s (gest. um 650) Bruder Yaz\d b. Dirar Muzarrid, der 

noch mit Henna gefärbt hatte (tawil): 20 

12. saha l-qalbu ân Salma wa-malla l-âwaüilu * wa-ma kada la#yan hubbu 

Salma yuzayilu 

fu#adiya hattatara gayyu ˇsabibati * wa-hattaâla waätun min aˇs-ˇsaibi ˇsamilu 

yuqanniûhu ma#u l-yuranna#i tahtahu *ˇsakirun ka-atrafi ©-©ugamati nasilu. 

12. My heart is cured of its passion for Salmà, and the railing women are tired 

of their admonitions: yet hardly did the love of Salmà drop away – no 

easy thing was it to unlove her! 

[She held] my heart until the foolishness of my youth had flown away, 

and until the beginnings of hoariness invaded my head and spread thereon; 

The juice of hinna dyes it red, but below the dyed hair are silvery shoots 

sprouting upward like the white points of thagam. 

Ähnlich äußerte sich Malik b.Asma# (gest. nach 714) (basit): 21 

13. katamtu ˇsaibi li-yaäfa ba^da rauâtihi * fa-laha minhu wamidun laisa yankatimu 

raâ l-gawani fa-ma yaqrubna nahiyatan * ra#aina fiha buruqa ˇs-ˇsaibi tabtasimu. 

19 Ibn ar-Rum\ 1973–81, VI, S. 2473 = Nr. 1352; Åar\f al-Murtada 1884, S. 79. Zitiert Mah . ˇgūb 


20 Mufaddal 1918–24, I, S. 160 = Nr. 17 (Text); II, S. 57 (Übersetzung, hier übernommen). Zitiert 

Müller 1981, S. 43; Enderwitz 1988, S. 136. 

21 Basr\ 1964, II, S. 66. Zitiert Haiba 1980, I, S. 238.


13. Ich versteckte mein weißes Haar (durch Färbung), damit es verborgen 

bliebe nach seiner (früheren) Pracht. Aber ein Aufblitzen von ihm, das 

sich nicht verbergen ließ, leuchtete hervor. 

Die jungen Mädchen waren erschrocken, so dass sie sich von keiner Seite 

mehr näherten. Sie sahen in ihr die Blitze des weißen Haares hervorlächeln. 

Es dauerte nur drei Tage, dann musste man schon wieder nachfärben. 

Ma1mud al-Warraq (gest. um 845) klagte (kamil): 22 

14. ya äadiba ˇs-ˇsaibi llaüi * fi kulli ©ali©atin yaûdu 

inna n-nusula iüa bada * fa-ka#annahu ˇsaibun padidu 

wa-lahu badihatu lauâtin * makruhuha abadan âtidu 

fa-daî l-maˇsiba li-ma ara- * da fa-lan yaûda kama turidu. 

14. O du, der du das weiße Haar färbst, das dann an jedem dritten (Tag) wiederkehrt. 

Wenn das Verbleichen eintritt, ist es wie ein neues Ergrauen. 

Es ist dann (jedes Mal) wie ein plötzlicher Schmerz, dessen Unannehmlichkeit 

(dadurch) ewig gegenwärtig ist. 

Lass das weiße Haar tun, was es will! Es wird nicht zu dem zurückkehren, 

was du willst. 

Oder (wafir): 23 

15. yaˇsibu n-nasu fi zamanin tawilin * wa-li fi kulli ©ali©atin maˇsibu 

wa-aäfi ˇs-ˇsaiba puhdi wa-hwa yabdu * kama gatta âla r-raibi l-muribu. 

15. (Andere) Leute ergrauen in langen Zeiträumen, aber ich kriege alle drei 

(Tage) wieder weißes Haar. 

Soweit ich kann, verberge ich, obwohl es (immer wieder) erscheint, das 

weiße Haar (durch Färben), so wie der Verdächtigte den Verdacht zu verdecken 

sucht. 

Dieselbe Feststellung musste auch Ibn ar-Rum\ machen (tawil): 24 

16. ra#aitu äidaba l-mar#i înda maˇsibihi * hidadan âla ˇsaräiˇs-ˇsabibati yulbasu 

wa-illa fa-ma yugri mra#an bi-äidabihi? * a-yatmaû an yaäfa ˇsababun mudallasu? 

wa-kaifa bi-an yaäfa l-maˇsibu li-äadibin * wa-kullu ©ala©in subhuhu yatanaffasu? 

wa-habhu yuwari ˇsaibahu wa-aina ma#uhu * wa-aina adimun liˇs-ˇsabibati 

amlasu? 

22 Ma1mud al-Warraq 1969, S. 60–61 = Nr. 48; Nuwair\ 1924, II, S. 30; Vers 1; 2: Ibn Ab\ Âun 

1950, S. 223; Vers 2: Åar\f al-Murtada 1884, S. 78. Zitiert Mah . ˇgūb 1980, S. 94. 

23 Ma1mud al-Warraq 1969, S. 40 = Nr. 13 (mit Quellenangabe). 

24 Ibn ar-Rum\ 1973–81, III, S. 1199 = Nr. 977; Åar\f al-Murtada 1884, S. 78. Zitiert Mah . ˇgūb 

1980, S. 95; Z. 4 zitiert Haiba 1981, II, S. 568.


16. Ich betrachtete das Färben des Mannes, wenn er ergraut, als Trauerkleidung, 

die (aus Trauer) über die (verlorene) Jugendfrische angezogen wird. 

Und wenn nicht, was treibt einen Mann zu seinem Färben? Wünscht er 

etwa, dass eine gefälschte Jugend verborgen bleibt? 

Wie ist es möglich, dass das weiße Haar von jemandem, der färbt, verborgen 

bleibt, wo doch jeden dritten (Tag) sein (des weißen Haares) Morgen 

wieder hervordämmert? 

Gesetzt den Fall, (das Färben) verbirgt das weiße Haar, wo ist dann seine 

(des Mannes) Jugendfrische und wo die glatte Haut der Jugend? 

Ohne Zeitangabe beschreibt Ibn al-Mu^tazz das Debakel mit dem Nachwachsen 

(kamil): 25 

17. ayyama yagdu lin-nawaziri mubhitan * tahla mahasinuhu bi-halyi ˇs-ˇsababi 

fal-ana buddila min sawadi îmamatin * ˇsaiban tatallaâ min äilali äidabi. 

17. Einst setzte (der mit Rabenflügeln ausgestattete Haarschopf) die Blicke 

in Erstaunen, war doch seine Schönheit noch durch den Schmuck der Jugend 

geschmückt. 

Doch jetzt wurde die Schwärze des Turbans durch weißes Haar ersetzt, 

das selbst unter der Färbung hervorlugt. 

Oder (rapaz): 26 

18. ya äadiba ˇs-ˇsaibati saufa turfadu 

ba^da qalilin wa-yadiû l-mi^radu 

musawwadatun laha äamirun abyadu 

nama l-äidabu wal-maˇsibu yarkudu. 

18. O du, der du das weiße Haar färbst, nach kurzem wird es (von der Farbe) 

verlassen, 

und das Hochzeitskleid geht verloren. 

Es ist etwas Geschwärztes, das ein weißes Inneres hat. 

(Dann) schläft die Farbe, und das weiße Haar tanzt. 

An-Nuwair\ (gest. 1333) zitiert zwei anonyme Verse, in denen der Dichter 

Leichtgläubige über den wahren Zustand eines ewig Jugendlichen aufklärt (kamil): 

27 

19. qalu: fulanun lam yaˇsib * wa-ara l-maˇsiba âlaihi abta 

fa-apabtuhum: laula hadi- * ©u s-sabgi la-nkaˇsafa l-mugatta. 

25 Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1945–50, IV, S. 192 = Nr. 303; Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1977–78a, II, S. 382 = Nr. 617; Ibn 

al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, III, S. 133 = Nr. 1238. 


al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, III, S. 180 = Nr. 1295 (mit weiterer Quelle). 

27 Nuwair\ 1924, II, S. 30.


19. Sie sagten: „Der und der hat noch keine weißen Haare bekommen“, während 

ich das weiße Haar doch langsam hervorkommen sah. 

Deshalb antwortete ich ihnen: „Wenn nicht die neue Färbung wäre, 

würde das Verdeckte offenbar werden.“ 

Das Nachwachsen des weißen Haares ließ den Wunsch aufkommen, dass 

man doch die Haarwurzeln färben könne. Der folgende Vers wird von Ibn Raˇs\q 

al-0asan b. Âl\ (gest. um 670) und von Ibn Qutaiba dem umayyadischen Heerführer 

Sa^d b. Ab\ Waqqas (gest. zwischen 670 und 678) zugeschrieben (tawil): 28 

20. usawwidu a^laha wa-ta#ba usuluha * fa-laita llaüi yaswaddu minha huwa 

l-aslu! 

20. Ich färbe seinen (des Haares) oberen Teil schwarz, aber seine Wurzeln 

verweigern sich. O wäre doch das, was von ihm schwarz wird, die Wurzel! 

Auch ohne auf die kurze Dauer der vertuschenden Wirkung des Färbens zu 

sprechen zu kommen, beklagen die Dichter die Sinnlosigkeit des Färbens. Einen 

Grund hatte schon Ibn ar-Rum\ genannt (Nr. 16): Wenn die Haut verschrumpelt 

ist, nützt auch das Färben der Haare nichts. Es ist sogar umgekehrt. Wenn andere 

Alterserscheinungen sichtbar sind, glaubt man einem nicht ergrauten Greis auch 

das schwarze Haar nicht. Wiederum von Ibn ar-Rum\ stammen die Verse (tawil): 29 

21. iüa dama lil-mar#i s-sawadu wa-lam tadum * gadaratuhu zunna s-sawadu 

äidaba 

fa-kaifa yazunnu ˇs-ˇsaiäu anna äidabahu * yuzannu sawadan au yuäalu 

ˇsababa? 

21. Wenn dem Manne das schwarze Haar erhalten bleibt, aber nicht seine Jugendfrische, 

wird die Schwärze für Färbung gehalten. 

Wieso glaubt dann der Greis, dass seine Färbung für (echte) Schwärze 

angesehen und er für einen Jüngling gehalten würde? 

Den gleichen Gedanken drückt er nochmals in den Versen aus (tawil): 30 

22. iüa kunta lau dama s-sawadu wa-aälaqat * mahasinaka l-ayyamu qila: kabiru 

fa-kaifa turappi bil-äidabi wa-ifkihi * wa-anta kabirun an yuqala: sagiru. 

22. Wenn man schon, selbst wenn dein schwarzes (Haar) bestehen bleiben 

würde, die Tage deine (sonstige) Schönheit aber dahinwelken lassen 

würden, sagen würde: „Ein Alter“, 

wieso erhoffst du dann von dem Färben und seiner Lüge, dass man, obwohl 

du alt bist, sagt: „Ein Junger“. 

28 Ibn Raˇs\q 1972, I, S. 35; Ibn Qutaiba 1963, IV, S. 51. Zitiert Haiba 1981, I, S. 237; Mah . ˇgūb 


29 Ibn ar-Rum\ 1973–81, I, S. 243 = Nr. 173 (mit weiteren Quellen); Åar\f al-Murtada 1884, 

S. 78–79; Mapmuât al-maâni 1992, I, S. 583 = Nr. 894. 

30 Ibn ar-Rum\ 1973–81, III, S. 1008 = Nr. 763. Zitiert Haiba 1981, II, S. 568.


Ibn Âbd Rabbih\ (gest. 940) zitiert anonym die Verse (wafir): 31 

23. bakarat tuhassinu li sawada äidabi * la-ka#anna üaka yuîduni li-ˇsababi 

wa-iüa adimu l-waphi aälaqahu l-bila * lam yuntafa^ fihi bi-husni äidabi. 

23. Zunächst machte sie mir mein Schwarzfärben schmackhaft. War es doch, 

als ob es mir meine Jugend zurückgäbe. 

Als aber der Verfall die Gesichtshaut schäbig werden ließ, ließ sich unter 

diesen Umständen aus der Schönheit der Farbe kein Nutzen mehr ziehen. 

Kuˇsapim (gest. 971) äußert sich im gleichen Sinne (basit): 32 

24. ya äadiba ˇs-ˇsaibi wal-ayyamu tuzhiruhu * haüa ˇsababun la-âmru llahi 

masnuû 

aükartani qaula üi lubbin wa-tapribatin * fi mi©lihi laka ta#dibun wataqriû 

inna l-padida iüa ma zida fi äalaqin * tabayyana n-nasu anna ©-©auba marquû. 

24. O du, der du das weiße Haar färbst, obwohl die Tage es offensichtlich machen, 

dies ist – beim Leben Gottes – eine künstliche Jugend. 

Du erinnerst mich an den Ausspruch eines Verständigen und Erfahrenen, 

desgleichen für dich Lehre und Tadel sein könnte: 

„Wenn man zu viel Neues in ein abgetragenes Kleid hinzufügt, erkennen 

die Leute, dass es geflickt ist. 

Letztlich ist das Färben selbst ein Beweis für weißes Haar. Der folgende anonyme 

Vers wird von an-Nuwair\ zitiert (wafir): 33 

25. tasattara bil-äidabi wa-ayyu ˇsai#in * adallu âla l-maˇsibi mina l-hidabi? 

25. Er suchte seinen Zustand durch das Färben zu verbergen. Aber was weist 

mehr auf das weiße Haar hin als das Färben? 

Wenn das Alter ohnehin erkennbar ist, bleibt einem nur noch das Wünschen 

übrig. Von al-Mutanabb\ stammt der Vers (tawil): 34 

26. munan kunna li anna l-bayada l-äidabu * fa-yaäfa bi-tabyidi l-quruni ˇsababu. 

26. Ich wünschte mir, dass das Weiße die Färbung wäre, so dass sich die Jugend 

durch das Weißfärben der Haarlocken verberge. 

Offensichtlich war das Färben ziemlich umständlich und unangenehm, und 

das sollte nach Ma1mud al-Warraqs Meinung schon davor abschrecken (wafir): 35 

31 Ibn Âbd Rabbih\ 1928, II, S. 50. Zitiert Mah . ˇgūb 1980, S. 95. 

32 Kuˇsapim 1970, S. 336 = Nr. 313; Ibn Raˇs\q 1972, II, S. 84; Vers 1; 3: Nuwair\ 1924, II, S. 31. 

Zitiert Mah . ˇgūb 1980, S. 90; Haiba 1981, II, S. 568. 

33 Nuwair\ 1924, II, S. 30. 

34 Mutanabb\ 1861, S. 68. Zitiert Mah . ˇgūb 1980, S. 45. 

35 Ma1mud al-Warraq 1969, S. 43 = Nr. 18.


27. a-hina rama sawada r-ra#si ˇsaibun * fa-gayyarahu fazi^ta ila l-äidabi? 

fa-kunta ka-man atalla âla âüabin * fa-farra mina l-âüabi ila l-âüabi. 

27. Hast du, als das weiße Haar die Schwärze des Kopfes befiel und sie veränderte, 

die Zuflucht zum Färben genommen? 

Dann hast du dich wie jemand verhalten, der einer Qual entgegensah 

und dann vor der (einen) Qual zu der (anderen) Qual floh. 

So kommt er zu dem Schluß, dass letztlich das weiße Haar immer der Sieger 

bleibt (tawil): 36 

28. wa-üi hilatin fi ˇs-ˇsaibi zalla yahutuhu * fa-yaädibuhu tauran wa-tauran 

yunatifu 

wa-ma latufat liˇs-ˇsaibi hilatu âlimin * âla d-dahri illa hilatu ˇs-ˇsaibi altafu. 

28. Manch Listenreicher umsorgte das weiße Haar fortwährend: manchmal 

färbte er es, manchmal zupfte er es aus. 

Auf die Dauer aber ist auch Gelehrtenlist nicht subtil genug für das weiße 

Haar. Vielmehr ist die List des weißen Haares noch subtiler. 

Andere Dichter resignieren einfach, weil Alter und weißes Haar letzten Endes 

nicht verborgen bleibt. Diese Resignation findet sich besonders häufig bei Ibn 

al-Mu^tazz, bei dem sich offensichtlich schon sehr früh die ersten weißen Haare 

zeigten. Wenigstens klagte er bereits mit 25 Jahren (äafif): 37 

29. ˇsaâratun fi r-ra#si bidun wa-du^pu * halla fiha pilani Rumun wa-Zanpu 

ayyuha ˇs-ˇsaibu lim âbi©ta bi-ra#si? * inna ûmri âˇsrun wa-âˇsrun wabanpu 

38. 

29. Die Haare auf dem Kopf sind weiß und schwarz (gemischt). Unter ihnen 

bezogen zwei Heere Lager: Rhomäer und Afrikaner. 

O weißes Haar, warum hast du dich an meinem Kopf vergangen? Mein Alter 

ist doch erst zehn und zehn und fünf. 

Seine Resignation bringt Ibn al-Mu^tazz durch folgenden Vierzeiler zum Ausdruck 

(äafif): 39 

36 Ma1mud al-Warraq 1969, S. 93 = Nr. 109 mit einer Handschrift der Bahpat al-mapalis wa-uns 

al-mupalis von Ibn Âbd al-Barr an-Namar\ (inzwischen gedruckt) als Quelle. Nach Ibn al-Mu^tazz 

1939, S. 138, war der ˇsatir Is1aq b. 2alaf Ibn at-Tab\b, der um 845 wegen eines Mordes im 

Gefängnis starb, der Verfasser. Zitiert Haiba 1980, II, S. 567. 

37 Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1945–50, IV, S. 200 = Nr. 320; Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1977–78, II. S. 388 = Nr. 636; Ibn 

al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, III, S. 146–147 = Nr. 1258 (mit weiteren Quellen). 

38 Persisch panp. 

39 Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1945–50, IV, S. 200 = Nr. 321; Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1977–78a, II, S. 388–389 = 

Nr. 637; Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, III, S. 147 = Nr. 1259.


30. hilyatu ˇs-ˇsaibi fiîüari taluhu * wa-fu#adi fi l-gayyi ba^du pamuhu 

qubbihat ˇsuhbatu l-maˇsibi kama an-* na l-äidaba l-kumaita aidan qabihu 

üa ˇsababun mulaffaqun laisa yaäfa * wa-mada üalika ˇs-ˇsababu s-sahihu 

waiha nafsi ya qaumu kaifa htiyali! * ˇsaba ra#si wa-sadda ânni l-malihu. 

30. Der Schmuck des weißen Haares glänzt auf meiner Wange, während 

mein Herz noch trotzig im Irrtum verweilt. 

Die graue Farbe des weißen Haares wird als hässlich empfunden, genau 

so wie auch die rotbraune Farbe (des Henna) hässlich ist. 

Das ist eine zusammengestoppelte Jugend, die nicht verborgen bleibt. 

Und jene richtige Jugend ist vergangen. 

Weh mir, o Leute, was für Kniffe verwende ich doch! Mein Kopf ist nun 

mal ergraut, und der schöne (Jüngling) hat sich von mir abgewendet. 

Oder (rapaz); 40 

31. wa-lihyatin ka#annahu gurabu 

zawwarahu t-taswidu wal-äidabu 

iüa tabaddat dahika ˇs-ˇsababu. 

31. Manchen Bart, schwarz wie ein Rabe, 

hat nur die Schwärzung und die Färbung vorgetäuscht. 

Wenn er erscheint, lacht die Jugend nur. 

Oder (wafir): 41 

32. tawalla l-pahlu wa-nqataâ l-îtabu * wa-lahaˇs-ˇsaibu wa-ftadaha l-äidabu 

la-qad abgadtu nafsi fi maˇsibi * fa-kaifa tuhibbuni l-äaudu l-kaâbu? 

32. Die Unvernunft nahm das Heft in die Hand, und der Tadel wurde in den 

Wind geschlagen, obwohl das weiße Haar sichtbar und die Färbung offenkundig 

war. 

Wegen meines weißen Haares haßte ich mich selbst. Wie sollte mich 

dann das zarte, vollbusige Mädchen lieben? 

Oder (kamil): 42 

33. habni hanintu ila ˇs-ˇsababi * wa-tamastu ˇsaibi bi-htidabi 

wa-nafaqtu înda l-ganiya- * ti bi-hilati wa-pahilna ma bi 

man li bi-ma waqafa l-maˇsi- * bu âlaihi min üulli l-äidabi? 


al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, III, S. 128 = Nr. 1232 (mit weiteren Quellen). 


al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, III, S. 129–130 = Nr. 1234 (mit weiteren Quellen); Vers 2: Nuwair\ 1924, II, 

S. 28. Zitiert Mah . ˇgūb 1980, S. 94. 


al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b I, III, S. 135–136 = Nr. 1242 (mit weiteren Quellen, die als Autor teilweise 

Mu1ammad b. Mu1ammad Ibn Ârus aˇs-Å\raz\ [gest. um 890] angeben).


33. Gesetzt den Fall, ich sehnte mich nach der Jugend und löschte (das 

Leuchten) meines weißen Haares dadurch, dass ich es färbte, 

und wäre aufgrund meiner List bei den jungen Mädchen noch gut im Geschäft, 

weil sie nicht wüßten, was mit mir los ist, 

wer hilft mir dann gegen die Schande derjenigen Färbung, der das weiße 

Haar widersteht? 

Ein anderer Dichter musste erkennen (mupta©©): 43 

34. äadabtu ˇsaibi li-yaäfa * wa-kana üaka li-îllah 

fa-qila: ˇsaiäun äadibun ’* qad zawwada t-tina billah. 

34. Ich färbte mein weißes Haar, damit es verborgen bleibe. Aber das geschah 

aus einer Fehleinschätzung heraus. 

Denn jetzt sagte man: „Ein gefärbter Greis“. Und das machte die Sache 

nur noch schlimmer. 

Oft ist die Resignation mit dem Todesgedanken verbunden, der auch sonst 

oft die ˇsaib wa-ˇsabab-Dichtung begleitet. Wiederum Ibn al-Mu^tazz spricht das in 

den folgenden zwei Zitaten aus (tawil): 44 

35. zalamta iüa talabta ˇsai#an wa-qad fata * tuqabilu ˇsaiban bil-äidabi wahaihata 

wa-qalu: mru#un qad ˇsaba wa-byadda ra#suhu * wa-la budda yauman an 

yaqulu mru#un mata. 

35. Du tatest Unrecht, als du etwas zurückverlangtest, obwohl es vergangen 

war, indem du dem weißen Haar mit Färben entgegentratst. Aber ach! 

Sie sagten bereits: „Ein Mann, der ergraut ist und dessen Kopf weiß geworden 

ist.“ Zweifellos werden sie eines Tages sagen: „Ein Mann, der gestorben 

ist.“ 

Und (basit): 45 

36. ya äadiba ˇs-ˇsaibi bil-hinna#i yasturuhu * sali l-palila lahu sitran mina 

n-nari! 

lan yarhala ˇs-ˇsaibu ân darin yahillu biha * hatta yurahhilu ânha sahiba 

d-dari. 

43 Maqdis\ 1993, S, 211. Zitiert Mah . ˇgūb 1980, S. 81. 


al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, III, S. 142 = Nr. 1251 (mit weiterer Quelle). 

45 Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1945–50, IV, S. 214 = Nr. 349 (fehlt zweiter Halbvers der ersten Zeile); Ibn 

al-Mu^tazz 1977–1978a, II, S. 402 = Nr. 667; Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, III, S. 175 = Nr.1287 

(mit weiteren Quellen). Vers 1 zitiert Mah . ˇgūb 1980, S. 92; Vers 2 zitiert Haiba 1981, II, S. 572 

nach Âbbas\ 1948, II, S. 187, wo der Vers Muslim b. al-Wal\d Sar\^ al-Gawan\ (gest. 823) 

zugeschrieben wird. Der Vers steht nicht in dessen Diwan, wurde aber von Sam\ ad-Dahha - n 

(Muslim 1957, S. 323 = Nr. 134) nach wiederum anderer Quelle in den Üail aufgenommen.


36. O du, der du das weiße Haar mit Henna färbst, um es zu verschleiern, 

bitte den Erhabenen seinethalben lieber um einen Schleier (Schutz) vor 

dem Höllenfeuer! 

Das weiße Haar wird aus einem Haus, in dem es sich niedergelassen hat, 

nicht abreisen, ehe es nicht den Hausherrn hat abreisen lassen. 

Manche Dichter geben deshalb auch vor, nicht der schönen Mädchen wegen 

das Haar zu färben, sondern um ein (schwarzes) Trauerkleid (hidad) wegen des 

Alters anzulegen. In dem Gedicht von Ibn ar-Rum\ (Nr. 16) kam das ja bereits vor. 

Auch Abu Sahl an-Nauba3t\ 46 behauptet (basit): 47 

37. lam aädibi ˇs-ˇsaiba lil-gawani * abgi bihi îndaha widada 

lakin äidabi âla ˇsababi * labistu min ba^dihi hidada. 

37. Ich färbte das weiße Haar nicht etwa wegen der jungen Mädchen, um dadurch 

bei ihnen Liebe zu suchen. 

Mein Färben geschah vielmehr wegen der Jugend. Als sie dahingeschieden 

war, zog ich Trauerkleidung an. 

Ähnlich äußert sich der mir unbekannte al-Afwah al-Kuf\ (tawil): 48 

38. fa-in tas#alini: ma l- äidabu? fa-innani * labistu âla faqdi ˇs-ˇsababi hidada. 

38. Und wenn du (fem.) mich fragst: „Was soll das Färben?“ (So antworte 

ich:) „Ich zog mir ein Trauerkleid wegen des Verlustes der Jugend an.“ 49 

Âbdan al-Isfahan\, ein jüngerer Zeitgenosse von a©-®aâlib\ (gest. 1038), 50 

bringt das weiße Haar direkt mit dem Tod in Verbindung (äafif): 51 

39. wa-yuîbu l-äidaba qaumun wa-fihi * liya unsun ila huduri wafati 

la wa-man ya^lamu s-saraîra minni * ma bihi rumtu hullata l-ganiyati 

innama rumtu an ugayyiba ânni * ma turinihi kulla yaumin mirati 

wa-hwa naîn ilayya nafsi wa-man üa * sarrahu an yara wupuha n-nuâti? 

46 Wohl Abu Sahl Isma^\l b. Âl\ an-Nauba3t\, gest. 923, vgl. Sezgin 1975, S. 535. 

47 Åar\f al-Murtada 1884, S. 79. Zitiert Mah . ˇgūb 1980, S. 90 (mit weiterer Quelle). Die Verse finden 

sich auch Ibn ar-Rum\ II, S. 807 = Nr. 657. Sie stehen allerdings nicht im Diwan, sondern sind 

von 0usain Nas · s · ar der Mapmuât al-maâni I, S. 582 = Nr. 893, entnommen. 

48 Åar\f al-Murtada 1884, S. 79; Ibn al-2at\b 2003, S. 321 (Ibn ar-Rum\ zugeschrieben). Haiba 

1981, II, S. 562, zitiert den Vers nach handschriftlicher Quelle, die ihn ebenfalls Ibn ar-Rum\ 

zuschreibt. In dessen Diwan habe ich ihn jedoch nicht gefunden. 

49 Weitere Verse, die in der Färbung ein Trauerkleid sehen, zitieren Mah . ˇgūb 1980, S. 95 Mitte, 

und Haiba 1981, II, S. 564 oben, und S. 565, Z. 4–5. 

50 Sezgin 1975, S. 646. In seiner Rezension des Abu Nuwas-Diwan zitiert 0amza al-Isfahan\ 

(gest. zwischen 961 und 971) ein Rätselgedicht von einem Abu Ûmar Âbdan al-Isfahan\ (Abu 

Nuwas 2003–2006, I, S. 229), der auch als Verfasser obiger Verse in Frage kommt. 

51 0usr\ 1953, II, S. 901–902; Maqdis\ 1993, S. 210; Nuwair\ 1924, II, S. 29. Zitiert Mah . ˇgūb 1980, 

S. 93; Haiba 1981, II, S. 564; Vers 1–3: Ullmann 1992, S. 51 = Nr. 91 (mit weiteren Quellen und 

einer Übersetzung, die hier übernommen wurde).


39. Einige Leute mißbilligen das Färben (des Haares), aber für mich liegt darin 

eine Annehmlichkeit, bis sich mein Tod einstellt. 

Nein, bei dem, der meine geheimsten Gedanken kennt, damit suche ich 

nicht die Zuneigung der jungen Mädchen zu gewinnen, 

sondern ich möchte nur vor mir (selber) das verbergen, was mir jeden Tag 

mein Spiegel zeigt, 

nämlich jemanden, der mir meinen eigenen Tod verkündet. Und wen erfreut 

es schon, dass er in die Gesichter der Todesboten schaut? 

Nicht für alle Menschen ist das Alter gleich mit Trauer und Tod verbunden. 

Manche können ihm auch eine positive Seite abgewinnen, so dass für sie 

keine Notwendigkeit zum Färben besteht. Eine lange qasida von aˇs-Åar\f ar-Rad\ 

(gest. 1016) beginnt mit dem Lob des Alters. In ihr finden sich die Verse (tawil): 52 

40. wa-ma l-mar#u qabla ˇs-ˇsaibi illa muhannadun * saqilun wa-ˇsaibu l-âridaini 

siqalu 

wa-laisa äidabu r-ra#si illa taîllatun * li-man ˇsaba minhu âridun waqaüalu. 

40. Vor dem weißen Haar ist der Mann nur ein geschliffenes Schwert, aber 

das Ergrauen der Wangen ist dann der Schliff selbst. 

Wenn sich der Mann (die Haare) färbt, so ist das nur eine Ablenkung für 

den, dessen Wangen und Hinterkopf ergrauen. 

Nicht nur das Alter schätzen manche Dichter höher als die Jugend, einigen 

gefällt auch die weiße Farbe besser als die schwarze (basit): 53 

41. aˇs-ˇsaibu abha mina ˇs-ˇsababi * fa-la tuhappinhu bil-äidabi! 

haüa gurabun wa-üaka bazun * wal-bazu abha mina l-gurabi. 

41. Das weiße Haar glänzt mehr als (das) der Jugend. Deshalb verdirb es 

nicht mit Farbe! 

Dieses ist ein Rabe und jenes ein Falke. Und der Falke ist glänzender als 

der Rabe. 

Andere sind vom weißen Haar nicht gerade begeistert, sehen in ihm aber immerhin 

noch das kleinere Übel gegenüber der Glatze, für die die Damenwelt nur 

noch Spott übrig hat. Ibn Ab\ Âun (hingerichtet 933) zitiert anonym die Verse (rapaz): 

54 

42. qalat Sulaima wal-kabiru yaslaû: 

ma ra#su üa illapabinun apmaû. 

52 Åar\f ar-Rad\ 1961, II, S. 124–125; Åar\f al-Murtada 1884, S. 28. 

53 Zitiert Mah . ˇgūb 1980, S. 91, und Vers 1 Haiba 1981, I, S. 156, beide nach Sˇuruh Saqt 1964, III, 

S. 1284. 

54 Ibn Ab\ Âun 1950, S. 224.


42. Sulaima sagte – und ein alter Mann wird nun einmal kahl –: 

„Der Kopf von dem da ist alles nur Stirn.“ 

Aˇs-Åar\f al-Murtada zitiert sich selbst mit Worten, die im letzten Teil auch einige 

hier schon zuvor behandelte Themen (vgl. Nr. 16 und Nr. 41) ansprechen (tawil): 55 

43. wa-iü lam arug înda l-gawani tagazzulan * fa-mi©lu maˇsibi bainahunna 

ˇsababi 

wa-lau kuntu yauman bil-äidabi muwakkalan * äadabtu li-man yaäfa 

âlaihi äidabi 

fa-in tu^tini ula l-äidabi ˇsabibatan * fa-inna lahu uära bi-gairi ˇsababi 

wa-aina mina l-isbahi sibgatu gaihabin * wa-aina mina l-baziyi launu gurabi? 

wa-ayyu ntifaîn li bi-launi ˇsabibatin * wa-launu ihabi ˇs-ˇsaibi launu ihabi? 

43. Weil ich mich nicht bei den jungen Mädchen zum Flirt einschleichen 

wollte, war es mir gleichgültig, ob ich mit weißem Haar oder jugendlich 

unter ihnen auftrat. 

Wenn mir eines Tages das Färben angetragen worden wäre, hätte ich mich 

nur für jemanden gefärbt, dem mein Färben verborgen geblieben wäre. 

Aber wenn mir auch die erste Färbung Jugendlichkeit wiedergibt, so gibt es 

dazu eine zweite (Färbung = Glatze) ohne Wiederverjüngungsmöglichkeit. 

Wo bleibt schon gegenüber dem Morgen die Farbe der nächtlichen Finsternis 

und wo bleibt gegenüber dem Falken die Farbe des Raben? 

Welchen Nutzen bringt mir eine jugendliche Farbe (der Haare), wenn die 

Farbe meiner Haut die der Haut eines Weißhaarigen ist? 

Zur Erklärung seines dritten Verses führt aˇs-Åar\f al-Murtada dann noch 

gleich einen weiteren anonymen Vers an, den Ibn al-Mu^tazz dann allerdings umdreht 

(s.u. Nr. 56) (mutaqarib): 56 

44. wa-qalu: l-äidabu ˇsababun padidu * fa-qultu: n-nusulu maˇsibun padidu. 

44. Sie sagten: „Das Färben ist eine neue Jugend.“ Ich antwortete: „Der Haarausfall 

ist dann ein erneutes Ergrauen.“ 57 

Angesichts des bevorstehenden Haarausfalls ist das Färben für Ma1mud 

al-Warraq nur eine Art Begräbnis (sari^): 58 

55 Åar\f al-Murtada 1884, S. 77–78. 

56 Åar\f al-Murtada 1884, S. 78. 

57 Der erste Halbvers ist wohl durch die Redensart: al-äidabu ahadu ˇs-ˇsababaini ,Das Färben 

ist eine der beiden Jugenden“ inspiriert, gegen die sich der zweite Halbvers wendet. Aˇs-Åar\f al- 

Murtada führt als zweiten Beleg für seinen ma^na dann noch den zweiten Vers des oben (Nr. 14) 

zitierten Gedichts von Ma1mud al-Warraq an. Ich habe nusul einmal mit „Verbleichen“ und einmal 

mit „Haarausfall“ übersetzt. Es scheint beides zu bedeuten. 

58 Ma1mud al-Warraq 1969, S. 126 = Nr. 167.


45. ya äadiba ˇs-ˇsaibati nuh faqdaha! * fa-innama tadrupuha fi kafan. 

45. O du, der du das weiße Haar färbst, beweine lieber sein Schwinden, denn 

du wickelst es nur in ein Leichentuch! 

Dass das weiße Haar das kleinere Übel gegenüber der Glatze ist, wird in Muslim 

b. al-Wal\d zugeschriebenen Versen klar zum Ausdruck gebracht (basit): 59 

46. aˇs-ˇsaibu kurhun wa-kurhun an ufariqahu * a^pib bi-ˇsai#in âla l-bagda#i 

maududi! 

yamdi ˇs-ˇsababu fa-ya#ti ba^dahu badalun * waˇs-ˇsaibu yaühabu mafqudan 

bi-mafqudi. 

46. Das weiße Haar ist etwas Abscheuliches. Abscheulich ist aber auch, dass 

ich mich von ihm trennen muss. Wie seltsam ist doch etwas, das trotz des 

Hasses geliebt wird! 

Die Jugend vergeht, aber nach ihr kommt wenigstens ein Ersatz, während 

das weiße Haar dahinschwindet als Verlust von einem Verlust. 

In den vorangegangenen Zitaten wurde das weiße Haar in Verbindung mit 

der ihm folgenden Veränderung zu dem schlimmeren Zustand der Glatzköpfigkeit 

oder gar des Todes gesehen. Manche Dichter nähern sich dem weißen Haar 

aber von der vorhergehenden Veränderung her und sehen bereits in dem Sprießen 

des schwarzen Haares auf der weißen Wange des Jünglings ein ähnliches 

Unglück wie in dem Ergrauen im Alter. Von as-Sanaubar\ (gest. 945 oder 946) 

stammt der Vers (äafif): 60 

47. wa-swidadu l-îüari ba^da byidadi * ka-byidadi l-îüari ba^da swidadi. 

47. Dass der Backenbart schwarz wird, nachdem (die Wange) vorher weiß 

gewesen war, ist genauso (schlimm), wie wenn der Backenbart weiß 

wird, nachdem er vorher schwarz gewesen war! 

Ibn ar-Rum\ greift diese Kombination der Altersstufen auf und benutzt sie, 

um das Färben des weißen Haares zu tadeln (wafir): 61 

48. fazi^ta ila l-äidabi fa-lam tupaddid * bihi äalaqan wa-la ahyaita maita 

äadabta ˇs-ˇsaiba hina bada fa-halla * halaqta l-âridaini iüa ltahaita? 

li-tarpiâ mardatun kanat fa-banat * kama taswida ˇsaibatika rtapaita. 

59 Muslim 1957, S. 311 = Nr. 97 (im Üail nach zahlreichen Quellen); Nach Mapmuât al-maâni 

1992, I, S. 576 = Nr. 881, auch Baˇsˇsar b. Burd zugeschrieben. Vers 1: Nuwair\ 1924, II, S. 22. 

60 Sar\ ar-Raffa# 1985, I, S. 57 = Nr. 79 (mit weiteren Quellen); Sanaubar\ 1970, S. 472 = Nr. 64 

(vom Herausgeber I1san Âbba - s aus sekundärer Quelle in die Takmila aufgenommen) Zitiert 

Bauer 1998, S. 259 (Übersetzung von dort übernommen). 

61 Åar\f al-Murtada 1884, S. 79. Das Gedicht bildet zusammen mit dem folgenden im Diwan 

von Ibn ar-Rum\ 1973–81, I, S. 385–386 = Nr. 306 eine Einheit, die allerdings mit mehreren 

wa-yurwa-Varianten überliefert wird. Ich folge in diesem Fall den Lesungen von aˇs-Åar\f 

al-Murtada.


48. Du hast die Zuflucht zum Färben genommen, aber damit hast du ein abgetragenes 

Kleid nicht erneuert und Totes nicht zum Leben erweckt. 

Als das weiße Haar erschien, färbtest du es. Warum hast du dir dann 

nicht die Wangen rasiert, als der Bart sproß, 

damit das Knabenalter, das einmal war und dann entschwand, wiederkehrt, 

so wie du jetzt deine Hoffnung auf das Schwärzen des weißen Haares 

setzt? 

Und (wafir): 62 

49. äadabta ˇs-ˇsaiba hina bada li-tudâ * fatan hada©an dalalan ma rtapaita! 

ala hawalta an tudâ gulaman * bi-halqi l-âridaini iüa ltahaita? 

abat a©aru dahrika an tuâffa * bi-kaffika ˇsi#ta üalika am abaita. 

fa-da^ ânka l-äidaba wa-la turidhu! * fa-apda minhu qauluka lau wa-laita. 

49. Als das weiße Haar erschien, färbtest du es, damit man dich einen jungen 

Mann nenne. Welch Irrtum war doch, was du dir erhofftest! 

Warum hast du dann nicht, als dein Bart spross, versucht, ein Knabe genannt 

zu werden, indem du dir die Wangen rasiertest? 

Die Spuren deines Alters weigern sich, durch deine Hand ausgelöscht zu 

werden, ob du das willst oder nicht. 

Laß das Färben und verlange es nicht weiter! Immer noch mehr Zweck als 

das hätte dann noch dein Klagen „Wenn doch!“ und „Ach wäre doch!“. 

Ibn ar-Rum\ setzt hier wohl absichtlich zwei Situationen in Parallele, die 

grundverschieden sind. Das Sprießen des Bartes bedeutet den Übergang vom 

Knaben zum Mann und damit zum aktiv Liebenden. Das weiße Haar bedeutet das 

Ende aller Liebe und Männlichkeit. Das Sprießen des Bartes ist nur für den Liebhaber 

des Knaben ein negatives Ereignis, das Erscheinen des weißen Haares ist 

für den Mann selbst ein negativer Vorgang. 

Die Mehrzahl der Dichter stand dem Haarfärben skeptisch gegenüber. Das 

positive Statement, wie es in dem oben bereits zitierten Halbvers (Nr. 44): 

Sie sagten: „Das Färben ist eine neue Jugend“ 

zum Ausdruck kam, wurde von dem Dichter mit dem Hinweis auf den kommenden 

Haarausfall abgewiegelt. Ebenso widerspricht aˇs-Åar\f al-Murtada dem 

Wunsch seiner Geliebten, das Haar doch zu färben (wafir): 63 

50. nabat âina Umamata ân maˇsibi * wa-âddat ˇsaiba ra#si min üunubi 

wa-qalat: lau satarta ˇs-ˇsaiba ânni * fa-kam aäfa t-tasatturu min ûyubi! 

fa-qultu laha: apalla sarihu wuddi * wa-iälasi âni ˇs-ˇsaâri l-äadibi 

… 

wa-ma tadlisu ˇsaibi r-ra#si illa * ka-tadlisi l-widadi âla l-habibi. 

62 Åar\f al-Murtada 1884, S. 79. Vers 1 und 4 zitiert Mah . ˇgūb S. 96. 

63 Åar\f al-Murtada 1884, S. 85.


50. Die Augen Umamas schreckten vor meinem weißen Haar zurück. Sie 

zählte das Weiß meines Kopfes unter meine Sünden. 

Sie sagte: „Wenn du doch das weiße Haar vor mir verschleiert hättest! 

Denn wieviel meiner eigenen Fehler hat schon die Verschleierung verborgen!“ 

Ich sagte: „Die Reinheit meiner Liebe und meine Aufrichtigkeit sind erhaben 

über gefärbtes Haar. 

… 

Das Schwindeln beim Ergrauen des Hauptes ist genauso wie das Vortäuschen 

von Liebe gegenüber dem Geliebten. 64 

Auch Ibn al-Mu^tazz wird von einer Dame indirekt das Färben empfohlen (tawil): 65 

52. ra#at taliân liˇs-ˇsaibi agfaltu amrahu * wa-lam tataâhhadhu akuffu 

l-äawadibi 

fa-qalat: a-ˇsaibun ma ara? qultu: ˇsamatun * fa-qalat: la-qad ˇsanatka 

înda l-haba#ibi. 

52. Sie sah aufkommendes weißes Haar, das ich nicht beachtet hatte, so dass 

die Hände der Färber sich noch nicht über es hergemacht hatten. 

Sie sagte: „Ist es weißes Haar, was ich da sehe?“ Ich sagte: „Nur ein 

Schönheitsfleck.“ Sie sagte darauf: „Aber es hat dich in den Augen der 

Geliebten schon entstellt.“ 

Ma1mud al-Warraq brauchte nicht den Anstoß seiner Freundin, er sah selbst 

ein, dass ihm bei schwindender Jugend nichts anderes übrig blieb, als zu färben. 

So finden wir dann auch mehr oder minder notgedrungene positive Stellungnahmen 

zum Färben. Ma1mud al-Warraqs Vers lautet (wafir): 66 

53. fa-ma minka ˇs-ˇsababu wa-lasta minhu * iüa samatka lihyatuka l-äidaba. 

53. Die Jugend ist nicht Teil von dir und du gehörst nicht mehr zu ihr, wenn 

dein Bart dich zum Färben zwingt. 

64 Vgl. die ähnlichen moralischen Bedenken in Nr. 5. Aˇs-Åar\f al-Murtada zitiert zur Bestätigung 

seiner eigenen Ansicht noch zwei Verse von Ibn ar-Rum\, die Haarfärben ebenfalls mit Liebesbetrug 

gleichsetzen (Ibn ar-Rum\ 1973–81, V, S. 1842 = Nr. 1393; Åar\f al-Murtada 1884, S. 85; 

Nuwair\ 1924, II, S. 30; kamil): 

51. qul lil-musawwidi hina ˇsayyaba: hakaüa * giˇsˇsu l-gawani fi l-hawa iyyaka 

kaüaba l-gawaniya fi sawadi îüarihi * wa-kaüabnahu fi wuddihinna kaüaka. 

51. Sprich zu dem, der beim Auftreten des weißen Haares zum Schwärzen greift: „Genauso ist 

es, wenn die Mädchen dich in der Liebe betrügen.“ 

Er belügt die Mädchen über die Schwärze seiner Wangen, und sie belügen ihn genauso über 

ihre Liebe. 

65 Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1945–50, IV, S. 190 = Nr. 297; Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1977–78a, II, S. 381 = Nr. 614; 

Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, III, S. 130 = Nr. 1235; Baihaq\ 1902, S. 378; 0usr\ 1953, II, S. 902. 

66 Ma1mud al-Warraq 1969, S. 47 = Nr. 26 (mit Quelle).


Die Angst, beim Erkennen seines Alters als ausschweifender Greis beschimpft 

zu werden, trieb Âbd al-Kar\m b. Hawazin al-Quˇsair\ (gest. um 1072) 

zum Färben (äafif): 67 

54. ma äidabi bayadaˇsa^rin illa * haüaran an yuqala: ˇsaiäun äaliû. 

54. Dass ich mein weißes Haar färbe, geschieht nur aus Vorsicht davor, dass 

man sagt: „Ein liederlicher Alter.“ 

Anscheinend war Âbd al-Kar\m ein ˇsaiä äali^, der aber im Gegensatz zu den 

meisten seiner Dichterkollegen darauf vertraute, dass man seinen Betrug nicht 

erkannte. Auch von Ibn al-Mu^tazz gibt es Verse, die zum Färben raten, um das 

angenehme Leben der Jugend fortsetzen zu können (kamil): 68 

55. la tanfiranna mina ˇsababi wa-tibihi * abadan wa-raqqi^ ˇsaibahu bi-äidabi! 

55. Meide niemals das jugendliche Leben und seine Annehmlichkeit! Und 

flicke die ihm (folgenden) weißen Haare durch Färben! 

Ibn al-Mu^tazz dreht deshalb den oben (Nr. 44) zitierten anonymen Vers um 

(mutaqarib): 69 

56. wa-qalu: n-nusulu maˇsibun padidu * fa-qultu: l-äidabu ˇsababun padidu 

isa#atu haüa bi-ihsani üa * fa-in âda haüa fa-haüa yaûdu. 

56. Sie sagten: „Das Verblassen (der Färbung) ist ein erneutes Ergrauen.“ Da 

erwiderte ich: „Und das Färben ist eine erneute Jugendfrische.“ 

Was dieses verdirbt, wird durch jenes wieder gut gemacht. Denn wenn 

das eine zurückkehrt, kehrt auch das andere wieder. 

Der hier anklingende Gedanke des Ausgleichs des einen durch das andere 

wird in den folgenden Versen von Ibn al-Mu^tazz durch eine gewisse Personifizierung 

des Ergrauens in die Sphäre moralischer Vergeltung gerückt (mutaqarib): 70 

57. wa-gayyara hali fa-gayyartuhu * faâltu bihi mi©la ma qad faâl. 

57. Es (das weiße Haar) hatte meinen Zustand verändert. Da veränderte ich 

es. Ich tat ihm das gleiche an, was es (mir) angetan hatte. 71 

67 Ba3arz\ 1971–72, II, S. 996. Zitiert Haiba 1981, II, S. 565. 

68 Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1977–78a, I, S. 316 = Nr. 101; Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, I, S. 218 = Nr. 93. 


Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, III, S. 157 = Nr. 1266 (mit vielen weiteren Quellen); Nuwair\ 1924, II, 



Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, III, S. 199 = Nr. 1318. 

71 Baihaq\ 1902, S. 378, zitiert den Vers anonym mit einer Variante, die klar macht, worin die 

Veränderung bestand: 

58. wa-sawwada waphi fa-sawwadtuhu * faâltu bihi mi©la ma qad faâl. 

58. Es (das weiße Haar) verunstaltete (wörtl.: schwärzte) mein Gesicht. Da schwärzte ich es. Ich 

tat ihm das gleiche an, was es (mir) angetan hatte.


In einem anderen Gedicht schreibt Ibn al-Mu^tazz die Versündigung nicht 

dem weißen Haar, sondern dem Schicksal zu (äafif): 72 

59. salaäa d-dahru husnahu fa-gafarna * mapanahu fi launihi bil-äidabi. 

59. Das Schicksal hat seiner (des Haares) Schönheit die Haut abgezogen. 

Aber wir verbargen das, womit es sich an seiner Farbe versündigt hatte, 

durch die Färbung. 

Ibn ar-Rum\ geht in der Personifizierung noch weiter und redet das weiße 

Haar an (äafif): 73 

60. ya bayada l-maˇsibi sawwadta waphi * înda bidi l-wupuhi sudi l-quruni 

fa-la-âmri la-ahpubannaka puhdi * ân îyani wa-ân îyani l-ûyuni 

wa-la-âmri la-amnaânnaka an tad- * haka fi ra#si asifin mahzuni 

bi-äidabin fihi byidadun li-waphi * wa-sawadun li-waphika l-malûni. 74 

60. O Weiße des Haares, du hast mein Gesicht entstellt (wörtl. geschwärzt) in 

den Augen der weißgesichtigen, schwarzlockigen Mädchen. 

Bei meinem Leben, ich werde dich nach Kräften vor meinen Blicken und 

den Blicken der Augen verstecken. 

Bei meinem Leben, ich werde dich daran hindern, dass du auf dem Kopf 

eines Bekümmerten und Traurigen lachst 

durch ein Färben, das für mein Gesicht Weiße bedeutet (mein Gesicht 

aufhellt) und für dein verfluchtes Gesicht Schwärze. 

Ibn al-Mu^tazz sieht in dem weißen Haar eine Strafe, die er wiederum durch 

das Färben zu strafen gedenkt (wafir): 75 

61. fa-in yakuni l-maˇsibu tara âlaina * wa-auda bil-baˇsaˇsati waˇs-ˇsababi 

fa-inni la uâüüibuhu bi-ˇsai#in * aˇsadda âlaihi min natni l-äidabi 

ra#aitu ˇs-ˇsaiba wal-hinnaâüaban * fa-sallattu l-âüaba âla l-âüabi. 

61. Wenn das weiße Haar über mich hereingebrochen sein wird und Lächeln 

und Jugend vernichtet haben wird, 

dann könnte ich es nicht mit etwas bestrafen, das für es schlimmer ist als 

der Gestank des Färbemittels. 

Ich betrachte nämlich das weiße Haar und das Henna (gleichermaßen) 

als Strafe, so dass ich dann der Strafe die Strafe auferlegt haben werde. 


al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, III, S. 124 = Nr. 1229. 

73 Ibn ar-Rum\ 1973–81, VI, S. 2483 = Nr. 1360; 0usr\ 1953, I, S. 405; Nuwair\ 1924, II, S. 30; Qal\ 

1926, I, S. 112; Safad\ 1959, IV, S. 338 (Abu l-Âbbas Mu1ammad b. al-Qasim ad-Dimaˇsq\, einem 

Zeitgenossen von Abu Dulaf al-Îpl\, gest. um 840, zugeschrieben). Zitiert Haiba 1881, II, S. 561. 

74 Man beachte den tapnis im zweiten und die mutabaqat in den beiden anderen Versen. 

75 Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1945–50, IV, S. 194 = Nr. 307; Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1977–78a II, S. 383 = Nr. 619; Ibn 

al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, III, S. 135 = Nr. 1241 (mit weiteren Quellen). Zitiert Haiba 1981, II, S. 562.


Oberflächlich handelt es sich hier wiederum um Vergeltung. Der Witz liegt 

aber in dem Selbstbetrug; denn der Gestank trifft letztlich ja wieder den Dichter, 

der somit beide Strafen zu ertragen hat. 

Der Gedanke der Bestrafung des weißen Haares findet sich auch bei anderen 

Dichtern. Von Kuˇsapim stammt der Vers (tawil): 76 

62. aäi qum fa-âwinni âla natfi ˇsaibatin! * fa-inniya minha fiâüabin wa-fi 

harbi. 

62. Auf, mein Bruder, hilf mir beim Auszupfen des weißen Haares! Ich bin 

nämlich dabei, es zu bestrafen und zu bekriegen. 

Und bei Ma1mud al-Warraq heißt es (wafir): 77 

63. … * wa-âüüibhu bi-anwaî l-âüabi! 

bi-natfin au bi-naqsin kulla yaumin * wa-ahyanan bi-makruhi l-äidabi. 

63. … Und bestrafe es (das weiße Haar) mit allerlei Strafen! 

Mit Auszupfen, mit täglichem Kürzen und manchmal auch mit dem unangenehmen 

Färben. 

Ma1mud al-Warraq personifiziert das weiße Haar noch auf andere Weise. Er 

betrachtet es als Gast, den er mit dem Färbemittel bewirtet (kamil): 78 

64. lid-daifi an yuqra wa-yu^rafa haqquhu * waˇs-ˇsaibu daifuka fa-qrihi biäidabi! 

wafa bi-aküabi ˇsahidin wa-la-rubbama * wafa l-maˇsibu bi-ˇsahidin 

kaüüabi 

fa-fsaä ˇsahadatahu âlaika bi-äadbatin * tanfi z-zununa bihi âni l-murtabi! 

64. Dem Gast kommt es zu, dass man ihn bewirtet und sein Recht anerkennt. 

Das weiße Haar ist dein Gast. Drum bewirte ihn mit Färbung! 

Sie liefert den verlogensten Zeugen. Vielleicht liefert aber auch das weiße 

Haar einen lügenreichen Zeugen. 79 

Dann erkläre sein (des weißen Haares) Zeugnis gegen dich durch eine 

Färbung für nichtig, die aus dem Zweifler die in ihm noch vorhandenen 

Verdachtsmomente vertreibt! 

In den vorangegangenen Versen war gelegentlich schon vom Auszupfen der 

weißen Haare die Rede. Ein weiterer Beleg stammt von Ibn al-Mu^tazz (basit): 80 

76 0usr\ 1953, II, S. 898. Zitiert Haiba 1981, II, S. 557. 

77 Ma1mud al-Warraq 1969, S. 38 = Nr. 10. 

78 Ma1mud al-Warraq 1969, S. 45–46 = Nr. 24; Ibn Âbd Rabbih\ 1928, II, S. 50; Nuwair\ 1924, II, 


79 Indem es dein Alter zu einem Zeitpunkt bezeugt, zu dem du dich noch jung fühlst. 

80 Ibn ar-Rum\ 1973–81, II, S. 806 = Nr. 653.


65. kafaka min üillati li-ˇs-ˇsaibi hina ata * anni tawallaitu natfan lihyati biyadi. 

65. Als meine Erniedrigung wegen des weißen Haares möge es dir genügen, 

dass ich, wenn es erscheint, es auf mich nehmen muss, meinen Bart mit 

meiner Hand auszuzupfen. 

Das Auszupfen half allerdings nur beim Auftreten der ersten weißen Haare. 

War erst einmal der ganze Kopf oder Bart weiß, musste man, wenn man nicht färben 

wollte, zu radikaleren Mitteln greifen und das ganze Haar abscheren. Zum 

Schluss seien deshalb noch zwei Gedichte von Ibn al-Mu^tazz zitiert, obwohl sie 

nicht mehr vom Färben handeln, sondern von seinem badal, also einem badal albadal 

(tawil): 81 

66. a-lasta tara ˇsaiban bi-ra#si ˇsamilan? * wanat hilati fihi wa-daqa bihi üarî 

ka#anna l-maqaridu llati ya^tawirnahu * manaqiru girbanin âla sunbuli 

z-zarî. 

66. Siehst du nicht das weiße Haar überall auf meinem Kopf? Meine List richtete 

nichts aus, und ich war mit meinen Kräften am Ende. 

Als ob die Scheren, die über es herfallen, die Schnäbel von Raben über 

den Ähren eines Saatfelds wären. 

Und (rapaz): 82 

67. qultu li-ˇsaibi iü bada * wa-byadda minni l-mafriqu: 

ya fiddatan lakinnaha *kasidatun la tanfuqu 

ya naharan la yurappi * subhahu man ya^ˇsaqu 

la marhaban! la marhaban! * anta l-âduwu l-azraqu 

inna ˇs-ˇsababa äanani * far-ra#su minni ablaqu 

aina gurabun aswadun? * atartahu ya âqâqu! 

qad kalla miqradi wa-am- * saâridi yastahliqu. 

67. Als mein weißes Haar erschien und mein Scheitel weiß wurde, sprach ich 

zu ihm (dem weißen Haar): 

„O Silber, das jedoch unverkäuflich ist und keinen Absatz findet! 

O Tag, dessen Morgen niemand erhofft, der noch liebt, 

sei nicht gegrüßt, sei nicht gegrüßt! Du bist der blauäugige Feind. 83 

Die Jugend hat mich betrogen, denn mein Kopf ist jetzt schwarz-weiß gescheckt. 

81 Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1945–50, IV, S. 217, Nr. 360; Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1977–78a, II, S. 405 = Nr. 677; Ibn 

al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, III, S. 182 = Nr. 1299. Zitiert Haiba 1981, II, S. 556. 

82 Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1945–50, IV, S. 219 = Nr. 366; Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1977–78a, II, S. 407–408 = 

Nr. 683; Ibn al-Mu^tazz 1977–78b, I, III, S. 185 = Nr. 1304. 

83 Das weiße Haar wird mit dem hellen Morgen und dieser wiederum mit den hellhäutigen und 

blauäugigen Byzantinern verglichen.


Wo ist noch ein schwarzer Rabe? Du hast ihn wegfliegen lassen, o 

(schwarzweiße) Elster! 

Meine Schere ist schon stumpf geworden, 84 trotzdem verlangt meine 

Wange abends schon wieder nach einer Rasur.“ 85 

Um noch weiter vom Thema abzukommen, sei zum Schluss noch ein annonymes 

Epigramm zitiert, in dem das Schicksal metaphorisch zum Rasierer gemacht 

wird (tawil): 86 

68. bara ra#sahu barin bi-gairi hadidatin * fa-mafriquhu min baina uünaihi apmaû 

hifafani mi©lu l-quüüataini 87 wa-hamatun * yazillu ü-üubabu ©-©aqfu ânha 

fa-yusraû. 

68. Ein Schaber hat seinen Kopf ohne Eiseninstrument abgeschabt, so dass 

sein ganzer Scheitel zwischen den Ohren 

nur noch aus zwei Pfeilfedern gleichen Haarresten und einem Schädel 

besteht, auf dem selbst die geschickten Fliegen ausrutschen und zu Boden 

geworfen werden. 

Das Schwinden der Jugend und das Ergrauen sind in der Realität sicher eine 

ernste Angelegenheit, und die meisten Dichter – vor allem diejenigen, die sich in 

der von mir nicht berücksichtigten Gattung zuhdiyat hervorgetan haben – behandeln 

sie auch so. Aber mit dem Thema des Färbens lockern sie den Ernst (pidd) 

doch hin und wieder durch – teilweise selbstironischen – Scherz (hazl) auf. So 

kann man vielleicht statt von al-pidd wal-hazl von al-hazl fi l-pidd sprechen. 

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l-Âla# al-Maârr\. Sifr 2.) (Al-Maktaba al-ârab\ya. 3 = Ta1q\q at-tura© al-ârab\: al-adab. 3.) 

Ullmann 1992 = Manfred Ullmann: Das Motiv des Spiegels in der arabischen Literatur des 

Mittelalters. Mit Beiträgen von Rainer Degen. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. 

(Abhandlungen der Akademie der Wissenschaften in Göttingen. Philologisch-historische 

Klasse. Folge 3, Nr. 198.)

Notes on Some DOI Turkish 10.1515/islam-2012-0005 Personal Names in Seljūq ISLAM Military 2012; History 89(2): 97–110 

97 

C. Edmund Bosworth 

Notes on Some Turkish Personal Names 

in Seljuq Military History 

Abstract: The written renderings of Turkish names, so frequently encountered in 

the history of the pre-modern ruling dynasties of the Central and Eastern Islamic 

lands (these dynasties being themselves in large part the creations of Turkish 

military men), suffered badly in the past from the deformations of authors and 

copyists, mainly Arabs and Persians, who did not themselves know Turkish. 

Moreover, these renderings have often been perpetuated by modern historians of 

Islam, few of whom have bothered to elucidate these names and to set forth their 

correct forms and meanings. The present study discusses some of the very diverse 

principles behind medieval Turkish onomastic and uses these specifically for a 

consideration of the names of some prominent military commanders of the Great 

Seljuq sultans, ruling essentially in Persia and Iraq during the 11th and 12th centuries. 

C. Edmund Bosworth: Exeter University, edmundbosworth@waitrose.com 

Introduction 

This article forms a pendant to two previous studies on the Turkish names, principally 

those of slave servants and military commanders, mentioned in that remarkable 

source for early Ghaznavid history, Abu l-Fadl Bayhaq\’s administrative 

journal-cum-history, the Tarikh-i Masûdi. 1 The present study deals with the nomenclature 

of some of the commanders of the Great Seljuq sultans, supplanters of 

the Ghaznavids in eastern Persia, Khurasan and Sistan, and in the upper Oxus 

region, and, as with the Ghaznavids’ Turkish commanders, a substantial part of 

these were ghulams or military slaves in origin. It is true that the Seljuq armies differed 

considerably from those of the Ghaznavids in that the Seljuq army, originally 

the tribal following of the Seljuq family chieftains, continued throughout the 

whole century and a half of Great Seljuq history to include substantial Turkmen 

1 Now translated into English, with an extensive commentary, by C.E. Bosworth, The History 

of Beyhaqi (The History of Sultan Masûd of Ghazna, 1030–1041) by Abu ’l-Fadl Beyhaqi, 3 vols., 

Washington D.C. 2011.

98 C. Edmund Bosworth 

tribal contingents as well as what became a core of standing, professional, largely 

slave, troops. In his Early Seljuq history, a new interpretation, London 2010, 94–8, 

Andrew C.S. Peacock suggests that the recruitment of slave troops began under 

Toghrïl Beg around 447/1055, at a time when, so the Arabic sources imply, relations 

between the Seljuq chief and his original Türkmen backing were already 

starting to cool. Certainly, given the common Oghuz background of the sultans 

and maliks and of much of their tribal backing, the Seljuq rulers had to stay attuned 

to the needs and aspirations of this free tribal element; the tensions resultant 

from this were a constant feature of Great Seljuq history, culminating in the 

great Oghuz revolt in Khurasan of 548–51/1153–6, which directly brought about 

the end of Great Seljuq rule in the East. The sources are often not explicit, but 

Saw-tegin (see below, Names, no. 25) is specifically described in the sources as an 

eunuch; and whilst the commander Khass Beg, who flourished in the mid-sixth/ 

twelfth century, bears the exalted title of Beg, characteristic at this time of rulers, 

princes and great leaders (see Peter Jackson, EI, art. „Beg and Begom“), his father 

or grandfather B.l.n.k.r.y (see below, Names, no. 6) could well have been a slave. 

The title of the present article specifically evokes Seljuq military history, and 

Names dealt with here are thus all those of military men, even though as trusty 

servants and intimates of the rulers they often fulfilled at the Seljuq courts functions 

that one might think were civilian rather than military, such as chamberlain 

or door-keeper (hajib, parda-dar), treasurer (khazin, khazna-dar), cupbearer 

(saqi), superintendent of the kitchens and food preparation (chashni-gir), keeper 

of the royal washing bowls (tasht-dar), keeper of the royal wardrobe (jama-dar), 

etc. 2 

What is not clear is whether the Turkish names of these soldiers were bestowed 

on them by their parents or kindred at birth, hence within the Inner Asian 

environment, or acquired when they were brought, as captured or purchased, 

slaves, to the markets of Transoxania or Caucasia. Similarly, it is rarely possible 

exactly to identify their local or tribal origins with any degree of exactitude, since 

the doctrine that „Islam cancels the past“ came into operation when, as normally 

happened, a slave became a Muslim on entering the Islamic lands; the case of Sebüktegin, 

founder of the Ghaznavid sultanate, who according to his Pand-nama, 

an alleged epistle of his containing advice to his son Ma1mud, came from the 

Barskhan region along the southern shores of the Issik Köl in the Semirechye 

(hence possibly from a group associated with the Qarluq such as the Chigil), and 

2 Cf. Ismail Hakkı Uzunçar ¸silı, Osmanlı devleti te ¸skilâtına medhal. Büyük Selçukîler, Anadolu 

Selçukîleri, Anadolu Beylikleri, Ilhânîler, Karakoyunlu ve Akkoyunlularla memlûklerdeki devlet 

te ¸skilâtına bir bakı ¸s, Istanbul 194I, 31–47.

Notes on Some Turkish Personal Names in Seljūq Military History 99 

was then sold in the slave market of Nakhshab in Samanid Transoxania, is exceptional. 

3 

As has been stressed in the previous two onomastic studies mentioned 

above, it has seemed to the present author important that the Turkish names, so 

recurrent in the history of the central and eastern Islamic lands from the fifth/ 

eleventh century onwards, should be examined from the philological aspect and 

their correct forms, very often mangled by Arabic and Persian authors and copyists 

who knew no Turkish and, less excusably, by the modern scholars citing 

them, should be elucidated as far as possible. This need was recognised by Albert 

von Le Coq over eighty years ago („Viele der türkischen Namen sind von 

den europäischen Übersetzern und Historikern falsch vokalisiert worden“, as he 

wrote in his „Türkische Namen und Titel in Indien“, in Aus Indiens Kultur. Festgabe 

R. von Garbe … zu seinem 70. Geburtstag dargebracht von seinen Freunden, 

Verehrern und Schülern, Erlangen 1927, 1); and two or more decades later, in 1950, 

Jean Sauvaget did pioneering work on the Turkish onomastic of the Mamluks, 

a work which does not however seem to have been followed up by the comparatively 

numerous group of workers in what is now the flourishing field of 

Mamluk history and literature, those whom one might term Mamlukologists. 

Sauvaget noted there that „Les noms propres turcs qui foisonnent dans les chroniques 

arabes du Moyen-Âge n’ont point été traité par les arabisants d’une manière 

rationelle“ („Noms et surnoms de Mamelouks“, 31), and the task of elucidating 

these names is in fact more one for the Turcologist than the Arabist. It is true 

that, until a half-century or so ago, the Hilfsmittel for the study of Turkish onomastic 

had not advanced greatly beyond the nineteenth-century works of Pavet de 

Courteille, Sir James Redhouse, and W. Radloff and other Russian scholars 

working in Siberia and Turkestan, despite the publication in 1917 by Kilisli Rifât 

Bey of Ma1mud al-Kashghar\’s infinitely valuable Diwan lughat al-turk. This last 

Turkish-Arabic dictionary has since then formed a major basis for our vastly improved 

knowledge of the earlier stages of the Turkic languages, fully utilised 

in what are now the fundamental reference works of László Rásonyi, Gerhard 

Doerfer and Sir Gerard Clauson (for a general survey of the development 

of Turkish lexicography and resultant knowledge of Turkish onomastic over 

the last 150 years or so, see János Eckmann, EI, art. „ Kamus. 3. Turkish lexicography“). 

3 See C.E. Bosworth, The Ghaznavids, their Empire in Afghanistan and Eastern Iran 994:1040, 

Edinburgh 1963, 39–40. The Ghaznavids’ court panegyrists occasionally mention in their poetry 

the tribes from which the sultans’ ghulam troops came (ibid., 109), but without information on 

the origins of specific commanders or soldiers.

100 C. Edmund Bosworth 

It is also relevant for our purposes here to note two recently-published further 

titles on Turkish onomastic that the present writer was unable to take into account 

for his two earlier articles on Turkish names of early Ghaznavid history. 

In the posthumous work of the Turkish historian Faruk Sümer (d. 1995), Türk devletleri 

tarihinde ¸sahıs adları, the author records names occurring in the sources 

from the time of the first Türk empire to that of the Mamluks and the pre-Ottoman 

sultanate Anatolian beyliks, sometimes, though unfortunately not very often, 

with etymological explanations. 4 But above all, we now have, thanks to the editorial 

labours of Imre Baski and the patronage of the Denis Sinor Institute for 

Inner Asian Studies at Indiana University, Bloomington, the long-awaited Onomasticon 

turcicum of the late László Rásonyi, based on some 60,000 entries and 

their explanations gathered together by this scholar over several decades but 

which declining health, increasing blindness and death in 1984 unfortunately 

rendered him never able to publish; this monumental work replaces the bare list 

which we previously had of some 25,000 names furnished by Baski, A preliminary 

index to Rásonyi’s Onomasticon turcicum, Debter – Deb-ther – Debtelin. Materials 

for Central Asiatic and Altaic Studies 6, Budapest 1986. 5 

There thus emerges the particular richness of Turkish onomastic, sc. ethonyms 

or tribal names and anthroponyms or personal names; virtually every 

Turkish vocable seems capable of being utilised here. Works such as those mentioned 

above enable us to trace the development of this onomastic from the 

time of the diplomatic and commercial contacts of the Byzantines with the first 

Türk empire in the sixth century (the material here being magisterially studied 

by Gyula Moravcsik in his Byzantinoturcica, East Berlin 1958, especially Vol. II, 

Sprachreste der Türkvölker in den byzantinischen Quellen) and the period of 

the Orkhon inscriptions up to the nineteenth century (and perhaps one should 

extend this into the twentieth century and note Kemal Atatürk’s requirement of 

European-style surnames and family names for citizens of Republican Turkey, 

which has resulted in some imaginative name creations). 

Name-giving has always played an important role in human existence, 

often accompanied by special ceremonies and celebrations, and amongst many 

peoples – certainly amongst the Turks – it may be considered as an aspect of folk 

4 I am grateful to Professor Carole Hillenbrand (Edinburgh University) for first bringing this 

work to my attention, and to Dr Benedek Péri (Budapest University) for procuring me a copy of it 

from Turkey. 

5 Again, my thanks to Dr Péri for sending me a copy of this last work. For more detailed discussions 

of recent developments in Turkish lexicographical and onomastic studies, see Bosworth, 

“Notes on some Turkish names”, 299–302, and idem, “Further notes on the Turkish names”, 

443–5.


life and literature. Specifically, Baski has commented that „Turkic anthroponyms 

imply melody, rhyme and alliteration, pun and metaphor, polysemy and monosemy, 

myth and religion“. 6 In his article „The psychology and categories of name 

giving among the Turkish peoples“, Rásonyi classified names under several 

headings, of which the ones significant for our present purpose are: totemistic 

names; desiderata names „which express the parents’ wish, protection and intention 

towards the spiritual world“; protective or atropaic names; symbolic, fortuitous 

or omen names; and theophoric names. Rásonyi’s system has become regarded 

as the basic one of categorisation, even though it may require fine tuning 

(see Baski, Introduction to Onomasticon turcicum, I, p. XXXVII). 

Totemistic names, whether clan ethonyms (Gyula Németh observed in his 

note, „Le système des noms de peuples turcs“, Journal Asiatique, CCXXXIX, 70, 

that totemistic names are not found for larger groups such as tribes) or anthroponyms, 

imply that the human group or person has a special relationship of respect 

and honour with a particular animal, bird, reptile or even plant, the connection 

being cherished because of an attribution to the totem or onghun of outstanding 

strength, speed, courage, etc., which a human can acquire through the relationship. 

With particular regard to the Seljuqs, Rash\d al-D\n records that the 

twenty-four component units of the Oghuz (from one of which, the Qïnïq, the Seljuq 

family was descended) were made up of six groups of four, each with its own 

onghun (as conveniently listed, from Rash\d al-D\n, by M.Th. Houtsma in his „Die 

Ghuzzenstämme“, Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes, II [1888], 

219–33). The Turks believed themselves to be descendants of the wolf so that totemistic 

names like Boz-qurt „grey wolf“, a chief of the Dhu l-Qadr Oghullarï of 

southeastern Anatolia, and Kök-böri „Blue wolf“, a Begtiginid Atabeg of Irbil, 

occur, whilst one species of raptor, the toghrïl, also held a special place in Turkish 

onomastic (see below, Names, no. 29). 

Names which express desiderata or have an intentional aim are connected 

with the effects of spirits, good or evil, on human character or behaviour, hence 

they express e.g. wishes for a newly-born child’s success in life, strength, wealth, 

happiness, etc. Here are found names of vigorous and powerful animals such as 

arslan „lion“, bars „ panther“ (see below, Names, no. 15), bugha „bull“, bughra 

„camel stallion“, etc., clearly overlapping, and doubtless connected, with names 

of totemistic origin; imperatives such as toqta „stand [fast]!“ and bek bol „be 

strong, healthy!“; and epithets and substantives denoting favourable mental or 

physical features, such as bilge „wise“ and ïnanch „faithfulness, confidence“ (see 

below, Names, no. 13). 

6 Onomasticon turcicum, I, p. XXII.


The category of protective or atropaic names is especially important in Turkish 

onomastic. 7 It was obviously of prime significance for a people whose origins 

and whose subsequent homelands (at least until they entered the settled lands 

of the Islamic Middle East en masse from the eleventh century onwards), lay in 

the forest lands of western Mongolia and the Lake Baikal region, in the mountain 

massifs of the Altai and Tien-shan, and then in the great Eurasian steppelands 

extending across western Siberia to South Russia and the Carpathians. Life in all 

these different terrains alike involved a perpetual struggle for survival against a 

harsh environment and unrelenting, adverse, natural forces, so that any additional 

protection obtainable from supernatural or magical powers which could be 

invoked was welcome. These protective or atropaic names involve such concepts 

as unpleasant or depreciatory epithets bestowed on children to ward off the influence 

of evil spirits, the idea here being that these malevolent forces will pass 

by and disregard infants bearing names signifying their worthlessness (cf. below, 

Names, no. 24; names involving filth and excrement are to be included here, such 

as qomuq „horse dung“, already noted by Kashghar\ as a princely name). In this 

connection, and for modern times, Baski, Onomasticon turcicum, Introduction, 

p. XLIV, cites Ralph Fox, People of the steppe, London 1925, 149: „The Kirghiz 

Kazakhs are sadly superstitious. Such is their fear of evil spirits that mothers, in 

terror of their jealousy, commonly christen children with unlovely or unflattering 

names. They are called after feeble animals, or endowed with sorry qualities, in 

the hope, that such terrified humility will be beneath the notice of the evil spirits“. 

The name Satïlmïsh „sold“ apparently falls under this heading, see below, 

Names, no. 24. 

Symbolic names involve features or qualities which, it is hoped, will become 

attached to the child. They include substances whose hardness or high value will 

be transferred to it, such as the very common elements for names demir „iron“, 

tash „stone“, altïn, altun „gold“ and gümüsh „silver“ (see below, Names, nos. 

2, 12), and natural phenomena involving violence and fierceness, like yaghmur 

„rain, rainstorm“, or expressing immense size or expansiveness, like deñiz, teñiz 

„sea“. 

Theophoric names, corresponding to European forms like Theodoros and 

Deodatus, are common, such as Tañrï-verdi, familiar in the name of the Mamluk 

historian Ibn Taghr\-Bird\, and Allah-verdi, possibly with an atropaic element, 

7 And, it may be noted, to a lesser extent in Arabic usage, cf. the name Qab\1a “the ugly one” for 

the slave wife of the caliph al-Mutawakkil, a famed beauty; for references to antiphrasis in Arabic 

name-giving, see C.E. Bosworth, The Book of curious and entertaining information. The Lata’if 

al-maârif of Thaâlibi, Edinburgh 1968, 63 n. 46.


sc. the protecting of a child from malevolent spirits by committing him to God’s 

special protection. 8 

It thus appears to the present author that the time is surely ripe for a detailed 

consideration, not only of the Turkish personal names appearing in the Seljuq 

sources, but also of the onomastic of subsequent Turkish dynasties in the Middle 

and Eastern Islamic lands, as was tentatively essayed by Sauvaget and then by 

Sümer (see above), and it is hoped that the present study will contribute towards 

the achievement of this ideal. In composing it, the author has been especially indebted 

to the expert advice on Turcological matters of Professor Peter B. Golden 

(Rutgers University, N.J.); his contributions and suggestions are marked either expressly 

by mention of his name or by the initials P.G. 

The Names 

1. ALP-QUSH, the name of a commander of Masûd b. Mu1ammad (I) and 

Mu1ammad (II) b. Ma1mud and of several other Seljuq amirs (Rawand\, 262; 

0usayn\, 131, tr. 87; Ibn al-Ath\r, XI, 12, tr. Chronicle, Part 1, 306), „hero, heroic, 

brave bird“ (Clauson, ED, 128, 670; Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 610; Rásonyi-Baski, 

OT, I, 55) 

2. ALTUN-TAQ, originally a commander of the Ghaznavids who joined the 

Seljuq Chaghrï Beg (0usayn\, 12–13, tr. 16; Ibn al-Ath\r, IX, 483, tr. Annals, 40–1). 

The Dad-Beg 0abash\ b. Altun-taq whom Berk-yaruq appointed governor of Khurasan 

may have been the former’s son (Bundar\, 259; Ibn al-Ath\r, X, 266, tr. Annals, 

292; Juwayni, II, 3–4, tr. I, 278). The first component of the name is clearly 

altïn, altun „gold“, and taq is a denominal and deverbal suffix that forms adjectives, 

hence „‘golden, gold-like“ (PG, citing for this Besim Atalay, Türk dilinde 

ekler ve kökler üzerine bir deneme, Istanbul 1941, 253). See also Doerfer, TMEN, 

II, 112–14 no. 529; Clauson, ED, 131; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, I, 57–8, 62). Sümer-Yazgan, 

SA, II, 610–11, less plausibly surmised that the last element might possibly 

be tagh/dagh „mountain“. 

3. AYAQ, commander of Sanjar’s (0usayn\, 94, tr. 65 and n. 297), „foot; cup, 

beaker“ (Doerfer, TMEN, II, 171–2 no. 629; Clauson, ED, 270; Rásonyi-Baski, 

OT, I, 19–20). 

8 For a detailed survey of the whole topic of Turkish anthroponomy, see the article of 

Rásonyi cited above, and the lengthy Introduction by Baski to Onomasticon turcicum, at I, 

pp. XXII–LXXIV.


4. AYAZ, as well as being the name of Sultan Ma1mud of Ghazna’s celebrated 

cupbearer and favourite, is also found for Seljuq princes, sons of Alp Arslan 

and of Mu1ammad (I) b. Malik Shah, and for various Seljuq commanders 

(Rawand\, 153; 0usayn\, 54, tr. 41, and 79, tr. 56; Ibn al-Ath\r, X, 75, tr. Annals, 178), 

with the basic meaning „clear, bright-faced“ (Sauvaget, 39; Clauson, ED, 276; 

Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 617–18; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, I, 20). 

5. B.L.N.K.R.Y, the father or grandfather of Masûd b. Mu1ammad (I)’s commander 

Khass Beg Arslan (Rawand\, 233; 0usayn\, 114, tr. 76 and n. 349; Ibn al- 

Ath\r, XI, 104, tr. Chronicle, Part 1, 377). My suggestion for this enigmatic name in 

„The Political and Dynastic History of the Iranian Worlds (A.D. 1000–1217)“, in 

Cambridge History of Iran, V, The Saljuq and Mongol periods, ed. J.A. Boyle, Cambridge 

1968, 131, was *Palang-eri „tiger/leopard/panther man/heroic warrior“, 

though one might have expected here palang-er, whereas palang-eri would be a 

kind of nisba (and I have now found that Sümer, SA, II, 622–3, mentions 

that Ahmed Ate¸s also proposed an interpretation peleng-eri). The rendering by 

Mehmet Altay Köymen, Büyük Selçuklu imparatorlugu. II. Ikinci imparatorluk 

devri, Ankara 1954, 395, that of Belengerî, presumably connecting it with the eastern 

Caucasian town of the Khazars, Balangar (see D.M. Dunlop, art. „Balandjar“, 

in EI ), is improbable since this place disappears from mention after the time of 

Ibn Fadlan (early fourth/tenth century). However, Professor Golden informs me 

that the Persian word palang is not attested in Turkic till the time of the Codex cumanicus 

(early fourteenth century) – though that does not mean that it did not 

exist before then –, and that an etymology from palang-er(i) is unlikely, since 

forms with er-i have, as far as he knows, a place name or tribal reference, e.g. 

Agach-eri, Avshar-eri; for an animal, the nomen actoris suffix -chi would be more 

usual. The name accordingly remains mysterious. 

6. BORSUQ, commander of Malik Shah’s (Rawand\, 145; 0usayn\, 71–2, tr. 52; 

Ibn al-Ath\r, X, 148, tr. Annals, 225), „badger“ (Clauson, ED, 369; Sümer-Yazgan, 

SA, II, 86–8; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, I, 162). 

7. BOZAN, the name of a commander of Malik Shah’s and of several other Seljuq 

military men (Rawand\, 129; 0usayn\, 75, tr. 54; Ibn al-Ath\r, X, 148, tr. Annals, 

225), „destroyer“ (Clauson, ED, 389–90; Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 625; Rásonyi- 

Baski, OT, I, 165). 

8. BULAQ, commander in Azerbaijan during the fighting between Toghrïl 

(II) b. Mu1ammad (I) and his brother Masûd (0usayn\, 103, tr. 70 and n. 323), 

a word basically meaning „well, spring of water“ or „broadbacked horse“, here 

probably with the transferred sense „stout, strong warrior“ (Clauson, ED, 333; 

Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 626–7; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, I, 173–4). 

9. CHAGHRÏ, brother of Toghrïl Beg (see below, no. 29) and one of the two 

founders of what became the Great Seljuq sultanate. As with his brother’s name,


this is probably of totemistic origin, since Kashghar\ defines chaghrï as „a small 

falcon“ (saqr), most likely the merlin, which in Ottoman Turkish appears as the 

chaqïr doghan, merlin or possibly the sparrow-hawk. Clauson noted that the 

name’s origin lies probably in Arabic saqr, in its turn very likely derived ultimately 

from post-classical Latin sacer „saker“, though the line of transmission is 

unclear; it does not appear in Turkish onomastic before Qarakhanid and Seljuq 

times (Doerfer, TMEN, III, 778 no. 1090; Clauson, ED, 409–10; Rásonyi-Baski, 

OT, I, 186). 

10. CHAWLÏ, name of the commander called Saqqa’u who was Mu1ammad 

(I) b. Malik Shah’s cup bearer (saqi, saqqa’) and also of the commander who was 

Masûd b. Mu1ammad (I)’s chief of the guard (jandar) and an Atabeg (Bundar\, 

203; Rawand\, 232; 0usayn\, 81, tr. 58 and n. 265, 110, tr. 74; Ibn al-Ath\r, X, 298, 

tr. Chronicle, Part 1, 30, and XI, 79, tr. Chronicle, Part 1, 357), chavlï being one of 

the numerous names in Turkic for „[young] kite, falcon“ (Sauvaget, „Noms et 

surnoms de Mamelouks“, 46; Clauson, ED, 397; Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 629–31; 

Rásonyi-Baski, OT, I, 194). 

11. ENÜK, called al-Khass, one of Alp Arslan’s commanders (0usayn\, 38, 

tr. 31 and n. 141), enük „cub of a predatory beast“ (Sauvaget, „Noms et surnoms 

de Mamelouks“, 83–4; Clauson, ED, 183). 

12. GÜMÜSH-TEGIN, the name of a commander of Malik-Shah’s (Gümüshtegin 

Bilge Beg) and of the Atabeg and jandar of Berkyaruq’s (Gümüsh-tegin 

al-Qaysar\) (Bundar\, 83; 0usayn\, 75, tr, 54; Rawand\, 140; Ibn al-Ath\r, X, 215, 

tr. Annals, 263), literally, „silver prince“, probably implying „having a bright, silvery 

complexion“. It is made up of gümüsh „silver“ (although Professor Golden 

notes that the initial consonant may at this time in Oghuz have still been k, the 

shift k > g only appearing in late twelfth-early thirteenth century Old Anatolian 

Turkish) and tegin, this last originally an ancient Turkic title known from Orkhon 

times denoting „prince, son or grandson of the ruling Qaghan“, but by Kashghar\’s 

time much lowered in the social scale since he defines it as âbd, with a 

fanciful explanation for this process (Clauson, ED, 483; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, II, 

391–2, 727; Peter B. Golden, „The terminology of slavery and servitude in medieval 

Turkic“, in Studies on Central Asian history in honor of Yuri Bregel, ed. Devin 

DeWeese, Bloomington, Indiana 2001, 52–3, repr. in his Turks and Khazars. 

Origins, institutions, and interactions in pre-Mongol Eurasia, Variorum Collected 

Studies, Farnham, Surrey 2010, no. VI; Bosworth, „Further notes on the Turkish 

names in Abu ’l-Fadl Bayhaq\’s Tarikh-i Masûdi“, 449). 

13. ÏNANCH, component of the name of Ïnanch Sonqor (for this latter word, 

„falcon, gerfalcon“, see Bosworth, „Notes on some Turkish names in Abu ’l-Fadl 

Bayhaq\’s Tarikh-i Masûdi“, 310), commander of Sanjar’s, and a component of 

the name of the Ildegizid Qutlugh Ïnanch Ma1mud, son of Ïnanch Khatun (Bun-


dar\, 302; Rawand\, 347–8; 0usayn\, 128, 172, tr. 85 and n. 377, 114; Ibn al-Ath\r, XI, 

184, tr. Chronicle, Part 2, 61, and XII, 94, tr. Chronicle, Part 2, 407), „faithfulness, 

trust“, in early usage often found for a „confidant, confidential minister“ (Clauson, 

ED, 187; Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 63–4; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, I, 318–19). 

14. KÜL-SARÏGH, commander of Alp Arslan and, earlier, his Atabeg 

(0usayn\, 28, tr. 26 and n. 115; Ibn al-Ath\r, IX, 585, tr. Annals, 85), a name made 

up of the early Turkic princely title kül and sarï(gh) „pale-complexioned, fair“ 

(Clauson, ED, 715, 848; Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 654; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, II, 389, 

634–5). 

15. MENGÜ-BARS, name of a grandson of Alp Arslan and of a commander of 

Sultan Ma1mud (II) b. Mu1ammad (I) and Atabeg (Bundar\, 125; Rawand\, 208; 

0usayn\, 88, tr. 62; Ibn al-Ath\r, X, 398. tr. Chronicle, Part I, 96, and X, 534, tr. Chronicle, 

Part 1, 189), from menggü, benggü „eternal. heavenly“ and the loan word from 

Persian bars „leopard, tiger, cheetah“, perhaps, in an Inner Asian steppe, forest 

fringes and mountain context, „panther, snow leopard“ (Sauvaget, „Noms et surnoms 

de Mamelouks“, 41, 43, 56; Doerfer, TMEN, IV, 28–30 no. 1744; Clauson, 

ED, 350–1, 368; Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 655–6; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, II, 540. 

16. ÖNER or ONAR, the name of Berk-yaruq’s ispahsalar, of a commander 

of Sanjar’s and of the Amir Mu^\n al-D\n, lord of Damascus in the time of Sultan 

Mu1ammad (II) b. Ma1mud (II) (Rawand\, 141; 0usayn\, 77, 132, tr. 55, 88; Ibn al- 

Ath\r, X, 214, tr. Annals, 262, and 504, tr. Chronicle, Part 1, 168), „he will grow up, 

come to the fore, prosper“ (Clauson, ED, 168–9; Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 681–3; Rásonyi-Baski, 

OT, II, 594). 

17. QARACHA, Qaracha al-Saq\, Atabeg of Sanjar’s nephew Malik Saljuq 

Shah b. Mu1ammad (I) of Fars (Bundar\, 123; 0usayn\, 89, tr. 63; Ibn al-Ath\r, X, 

552, tr. Chronicle, Part 1, 202), „dark-coloured, swarthy one“ or a diminutive „little 

dark one“ (Sauvaget, „Noms et surnoms de Mamelouks“, 52; Sümer-Yazgan, 

SA, II, 644–5; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, 432–3). 

18. QARA-GÖZ, Toghrïl (III) b. Arslan Shah’s hajib or doorkeeper (Rawandi, 

331), „black-eyed“, but as with Gümüsh-tegin/Kümüsh-tegin (above, no. 12), 

possibly at this time Qara-köz (PG) (Sauvaget, „Noms et surnoms de Mamelouks“, 

53; Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 645; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, II, 428). 

19. QAYMAZ, commander of Alp Arslan’s and a governor of Ray in the time of 

Toghrïl (III) b. Arslan Shah, also the name of many other ghulams of Seljuq times 

(Rawand\, 263; 0usayn\, 179, tr. 118; Ibn al-Ath\r, X, 363, tr. Chronicle, Part 1, 72, 

and XI, 230, tr. Chronicle, Part 2, 95), „he who does not deviate, turn aside, go 

back“ (Sauvaget, „Noms et surnoms de Mamelouks“, 52; Clauson, ED, 674; 

Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 648; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, II, 405–6). 

20. QÏFCHAQ, name of the Qïfchaq b. Arslan Tash al-Turkman\ who was ruler 

over the region of Shahrazur in the time of Masûd b. Mu1ammad (I), and of the


governor of Azerbaijan in Toghrïl (III) b. Arslan Shah’s reign (Rawand\, 356; Ibn 

al-Ath\r, XI, 75, tr. Chronicle, Part 1, 353), a personal name conceivably referring 

to an (unattested, but possible) Turkmen tribal sub-group in the western Siberian 

steppes but perhaps simply an ethonym used as a personal name (Professor 

Golden cites as an example of this last Gyula Németh, A honfaglaló magyarság 

kialakulása, 2nd ed. Budapest 1991, 64–5: „Princeps Bissenorum nomine Kazar“, 

i.e. a Pecheneg ruler named Khazar). It is likely that, as well as the majority Oghuz 

tribesmen, the Turkmen following of the first Seljuq chiefs and rulers also included 

Qïpchaq (Sauvaget, „Noms et surnoms de Mamelouks“, 52; G. Hazai, EI 

art. „Kıpçak“; Golden, An introduction to the history of the Turkic peoples, 144, 

205, 225, 270ff.; Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 649; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, II, 455–6). 

21. QODUN, commander of Malik Shah’s and Sanjar’s (0usayn\, 85, tr. 60 

and n. 274; Ibn al-Ath\r, X, 205, tr. Annals, 253). Since Ibn al-Athir here spells 

qud.n, it seems unlikely that the name is qadañ „speedy, quick“, whose attestations 

are in any case late (Rásonyi-Baski, OT, II, 401). The name accordingly remains 

mysterious, and can hardly be connected with qod- and its reflexive qodun 

„abandon, leave“, cf. Clauson, ED, 595–6, 603. Professor Golden suggests the 

possibility that it might be Qoduq, citing (archaic) Modern Turkish koduk „newlyborn 

donkey, foal“, see J.W. Redhouse, A Turkish-English lexicon, London 1890, 

repr. Constantinople 1921, 1482, and Rásonyi-Baski, OT, II, 464. 

22. QUMACH, commander of Sanjar’s (Rawand\, 177; 0usayn\, 94, tr. 65; Ibn 

al-Ath\r, X, 551, tr. Chronicle, Part 1, 202), Pers. qumach, qumash „fine cloth“ hence 

perhaps „wearer of red clothing“ (Doerfer, TMEN, III, 509–11 no. 1526; Sümer- 

Yazgan, SA, I, 159–60, II, 74; Rásonyi-Baski, II, 493). 

23. RASUL-TEGIN, governor in Fars for Toghrïl Beg and apparently a son 

of one of the Sultan’s paternal uncles, i.e. a first cousin, involved in fighting in 

Khuzistan in 449/1057–8 and minter of a coin at Istakhr in 455/1063 (Ibn al-Ath\r, 

IX, 634–5; N. Lowick, „A gold coin of Rasulteg\n, Seljuk ruler in Fars“, NC, 7th 

Ser., VIII [1968], 225–30; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, II, 612). The name unites the familiar 

Turkish title tegin (see above, no. 12, Gümüsh-tegin) with Arabic rasul „messenger, 

envoy“, with all its religious connotations of the Prophet Mu1ammad’s divine 

mission; the usage here of rasul is presumably intentional, when there could have 

been used the old Turkish term, known from as far back as the Orkhon inscriptions, 

yalavach „envoy, messenger“, in later mediaeval Islamic times found with 

both secular and religious meanings (Clauson, ED, 921; Doerfer, TMEN, IV, 

106–7 no. 1807). 

24. SATMAZ, commander in the service of Sulayman Shah b. Mu1ammad (I) 

and then of Arslan Shah b. Toghrïl (II) (Bundar\, 243; Rawand\, 275; 0usayn\, 145, 

tr. 96) „he who is not to be sold, cannot be sold“, i.e. because of his value (Clauson, 

ED, 798–9; Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 666; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, II, 644). Pro-


fessor Golden notes that this name, like related forms such as Satïlmïsh „sold“, 

hence not to be taken away by evil spirits, was probably atropaic in origin, and 

cites much harsher atropaic names, e.g. a Cuman chief called Kotyan’ in Rus’, Kötöny 

in Hungary < kötän „anus“; and see many more excremental and pejorative 

names in Rásonyi, „The psychology and categories of name giving among the 

Turkish peoples“, pp. 213–14. 

25. SAW-TEGIN, eunuch commander of Alp Arslan’s and Malik Shah’s 

(0usayn\, 30–1, tr. 27; Ibn al-Ath\r, X, 22, tr. Annals, 139), a name made up of saw 

„speech, statement“ and the title tegin, for which last see above, no. 12, the whole 

name conveying the meaning „prince conveying an important message“. See 

Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 666–7; Bosworth, „Notes on some Turkish names“, 

309–10, and idem, „Further notes on Turkish names“, 448. 

26. TATAR, the name of a commander of Masûd b. Mu1ammad (I)’s (Rawand\, 

225; 0usayn\, 72, tr. 52), this being in origin an ethonym, the name of a tribe, 

probably Mongolic in origin and Mongol-speaking but then gradually Turkicised, 

and living to the east and south of Lake Baikal at the time of the first Türk empire 

and afterwards (Sauvaget, 50; Doerfer, TMEN, II, 433–4 no. 850; Golden, An 

introduction to the history of the Turkic peoples, 145, 164–5, 184–5; Sümer-Yazgan, 

SA, II, 672; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, II, 718–19). 

27. TERSHEK, TIRSHEK, name of a commander of Malik Shah’s sent to conquer 

Yemen and of a commander of Berk-yaruq’s and then of Sanjar’s (Bundar\, 

76; 0usayn\, 72, tr. 52; Ibn al-Ath\r, X, 204, tr. Annals, 252, and 335, tr. Chronicle, 

Part 1, 54), of uncertain etymology (Clauson, ED, 553; Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 681; 

Rásonyi-Baski, OT, II, 749), but perhaps, so PG suggests, to be read as tirs(g)ek 

„elbow, knee“ (see Clauson, loc. cit.). 

28. T. OGHA(N)-YÜREK, the name of a commander of Berk-yaruq’s, and (?) 

then of a commander associated with Masûd b. Mu1ammad (I)’s rival Malik 

Dawud b. Ma1mud (II) and later Atabeg in Azerbaijan (0usayn\, 108, tr. 74 and 

n. 339; Rawand\, 139; Ibn al-Ath\r, X, 290, 550, tr. Chronicle, Part 1, 25, 201), „stouthearted, 

brave falcon“ (Clauson, ED, 470–1, 965; Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 677; 

Rásonyi-Baski, OT, II, 755–7). 

29. T. OGHRÏL, most famously, one of the sons of M\ka’\l b. Seljuq and cofounder 

with Chaghrï Beg (see above, no. 9) of the Great Seljuq sultanate. To the 

entry on this name in „Notes on some Turkish names“, 311–12, should now be 

added reference to Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 551, 581ff., 678–9, and Rásonyi-Baski, 

OT, I, pp. XXXIX–XL, II, 758–9; see also Rásonyi, „The psychology and categories 

of name giving among the Turkish peoples“, 209–10, on the totemistic origin of 

the name. The important role of this raptor in the mythology surrounding Magyar 

origins has been mentioned in „Notes on some Turkish names“, 312, but it may be 

further observed that the chronicler Simon Kézai (wrote c. 1282–5), as well as stat-


ing that the Árpáds were de genere turul says also that the chief of the Huns, Attila, 

had a turul emblem on his banner (Rásonyi, op. cit., 210). It thus seems that tughrul 

was the original vocalisation of the name. 

30. YARÏN-QUSH, YÜRÜN-QUSH, the name of a commander of Malik Shah’s 

and of one of Masûd b. Mu1ammad (I)’s, this latter man being described as bazdar 

„falconer“ (Bundar\, 71, 209; Rawand\, 179, 262; 0usayn\, 72, 102, tr. 52, 65 and 

n. 298, 70; Ibn al-Ath\r, X, 566, 677, tr. Chronicle, Part 1, 213, 294). One might interpret 

the first component as either yarïn „bright, brightness, especially of the 

early morning“ (whence its later, transferred sense of „next morning, tomorrow“) 

or (as preferred by PG) yürüñ „white“, with the second component obviously 

qush „‘bird“ often in the more specific sense of „falcon“ (Clauson, ED, 670, 970; 

Sümer-Yazgan, SA, II, 687–9; Rásonyi-Baski, OT, I, 334). 

Bibliography and Abbreviations 

(N.B. works which have been cited only once, or are less vital to the theme of this article, are not 

listed here, but full bibliographical details have been given when these works have occurred) 

Bosworth, C. Edmund: „Notes on some Turkish Names in Abu ’l-Fadl Bayhaq\’s Tarikh-i Masûdi“, 

Oriens, XXXVI (2001) (= Festschrift for Franz Rosenthal), 299–313. 

Bosworth, C. Edmund: „Further Notes on the Turkish Names in Abu ’l-Fadl Bayhaq\’s Tarikh-i 

Masûdi“, in Fortresses of the Intellect. Ismaili and other Islamic studies in honour of Farhad 

Daftary, ed. Omar Ali-de-Unzaga, London 2011, 443–52. 

al-Bundar\, al-Fat1 b. Âl\: Zubdat al-nusra wa-nukhbat al-ûsra, ed. M.Th. Houtsma, in Recueil 

de textes relatifs à l’histoire des Seljoucides, II, Leiden 1889. 

Clauson, Sir Gerard: An Etymological Dictionary of Pre-Thirteenth Century Turkish, Oxford 1972 

(siglum: ED). 

Doerfer, Gerhard: Türkische und mongolische Elemente im Neupersischen unter besonderer 

Berücksichtigung älterer neupersischer Geschichtsquellen, vor allem der Mongolen- und 

Timuridenzeit. II–IV. Türkische Elemente, Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur. 

Veröffentlichungen der Orientalischen Kommission, Bände XVI, XIX–XXI, 4 vols., Wiesbaden 

1965–75 (siglum: TMEN). 

GMS = Gibb Memorial Series. 

Golden, Peter B.: An Introduction to the History of the Turkic Peoples. Ethnogenesis and State- 

Formation in Medieval and Early Modern Eurasia and the Middle East, Turcologica Band 9, 

Wiesbaden 1992. 

al-0usayn\, Sadr al-D\n Âl\ b. Nasir: Akhbar al-dawla al-saljuqiyya, ed. Muhammad Iqbal, 

Lahore 1933, tr. C. Edmund Bosworth, The History of the Seljuq State, Routledge Studies in 

the History of Iran and Turkey, London and New York, 2011. 

Ibn al-Ath\r, Îzz al-D\n Âl\ b. Mu1ammad: al-Kamil fi l-ta’rikh, 13 vols. Beirut 1385–7/1965–7, tr. 

D.S. Richards, The Annals of the Saljuq Turks. Selections from al-Kamil fi l-Ta’rikh of Îzz al- 

Din Ibn al-Athir, London 2002 (siglum: Annals) and tr. idem, The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for 

the Crusading Period from al-Kamil f\ l-Ta’r\kh, 3 parts, London 2005–8 (siglum: Chronicle).


Juwayn\, Âla’ al-D\n Âta-Malik: Tarikh-i Jahan-gushay, ed. M\rza Mu1ammad Qazw\n\, 3 vols., 

GMS XV/1–3, Leyden and London 1912–37, tr. J.A. Boyle, The History of the World-Conqueror, 

2 vols., Manchester 1958. 

Rásonyi, László: „The Psychology and Categories of Name Giving among the Turkish Peoples“, in 

Hungaro-Turcica. Studies in honour of Julius Németh, ed. Gy. Káldy-Nagy, Budapest 1976, 

207–23. 

Rásonyi, László and Imre Baski: Onomasticon Turcicum. Turkic Personal Names as Collected by 

László Rásonyi, 2 vols., Indiana University Uralic and Altaic Series Vol. 172/1–2, Bloomington, 

Indiana 2007 (siglum: OT). 

Rawand\, Mu1ammad b. Âl\: Rahat al-sudur wa-ayat al-surur, ed. Mu1ammad Iqbal, GMS, N.S. 

II, London 1921. 

Sauvaget, Jean: „Noms et surnoms de Mamelouks“, Journal Asiatique, CCXXXVIII (1950), 31–58. 

Sümer, Faruk: Türk devletleri tarihinde ¸sahıs adaları, ed. Turan Yazgan, 2 vols., Türk Dünyası 

Ara¸stırmaları Vakfı, Istanbul 1999 (siglum: SA). (N.B. the pagination of this book is somewhat 

eccentric; each of the fifteen component sections is paginated separately at the top of 

the page, but with running pagination through the two volumes at the bottom of the page, 

and it is this running pagination which is cited here.)

DOI 10.1515/islam-2012-0006 Das Geburtsjahr ISLAM des Åahrastan\ 2012; 89(2): 111–117 

111 

Josef van Ess 

Das Geburtsjahr des Åahrastan\ 

Josef van Ess: Universität Tübingen, josef.van-ess@uni-tuebingen.de 

Mu1ammad b. Âbd al-Kar\m aˇs-Åahrastan\, der Verfasser der Milal wa-n-nihal, 

sei im Jahr 479 H. geboren, sagt Guy Monnot in dem von ihm verfassten diesbezüglichen 

Artikel in der zweiten Auflage der Encyclopaedia of Islam. 1 Ich bin ihm 

darin kürzlich noch gefolgt. 2 Aber man sollte Lexikoneinträgen nicht unbesehen 

glauben; es gibt weniger abrufbares Wissen, als man so denkt. Monnot wähnt 

sich auf der sicheren Seite, weil Samân\ (506–562/1113–1166), der bekannte Autor 

des K. al-Ansab und jüngere Zeitgenosse Åahrastan\s, diesen nach seinem Geburtsjahr 

gefragt zu haben behauptete und dabei das oben genannte Datum zur 

Antwort erhielt. So steht es bei Ibn 2allikan (608–681/1211–1282); 3 er hatte die Bemerkung 

in Samân\s Üail Ta#riä Bagdad gefunden. Auf dieselbe Quelle berufen 

sich ein Jahrhundert später Safad\ (gest. 764/1363) 4 und Tap ad-D\n as-Subk\ (gest. 

771/1369–70) 5 oder, wieder ein Jahrhundert später, Ibn 0apar al-Âsqalan\. 6 Der 

eine oder andere mag dabei Samân\s Fortsetzung zur Bagdader Gelehrtengeschichte 

des 2at\b al-Bagdad\ (392–463/1002–1071) noch vor Augen gehabt haben; 

vielleicht haben sie aber auch alle bloß bei Ibn 2allikan abgeschrieben. Jedenfalls 

ist der Üail selber nicht erhalten; wir können die Sache also nicht am 

Original überprüfen. Stattdessen besitzen wir allerdings, in einem nicht ganz 

vollständigen Damaszener Unicum, Samân\s Tahbir fi l-Mu^pam al-kabir, ein 

Lexikon seiner gelehrten Zeitgenossen, das er kurz vor seinem Tode zusammenstellte. 

7 Dort steht jedoch, dass Åahrastan\ 469, also zehn Jahre früher, geboren 

sei. 8 Wir können diese Notiz seit einiger Zeit an dem zugrunde liegenden Mu^pam 

1 Guy Monnot, EI 2 IX 214. So auch in seiner Einleitung zu der französischen Übersetzung der 

Milal, Bd. I (Louvain 1986), S. 3 mit Anm. 1. 

2 Josef van Ess, Der Eine und das Andere (Berlin 2011), S. 860. 

3 Ibn 2allikan, Wafayat al-a^yan, ed. I1san Âbbas IV 274, 2f. 

4 as-Safad\, al-Wafi bi-l-wafayat III 279, 2f. 

5 Tap ad-D\n as-Subk\, Tabaqat aˇs-Sˇafiîya, edd. Ma1mud Mu1. at-Tana1\ und Âbd al-Fatta1 

Mu1. al-0ulw VI 129, 13. 

6 Ibn 0apar al-Âsqalan\, Lisan al-Mizan V 263 nr. 907. 

7 as-Samân\, Tahbir fi l-Mu^pam al-kabir, ed. Mun\ra Nap\ Salim, 1–2; Bagdad 1395/1975. 

Anfang und Ende des Werkes fehlen in der Handschrift. 

8 Ibid., Bd. II 163.

112 Josef van Ess 

aˇs-ˇsuyuä kontrollieren, in den Samân\ alle diejenigen Kollegen und Lehrer eintrug, 

denen er im Laufe seines bewegten Lebens begegnet war. Das Werk ist zwar 

nur noch in einem Auszug erhalten; 9 aber auch dort steht wiederum das gleiche 

Datum, also 469. 10 

Monnot hatte den Tahbir nicht zur Verfügung; Publikationen, die im Irak 

von einem Ministerium finanziert wurden, kamen häufig nicht in den Handel und 

blieben darum im Ausland unbekannt. 11 Aber er wusste, dass „andere alte Autoren 

die Daten 467 und 469 angeben“; ihm schien nur, dass das Zeugnis des 

Samân\ aus dem Üail das größere Gewicht habe. 469 wird in der Tat vertreten 

von Zah\r ad-D\n Ma1mud b. Mu1ammad b. Âbbas b. Arslan al-2warazm\ (gest. 

568/1173) in seinem – nicht mehr erhaltenen – Ta#riä Äwarazm; Yaqut hat daraus 

den Eintrag über Åahrastan\ exzerpiert. 12 2warazm\ braucht vor Samân\ nicht zurückzustehen; 

beide haben Åahrastan\ persönlich gekannt. Im übrigen hat Pamal 

ad-D\n Âbd ar-Ra1\m al-Asnaw\ (gest. 772/1370), als er für seine Tabaqat aˇs-Sˇafiîya 

die bei Ibn 2allikan gegebene Biographie Åahrastan\s ausschrieb, 13 sich die 

Freiheit genommen, 479 durch 469 zu ersetzen. 14 

In gewisser Hinsicht hatte Ibn 2allikan für diesen Eingriff den Anlass selber 

geliefert. Zwar redet er von „469“ nirgendwo; aber bevor er sich für 479 entscheidet, 

beginnt er seinen Abschnitt treuherzig mit den Worten: „(Åahrastan\) wurde 

im Jahr 467 in Åahrastan geboren. So habe ich es in meinen handschriftlichen 

Notizen (muswaddat) vorgefunden; nur weiß ich nicht mehr, woher ich das 

hatte“. 15 Den Widerspruch zum Folgenden löst er nicht auf. Man mag mit dem 

Gedanken spielen, dass er einfach sein eigenes Gekritzel nicht mehr lesen 

konnte oder aus der Quelle falsch abgeschrieben hatte, also 469 meinte und 

„467“ schrieb; die Wörter für „sieben“ (s-b-^) und „neun“ (t-s-^) sind im Arabischen 

leicht zu verwechseln. Aber so leicht kommt man nicht davon. Denn Üahab\ 

(gest. 748/1348 oder 753/1352–3) sagt in seinem Ta#riä al-Islam s.a. 548 (dem 

9 as-Samân\, Al-Muntaäab min Mu^pam aˇs-ˇsuyuä, ed. Muwaffaq b. Âbdallah b. Âbd al-Qadir, 

1–4 mit durchgehender Paginierung (Riyad 1996). Zum Verhältnis zwischen dem Muntaäab und 

dem Tahbir vgl. die Einleitung des Herausgebers, S. 94ff. Der Mu^pam aˇs-ˇsuyuä selber ist drei 

Jahre nach dem K. al-Ansab in Angriff genommen und vermutlich immer wieder ergänzt worden. 

10 Ibid., Bd. III, 1502f.; dort 1503, 7. 

11 Die Herausgeberin, Mun\ra Nap\ Salim, war die Tochter des bekannten Historikers Nap\ 

Ma^ruf. 

12 Yaqut, Mu^pam al-buldan (1–5, Beirut 1955–57) III 377a, –8ff.; dort 377b, pu. f. 

13 Pamal ad-D\n Âbd ar-Ra1\m al-Asnaw\, Tabaqat aˇs-Sˇafiîya, ed. Âbdallah al-Pubur\, 1–2 

(Bagdad 1391/1971); dort Bd. II 107, 1–16. 

14 Ibid., 107, 8. 

15 Ibn 2allikan, Wafayat IV 274, 1f.

Das Geburtsjahr des Åahrastan\ 113 

Todesjahr Åahrastan\s), 16 dass im Üail des Samân\ „467“ stehe, im Tahbir dagegen 

„469“. 17 Ibn 2allikan hätte danach also nicht gemerkt, dass er auf seinem 

Notizzettel aus der gleichen Quelle geschöpft hatte wie derjenigen, die er unmittelbar 

darauf – vielleicht nach einer andern Handschrift – noch einmal zitierte. 

Wenn er dort sagt, daß Samân\ das Datum 479 von Åahrastan\ selber gehört 

habe, so steht dem entgegen, daß Üahab\ an anderer Stelle, nämlich in seinen 

Siyar a^lam an-nubala#, 18 Samân\ sagen lässt, er habe, als er sich einmal in Marw 

aufhielt, Åahrastan\ dort aufgesucht und dabei nicht nur von seiner Gelehrsamkeit 

profitiert (katabtu ânhu), 19 sondern sich von ihm auch erzählen lassen, dass 

er 467 geboren sei. Wir können dieses Durcheinander vorläufig nicht auf eine 

klare Linie bringen. „479“ hat jedenfalls viel von seiner Überzeugungskraft verloren. 

Aber auch „467“ hat sich über Jahrhunderte hinweg nicht recht durchgesetzt. 

In Iran hat sich erst in jüngerer Zeit 2wansar\ (1811–1895) dazu bekannt, 

freilich ohne seine Quelle zu nennen, 20 und in der arabischen Welt hat Ûmar 

Rida Ka11ala ihm in seinem Mu^pam al-mu#allifin zu späten Ehren verholfen. 21 

Schon Brockelmann hatte seinerzeit „469“ vorgezogen, freilich ohne sich 

genauer festzulegen. 22 Dezidiert äußert sich dagegen in diesem Sinne Muhammad 

Tanci in der türkischen Islam Ansiklopedisi; 23 sein Artikel gehört, wenn man 

den damaligen Problemhorizont berücksichtigt, ohnehin zum Besten, was über 

Åahrastan\ geschrieben worden ist. 24 Tanci nennt für seine Entscheidung auch einen 

guten Grund: Åahrastan\ hatte in Neˇsapur bei Abu l-0asan Âl\ b. A1mad b. 

al-A3ram al-Mad\n\, den man auch den „Mu#aüüin“ nannte, hadi© studiert. Dieser 

aber starb im Mu1arram 494 / Nov. 1100 im Alter von 89 Jahren. 25 Wäre Åahra- 

16 aü-Üahab\, Ta#riä al-Islam, ed. Ûmar Âbd as-Salam Tadmur\ ( 2 1415/1994ff.), Bd. Jahre 

541–550, dort S. 328ff.; Weiteres zum Todesjahr s.u. 

17 Vgl. ibid. 328, pu. f. mit 330, 1. 

18 aü-Üahab\, Siyar a^lam an-nubala#, ed. Åuâib Arna#ut ( 2 Beirut 1401/1981–1988), dort Bd. XX 

287, apu. f. 

19 Das steht auch in Samân\s Muntaäab (S. 1503, 6): „in unserem Haus in Marw“. 

20 2wansar\, Raudat al-pannat fi ahwal al-ûlama# wa-s-sadat (1–8, Qumm/Beirut 1390/1970 – 

1392/1972) VI 26–31 nr. 675. 

21 Ûmar Rida Ka11ala, Mu^pam al-mu#allifin, Bd. X 187: „467/1075“. 2air ad-D\n Zirikl\, auf 

dessen A^lam Ka11ala häufig rekurriert, hat 479/1086 (Bd. VII 83f.). 

22 GAL 2 1/551; auch schon S 1/762. 

23 Muhammad Tanci, I · slam Ansiklopedisi, Bd. XI 393; der Band ist 1970 erschienen. 

24 Man vergleiche damit etwa Carra de Vaux in EI 1 IV 283f. – Nach Tanci richtet sich mit weiteren 

Belegen jetzt auch Ömer Faruk Harman in dem jüngst erschienenen Eintrag in der Türkiye Diyanet 

Vakfı Islam Ansiklopedisi, Bd. XXXVIII, S. 467. Außerhalb der Türkei wurde Tanci nicht rezipiert. 

25 So nach Ibn Tagr\bird\ (gest. 874/1470), an-Nupum az-zahira V 168, 1f.; bei Tanci ist allerdings 

aus „494“ durch Druckfehler 490 geworden. Ibn al-Îmad (gest. 1089/1679) hat al-Ahzam 

statt al-Aäram (Sˇaüarat aü-üahab III 401, 11); jedoch steht Letzteres auch bei Samân\ (Ansab XII


stan\ erst 479 geboren, so wäre er beim Tode seines Lehrers gerade einmal um die 

14 Jahre alt gewesen. Die übrigen Professoren, bei denen er gehört hatte, waren 

zwar jünger: Abu l-Mu|affar A1mad b. Mu1ammad al-2waf\ (gest. 500/1106), 26 

Salman b. Nasir al-Ansar\ (gest. 512/1118) 27, Abu Nasr Âbd ar-Ra1\m al-Quˇsair\, 

der Sohn des Verfassers der Risala fi t-tasauwuf (gest. 514/1120). 28 Aber auch sie 

würden eher zu einem Studenten passen, der schon um die Zwanzig war, als er zu 

ihnen kam. 

Åahrastan\ ist von Neˇsapur anscheinend wieder in seine Heimat zurückgekehrt; 

denn er hat, wie der Historiker al-2warazm\ hervorhebt, 29 2warazm erst 

510 endgültig verlassen. Damals wäre er schon um die Vierzig gewesen. Er hatte 

sich entschlossen, auf den happ zu gehen; dafür wäre dies auch das rechte Alter 

gewesen. Er konnte zwar nicht wissen, dass er tatsächlich in der Mitte seines Lebens 

stand; Üahab\, der ihn nicht nur in seinem Ta#riä al-Islam, sondern auch 

in seinen Îbar erwähnt, sagt dort (ohne ein Geburtsdatum zu nennen), dass er 

81 Jahre alt geworden sei. 30 Das ist gewiss errechnet und passt gut zu 469, besser 

allerdings noch zu 467, auf das Üahabi sich ja auch festlegt hatte. Denn das Todesdatum 

ist in den Quellen verhältnismäßig konstant: 548. Am genauesten und 

darum wohl auch am verlässlichsten steht es bei Ibn 2allikan: „Ende Åa^ban 548“ 

(= November 1153). 31 Zwar weiß Ibn 2allikan, dass andere sich für 549 entschieden; 

das gilt etwa für 2warazm\ bei Yaqut. 32 Aber diese Meinung blieb ein Minderheitenvotum, 

und selbst 2warazm\ drückte sich recht vorsichtig aus: „549 

oder so ungefähr“ (au qarib an minha). Ibn Funduq al-Baihaq\, neben Samân\ und 

2warazm\ ein weiterer jüngerer Zeitgenosse, der sich an Åahrastan\ noch gut erinnerte 

(gest. 565/1169–70), sagt: „irgendwann im Jahr 548“. 33 Für 548 sind weiterhin 

Safad\, 34 Üahab\ in seiner Taükirat al-huffaz 35 und Ibn Tagr\bird\ 36; 0app\ 

154, 15ff.) und bei Üahab\ (Siyar 287, 6). Bei Samân\, unserer ältesten Quelle, ist allerdings 

beim Todesjahr der Einer noch nicht nachgetragen; wir erfahren dort also nur, dass Mad\n\ in 

den neunziger Jahren des 5. Jahrhunderts starb und nach 400 geboren war. 

26 Vgl. zu ihm Ibn Âsakir, Tabyin kaüib al-muftari 288, 13. 

27 Ibid. 207; zu ihm jetzt C. Gilliot in EI 3 2009–2, S. 94–98. 

28 Ibn Âsakir, Tabyin, 308ff.; ausführlich jetzt Martin Nguyen, Sufi Master and Qur’an Scholar 

(Oxford UP 2012), S. 76 und Index s. n. 

29 Yaqut, Mu^pam al-buldan III 377b, 12f. 

30 aü-Üahab\, al-Îbar fi aäbar al-baˇsar, ed. Sala1 ad-D\n al-Munappid (Kuwait 1960–1963), 

Bd. IV 132, 9ff. 

31 Ibn 2allikan, Wafayat IV 274, 3f. 

32 Yaqut, Mu^pam III 377b, pu. f. 

33 Ibn Funduq al-Baihaq\, Ta#riä hukama# al-Islam (= Tatimmat Siwan al-hikma), ed. Mu1. Kurd 

Âl\ (Damaskus 1365/1946), S. 143, 10. 

34 as-Safad\, Wafi III 279, 3f.


2al\fa hält das Datum für so sicher, dass er es überall, wo Åahrastan\ bei ihm zur 

Sprache kommt, hinzufügt. 37 

Als Åahrastan\ aus Mekka zurückkam, vermutlich im Jahr 511/1117–8, konnte 

er in Bagdad an der Ni|am\ya eine kleine Stelle übernehmen. Ein Freund aus 

2warazm, Asâd al-M\han\ (461/1069–527/1133), der dort als „Dozent“ (mudarris) 

wirkte, hatte sie ihm vermittelt. 38 An die Kernfächer, die er in Neˇsapur studiert 

hatte: hadi©,ˇsafiîtisches Recht, Theologie, ließ man ihn zwar nicht heran; aber er 

hatte offenbar einigen Zulauf. Denn er traktierte paränetische Themen (wa^z), die 

auch einer breiteren Öffentlichkeit zugänglich waren; vielleicht hat er – wie später 

Ibn Ârab\ in seinen Fusus al-hikam – die Viten der Propheten (qisas al-anbiya#) 

nacherzählt und ausgedeutet. Aber das soll uns an dieser Stelle nicht beschäftigen; 

es gehört zu den vielen Punkten seiner Biographie, die noch nicht 

ausdiskutiert sind. 39 Nur so viel: Aus welchem Fundus konnte Åahrastan\ damals 

schöpfen? Seine großen und bis heute erhaltenen Werke, die Milal, das K. Musaraât 

al-falasifa, die Nihayat al-aqdam hatte er noch vor sich. Was hat er also in 

den ersten 40 Jahren seines Lebens in 2warazm getrieben? Wir vergeben uns 

nichts, wenn wir gestehen, dass wir kaum etwas darüber wissen. Bevor er in Ne- 

ˇsapur studierte (und den Juristen al-2waf\ in Tus aufsuchte, wo dieser als Richter 

fungierte), hat er wahrscheinlich in Purpan\ya, dem späteren Ürgenb im Delta des 

Amu Darya, eine Grundausbildung hinter sich gebracht. 40 Er ist dann anscheinend 

viel gereist; sowohl in den Milal 41 als auch in der Nihaya 42 weist er mit zwei 

Versen darauf hin. Irgendwann, vielleicht schon recht früh, hat er 0asan b. as- 

Sabba1 (gest. 518/1124) getroffen und sich in dessen Umgebung aufgehalten; 

auch darüber berichtet er in seinen Milal. 43 Er ist derjenige, der 0asans Fusul alarbaâ, 

das Manifest der da^wa padida, aufgezeichnet und ins Arabische über- 

35 aü-Üahab\, Taükirat al-huffaz, 1–4, Haidarabad 1313–6/1955–8, 14f. 

36 Ibn Tagr\bird\, Nupum V 305, 4. 

37 So z.B. 0app\ 2al\fa, Kaˇsf az-zunun 1821, 1. 

38 2warazm\ bei Yaqut III 377b, 14ff.; zu M\han\ vgl. Ka11ala, Mu^pam al-mu#allifin II 250. 

39 Vgl. dazu meinen demnächst in der Internet-Ausgabe der Encyclopaedia Iranica erscheinenden 

Artikel Shahrastani, dem auch die vorliegende Miszelle ihre Entstehung verdankt. 

40 Das vermutet jedenfalls Mu1. Reza Palal\ Na#\n\ in der Einleitung zu seiner Edition des K. Taudih 

al-Milal, der von einem gewissen Mustafa b. 2aliqdad für den Mogulherrscher Pahang\r 

gefertigten und im Jahr 1021/1612 in Lahore vollendeten persischen Übersetzung von Åahrastan\s 

Milal (Teheran 1358 ˇs./1979, dort S. 13). Purpan\ya/Ürgenb war von Åahrastan aus die erste 

erreichbare „Universitätsstadt“. 

41 aˇs-Åahrastan\, Milal, S. 361 Badran / übs. Gimaret 505. 

42 aˇs-Åahrastan\, Nihaya, gleich zu Anfang, S. 3, 8f. 

43 Vgl. mein Der Eine und das Andere 869f. mit Anm. 57.


setzt hat. 44 Vielleicht waren es diese persönlichen Erfahrungen, um derentwillen 

ein Wesir des Selpukensultans Sanpar ihm nahelegte, das K. al-Milal wa-n-nihal 

zu verfassen. Das war im Jahr 521/1127–28, und er tat es als stellvertretender Direktor 

von dessen Kanzlei (na#ib diwan ar-rasa#il). 45 0asan b. as-Sabba1 war damals 

schon drei Jahre tot und er selber, wenn unser neuer Ansatz stimmt, über Fünfzig. 

Die übrigen von ihm verfassten Werke fallen in eine noch spätere Zeit. Nur 

den kürzlich näher bekannt gewordenen Maplis-i maktub-i Sˇahrastani munâqid 

dar Äwarazm 46 möchte ich in die Zeit vor 510 versetzen; Åahrastan\ hat dort einem 

zwölferˇs\îtischen Publikum auf Persisch ein isma^\litisches Kernproblem erklärt, 

nämlich das Verhältnis zwischen der Erschaffung der Welt (äalq) und dem 

göttlichen Befehl dazu (amr), d.h. dem Schöpfungswort „Werde“ bzw. „Sei“ 

(kun). 47 Toby Mayer hat vermutet, daß Åahrastan\ schon durch einen seiner Naisaburer 

Lehrer, nämlich den Aˇsâriten (!) Salman al-Ansar\, in die „Geheimnisse“ 

isma^\litischer Exegese eingeführt wurde; er stützt sich dazu auf einen Passus in 

Åahrastan\s spätem Korankommentar Mafatih al-asrar. 48 Das isma^\litische ta#wil 

hatte in Ostiran damals noch den Charme des Ungewöhnlichen; es war anscheinend 

nicht tabu, und man fühlte sich damit vermutlich recht elitär. In Bagdad dagegen 

ging immer noch die Terroristenangst um, derentwegen schon Gazzal\ im 

Jahr 488 die Stadt verlassen hatte. Åahrastan\s Exzentrizität scheint dazu geführt 

zu haben, dass man an der Ni|am\ya seinen „Kontrakt“ nicht erneuerte. Er verließ 

nach drei Jahren die Hauptstadt wieder und kehrte nach Iran zurück, diesmal 

aber nicht nach 2warazm, sondern nach Marw, wo er an Sanpars Hof schnell reüssierte. 

2warazm\, der ihn an der Ni|am\ya näher beobachtet hatte, meinte: „Er 

setzte sich zu sehr für die Lehren der Philosophen ein. Ich habe mehrere seiner erbaulichen 

Kollegs besucht; aber Redewendungen wie ‚Gott sagt (im Koran)‘ oder 

‚Der Gesandte Gottes sagt (im hadi©)‘ kamen da nicht vor. Auch auf juristische Fra- 

44 Ibid., Anm. 58. Ibn 2aldun hebt an der einzigen Stelle seiner Muqaddima, wo er die Milal 

erwähnt, diesen Punkt besonders hervor (übs. Cheddadi, Paris 2002, S. 488). 

45 Dazu näher ibid. 861f.; vgl. dazu auch ibid. 874f. 

46 aˇs-Åahrastan\, Maplis-i maktub-i Sˇahrastani munâqid dar Äwarazm, ed. Sayyid Mu1. Reza 

Palal\ Na#\n\ in: Sˇarh-i hal ve a©ar-i Huppat al-haqq Sˇahrastani (Tehran 1343 sh./1964), Appendix, 

und erneut in: Do maktub (Tehran 1369 sh./1990); die zweite Edition Na#\n\s dann übernommen 

und ins Französische übersetzt bei Diana Steigerwald, Majlis. Discours sur l’Ordre et la 

création (Kanada, Les Presses de l’Université Laval 1998). 

47 Zugrunde liegt Sure 7/54. Ich weiche mit dieser Frühdatierung von dem ab, was ich in Der 

Eine und das Andere 862f. gesagt habe. 

48 aˇs-Åahrastan\, Mafatih al-asrar, ed. Mu1. Âl\ Aüarˇsab (Teheran 1997ff.), Bd. I 105, pu. ff.; 

übs. bei T. Mayer, Keys to the Arcana (Oxford UP 2009), S. 65. Dazu Mayers Einleitung, S. 6 und 

46; die These ist nicht ganz unumstritten. Mayer behält das konventionelle Geburtsdatum mit 

einigem Zögern bei (S. 3f.: „wahrscheinlich 479“).


gen ging er nicht ein. Nur Gott weiß, was er sich in Wirklichkeit dachte“ (wörtlich. 

„wie es um ihn stand, wa-llahu a^lam bi-halihi“). 49 

Wenn nur Gott Bescheid wusste, hatten die Verdächte der Menschen natürlich 

leichtes Spiel. Samân\ sprach direkt von isma^\litischem Einfluss. 50 2warazm\ 

machte etwas mehr Umstände: „Hätte er in seinen religiösen Überzeugungen 

nicht so herumgezappelt und sich nicht diesem Irrglauben (ilhad) anheimgegeben, 

dann wäre er der große Mann (al-imam) gewesen. Wie häufig haben wir ihn 

bewundert wegen seiner hohen Begabung und seines vollkommenen Wissens! 

Aber wie kann er sich einer Sache anheimgeben, mit der so wenig anzufangen ist, 

und etwas zur Richtschnur nehmen, das sich weder rational noch aus der Tradition 

heraus (la ma^qulan wa-la manqulan) beweisen lässt!“ 51 Gottseidank gab es 

noch keine Drohnen, mit denen sich klare Verhältnisse hätten schaffen lassen. 

Åahrastan\ hatte noch 40 Jahre vor sich und konnte Bagdad lebendig verlassen. 

Üahab\, der in seinen Siyar Samân\ ebenso wie 2warazm\ zitiert, 52 meint zu wissen, 

wie Åahrastan\ damals reagierte: „Bei uns verhält es sich da wie bei den Kindern 

Israels: Sie erhielten Manna und Wachteln; 53 aber sie wollten (weiter) Knoblauch 

und Zwiebeln“. 54 Also: Die himmlische Speise, die er zu bieten hatte, 

behagte dem gemeinen Volke – und seinen Bagdader Kollegen – nicht. 55 Ob er sich 

diesen Spott bis an sein Lebensende hat bewahren können? 56 Aber damit begeben 

wir uns auf ein Terrain, das weiterer Erkundung bedarf. Es ging uns nur darum, einem 

chronologischen Problem zu seinem Recht zu verhelfen, das sich im Rahmen 

eines Lexikonbeitrages nicht hinreichend ausleuchten ließ. 

49 Yaqut, Mu^pam III 377b, 8ff. 

50 Vgl. van Ess, Der Eine und das Andere 863; näher dann ibid., 866ff. 

51 Yaqut, Mu^pam, 377b, 1ff. 

52 aü-Üahab\, Siyar XX 287, pu. ff. 

53 al-Mann wa-s-salwa; Sure 2/57. 

54 aü-Üahab\, Siyar, Bd. XX 288, 11f. 

55 Der Koranvers nimmt die gleiche Wendung. Er lautet, mit den Ergänzungen Parets: „Und wir 

sandten das Manna und die Wachteln auf euch hinunter (indem wir euch aufforderten): ‚Eßt von 

den guten Dingen, die wir euch beschert haben!‘ (Doch die Kinder Israels waren undankbar und 

widerspenstig.) Und sie frevelten (damit) nicht gegen uns, sondern gegen sich selber.“ Der 

Genuss von Knoblauch und Zwiebeln war übrigens vor einem Moscheebesuch verpönt, aus 

naheliegenden Gründen (VAN ESS, Theologie und Gesellschaft II 112 und 145). 

56 Isma^\litisches Gedankengut finden wir vor allem in Åahrastan\s spätem Korankommentar, 

den Mafatih al-asrar. Das ist vielleicht der Grund, warum Dawud\ (gest. 945/1538) ihn in seinen 

Tabaqat al-mufassirin nicht unter die Koranexegeten aufgenommen hat; Dawud\ war Ägypter 

und hatte unter Suyut\ studiert.

118 Nasser Rabbat 

Nasser Rabbat 

Was al-Maqrizi’s Khit ˙ at ˙ 

a Khaldunian History? 

DOI 10.1515/islam-2012-0007 ISLAM 2012; 89(2): 118–140 

Abstract: Mu1ammad Taqiyy al-D\n al-Maqr\z\ is undoubtedly the historian with 

the most expansive repertoire of the entire fifteenth century Arabic historiography. 

His al-Mawaîz wa-l-i^tibar bi-dhikr al-khitat wa-l-athar (abbrev. Khitat), 

in particular, is a unique achievement, which manages to present a general historical 

discourse through the chronicling of buildings and topography. This unprecedented 

book, this paper argues, may have benefited from the author’s extended 

association with Ibn Khaldun, the great interpreter of the notion of ûmran 

(civilization, in the sense of human settlements). Ibn Khaldun was al-Maqr\z\’s 

revered teacher for at least thirty years. He seems to have influenced his pupil’s 

thinking about the city as the domain of civilization in two ways: analytical, that 

is to look for causes and effects behind events and appearances, and interpretive, 

that is to see in the urban and architectural history of the city the illustration of 

the underlying civilizational cycle. In the Khitat, al-Maqr\z\ seems to have applied 

his master’s theory to a concrete example – the city of Cairo – and drew from it 

pronounced moral lessons on the decline he was observing in the Mamluk sultanate. 

This is probably why the Khitat’s influence has endured for more than five 

centuries: a tribute to its author’s ardent passion and filial affinity with his city 

and country, as well as his interpretive framework, which he probably absorbed 

from Ibn Khaldun. 

Nasser Rabbat: Massachusetts Institute of Technology, nasser@mit.edu 

Historians and biographers have long noted the relationship between Ibn Khaldun 

(1332–1406), the great Arab philosopher of history, and Taqiyy al-D\n al- 

Maqr\z\ (1364–1442), the most accomplished historian in Cairo in the fifteenth 

century. 1 Many contemporary commentators, including al-Maqr\z\ himself, situ- 

1 Many of al-Maqr\z\’s contemporary biographers noted this relationship and commented on it, 

mostly negatively. See Shams al-Din al-Sakhaw\, al-Daw# al-lami^ li-ahl al-qarn al-tasi^, 12 vols. 

(Cairo: Maktabat al-Quds\, 1935), 2: 24; Ibn 0ajar al-Âsqalan\, Raf^ al-isr ân qudat Misr, 0am\d 

Âbd al-Maj\d and Mu1ammad Abu Sinna, eds., 2 vols. (Cairo: Ministry of Education, 1957), 2: 

347.

Was al-Maqrizi’s Khitat Khaldunian History? 119 

ated that relationship at the level of mentor/student. 2 In fact, al-Maqr\z\ throughout 

his extensive writing refers to Ibn Khaldun with utmost reverence, praises 

his knowledge and compositions, and directly quotes from him many times, even 

though the cocky Ibn Khaldun never mentions al-Maqr\z\ in his Muqaddima or his 

own autobiographical text, al-Ta^rif. 3 Some modern scholars, like Robert Irwin, 

focused their attention on the common interest of the two men in the wondrous 

and in divination and the occult sciences in general, but distinguished between 

their engagement in these „sciences.” 4 Others, such as Anne Broadbridge and 

Sabri Jarrar, went further than stating the pedagogical and collegial connection 

or the shared involvement in geomancy to detect a certain intellectual affinity between 

the Khaldunian notions of history’s cyclical pattern and the method and 

structure of several of al-Maqr\z\’s historical treatises. 5 But no one has thoroughly 

examined the extent of the connection between the two men and its interpersonal, 

emotional, and intellectual ramifications. Nor has the degree to which al- 

Maqr\z\ absorbed and adapted Ibn Khaldun’s teachings in his writing, on the 

level both of information and conceptualization, been critically assessed. This is 

what I propose to sketch in this brief essay. I will begin by reviewing what we 

know about the relationship between the two men and how they seem to have enjoyed 

the support of the same patrons in Cairo, and had shared views on many 

issues, both historical and ideological. Then I will move to analyzing how al- 

Maqr\z\ adopted the interpretive structure of history proposed by Ibn Khaldun. 

This adoption is apparent in many of al-Maqr\z\’s short treatises, but is especially 

palpable in his most famous compendium al-Mawaîz wa-l-i^tibar bi-dhikr al-khi- 

2 Ma1mud al-Jal\l\, “Tarjamat Ibn Khaldun li-l-Maqr\z\,” Majallat al-Majma^ al-Îlmi al-Îraqi 13 

(1965): 215–42. This extensive biography of Ibn Khaldun that al-Maqr\z\ penned has been republished 

by Ma1mud al-Jal\l\ in his edition of the full manuscript of al-Maqr\z\’s Durar al-ûqud 

al-farida fi tarajim al-a^yan al-mufida 4 vols. (Beirut: Dar al-Gharb al-Islam\, 2002), 2: 383–410. 

At the end of the biography, al-Maqr\z\ says, “May God have mercy on his soul, for I have benefited 

tremendously from him,” a phrase he uses only to describe his relations with honored 

teachers and spiritual guides. In fact, al-Maqr\z\ calls Ibn Khaldun shaykhuna (our master) several 

times in his texts. 

3 Mu1ammad b. Taw\t al-Tanj\, Al-Ta^rif bi-Ibn Khaldun wa-rihlatahu gharban wa-sharqan 

(Cairo: Lajnat al-Ta^l\f wa-l Tarjama wa-l-Nashr, 1951). 

4 Robert Irwin, “Al-Maqr\z\ and Ibn Khaldun, Historians of the Unseen,” Mamluk Studies Review 

(hereafter MSR) 7, 2 (2003): 217–30. 

5 Anne F. Broadbridge, “Royal Authority, Justice, and Order in Society: The Influence of Ibn 

Khaldun on the Writings of al-Maqrizi and Ibn Taghribirdi,” MSR 7, 2 (2003): 231–45; Sabri Jarrar, 

“Al-Maqrizi’s Reinvention of Egyptian Historiography,” The Cairo Heritage: Essays in Honor 

of Laila Ali Ibrahim, Doris Behrens-Abouseif, ed. (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 

2000), 30–53.


tat wa-l-athar, which I am claiming, not without a touch of belated vindication, to 

be a Khaldunian history. A fuller treatment of the subject will appear in my forthcoming 

Arabic intellectual biography of al-Maqr\z\. 

A Mutually Beneficial Relationship 

Ibn Khaldun, albeit a relatively latecomer into al-Maqr\z\’s life, was one of the 

most influential figures in his education and most probably in the formulation 

of his worldviews. Al-Maqr\z\ appears to have met Ibn Khaldun shortly after the 

latter arrived in Cairo in January 1383. 6 We do not know how and where the two 

first met, but the possibilities range from an introduction by a mutual patron to 

an encounter at a scholarly majlis. A young man of around 18 years of age with a 

traditional ^ûlama## education and a pronounced eagerness to learn, al-Maqr\z\ 

seems to have occasionally studied with Ibn Khaldun. He mentions in the biographical 

note of a distant relative of his, Najm al-D\n al-Bah\ al-0anbal\, that 

they both read the short book, al-Jumal fi l-Mantiq, of Afdal al-D\n al-Khunaj\ 

(1194–1248), a very popular epitome on logic, with Ibn Khaldun, who commented 

on the book in his Muqaddima. 7 Al-Maqr\z\ also mentions that al-Bah\ al-0anbal\ 

was related to his grandfather, Ibn al-Sa#igh al-0anaf\ (d. 1375), who was a famous 

0anaf\ judge in Cairo and held several important positions in the Mamluk administration, 

and who was al-Maqr\z\’s first teacher and mentor until his death when 

his grandson was about ten. 8 This suggests that al-Maqr\z\ may have been introduced 

to Ibn Khaldun by a friend of his late grandfather, who enjoyed the support 

of an influential network from among the major ûlama# of Cairo, any of whom 

could have been al-Maqr\z\’s recommender. Be that as it may, al-Maqr\z\ fast became 

a regular in the circle of Ibn Khaldun and benefited from his knowledge in 

6 Ibn Tawit al-Tanj\, Al-Ta^rif bi-bn Khaldun, 246; Walter Fischel, Ibn Khaldun in Egypt. His 

Public Functions and his Historical Research, 1382–1406. A Study in Islamic Historiography 

(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967), 18. 

7 al-Maqr\z\, Durar, 3:88–89. On al-Khunaji and his book, see Khaled el-Rouayheb, “al-Khunaj\, 

Afdal al-D\n,” Encyclopaedia of Islam III, edited by Gudrun Krämer, Denis Matringe, John 

Nawas, Everett Rowson. Brill Online, 2012. http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/ 

encyclopaedia-ofislam-3/al-khunaji-afdal-al-din-COM_24187), May 15, 2012. 

8 For the biography of Ibn al-Sa#igh, see Ibn 0ajar al-Âsqalan\, Inba# al-ghumr bi-#anba^ al-ûmr, 

5 vols. (Hyderabad: Da#irat al-Maârif al-Ûthmaniyya, 1967), 1: 95–96; idem, Al-Durar al-kamina fi 

a^yan al-mi#a al-thamina, Mu1ammadÂbd al-0am\d Dhan, ed. 6 vols. (Hyderabad: Da#irat al-Maârif 

al-Ûthmaniyya, 1972), 3: 499–500; al-Maqr\z\, al-Suluk li-ma^rifat duwal al-muluk, Mu1ammad M. 

Ziyada et al., eds., 4 vols. (Cairo: Dar al-Kutub, 1934–72), 3, 1: 92, 198, 245, and 4: 1107 In this 

multiple references, al-Maqr\z\ is chronicling the last stages of the career of his grandfather.


many topics. This is clear from the contexts of seven passages that al-Maqr\z\ directly 

copied from the master’s dictation or the many recorded discussions he had 

with Ibn Khaldun or with others in his circle of acolytes, which suggest that their 

relationship lasted until the end of Ibn Khaldun’s life. 9 In one report about the funerary 

khanqah for Sultan Barquq constructed by his son Faraj between 1400 and 

1411, al-Maqr\z\ states that Ibn Khaldun more than once told him that a new city 

would grow around the building. 10 This could not have happened before 1400 

when the site was first selected for the khanqah, and Ibn Khaldun died in 1406 

sometime before the area became further urbanized with the building of more funerary 

institutions. 

Moreover, these accounts and the twenty personal communications appended 

to the extensive biography al-Maqr\z\ wrote of Ibn Khaldun shed some 

light on the nature and depth of the relationship between the two men. 11 They 

show that Ibn Khaldun represented an important source for al-Maqr\z\ on the history 

of North Africa and al-Andalus and the biographies of its rulers, about which 

he displays more than average knowledge for his time and class in the extensive 

biographies he includes in his Durar and the attention he pays to the events in 

these two regions in his contemporary history book al-Suluk li-ma^rifat duwal almuluk. 

The stories also reveal the interest both men shared in the power of the 

preternatural, especially when transmitted via prophecies, visions, and dreams, 

as means of explaining the world no less important than observation and experience. 

12 This has prompted al-Sakhaw\, who disliked both men, to comment on 

their credulity by saying that al-Maqr\z\ endeared himself to Ibn Khaldun when 

he read his future and predicted the time of his judgeship, which happened as 

he predicted, and that was considered a marvel. 13 Robert Irwin, a more generous 

commentator than al-Sakhaw\, tried to understand the impact of that system of 

belief on the work of the two men and concluded that al-Maqr\z\ was more prone 

to supernatural explanations than the more sober and empiricist Ibn Khaldun. 14 

9 al-Maqr\z\, Durar, 1: 117, 121 (the biography of the sultan Abu Salim the Merinid), 1: 307, and 1: 

375 (the biography of the sultan Abu l-Âbbas the Merinid); idem, al-Mawaîz wa-l-i^tibar bi-dhikr 

al-khitat wa-l-athar, Ayman Fu#ad Sayyid, ed., 4 vols. in 5 tomes (London: al-Furqan Foundation, 

2002–2004), 1: 130, 3: 605–606, 4, 2: 921. 

10 Ibid. 

11 al-Maqr\z\, Durar, 2: 404–10. 

12 See especially Al-Maqr\z\, Durar, 2: 409–10, where al-Maqr\z\ reports the stories of two 

dreams told to Ibn Khaldun by the Merinid sultan Abu Înan Faris (r. 1348–58), then adds a comment 

by Ibn Khaldun that, “the proof of a true dream is that the person would wake up right after 

seeing it and would remember it.” 

13 al-Sakhaw\, Daw’, 2: 24. 

14 Irwin, “Al-Maqr\z\ and Ibn Khaldun,” 223–28.


The relationship between the two men appears to have developed into one of 

mutual patronage, or at least mutual support in the company of the powerful Mamluk 

amirs and sultans that the two men seem to have frequented at the same time 

and possibly independently of one another. In the beginning, however, the patronage 

was decidedly one-directional. Al-Maqr\z\ seems to have benefited from 

his master’s connections at court to advance his own career in the mid-level administration. 

Ibn Khaldun was probably the one who introduced al-Maqr\z\ to 

Amir Yashbak al-Sha^ban\, one of his earliest, if uncertain, patrons. 15 Yashbak was 

a clever power broker during the reigns of both al-Zahir Barquq (1382–99) and his 

son al-Nasir Faraj (1399–1412). He had become a major patron of Ibn Khaldun 

and seems to have helped al-Maqr\z\ in his first steps in the administration. He 

remained a supportive patron of both men until he sided with the wrong faction in 

1407 and lost his life in the adventure. 16 But al-Maqr\z\ had graduated to much more 

powerful patrons long before Yashbak’s death, if we are to believe the historian Ibn 

Taghr\-Bird\, who was close both to al-Maqr\z\ and to the Mamluk court. 17 According 

to Ibn Taghr\-Bird\, al-Maqr\z\ had managed to become a nadim (boon companion) 

of Sultan Barquq himself, which might have been the prelude to acquiring 

the mansib (position) of muhtasib, or market supervisor on Rajab 11, 801/March 19, 

1399, the highest mansib al-Maqr\z\ ever attained. 18 Approximately at the same 

time, al-Maqr\z\ acquired Sawl (or Sul), the slavegirl raised and educated in the 

house of Barquq, as concubine, probably as a gift from the sultan to his nadim. 19 Al- 

15 al-Sakhaw\, Daw#, 2: 22, is the only one who mentions al-Maqr\z\’s clientage to Yashbak. Al- 

Maqr\z\ himself says nothing about his relation to Yashbak, and does not even have a biography 

of him in his Durar. 

16 On Yashbak, see al-Sakhaw\, Daw#, 10: 278–79; Ibn Taghr\-Bird\, al-Manhal al-safi wa-l-mustawfi 

ba^da l-wafi, 7 vols. A1mad Najat\, Mu1ammad Mu1ammad Am\n et al., eds. (Cairo: Dar al- 

Kutub, 1956–93), 4: 313–19; Anne F. Broadbridge, “Academic Rivalry and the Patronage System 

in Fifteenth-Cetury Egypt: al-Âyn\, al-Maqr\z\, and Ibn 0ajar al-Âsqalan\,” MSR 3 (1999): 85–107, 

esp. 88. 

17 Ibn Taghr\-Bird\, al-Nujum al-zahira fi muluk Misr wa-l-Qahira 16 vols. A1mad Ramz\, ed. 

(Cairo: Dar al-Kutub, 1930–56), 15: 89. 

18 For al-Maqr\z\’s first appointment as muhtasib, see al-Maqr\z\, Suluk, 3, 3: 969; Ibn 0ajar, 

Inba#, 2: 43, 54; Ibn Taghr\-Bird\, Nujum, 5: 592, 6: 32; Ahmad Âbd al-Raziq, “La hisba et le 

muhtasib en Égypte au temps des Mamluks,” Annales Islamologiques 13 (1977): 115–78, 

pp. 148–53. 

19 al-Maqr\z\, Durar, 2: 114–15; al-Sakhaw\, Daw#, 12: 66–67, copied from al-Maqr\z\. I am not 

sure of the origin of the name Sawl or Sul and whether it is Turkish or Circassian. The only possible 

meanings I have found in medieval Turkish (sol: left, as it is today) and (söl: the juice of the 

meat/lymph) do not fit as proper names, unless she has acquired the name “left” as omen as 

was customary in Turkish-speaking cultures. See, Sir Gerard Clauson, An Etymological Dictionary 

of Pre-Thirteenth Century Turkish (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1972), 824.


Maqr\z\ himself says nothing about his relationship with Barquq, although his unusually 

high opinion of the sultan, in most instances, may indicate a close connection. 

Other biographers of al-Maqr\z\ only state that he had been in the entourage 

of Barquq and later of his son Faraj, in what capacity they do not specify. 20 

It is at that point in time that al-Maqr\z\ may have had the chance to repay his 

teacher’s previous courtesy, for Ibn Khaldun himself was reassigned to the post of 

chief Malik\ judge in 15 Ramadan 801/May 21, 1399, two months after al-Maqr\z\’s 

appointment to the ihtisab. 21 Nowhere is it mentioned that al-Maqr\z\ had anything 

to do with this appointment, but all the circumstances suggest that he might 

have put a good word on Ibn Khaldun’s behalf in court. Al-Maqr\z\, possibly out 

of reverence to his teacher, says that Barquq decided to give Ibn Khaldun the 

post back in recognition of his vast knowledge and without anyone’s recommendation. 

22 Interestingly, the same pattern recurs again in 807/1405 under Sultan 

Faraj b. Barquq, only in reverse order. Ibn Khaldun and al-Maqr\z\ were both 

reappointed to the same positions they held before within two months of each 

other, Ibn Khaldun first in 11 Sha^ban/12 February, and al-Maqr\z\ in 22 Shawwal/23 

April. 23 They lost their positions within five days of one another, al-Maqr\z\ 

on the 21 Dhu l-Qa^da/21 May and Ibn Khaldun in 26 Dhu l-Qa^da/26 May, which 

at least suggests that the two men belonged to the same faction at court, and that 

their fates there rose and fell down together. 24 

The Fa5imid Connection 

An important factor that seems to have heightened the admiration of al-Maqr\z\ 

for his master is their apparently shared views about the Fatimids. Against the 

consensus of their Sunni ûlama# contemporaries, they both accepted the authenticity 

of the Fatimids’ lineage back to Fatima, the daughter of the Prophet and 

20 Najm al-D\n ‘Umar b. Mu1ammad Ibn Fahd, Mu^jam al-Shuyukh, ed. Mu1ammad al-Zah\ and 

0amad al-Jasir, (Riyad: Dar al-Yamama, 1982), 63; Ibn 0ajar, Inba#, 2: 43, 54; al-Sakhaw\, Daw#, 

2: 22. 

21 al-Jal\l\, “Tarjamat Ibn Khaldun,” 229. It is interesting to note that al-Maqr\z\ says that Ibn 

Khaldun came back to his chief-judgeship without any help. 

22 al-Maqr\z\, Suluk, 3, 3: 999, 1013; al-Jawhar\ al-Sayraf\, Âl\ b. Daûd, Nuzhat al-nufus wal-abdan 

fi-tawarikh al-zaman, 0asan 0abash\, ed., 4 vols. (Cairo: Dar al-Kutub, 1970–89), 2: 

45–46, 57; ‘Abd al-Raziq, “hisba,” 131–32, 149–50. 

23 al-Maqr\z\, Suluk, 3, 3: 1155. 

24 al-Maqr\z\ does not report the date of his dismissal although he reports the dismissal of Ibn 

Khaldun a few days after his. Ibid., 3, 3: 1157; for the date of al-Maqr\z\’s dismissal, see al-Sayraf\, 

Nuzhat, 2: 201.


wife of Âl\ b. Ab\ Talib, the fourth Rashid\ Caliph, and therefore recognized the 

legitimacy of their claim to rule the Islamic umma. This is no small matter. In the 

competitive and even cutthroat scholarly milieu in which the two navigated, a 

public adherence to the Fatimids’ Âlid genealogy could have ruined their carefully 

constructed persona as Sunni ûlama# striving for employment in either the 

Mamluk administration or the religious establishment. And it nearly did. This is 

evidenced in the rather malicious remarks heaped by some of their biographers, 

accusing al-Maqr\z\ of dishonesty and Ibn Khaldun of trickery in asserting the Fatimids’ 

legitimacy. 25 

Al-Maqr\z\ honestly believed that he was a descendant of the Fatimids, although 

he stops short at the tenth forefather when he introduces himself in the 

preface of most of his books, as was the custom at the time. 26 Yet he seems to have 

admitted his Fatimid ancestry to at least some of his close friends, as reported by 

his most impartial biographer Ibn 0ajar al-Âsqalan\ and by his most acrimonious 

detractor al-Sakhaw\. 27 Najm al-D\n Mu1ammad b. Fahd, the Meccan scholar who 

accompanied al-Maqr\z\ during his mujawarat or long stays in Mecca, traces his 

teacher’s ancestry to Âl\ b. Ab\ Talib via al-0usayn, through the Fatimid line. He 

adds that al-Maqr\z\ informed him that his sixth ancestor Mu1ammad b. Tam\m 

„moved to Baalbek and adopted the toponym al-Maqr\z\ after the quarter in 

which he resided as a way to hide his origins for he and his sons were afraid of 

being killed.” 28 This is a particularly important testimony for Ibn Fahd himself 

was a descendant of Âl\ through his third son, Mu1ammad b. al-0anafiyya, and 

he would not have accepted a false genealogy to the hollowed figure of Âl\, 

whose progeny, reverently dubbed al-Ashraf, the Nobles, has elaborated a intricate 

process of verification and certification to regulate membership in this select 

group. 29 

25 On Ibn Khaldun, see Ibn 0ajar, Inba#, 5: 331; similar report in al-Sakhaw\, Daw#, 4: 147–48. 

26 al-Sakhaw\, Daw#, 2: 21, idem, K. al-Tibr al-masbuk fi dhayl al-suluk (Bulaq, Cairo: al- 

Matbaâ al-Âmiriyya, 1896), 21, where he lists all the ancestors up to Caliph al-Muîzz li-D\n 

Allah. For al-Maqr\z\’s own presentation of his genealogy in the preface of his books see, Khitat, 

1: 7, where he stops at his great grandfather Mu1ammad; Suluk, 1, 1: 22, and Durar, 1: 47, with 

the ten names stopping at the name of Tam\m, the father of Âbd al-Samad, who is in fact the 

grandson of the Caliph al-Muîzz according to al-Sakhaw\’s longer chain. The same line appears 

in al-Maqr\z\’s obituary of his grandfather Âbd al-Qadir in his Suluk, 2, 2: 365, and his father Âl\ 

in ibid., 3, 1: 326. 

27 Ibn 0ajar, Inba#, 9: 172, idem, Durar al-Kamina, 3: 5; copied with an indignant remark in 

Sakhaw\, Daw#, 2: 23. 

28 Ibn Fahd, Mu^jam al-Shuyukh, 63. 

29 Ibn Fahd père’s genealogy to Âl\ appears in al-Maqr\z\, Durar, 3: 385, and is copied in al-Sakhaw\, 

Daw#, 9: 231.


Al-Maqr\z\ himself was apparently very proud of his caliphal Fatimid pedigree 

although he clearly harbored no secret doctrinal leanings towards the Ismaîlism 

of the Fatimids. He was in fact by all accounts a solid Sunni Shafi^\, even prejudiced 

against the 0anaf\s. Yet he approvingly volunteers a number of panegyric 

stanzas written to him by his neighbor, colleague, and posthumously-turned competitor, 

Shihab al-D\n al-Aw1ad\, in which al-Aw1ad\ candidly and unapologetically 

calls him „ibn al-khala#if“ (scion of the caliphs) and a descendant of al- 

Muîzz and al-0akim, the first and third Fatimid caliphs in Egypt. 30 In one stanza, 

al-Aw1ad\ bluntly proclaims, „Be proud Taqiyy al-D\n among the people of your 

noble Fatimid lineage. And if you cited a report on their generosity and you encountered 

a contestant, then trace your ancestry back to the 0akim\ [al-0akim].“ 31 

These laudatory lines appear nowhere else in either al-Aw1ad\’s or al-Maqr\z\’s 

various biographies. 32 In fact, al-Maqr\z\ is the only one who speaks of a diwan of 

poetry by al-Aw1ad\ that he claims to have read and critiqued, and he lists many 

examples from it in his Durar including those laudatory verses. Their citing can 

only be explained as an implicit admission by al-Maqr\z\ of his purported Fatimid 

pedigree, even if it is couched in someone else’s words or if it were incorrect. 33 

It is thus very plausible that al-Maqr\z\’s flattering portrayal of the Fatimids 

and their achievements in both the first volume of his Khitat and his Ittiâz al-hunafa#, 

his chronicle of the Fatimids, was partly animated by his belief of being 

their scion. 34 Especially commendatory is his elucidation of the Fatimid Caliphate 

in his Khitat, and his description of the many spectacular structures and the order 

and decorum it established in Cairo and in Egypt in general. 35 He, however, does 

not heed al-Aw1ad\’s exhortation to outwardly „trace his ancestry“ to the Fatimids, 

but takes on something almost as daring. He mounts a fervent defense of 

the authenticity of their lineage back to Fatima, the daughter of the Prophet, in 

30 al-Maqr\z\, Durar, 1: 249–50. 

31 Ibid. 

32 See al-Aw1ad\’s biographies in Ibn 0ajar, Inba#, 6: 112–13; idem, al-Majma^ al-mu#assas 

li-l-mu^jam al-mufahris, Mashikhat Ibn Hajar, ed. Yusuf Âbd al-Ra1man al-Marâshl\, 4 vols. 

(Beirut: Dar al-Ma^rifa, 1994), 3: 38–39; al-Sakhaw\, Daw#, 1: 358–59. 

33 Paul Walker, “Al-Maqr\z\ and the Fatimids,” MSR 7, 2 (2003): 83–97, esp. 87–88, argues 

that the genealogy is false because the ancestor Tam\m, who was the firstborn of the first 

Fatimid caliph in Egypt, al-Muîzz, was childless. I would still argue that it does not matter what 

the historic fact was, al-Maqr\z\ and his biographers all believed in his Âl\d genealogy. 

34 Shakir Mus · t · afa - #, al-Ta#rikh al-‘arabi wa-l-mu#arrikhun: dirasa fi tatawwur îlm al-ta#rikh warijaluhu 

fi-l-islam, 4 vols. (Beirut, 1978–93), 2: 148, raises this possibility as well, but Ayman 

Fu’ad Sayyid, Musawwadat kitab al-mawaîz wa-l-i^tibar fi dhikr al-khitat wa-l-athar (London: 

al-Furqan Foundation, 1995), Introduction, 45, does not seem to think that it was the case. 

35 al-Maqr\z\, Khitat, 2: 171–607.


the introduction of his Ittiâz al-hunafa#. 36 To that end, he presents all the reports 

on their genealogy in detail, both those approving of and those denying it. He, 

however, takes the added precaution of stating at the beginning of every denial he 

cites that he „disagrees with it“ (bari#a, lit. claim innocence of), a way both of emphasizing 

his objectivity and his personal opinion. 37 Finally, al-Maqr\z\ asks his 

readers to „examine the facts fairly and not be deceived by the fabrications of the 

Fatimids’ detractors,“ at a time when the learned consensus in Sunni Egypt was 

that the Fatimids were impostors who descended from a minor preacher with a 

suspect lineage, Ûbayd Allah, „the fifth descendant of Maymun al-Qadda1 b. 

Daysan, the Manichean.“ 38 

Al-Maqr\z\’s choice of wording for the title of his Ittiâz al-hunafa# bi-akhbar 

al-a#imma al-fatimiyyin al-khulafa# itself amounts to another bold public declaration 

of his belief in their genuineness. In the first clause, he is inviting his 

readers, whom he calls hunafa# (sing. hanif), to draw lessons (mawaîz, same as 

the title of the Khitat) from the history of the Fatimids. His use of the term hunafa# 

is motivated by more than the necessity of rhyme. It is probably intentional and 

significant. A hanif in the general sense accepted in the medieval period is the 

true Muslim, the believer in the original and true religion, i.e. someone who transcends 

the sectarian division that prompted the Sunnis to vehemently denigrate 

both the Isma‘ili doctrine and the genealogical claim of the Fatimids. 39 But the 

most significant part of the title is the second clause, since it strongly emphasizes 

36 Idem, Ittiâz al-hunafa# bi-akhbar al-a#imma al-fatimiyyin al-khulafa#, ed. Jamal al-Din 

al-Shayyal, 4 vols. (Cairo: Supreme Council of Islamic Affairs, 1967), 1: 15–54, where he logically 

argues the truth of their lineage and lists prominent scholars, such as Ibn Khaldun, who 

accepted it. Idem, Khitat, 2: 172–76, is a summary of the Ittiâz’s discussion. Another Mamluk 

historian who accepts their claim is Ibn Âbd al-Zahir, al-Rawda al-bahiyya fi khitat al-Qahira almuîzziyya, 

ed. Ayman Fu#ad Sayyid (Cairo: al-Dar al-Ârabiyya li-l-Kitab, 1996), 6–7. Other 

Mamluk historians who deny their lineage, Ibn Taghr\-Bird\, Nujum, 4: 69–112; Abu 0amid 

al-Quds\, K. Duwal al-islam al-sharifa al-bahiyya: wa-dhikr ma zahara li min hikam Allah 

al-khafiyya fi jalb ta#ifat al-atrak ila al-diyar al-misriyya, Ulrich Haarmann and Subhi Labib, eds., 

(Beirut: al-Sharika al-Mutta1ida, 1997), 12–15. 

37 al-Maqr\z\, Ittiâz, 1: 15, although he otherwise revered Ibn 0azm, al-Maqr\z\ disagrees with 

his denial of the Fatimids genealogical claim and tries to explain it as a function of it having been 

generated in Umayyad al-Andalus; p. 23, al-Maqr\z\ rejects Ibn al-Nad\m’s denial in al-Fihrist; 

p. 38, al-Maqr\z\ vehemently rejects the story of Ibn Bad\s in his Ta#rikh Ifriqiya wa-l-Gharb, and 

affixes Ibn al-Ath\r’s discussion in support of the Fatimids’ genealogy. 

38 al-Maqr\z\, Ittiâz, 1: 52–54. The Maymunid genealogy is discussed in the same section. For a 

full discussion of the allegation of a Maymunid genealogy, see Farhad Daftari, The Isma‘ilis: 

Their History and Doctrines (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1990), 108–16. 

39 On the meaning and development of the term, see art. “0an\f,” by W. Montgomery Watt in EI 2 , 

3: 165–66.


the Fatimids’ privilege as both khulafa# (caliphs) and a#imma (imams) of the Islamic 

community; that is the supreme leaders of the community in both the theological/judicial 

and institutional senses. 40 

Al-Maqr\z\ then approvingly records Ibn Khaldun’s long discussion defending 

the authenticity of the Fatimids’ genealogy, an opinion that has earned Ibn Khaldun 

many curses from his contemporary biographers. The intricate and dirty 

politics of lineage comes across very clearly in the biographical notices on Ibn 

Khaldun written by Ibn 0ajar al-Âsqalan\ and al-Sakhaw\. They both dismissively 

mention that Ibn Khaldun, who was nonetheless a recognized Malik\ judge, accepted 

the Âl\d lineage of the Fatimids. 41 Al-Sakhaw\, who was a dogged and 

acrimonious detractor of both al-Maqr\z\ and Ibn Khaldun, goes on to mock al- 

Maqr\z\’s naivete for having written a glorifying biography of his shaykh because 

he believed that Ibn Khaldun truly accepted the genealogy of the Fatimids. Al-Sakhaw\ 

then wryly notes that Ibn Khaldun mischievously used the Fatimid claim to 

retroactively smear the reputation of their putative ancestor, Imam Âl\ b. Ab\ Talib, 

whom, al-Sakhaw\ alleges without much evidence, Ibn Khaldun viscerally hated. 42 

This cross-historical acrobatics seem to very well fit the pattern of al-Sakhaw\’s malicious 

and conspiratorial criticism. But to our modern sense, Ibn Khaldun’s discussion 

of the Fatimids’ genealogy is a good example of a rational mind investigating 

contentious historical claims and making decisions based on evidence. 

Ibn Khaldun’s Biography in the Durar 

The biography al-Maqr\z\ wrote of Ibn Khaldun is indeed exuberantly complimentary, 

though not in any way overly glorifying. Most of its factual information 

is in fact summarized from Ibn Khaldun’s own autobiography that appears in his 

Ta^rif. Its second part, however, offers a series of stories told directly by Ibn Khal- 

40 On the meaning and development of the Imamate, see art. “Imama,” by W. Madelung in 

EI 2 , 3: 1163–69; on the Caliphate, see art. “Khilafa, the History of the Institution” and “Khilafa, 

In Political Theory,” by D. Sourdel and A. K. S. Lambton respectively in EI 2 , 4: 937–50. 

41 Ibn 0ajar, Inba#, 5: 331, though not in his entry on Ibn Khaldun in al-Majma‘ al-mu’assis, 3: 

157–160; al-Sakhaw\, Daw#, 4: 147–48; idem, al-I^lan bi-l-tawbikh li-man dhamma ahl al-ta#rikh 

(Damascus: Maktabat al-Quds\, 1930), 94. If there is any truth to the claim, it may be seen to suggest 

that al-Maqr\z\’s belief of his Fatimid ancestry animated his biographical writing as well. 

42 Ibn 0ajar, Raf^ al-isr ân qudat Misr, 0am\d Âbd al-Maj\d and Mu1ammad Abu Sinna, eds., 

2 vols. (Cairo: Ministry of Education, 1957), 2: 343–48, in his biography of Ibn Khaldun uses 

another excuse for al-Maqr\z\’s fascination with the Muqaddima by attributing it to Ibn Khaldun’s 

mastery of rhymed prose and other verbal acrobatics.


dun to al-Maqr\z\ that reveal some usually overlooked common aspects in their 

characters. Ibn Khaldun’s stories are filled with popular wisdom, vernacular beliefs, 

and incredible happenings, most of which he is reported to have witnessed 

personally. Though only recounted by al-Maqr\z\, these stories cast a different 

spin on the skepticism Ibn Khaldun purportedly reserved for most supernatural 

phenomena and divination. 43 Al-Maqr\z\, on the other hand, relates them seriously, 

and never doubts their truthfulness or plausibility. He even draws îbar 

(moral lessons) from them, a pattern of presentation that recurs in many biographies 

of other influential teachers in his life. Seeking the moral messages in 

happenstances and historical events alike underlines all of al-Maqr\z\’s writing 

not just the more or less chatty biographies of his teachers, family members, and 

acquaintances. It, in fact, forms the backbone of his reasoning of the importance 

of historical writing in general, a rationale that was shared by the majority of the 

medieval Muslim historians, and most probably by Ibn Khaldun himself. 44 Al- 

Maqr\z\’s biography of Ibn Khaldun only shows it to have informed his thinking 

about the most mundane things as well as the most serious ones, namely the 

structure of human history. 

Al-Maqr\z\’s reserves his highest praise, however, for the Muqaddima of his 

master, about which he says: 

„Nothing like it has been written before and it would be difficult for anyone to try to achieve 

something like it in the future … It is the cream of knowledge and sciences and the creation 

of sound minds and intellects. It informs about the essence (kanh) of things and tells about 

the reality (haqiqa) of events and happenings, as if it is expressing the condition (hal) of 

being and revealing the origin (asl) of everything in existence in a style which is brighter 

than a strand of pearl and purer than water fanned by a zephyr.” 45 

This sentence was dismissed as rhymed prose and verbal acrobatics that do not 

reveal any real understanding of Ibn Khaldun’s interpretation of the movement of 

43 Irwin, “Al-Maqr\z\ and Ibn Khaldun,” 217–22, reviews Ibn Khaldun’s reaction to various 

methods of divination, and although he shows him mostly to have rejected their validity, he 

noted his ambiguity in more than one instance. 

44 His views of the moral function of historical inquiry are introduced in his preface to the Khitat 

1: 4–8; and more elaborately recorded in his preface to his still-unpublished large book, al-Khabar 

ân al-Bashar, which deals with the universal history until the coming of Islam, see 

Mu1ammad Kamal al-D\n Îzz al-D\n, al-Maqrizi: Mu#arrikhan (Beirut: Âlam al-Kutub, 1990), 63, 

215–16 where he published the preface from ms. Tunis National Library, no. 3558. For the widespread 

view of history as a moral lesson, see Tarif Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought in the Classical 

Period, (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 216–19. 

45 al-Maqr\z\, Durar, 2: 403.


history on the part of al-Maqr\z\. Modern historians have even quoted the guileful 

reports of al-Maqr\z\’s contemporary detractors accusing him of having misunderstood 

the Muqaddima, although they brazenly cite him testifying to its 

uniqueness while at the same time they doubt that uniqueness. 46 But, leaving the 

hyperbole aside, there is in this sentence much that intimates a different understanding 

of the way history moves than what is usually expected of an allegedly 

teleological and traditional mind. The muqaddima is indeed the cream of knowledge 

available to a Muslim scholar in the fourteenth century, and it does call for 

the exercise of reason in evaluating things and events as al-Maqr\z\ observes. But 

more to the point, his coupling of the two pairs of correlative terms kanh and haqiqa 

and hal and asl in the above mentioned phrase may be a recognition of the 

need to consider both the structural or intrinsic and the contingent in all that is 

examined. This is in fact a first step in moving from the certainty of belief to the 

possibility of history and unpredictability of human action. If al-Maqr\z\ meant 

what he seems to be saying, then there is no doubt that he has learned a great deal 

from his reading of the Muqaddima. But, there is no way of course to verify how 

much he did read of the Muqaddima, although he had ample time to read and discuss 

the whole text with the author during his many years in the company of Ibn 

Khaldun who seems to have continued working on his treatise until 1404, long 

after al-Maqr\z\ had become his student and eventually his colleague. 47 

A weightier indication of al-Maqr\z\’s understanding of the conceptual core 

of the Muqaddima, however, emerges from the analysis of a number of his thematic 

treatises, such as his essay on the calamity of the early fifteenth-century Ighathat 

al-umma bi-kashf al-ghumma, and his analysis of the rivalry between the 

Umayyads and the Abbasids, al-Niza^ wa-l-takhasum fi ma bayna Bani Ummayya 

wa-Bani Hashim. 48 But it is most conspicuously evident in the structure and argument 

of the Khitat, which suggests that Ibn Khaldun’s conceptualization of his- 

46 Ibn 0ajar, Inba#, 5: 331; idem, Raf^ al-isr, 2: 348; al-Sakhaw\, Daw#, 4: 148. 

47 Perhaps al-Maqr\z\ and Ibn Khaldun after all talked about knowledge tout court rather than 

knowledge of the past or of the future when they met as Irwin, “Al-Maqr\z\ and Ibn Khaldun,” 

230, wonders. 

48 M. Mustafa Ziya - da, “Ta#r\kh 1ayat al-Maqr\z\,” in Dirasat ân al-Maqrizi, ed. Mu1ammad 

Mustafa Ziyada et al. (Cairo: Egyptian Historical Society, 1971), 13–22; Adel Allouche, Mamluk 

Economics: A Study and Translation of al-Maqrizi’s Ighathah (Salt Lake City: University of Utah 

Press, 1994), 4–7; C. E. Bosworth, “al-Maqr\z\’s Exposition of the Formative Period in Islamic 

History and its Cosmic Significance: The Kitab an-niza‘ wa-l-takhasum,” in Islam: Past Influence 

and Present Challenge: In Honour of William Montgomery Watt, A. T. Welsh and P. Cachia, eds. 

(Edinburgh, 1979), 93–104, reprinted in idem, Medieval Arabic Culture and Administration 

(London, 1982) as no. XI; Anouar Louca, “Pèlerinage à trois voix: lecture d’un texte de Maqr\z\,” 

Arabica 36, (1989): 93–108, esp. 107–108.


tory may have provided al-Maqr\z\ with the theoretical framework he needed to 

rationalize and organize his feelings of attachment to Cairo and of loathing toward 

those who caused its decline and turn them into a general discourse on 

its history and topography. Ibn Khaldun seems to have influenced al-Maqr\z\’s 

thinking in two ways: analytical, that is, to look for causes and effects behind 

events and appearances, and interpretive, that is, to see in the urban and architectural 

history of the city a reflection of the underlying cycle of the ups and 

downs of civilization. In the Khitat, I am arguing, al-Maqr\z\ was the first to apply 

his master’s theory of the cyclical movement of history (notwithstanding Ibn 

Khaldun himself) to a concrete example – the city of Cairo – and to draw from it 

some indication of how the decline he observed in Egypt would evolve. 

The Structure of the Khit ˙ at ˙ and the Veiled Presence 

of Ibn Khaldun 

Based on internal evidence, al-Maqr\z\ seems to have worked on the Khitat between 

1415 and 1439/40, two years before his death, with the bulk of it written 

during the reign of al-Mu#ayyad Shaykh (1413–21). 49 He appears not to have completed 

it by the time of his death as the book ends abruptly with a short list of the 

churches of the Melkites in Cairo. The seventh section mentioned in the book’s 

introduction that was supposed to analyze the reasons of Cairo’s decline in the 

author’s time is altogether missing, although the theme of decline is diffused 

throughout the book in the form of bitter comments added by Maqr\z\ to lament 

the disappearance or destruction of cities, buildings, habits, and practices in his 

own time. Moreover, many of the individual entries are still not finished and the 

information in them is not always brought up to date. Sometimes, the text itself 

is not even edited: many sections still reveal the layers of their modification, at 

49 Sayyid, Musawwadat, 100; idem, Khitat, intro, 1: 66°–68°; Frédéric Bauden, “Maqriziana IX: 

Should al-Maqr\z\ Be Thrown out with the Bath Water? The Question of his Plagiarism of al- 

Aw1ad\’s Khitat and the Documentary Evidence,” MSR 14 (2010): 159–232, esp. 204–12, argues, 

based on new evidence he discovered in the two volumes of the draft of al-Maqr\z\’s Khitat, that 

at least these two volumes should be dated to between 811/1408 and 818/1415. Bauden’s dating 

is meant to prove that al-Maqr\z\’s book is nothing but a plagiarized rendering of the draft of 

Khitat by al-Aw1ad\ (761/1361–811/1408), al-Maqr\z\’s neighbor, colleague and posthumous 

competitor, as asserted by al-Sakhaw\, Daw#, 3: 358–59, and idem, al-I^lan bi-l-Tawbikh, 266, 

and as established by Bauden’s discovery of 19 leaves in the handwriting of al-Aw1ad\ attached 

with alterations and erasures to al-Maqr\z\’s draft.


times with the dates in which new information was inserted in them. Nonetheless, 

this extensive work appears to have been systematically structured to thoroughly 

cover every aspect of the history of Cairo and Egypt from the perspective of 

a medieval Muslim scholar: its different historical moments, its monuments and 

their patrons, its wonders and religious merits, its glorious days and gloomy ones, 

and its changing relationship to its larger regional and Islamic contexts. 50 

In his introduction, al-Maqr\z\ describes his book as a „summary of the history 

of the monuments of Egypt from the earliest times, and of the surviving structures 

in Fustat, and the palaces, buildings, and quarters of al-Qahira with short 

biographies to their patrons and sponsors.“ 51 This is a straightforward definition 

of a Khitat book as we came to expect and a rather truthful and precise demarcation 

of the scope of the book. Al-Maqr\z\ then presents a concise discussion 

of the reasons behind the writing of the book. Some, like recording history because 

it provides lessons to the people and evidence of the Divine Will for instance, 

are standard justifications shared by many Muslim historians of cities 

and of dynasties. 52 Another impulse behind the enterprise, though not unique to 

Maqr\z\, is his patriotic or, more accurately, filial attachment toward his country, 

his city, and even his hara (neighborhood), 0arat al-Burjuwan, a venerable hara 

in the heart of Fatimid al-Qahira, which prompted him since his youth to collect 

all pieces of information on its history he came upon. 53 Misr (in this context probably 

meaning both the country and the city) is, according to him, „place of my 

birth, playground of my mates, nexus of my society and clan, home to my family 

and public, the bosom where I acquired my wings, and the niche I seek and yearn 

to.“ 54 

The book opens with a geographical survey of Egypt, in the tradition of cartographic 

and geographical literature as it had been developed by the Mamluk 

encyclopedists in the thirteenth and fourteenth century. The survey understand- 

50 Ayman Fu#ad Sayyid, “Remarques sur la composition des 2itat de Maqr\z\ d’après un manuscrit 

autographe,” in Hommages à la mémoire de Serge Sauneron, 1927–1976, II: Égypte postpharaonique 

(Cairo, 1979), 231–258; idem, Khitat, intro, 1: 53°-56°. 

51 al-Maqr\z\, Khitat, 1: 4. 

52 Sylvie Denoix, Décrire le Caire Fustat-Misr d’après Ibn Duqmaq et Maqrizi (Cairo: IFAO, 1992), 

15–16, sees in the invocation of the divine benediction of Egypt an attempt on Maqr\z\’s part to 

legitimize his writing of a history of the country. I think that it could be better understood as an 

adherence to the convention that governed all writings on cities. Maqr\z\’s originality lies elsewhere. 

53 On the possible location of al-Maqr\z\’s house in the 0arat al-Burjuwan today see, Hasan 

Âbdel Wahab, “0awl dar al-Maqr\z\,” in Dirasat ân al-Maqrizi, 75–79. 

54 al-Maqr\z\, Khitat, 1: 4.


ably focuses on the Nile and its canalization and embankments over time as the 

historical sources of prosperity of the country. The text then moves to Egypt’s pre- 

Islamic history. Here, al-Maqr\z\ cites the usual sources from within the established 

Islamic historiographic tradition which had subsumed many Jewish and 

Christian Coptic accounts to explain those moments of intersection between the 

sacred histories of the Patriarchs and the Prophets of the Peoples of the Books and 

ancient Egyptian history. 55 

The urban history section begins in earnest with a summary review of the 

major Egyptian cities. Only two cities receive more than a compact treatment: 

Alexandria, the classical capital, and Fayyum, which was traditionally associated 

with the Patriarch Joseph. Al-Maqr\z\ then quickly moves to Cairo and reviews the 

site’s ancient history, when the capital of Egypt was elsewhere along the Nile. He 

then proceeds systematically from examining the first appearance of a city, al- 

Fustat, on the site of the ancient Roman fort of Babylon and its growth and ruin, to 

analyzing the founding of al-Qahira as the center of the self-consciously religious 

Fatimid caliphate in the tenth-eleventh century. As I already stated, contrary to 

the learned consensus in Sunni Mamluk Egypt, al-Maqr\z\’s elucidation of the Fatimid 

Caliphate in his Khitat, and his description of the many structures and the 

order and decorum it established in Cairo is outwardly commendatory, and often 

nostalgic. 

Most of the book’s second half is taken up by an extensive typological survey 

of Cairo as the capital of the Mamluk state in the thirteenth, fourteenth, and early 

fifteenth century, by which time al-Maqr\z\ was mainly recording his own observations 

and impressions of the mostly negative changes in the city. 56 The city’s 

55 Ibid., 108–109, raises the issue of the origin of the mummies by admitting that neither the 

Copts nor the Jews claim them as their ancestors, and that the Muslims know nothing about 

them. See the discussion of Michael Cook, “Pharaonic History in Medieval Egypt,” Studia 

Islamica 57 (1983): 67–103. 

56 In his ongoing codicological and historiographic chronicling of al-Maqr\z\’s researching and 

writing method of the Khitat, Frédéric Bauden has uncovered many interesting details, some of 

which conclusively condemn al-Maqr\z\ for plagiarizing whatever al-Aw1ad\’s Khitat was. But 

Bauden’s research cannot be seen as having established that al-Maqr\z\’s structure of his Khitat, 

or the tone of his criticism and nostalgia, or the large sections on pre-Islamic Egypt, on other 

Egyptian cities, or on the Fatimids, which together constitute half the book, in addition to all the 

data on the Ayyubid and Mamluk structures and individuals missing from al-Aw1ad\’s lists or 

those structures and events that happened after his death, were lifted off of al-Aw1ad\’s work. 

For Bauden’s massive and continuing work see “Maqriziana I: Discovery of an Autograph Manuscript 

of al-Maqr\z\: Towards a Better Understanding of His Working Method: Description: Section 

1,” MSR 7, 2 (2003), 21–68; “Maqriziana I: Discovery of an Autograph Manuscript of al- 

Maqr\z\: Towards a Better Understanding of His Working Method Description: Section 2,” MSR


quarters, streets, squares, famous mansions, hammams, khans, rab^s (apartment 

buildings), markets, hukrs (urban zones), bridges, ponds, hippodromes, citadels, 

mosques, madrasas, hospitals, khanqahs, shrines, zawiyas, cimeteries, mausolea, 

synagogues, and churches are arranged in this order, and are each recorded, 

dated, and described. Woven into this typological narrative are brief passages on 

the country’s Ayyubid and Mamluk sultans and biographical notices on the patrons 

of the city’s main monuments, in addition to copious entries on its wonders 

and religious merits, the ceremonies observed by its various religious groups, and 

the sectarian history of Islam. 

Al-Maqr\z\’s most impressive achievement in this book is primarily conceptual: 

he is the only historian in the medieval period to have presented the city as a 

human artifact replete with intentions, competitions, scheming, vanity, and good 

deeds. His book still resonates with modern commentators on Cairo not just as an 

invaluable historical source, but also, and perhaps more powerfully, as a challenging 

and emotional discursive oeuvre laced with political and sociocultural pronouncements 

dispersed throughout the narrative ambitions and disjunctions of 

the encyclopedic and cosmocentric thrust of the text. 57 This, in my opinion, is a reflection 

of al-Maqr\z\’s love of Cairo and his vocal distress at its rapid decline, at 

least as he was seeing it in the early fifteenth century. But it may also indicate an 

indebtedness to Ibn Khaldun’s overall theorizing of ûmran (a concept ranging 

between settlement and civilization), even though there is no reference in al- 

Maqr\z\’s text to the concept, and only one mention of the book in which it was developed, 

which suggests that he at least had access to the Muqaddima when he 

wrote his Khitat. 58 

10, 2 (2006): 81–139; “Maqriziana II: Discovery of an Autograph Manuscript of al-Maqr\z\: 

Towards a Better Understanding of His Working Method: Analysis,” MSR 12, 1 (2006) 51–114: 

“Maqriziana IV: Le carnet de notes d’al-Maqr\z\: l’apport de la codicologie à une meilleure compréhension 

de sa constitution,” Manuscripta orientalia 9 (2003): 24–36; “The Recovery of Mamluk 

Chancery Documents in an Unsuspected Place,” in The Mamluks in Egyptian and Syrian 

Politics and Society, Michael Winter and Amalia Levanoni, eds. (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 59–76; 

and “Maqriziana IX: Should al-Maqr\z\ Be Thrown out with the Bath Water? The Question of his 

Plagiarism of al-Aw1ad\’s Khitat and the Documentary Evidence.” 

57 Most modern historians of Cairo rely heavily on al-Maqr\z\’s data and many even adopt his 

methods and reflect his cosmocentric attitude by considering the city’s architectural history an 

autonomous development, see my “Writing the History of Islamic Architecture in Cairo,” Design 

Book Review 31 (Winter 1994): 48–51; also my “The Medieval Link: Maqr\z\’s Khitat and Modern 

Narratives of Cairo,” in Making Cairo Medieval, eds. Nezar AlSayyad, Irene Bierman, and Nasser 

Rabbat (Lantham, Md.: Lexington Press, 2005), 29–47. 

58 al-Maqr\z\, Khitat, 3: 606, and note 1, quotes a long passage from the Muqaddima about the 

evolution of the Arabs’ relationship to the sea.


But if direct references to ûmran are absent in the Khitat, its signs and consequences 

provide the backbone of the book’s narrative, which, after all, focuses 

on settlements and urbanization and their relationship to prosperity. In fact, it is 

possible to see the entire book as a long paean to the ‘umran of Egypt, which al- 

Maqr\z\ planned to conclude, gloomily but historian-like, with a chapter analyzing 

the reasons of the ruin of the country he observed during his lifetime. That 

part does not seem to have been written, and the book’s text in its final edition 

stops abruptly with the listing of the Melkite churches in Cairo as has been stated 

above. Al-Maqr\z\, however, reveals the effects of the ruin in descriptive snippets 

throughout the text and more than once mentions that he will analyze its causes 

at the end of the book. 59 Ayman Fu#ad Sayyid appended his new edition with two 

pages entitled, „on the reasons of ruin,” which he transferred from the draft of the 

Khitat he had published in 1995. 60 Even these two pages, however, end suddenly 

with an incident of taxing honey, suggesting that the section was never completed. 

Its presence in the early draft at least proves that al-Maqr\z\ had intended 

to complete his Khitat as he stated in the introduction with a chapter on the ruination 

of the country, thus bringing the story to a close. That he has not even included 

the skeleton of the chapter he had in his first draft in the final edition that 

he left behind reinforces the belief that the book was still in slow gestation and 

continuous composition when al-Maqr\z\ died. 

Besides underscoring his pessimistic tone, al-Maqr\z\’s frequent mentions of 

ruin and destruction in a book about building and planning suggest a recurrent 

pattern. In fact, even though it is not directly articulated anywhere in the text, the 

overarching cycle of the rise and fall of dynasties, which forms the basis of Ibn 

Khaldun’s cyclical historical process, seems to have furnished the intrinsic structure 

of the Khitat as well. Perhaps the actual history of Egypt in the Islamic era 

lends itself to a cyclical interpretation with the successive dynasties building 

their presence on the ruins of their predecessors. But this needed an observer 

with a keen interest in historical patterns to extrapolate. Al-Maqr\z\ was that observer. 

Prompted by his interaction with his sharp teacher and his heightened 

sensibility to the fate of his beloved city, he seems to have subsumed the Khaldunian 

cyclical structure as a way of classifying, understanding, and rationalizing 

the vast amount of historical, topographic, and architectural data he collected 

over the years and of explaining the changing fortune of Cairo over its seven centuries 

of existence. In the Khitat, al-Maqr\z\ laid down an analogous cycle to Ibn 

Khaldun’s in which periods of prosperity and urban expansion are followed by 

59 Ibid., 4, 2: 1086. 

60 Ibid., 4, 2: 1087–88.


decay and urban contraction of the city under its successive dynasties: the Tulunids, 

Ikhsh\dids, Fatimids, Ayyubids, and Qalawunid and Circassian Mamluks. 

The political fortune of each of these dynasties is plotted against the fluctuations 

of the urban and architectural prosperity of Cairo. Thus, the building of al- 

Qata#i^, Ibn Tulun’s lavish capital north of al-Fustat, marks the ascendance of his 

short-lived dynasty as does its destruction at the hands of the Abbasid army in 

905 date the dynasty’s dissolution. 61 Al-Fustat underwent two cycles of rise and 

fall, one in the middle of the Fatimid period during the extended struggle under 

Caliph al-Mustansir known as al-shidda al-‘uzma (Great Calamity, 1065–72), and 

one towards the end of the caliphate when the Fatimid vizier burned the city in 

anticipation of a Crusaders’ attack (1168). 62 More elaborate is the cyclical history 

of Fatimid al-Qahira, possibly because of the availability of more source material, 

or because of nostalgia to the Fatimids enhanced by al-Maqr\z\’s belief of belonging 

to their lineage. But here too al-Maqr\z\ arranges his material in a clear cyclical 

pattern that traces the ups and downs of the caliphate until its expiration in 

1171. 63 The pattern is less noticeable in the section on the Ayyubids and the early 

or Ba1r\ Mamluks probably because the Mamluks were first seen as a continuation 

of the Ayyubids and because the Mamluk system cannot be seen as a true 

dynastic one except for the case of the Qalawunids, of whom fifteen sultans from 

four generations succeeded one another. 64 Another reason for the lack of cyclicality 

in al-Maqr\z\’s story of Cairo under the early Mamluks may have been the nostalgia-induced 

bias he evinced towards them, which was noted by both his contemporaries 

and his modern critiques. 65 

All perhaps was meant to culminate in the depiction of the most irreversibly 

devastating – according to the angry and cynical al-Maqr\z\ – ruin of the city and 

the country under the early Burj\ sultans, especially the ill-fated Faraj b. Barquq, 

al-Mu#ayyad Shaykh, and especially al-Ashraf Barsbay whom al-Maqr\z\ specifically 

and repeatedly blames for the sorry state of the city’s and sultanate’s affairs. 

66 To al-Maqr\z\, the Mamluks of his age were no longer the deserving leaders 

their Ba1r\ predecessors had once been, skillfully and thoughtfully managing a 

great empire and fighting for the cause of Islam. His deep disappointment trans- 

61 Ibid., 2: 80–114. 

62 Ibid., 2: 122–46. 

63 Ibid., 1: 360–65. 

64 Ibid., 3: 750–88, offers a brief chronology of the sultans from Sala1 al-D\n to Barsbay. 

65 Ibn Taghr\-Bird\, Nujum, 11: 290–291, chastises his master for being blind to the excesses of 

al-Nasir Mu1ammad, which far exceeded the excesses of al-Zahir Barquq, whom al-Maqr\z\ 

severely censures. Irwin, “Al-Maqr\z\ and Ibn Khaldun,” 228, picks on the same point. 

66 Examples in al-Maqr\z\, Khitat, 1: 256, 4, 2: 456, see also idem, Suluk, 4, 2: 1414.


lated into breaking all measures of caution and consideration in reporting their 

failings, especially after he withdrew from public life around 1413 in despair of 

ever reconciling his moral indignation with his ambition in reaching a high position. 

From that date on, he unleashed his unmitigated hostility towards his contemporary 

sultans to the point that – as noted by Ibn Taghr\-Bird\ – he left no 

room for reconciliation or rapprochement. 67 In a passage that best illustrates his 

understanding of the importance of the Khaldunian notion of âsabiyya in maintaining 

political power and social stability, even though he does not use the term, 

al-Maqr\z\ analyzes the degradation of the Mamluk recruiting system in the Burj\ 

period and connects it to the general decline of the sultanate. He says that 

„When al-Zahir Barquq acceded to the throne, he allowed the mamluks to live in the city of 

Cairo and to marry from among the people. So they abandoned their towers, married Cairene 

women, took up lazy habits, and forgot their strict training regimen. Things became 

worse during the reign of Faraj b. Barquq who relaxed the rules of recruitment and imported 

adult mamluks who had worked as sailors, oven operators, agricultural hands, and so on 

in their countries of origin. Moreover, al-Nasir Faraj decided that imposing a religious education 

on the mamluks will spoil them, so they were left on their own. This changed everything: 

the royal mamluks became the vilest and crudest of people and the most ignorant of 

worldly affairs and farthest from religion. Each of them is more lustful than monkeys, more 

ravenous than rats, and more harmful than wolves. No wonder then that the land of Egypt 

and al-Sham between the Nile and the Euphrates was destroyed because of the laxity of rule, 

the corruption of governors, and the misdeeds of officers and administrators.“ 68 

Al-Maqr\z\’s indignation at the state of affairs during his lifetime brings his otherwise 

nostalgic historical/topographic narrative to a close. Chronicling the buildings 

and topography of the city turns out to be his way of drawing moral lessons 

from the actions of kings, amirs, and holy men as they were inscribed on the 

spaces and forms of the city, or its khitat and athar. This was a critical program, 

conceived and presented from within the epistemological framework of a medi- 

67 This is where Ibn Taghr\-Bird\’s repeated remarks on al-Maqr\z\’s hostility toward Barsbay 

gain their full meaning, see Nujum, 14: 200–201, 245, 310–11; 15: 109–10. 

68 al-Maqr\z\, Khitat, 3: 693–94; see also Ibn Taghr\-Bird\, Nujum, 7: 328–29, where he 

deplores the changes in the Mamluk army structure from the time of Qalawun and describes the 

mamluks of his time as “holding their buttocks in the water and their nose in the sky” (meaning 

that they were both impotent and arrogant). There is a tendency among the Burj\ historians to 

idealize the Ba1r\ period, but as David Ayalon (“0arb,” Encyclopedia of Islam, 2d edition, 3:189) 

remarks “this tendency is by no means without foundation.” For a more complete analysis of al- 

Maqr\z\’s attitudes toward the Mamluks see my, “al-Mad\na wa-l-ta^r\kh wa-l-sulta: al-Maqr\z\ 

wa-kitabuhu al-ra#id al-Mawaîz wa-l-i^tibar bi-dhikr al-khitat wa-l-athar,” Annales Islamologiques 

35 (2001): 77–100, see also, Sami Massoud, “al-Maqr\z\ as a Historian of the Reign of 

Barquq,” Mamluk Studies Review 7, 2 (2003): 119–36.


eval Muslim thinker, in other words, a pre-humanist and inherently teleological 

framework. This is the same framework Hayden White accused Ibn Khaldun of 

adopting in his Muqaddima: an underlying fatalism in his conception of history 

and a strong, rigid determinism in his theory of recurrent cycles, totally ignoring 

the cultural milieu within which the two men were thinking and theorizing. 69 

Al-Maqr\z\’s historical theorizing, however, deserves a more careful look than 

the one it has received so far, one that can transcend the biases of our rationalizing 

and thoroughly secularized and psychologized conception of history. 70 This 

way, we may be able to better appreciate the intellectual and emotional conditions 

under which this singular Mamluk historian reflected upon and wrote history. 

71 His narrative structures, elaborate prose techniques, and even the religious 

underpinnings of his arguments could then unveil their relative significance for 

his history writing. The moralizing method, though derided by modern historians, 

could then be seen for what it probably was: a potential critical apparatus 

brandished by both al-Maqr\z\ and his master Ibn Khaldun as an incisive yardstick 

against which actions and decisions of influential people are measured and 

their consequences evaluated. 

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DOI 10.1515/islam-2012-0008 The The Lure of a Controversial ISLAM 2012; Prayer 89(2): 141–166 

141 

Daniella Talmon-Heller, Raquel Ukeles 

The Lure of a Controversial Prayer: 

S ˙ alāt al-raghā’ib (the Prayer of Great 

Rewards) in Medieval Arabic Texts 

and from a Socio-legal Perspective* 

Abstract: A rich array of twelfth to fifteenth century Arabic texts captures the advent 

of a supererogatory prayer known as salat al-ragha#ib (the prayer of great rewards), 

on the eve of the first Friday of the month of Rajab in late eleventh-century 

Jerusalem, and its wide dissemination. This corpus offers an unusually vivid 

picture of the formation and the transformation of a medieval bidâ (to use the Islamic 

term), or, of an ‘invention of tradition’ (to use Hobsbawm’s term). Combining 

our expertise in Islamic law and in Ayyubid and Mamluk era history, we use 

this corpus for an in-depth study of popular piety, power politics, scholarly polemics 

and legal discourse. Twenty eight translated excerpts of various texts are 

presented in this paper, preceded by a detailed introduction. Exploring legal reasoning 

in its concrete political and social context provides a nuanced understanding 

of the development, mass proliferation and ensuing debate over a 

highly controversial and extraordinary potent religious practice. 

Daniella Talmon-Heller: Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, talmond@bgu.ac.il 

Raquel Ukeles: National Library of Israel, raquelu@uli.org.il 

„The actual process of creating […] ritual and symbolic complexes has not been 

adequately studied by historians […] [although] There is probably no time and 

place with which historians are concerned which has not seen the ‘invention’ of 

tradition,” wrote Eric Hobsbawm in his acclaimed The Invention of Tradition. 1 The 

‘invented tradition’ with which we are concerned here is a festive, communal 

supererogatory prayer held on the eve of the first Friday of the month of Rajab. 

Rajab was one of four sacred months in pre-Islamic Arabia. The continuation 

of its sanctity into Islamic times remained a contested issue for many generations 

* We wish to acknoledge the generous support of The Israel Science Foundation (ISF) grant no. 

1676/09, for research on „The Founadtion of Muslim Society in Palestine (ca. C.E. 600–1500).” 

1 E. Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge 1983, 4.

142 Daniella Talmon-Heller, Raquel Ukeles 

of scholars. A well known prophetic hadith, obviously in favor of this continuation, 

claims that „Rajab is the month of God, Sha^ban is my [Mu1ammad’s] 

month and Ramadan is the month of the people.” 2 There are other traditions that 

extol its merits, especially as a time of heavenly mercy and forgiveness. Al-Turtush\ 

(d. 520/1126), who opposed this sanctification, regarded the attribution of 

special qualities to the month of Rajab „bygone remnants of the beliefs of the age 

of ignorance – innama hiyya ghabirat min baqayaûqudihim al-jahiliyya.” 3 Nevertheless, 

special prayers, fasts and festivities were held during Rajab in the medieval 

Middle East, 4 among them salat al-ragha’ib, the prayer of great rewards. 

A rich array of twelfth to fifteenth century Arabic texts – collections of fatwas, 

polemical treatises, tracts against innovations, hisba manuals, chronicles and 

biographical dictionaries – captures the advent of the prayer of great rewards and 

its proliferation throughout the Middle East. Twenty eight translated excerpts 

of those texts are presented in this paper. They were written by al-Ghazal\ (d. 

555/1111), al-Turtush\ (d. 520/1126), Âbd al-Qadir al-J\lan\ (d. 561/1166), Ibn al- 

Jawz\ (d. 597/1200), Diya# al-D\n Ibn al-Ath\r (637/1239), Ibn al-Sala1 al-Shahrazur\ 

(d. 643/1245), Îzz al-D\n b. Âbd al-Salam al-Sulam\ (660/1262), Abu Shama (d. 

665/1267), al-Nawaw\ (d. 676/1277), Ibn Taymiyya (d. 728/1328), Âl\ b. Ibrah\m 

al-Âttar (d. 724/1324), Ibn al-0ajj al-Âbdar\ (d. 737/1336), Taj al-Din al-Subk\ (d. 

771/1369), Ibn Rajab (d. 795/1393), Ibn 0ajar al-Âsqalan\ (852/1448) and al-Sakhaw\ 

(d. 902/1497). 5 

The texts follow the spread of the new prayer from its advent in late fifth/eleventh 

century Jerusalem to the mosques of Baghdad, Damascus, Cairo, 0arran, the 

0ijaz and the Yemen. 6 They demonstrate how, despite intense scholarly opposition, 

it made its way into madrasas and learned circles on the one hand, and 

became popular with commoners, on the other hand. 7 Men who did not attend 

2 See, M. Kister, “Rajab is the month of God,” Israel Oriental Studies 1 (1971): 191–223, and 

ibid, “Rajab,”EI 2 8: 373. 

3 Kitab al-bida^, 102. See also Kitab al-hawadith wa-l-bida^, Traduccion y estudio M. Fierro, 

Madrid 1993, 157–59; Â.A. Âwda, “Risalat al-adab fi rajab by Âl\ al-Qar\,” Jerusalem Studies in 

Arabic and Islam 18 (1994): 128–145. 

4 On the fasts of Rajab, see, for example, Ibn al-Jawz\, Kitab al-mawduât, ed. T. 0amdan, Beirut 

1995, 2: 117–120; Ibn Rajab, Lata#if al-Maârif fial-Mawasim, ed. Y. M. al-Sawas, Damascus and 

Beirut 1992, 228–231. On festivities, see our “The Rites of Rajab” (in preparation). 

5 Some of those texts were published, in Arabic and commented upon, in: M.N. Albānī, Musajala 

îlmiyya baynal-imamayn al-jallalayn al-Îzz b. Âbd al-Salam wa-Ibn al-Salah, Damascus 

1960–61. 

6 See texts # 4–12 below. 

7 See texts # 7–9, 13.

The The Lure of a Controversial Prayer 143 

weekly congregational prayers scrupulously took part in it, 8 side by side with 

Sufis, and other devout ‘athletes for God’, who adopted the demanding ritual enthusiastically. 

9 

Put-together, this corpus offers an unusually vivid picture of a medieval case 

of an ‘invention of tradition’. Combining our expertise in Islamic law and in Ayyubid 

and Mamluk era social history, we suggest here to use this corpus for a detailed 

study of popular piety, scholarly polemics, legal discourse and power politics. 

Let us begin with the perspective of ‘ordinary’ Muslims, the men and women 

who brightly lit their mosques in preparation for the prayer of great rewards and 

gathered in them for the performance of numerous prostrations and the repetition 

of hundreds of salutations throughout the night. They apparently believed 

that they were following the prescriptions of the Prophet. 10 Commoners, and 

some madrasa students, loved the communal gathering and eagerly executed the 

demanding rituals accompanying it in the expectation of ‘great rewards’, not the 

least of the remission of all sins through the intervention of the angels. 11 

Most scholars who wrote about the practice agreed that it was, according to 

all evidence, a rather late innovation, a bidâ, and a reprehensible one according 

to Islamic law. 12 They all repeat, or refer to, al-Turtush\’s narrative, which claims 

that it simply appeared one Rajab night in the second half of the fifth/eleventh 

century in the Mosque of al-Aqsa. 13 Moreover, much scholarly attention was devoted 

to demonstrating the weak or fabricated status of the supporting hadith, including 

the identification of the likely fabricator himself. 

8 See texts # 7, 13–15. 

9 See texts # 13, 15, 10. Given the mixed social composition of the practitioners of the prayer, 

and owing to the very normative character of the devotions they engaged in, we eschew the label 

of ‘popular culture’, as opposed to ‘high’ or ‘elite’ culture. For the oft-repeated presentation 

and refutation of the ‘two-tiered’ model of culture or religion, see a discussion and review of 

the literature in J. Berkey, “Popular Culture under the Mamluks: A Historiographical Survey,” 

Mamluk Studies Review 9 (2005): 133–146, and Y. Frenkel, “Popular Culture (Islam, Early and 

Middle Periods),” Religion Compass 2 (2008): 195–205. 10.1111/j.1749–8171.2007.00048.x. 

10 See texts # 5, 12, 19, 22, 25. 

11 See texts # 3, 15, 25. 

12 See texts # 1, 6, 16–22, 24. Ibn Rajab stresses the late appearance of the prayer, saying: 

“Early scholars (al-mutaqaddimun) do not mention it, because it was invented/initiated (uhdithat) 

after their days. It appeared for the first time after 400, therefore early scholars did not 

know of it and did not say anything about it.” (Ibn Rajab, Lata#if, 228). On the place of hadith in 

the later middle ages, see J. Fück, “The Role of Traditionalism in Islam,” in H. Motzki (ed.), 

Hadith, Ashgate Variorum 2004, 22; S. C. Lucas, Constructive Critics, Hadith Literature, and the 

Articulation of Sunni Islam, Leiden 2004, 101; E. Dickinson, “Ibn al-Sala1 al-Shahrazur\ and the 

Isnad,” Journal of the Oriental American Society 122 (2002): 481–505. 

13 See text # 4, 5.


Early opponents of bida^ relied on numerous hadiths that called upon believers 

to uphold the Qur’an and the Prophet’s practice (sunna) and to avoid all novel 

practices that deviated from these sources. As a consequence, every act and article 

of faith that had no basis in the Qur’an and hadith could only be reprehensible 

and forbidden. However, the rejection of all novel practices proved impossible 

to uphold, leading jurists either to limit the category of reprehensible 

novelties to innovations in ritual and belief (while allowing innovations in social 

and civil matters) or to distinguish between favorable and reprehensible innovations 

(following a precedent established by the Prophet’s companion Ûmar b. 

al-Khattab). Within the latter group of jurists, most were willing to apply the category 

of bidâ hasana only to the civil realm (i.e. food, dress, laws of inheritance, 

etc.). A smaller subset, primarily within the Shafi^\ school, were willing to accept 

certain devotional practices that they could not possibly trace back to the Qur’an 

or hadith, on the condition that they did not contradict established prophetic 

practices, and were in general accord with the sunna of the Prophet. 14 However, 

despite the theoretical possibility of labeling devotional innovations as bidâ hasana, 

the general stigma of the label bidâ led most supporters of a contested practice 

to claim that it was, in fact, part of the sunna of the Prophet. 15 

Beyond the discrediting of the prayer by calling it a bidâ, some scholars delineated 

numerous faults in the way the prayer was conducted: in its public performance, 

16 in the specific timing and specific features of ritual, 17 with the expenses 

entailed in lighting mosques at night, 18 with the sincerity of the motivation 

of those attendant, and with the behavior of the crowd. 19 Many scholars expressed 

fear lest it may erroneously be considered a sunna if seen to be observed 

by members of their own class. 20 

Our texts show that mid-sixth/thirteenth century Damascus was the main site 

of the controversy. Prominent Damascene scholars preached against the prayer 

14 For a more detailed discussion of this debate, see Ukeles, Innovation or Deviation: Exploring 

the Boundaries of Islamic Devotional Law, PhD Thesis, Harvard University 2006, 87–199. 

15 See # 16–19 for examples of discussions of the authenticity of the hadith in favor of the 

prayer. On the treatment of the prayers of mid-Sha^ban and al-tarawih in Ramadan, see 

M. Fierro, “The treatises against innovation (kutub al-bida^),” Der Islam 69 (1992): 222–25; 

M. Winter, “Religious Life in Mamluk Damascus and the Limits of Religious Tolerance,” in The 

Intertwined Worlds of Islam, ed. N. Ilan, Jerusalem 2002, 225–26 [in Hebrew]. 

16 See texts # 19, 20, 23, 25, 27, 28. 

17 See texts # 22–24, 26, 27. 

18 See texts # 26, 28. Those expenses were apparently taken care of by awqaf (see text # 13). 

19 See texts # 14, 19, 26, 28. 

20 See texts # 22, 25.


of great rewards orally 21 and in writing, using both learned arguments and nasty 

personal insults. 22 Finally, one Damascene mufti, contrary to scholarly consensus 

that labeled the prayer a ‘reprehensible innovation’ (bidâ munkara or makruha), 23 

elevated it to the status of a ‘favorable innovation’ (bidâ hasana) „on account 

of it being a prayer and a popular act of worship.“ 24 His daring move kept the 

controversy alive: the public resumed, or perhaps simply continued to pray 

it, and learned peers published their criticism in new treatises. Occasionally, the 

scholarly opponents managed to co-opt rulers, but the bans issued against the 

prayers performance in mosques were short-lived, if at all effective. 25 Several decades 

later we find prominent Mamluk authors expressing their unequivocal disapproval 

of the ongoing public celebrations of the eve of the first Friday of Rajab 

in Egypt and Syria. 26 

The lion’s-share of the scholars who took part in the debate were Shafi^\s, 

namely, members of the dominant school of law in the Ayyubid domains. Most of 

them resided in Damascus and Cairo, taught in important madrasas and composed 

a variety of works on hadith, fiqh and theology, as well as devotional treatises. The 

Andalusian al-Turtush\ and the Egyptian Ibn al-0ajj al-Âbdar\, both systematic 

censors of innovations, represent the Malik\ school in this list, while Ibn al-Jawz\, 

Ibn Taymiyya, al-Âttar and Ibn Rajab stand for the 0anbal\ school. Âbd al-Qadir 

al-J\lan\ was a 0anbal\ as well, but he may also be grouped with al-Ghazal\, sharing 

a strong affiliation with Sufism. Affiliation with school of law hardly seems to have 

been a factor that shaped a scholar’s attitude towards the prayer. 

The longest and most comprehensive treatment of the reception of the prayer 

and the controversy it had aroused is found in Abu Shama’s Kitab al-baîth 

âla inkar al-bida^ wa-l-hawadith, another work written in the genre of treatises 

against innovations. 27 Here Abu Shama, better known as an historian of the Zan- 

21 See text # 22. 

22 See texts # 23–25. 

23 See texts # 7, 8, 21, 23, 26, 28. 

24 See text # 24. 

25 See text # 8, 19, 22, 26. See also Ibn Taymiyya’s ban on salat al-ragha’ib on mid-Sha^ban 

enforced in Damascus by the local hajib (Ibn Kath\r, al-Bidaya wa#l-nihaya fi l-ta#rikh, Beirut: 

1993, 14: 47; H. Laoust, “La Bibliographie d’Ibn Taimiya d’après Ibn Kathir,” Bulletin d’Études 

Orientales de l’Institut Français de Damas 9 (1942): 139 (cited in M. U. Memon, Ibn Taimiya’s 

Struggle against Popular Religion, The Hague 1976, 334 n. 3, as the banning of salat al-ragha’ib 

on Rajab). 

26 See text # 22, 23, 25–28. 

27 On this genre, see M. Fierro, “The treatises,” 204–246; V. Rispler, “Towards a New Understanding 

of the Term bidâ,” Der Islam 68 (1991): 320–327; ibid, “The 20 th Century Treatment of 

an Old Bidâ: Laylat al-Nisf min Sha^ban,” Der Islam 72 (1995): 82–97; J. Berkey, “Tradition,


gid and Ayyubid dynasties than as a moralist, 28 targets a number of customs he 

claims to have been mistakenly regarded as pious acts – from unwarranted minute 

technical details of Qur’an recitation, to the introduction of congregational 

prayers on the basis of fabricated hadith. While in some cases Abu Shama is prepared 

to accord the status of a commendable innovation to a meritorious act 

of piety, 29 he devotes a long chapter to the refutation of the popular notion that 

salat al-ragha#ib is meritorious, meanwhile relating the history of its undeserved 

success. 30 

Four other Damascene scholars devoted their energies to combatting this 

success. The grammarian Diya# al-D\n Ibn al-Ath\r 31 deals with it in a rather unexpected 

place: in the chapter devoted to the rhetorical device of itnab (exaggeration) 

of his guidebook for the study of rhetoric, al-Mathal al-sa#ir. Here, the 

prayer of great rewards is mentioned in a certificate of appointment of a muhtasib 

(the supervisor of public morals), 32 as one of the nominee’s future targets in his 

struggle against innovations. 

After having been designated as the preacher of the Friday sermon (khatib) in 

the Umayyad Mosque of Damascus, Îzz al-D\n al-Sulam\ launched his campaign 

for the revivification of the sunna and the killing-off of bida^ in Damascus with an 

oral attack on the prayer of great rewards, delivered from the pulpit. He then published 

a written „Call to abstain from salat al-ragha#ib,” where he argues that the 

prayer cannot be regarded as a commendable innovation, as it violates several 

legal prescriptions and accepted norms. 33 For example, the prayer violated the 

Prophet’s decree that the eve before Friday should not be singled out for prayer. 

Or, as an example of how salat al-ragha#ib broke the norms of prayer, al-Sulam\ 

declares that the multiple repetitions of surat al-ikhlas and surat al-qadar and excessive 

prayer rakâs contradicted the normative mode of praying with stillness 

Innovation, and the Construction of Knowledge in the Medieval Near East,” Past and Present 146 

(1995): 38–6; Ukeles, Innovation, esp. 96–117. 

28 On Abu Shama and his work, see L. Pouzet, “Abu Åama (599–665/1203–1268) et la société 

damascaine de son temps,” BEO 37–38 (1988): 115–126; K. Hirschler, “Social Contexts of 

Medieval Arabic Historical Writing: Court Scholars Versus Ideal/Withdrawn Scholars – Ibn Wasil 

and Abu Åama,” in Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras, vol. 4, ed. U. Vermeulen 

and J. van Steenbergen, Leuven 2005, 311–332. 

29 Ukeles, Innovation, 103. 

30 See text # 7–9, 13, 22. 

31 On Diya# al-D\n, the brother of the famous historian Îzz al-D\n Ibn al-Ath\r, see Cl. Cahen, 

“La correspondence de Diya# al-D\n ibn al-Ath\r,” BSOAS 14 (1952): 34–43; F. Rosenthal, “Ibn al- 

Ath\r,” EI 2 3: 724–25. 

32 On hisba, see R. P. Buckley, The Book of the Islamic Market Inspector, Oxford 1999. 

33 See text # 22–23.


(sukun) and with a submissive and humble presence (khushu^). It should be noted 

here that al-Sulam\ was one of the most important jurists of the Ayyubid era. 

Moreover, he made a significant contribution to the theoretical framework of the 

legal debate about innovation: it was al-Sulam\, who expanded the binary categorization 

of bida^ and applied the five categories of law (al-ahkam al-khamsa)– obligatory, 

forbidden, commendable, reprehensible and permitted – to all types of 

innovations, thereby creating space for new practices within the corpus of legal 

acts. 34 

In response to al-Sulam\’s „Call,“ Ibn al-Sala1 al-Shahrazur\, known primarily 

as an expert on hadith, composed a treatise presenting the prayer in a 

favorable light, based on the general desirability of supererogatory devotions. 

Among other points, he claims that popular attachment to a devotional practice 

should be given legal weight, hence allowing political authorities to resign from 

the unpopular role of obstructing the prayer. 35 Al-Sulam\ answered with a second 

epistle, 36 rebuking al-Shahrazur\ for his leniency towards innovations based on 

fabricated hadith and for giving legal weight to popular practice. However, being 

in principle open to the possibility of a favorable innovation in the field of devotional 

practice, he does not end the debate here. Rather, he emphasizes that the 

legally problematic aspects of the prayer are inherent to the practice and render 

it unlawful. If these may seem as minor misdemeanors to us, and indeed al- 

Sulam\’s attitude was designated as „exaggerated vehemence“ by his rival Ibn al- 

Sala1 al-Shahrazur\, they were obviously taken very seriously by scholars who 

saw themselves as the sole guardians of the Prophet’s sunna and unique arbiters 

of the Islamic normative tradition. 37 

Al-Sulam\’s uncompromising stand was upheld in the fatwas of another 

Damascene expert on hadith and Islamic law – Abu Zakariyya# al-Nawaw\. 38 Al- 

Nawaw\ generally accepts al-Sulam\’s typology, at least regarding civil innovations, 

but he is more inclined to use the term bidâ in a clearly negative sense. 39 

In this case, he vehemently stresses the patent inauthenticity of the hadith supporting 

the prayer of great rewards, and dismisses the popularity of the prayer as 

irrelevant. 40 

34 Ukeles, Innovation, 102; 121–129. 

35 See text # 24. On Ibn al-Sala1, see Lucas, Constructive Critics, 26–40. 

36 See text # 24. 

37 Ukeles, Innovation, 281–2; and see text # 23 and 24. 

38 See text # 21. On al-Nawaw\, see W. Heffening, “al-Nawaw\,” EI 2 7: 104. 

39 Ukeles, Innovation, 104. 

40 See texts # 12, 21.


Al-Nawaw\’s fatwas on the prayer of great rewards were published by his disciple 

al-Âttar in a biography he dedicated to his master. Al-Âttar offered his own 

censure of the prayer in a separate treatise. 41 His better known contemporary Ibn 

Taymiyya reiterates the general condemnation of the performance of the prayer in 

several writing. His indignation with the prayer is directed primarily at its regular 

and institutionalized public performance; he is less concerned with private 

occasional supererogatory prayers. 42 

We end with a surprising position by the Cairo reformist jurist, Ibn al-0ajj, 

who discusses the prayer in a chapter of al-Madkhal devoted to festivals that were 

unlawfully added to the Muslim calendar. Although Ibn al-0ajj rejected the possibility 

of a good innovation and censured a wide array of Muslim practices as 

bidâ, he is lenient on the issue of salat al-ragha#ib because of his sympathy for 

pious practices during the holy month of Rajab. While he could have followed 

other jurists who rejected the prayer out of hand because of its excesses, Ibn al- 

0ajj expressly permits it so long as it is held privately, not congregationally. 43 

At its height, the prayer of great rewards seems to have been a genuine expression 

of the piety of ordinary Muslims, living in an age of elevated religious devotion 

in the Middle East: the era of the Christian crusades, the Islamic countercrusade, 

and the final stages of the Sunn\ revival. 44 Moreover, as the biographical 

sources and historical chronicles reveal, the prayer also attracted the sympathy 

and even the participation of numerous scholars across the Muslim Middle East. 

It is here that the historical material provides an important counterweight to the 

perspective one would develop by examining only legal texts, which give the impression 

that the overwhelming majority of scholars worked actively to quash 

the practice. Instead, the picture that emerges demonstrates a wide variety of responses 

and behavior of Muslim scholars – from opposition to reluctant participation 

to active leadership. 

Given this varied response by scholars, why did some of them express such 

indignation with this prayer? Jonathan Berkey has suggested that „traditionalist“ 

scholars of the Islamic Middle Period struggled against competing figures of 

religious authority in order to establish their monopoly over the authentication 

41 See text # 26. 

42 Ibid., 258–259; text # 27. 

43 Ukeles, Innovation, 107, 252; text # 28. 

44 For a detailed presentation of this argument, see Talmon-Heller, Islamic Piety, in Medieval 

Syria: Mosques, Cemetries and Sermons under the Zangids and Ayyubids (1146–1260), Leiden 

2007, 5–13, 63–66, 244–245. On the sunni revival see also H. Mahāmīd, “Sunni Revival in 

Twelve-Century Syria: A Renewed Perspective,” Hamizrad Hehadash 49 (2010): 69–71 [in 

Hebrew].


and interpretation of the prophetic tradition. He explains the particular ferocity 

of the discourse employed against bida^ during that period by the ûlama#s need 

to construct defenses against popular preachers and storytellers, namely „outsiders,“ 

those who could not be defined as part of the scholarly class. 45 Both historical 

and legal sources analyzed in this case suggest that our Muslim scholars 

were indeed striving to assert and maintain their authority as premier interpreters 

of the Prophet’s sunna 46. At the same time, repeated criticism of jurists that Muslims 

falsely believe that the prayer is a sunna attests to the deep concern over 

eroding boundaries. 

By juxtaposing the historical and legal sources, however, what looked to us 

as a power struggle cloaked in textual argumentation, now appears as a complex 

ideological debate about when and under what conditions Islamic law could absorb 

new practices. In particular, the debate between al-Sulam\ and al-Shahrazur\ 

exposes the tension between the values of preserving the coherency of Islamic 

law as a system of norms, and of preserving the relevance of Islamic law given the 

dynamism of Muslim religious life. In sum, the joint perspective of legal studies 

and social history 47 – one that explores legal reasoning in its concrete political 

and social context – provides us with a much more nuanced understanding of the 

development, mass proliferation and ensuing debate over a highly controversial 

and extraordinarily potent religious practice. Further study is necessary to understand 

the eventual decline and marginalization of the prayer of great rewards 

that, in its heyday, seems to have overshadowed even the Prophet’s birthday festival 

in its popularity and exuberant participation. 

45 A competition widely alluded to in J. Berkey, Popular Preaching and Religious Authority in 

the Medieval Islamic Near East, Seattle and London 2001. See esp. 93–95. 

46 Texts # 7, 8, 9, 13 and 18, that mock the ignorance of those who rally for the prayer, and, in 

contrast, stress the erudition and piety of those who oppose it – indeed support this notion. 

47 See O. Safi, The Politics of Knowledge in Premodern Islam, Chapel Hill 2006, xxxv, for an eloquent 

recommendation of bringing together these perspectives.


Texts in Translation 

Definitions of the Prayer and its Description 

1) Abu Shama (d. 665/1268) 

„Salat al-ragha#ib, as it is commonly known today, is the prayer held between 

the two evening prayers, on the first Friday eve (i.e., Thursday night) of the month 

of Rajab. […] Ragha#ib: the plural form of raghba, meaning extensive giving […] or 

[the plural of] raghiba, meaning great reward. Supposedly, it has been called so 

because of the rewards due to those who perform it, as claimed by the fabricator 

of the hadith about it. 48 

2) Abu 0amid al-Ghazal\ (d. 555/1111) 

As for the Rajab prayer (salat al-rajab), it was transmitted by chain (isnad) 

upon the authority of the Messenger of God, peace and blessings be upon him, 

that he said: „One who fasts on the first Thursday of Rajab, then prays between 

the evening and night prayers 49 twelve rakâs (prayer cycles), inserting the salutation 

(taslima) between each pair of rakâs, with each rakâ including one recitation 

of the fatiha, three repetitions of [sura 97 that begins] ‘We have indeed 

revealed this [message] on laylat al-qadar’ and twelve repetitions of [sura 112 that 

begins] ‘Say: He is God, the One and Only’; then after completing his prayer 

[i.e., after the twelve cycles], he prays for me [i.e., the Prophet] seventy times saying, 

‘O God! Pray for Mu1ammad the untutored Prophet and for his family’, then 

does a full prostration and says seventy times in the prostrated position, ‘Most 

majestic and holy, Lord of the angels and the spirit (sabuh qudus rabb al-mala#ika 

wa-l-ruh)’, and then he raises his head and says seventy times, ‘O Lord! Forgive 

and take pity, overlook that which You know, for You are the most powerful and 

kind’, and then prostrates a second time and repeats what he said in the first prostration, 

and finally, remaining in the prostrated position, he asks for his personal 

needs – they will be granted.” The Prophet said: „God forgives all the sins of the 

person who performs this prayer, even if they were like the foam on the sea, or numerous 

as sand, or weighty as mountains or as the leaves of trees, and when the 

48 Abu Shama, al-Baîth âla inkar al-bida^ wa-l-hawadith, ed. H. Salman, Riyad 1990, 

138–9. 

49 The text says “between îsha# and âtama”, but the meaning is clearly “between maghrib and 

îsha#”. Abu Shama regards this slip of terms as proof that the hadith was fabricated, since the 

Prophet forbade calling the maghrib prayer by the name îsha# and the îsha# prayer by the name 

âtama (Abu Shama, al-Ba’ith, 142).


Hour comes, he will be allowed to intercede for 700 members of his family, who 

are doomed to hell-fire.” 50 

3) Âbd al-Qadir al-Jilan\ (d. 561/1166) 

The Prophet had said: „Rajab is the month of God […]“ 51 because it is singled 

out for forgiveness, and on it the tears are withheld, and God forgave his prophets, 

and the friends of God (al-awliya#) are delivered from the hands of their enemies. 

[…] Do not neglect the eve of the first Friday night of Rajab, a night the angels 

call the night of great rewards (laylat al-ragha#ib). That is so because by the 

time a third of the night had gone by, not one angel remains in the heavens or 

earths, as they all gather by and around the Ka’ba. And God looks at them all and 

says: ‘My angels, ask for whatever you wish from me’. And they say: ‘Our wish is 

that you forgive all those who fast throughout Rajab’. And God replies: ‘I have already 

done that’.“ Then the Prophet said: „He who fasts on the first Thursday of 

Rajab, then prays between the evening and night prayers twelve rak âhs” […] 52 

Emergence and Geographic Spread 

4) Emergence in Jerusalem 

Abu Bakr al-Turtush\ (d. 520/1126): „Abu Mu1ammad al-Maqdis\ said: „We 

never had this salat al-ragha#ib that [now] is prayed in Rajab and Sha^ban in Jerusalem 

until the year 448 [1056–7]. Then, a man from Nablus known as Ibn Ab\ al- 

0amra#, who was a beautiful reciter (hasan al-tilawa), came to us in Jerusalem. 

He rose and prayed in al-Aqsa Mosque on the night of mid-Sha^ban, and one person 

entered the prayer behind him (ahrama khalfahu), and then a third and fourth 

[man] joined them, and by the end of it they constituted a large group. When he 

came again the next year many people prayed with him and filled the mosque, 

and the prayer spread within al-Aqsa Mosque and the homes of the people, and 

finally it became established as if it were a sunna until our own day. […] As for the 

50 Abu 0amid al-Ghazal\, Ihya# ‘ulum al-din (Beirut: Dar al-Khayr, 1994), 1: 268. Translated to 

English also in Worship in Islam. Al-Ghazzali’s Book of the Ihya# on the Worship, trans. E.E. Calverley, 

London 1925, 210. An even more detailed version of the hadith is cited in Ibn al-Jawz\, al- 

Mawdu’at, 2: 47–48. Interestingly, the 1998 edition of Ihya# ûlum al-din, published by Dar al- 

Arqam in Beirut, omits this section. 

51 See hadith in full in introduction, above. 

52 Âbd al-Qadir al-Jilan\, al-Ghunya li-talibi tariq al-haqq, Beirut 1996, 1: 238–239. See exact 

continuation of the formula in al-Ghazal\, above.


prayer of Rajab (it) was instituted here in Jerusalem only after 480 [1087]. We had 

not seen it or heard of it prior to that year.’” 53 

5) Reception in Jerusalem 

Abu 0amid al-Ghazal\: This is a recommended (mustahabba) prayer, and we 

discussed it in this section [dealing with the festivals], only because it is repeated 

annually, even though it does not share the elevated status of al-tarawih and the 

prayer of the Festivals, being transmitted only by the few. But I have seen the 

people of Jerusalem collectively (bi-ijmaîhim) performing it eagerly, refusing to 

forgo it, and I wanted to mention it. 54 

6) Baghdad 

Ibn Rajab (d. 795/1393): Âbdallah b. A1mad b. al-Khashshab al-Baghdad\ [c. 

492/1099–567/1172, born and died in Baghdad] said: „My mother said to me: ‘O my 

son, why don’t I see you praying salat al-ragha#ib as people do (âlaâdat al-nas)?’ 

I said: ‘O mother, I prefer to pray [only] those prayers that have been transmitted 

on the authority of the Prophet or his Companions, and this prayer was transmitted 

neither by the Prophet nor by one of his Companions.’ Then she said: ‘I will 

not hear this from you. Ask my cousin for me.’ When I met him I told him that my 

mother had asked his opinion about the prayer of great rewards. […] He said: 

‘Send her my greetings and tell her: I am older than she is, and it was created in 

my time and age. 55 Only a while ago, I never saw anyone praying it. It came from 

Syria (al-Sham), and it circulated among the people, until they placed it on equal 

footing with the prescribed prayers’.“ 56 

7) Damascus 

Abu Shama: I once saw a commoner scolding one of the imams and reproving 

him for not praying it properly. I asked him [the imam] about that, and he said 

that he had been leading the prayer of al-ragha#ib, but did not know how to perform 

the two prostrations that follow. I saw that simpleton teaching him, surprised 

that an imam of a mosque was not well acquainted with it. That imam was 

like a prisoner in his hands, unable to say: „this is a reprehensible bidâ“, or: „it is 

not a sunna.“ How many imams have said to me that they lead this prayer only to 

53 Abu Bakr al-Turtush\, Kitab al-hawadith wa-l-bida^, ed. Â.M. Turkī, Beirut 1990, 

266–7. 

54 Al-Ghazal\, Ihya’, 1: 268. 

55 Assuming that Ibn al-Khashshab’s mother had him at twenty, her learned cousin was born 

on 473/1080 at the latest. 

56 Ibn Rajab, al-Dhayl ‘ala tabaqat al-hanabila, ed. M.H. al-Fiq\, Cairo 1952, 1: 318.


retain the hearts [i.e. favor] of commoners, guarding their position in the mosque, 

fearing that it might be taken away from them! 57 

8) Cairo 

Abu Shama: Shaykh Abu al-0asan al-Âlama told us: ‘I was sitting, after the 

evening prayer, with Shaykh Abu al-Qasim b. Q\ra al-Shatib\ [d. 590/1194], may 

God’s mercy be upon him, who taught me hadith in his little cell, where he used 

to read Qur’an, in the Madrasa al-Fadiliyya in Cairo, Egypt. The people were performing 

the prayer of al-ragha#ib in the madrasa, and their voices reached us. 

When they were done, I heard the shaykh say: „There is no God but He, may the 

bidâ be terminated, may the bidâ be terminated,” and he said it twice. And I [i.e., 

Abu Shama] should add that Shaykh al-Shatib\ was one of those who combine 

learning with good works, a saintly person of well-attested wonders (karamat). 58 

9) 0arran 

Abu Shama: I read [the following] in the handwriting of one of the shaykhs, 

who said: I was in 0arran in 605 [1208–9], studying hadith with al-hafiz Âbd al- 

Qadir al-Ruhaw\, may God’s mercy be upon him. One day salat al-ragha#ib was 

mentioned, and he spoke about it in a disparaging manner, and then said: „I used 

to lead the communal prayer in the mosque of al-Sakhra in 0arran.“ It is a wellknown 

and well-respected mosque with a large congregation, widely claimed to 

be the shrine of Abraham (maqam Ibrahim) by the people of 0arran, so that its 

imam cannot be but a respectable man. He went on, smiling (he was nice, smiling, 

cheerful and happy among friends, but his assemblies were full of reverence, dignity 

and respect): „When the night of ragha#ib approached, I would disappear 

[lit., flee and leave them to themselves],” or something similar to that. 59 

10) Mecca, Medina and the Yemen 

Al-Yafi^\ (d. 738/1367), commenting on al-Sulam\’s campaign against the 

prayer in mid-thirteenth century Damascus: Nothing transmitted on the authority 

of the sunna calls for its performance, yet a public rite emerged in the major cities, 

and it is performed by learned scholars and excellent saintly men, and it has over- 

57 Abu Shama, al-Baîth, 209. Ibn al-Jawz\ inserts a similar comment about the role of imams 

(most likely in his native Baghdad) in promoting invented prayers, saying: “Ignorant imams of 

mosques have made it [the prayer of nisf Sha^ban] and the prayer of great rewards and their like, 

into a net to catch commoners (shabaka li-majma^ al-âwwam), wishing to establish their leadership 

(riyasat al-taqaddum).” See Ibn al-Jawz\, Mawdu ât, 51. 

58 Abu Shama, al-Baîth, 223. 

59 Ibid., 224–5.


taken the two holy cities (i.e., Mecca and Medina) until the prohibition of it was 

repeated, and the treatise of […] the great hadith scholar. […] Mu1yi al-D\n al- 

Nawaw\ regarding salat al-ragha#ib became well known among the people, may 

God strike down the fabricator [of the two prayers of Rajab and Sha^ban]. And despite 

the fact that the two are still performed by the people of Yemen to this very 

day (i.e. early 8 th/mid 14 th century) I swear that it was not performed in the days of 

the Prophet and the Companions. 60 […] 

Al-Sakhaw\ (d. 902/1497): Ûmar b. A1mad b. al-Khadr […] al-qadi Siraj al-D\n 

al-Ansar\ al-Khazraj\ al-Damanhur\ al-Suwaydaw\ al-Shafi^\, born on 635/1238 or 

636–1239 […] studied law in Cairo under al-Âz\z ibn Âbd al-Salam for a short 

while […] and he preached (khataba) in Medina for forty years […] and passed 

away on 726/1326. […] He used to lead the prayer of great rewards in congregation 

in al-Rawda al-Nabawiyya 61 on the eve of the first Friday of the month of Rajab – 

despite it being a bidâ on account of the weakness of its hadith, and in face of the 

conflicting hadith „Do not single out the night before Friday for vigils (qiyam)“ – 

and was followed by many Sufis. 62 

11) Not performed in Alexandria and the Maghrib; banned in Egypt 

Subk\ (d. 771/1369), probably quoting Îzz al-D\n al-Sulam\ (d. 660/1262): This 

prayer is not performed by the people of the Maghrib, a faction of whom, as foreseen 

by the Prophet, will adhere to the truth until the last Hour. Likewise, it is 

not performed in Alexandria, thanks to the adherence of its people to the sunna. 63 

And when it became clear to Sultan al-Malik al-Kamil [d. 635/1238], may God have 

mercy on him, that it is one of the bida^ falsely attributed to the Prophet, he abolished 

it in Egypt. Blessed are (tuba) those who assume responsibility over some of 

the affairs of the Muslims and support the suppression of bida^ and the revival of 

sunan! 64 

60 Âbdallah b. Asâd al-Yafi^\, Mir#at al-jinan wa-îbrat al-yaqzan (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-Îlmiyya, 

1994), 4: 118. 

61 A small area in the Prophet’s Mosque in Medina extending from Mu1ammad’s tomb to his 

pulpit. It was (and is – see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Al-Masjid_al-Nabawi) a favorite place 

for supererogatory prayers, based upon a prophetic hadith saying: “The area between my house 

and my minbar is one of the gardens of Paradise,” Sahih al-Bukhari, fadl al-salat fi Masjid Makka 

wa-l-Madina, 1204). 

62 Al-Sakhaw\, al-Tuhfa al-latifa fi ta#rikh al-madina al-sharifa, Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-Îlmiyya 

1994, 2: 328–331. 

63 Al-Sulam\, “al-Targhib ân salat al-ragha#ib, in al-Alban\, Musajala îlmiyya, 9; also in Subk\, 

Taj al-D\n, Tabaqat al-shafiîyya, ed. Â.M. al-Hulu# & M. al-Tana1\, Cairo 1964–1971, 8: 255. 

64 Subk\, Tabaqat, 8: 255.


12) Practitioners in many countries 

Abu Zakariyya# al-Nawaw\ (d. 676/1277): One should not be misled by the 

multitude of its practitioners in many countries, nor by its mention in Qut al- 

Qulub [by Abu Talib al-Makk\ (d. 386/998)] or in Ihya# ûlum al-din [by al-Ghazal\], 

and the like, for it [the prayer] is [nevertheless] a futile innovation.” 65 

Dissemination across Social Groups 

13) Performed by ignorant commoners and madrasa students 

Abu Shama: Most of those who come to this prayer are commoners, and 

those who do not perform their [regular] religious obligations with perseverance, 

let alone the prescribed supererogatory prayers (al-rawatib), let alone the 

vigil. 66 Once the night of salat al-ragha#ib became well known as meritorious 

by the ignoramuses on account of that fictitious hadith, and because people 

became preoccupied with such innovated religious rites as fasting, lighting 

torches and prayer, some of them began to exaggerate in their devotion (to the 

point where) they would worship throughout the whole night, hoping to obtain 

the highest merit. […] Some people who want to establish an endowment for a 

good cause, endow the supplies of oil, candles and food for those who spend 

this whole night reciting the Qur’an in a certain location. And the same holds 

true for the night of the Sha^ban. We know that these customs were newly installed 

in the madrasa of al-Zak\ Hibbat Allah b. Rawa1a of Damascus, which 

today is in the hands of Shaykh al-Taq\ [al-Shahrazur\], may God grant him 

peace.” 67 

14) Men who are not regular mosque-goers attend 

Diya# al-D\n Ibn al-Ath\r (d. 637/1239): During the year, there are certain festivals 

designated for special prayers, such as al-tarawih in the month of Ramadan, 

al-ragha#ib on the [eve of the first] Friday of Rajab and the eve of mid-Sha^ban. The 

mosques are full on those festivals, on which the [divine] pens are busy testifying, 

65 Fatawa al-Imam al-Nawawi, ed. M. al-Arna’ut, Beirut 1999, 35. Although al-Nawaw\ mentions 

Abu Talib al-Makk\ as a supporter of the practice, in Qut al-qulub Abu Talib does not include the 

eve of the first Friday of Rajab in his list of fifteen commendable nights [of prayer] of the year, 

while including three other nights from Rajab (i.e., the first day, the 15 th and the 27 th ). Hence he 

actually does not mention the prayer of great rewards. See Abu Talib al-Makk\, Qut al-qulub, ed. 

S. N. Makarim (Beirut: Dar Sadir, 1995), 135–137. 


67 Ibid., 238. For al-Shahrazur\’s stands on the matter, see texts # 17 and 24.


noting down acts of obedience and erasing sins. And whoever attends [these festivals] 

intending only to pass through the mosque at night and to meet friends for 

obscene and immoral behavior belongs to the later (khalaf, i.e., evil) generation 

of men who have neglected [obligatory] prayer and followed their desires. You 

should send people to teach them a painful lesson and give them a beating so that 

their eyes fill with reverence and their hearts with the fear of God. May the houses 

of God become purified from such contamination; they had not been built for evil 

men but for the people, and should be attended only by those who kneel and 

prostrate, or who remember and praise the Lord. 68 

15) Men who want to exert themselves („athletes for God”) adopt it enthusiastically 

Ibn al-Jawz\ (d. 597/1200): The one who fabricated it achieved something creative 

(abdaâ, [a play on bidâ]), for one who prays it is required to fast [beforehand], 

better yet on a very hot day, and if he fasts then he cannot eat until he prays 

the evening prayer (maghrib), and then he would have to stand for [the ragha#ib 

prayer], with its long praise utterances (tasbih) and long prostration cycles, and 

he would suffer greatly! But I am jealous for Ramadan and its night prayer (tarawih): 

how can it compete (zuhima) with this! Yet this [prayer] is considered to be 

greater and more beautiful by the masses, and even those who do not attend the 

[normative] congregational prayers attend it. 69 

The Debate About the H · adīth 

16) The identity of the supposed fabricator 

Ibn al-Jawz\: Âl\ b. Âbdallah b. Jahdam [d. 414/1023], Abu al-0asan the Sufi, 

author of Splendor of the Secrets (Bahjat al-Asrar), was the shaykh of the Sufis and 

passed away in Mecca. 70 He was known to be a liar (kadhdhab) and it was said that 

he fabricated [the hadith about] salat al-ragha#ib. Our teacher Ibn Nasir informed 

68 Ibn al-Ath\r, al-Mathal al-sa#ir fi adab al-katib wa-l-shaîr, Cairo 1939, 2: 150; included also 

in Qalqashand\, Subh al-a^sha fi sinaât al-insha#, ed. M.H. Shams al-D\n, Beirut 1987–88, 11: 

67–70. For commentary on the text see I. Goldziher, Muslim Studies, ed. and trans. S.M. Stern 

and C.R. Barber, London 1967, 1:235. 

69 Ibn al-Jawz\, al-Mawduât, 2:48. On Ibn al-Jawz\’s attitude towards bidâ see, Ukeles, Innovation, 

98–99. 

70 Shaykh al-sufiyya bi-haram Makka, according to Ibn Hajar, Lisan al-Mizan, ed. M. A. al- 

Marâshal\, Beirut 1995, 5: 47.


us, on the authority of Abu l-Fadl b. Khayrun, who said: they spoke [pejoratively] 

about him.” 71 

17) Designated as „weak” 

Ibn al-Sala1 al-Shahrazur\: The hadith transmitted specifically about it is 

weak, with an isnad that is considered to be faulty in the eyes of the experts in hadith. 

Some even say it is fictitious, and this is our opinion about it, while others 

limit themselves to calling it „weak“. It does not, however, acquire trustworthiness 

by being mentioned by Raz\n b. Muâwiya [d. 535/1140] in his Tajrid al-Sihah, 

nor by the author of al-Ihya# [al-Ghazal\], who relies on it, 72 since both books include 

weak hadith, and the citation of such a hadith by Raz\n in a book like his is 

not puzzling.” 73 

18) Designated as „fabricated” 

Al-Sulam\: The third category [of innovations] includes such that conflict 

with the divine law or necessarily lead to a conflict with the law. Salat al-ragha#ib 

is in that [category], for it is a fabrication (mawduâ) upon the Messenger of God, 

peace and blessings be upon him, and a lie (kidhb) about him, as Abu Faraj b. al- 

Jawz\ had mentioned, and likewise Abu Bakr al-Turtush\ [who said] that it only 

occurred in Jerusalem after 480.” 74 And among the indications of the innovated 

[status] of this prayer, is that the scholars who are the most knowledgeable in 

religion, and the leaders of the Muslims from among the Companions, the Successors 

and those who succeeded the Successors, and others who recorded the 

books of the divine law (shariâ), with their intense concern over teaching the 

people the obligatory and optional normative practices (sunan) – it is not transmitted 

from any one of them that he mentioned the prayer nor recorded it in his 

writing, nor presented it in his assemblies. Hence it is impossible that it is a sunna 

and yet it has escaped [the attention of] those most learned in religion, the role 

models of the believers. 75 

71 Ibn al-Jawz\, Kitab al-muntazam, ed. M. Âta, Beirut 1992, 15: 161. Ibn Hajar cites two earlier 

sources that Ibn al-Jawz\ does not mention: one that establishes Ibn al-Jahdam’s death date at 

407/1016–17, and one that claims he is trustworthy (Ibn Hajar, Lisan al-Mizan, 5: 48). See also 

Dhahab\, Ta#rikh al-islam, ed. Û. Â. Al-Tadmuri, Beirut 1993, 32: 349. 

72 Al-Ghazal\ quotes the hadith without naming transmitters, simply by saying “fa-qad ruwiya 

bi-isnad ân rasul Allah” (Ihya# 1:268). See text # 2 above. 

73 Taq\ al-D\n Ibn al-Sala1, “al-Radd âla al-targhib ân salat al-ragha#ib al-mawduâ,” in al- 

Alban\, Musajala Îlmiyya, p. 15. 

74 Al-Sulam\, “al-Targhib ân salat al-ragha#ib,”in al-Alban\, Musajala, 4–5. 

75 Subk\, Tabaqat, 8: 255. See similar reasoning in Ibn Taymiyya, Majmu^ al-Fatawa, 1: 149.


19) Weak chain of transmission, yet permitted in private 

Ibn al-0ajj al-Âbdar\ (d. 737/1336): And if anyone claims that a hadith on the 

Prophet’s authority had been transmitted in support of this prayer, such as the 

one that Abu 0amid al-Ghazal\ mentioned in his Ihya#, the answer is that what we 

have said pertains to its performance in mosques and in public, and the inappropriate 

things that come along with it, as listed previously. But the man who performs 

it on his own and prays it privately, as [he would pray] other supererogatory 

prayers, may do so. However, it is reprehensible to consider it a sunna that must 

always be performed, because the ûlama# have permitted acting according to 

those hadiths transmitted in praise of good works on the authority of a weak chain 

of transmission, 76 [only] as long as it is not performed on a permanent basis. 77 

The Legal Debate in Mid-Sixth/Thirteenth Century Damascus 

20) Reserved/Partial acceptance 

Ibn al-Sala1 al-Shahrazur\ (early fatwas): There is no harm in praying it individually, 

since religious worship between the two evening prayers is recommended 

on every night, and there is absolutely no harm for the individual to pray 

it. But as for a group to adopt it as a sunna and as one of the explicit (public) rites 

of religion-this is a reprehensible innovation (bidâ munkara). But people indeed 

are quick to [accept] bida^, and God knows best. 78 […] 

21) Defined as bidâ munkara (despicable/reprehensible innovation) 

Al-Nawaw\: It is a shameful and abominable bidâ, one of the reprehensible 

acts (munkarat); it should be abandoned and shunned, and those who practice it 

should be reprimanded. And the ruler, may God accord him with success, should 

stop the people from performing it, for he is the shepherd, and every shepherd is 

responsible for his flock. The ûlama# have composed books to condemn it and to 

expose the ignorance of those who perform it. 79 […] 

76 See a similar statement by al-Nawaw\, who, unlike al-Âbdar\, did not apply it to the case we 

are dealing with. He writes: “Religious scholars are in agreement that it is permissible to put into 

practice a weak hadith if virtuous deeds (fada#il al-a^mal) are concerned” (An-Nawawi’s Forty 

Hadiths, trans. Ezzedin Ibrahim and D. Johnson-Davies, Cambridge 1997, 22. 

77 Ibn al-0ajj al-Âbdar\, Kitab al-Madkhal, Cairo 1929, 292–294. 

78 On al-Shahrazur\’s change of mind, see Abu Shama, al-Baîth, 210–211. 

79 Fatawa al-imam al-Nawawi, 34–35. See also his Kitab khulasat al-ahkam, ed. H.I. Al-Jamal, 

Beirut 1997, 1:615–616, where he claims the hadith is “very weak”, and in Ibn al-Âttar, Tuhfat al-


22) Al-Sulam\ vs. al-Shahrazur\: Chronicle of the legal debate in Damascus 

Abu Shama: It so happened, that in 637/1239–40 the tasks of preaching and 

leading the prayer in the Great Mosque of Damascus, may God protect it, were assumed 

by the worthiest of its people at that time, the jurist and mufti, champion of 

the sunna and supporter of truth, Abu Mu1ammad Âbd al-Âz\z b. Âbd al-Salam 

[al-Sulam\], may God support and strengthen him. 80 He engaged in the revivification 

of the sunan and in the suppression of bida^, as was his manner. When the 

month of Rajab was approaching, he presented the issue of salat al-ragha#ib to the 

people, explaining that it was a reprehensible bidâ, and that the hadith pertaining 

to it was falsely attributed to the Messenger of God. He addressed that issue 

from the pulpit during the Friday sermon, informing the people that he would not 

perform it [i.e. lead them in prayer] and that he forbade them to pray it. He [also] 

composed a nice treatise about it, under the title „A call to abstain from salat alragha#ib,” 

warning the people not to engage in bida^ and not to seek closeness to 

God in ways He did not command. He had hoped to make the people abstain from 

it by his words and deeds, but that was hard upon the masses, and upon many 

of the distinguished among the common people (tagham), because they had believed 

wrongly that it was nothing but a prayer and an act of obedience and devotion 

that brings one closer to God, so why ban it? All that, while relying on that 

fabricated hadith. 

The ruler of the land, [al-Malik al-Sali1 Isma^\l, 637–647/1240–1249], and his 

entourage also found it hard to abolish, so one of the muftis of Damascus 81 

composed a treatise ratifying it, presenting it in a favorable light and including it 

within the category of bidâ hasana (good innovation), 82 on account of its being a 

prayer. He had wished to refute the treatise of [al-Sulam\] in this composition of 

his. But the jurist Abu Mu1ammad [al-Sulam\] answered him with a better response, 

in which he clarified that it was he [i.e., Ibn al-Sala1 al-Shahrazur\] who 

had issued previously the two fatwas mentioned earlier, 83 and now was contradicting 

his former ruling and was presenting that which would satisfy the whim 

talibin fi tarjamat al-imam Muhyi al-Din, ed. A. H. Salman, Dar al-Samiî li-l-Nashr, 1414, 222–23, 

where he says similar things. 

80 Al-Sulamī lost the job several months later, having criticized al-Malik al-Sali1 Isma^\l’s concessions 

to the Franks (see R.S. Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols: The Ayyubids of Damascus, 

1193–1260, Albany 1977, 266–67). In 639/1241–42 he moved to Egypt, where he was 

appointed khatib and qadi by the rival Ayyubid ruler al-Malik al-Sali1 Ayyub (Abu Shama, Tarajim, 

170–71). 

81 Taq\ al-D\n b. al-Sala1 al-Shahrazur\. 

82 See below, text no. 24. 

83 See his early fatwas above.


of the ruler and the commoners of his day. And he [i.e., Ibn al-Sala1] is one of 

the pious scholars and high-ranking muftis! But God has said, and He is the most 

truthful: „We may test them: those who are best in conduct” [18:7]; „He may try 

some of you by means of others” [47:4]; „And we have appointed some of you as a 

test for others: Will you be steadfast? And thy Lord is ever a seer [25:20].” 84 

In his legitimization of this prayer, Shaykh al-Taq\ [al-Shahrazur\] relied upon 

its inclusion in the general command pertaining to prayer. He said: „the weakness 

of the hadith does not necessarily imply the nullity of salat al-ragha#ib.” The 

answer to that is that we do not hold our opinion merely on account of the falsity 

of the hadith, but on the basis of additional evidence, such as the prohibition on 

singling out the night before Friday for religious devotions. What was said to be 

reprehensible after the general command [pertaining to prayer] has been given 

is excluded from that command, according to the explicit opinion of our leading 

scholars in the books of usul al-fiqh. 85 

23) Defined as an innovation (bidâ) of the „third type,” that which contradicts 

the shariâ (in eleven respects!) 

Al-Sulam\: There are three types of innovations (bida^), 86 the first: what is 

permitted, such as plenty (tawassu^) of food and drink, clothing and women, and 

there is no harm in that; the second: what is good (hasan), that is, all innovated 

acts that are in accordance with the principles of the shariâ and do not contradict 

any of them, such as the tarawih prayer, the construction of Sufi lodges (ribats), 

caravanserais (khanat), madrasas, and all other types of pious deeds that did not 

occur during the first [Muslim] period. […] The third type: what contradicts the divine 

law, or is bound to (or leads necessarily to) a contradiction with the divine 

law, such as salat al-ragha#ib, falsely attributed to the Prophet. […] It is at variance 

with the shariâ in several respects, some relevant only to scholars, other pertaining 

to both the learned and the ignorant. As for what is specific to scholars, there 

are two matters: first, that the scholar who performs it misleads the commoners 

into believing that it is one of the sunan (religious norms) and thus, ipso facto, he 

is lying about the Messenger of God, peace and blessings upon him, which is tantamount 

to uttering a lie. Second: the scholar, when he performs it, is the cause of 

the commoners lying about the Messenger of God when they say, this is one of the 

religious norms, and causing a lie about the Messenger of God is not permitted. 

84 Abu Shama, al-Baîth, 149–50; texts # 17, 20. 


86 In his Qawa#id al-ahkam, al-Sulam\ lists five types of bida^, using the categories of al-ahkam 

al-khamsa (al-Sulam\, Qawa#id al-ahkam fi masalih al-anam, ed. Â. Al-Daqar, 1992, 

pp. 660–62). See also Rispler, “Towards a new Understanding,” 323–25.


As for what concerns both the learned and the ignorant, there are a number 

of aspects: First, the performance of innovations gives strength to the innovators 

who fabricate and invent. […] Second, it conflicts with the sunna that calls for 

standing still at prayer, because the repetition of surat al-ikhlas twelve times, as 

well as the twelve-time repetition of surat al-qadar, is usually impossible without 

moving various parts of the body, and it goes against the sunna of keeping one’s 

body parts still. Third, it conflicts with the sunna that calls for inner humility and 

submissiveness, concentration in prayer and pouring out [one’s heart] to God Exalted, 

and the contemplation of His greatness and sublime state, and occupying 

oneself with the meaning of the liturgy (lit., of the Qur’an recitation and the remembrance 

of God’s names), because if one has to pay attention to the number of 

chapters repeated in his heart, he is distracted from God by virtue of an act that 

was not legislated for prayer. Fourth: it conflicts with the normative way that 

supererogatory prayers should be performed. For the norm is to perform them at 

home and not at the mosque, except for those prayers delineated by the divine 

law. […] Fifth, it conflicts with the norm that supererogatory prayers should be 

uneven in number [of rakâs], for the norm is uneven numbers except when the 

divine law indicated otherwise. […] Sixth, it conflicts with the norm regarding expediting 

the breakfast, as the Prophet said: „My community will remain well so 

long as they hasten to break the fast and delay the meal before daybreak (suhur). 

Seventh, it conflicts with the norm of emptying one’s heart of all troubling distractions 

prior to entering into prayer, indeed with this prayer, one enters into it 

while one is hungry and thirsty, and especially on very hot days. […] Eighth, the 

two prostrations [at the end of the prayer] are reprehensible, for the law (shariâ) 

did not intend for one to draw near to God (taqarrub min Allah) by an isolated 

prostration that has no occasion (la sabab laha), for acts of drawing near to 

God (al-qurab) have occasions (asbab) and conditions (shara#it) and [designated] 

times (awqat) and basic elements (arkan), without which [the act] is not correct. 

Just as one does not approach God Exalted by standing at Ârafa and Muzdalifa, 

by throwing pebbles, and by rushing between Safa and Marwa without the ritual 

framework (al-nusuk) that occurs in its [appointed] time, with its occasions and 

conditions, likewise, one cannot approach Him by an isolated prostration, even 

though it [constitutes] an act of drawing near (qurba) unless, there was a correct 

occasion (sabab sahih). Similarly, one does not approach God, Exalted and Sublime, 

in prayer or fasting at every period of time (or: at all times). Perhaps the ignorant 

approached God with that which distances them from God, since they did 

not understand [otherwise]. Ninth, were the two prostrations legally prescribed, 

they still would be at variance with the norms of inner humility and submissiveness, 

due to the multiplication of praise passages (tasbih) in them [that are recited] 

to oneself or out loud or both. Tenth, the Messenger of God, peace and


blessings be upon him, said: „Do not single out the night before Friday for night 

vigil (qiyam) and do not single out Friday for fasting except if it coincides with a 

regular fasting date for one of you.” This hadith was transmitted by Muslim b. al- 

0ajjaj in his Sahih. 87 […] Eleventh, there is something in it that conflicts with the 

norm chosen by the Messenger of God, peace and blessings be upon him, regarding 

the remembrances of God (adhkar) in the prostration, for when God, Sublime 

and Exalted is He, revealed the verse „Praise the name of your Lord Most High,” 

he [i.e., the Messenger] said: „place this in your prostrations.” […] 

And no one should draw evidence from what was related on the Messenger of 

God’s authority, that he said: „Prayer is the best of matters,” because that statement 

pertains only to prayer that does not conflict with the shariâ in any way, 

and this prayer conflicts with the divine law in the ways mentioned above, and 

what good comes from conflicting with the shariâ? And for that reason, he, peace 

and blessings upon him, said: „The worst of matters are their novelties, and every 

bidâ is a deviating error.” 88 […] 

24) Defined as bidâ hasana – a good innovation 

Ibn al-Sala1’s refutation of al-Sulam\: You all have asked, may God show you 

the way, about the intention of a certain person [i.e., al-Sulam\] to stop the performance 

of salat al-ragha#ib and to ban it, and to deprive the people of an act of 

worship (îbada) that they had become accustomed to perform on a noble and undoubtedly 

meritorious night. And [you had asked about] his argument, that the 

hadith transmitted about it is weak or fabricated and his claim that the prayer 

should be abolished, as it is connected to something that is repudiated and rejected. 

And about his exaggerated vehemence, and the people’s great distress 

and the extent of their opposition towards him – to the point where they invoke 

the divine verse: „Have you seen him who dissuades a slave when he prays? No! 

Do not obey him. But prostrate yourself and draw near (unto God)’ [96:9–10, 19] in 

response to him – you have asked me to explain the truth of the matter and to clarify 

it. […]” 

[Discussion of the hadith’s status] 

The weakness of the hadith does not necessitate nullifying the prayer and 

prohibiting it, because it falls under the general command pertaining to prayer, 

revealed in the Qur’an and sunna. Therefore, it is desirable according to the general 

meaning (ûmumat) of many legal texts speaking about the recommended 

status of prayer unrestrictedly. Those include the hadith of Abu Malik al-Ashâr\, 

87 Sahih Muslim, Book of Fasting, chapter 24, hadith 2740. 

88 Quoted by Subk\, Tabaqat, 8: 251–55.


related in Sahih Muslim, that the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, said: 

„Prayer is light,” 89 and the hadith of Thawban and Âbdallah b. Âmr b. al-Âs, 

may God be pleased with them, that the Messenger of God, peace and blessings be 

upon him, said: „Follow the straight path and you will not be held accountable, 

and know that the best of your deeds is prayer,” cited by Ibn Maja in his Sunan, 

and [the hadith] has other sound transmissions. 90 

[…] And even though there is no reliable hadith specifically about salat 

al-ragha#ib and its characterization, its performance is in accordance with the 

shariâ, as we have shown. And how many accepted prayers that have special features 

for which no specific source from the Qur’an or sunna was revealed, and yet 

are not called an innovation (bidâ)? Or, were someone to call it a bidâ, he would 

say however, it is a good innovation (bidâ hasana), because it derives from a 

general source (asl) from the Qur’an and sunna. 91 

25) Al-Sulam\’s refutation of al-Shahrazur\’s refutation: 

When I had renounced the fabricated salat al-ragha#ib and explained the different 

ways in which it contradicts the rulings of the shariâ in that commentary, 

one of the people rose to argue about that, eager to depict it as desirable, and to 

establish it as a favorable bidâ on account of its being a prayer. And while I had 

renounced it on account of the total of its characteristics and particular traits, of 

which some are to be pronounced as prohibited, and others as contradicting the 

sunan, he began to slander me [saying] that I prevented the people from [performing] 

a devotional act (îbada), but I did not prevent it for being a devotional act; 

rather I rejected it because of its [problematic] qualities, forbidding just as the 

Prophet, peace be upon him, forbade […] prayers during the reprehensible times. 

[…] 

Then he [al-Shahrazur\] said: ‘People consider it to be a blessed night and 

have no doubt about its merits,’ thus making the habit of those who possess no 

knowledge as an argument in favor of the performance of a forbidden bidâ. And 

indeed it is performed by commoners and by those who are not versed in the 

study of the shariâ (lit., who do not have a foot planted in the science of the 

law). 92 

[…] We raise an objection against him, then, by the statement of the Messenger 

of God, peace and blessings be upon him, „The worst matters are their 

89 Sahih Muslim, Book of Purity (tahara), chapter 1, no. 556. 

90 Sunan Ibn Maja, Book of Purity and Its Norms (al-tahara wa-sunaniha), chapter 4: no. 290. 

91 Alban\, Musajala, 14–18. 

92 Ibid., 29–30 quoting Al-Sulam\, “Risala fi radd jawaz salat al-ragha#ib,” 55–6.


novelties, for every innovation is an error.” [Though] the good innovations were 

excluded from that [statement] – that is, every innovation that does not conflict 

with the [Prophetic] norms (sunan) but conforms with them – the rest remains 

under the generality of his statement, „the worst matters are their novelties, 

for every innovation is an error,” and the ragha’ib prayer is not part of what was 

excluded [from the general statement] such that [the prayer] would be linked to it 

analogically ([hatta] tulhaqa biha qiyas). 93 […] 

Aftermath of the Damascene Debate in the Mamluk Period 

26) Defined as detestable innovation (bidâ makruha), yet continually celebrated 

Âl\ b. Ibrah\m al-Âttar (d. 654–724/1324): The ordinances pertaining to that 

night are those pertaining to the rest of the Friday nights of it [of the month of 

Rajab], not more. And making it into a public rite (mawsim) and kindling more 

lights than customary is an innovation that contradicts the sunna. And the disruption 

in the mosques that comes with it, and the like, is forbidden. There is no 

recompense (thawab) for kindling of light and eating sweets and the like [done] 

in honor of that night, it is like any other night and should be treated as such, regarding 

expenses and intentions. […] And the hadiths transmitted about gracing 

it with a prayer are all fabricated according to the paragons of transmission 

and the trustworthy. For a long time there have been discussions between the 

scholars, and the prayers of Rajab and Sha^ban had been banned in Egypt thanks 

to the efforts of Ibn Di1ya, and the order of our Sultan al-Kamil Mu1ammad b. Ab\ 

Bakr b. Ayyub [615/1218–635/1238)]. 94 […] Nowadays, people donate for charity especially 

on Rajab, which has no basis. 95 […] 

27) Ibn Taymiyya (661/1263–728/1328) 

Days never venerated in the shariâ, unknown during the age of the salaf, and 

without any reason for veneration: For instance the first Thursday and the night 

before Friday of Rajab, called al-ragha#ib. […] The correct opinion of true scholars 

is that it is forbidden to single out this day for fast and to perform this innovated 

prayer. Forbidden also is everything that is aimed at venerating this day such as 

93 Alban\, Musajala, 30. 

94 The order was issued in 632/1235. In 635/1238, during which he briefly ruled also over 

Damascus, al-Malik al-Kamil intervened also with daily prayer arrangement in the Umayyad 

Mosque (see Abu Shama, Tarajim, 166; Ibn Kath\r, al-Bidaya 1994, 13: 173). 

95 Ibn al-Âttar, in Alban\, Musajala, 54–56.


preparing foods, the display of finery, etc., so that this day be treated like all other 

days and should have no merit whatsoever. 96 

Establishing (insha#) a prayer held by a specific number of people, with specific 

readings on specific times, and performing it in congregation on a permanent 

basis (tusalli jamaâ ratiba), like the prayers discussed here, such as the 

prayer of great rewards on the first Friday of Rajab, the alfiyya on Rajab first, mid- 

Sha^ban, the night of the 27 th of the month of Rajab, and the like – those are 

against the shariâ (ghayr mashru^), as agreed upon by great authorities of Islam 

(a#imat al-islam), and stipulated by the respected scholars. 97 

28) Ibn al-0ajj al-Âbdar\ (d. 737/1336) 

From the chapter entitled „Public rites (mawasim) wrongly ascribed to the 

shariâ”: 

The pious ancestors (salaf), God’s favor upon them, did not attach great importance 

to this month, namely the month of Rajab; they honored it merely with 

extra acts of worship (al-îbada) and with preparations for fulfilling all that is due 

to it according to the shariâ and with purifying their actions, so as to honor it as 

the first of the sacred months and the first of the months of blessing (al-baraka), 

not by food and dance nor by extravagant eating and presents. […] 

And one of the innovations (bida^) that was introduced in this sacred month 

is the prayer on the night preceeding the first Friday of the month. On that night 

they pray in congregational mosques (jawami^) and neighborhood mosques (masajid) 

the prayer of great rewards, and they gather in some of the congregational 

mosques and in their neighborhood mosques and they perform this bidâ with 

an imam and in congregation, as if it were one of the prayers prescribed by the 

shariâ. Other forbidden corruptions associated with this bidâ are the gathering 

of women and men at night and whatever is known to come with it, and inevitably, 

the improper and excessive lighting of candles, hence the waste of money, 

especially if the oil is endowed. In that case, it is a breach of the rights of the 

supervisor of the waqf, more so if the endower did not mention it explicitly; yet, 

even if he did mention it, it would not render it lawful. [That is because] the excessive 

kindling of fire, and the waste of money that goes with it, as explained 

earlier, is the occasion for pointless gatherings. And the religious official who is 

96 M. U. Memon, Ibn Taymiya’s Struggle against Popular Religion with an annotated translation 

of his Kitab iqtida# as-sirat al-mustaqim mukhalafat ashab al-jahim, The Hague 1976, 

pp. 241–42. See also H. Laoust, “La Bibliographie d’Ibn Taimiya d’après Ibn Kathīr,” in Bulletin 

d’études orientales de l’Institut français de Damas 9 (1942): 139, cited in Memon, Ibn Taimiya’s 

Struggle, 334 n. 3.) 

97 Ibn Taymiyya, Majmu^ al-Fatawa, ed. I. I. al-Azharī, Cairo 1326, 2:2.


present knowing all that, is also breaching the rights of the endower. But if he attends 

to make a difference, and is capable of it, that is well and good. […] 

And if anyone claims that [a hadith on the Prophet’s authority] had been 

transmitted in support of this prayer, one that Abu 0amid al-Ghazal\ mentioned 

in his Ihya#, the answer is that what we have said pertains to its performance in 

mosques and in public, and the inappropriate things that come along with it, as 

listed previously. But the man who performs it on his own, and prays it privately, 

as [he would pray] other supererogatory prayers, may do so. However, considering 

it a sunna that must always be performed is reprehensible, because the 

ûlama# have indeed permitted acting according to those hadiths transmitted in 

praise of good works on the authority of a weak chain of transmission, so long as 

it is not performed on a permanent basis. 98 

98 Ibn al-0ajj, al-Madkhal, Cairo 1929, 1: 210, 292–294.

Reviews 

DOI 10.1515/islam-2012-0009 ISLAM 2012; Reviews 89(2): 167–259 

167 

Ervand Abrahamian, A History of Modern Iran, Cambridge 2008: Cambridge 

University Press, 228 S. ISBN 978-0521528917. £ 16.99. 

Der Titel eines Buches wird oftmals nicht seinem Inhalt entsprechend gewählt, 

sondern vielmehr nach marktstrategischen Kriterien. Dies ist insbesondere dann 

so, wenn man beabsichtigt, ein besonderes breites Publikum zu erreichen. Auch 

bei dem vorliegenden Buch ist es nicht anders. Nach Ende der Lektüre dieser gut 

recherchierten und gut geschriebenen Studie über die politische Geschichte Irans 

im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert denke ich, man hätte ihr den inhaltlich passenderen 

Titel „A Political History of Iran since 1900“ geben können. Primär geht es nämlich 

in dem Buch nicht um die Geschichte Irans in dieser Zeit ganz allgemein, sondern 

„the book focuses on the state, on how it was created and expanded, and 

how its expansion has had profound repercussions not only on the polity and 

economy, but also on the environment, culture, and, most important of all, wider 

society“ (S. 1). Doch selbst das Politische wird nur kurz und überblicksartig beschrieben. 

Andernfalls wäre es wohl kaum zu bewältigen gewesen, beispielsweise 

die Qa>arenzeit auf 25 Seiten (erstes Kapitel, S. 8–33) oder die Zeit der islamischen 

Republik auf 35 Seiten (letztes Kapitel, S. 155–195, Abbildungen 

ausgenommen) zu behandeln. Auch andere große historische Themen, wie etwa 

die „Konstitutionelle Revolution“ (zweites Kapitel, S. 34–62) und die Regierungszeiten 

Reza Shahs (drittes Kapitel, S. 63–96), Mosaddeqs (viertes Kapitel, 

S. 97–122) und Muhammad Reza Shahs (fünftes Kapitel, S. 123–154), werden auf 

dieselbe Art in knapper Weise dargestellt. Im Fokus des Buches steht auch nicht 

die theoretische oder kritische Auseinandersetzung mit dem Begriff der „Moderne“ 

– wie sie etwa im Westen verstanden wird und wann sie dort begann oder 

wie sie im Iran definiert wird und wann sie dort angesetzt hat –, vielmehr wird in 

dem Buch die Auswirkung europäischer kulturpolitischer Erscheinungen auf die 

Politikgestaltung im Iran seit dem ausgehenden 19. Jahrhundert bis in die Gegenwart 

dargestellt. 

Dennoch bietet das Buch in einer knappen und leserfreundlichen Schreibweise 

einen guten Überblick über die wichtigsten politischen Entwicklungen in 

der Zeit der Qa>aren, der Pahlavis und der Islamischen Republik und kann sowohl 

Fachleuten als auch interessierten Studierenden eine wertvolle Lektüre 

sein. 

Abbas Poya: abbas.poya@frias.uni-freiburg.de

168 Reviews 

Cyrille Aillet, Les Mozarabes. Christianisme, Islamisation et Arabisation 

en Péninsule Ibérique (IXe-XIIe siècle). Préface de Gabriel Martínez-Gros 

(Bibliothèque de la Casa de Velázquez 45), Madrid 2010: Casa de Velázquez, 

XXII + 418 S. ISBN 978-84-96820-30-2. 

Das hier zu besprechende Buch markiert einen Meilenstein in der Forschung zur 

christlichen Minderheit im mittelalterlichen muslimischen Spanien. Aillets Studie 

zu den „Mozarabern“ von al-Andalus erfüllt alle Voraussetzungen, um künftig 

zu einem neuen Standardwerk zu diesem Themenfeld zu werden. Dies in gleich 

zweifacher Hinsicht: Zum einen leistet Aillet über hundert Jahre nach dem erstmaligen 

Erscheinen der methodisch und weltanschaulich hochproblematischen, 

aber dennoch noch immer fleißig zitierten Historia de los mozárabes de España 

(1897–1904) von Francisco Simonet endlich eine längst überfällige kritische 

Revision der Quellenbestände zur „mozarabischen“ Geschichte. Es gelingt ihm, in 

einer breiten Synopse das Materialcorpus zur christlichen Präsenz im mittelalterlichen 

al-Andalus auf neue, gesicherte Grundlagen zu stellen und zudem beträchtlich 

zu erweitern: Durch Einbeziehung archäologischer, kodikologischer und 

paläographischer Befunde erschließt Aillet bislang weitgehend unbeachtete 

Quellen. Damit legt er nicht weniger vor als eine regelrechte „Quellenkunde“ zur 

mozarabischen Geschichte, an der in Zukunft kein Weg vorbeiführen dürfte. Zum 

zweiten gelingt es Aillet durch die systematische Sichtung der Überlieferungsbestände, 

die Persistenz eines autochthonen Christentums in al-Andalus bis ins 

zwölfte Jahrhundert gesichert nachzuweisen und dessen Zentren und Peripherien 

in einer „géographie évolutive de christianisme en al-Andalus“ räumlich differenziert 

zu verorten. Damit aber entzieht Aillet den seit langem die Forschung stark 

beeinflussenden, skeptischen Positionen Míkel de Epalzas, der den Fortbestand 

eines einheimischen christlichen Mozarabertums in al-Andalus nach dem achten 

Jahrhundert in Abrede stellte, endgültig die Grundlagen. Aillets Werk schafft damit 

in mehrerlei Hinsicht einen neuen Ausgangspunkt für alle weiteren Forschungen 

zur christlichen Minderheit im muslimisch beherrschten al-Andalus. 

Es ist unmöglich, die im Detail oftmals bahnbrechenden Ergebnisse der Forschungen 

Aillets, wie etwa die zahlreichen Neudatierungen mittelalterlicher 

Handschriften, im Rahmen dieser Rezension einzeln zu würdigen. Die folgende 

Besprechung richtet ihr Hauptaugenmerk daher auf die „roten Linien“ der Konzeption 

und Aillets übergreifende Interpretation seiner Befunde: 

In einer thematischen Einführung in die „question mozarabe“ (S. 1–39) konturiert 

Aillet sein Forschungsfeld und skizziert seine methodischen Prämissen. 

Von weitreichenden Folgen für die Darstellung ist dabei seine Definition des Mozarabertums: 

Ausgehend von der Etymologie des arabischen musta^rib versteht 

er Mozaraber als sprachlich (und kulturell) arabisierte Christen im muslimisch

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beherrschten al-Andalus. Für eine solche Bestimmung des Untersuchungsgegenstandes 

gibt es nachvollziehbare Gründe, sie ist jedoch keinesfalls über alle 

Diskussion erhaben: Wie Aillet selbst in einem einleitenden Referat der Begriffsgeschichte 

des Mozarabernamens und seiner jeweiligen zeitgebundenen Deutungshorizonte 

seit dem Mittelalter aufzeigt, herrscht fächerübergreifend keine 

Einigkeit hinsichtlich der charakterisierenden Kennzeichen „mozarabischer“ 

Kultur und Identität. Mit seinem vornehmlich am philologischen Kriterium einer 

sprachlichen Arabisierung ausgerichteten Verständnis des Mozarabertums folgt 

Aillet einer Perspektive, die bislang zumeist den orientalistisch-arabistischen 

Blick auf dieses Phänomen anleitete, während alternative Definitionsansätze 

etwa der mittellateinischen Philologie oder der mediävistischen Kunstgeschichte, 

die ihr Augenmerk traditionell stärker auf Ausprägungen „mozarabischer“ Kultur 

im christlichen Norden der Iberischen Halbinsel richten, für die Konturierung 

von Aillets Forschungsgegenstand zunächst weitgehend unberücksichtigt bleiben. 

Dies hat Konsequenzen auch für die räumliche und zeitliche Rahmensetzung 

seiner Studie, die sich geographisch ganz überwiegend auf al-Andalus 

konzentriert und ihren Untersuchungszeitraum auf die ca. drei Jahrhunderte zwischen 

dem Aufkommen erster Zeugnisse einer christlich-arabischen Textproduktion 

um die Mitte des 9. Jahrhunderts und der Vertreibung der letzten autochthonen 

Christengemeinden aus al-Andalus durch die Almohaden im 12. Jahrhundert 

beschränkt. Ein solcher Zuschnitt ist methodisch begründbar, er klammert freilich 

die ersten knapp eineinhalb Jahrhunderte christlicher Geschichte im muslimischen 

Spanien und damit eine wichtige formative Phase eines (nicht nur 

sprachlich gefassten) „Mozarabertums“ konzeptionell ebenso aus wie viele Zeugnisse 

der Fortentwicklung einer „mozarabischen“ Identität im christlichen Nordspanien 

etwa in Toledo bis ins 14. Jahrhundert. 

Durch die spezifische Definition seines Untersuchungsgegenstandes ist es 

Aillet möglich, zahlreiche kontrovers diskutierte Fragen, die die bisherige Mozaraberforschung 

regelrecht gefangen hielten, geschickt auszuklammern. Leider, 

möchte man fast sagen, denn Aillet stellt wichtige methodische Überlegungen 

an, die durchaus geeignet scheinen, auch jenseits eines vornehmlich sprachlich 

gefassten „Mozarabertums“ das Akkulturationsgeschehen auf der mittelalterlichen 

Iberischen Halbinsel zu erhellen. So kennzeichnet Aillet „Mozarabertum“ 

in seinen methodischen Vorüberlegungen als ein „Grenzphänomen“. Diese Charakterisierung 

ist in zweifacher Hinsicht zutreffend: Zum einen beschreibt sie den 

Platz des „Mozarabertums“ als Produkt kultureller Hybridisierungsprozesse im 

Überschneidungsraum zwischen christlich-lateinischer und muslimisch-arabischer 

Lebenswelt. Zum zweiten – und hier liegt die eigentliche Stärke des Ansatzes 

von Aillet – erhellt sie die spezifischen Ausdrucksformen des Mozarabertums, 

wie sie in den spärlichen und zumeist disparaten Quellen sichtbar werden:

170 Reviews 

Aillet löst sich von Versuchen einer essentialistischen Beschreibung „mozarabischer 

Identität“ als statischer Wesenheit und betrachtet die erhaltenen Quellen 

vielmehr als Dokumente einer „situation mozarabe“, als Zeugnisse eines stetigen 

und dynamischen Abgrenzungsdiskurses, in dessen Zuge der Platz der „Mozaraber“ 

in der sich wandelnden sozialen und kulturellen Ordnung des muslimisch 

beherrschten al-Andalus immer wieder aufs Neue bestimmt und durch Selbst- und 

Fremdkennzeichnung sichtbar gemacht wurde. Nicht die letztlich kontingenten 

Einzelstrategien in diesem Bemühen um identitäre Selbstpositionierung, sondern 

der Abgrenzungsdiskurs als solcher kennzeichnet so nach Aillets Verständnis 

das Mozarabertum in al-Andalus. Dieser Zugriff erlaubt es ihm, auch scheinbar widersprüchliche 

Ausdrucksformen mozarabischer Kultur überzeugend auf die ihnen 

gemeinsam zugrundeliegende „situation mozarabe“ zurückzuführen. 

Das erste Großkapitel des Werkes ist – nach der Erarbeitung der bereits hervorgehobenen 

„géographie évolutive“ (S. 45–93) christlicher Präsenz in al-Andalus 

– in seinem Kern der Auslotung dieser für das Mozarabertum konstitutiven 

Abgrenzungen gewidmet. Aillet zeigt hier die Problematik starrer Kategoriebildungen 

zur Beschreibung der gesellschaftlichen Konstellationen im früh- und 

hochmittelalterlichen al-Andalus auf. Die in den arabischen Quellen belegte Differenzierung 

etwa zwischen muwalladun, musalima, mawali oder âpab erweist 

sich bei näherer Prüfung als kontextabhängig und verliert damit ihre analytische 

Trennschärfe. Aillet richtet seinen Blick daher auf die diskursiven Prozesse, innerhalb 

derer diese wandelbaren Kategoriebildungen der Quellen ihre Funktion 

erfüllten, und gelangt so zu einer Bestandsaufnahme der kulturelle und insbesondere 

religiöse Identität konstituierenden Grenzen innerhalb der andalusischen 

Gesellschaft (S. 95–127). Es gehört zu den kulturhistorisch anregendsten Passagen 

des ganzen Buches, wenn Aillet diesen definierenden „Grenzen“ des Mozarabertums 

bis hinein in das noch junge Feld der Körpergeschichte nachgeht. 

Das zweite Großkapitel des Buches konzentriert sich dann – entsprechend 

der von Aillet gewählten Definition des „Mozarabertums“ über sprachliche Akkulturationsprozesse 

– auf die Untersuchung speziell der linguistischen Grenzziehung 

zwischen Latinität und Arabisierung unter den andalusischen Christen. 

Aillet gelangt dabei zu einer bedeutenden Neueinschätzung: Wurde das weitgehende 

Versiegen lateinischer Schriftlichkeit in al-Andalus nach den 860er Jahren 

bislang zumeist als Beleg für den Verlust kulturell-sprachlicher Tradition und 

der fortschreitenden Arabisierung der „Mozaraber“ gewertet, kann Aillet auf 

Grundlage einer überzeugenden Neudatierung zahlreicher Handschriften das 

Fortbestehen der Latinität in Form einer sektoriell differenzierten Zweisprachigkeit 

aufzeigen: Die Beherrschung des Lateinischen ging in al-Andalus keineswegs 

verloren, reduzierte sich aber auf den religiös-kultischen Kontext und wurde damit 

ab der zweiten Hälfte des 9. Jahrhunderts regelrecht zu einem Symbol christ-

Reviews 171 

licher Identität. Parallel dazu vollzog sich in der alltagssprachlichen Kommunikation, 

aber auch im Bereich der literarischen Schriftsprache eine tiefgreifende 

Arabisierung (S. 133–152). Methodisch geht Aillet hier neue Wege, indem er erstmals 

das bislang weitgehend unbeachtete Material der arabischen Marginalglossen 

in lateinischen Handschriften andalusischer Provenienz auswertet. Durch 

paläographische Untersuchungen sowie über inhaltliche Analysen der Glossen 

gelingt es Aillet so für zahlreiche Handschriften, die in der bisherigen Forschung 

ins 12. Jahrhundert datiert und in den Kontext des christlich beherrschten 

Toledo verortet wurden, eine teilweise bis ins 9. Jahrhundert zurückreichende 

Vorgeschichte aufzuzeigen (S. 153–175). 

Der zweite Abschnitt dieses Großkapitels ist schließlich der arabisch-sprachigen 

literarischen Produktion der andalusischen Christen gewidmet (S. 177–246). 

Einleitend rekonstruiert Aillet den Diskurs innerhalb der mozarabischen Gemeinde 

in al-Andalus über den sich vollziehenden Sprachwandel, der in verschiedenen 

lateinischen wie arabischen Quellen aus der Mitte des 9. Jahrhunderts 

dokumentiert ist. Hier zeigt Aillets methodische Entscheidung, „Mozarabertum“ 

durch die Betrachtung von Abgrenzungsdiskursen zu fassen, ihre Tragfähigkeit: 

Überzeugend kann er die divergenten Positionen etwa eines arabophoben 

Paulus Alvarus von Córdoba und eines von der Ausdrucksstärke und 

Schönheit des Arabischen überzeugten 0afs b. Albar als zwei unterschiedliche, 

jedoch gleichwertige und komplementäre Akkulturationsstrategien angesichts 

des beschleunigten kulturellen Wandels im umaiyadischen Emirat integrieren. 

Den in der zweiten Hälfte des 9. Jahrhunderts weitgehend abgeschlossenen Übergang 

der „mozarabischen“ Schriftlichkeit vom Lateinischen zum Arabischen 

deutet Aillet als eine „translatio studii“, als ein Fortleben römisch-westgotischer 

Bildungs- und Traditionsmuster in gewandelter sprachlicher Form. Die 

Arabisierung der „Mozaraber“ erschöpfte sich, wie Aillet anhand einer theologiegeschichtlichen 

Fallstudie weiter zeigen kann, nicht im reinen Sprachwechsel, 

sondern setzte die Übernahme einer neuen kulturellen Semantik voraus. Diese 

aber wurde den mozarabischen Autoren nicht etwa ausschließlich über muslimische 

Kanäle vermittelt; vielmehr weisen Aillets Ergebnisse auf die Bedeutung 

des bislang zu wenig beachteten orientchristlichen Einflusses hin. In der vor allem 

in Textübersetzungen greifbaren Verbindung der christlichen Traditionsbestände 

mit der arabischen Sprache sieht Aillet zudem Hinweise auf eine frühe 

Sonderform der andalusischen ˇsuûbiya (S. 185). 

Das dritte Großkapitel, das freilich im Vergleich zu den anderen beiden 

Hauptabschnitten des Buches nur noch relativ wenig Raum einnimmt, behandelt 

schließlich Ausprägungen und Zeugnisse eines Mozarabertums, das im Zuge von 

Migration, Reconquista oder Kulturtransfer aus seinem arabisch-muslimisch geprägten 

Entstehungsumfeld in al-Andalus herausgetreten ist und sich im christ-

172 Reviews 

lich bestimmten Norden der Iberischen Halbinsel rekontextualisiert (S. 247–293). 

Auch hier besteht Aillets grundlegende Leistung zunächst in der Bestandsaufnahme 

und kritischen Sichtung einschlägiger Quellenbelege. Überzeugend arbeitet 

er die Grundlinien einer von ideologischen Interessen geleiteten Erinnerungskultur 

der „Migration“ heraus, die zahlreichen Berichten in nordiberischen 

Urkunden, Testamenten und Chroniken über die Zuwanderung von Christen aus 

al-Andalus zugrunde liegt. Aillets Ergebnisse mahnen zur Vorsicht im Umgang 

mit diesen Zeugnissen einer „mozarabischen“ Migration in den iberischen Norden, 

die freilich durch andere Quellen durchaus bestätigt wird: Aillet bringt 

diesbezüglich insbesondere arabisierte Orts- und Personennamen, die in relativ 

hoher Dichte etwa in leonesischen Dokumenten des 10. und 11. Jahrhunderts belegt 

sind, zum Sprechen. Entgegen älteren Einschätzungen wertet er diese Namen 

aber nicht pauschal als Hinweis auf einen Zustrom andalusischer Christen in die 

christlichen Königreiche des iberischen Nordens, sondern argumentiert für die 

Annahme einer „situation mozarabe“, die vor allem in den unmittelbaren Grenzzonen 

zwischen muslimischem und christlichem Herrschaftsgebiet auch bei der 

ortansässigen Bevölkerung kulturelle Übernahmephänomene begünstigt habe. 

Entsprechend seiner Definition des Mozarabertums über vornehmlich sprachliche 

Kriterien, beschränkt Aillet seine diesbezüglichen Beobachtung auf das 

linguistische Beispielfeld der Onomastik; eine Ausweitung des Blickwinkels auf 

andere, nicht allein sprachliche Formen kultureller Arabisierung – so etwa 

die Übernahme architektonischer Formen oder juristischer Praktiken und Textformulare 

– dürfte hier weitere interessante Ergebnisse erwarten lassen. Den 

Abschluss dieses Kapitels schließlich bildet eine exemplarische Fallstudie: Anhand 

der Überlieferungsbestände des Klosters Lorvão zeichnet Aillet ein diachrones 

Panorama mozarabischer Existenz in der heute portugiesischen Mondego-Region 

südlich von Porto (S. 281–308). Die präsentierten Befunde illustrieren 

am konkreten Beispiel nochmals viele der im Hauptteil des Buches bereits systematisch 

vorgestellten Ergebnisse zur Dynamik der Akkulturationsprozesse, die 

die „mozarabischen“ Christen auf der Iberischen Halbinsel zwischen dem 9. und 

dem 12. Jahrhundert durchliefen. 

Der Anhang des Buchs bietet eine ausführliche Bibliographie sowie mehrere 

Abbildungen und Karten, die wichtige Ergebnisse Aillets in aussagekräftiger 

Form visualisieren. Ein sehr detailliertes und fein gegliedertes Inhaltsverzeichnis 

sowie ein ausführliches Personen-, Orts- und Sachregister erschließen zudem 

höchst hilfreich die unzähligen Einzelergebnisse, die Aillets Forschungen im 

Detail erbracht haben. 

Matthias Maser: Erlangen, Matthias.Maser@gesch.phil.uni-erlangen.de

Reviews 173 

Roger Allen (ed.), Essays in Arabic Literary Biography 1850–1950. Wiesbaden 

2010: Harrassowitz, 395 S. ISBN 978-3-447-06141-4. 

Das vorliegende Werk ist der dritte und letzte Band einer Reihe biographischer 

Einträge zu bekannten arabischen Literaten. Im Umfang an die beiden ersten 

Bände angelehnt (Bd. 1: 950–1350, Bd. 2: 1350–1850), werden Leben und Werk 

von 39 Autorinnen und Autoren beschrieben. Unternehmungen dieser Art stehen 

meist unter einem gewissen Rechtfertigungsdruck hinsichtlich Einteilung, Klassifizierung 

und Auswahl. Bereits der zweite Band geht auf die Problematik von 

Epochenbezeichnungen ein, und auch Roger Allen, General Editor und Herausgeber 

des vorliegenden Bandes, widmet sich in seiner Einleitung dem immer auch 

ein wenig willkürlichen Prozess der literaturgeschichtlichen Periodisierung. 

Allen warnt, wie bereits andere vor ihm, zu Recht davor, bei der Beschreibung 

von literarischen Bewegungen, Tendenzen und Ideengebäuden zu übersehen, 

wie selbst die arabische Literaturgeschichtsschreibung sich an westlichen 

Bewertungsmaßstäben orientierte. Am Beispiel des Begriffs „nahda“ lässt sich 

gut nachvollziehen, dass auch unter den darunter Eingeordneten eine gewisse 

Skepsis herrschte (M\3a#\l Nuâima) sowie die begründete Furcht, mit Etikettierungen 

Urteile zu fällen, die in ihrer Einengung und Voreingenommenheit verhindern, 

sich mit der Vielfalt literarischer Phänomene zu beschäftigen. 

Die hier in den Blick genommenen einhundert Jahre rücken die Auseinandersetzung 

mit der Moderne in das Zentrum der Aufmerksamkeit. Dabei ging es sowohl 

um die Bezüge zur eigenen, arabischen Vergangenheit als auch um die Begegnung 

mit Europa. In dieser vergleichsweise kurzen Zeitspanne hatte sich das 

Feld literarischer Aktivitäten, in enger Verschränkung mit politischen und gesellschaftlichen 

Veränderungen, rasant erweitert. Das führte auch dazu, dass nun 

vermehrt Frauenstimmen zu hören waren, von denen einige den Weg in dieses 

Nachschlagewerk gefunden haben: Marilyn Booth porträtiert Zainab Fauwaz 

al-Âmil\ (ca. 1850 bis 1914) und Âîˇsa at-Taimur\ya (1840–1902). Beide gehören 

zu den wenigen arabischen Autorinnen der Moderne, die bereits zu Lebzeiten Anerkennung 

gefunden haben. Nicht nur unter Frauen nahm die Zahl derer sprunghaft 

zu, die das Schreiben sowohl journalistisch als auch literarisch als Lebensinhalt 

und Beruf für sich entdeckten. Auch deshalb ist es aufschlussreich, etwas 

über die sehr unterschiedlichen Bildungsvoraussetzungen und Lebensumstände 

zu erfahren. Zainab Fauwaz al-Âmil\ beispielsweise kam als Kind einer ärmlichen 

schiitischen Migrantenfamilie aus dem Libanon nach Ägypten. Sie hatte 

das Glück, in ihrer Jugend eine alphabetisierte Mentorin und später einen Zeitungsverleger 

als Förderer zu finden. In ihren Essays, mit denen sie recht schnell 

Aufmerksamkeit erregte, setzte sie sich u.a. mit den Lebensbedingungen junger 

Mädchen aus einfachen Verhältnissen und den Folgen patriarchalischer Struk-

174 Reviews 

turen auseinander und kritisierte darüber hinaus vereinfachende Übernahmen 

westlicher Deutungsmuster in Literatur und Gesellschaft. Auch ihre literarischen 

Werke berühren die Frage, wie Emanzipation für arabische Frauen erfolgen 

kann, ohne sich von neuen, nicht selbst erarbeiteten Wertungen und Verhaltensmustern 

bevormunden zu lassen. Für uns Nachgeborene besonders interessant 

ist ihre Sammlung biographischer Essays über Frauen, die sich intellektuell betätigten 

oder in anderer Weise Bleibendes schufen; auch ihre Zeitgenossin Âîˇsa 

at-Taimur\ya wird darin porträtiert, Mitglied des berühmten Taimur-Clans, der 

Schriftsteller wie ihren Bruder A1mad und ihre Neffen Mu1ammad und Ma1mud 

(hier porträtiert von Stephan Guth) hervorgebracht hat. Marilyn Booth greift 

diese Verbindungen auf und zeigt anschaulich, wie schreibende Frauen ihre in 

allen sozialen Schichten spürbaren existenziellen Beschränkungen literarisch 

verarbeiteten, damit ihren europäischen Kolleginnen nicht unähnlich. 

Der Aufbau dieser Kurzbiographien ist dazu angetan, Querverbindungen 

sowohl innerhalb der arabischen Welt als auch außerhalb zu erkennen und aufzugreifen. 

So ist jedem Eintrag ein Werkverzeichnis vorangestellt, z.T. ergänzt 

durch vorliegende Übersetzungen. Am Ende finden sich Verweise auf weiterführende 

Literatur zur jeweiligen Person und ausgewählte Forschungsliteratur. Die 

vielfältigen persönlichen Beziehungen der porträtierten Protagonisten spiegeln 

das lebendige literarische Leben jener Zeit wider; die Leser können sich durch 

entsprechende Verweise selbst ein Bild davon machen, in welcher Weise sich Biographien 

überschnitten bzw. wie auch Literatur aufeinander Bezug nimmt. Ausgewählte 

Zitate lassen einen, wenn auch nur sehr kleinen, Blick auf die Werke zu. 

In seinem Essay über Âbd ar-Ra1man Åukr\ erwähnt Terri DeYoung die enorm 

prägenden Bildungseinflüsse; die Entdeckung eines Buches von al-Marsaf\ führte 

wiederum zur Bekanntschaft mit dem Werk al-Barud\s, ebenfalls von DeYoung 

im Buch porträtiert. Lehrer-Schüler-Beziehungen, Kooperationen und Auseinandersetzungen 

(z.B. al-Mazin\) oder die Bezugnahme auf Vorbilder (z.B. Mutran) 

werden nachgezeichnet und geben eine Ahnung von den intellektuellen und 

künstlerischen Verflechtungen, die sich auch in Konkurrenz bzw. Dissens über 

den „richtigen“ Umgang mit den großen Fragen der Zeit äußerten. 

Die schwierige Aufgabe, Strömungen der Literaturgeschichte in biographischen 

Ausschnitten in all ihrer Widersprüchlichkeit darzulegen, ist den Verfassern 

in einer sehr lesbaren Form gut gelungen. Erklärtes Ziel des Bandes ist der 

Versuch, eine annähernd repräsentative Auswahl vorzustellen, sowohl hinsichtlich 

der vertretenen Genres und Stilrichtungen als auch in Bezug auf die geographischen, 

politischen und historischen Varianten innerhalb des arabischen 

Sprachraums. Der mit 1850 angesetzte Beginn der angezeigten Periode birgt natürlich 

Überschneidungen mit der in der Forschung vernachlässigten Zeit davor 

sowie wichtige Rückverweise, die oft nur angedeutet, aber im Rahmen eines sol-

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chen Werkes nicht intensiv verfolgt werden können. Ebenso verhält es sich mit 

dem Jahr 1950, welches die Herausgeber innehalten lässt, bevor die literarischen 

Verarbeitungen der politischen Unabhängigkeit im 20. Jahrhundert und der Herausforderungen 

der Postmoderne ein Thema werden; Stoff genug für mehrere 

weitere Bände, in denen dann Platz wäre für Autoren, deren Lebenszeit zwar in 

den vorliegenden Band fällt, die aber vor allem nach 1950 gewirkt haben, wie z.B. 

der ägyptische Nobelpreisträger Nap\b Ma1fu|. 

Die Bemerkung Allens, ein Phänomen wie die „nahda“ müsse aus sich selbst 

heraus erklärt und von Vergleichskategorien befreit werden (S. 4), bezieht 

sich vermutlich auf die lange Zeit vorherrschende Dominanz europäischer Forschungsansätze, 

gepaart mit zum Teil erheblicher Unkenntnis. Mittlerweile ist 

durchaus eine Öffnung der wissenschaftlichen Disziplinen zu beobachten und 

eine gewisse Bereitschaft, sich jenseits von Behauptungen interdisziplinärer 

Forschung tatsächlich mit Phänomenen zu beschäftigen, die über Kultur- und 

Sprachgrenzen hinweg strukturelle Ähnlichkeiten erkennen lassen oder aber 

innerhalb eines historischen Zeitraums von Protagonisten der Literatur unterschiedlich 

gedeutet und verarbeitet wurden. Es ist deshalb Werken wie diesen 

zu wünschen, dass sie über die arabistischen Kreise hinaus in komparatistischen 

Forschungszusammenhängen wahrgenommen werden. 

Lale Behzadi: Bamberg, lale.behzadi@uni-bamberg.de 

Nelly Amri, Les saints en islam, les messagers de l’espérance. Sainteté et 

eschatologie au Maghreb aux XIV e et XV e siècles. Paris 2008: Éditions du Cerf, 

Patrimoines – Islam, 301 pp. ISBN 978-2-204-08704-9. 

Pour l’auteur de ce compte-rendu, il a été difficile de restituer toute la densité et la 

richesse du livre de Nelly Amri dans les quelques pages accordées à un tel exercice. 

Il est vrai que s’atteler à une étude d’histoire sur les relations entre le concept 

de sainteté et le phénomène de l’eschatologie au Maghreb médiéval constitue un 

véritable exploit tant ce domaine reste encore peu cultivé. L’eschatologie, à savoir 

l’étude des croyances, pratiques et représentations liées à l’au-delà et au souci du 

salut dans le Maghreb médiéval, n’avait encore jamais fait l’objet d’une réelle enquête 

historique. Ce livre s’inscrit donc comme l’aboutissement d’un laborieux et 

long cheminement dans l’étude des différentes étapes de l’eschatologie musulmane 

avec un regard comparatif sur les autres systèmes eschatologiques, notamment 

celui observé dans le christianisme. Et dans ce sens, on rappelera que l’auteure 

avait déjà publié quelques travaux de qualité rendant compte, parfois, des

176 Reviews 

possibilités intéressantes de procéder à un examen comparé des modèles eschatologiques 

dans les milieux musulman et chrétien. 

L’ouvrage se présente comme un volume issu d’une série de travaux sur le 

tasawwuf en Ifr\qiya à l’époque 1afside et, plus particulièrement, sur sainteté et 

société en Ifr\qiya durant le Moyen Âge. Nelly Amri procède à une analyse fine de 

divers recueils hagiographiques, de la littérature relative aux visions, des chroniques, 

des compilations de consultations juridiques et des responsa sur la façon 

avec laquelle les habitants de l’Ifr\qiya aux 8 e/XIV e et 9 e/XV e siècles ont imaginé 

leur destin dans l’au-delà, et ont résolu, à leur manière, leur conduite. Le livre se 

développe, dans un premier mouvement, autour de la notion de mort et du destin 

après la mort, concentrant en premier lieu le regard sur la peste, et de se demander 

si celle-ci n’aurait pas entraîné un nouveau rapport à la mort. Ensuite, on 

aborde la question de la perception du destin après la mort, destin marqué, dans 

la conception d’ensemble de l’eschatologie en islam, par deux moments fondamentaux: 

le temps suivant immédiatement la mort, où se développe déjà une 

«ébauche» d’eschatologie dont le lieu central est la tombe, que l’on peut considérer 

comme étant la «première demeure de l’au-delà, et le temps du jugement et de 

la reddition des comptes», et le sort réservé aux diverses classes d’individus, ainsi 

que la place centrale qu’occupe l’idée d’intercession (ˇsafaâ) du Prophète dans 

l’au-delà. Vient après un long développement sur les formes de solidarité entre 

les vivants et leurs morts, sur la base des sources juridiques, des demandes de 

consultations et des responsa des muftis, mais également la prise de conscience 

de la mort de soi, la préparation à la mort et le souci évident de la bonne mort. 

Dans un chapitre consacré, entre autres thèmes, aux nouvelles spiritualités et à 

la place qu’occupe au Maghreb oriental la peur eschatologique, l’auteure se demande, 

sur la base d’un examen serré des textes arabes, par exemple si on pleure 

toujours autant, en comparaison avec les premiers siècles et si on peut encore 

mentionner une sainteté de la componction à travers l’attitude des bakka#un? On 

se concentre ensuite sur les nouvelles dévotions à la personne du Prophète et aux 

ahl al-bait. Enfin, l’image du saint homme en tant que messager d’une croyance 

eschatologique est énoncée autour du personnage crucial du Prophète, modèle 

qui est éclairé par les différentes représentations de la ˇsafaâ. Mais, et c’est peutêtre 

là une absence troublante dans l’ouvrage de Nelly Amri, on observe que les 

aspects relatifs au mahdisme, au millénarisme et aux diverses attentes «messianiques», 

autant de sujets qui concernent aussi l’eschatologie ne sont pas abordés 

comme on aurait pu s’y attendre. Cependant, on y fait allusion dans les conclusions 

de l’ouvrage avec des remarques basées sur des expériences maghrébines 

du mahdisme fondées sur la croyance en l’avènement d’un homme, sauveur 

eschatologique comportant les traits messianiques, et sur la relation complexe, 

entre wilaya et millénarisme, les figures du saint et du mahdi. L’auteure essaie

Reviews 177 

d’analyser les idées jugées comme des innovations (bidâ), par rapport au temps 

des origines et des fondations. En outre, on observe à la lecture des sources hagiographiques 

que la solidarité des vivants avec leurs morts est également partie 

prenante de l’espérance qu’il est désormais possible de réunir pour son propre 

salut. Il semble donc que les usages testamentaires, les pratiques funéraires, les 

prières et les visites aux tombes (ziyarat al-qubur) donnent foi d’une nouvelle attitude 

face à la mort et une conscience sans doute plus exarcébée de la mort de 

soi. Le contenu du discours hagiographique semble dès lors renforcer les habitants 

de l’Ifr\qiya à la fin du Moyen Âge dans l’espérance car, comme le montre les 

sources textuelles, la ˇsafaâ du Prophète est clairement acquise à tous les individus 

en quête de foi. Cependant, cette croyance en la miséricorde divine a désormais 

«un visage»: le gau© que l’on traduit par l’idée de «secours», véritable pôle 

d’excellence, qui occupe le haut d’une hiérarchie invisible de saints intercesseurs, 

qui se chargent des destinées du monde et de leurs créatures et qui matérialisent, 

d’une certaine manière, la présence de la rahma divine dans l’ensemble 

des univers. L’auteure énonce l’hypothèse selon laquelle la figure du saint visionnaire, 

possédant à la fois la parole inspirée, la «science» transmise par Dieu, 

formé directement par lui, par ses prophètes et ses anges, du fait d’une plus 

grande proximité avec Dieu, eut tendance à symboliser devant ses contemporains, 

une sorte de serment d’espérance. 

La partie dédiée à la figure du saint qui, accrochée à celle du Prophète, devient 

messager d’une espérance eschatologique prend toute son ampleur grâce à 

une excellente maîtrise du sujet par l’auteure. Ce rôle est parfaitement perceptible 

dans les narrations de visions oniriques (ru#ya) dont l’auteure nous fournit une 

brillante analyse. Dès lors que les saints peuplent désormais le paradis, on 

peut aisémment présager de leur faculté de médiation et d’intercession. C’est en 

grande partie de ce même pouvoir que va se mettre en place la figure du saint, patron 

et intercesseur, dont on recherche la proximité, l’amitié. Les visites pieuses 

(ziyarat) dont ces saints sont l’objet de leur vivant mais surtout après leur mort à 

leur tombe, débouche sur un véritable culte qui ira bien au-delà du Moyen Âge 

pour être encore de nos jours une pierre angulaire de la religiosité au Maghreb. 

L’analyse des messages dont sont porteurs les auliya# Allah («amis de Dieu») 

apporte un éclairage exceptionnel sur les véritables préoccupations de leurs 

contemporains. Le modèle prophétique est si profondémment ancré que le saint 

ne se trouve plus en présence de Dieu comme dans les narrations anciennes de visions 

mais bien en présence du Prophète. C’est donc le binôme saint/Prophète qui 

va dominer la scène spirituelle. D’ailleurs, l’auteure y observe comme la recherche 

d’une dépendance intime avec le Prophète et c’est bien la figure paternelle 

qui s’impose ici. Mais, l’auteure signale que ce qui est important pour la période 

soumise à l’étude, c’est que la présence et la mission prophétiques dans le monde

178 Reviews 

passent par la médiation des saints. Il s’agit, selon Nelly Amri, d’une emprunte 

puissante de l’histoire de la spiritualité et de la sainteté dans l’islam médiéval. 

Si l’ouvrage constitue sans nul doute un apport considérable à la recherche 

en histoire des pratiques religieuses, voire en histoire sociale, on ne manquera 

pas de déplorer quelques erreurs dans les références bibliographiques, les données 

textuelles et les notes infrapaginales qui pourraient parfois dérouter le lecteur. 

Voyons quelques exemples pris à la volée: p. 51, note 1, la référence à al-Tadil\ 

b. al-Zaiyat est citée de manière abrégée alors que celle relative à al-Gubr\n\ 

est fournie en extension; p. 131, note 3, l’ouvrage al-Wafayat (l’auteure écrit Wafiyyât) 

d’al-Wanˇsar\s\ est cité en abrégé mais il n’est pas répertorié dans la partie 

«Sources imprimées»; p. 151, note 3, Nabhan\ est cité de façon abrégée mais la 

référence complète à son ouvrage manque dans la partie «Sources imprimées»; 

p. 228, note 5, Ibn al-A©\r est cité de manière abrégée mais la référence complète à 

son livre est absente du chapitre «Sources imprimées»; p. 244, note 2, p. 245, 

ligne 19 et note 5, p. 276, ligne 34 et p. 285, ligne 8, il faut lire ‘FIERRO, M.’ au lieu 

de ‘FIERO, M.’; p. 270, ligne 35, il faut lire ‘AL-QAYRAWÂNÎ’ au lieu de ‘AL-KAYRA- 

WÂNÎ’; p. 271, ligne 8, il faut lire ‘[…] Wafayât […]’ au lieu de ‘[…] Wafiyyât […]’; 

p. 272, ligne 25, il faut lire ‘[…] al-dawlatayn […]’ au lieu de ‘[…] al-dawlatyan […]’; 

p. 274, ligne 36, il faut lire ‘ARIES, Ph’. au lieu de ‘ARRIES, Ph.’; etc. Outre ces problèmes 

et tout en sachant qu’il est impossible d’utiliser toute la bibliographie en 

vigueur sur le sujet du livre, on se permettra de signaler des absences bibliographiques 

d’une certaine importance comme l’étude de V.J. Cornell, Realm of the 

Saint. Power and Authority in Morrocan Sufism, Austin, University of Texas Press, 

1998, pour une comparaison utile avec le Maghreb occidental; la synthèse de 

H. Ferhat, Le Soufisme et les Zaouyas au Maghreb. Mérite individuel et patrimoine 

sacré, Casablanca, Les Éditions Toubkal, 2003; la monographie de L. Îsā, Magrib 

al-mutasauwifa. Al-inîkasat al-siyasiya wa-l-harak al-iptimaî min al-qarn 10 m. ila 

l-qarn 17 m., Tunis, Université de Tunis, 2005; etc. 

Finalement, nous voudrions rendre hommage à la rigueur de la démarche 

historique déployée par l’auteure. En effet, Nelly Amri élabore tout au long du livre 

un examen précis des textes religieux, ce qui lui permet d’être particulièrement 

attentive aux changements et aux traits permanents de l’eschatologie dans 

l’Ifr\qiya des 8 e/XIV e et 9 e/XV e siècles. Elle offre ainsi au lecteur une synthèse, rédigée 

dans un style à la fois clair, vif et limpide, une étude de référence pour tous 

ceux qui s’intéressent à l’histoire de l’eschatologie, aux phénomènes de sainteté, 

et enfin à la société maghrébine de la fin du Moyen Âge. 

Mohamed Meouak: Cádiz, mohamed.meouak@uca.es

Reviews 179 

Rüdiger Arnzen (ed.), Averroes on Aristotle’s “Metaphysics”. An Annotated 

Translation of the So-called “Epitome” (Scientia Graeco-Arabica 5), Berlin 2010: 

De Gruyter, IX + 378 pp. ISBN 978-3-11-022001-8. 

Averroes’ Epitome of the Metaphysics, first drafted by the famed Andalusian 

commentator sometime after 1160, presents a particular set of challenges to those 

scholars wishing to piece together a picture of how Averroes throughout his long 

career developed his understanding of Aristotle’s teachings as well as his explication 

of the same. The first and most fundamental problem is that no reliable 

Arabic text exists: Ûthman Am\n’s 1958 edition is the most readable and his complement 

of manuscripts the most comprehensive, but Am\n’s use of the texts is 

haphazard and badly documented. No other printed text fares any better. 

A second problem is that Averroes in the Epitome organizes his text in an entirely 

novel fashion, one that bears little resemblance either to Aristotle’s original 

text, to Averroes’ longer and better known Commentary, or to the exposition of 

first philosophy found in any of the known commentators. The construction of 

the Epitome of the Metaphysics is peculiar even by the standards of Averroes’ early 

works, leading some to wonder whether it falls under the general category of 

mukhtasar at all. (It does.) To make matters worse, we are missing the Epitome’s 

final fifth chapter, which according to Averroes’ own testimony makes up the entire 

third part of the treatise. 

The third and perhaps most formidable obstacle is that the manuscripts demonstrate 

beyond any doubt that Averroes reworked his text, probably more than 

once. We have variants for multiple passages, and this is where the stitches show 

in an obvious way: but this may not be all, and there is in fact reason to think that 

several layers of editing are present in all of the manuscripts, which is to say 

the base text. The revisions touch on several areas central to Averroes’ interests 

throughout his philosophical career, and so it would be imperative to have a compelling 

overall story about what this important piece of evidence tells us about 

Averroes’ evolving thought. Such a story does not yet exist, nor do we possess 

even the basic building blocks from which a narrative of this sort could be constructed. 

This is to say: beyond the relatively unenlightening case of the jettisoning 

of the Giver of Forms as an explanatory principle, we do not yet have case 

studies that would detail convincingly and uncontroversially the ways in which 

Averroes’ metaphysical thinking evolved from his early to his late life. Thanks to 

scholars such as Matteo di Giovanni and the present reviewee the situation is now 

changing, but only slowly. 

Under these trying circumstances, Rüdiger Arnzen’s English-language 

translation of the Epitome constitutes a minor miracle. The work presents what is 

bound to be the best text of Averroes’ Epitome that we have; it is a very readable

180 Reviews 

translation besides; it documents meticulously the choices that were made in establishing 

the text as Arnzen reads it; and in the copious annotations, it makes 

great strides in putting together the story of what was going on in Averroes’ head 

when he was writing the text, as well as when he was revising it. One could 

perhaps wish for an integral treatment of the foundational questions mentioned 

above somewhere in the book’s introduction: but Arnzen has tackled some of 

these topics in the 2010 volume of Documenti e studi sulla tradizione filosofica 

medievale and in the Hans Daiber Festschrift (Islamic Thought in the Middle Ages), 

and perhaps did not want to retread old ground so soon. At any rate, Arnzen’s 

book now forms the foundation for any future studies into the Epitome, and is one 

that no student of Averroes’ ontology or Arabic Aristotelianism in general can afford 

to ignore. 

As concerns the principal act of translation, Arnzen has approached his task 

with remarkable consistency and care. The uniformity achieved, e.g., in translating 

technical terminology is quite heartening. A highly conscientious outlook is 

everywhere evident: to pick an example, Arnzen at the outset (p. 16) records all 

those instances where his translation requires an emendation to all ten existing 

texts (nine manuscripts plus Mantino’s Latin translation, working from Samuel 

Ibn Tibbon’s Hebrew). In the event, there are only five of these, which itself testifies 

to the essentially conservative nature of Arnzen’s translation exercise. This 

is all for the better, and made all the more remarkable by the fact that Arnzen’s 

introduction and annotation show him to be an able philosopher quite capable of 

speculative leaps and rational reconstruction. That Arnzen has subjugated these 

considerable skills to the task of preserving the text and showing its sense serves 

merely to enhance the durability of the present translation effort. 

The annotational apparatus follows the very sensible practice of putting brief 

remarks relating to manuscript readings in the footnotes, while everything else 

goes in the expansive category of ‘endnotes’. Of these there are a staggering 688; 

the notes in fact make up approximately half the volume (pp. 183–338). The bulk 

of the endnotes do a very useful job of a) recording parallels and comparisons 

with how the same topics are treated in the Commentary and b) pointing out the 

roots of Averroes’ thinking in Aristotle – one thing that is striking here is the frequency 

of cross-references to various parts of the Organon – and his commentators 

(Alexander, but also al-Farab\ and Ibn S\na). But there are also excurses on 

topics ranging from the interpretation that would allow sophistics to be classified 

as a universal science (n. 6) to the relation of definitions to mereology in Met. Zeta 

9–10. 

Arnzen’s notes are strewn with delightful insights throughout, from the 

very first – n. 1, commenting on Ibn Rushd’s choice of the verb iltaqata, illustrates 

how in this particular mukhtasar Averroes picks out and rearranges ma-

Reviews 181 

terials from the Aristotelian original as he sees fit – to the penultimate (n. 687, on 

how Averroes tries to pave the way from a discussion of providence to that of the 

principle of non-contradiction through evoking the relativist spectre of Protagoras). 

Given the discursive nature of much of this material, the publisher has been 

prudent to print the endnotes at full size. The presence of Arnzen’s notes is, I 

suspect, in the final analysis just as much a draw to the scholar as the English 

translation itself. 

The endnotes also record meticulously – some might say obsessively – the 

disagreements both great and small that Arnzen has with previous translators. 

On the whole, Arnzen is less impressed with van den Bergh’s and Horten’s efforts 

than with those of Mantino and Quirós: while a few mentions here and there 

might be justified as a working record of gentlemen’s disagreements, to return to 

this theme so often comes perilously close to harping. Likewise, while van den 

Bergh was indubitably wrong in reading Averroes’ proof for the eternity of motion 

in light of Kant’s first antinomy (n. 412), the mere mention of such a misstep must 

appear a bit churlish. It is not, after all, as if people would be reading Arnzen’s 

work for guidance in how to approach early-20th-century scholars, with their all 

too predictable quirks, but Averroes and Aristotle. 

For all the impressive effort that has gone into the annotations, not all leads 

have been followed through. Some of these threads are potentially quite interesting: 

for instance, when Averroes counsels those who fear in error that the cosmos 

might one day come to an end (p. 108), the proximate source must indeed have 

been Met. 1050b22–26 (n. 411). But to follow this up with a variation on the ‘why 

not sooner’ argument indicates that he has in mind a broader range of theologically 

motivated arguments for and against eternity, such as one finds already in 

Philo of Alexandria (supposedly building on Aristotle’s De philosophia, incidentally). 

The reading of all such arguments in light of the potentiality-actuality 

distinction seems a peculiarly Averroist touch: nonetheless, one would want to 

know whether there are precise and concise precedents in the Arabic literature to 

which Averroes had access. One might also add to Arnzen’s observation (p. 100, 

n. 362) about Averroes conflating the Megarians and the Ashârites that this in fact 

happens in multiple places, prominently including the Commentary on the Metaphysics. 

And so on. 

A much broader range of issues that Arnzen broaches only obliquely has to 

do with the layers of revision that went into preparing the version, and indeed 

versions, of the Epitome that we have today. Did the original version of the Epitome 

already contain substantial criticisms of Avicenna? It appears that it did. But 

then, what does this say about a thesis that has been in vogue for quite some time, 

that it was Averroes’ engagement with al-Ghazal\’s criticisms that led him to assess 

more critically the eclectic Aristotelianism with which he grew up, and to de-

182 Reviews 

velop a personal approach to Aristotle that was much more ad litteram? These are 

questions for future research. 

It is to the great credit of the present translation, and the extensive documentation 

amassed by Arnzen, that these questions may now arise with greater clarity 

and precision than ever before. All in all, this is an amazingly gratifying work 

for scholars to access, and a sterling addition to the venerable CCAA series. One 

does rather wish that Arnzen would show his hand already and present us with 

an integral Arabic edition as well; and perhaps such a work is forthcoming in the 

due course of time. Arnzen does after all present – for the first time ever – a working 

hypothesis for the manuscript stemma (p. 15). In the meantime, scholars will 

have plenty to work with and digest here. 

Taneli Kukkonen: Otago, taneli.kukkonen@otago.ac.nz 

Marcel Behrens, „Ein Garten des Paradieses“: Die Prophetenmoschee von 

Medina (Mitteilungen zur Sozial- und Kulturgeschichte der islamischen Welt, 24), 

Würzburg 2007: Ergon, 421 pp. ISBN: 978-3-89913-572-5. 

The history of Medina after the death of the Prophet Mu1ammad remains a 

relatively poorly studied field of research, and Marcel Behrens’ book is a welcome 

addition to the scholarly literature. The author’s focus is by no means exclusively 

upon the Prophet’s Mosque – and certainly not upon its architectural 

and art-historical history – but encompasses many aspects of the history of the 

town. Behrens’ intention (see, for example, pp. 18; 378) was to investigate how 

the sanctity of and high regard for the Prophet’s Mosque and Medina was manifested 

in the writings of scholars, the actions of the town’s rulers, and the behaviour 

of Medina’s inhabitants and visitors. The principal (although certainly 

not the sole) focus of the work is on the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and 

so discussions of the impact of Saudi rule over the 0ijaz and the accompanying 

Wahhab\ ideology on the development of the Prophet’s Mosque and the town are 

a recurring feature throughout. 

The book addresses a wide range of topics, ranging for example from whether 

the Prophet had intended to build a house or a mosque in Medina to the types of 

souvenirs pilgrims to the town have traditionally sought and the role of the 

corps of eunuchs in the Prophet’s Mosque. Only a cursory overview, which leaves 

plenty aside, can be offered here. After the introduction, which includes a discussion 

of the most important sources (for example travellers, Muslim and non- 

Muslim, to the city) for the forthcoming study, chapter one (pp. 29–62) provides

Reviews 183 

an introductory overview of Medina’s history, mostly in the nineteenth and twentieth 

centuries, and then in chapter two (pp. 63–188) an architectural history of 

the Prophet’s Mosque is presented. An important part of this chapter is the survey 

(pp. 66–120) of the main phases in the construction of the mosque from the 

Prophet’s lifetime down to the massive construction work from 1984 to 1994 during 

the reign of the late King Fahd. Among many other points, Behrens emphasises 

the role of the Umayyad caliph al-Wal\d b. Âbd al-Malik (r. 86–96/705–15) in 

the sacralisation of the mosque (on p. 76, for example, it was this caliph who ‘gab 

dem Bau einen vorwiegend religiösen Charakter’), and the staggering extent of 

the work patronised in the late twentieth century by King Fahd. After this work 

the Prophet’s Mosque and its environs have come to cover some 330,000 m 2 

(pp. 57; 375). The significance of this, of course, is that the vast majority of the 

older quarters of the town have had to go to make way for this expansion: ‘Innerhalb 

des historischen Stadtkerns von Medina gibt es heute wohl so gut wie keine 

historischen Gebäude mehr’ (p. 188). The implications for the study of Medina’s 

urban history are considerable. Chapter two also includes sections on individual 

elements in the architecture of the Prophet’s Mosque, and on some of the opposition 

that has been raised over time to the new building work patronised by Medina’s 

rulers. This chapter also contains three useful excurses reviewing debates 

on whether or not the Prophet built a mosque or a house, the origins of the 

mosque, and the architectural significance of the Prophet’s Mosque. Chapter 

three (pp. 189–98) then discusses the significance and challenges created by 

Medina’s (and Mecca’s) widely-accepted sanctity for its rulers, especially the Saudis, 

and chapter four (pp. 199–210) turns to the question of how the governance 

and patronage of the town has been and continues to be funded. 

The remaining chapters turn to varying degrees (although rarely very far) 

away from the politics of governing Medina and administering the Prophet’s 

Mosque. Chapter five (pp. 211–26) presents some of the traditions on Medina’s 

sanctity which can be found in the literature on the town’s merits (fada#il). It is 

one such tradition which provides the book with its main title, the relevant part of 

one version of which runs, ‘What is between my house (bayti) and my minbar 

is one of the gardens of Paradise (rawda min riyad al-janna)’. Chapter six 

(pp. 227–76) discusses various scholars’ and travellers’ accounts of the ‘visitation’ 

(ziyara) to the Prophet’s Mosque and his grave. The remaining chapters then 

examine some of the activities of Medina’s inhabitants and visitors and the difficulties 

they can face, including the Sh\â, Suf\s and women (chapter seven, 

pp. 277–311), some of the occupations, for example eunuchs and visitors’ guides 

(muzawwirun), which arose in response to the mosque’s particular holiness 

(chapter eight, pp. 313–50), and some of the festivals connected to the mosque 

which have at times been celebrated in Medina (chapter nine, pp. 351–72).

184 Reviews 

In his conclusion (pp. 373–79) Behrens restates some of the important points 

made during the earlier chapters, particularly concerning the many notable 

changes which have come since the arrival of lasting Saudi rule over the town in 

the 1920s, and draws up three categories of people who have affected the town 

and its development: (a) rulers who have patronised Medina with money, new 

buildings, etc.; (b) scholars who have promoted Medina’s merits in works of 

fada#il and books about the ziyara to Mu1ammad’s grave; and (c) Medina’s inhabitants 

and the pilgrims who visited. There follows a useful bibliography, a glossary 

of key terms, and an index. 

Behrens makes use of a wide range of sources (Arabic and non-Arabic; Muslim 

and non-Muslim), although many of these can naturally be tricky to deal with. 

The difficulties of the sources for early Islamic history are well-known and need 

not be reiterated here; I merely wish to note that although when Behrens does 

discuss the pre-modern periods of Medina’s history (which is, it should be reiterated, 

not his main interest), especially the early Islamic centuries, his use of the 

sources seems slightly naïve at times, he is to be commended for attempting to 

contextualise Medina’s modern significance in light of much longer term historical 

developments. Somewhat more surprising (to me at least) than the difficult 

nature of sources for earlier periods, however, are the extent of the problems at 

times for Medina’s contemporary history. A good example can be seen on p. 337, 

where Behrens acknowledges, ‘Obwohl die Existenz der Eunuchen bis vor wenigen 

Jahren noch nachgewiesen wurde, ist es nicht klar, ob ihr Korps weiterhin 

neue Mitglieder aufnimmt’. 

Such problems will always place limitations on the conclusions that can be 

drawn from such a study, but Behrens has produced a useful survey of many aspects 

of Medina’s sanctity and how that sanctity has been understood and debated 

(often savagely) over time. His treatment of the impact of Wahhabism and 

Saudi rule on Medina’s development and the Prophet’s Mosque and other sites in 

the town seems balanced; alongside the examples of ideologically driven interference 

(especially the destruction of certain historical sites) he places the ruling 

authorities’ need to cater for an ever increasing number of pilgrims visiting the 

town, many of them at exactly the same time. The book also repeatedly demonstrates 

just how important attitudes towards sacred spaces can be in determining 

how political rulers’ legitimacy (or lack thereof) is perceived. 

There are a few small complaints. For example, why, in the table (pp. 27–28) 

of important travellers to Arabia, is Ibn Âbd Rabbih mentioned but none of his 

more-or-less contemporaries such as Ibn Rusta or al-Muqaddas\? Why is Evliya 

Çelebi not in the same table, especially since he is used as a source on several occasions 

in what follows? Also for example in the chapter on the ziyara it does not 

seem to be particularly clear why al-Matar\’s (d. 741/1340) discussion is seen as

Reviews 185 

worthy of analysis but not al-Samhud\’s (d. 911/1506) much lengthier treatment 

of the same question. These and other examples are, however, only minor complaints 

about what is, on the whole, a readable and informative work on the recent 

history of Medina and the Prophet’s Mosque. 

Harry Munt: Oxford, thomas.munt@orinst.ox.ac.uk 

François de Blois, Arabic, Persian and Gujarati Manuscripts – The Hamdani 

Collection in the Library of The Institute of Ismaili Studies. London and New York 

2011: I.B. Tauris in association with the Institute of Ismaili Studies, XXXIV + 259 S. 

ISBN: 978-1-84885-764-3. 

Die Bibliothek des Institute of Ismaili Studies besitzt die weltweit größte, öffentlich 

zugängliche Sammlung isma^\litischer Manuskripte. Ihren Grundstock bilden 

die von dem Pionier der Isma^\l\ya-Forschung Wladimir Ivanow (1886–1970) gesammelten 

Manuskripte in arabischer, persischer und Gujarat\-Sprache, die 1946 

in den Besitz der Ismaili Society kamen. Nach der Gründung des Institute of Ismaili 

Studies in London im Jahr 1977 durch den Aga Khan und der Bibliothek zwei 

Jahre später wuchs der Bestand, nicht zuletzt durch die Übereignung bedeutender 

Privatsammlungen, wie 1997 der des Isma^\l\ya-Forschers und Arabisten Zahid 

Âl\ (1888–1958). Diesen 226 Kodizes, von denen etliche der Familie Hamdan\ gehört 

hatten (S. XXVI, dazu unten), widmete Delia Cortese einen eigenen Katalog. 1 

Der hier anzuzeigende Band von François de Blois, einem ausgewiesenen 

Kenner semitischer und iranischer Sprachen und nahöstlicher Religionsgeschichte, 

erschließt die – wenn auch nicht mehr in ihrem ursprünglichen Umfang 

bestehende – Bibliothek der jemenitisch-indischen Hamdan\-Familie. Begründet 

wurde die Sammlung von Âl\ b. Sa^\d b. 0usain b. Âl\ al-Ya^bur\ al-Hamdan\ 

(ca. 1719–1798) aus dem 0araz-Gebirge, dem Hort der Taiyib\-Isma^\l\ya im Jemen. 

Seit 1539 residierte deren Oberhaupt der daî al-mutlaq, wegen der Anfeindungen 

seitens der Zaiditen im indischen Gujarat. Um die Mitte des 18. Jh. lud der damalige 

daî Âl\ al-Hamdan\ ein, nach Indien überzusiedeln. Im Gepäck hatte dieser 

seine umfangreiche Bibliothek, die er noch eigenhändig ergänzte. Drei Bücher 

von seiner kalligraphisch geschulten Hand sind Teil der Sammlung (Ms. 1413, 

1492, 1506). 

1 Cortese, Delia: Arabic Ismaili Manuscripts – the Zahid Âli Collection in the Library of the 

Institute of Ismaili Studies. London, 2003.

186 Reviews 

Âl\s Enkel Faid Allah (ca. 1789–1876) und dessen Sohn Mu1ammad Âl\ 

(1833–1898) bauten die Bibliothek weiter aus, u.a. indem sie alte Mss. aus dem Jemen 

kopieren ließen. Von letzterem sind auch eigene Werke, nämlich sein Diwan 

(in zwei Exemplaren) und drei religiöse Schriften, in der Bibliothek enthalten (Ms. 

1565–1569). Nach seinem Tod wurden die Bücher jedoch unter seinen Söhnen aufgeteilt. 

Ein Sohn ohne Nachkommen vermachte seinen Anteil seinem Freund und 

Kollegen, dem oben erwähnten Zahid Âl\. Ein Nachkomme der siebenten Generation 

des Âl\ b. Sa^\d, der Professor Emeritus für Middle Eastern History der University 

of Wisconsin, Milwaukee, Abbas Hamdani (geb. 1926), brachte einen großen 

Teil der in der Familie verstreuten Manuskripte wieder zusammen und stiftete 

sie unlängst dem Institute of Ismaili Studies. Er verfasste für den vorliegenden Katalog 

auch das einleitende Kapitel “History of the Hamdani Collection of Manuscripts“ 

(S. XXV–XXXIV). 

Im Hauptteil des Katalogs beschreibt François de Blois mehr als 260 Kodizes 

und einige ungebundene Kollektaneen. Sie sind als Ms. 1401–1670 nummeriert 

und nach inhaltlichen Gesichtspunkten geordnet, beginnend mit dem Kapitel 

“I. Bibliographical Works“ (enthält nur den Fihrist al-kutub wa l-rasa#il des Isma^\l 

al-Mapdu^). Den größten Teil machen – wenig überraschend – religiöse Werke der 

Isma^\l\ya aus (Ms. 1402–1619), die chronologisch und nach der Region der Entstehung 

in fünf Kapitel eingeteilt sind: “II. Ismaili Writings of the Older Yemeni 

School; III. Ismaili Authors in North Africa, Egypt and Persia during the Fatimid 

Period; IV. The ‘Treatises of the Sincere Brethren’ and Related Texts; V. Ismaili 

Authors of the Second Yemeni (Sulay1id and Tayyib\) School; VI. Ismaili (Tayyib\) 

Authors in India.” 

Dann folgen VII. Werke nicht-isma^\litischer Autoren (Ms. 1620–1661), untergliedert 

in religiöse Wissenschaften (i Zaiditen, ii Zwölferschiiten, iii Sunniten), 

arabische Sprache, arabische Poesie, Kunstprosa, Geschichte und Genealogie, 

Philosophie und Logik, Mathematik und Astronomie, Medizin und Pharmakologie, 

Magie, Sammelhandschriften. Die letzten beiden Kapitel sind VIII. Miszellen, 

unidentifizierten und unklassifizierten Werken (Ms. 1662–1667) und IX. Manuskripten 

in Gujarat\-Schrift gewidmet (Ms. 1668–1670). 

Jeder Eintrag beginnt mit der jeweiligen Nr., darunter stehen Titel des 

Werkes, Name des Autors, Sprache, evtl. der Teil des Werkes und das Datum der 

Handschrift. Es schließt sich eine mitunter sehr eingehende Diskussion der Besonderheit 

des betreffenden Kodex an, gegebenenfalls auch im Vergleich zu einer 

vorhandenen Edition. De Blois’ Ziel war es, wie er in der Einleitung (S. XX) 

schreibt, “to focus on what is important and interesting in the given manuscript 

(in some cases the rare or unique nature of the work contained in it, in other cases 

codecological [sic!] features of the manuscript itself), and not to give a complete 

bibliography of each and every work.”

Reviews 187 

Dementsprechend sparsam geht er etwa mit der Angabe der Lebensdaten der 

Autoren um, die man sich mit Hilfe des Index unter der ersten Erwähnung suchen 

muss, wo auch kurz auf die Biografie eingegangen wird. Wenn dies nur etwas unbequem 

ist, so bedauert man doch sehr, dass Incipits nur in seltenen Ausnahmefällen 

und mit wenigen Wörtern zitiert werden. Dies gilt auch für Werke, für die 

keine anderen Handschriften bekannt oder nur in schwer zugänglichen Katalogen 

beschrieben sind, so dass man etwaige Parallelhandschriften nicht mit Hilfe 

des vorliegenden Katalogs verifizieren kann. Umgekehrt können auch nicht identifizierte 

Werke dieses Katalogs nur durch Einsicht in das Manuskript nachträglich 

bestimmt werden. 

Auch Querverweise, etwa bei einzelnen Teilen eines Sammelbandes, die Auszüge 

aus anderweitig beschriebenen Werken sind (z.B. bei Ms. 1440), hätte ich mir 

öfter gewünscht. Umfassend informiert wird der Benutzer aber über Editionen und 

Referenzen in den einschlägigen Werken und Katalogen der Isma^\l\ya-Literatur. 

Zu den bedeutendsten Stücken der Sammlung gehört “the oldest Ismaili manuscript 

in any publicly accessible collection” (S. 63, Ms. 1458 mit 2 Abb.), welches 

lange vor 760/1359 kopiert und 988/1580 um den Schluss ergänzt wurde. Es 

enthält das Kitab al-riyad, über Differenzen in den Positionen der beiden isma^\litischen 

Dogmatiker Abu Ya^qub as-Sipistan\ (2. H. 4./10. Jh.) und Abu 0atim al- 

Raz\ (gest. ca. 322/934–35), verfasst zwischen 403/1012 und 407/1016 von 0am\d 

ad-D\n al-Kirman\. Während dieses Werk auch in einer Reihe anderer Mss. bekannt 

ist, sind Exemplare einiger anderer Schriften bislang nicht gefunden worden, 

so etwa des Mapmu^ ar-rasa#il, einer Briefsammlung des Dichters und Sekretärs 

0usain b. Âl\ b. Mu1ammad al-Qumm\ (gest. 482/1089–90; Ms. 1487 und Ms. 

1488 [eine Kopie des ersteren]), oder der romantischen und vermutlich moralisierenden 

Liebesgeschichte Qissat gayat al-pamal maâ nihayat al-pamal, eigenhändig 

vom Verfasser A1mad b. Ibrah\m al-Ya^bur\ al-Hamdan\ geschrieben im Jahr 

1158/1745 (Ms. 1544), oder mehrerer Mapalis al-âˇsuriya genannter Sammlungen 

von Andachtstexten für die zehn Tage des Gedenkens an das Martyrium des Prophetenenkels 

0usain (Ms. 1548–1556). 

Erwähnenswert ist auch die Tatsache, dass drei Frauen unter den Schreibern 

geheimer isma^\litischer Werke sind. Von einer, die zwischen 1718 und 1737 arbeitete 

(Ms. 1448 und 1634), ist nur der Name bekannt. Die anderen beiden sind 

Tochter (Ms. 1570–97, kopiert 1908–09) und Schwiegertochter (Ms. 1427, und 1636, 

ersteres kopiert 1321/1903) Mu1ammad Âl\s. 

Unter den nicht-isma^\litischen arabischen Werke scheinen mir die Fawa#id 

al-muätabara min inˇsa# al-muwaqqiîn al-mu^tabara, eine Sammlung originaler 

Urkundentexte aus dem mamlukischen Ägypten (Ms. 1639), und die jemenitischen 

Genealogien (Ms. 1640–1642), beides ohne bekannte Parallelen, von besonderem 

Interesse.

188 Reviews 

Fünf Werke der Sammlung sind in Gujarat\, einer indoarischen Sprache, verfasst, 

drei davon nicht mit arabischen Buchstaben geschrieben, wie der Diwan 

Mu1ammad Âl\ al-Hamdan\s, sondern in Gujarat\-Schrift. Von diesen nennt de 

Blois nur Verfasser und Titel. 

Eine Kuriosität stellt ein Manuskript des Kanz al-walad von Ibrah\m b. al- 

0usain al-0amid\ (gest. 557/1162; Ms. 1499 mit farbiger Abbildung) dar. Es ist in 

keiner der von den Isma^\liten öfter benutzen Geheimschriften, sondern in einem 

offenbar eigens hierfür erfundenen Code geschrieben. De Blois vermutet, dass 

Mu1ammad Âl\ al-Hamdan\ das Werk verschlüsselte, bevor er wegen religiöspolitischer 

Differenzen auf eine über zehn Jahre währende Reise ging, damit dieses 

‘ultra-geheime’ Werk nicht in falsche Hände fiele. 

Wir verdanken François de Blois mit diesem Katalog, der durch eine Reihe 

von Schwarzweiß- und Farbabbildungen ergänzt wird, wertvolle Untersuchungen 

zur isma^\litischen Literaturgeschichte und zur materiellen Beschaffenheit 

einer Familienbibliothek, die niemand, der sich mit der jemenitisch-indischen Isma^\l\ya 

beschäftigt, wird außer Acht lassen können. 

Rosemarie Quiring-Zoche: Jena, x8quro@uni-jena.de 

Arthur F. Buehler, Revealed Grace: The Juristic Sufism of Ahmad Sirhindi 

(1564–1624). Louisville, KY 2011: Fons Vitae, XXII + 321 pp. 

ISBN 978-1-891785-89-4. 

Arthur Buehler’s Revealed Grace is a long awaited work for scholars of both Islamic 

studies and early modern Islamic history. Buehler provides a commentary 

and meticulous translation of selected works of one of the most influential, controversial, 

and misrepresented figures of the Persianate world, the Naqˇsband\ 

Suf\ ˇsayä A1mad Sirhind\ (d. 1628), known as Mujaddid-i alf thani (the reviver of 

the second millennium). This is perhaps the most ambitious effort to date in 

the English language to interpret Sirhind\’s Maktubat (Collected Letters), which 

served as a seminal didactic text for Naqˇsband\-Mujaddid\ suf\ networks throughout 

South and Central Asia and the Ottoman Empire. Revealed Grace includes a 62 

page introduction, followed by a translation of 26 epistles, or 13 % of the Collected 

Letters. 

Despite the fact that Sirhind\ has received considerable scholarly attention 

in the last century, his literary works have presented scholars with several challenges. 

First, Sirhind\’s Collected Letters, as Buehler so aptly puts it, are primarily 

“a practical manual for a Science of Reality, with a carefully articulated

Reviews 189 

methodology” intended for spiritual adepts. (p. xv) Only a very small number of 

epistles are concerned with mundane socio-political matters, while the majority 

contain highly esoteric discourses. In these letters, Sirhind\ employs a technical 

vocabulary, ontological framework, and suprarational logic which has been 

largely understudied. Second, his letters contain seemingly contradictory views, 

which can vary depending on the recipient. To complicate matters further, the 

identities of many of the recipients are unknown, and the original letters which 

the Collected Letters were written in response to are unavailable. 

These challenges are compounded by the fact that anti-imperialist and 

nationalist ideologues during the 20 th century in South Asia approached the Collected 

Letters from a political lens, and appropriated Sirhind\ as a forefather of 

Muslim political and communal consciousness. Grand meta-narratives of Sirhind\’s 

legacy were woven by scholars such as I.H. Qureshi and S.A.A. Rizvi who 

regarded his work as a socio-political project aimed at cleansing Islam of Hindu 

accretions. Yohanan Friedmann and J.G.J. ter Haar overturned this paradigm. 

They argued instead that Sirhind\ should be regarded as a synthesizer who 

brought suf\ practices (including those regarded as antinomian) and the urban 

juristic traditions into a single system supported by rational argument, scripture, 

and mystical experience. Revealed Grace represents the next foundation stone in 

this scholarly edifice. 

This book is a result of Buehler’s decade-long effort working with various 

Persian editions and Urdu and Arabic translations of the Collected Letters. 

Buehler translates letters which elucidate what he refers to as the “Mujaddidi 

form of juristic Sufism” (p. x). According to Buehler, Sirhind\’s program of renewal 

sought to reform both “self-aggrandizing ego-driven jurists” (p. 31) and 

wayward suf\s. “By joining shariat and sufism,” explains Buehler, “Sirhindi endeavored 

to renew sufi practices and standards, which included adherence to 

scriptural norms and legal practices.” (p. 30) This synthesis, he points out, was 

highly controversial and countered popular conceptions of the separation of 

these domains. 

Buehler’s introduction is a must-read for scholars of early modern Islam because 

of his contextualization of Sirhind\’s work. The remainder of the book consists 

of translations, divided into five chapters. The first three are organized thematically: 

“Shariat, Sunnat and Jurists”, “Contemplative Experience”, and 

“Aspects of the Sufi Path.” Chapters four and five include translations of two 

lengthy and oft-referenced letters, Epistles 1:200 and 1:287. Epistle 1:200 outlines 

the Naqˇsband\ path, and enumerates some of Sirhind\’s millennial concepts, 

while in 1:287, Sirhind\ provides the intellectual basis for the doctrine of vahdat-e 

ˇsohud (unity of contemplative witnessing), with which Sirhind\ is often associated. 

Throughout Buehler’s translations, it becomes apparent that the Collected

190 Reviews 

Letters were written for disciples at different levels of spiritual development. In 

his epistles, Sirhind\ provided step-by-step lessons on suf\ practices and Islamic 

dogma complete with evaluations, and pointers on recognizing traps and challenges 

(e.g., letters 1:212, 1:218, and 1:293). 

Buehler’s Revealed Grace is commendable on several fronts. Foremost, 

Buehler strives to approach the Collected Letters on its own terms, overcoming 

some of the principal challenges faced by earlier scholars. He acknowledges 

and outlines the complexities of the text in the translator’s preface, a useful discussion 

for those approaching Indo-Persian suf\ genres such as maktubat and 

malfuzat. Building off his previous work in 2000, an index of Sirhind\’s technical 

vocabulary in the Collected Letters, Buehler uses precise translations 

of terms for esoteric concepts. Unlike Burhan Ahmad Faruqi, and other later 

scholars of Sirhind\, he avoids English terms such as “spiritual” and “mysticism” 

which convey a particular universe of meanings in the context of Western 

Christianity. He states upfront that a term like “spiritual” is problematic as 

there are three levels of “spirit” in Sirhind\’s cosmology. Furthermore, in his introduction, 

Buehler skillfully explores the subtleties of concepts such as tajdid 

and vahdat-e ˇsohud, which have been superficially treated in secondary works 

of early modern Sufism. 

Particularly noteworthy is Buehler’s examination of shariât, a cornerstone 

of Sirhind\’s thought. Sirhind\’s emphasis on the revival of shariât has been often 

anachronistically interpreted in secondary literature as advocating a state-implemented 

legal code. This has led to widespread speculations on Sirhind\’s legacy. 

For example Awrangzeb’s implementation of orthodox legislation is often 

regarded as the realization of Sirhind\’s vision, an argument refuted by Friedmann. 

1 Buehler goes further by explaining that Sirhind\’s concept of shariât is a 

multivalent and inclusive term encompassing outward acts of worship, faith, and 

the suf\ path. Buehler draws attention to Sirhind\’s emphasis on suf\ initiation as 

a necessary part of shariât, as well as his criticism of jurists who follow only the 

superficial aspects of the shariât, whom he warned: “For a worm hidden under a 

rock, the sky is the bottom of the rock.” (p. 97) 

Another noteworthy aspect of Buehler’s translation is his endeavor to reproduce 

the “flavor” of the original text. Unlike prior works which provide decontextualized 

translations of parts of letters, Buehler’s work is the first to provide 

translations of complete letters into English. Further, he retains the “spiritual pol- 

1 See Yohanan Friedmann, “The Naqshbandis and Awrangzeb: A Reconsideration,” in Marc 

Gaborieu, Alexandre Popovic, and Thierry Zarcone (eds.), Naqshbandis: Historical Development 

and Present Day Situation of a Muslim Mystical Order (Istanbul: Editions Isis, 1990), 209–220.

Reviews 191 

iteness formulae” (p. xii), an improvement over earlier partial translations, notably 

that of M. Abdul Haq Ansari, who paraphrased large sections of each letter. 2 

Buehler further reminds us that much of Sirhind\’s work is suprarational 

discourse, which is understood experientially when one reaches certain states of 

mystical consciousness. (p. 83) In addition to mapping out the Naqˇsband\ path 

and cosmology in the introduction with the aid of useful diagrams, Buehler 

guides the reader in approaching concepts with examples and metaphors, much 

like a suf\ teacher would do in a khaniqa. 

Ultimately, Buehler’s work is focused on context. Prior to each epistle, 

Buehler summarizes key themes, and discusses the identity and social status of 

the recipients where possible. In the introduction, he contextualizes Sirhind\’s 

often controversial social views by providing insights into the worldview of the 

17 th century ashraf class, and contemporary discourse concerned with the maintenance 

of the social order. 

Buehler’s translations are also laudable because they shed light on overarching 

themes and features of Sirhind\’s Collected Letters which have been 

largely overlooked in secondary scholarship. 

First, Buehler draws attention to Sirhind\’s encyclopedic work of experiential 

classification which introduces readers to different modes of religious experience. 

Sirhind\ painstakingly catalogues the different varieties of guides, spiritual 

stations, annihilations (p. 208), and divine effulgences, among other categories. 

Buehler translates epistle 1:287 which contains some of Sirhind\’s most paradigmatic 

discourses on classifying spiritual teachers – from ecstatic wayfarers to 

exemplary shuyukh – and their respective pedagogical abilities. Even when discussing 

post-rational experiences in this epistle, Sirhind\’s approach is, according 

to Buehler, “scientific in that he provides experiential data to support his 

claims.” (p. 216) 

The letters on “Contemplative Experience” compiled in Chapter 2 also 

highlight how Sirhind\’s personal spiritual progression was central to his ability 

to contextualize a broad range of religious experiences, including ecstatic states 

deemed controversial by contemporary ûlama#. Sirhind\ constantly reminds 

readers that religious experiences are subjective, and can be functions of spiritual 

station or even of the historical space in which the Muslim community is situated. 

Based on these discourses it is difficult to maintain, as many have in the past 

2 Compare, for example, the translation of letter 1:290 provided in Ansari’s Sufism and Shariah 

(M. Abdul Haq Ansari, Sufism and Shariah: A Study of Shaikh Ahmad Sirhindi’s Efforts to 

Reform Sufism (Leicester: The Islamic Foundation, 1986), 202–207), and in Revealed Grace, 

135–159.

192 Reviews 

using selective translations from the Collected Letters, that Sirhind\ opposed 

all forms of antinomianism. In letter 3.33, Sirhind\ contextualizes highly controversial 

verses of Ya1ya Manyar\ and Mansur al-0allaj through innovative exegesis. 

(p. 228) Following ter Haar, Buehler points out that Sirhind\ aimed to 

help superficial jurists and common people understand such utterances in perspective. 

In this vein, Buehler also contends that Sirhind\’s doctrine of vahdat-e 

ˇsohud (the unity of contemplative witnessing) should not be viewed as a critique 

of Ibn Ârab\. (p. 53–55) Rather, he reminds readers that Ibn Ârab\ would have 

shared Sirhind\’s criticisms regarding those who conclude their spiritual path 

at asserting the unity of being (towhid-e vojudi). Buehler further agrees with ter 

Haar and others that Sirhind\ was able to reconcile vahdat-e ˇsohud and vahdat-e 

vojud as legitimate experiences within a single framework. Both stages according 

to Sirhind\, are markers on a spiritual path towards the stations of being a servant. 

The latter term is more “jurist friendly.” (p. 55) Sirhind\’s own progress 

through both stages is laid out in letters 1.13 (pp. 124–126), 1:290 (pp. 136–159), and 

1:291 (pp. 159–68). 

It is noteworthy that Buehler chose to translate these and other seminal epistles 

like 2:67, on the creed of the ahl-e sonnat va-jamaât, and 1.11, on account of 

which Sirhind\ was imprisoned by the Mughal emperor Jahang\r. Many of these 

letters have been deeply engaged and debated by later Suf\s and modern 

scholars. It is not clear, however, how Buehler selected letters for this volume 

and whether certain aspects of Sirhind\’s work have been emphasized in Revealed 

Grace above others. It would have been beneficial if Buehler had outlined the 

contents of the additional Collected Letters. Buehler could also have better explained 

the criteria for organizing letters into three thematic chapters, as many 

letters deal with overlapping topics. 

Additional clarification is also required on how letters translated in this volume 

addressed to Mughal public officials, notably 2.67, aimed at influencing 

Jahang\r, relate to the majority of Sirhind\’s teachings. Buehler, after all, seems 

to agree with Friedmann that Sirhind\’s advice to officials may have been appeals 

to preserve the social order at the state level, and did not necessarily align with 

his guidance to disciples and non-notables. 3 

The way in which Sirhind\’s mujaddid\ successors, ûlama# and Suf\s outside 

of the silsila engaged the Collected Letters also merits further research. It would 

be relevant to know, for example, which letters were most frequently read, and 

3 See Yohanan Friedman, Shaikh Ahmad Sirhindi: An Outline of His Thought and a Study of His 

Image in the Eyes of Posterity (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2000), 75.

Reviews 193 

through which medium they were presented to disciples. Another question that 

emerges in light of 20 th-century scholarship on Sirhind\ is how his contemporaries 

viewed socio-political references to the letters. 

Ultimately, we can expect that Buehler’s work will lead to major reconsiderations 

of Sirhind\’s legacy. To date, much secondary historical scholarship still 

relies on the binary framework established by Faruqi, Rizvi, and Qureshi 

to interpret Sirhind\’s historical impact, which is easier to engage and provides a 

simpler, less textured view of Hindustan\ society in the 17 th–19 th centuries. Revealed 

Grace, coupled with Buehler’s pioneering work Sufi Heirs of the Prophet can provide 

an excellent foundation to better understand how trans-regional mujaddid\ 

networks which spread throughout the Muslim world in the early modern period 

reflected Sirhind\’s work of intellectual synthesis. 

Waleed Ziad: New Haven, CT, waleed.ziad@yale.edu 

Said AlDailami, Erneuerungsdenken in der islamischen Welt. Orthodoxie-Kritik 

und neue Selbstvergewisserung als Mittel zur Überwindung der geistig-kulturellen 

Krise? Das Beispiel der Altajdeed Cultural & Social Society (Kultur, Recht und 

Politik in muslimischen Gesellschaften, Bd. 21), Würzburg 2011: Ergon, 453 S. 

ISBN 978-3-89913-860-3. 

Die zu besprechende Studie wurde 2010 von der Fakultät für Staats- und Sozialwissenschaften 

der Universität der Bundeswehr München als Dissertationsschrift 

angenommen. Said AlDailami geht darin der Frage nach, unter welchen Bedingungen 

muslimischen Gesellschaften die selbständige Bewältigung ihrer Krise 

„in Richtung Moderne und Fortschritt“ (S. 16) gelingen könne. Diese vermeintliche 

Krise wurde seit dem 18., vor allem aber seit dem 19. Jahrhundert in regelmäßigen 

Abständen in innermuslimischen Debatten thematisiert. Seit den 1980er 

Jahren werden jüngere islamische Erneuerungsbewegungen und -diskurse, wie 

der Vf. sie beschreibt, verschiedentlich auch in islamwissenschaftlichen Forschungsarbeiten 

untersucht. Die vom Vf. als Gegenstand gewählte bahrainische 

Altajdeed Cultural & Social Society (im Folgenden ACSS) wurde in der Islamwissenschaft 

bisher jedoch nicht erforscht. Dem Vf. zufolge liegt dies unter anderem 

daran, dass Bahrain in der islamischen Welt sowohl hinsichtlich seines politischen 

Einflusses als auch seiner geographischen Lage für eher unbedeutend gehalten 

werde. 

Den einleitenden Erwägungen (S. 21–41) folgt eine deskriptiv angelegte Heranführung 

an die Entstehung und Entwicklung des islamischen Rechts und der

194 Reviews 

Theologie (S. 43–130). Daran schließt sich eine Beschreibung der Gesellschaft an, 

die im Fokus der Arbeit steht: die genannte ACSS, die 2002 im Golfstaat Bahrain 

von einer Gruppe schiitischer Intellektueller gegründet wurde (S. 131–221). Der 

Vf. übersetzt und kommentiert in diesem Kapitel Auszüge aus den wichtigsten 

Schriften der ACSS, v.a. deren Hauptwerk Zugänge zu Koran und Verstand. In der 

Folge analysiert er die ACSS und ihren Erneuerungsentwurf (S. 223–313) und verortet 

sie ideengeschichtlich (S. 315–393). 

AlDailami begreift die arabisch-islamische Welt als „einheitliches Kulturgebilde“ 

(S. 27), in dem der Islam – oder vielmehr die angeblich vorherrschende 

„traditionalistisch-konservative Islamvariante“ (ebd.) – die sinnstiftende Größe 

par excellence im Alltag der MuslimInnen darstelle. Aufgrund der Dominanz des 

Islams sei eine Überwindung der vielbeschworenen Krise nur über eine Reform 

der religiösen Lehre möglich. Die ACSS legt denn auch einen Erneuerungsentwurf 

vor, der vornehmlich auf eine Kritik an der traditionellen Koranexegese abzielt. 

Entgegen dem Mainstream der Islamwissenschaft, der den Grund für die Krise der 

islamischen Welt in einem Zusammenspiel historischer, politischer und sozialer 

Faktoren vermutet und damit die absolute Dominanz des Islams im Alltag der 

MuslimInnen in Frage stellt, entscheidet sich der Vf. dafür, die zwischen den 

verschiedenen arabisch-islamischen Ländern bestehenden Unterschiede auszublenden, 

um sich – wie er betont – auf deren „gemeinsamen Nenner“ (S. 34) konzentrieren 

zu können: den Islam. 

Im zweiten Kapitel verfolgt der Vf. drei Ziele: Er beabsichtigt zunächst, einen 

allgemeinen und einführenden Überblick über die Entstehung und Entwicklung 

von Recht und Theologie im Islam zu geben. Danach will er die klassischen 

Lehrmeinungen darlegen, damit die Kritik der ACSS daran deutlich hervortreten 

könne. Schließlich zielt er auf die Gegenüberstellung der islamischen und der 

islamwissenschaftlichen Beschäftigung mit dem religiösen Recht, um aufzuzeigen, 

welche Positionen der Islamwissenschaft von der ACSS aufgegriffen wurden. 

Zwischen Überblick und forschender Analyse riskieren die Ausführungen, 

die beiden potentiellen Zielgruppen zu verfehlen: Die Darstellung der islamwissenschaftlichen 

Debatten über die Entwicklung des islamischen Rechts erscheint 

zu harmonisierend, so dass dem Kapitel die nötige Tiefenschärfe fehlt. Gleichzeitig 

gelingt es dem Vf. nur bedingt, eine Einführung zu bieten, die auch für ein 

breiteres Publikum geeignet wäre. 

Im dritten Kapitel befasst sich der Vf. erstmals mit der ACSS, einem Verein mit 

circa 200 Mitgliedern und einem 12-köpfigen Vorstand, der sich v.a. über Mitgliederbeiträge 

und Spenden finanziert. Die bedeutendsten Protagonisten scheinen, 

soweit eine Einschätzung überhaupt möglich ist, dem Bild des modernen Erneuerers 

zu entsprechen: säkular gebildete Intellektuelle, die sich ihr religiöses Wissen 

im Selbststudium angeeignet haben, wie dies auch für andere zeitgenössi-

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sche Erneuerer und Prediger gilt, etwa Âmr 2alid (Ägypten) und Mu1ammad 

Åa1rur (Syrien). Die ACSS verbreitet ihre Sichtweisen hauptsächlich über eine 

eigene Internetseite, womit sie sich in eine mittlerweile lange Liste von ähnlich 

agierenden islamischen Gruppierungen einreiht. Sie publiziert ihre Texte ausschließlich 

auf Arabisch und mehrheitlich anonym. Der Umstand, dass es sich 

bei beinahe allen Informationen, die der Autor über die ACSS zusammengetragen 

hat, um Selbstdeklarationen handelt (z.B. zu Mitgliederzahlen und Finanzierung), 

schränkt methodisch die Erkenntnismöglichkeiten ein. 

Um sich der ACSS anzunähern, beschäftigt sich der Vf. deshalb nicht nur mit 

ihrem Hauptwerk, sondern auch mit ihrer Satzung und den wissenschaftlichen 

Aktivitäten (v.a. Tagungen, Vortragsreihen). Bedauerlicherweise setzt er sich 

nicht eingehend mit der konfessionellen Orientierung der ACSS auseinander – 

sieht man von seinen wiederholt geäußerten Vermutungen ab sowie von der am 

Ende der Arbeit stehenden Bestätigung, dass es sich bei den Mitgliedern der ACSS 

um Schiiten handele. Da eine Mehrheit der islamwissenschaftlichen Studien zum 

Thema Erneuerung sunnitische Denker oder Bewegungen in den Blick nimmt, 

könnte die Erforschung der ACSS möglicherweise Spezifika eines schiitischen 

Erneuerungsdenkens aufzeigen und somit interessante Vergleiche mit sunnitischen 

Bewegungen zulassen. Typisch für eine schiitische Bewegung erscheint 

etwa ihre ablehnende Haltung gegenüber (sunnitischen) hadi©-Sammlungen und 

die Bevorzugung von Überlieferungen der ahl al-bayt. Daher wäre auch eine Beschäftigung 

mit dem Namen der ACSS wünschenswert gewesen: Weshalb nennt 

sie sich „tapdid“-Gesellschaft, wo dieser Begriff doch für alle traditionell gebildeten 

MuslimInnen mit einem hadi© verbunden ist, der in einer sunnitischen Sammlung 

aufgeführt wird (Abu Dawud)? Der hadi© besagt, dass Gott der muslimischen 

Gemeinschaft in jedem Jahrhundert Personen sende, die die Religion erneuern. 

Der Vf. nennt diesen hadi© jedoch an keiner Stelle und lässt nicht erkennen, ob 

sich die von ihm untersuchte ACSS der Herkunft des Begriffs bewusst ist. Es wäre 

durchaus interessant zu untersuchen, ob der Begriff tapdid im Umfeld der Gesellschaft 

losgelöst von seiner normativen Quelle eine Bedeutung hat, die keines expliziten 

Bezugs auf den hadi© mehr bedarf. 

Die Gründe, die die ACSS für ihr Erneuerungswirken anführt, folgen dem 

Muster einer Vielzahl von Texten zeitgenössischer arabischer Denker und Gelehrter, 

das der Vf. knapp resümiert: Die muslimische Gemeinschaft (umma) sei 

krank, weshalb die ACSS eine Diagnose ihrer Krankheit erstellen wolle, um sie 

heilen zu können. Die umma besitze keine eigene Identität mehr und sei ihres Erbes 

beraubt worden. 

Das Hauptwerk der ACSS, Zugänge zu Koran und Verstand (Mafatih al-Qur#an 

wa-l-âql), umfasst als E-Book 170 Seiten und ist in zwei Teile gegliedert: Teil 1 enthält 

die 16 Koranexegese-Regeln der ACSS. Diese umfassen u.a. das Beseitigen

196 Reviews 

der Hindernisse für das Verstehen des Korans, eine Einführung in die Koranwissenschaften, 

die Demonstration der Überlegenheit des Korans (auch gegenüber 

der sunna) und die Erläuterung seiner Sprache (Pronomen, Synonyme etc.) sowie 

seiner historischen und epistemologischen Entwicklung. Teil 2 widmet sich der 

Frage, wie der Mensch den Koran verstehen könne. Der Koran und seine Interpretation 

nehmen gemäß dem Vf. nicht nur in dieser, sondern auch in den übrigen 

Schriften der ACSS den größten Raum ein, weil er für sie die wichtigste und einzig 

authentische Quelle des Islams darstelle. Die sunna lasse die ACSS nur dann gelten, 

wenn sie dem Koran nicht widerspreche. Wie der Vf. zeigt, verwirft die ACSS 

den Konsens der islamischen Gelehrten, dass es sich bei der sunna um eine normative 

Quelle neben dem Koran handele. Ihres Erachtens müsse die Authentizität 

zahlreicher ahadi© in Frage gestellt werden. Der Vf. kritisiert hier zu recht, dass 

trotz den von der ACSS aufgestellten Regeln der Auslegung und der Kritik an der 

traditionellen Koranexegese nicht deutlich wird, wie das konkrete Vorgehen ausgestaltet 

werden sollte. 

Zu Beginn seines Kapitels über die Erneuerungsideen der ACSS benennt Al- 

Dailami die Schwerpunktthemen der ACSS stichwortartig (z.B. Koran und Koranexegese, 

Rolle und Stellung der sunna, Neudefinition des Muslim-Begriffs) und 

fasst die vorangegangen Ausführungen zusammen (S. 226–228). Allerdings werden 

die identifizierten Schwerpunktthemen im weiteren Verlauf der Arbeit nicht systematisch 

bewertet. Vielmehr werden sie in der Darstellung der Kritik, welche die 

ACSS an verschiedenen Interpretationen der islamischen Lehre durch die Gelehrten 

übt, uneinheitlich behandelt. Diese Kritik, deren Beschreibung den Rest des 

Kapitels einnimmt, richtet sich u.a. gegen die bereits mehrfach erwähnten traditionellen 

Exegeseregeln, die Gleichbehandlung von Koran und sunna, die Ablehnung 

der Vernunft sowie die klassische Schöpfungsgeschichte. Die ACSS wende sich zudem 

gegen das Befolgen von nur einer Rechtsschule und das Deutungsmonopol 

der traditionellen Gelehrten, die selbständiges Denken und das „Aufbrechen der 

geistigen Stagnation in der islamischen Welt“ (S. 283) verhinderten. 

Die ideengeschichtliche Kontextualisierung der ACSS im fünften Kapitel 

greift in das 19. Jahrhundert zurück, um einerseits mögliche Rückbezüge der 

ACSS auf die Reformideen von Mu1ammad Âbduh und Pamal ad-D\n al-Afgan\ 

aufzuzeigen. Andererseits versucht der Vf., den Einfluss einzelner Vertreter zeitgenössischer 

islamischer Erneuerungsdiskurse auf die ACSS nachzuvollziehen. 

So nennt er etwa die beiden Ägypter 0asan 0anaf\ (geb. 1935) und Nasr 0amid 

Abu Zaid (gest. 2010), den syrischen Ingenieur und religiösen Autodidakten 

Mu1ammad Åa1rur (geb. 1938) sowie Vertreter der koranhermeneutischen Ankaraer 

Schule. 

Zwar sind Parallelen zwischen den Schriften der ACSS und jenen v.a. der zeitgenössischen 

Erneuerer aufzuzeigen, da die Gesellschaft jedoch mit Ausnahme

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Åa1rurs keine anderen Denker in ihren Schriften explizit nennt – dies gilt auch 

für Âbduh oder Afgan\ –, kann ein konkreter Einfluss nur vermutet werden. Zwischen 

0anaf\ und der ACSS scheint es insofern eine direkte Verbindung zu geben, 

als 0anaf\ laut Vf. den Sitz der ACSS in Manama besucht habe und eine gewisse 

Nähe seines Erneuerungsentwurfs zu jenem der Gesellschaft auszumachen sei. 

Darüber hinaus führt AlDailami in diesem Kapitel erstmals die zentralen Begrifflichkeiten 

der arabisch-islamischen Erneuerungsdiskurse ein: neben tapdid 

nimmt er Bezug auf die Begriffe tura© (Erbe), bidâ (unerlaubte Neuerung), âsil 

(authentisch) oder muâsir (zeitgenössisch). Während er sich mit tura© eingehender 

beschäftigt, kommen die anderen Termini und ihre Kontextualisierung im Erneuerungsdiskurs 

leider zu kurz. Das ist v.a. deshalb bedauerlich, weil sie die 

ideellen Eckpfeiler der verschiedenen zeitgenössischen Erneuerungsdiskurse bilden. 

Der Vf. nimmt am Ende dieses Kapitels sein Fazit vorweg, wenn er aus seiner 

Einschätzung der Erfolgschancen zeitgenössischer Erneuerungsbewegungen folgert, 

dass diese aufgrund des Misstrauens, das ihnen vonseiten der traditionellen 

Gelehrtenschaft entgegengebracht werde, eher gering seien. Er bezieht sich hier 

auf die Kritik der Gelehrten der Azhar an Mu1ammad A1mad 2alafallah, einem 

Schüler Am\n al-2ul\s, der mit seiner Dissertation an der Fu#ad I.-Universität 

(heutige Kairo-Universität) im Jahre 1947 einen Sturm der Entrüstung unter besagten 

Gelehrten auslöste, was zur Ablehnung seiner Arbeit führte. Leider geht 

der Vf. nur sporadisch auf die heutige Kritik von Gelehrten am Erneuerungsdiskurs 

ein. Denn während sich seit einiger Zeit auch Azhariten positiv auf Erneuerung 

beziehen, 1 scheint die ACSS vonseiten der bahrainischen Gelehrten anhaltender 

massiver Kritik ausgesetzt zu sein. 

Im sechsten Kapitel fasst AlDailami seine Ergebnisse zusammen und 

schließt mit Blick auf die Prämisse der ACSS, dass es nicht mehr grundsätzlich darum 

gehe, die Moderne mit dem Islam zu versöhnen, sondern vielmehr um die 

Frage, welche Gestalt die Religion in der gegenwärtigen islamischen Welt annehmen 

solle: „Muslime könnten jene allseits gespürte geistig-kulturelle Stagnation 

nur über ein grundlegendes Reform- und Erneuerungsprogramm überwinden, 

dessen primäre Aufgabe es sein müsse, die Religion in ihren Fundamenten zu ergründen 

und neu aufzustellen“ (S. 395). 

Der Vf. hat keine islamwissenschaftliche Ausbildung durchlaufen, verfügt 

aber über fundiertes Wissen in islamischer Theologie und kennt offenkundig 

den Forschungsstand zur islamischen Rechtsentwicklung. Seine Arbeit hätte 

allerdings an Tiefgang gewonnen, hätte er den Forschungsstand zum Thema 

1 Siehe hierzu Corrado, Monica: Mit Tradition in die Zukunft. Der tapdid-Diskurs in der Azhar 

und ihrem Umfeld. Würzburg (Ergon Verlag), 2011.

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Erneuerung ebenfalls rezipiert. AlDailamis Studie ist über weite Strecken deskriptiv 

angelegt, was mit seinem Vorhaben zusammenhängen mag, die bislang 

unerforschte ACSS überhaupt erst einmal vorzustellen. Er pflegt einen teilweise 

altertümlich anmutenden Stil, wenn er etwa davon spricht, den „Geist der Society 

entschleiern“ (S. 223) zu wollen. Daneben weist die Arbeit eine Reihe von Fehlern 

auf, die mit der sorgfältigen Lektüre der vom Vf. selbst genannten Literatur hätten 

vermieden werden können: So war Ma1mud Åaltut von 1958–1963 Rektor der Azhar, 

nicht von 1893–1963 (seine Lebensdaten!). Falsch ist auch die Aussage, die 

Azhar bestehe aus den drei Fakultäten Theologie, Jurisprudenz und arabische 

Sprache: Diese wurden bereits mit der Reform von 1930 eingeführt, heute besteht 

die Azhar aus etwa 20 Fakultäten. Trotz dieser Mängel vermag die vorliegende 

Untersuchung durchaus dazu beizutragen, die gegenwärtig in verschiedenen 

Ländern der arabisch-islamischen Welt stattfindenden Erneuerungsdiskurse besser 

verstehen zu können. 

Monica Corrado: Bern, monica.corrado@sbf.admin.ch 

Diana Dressel, Bühne der Geschichte. Der Wandel lokaler Dramen in Palästina 

und Israel. Würzburg 2010: Ergon (Ex Oriente Lux. Rezeptionen und Exegesen als 

Traditionskritik, Bd. 10), 330 S. ISBN 978-3-89913-749-1. 

In Palästina bzw. Israel existiert seit etwa 1890 hebräisches, seit etwa 1918 auch 

palästinensisches Drama. Theaterstücke waren in beiden Kulturen – der palästinensisch-arabischen 

sowie der jüdisch-hebräischen Kultur – ein neues Medium 

und bieten daher „die Möglichkeit, die parallele Entwicklung dieser beiden 

neuen literarischen Gattungen zu analysieren.“ (S. 19) Im Zentrum der Untersuchung 

stehen lokale Dramen, also Theaterstücke, die in Palästina bzw. Israel entstanden 

sind und aufgeführt wurden. An die Fülle dieser Theatertexte stellt die 

Autorin die Frage nach dem Zusammenhang zwischen Zeitgeschichte und Dramatik. 

Erkundet werden soll, ob und wie Dramen „auf politische und gesellschaftliche 

Veränderungen, historische Ereignisse oder ideologische Bewegungen“ 

(S. 21) reagieren; ob die Dramatiker versuchen, ihre Umwelt zu beeinflussen 

und so selbst Teil der historischen Ereignisse werden. Als Methode wird der New 

Historicism genannt, in dessen Sinn die zu untersuchenden Dramen als historische 

Quellen behandelt werden. 

Die meisten der im Folgenden analysierten Theatertexte sind im deutschsprachigen 

Raum kaum bekannt und obwohl Drama und Theater für die arabische 

und jüdische Kultur ein relativ junges Medium war, gibt es eine Fülle von

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Texten. Um dieser Vielzahl sowie dem Forschungsansatz gerecht zu werden, ist 

die Arbeit in zwei Teile gegliedert: der „Thematische[n] Analyse der Dramen“ 

folgt das Kapitel „Drama und Zeitgeschichte“. Eine Einführung in die Entstehung 

und Entwicklung der ersten palästinensischen bzw. hebräischen lokalen Dramen 

(bis Ende der 1940er Jahre) macht klar, dass sich beide Dramenformen spät und 

„zaghaft“ (S. 41) entwickelten. Gespielt wurden in beiden Kulturkreisen erst vor 

allem europäische Autoren. Bevorzugte Themen im entstehenden hebräischen 

Drama sind Stoffe aus der Bibel. Das palästinensische Drama behandelt historische 

Themen und Persönlichkeiten sowie vereinzelt bereits Probleme, die sich 

aus der jüdischen Besiedlung ergaben. Religion, die für das jüdische Selbstverständnis 

wichtig war, und daher auch Thema der Dramen wurde, spielt im arabischen 

Drama keine Rolle. 

Bevor nun die zentralen Themen herausgearbeitet werden, erläutert die Autorin 

die Theatergenres, die sich in beiden Dramatiken finden, wie Bibeldrama, 

Gesellschaftsdrama, Kriegsdrama, politisches und historisches Drama. Schon in 

den kurzen, eher historisch als ästhetisch konzipierten Einleitungen zu den einzelnen 

Genres wird deren Schwäche klar: die Überschneidungen, die eine konkrete 

Zuordnung einzelner Theatertexte nur mit Abstrichen ermöglichen bzw. 

mehrfache Zuordnungen notwendig machen. 

Als das wichtigste Genre der hebräischen und arabischen Dramatik wird das 

sogenannte Gesellschaftsdrama genannt, wobei sich in beiden Theaterkulturen 

unterschiedliche Formen herausbildeten. Für das hebräische Theater ist hier das 

Halutzdrama als israelisches Spezifikum zu nennen. „Halutz“ bedeutet Siedler 

und bezieht sich auf den im Rahmen der ersten „aliyah“ (hebr., Einwanderungswelle) 

nach Palästina immigrierten jüdischen Siedler. Die ersten im Drama bzw. 

auf der Bühne dargestellten Pioniere waren sehr positiv und stereotyp gezeichnet, 

als Helden der Einwanderung und Landnahme trotz widrigster Umstände. 

Ab den 1950er Jahren wurde innerhalb des Halutzdramas die israelische Gesellschaft 

kritisch beleuchtet; die Problematik des israelischen Volkes, das aufgrund 

der unterschiedlichen Herkunft einzelner Gemeinden nicht miteinander lebt, 

sondern nebeneinander, wurde dargestellt. 

Im Weiteren werden folgenden Ausformungen und Themen des hebräischen 

Gesellschaftsdramas vorgestellt: „sozialer Realismus“, „gesellschaftskritisches 

Drama“, „Religion“ sowie „Komödie und Satire“. Unter „historisches Drama“ 

wird u.a. das Holocaustdrama behandelt, wobei Leah Goldberg mit Herrin des 

Schlosses (Ba’alat Ha-Armon, 1955) als erste israelische Dramatikerin genannt 

wird, die den Holocaust thematisiert. Dem „Krieg im hebräischen Drama“ wird 

ein eigener Abschnitt gewidmet, der zu dem überraschenden Schluss kommt, 

dass trotz der Zeitgeschehnisse dieses Genre bis in die späten 1980er und frühen 

1990er Jahre kaum verbreitet war. Weitere kurze Darstellungen sind dem „fikti-

200 Reviews 

ven“ Drama gewidmet, sowie der „Politik im israelischen Theater“, mit den Unterteilungen 

„Die politische Satire“ und „Das politische Drama“. 

In der palästinensischen Dramatik wurde – wie oben beschrieben – Religion 

nicht behandelt. Bis 1948 wählten lokale arabische Autoren in ihrer Dramatik am 

häufigsten historische und traditionelle Themen. Dieser Rückgriff auf Geschichte 

und arabische Heldengestalten zeigt, so die Autorin, „die Sehnsucht des arabischen 

Volkes nach Selbstbestimmung und Autonomie“ (S. 105). Aufgeführt wurden 

diese Theaterstücke vor allem im Rahmen literarischer Clubs und an Schulen. 

Das Jahr 1948, mit der Ausrufung des Staates Israel und der Vertreibung 

vieler Palästinenser ins Exil („nakba“, arabisch, „Katastrophe“), bildet einen Einschnitt 

auch in der palästinensischen Dramatik und Theaterarbeit. Weder Manuskripte 

noch Details von Aufführungen aus diesen Jahren sind überliefert. In den 

ersten Jahren nach der Vertreibung wurden kaum Theaterstücke aufgeführt. Erst 

seit dem Sechs-Tage-Krieg von 1967 werden wieder mehr Dramen verfasst, nun 

aber viele politische Theatertexte. 

Im Weiteren werden folgende Genres und Themen der palästinensischen 

Dramatik aufgearbeitet: „Tradition und Politik im Drama“, „das Gesellschaftsdrama“ 

mit den Unterpunkten „kritisches Gesellschaftsdrama“, „Komödie und 

Satire“ sowie „Positive Kultur“, „Bibeldrama“ und „Krieg im arabischen Drama“. 

Ein Kuriosum bilden zweifellos zwei unter „Positive Kultur“ genannte Theatertexte, 

die als israelfreundliche Werke von der „histadrut“ (der allgemeinen israelischen 

Arbeitergewerkschaft) unterstützt wurden, ohne jemals aufgeführt worden 

zu sein. 

Im Vergleich der Themen des hebräischen bzw. arabischen Dramas wird 

deutlich, dass das palästinensische Drama bis 1948 mehr und vielfältigere Themen 

aufnahm. Die arabischen Autoren bezogen sich auf Geschichte, Tradition, 

Politik und Gesellschaft. Nach 1948 wurde das Schicksal des palästinensischen 

Volkes nach der „nakba“ und der „naksa“ (arabisch, „Rückschlag“; Jahrestag 

des Ausbruchs des Sechs-Tage-Krieges) im Drama behandelt. Das hebräische 

Drama spiegelt erst das Dasein der Halutzim wider; in den 1950er und 1960er 

Jahren wird die Heterogenität der israelischen Gemeinschaft thematisiert. Politik 

und auch die Beziehung zu den Palästinensern werden erst in den 1970er Jahren 

behandelt. 

Im zweiten Teil des Buches, „Drama und Zeitgeschichte“, werden die historischen 

und politischen Zeitgeschehnisse klar und übersichtlich geschildert. 

Diesen Darstellungen des historischen Kontexts folgt eine genaue Einteilung 

der jeweiligen Dramatik nach Themen, die auch graphisch dargestellt wird. 

Mit dieser Methode wird auf einen Blick die Streuung der Themen klar. Etwa 

zur „Thematik hebräischer Dramen vor 1948“ finden sich hier die drei Säulen 

Bibel, Gesellschaft und Geschichte; die Wichtigkeit der Bibeldramen ist durch

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die Höhe der „Bibelsäule“ sofort sichtbar (S. 154). Ein Vergleich mit der „Thematik 

arabischer Dramen vor 1948“ bestätigt die oben angeführten Untersuchungsergebnisse: 

Hier finden sich Geschichte, Tradition, Politik, Gesellschaft 

und Bibel als Themen, wobei Geschichte etwas höher rangiert als Tradition, 

Politik und Gesellschaft, während die Bibel nur wenige Dramen (zwei) inhaltlich 

prägt (S. 162). 

Die Analyse der Themen des hebräischen Dramas von 1948 bis zum Sechstagekrieg 

1967 ergibt folgendes Bild: das Halutzdrama verliert an Bedeutung, die 

israelische Gesellschaft wird zentrales Thema, auf den israelisch-palästinensischen 

Konflikt aber wird nicht eingegangen. Anders sieht es mit dem arabischen 

Drama aus. Wie die Autorin hervorhebt, „lässt sich für das arabische Drama zwischen 

1949 und 1967 festhalten, dass unter schwierigsten Bedingungen und ohne 

konkrete Möglichkeiten der Inszenierung literarische Werke palästinensischer 

Autoren entstehen, deren Inhalte von dem Trauma und der Unterdrückung des 

palästinensischen Volkes und vom Verlust von Identität zeugen.“ (S. 181) In den 

arabischen Dramen wird auch die Zerstreuung des palästinensischen Volkes – 

in Exilpalästinenser, Palästinenser in der West Bank und im Gazastreifen sowie 

Palästinenser, die als Minderheit im israelischen Staat leben – dargestellt. 

Der Sechs-Tage-Krieg (1967) bildet einen Einschnitt in der Geschichte der 

palästinensisch-israelischen Beziehungen, der sich auch in den Theaterliteraturen 

zeigt. Sehr genau beschreibt die Autorin die politischen Rahmenbedingungen 

und die sich ergebenden Konsequenzen für Israelis und Palästinenser, wozu 

auch der Widerstand gegen Unterdrückung und Vertreibung durch die Bildung 

der PLO gehört. 

Bei der Analyse des hebräischen Dramas (nach 1967) zeigen sich folgende 

Fakten: Die israelische Gesellschaft ist nach wie vor vorrangiges Thema auf der 

Bühne. Gezeigt wird ihre Heterogenität, auch in Hinblick auf die Religion, wo eine 

tiefe Spaltung der Gesellschaft in Richtung säkulares bzw. orthodoxes Judentum 

diagnostiziert, und auch religiöser Extremismus dargestellt wird. Erstmals werden 

nun der arabisch-israelische Konflikt und die Palästinafrage in einer der israelischen 

Politik gegenüber kritischen Form gezeigt – ein israelisches Antikriegsdrama 

entsteht. Interessant ist weiters, dass die israelische Dramatik seit den 

1970er Jahren auch international rezipiert wird. Die hebräische Dramatik hat also 

erst nach 1967 den Konflikt mit Palästina kritisch thematisiert. Im Gegensatz dazu 

standen Geschichte und Politik seit Beginn des palästinensischen Dramas in dessen 

Mittelpunkt. Trotz des enormen Einbruchs dieser Dramatik und der Theaterarbeit 

nach 1948, ist das vorrangige Thema auch nach 1967 die Politik. Zentral geht 

es um die Besetzung Palästinas durch Israel und die Diskriminierung der Palästinenser. 

Das palästinensische Schicksal wird in den lokalen arabischen Dramen 

dargestellt, teilweise mit konkreten Forderungen nach Verbesserung der Lage.

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Diese bis jetzt vorgestellten Ergebnisse werden in den folgenden Abschnitten 

zu „Theaterliteratur und Ereignisgeschichte“ und „Theaterliteratur und ideologische 

Bewegungen“ in Bezug zu den jeweiligen Ereignissen und Ideologien 

gesetzt und vertieft. Besonders hervorzuheben sind die Ausführungen über 

„Palästinensische Dramatiker vor 1948 und ihr Nationalbewusstsein“, in dem die 

Lebenswege, Werke und damit in Zusammenhang stehende Intentionen von Dramatikern 

wie etwa Nap\b Nasir kurz umrissen werden. Auch die Auseinandersetzung 

mit „Drama, Nationalismus, ‚intifada’“ wird thematisiert, wobei das Drama 

als Teil der neuen palästinensischen Identität bezeichnet wird. 

Im Schlusskapitel folgert die Autorin, dass trotz der unterschiedlichen Themenwahl 

der hebräischen bzw. palästinensischen Autoren ihre Dramen eine Parallelität 

zum Zeitgeschehen zeigen und daher als historisch-literarische Quellen 

gelesen werden können. Schließlich werden in den letzten Jahren aufgeführte 

Theaterproduktionen beschrieben, etwa des arabisch-hebräischen Theaters in 

Jaffa oder der Habimah, deren Ziel in der Verständigung zwischen Palästinensern 

und Israelis liegt. 

In dieser Arbeit wird eine Vielzahl von dramatischen Texten untersucht, die 

im deutschsprachigen Sprachraum ebensowenig bekannt sind wie die frühe palästinensische 

Theatergeschichte, die in Ansätzen hier ebenfalls aufgearbeitet 

wird. Der Anspruch der vorliegenden Untersuchung ist groß, die Analyse übersichtlich 

ausgeführt. Ein Problem ist die Einteilung der Dramatik in bestimmte 

Genres, die aufgrund der Vielfalt und Fülle der Theatertexte nötig, aber doch problematisch 

ist. Die Schwierigkeiten liegen in der Genreforschung und -einteilung 

selbst begründet, die auch innerhalb der Theaterwissenschaft nicht besonders 

gut ausgearbeitet ist. Dieses Manko spiegelt sich etwa in den zahlreichen Überschneidungen 

wider, die sich in den einzelnen, nur teilweise klar abzugrenzenden 

Genre-Einteilungen zeigen. Denn, überspitzt gefragt, welcher Theatertext ist 

nicht „fiktiv“ und „politisch“? 

Die genauen thematischen Analysen machen neugierig auf die dramaturgischen 

Formen und die ästhetische Beschaffenheit der Theatertexte, auf die leider 

kaum eingegangen wird. Nur ganz selten wird ein Begriff wie „Dokumentartheater“ 

verwendet, ansonsten kann man nur raten, in welcher dramaturgischen 

Form ein Text verfasst ist. Das ist besonders schade, da die meisten der Texte im 

deutschen Sprachraum nicht bekannt sind. 

Sehr gut gelungen sind die Einführungen, die kurz gefasst aber doch genau 

und übersichtlich die Geschichte Palästinas bzw. Israels seit der Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts 

behandeln. Klar werden die politischen Vorgänge dargestellt und die 

damit in Zusammenhang stehenden Entwicklungen innerhalb der palästinensisch-arabischen 

bzw. jüdisch-hebräischen Kultur beschrieben. Auch wie diese 

oft problematischen Entwicklungen bzw. deren historischer Kontext in den ara-

Reviews 203 

bischen und hebräischen Dramen zum Ausdruck kommen, ist detailliert herausgearbeitet. 

Hervorzuheben sind ferner die präzisen Zusammenfassungen am 

Ende der einzelnen Kapitel und Abschnitte. 

Bühne der Geschichte bietet eine überaus interessante thematische Analyse 

der palästinensischen und hebräischen Dramatik des 20. Jahrhunderts, die zu 

einem großen Teil im deutschsprachigen Raum kaum bekannt ist, und die neugierig 

auf die ästhetischen und dramaturgischen Formen dieser Theatertexte 

macht. 

Brigitte Dalinger: Wien, brigitte.dalinger@univie.ac.at 

Allen James Fromherz, Ibn Khaldun, Life and Times. Edinburgh 2011: Edinburgh 

University Press, XIII + 190pp. ISBN 978-0-7486-4483-4. 

This book is an illuminating work of dedicated scholarship in which the author 

sheds light on the often-ignored part of the historian and historiographer Ibn 

Khaldun (1332–1406 CE), namely his life and the socio-historical circumstances in 

which he lived and which formed his intellectual erudition. It takes a historian 

with profound knowledge of Ibn Khaldun to find a lacuna and to attempt to fill it 

expertly in the manner Fromherz does in this book. For this alone the author is 

to be commended. The book is prefaced with a comprehensive chronology of Ibn 

Khaldun’s life and the significant events that preceded his birth as well as the 

contemporaneous ones that had a major impact on the Arab-Islamic world in general 

and on Ibn Khaldun’s life in particular. Fromherz focuses on situating Ibn 

Khaldun in his own historical time, with the intention not only of gaining insight 

into the formative age during which Ibn Khaldun lived, but also into the personal 

life he led that both formed and informed his ideas on intellectual history. This is 

a much needed biography of Ibn Khaldun, one that attempts to read him as a ‘son 

of his age’ so to speak, in contrast to the conventional studies that relate him to 

modern thought and portray him almost as an “orphaned” intellectual disconnected 

from his formative environment. 

Fromherz uses the book’s first chapter to stage Ibn Khaldun’s biography, 

creating a geo-historical mise-en-scène for his life, spanning even centuries before 

he was born. In Fromherz’s book, the plague becomes an important shaping 

force for the intellectual upbringing of Ibn Khaldun, in whose lifetime his homes 

of Morocco and Egypt, as we learn, witnessed huge political and economic 

changes. Fromherz is versed in historical knowledge both of the Arab-Islamic 

world and of Europe; his smooth navigation through these two sides of the world

204 Reviews 

is rendered with expertise and versatility, making of his book more than just a biography 

of a major intellectual thinker. 

Chapters two through four provide a detailed and contextualized narrative 

of Ibn Khaldun’s life. The second chapter deals with Ibn Khaldun’s early life, attempting 

to construct a psychological portrait (which for Fromherz is the defining 

characteristic of a “proper biography” in the modern sense; see p. 39) of Ibn 

Khaldun based on indirect clues in the historian’s works such as tone, choice of 

subject matter, and his general opinions which Fromherz takes to be connected 

with Ibn Khaldun’s own life experiences. For instance, Fromherz writes: “Read 

as a whole, his autobiography and even the tone of the Muqaddima was tinted by 

a mood or disposition of solitude brought about by the loss of family” (p. 40). 

Sections of this chapter are also devoted to Ibn Khaldun’s education and to the 

plague, which left an indelible mark on the historian’s childhood. The third 

chapter covers Ibn Khaldun as a political man, with a continued emphasis on his 

motivations for his decisions. Fromherz provides useful context for Ibn Khaldun’s 

activity, noting for instance the political implications of the scholarly 

gatherings he attended (p. 63). Despite reference to the plethora of figures Ibn 

Khaldun encountered and the list of different places he traveled to, Fromherz 

manages to keep this narrative accessible and clear. The fourth chapter of the 

book, entitled “Egypt,” reconstructs Ibn Khaldun’s experience as a teacher and 

judge in Cairo during the latter period of his life, extrapolating from the available 

sources. Ibn Khaldun’s personal and professional life are presented as interconnected, 

providing an understanding of how, for example, losing his wife and 

children in a shipwreck brought an end to his work as a judge upon the realization 

of “the impossibility of finding justice” (p. 101). This synthesis of the sources on 

Ibn Khaldun’s life makes for a rich and intimate understanding of him as being at 

once a respected public figure, a conscientious member of society, and an introspective 

human being. 

In chapters five through seven, Fromherz turns his attention to Ibn Khaldun’s 

work and legacy. Ibn Khaldun’s writing is revealed to rely on the normative 

rules of logic as applied to the writing of history, a method that can be traced back 

to the scholar’s teachers. He is also characterized as a Sufi-leaning figure with 

marked ambition. The emphasis on Ibn Khaldun as at once a supporter of Sufism 

and of logic is striking, and one wonders how Fromherz sees the two affiliations 

coexisting. Several pages are then devoted to the modern-day portrayal of Ibn 

Khaldun as championed in Tunisia and Egypt, as well as the Orientalist and general 

academic attention to select parts of Ibn Khaldun’s thought. By way of conclusion, 

chapter seven deals with Ibn Khaldun’s autobiography, the most obvious 

source for a biographer of the man. Fromherz reasserts the autobiography as an 

original source that conveys depth of expression and relative breadth of life

Reviews 205 

experience, while still situating the work as a logical progression from earlier 

examples of Arab autobiography (168–9). Fromherz briefly addresses the question 

of Ibn Khaldun “between determinism and free will,” attributing a degree of 

“relative freedom” to him (p. 167), before closing with some notes on the manuscripts 

of Ibn Khaldun’s work that are available today. 

Fromherz engages at some points with previous Western scholars who wrote 

about Ibn Khaldun. Franz Rosenthal is one of these interlocutors, and appropriately 

so since many know him as a famous translator of al-Muqaddima. Fromherz 

quotes Rosenthal as saying, “It would seem that not his Arab descent but his 

Spanish origin was the crucial factor in his intellectual development and outlook.” 

Fromherz responds, saying that while Ibn Khaldun acknowledged his ancestral 

affiliation to al-Andalus, “he had a much more obvious affinity for Tunis, 

which he called his homeland” (p. 68). He adds that Ibn Khaldun did not see 

the boundary between North Africa and Spain as anything more than a thin geographical 

barrier. Rather than going on a tirade against Rosenthal’s overt Eurocentric 

mythologizing and preference of European over Arab genes in Ibn Khaldun, 

which allegedly led to the rise of the intellectual in him, Fromherz simply 

debunks Rosenthal’s claim with characteristic calm and composed expertise. 

In terms of the book’s intended audience, this is the area where Fromherz 

could have used some improvement. It is hard to determine what audience Fromherz 

is addressing. If the book is tailored toward the general public, then the 

problem lies in how much knowledge this general public indeed has about intellectual 

history and Ibn Khaldun’s theories. If, on the contrary, the book is written 

for scholars in the field, and I suspect it is, then serious problems lie in the conversational 

approach to history and the hasty treatment of Arabic translation and 

transliteration, which seems like it would have been an easy thing to fix. By conversational 

approach, I refer to Fromherz’s additions of his own speculations 

about Ibn Khaldun’s thoughts and mannerisms. For instance, Fromherz writes: 

“Although he did not dare to state it, Ibn Khaldun must have seen the ups and 

downs of Ibn al-Khatib’s life and his gruesome end as yet another example of 

the dangers of haughtiness and scientific, intellectual pride in an era that valued 

power and protection over ability, finesse, and reason” (p. 80). At another point, 

Fromherz inserts an odd adverb in the phrasing, “as Ibn Khaldun breathlessly 

put it” (p. 69), which I find endearing yet distracting. These speculations, while 

dramatizing the narrative and adding detail, may reasonably enough confuse the 

historian. At other points, the reader finds some puzzling and platitudinous statements 

like “Ibn Khaldun, understandably, did not foresee the true extent of European 

power” (p. 26) that do not seem useful to his argument. In terms of Arabic 

usage, the book teems with examples of mistranslations and infelicities of language, 

to a point where important terms like mazalim [sic] (p. 67) for instance are

206 Reviews 

not accurately transliterated or used; likewise with the term jihad [sic] (p. 17), a 

charged word that needs careful handling. The author uses this politically loaded 

term in a hypostasized way. Other words, like asabiyya [sic], are simply not defined 

or utilized in nuanced ways. The reader also encounters organizational issues, 

as Fromherz jumps back and forth in time when describing Ibn Khaldun’s 

life, and chapter subheadings do not provide much help. Those in chapter two 

are particularly strangely organized; the large chapter heading “Ibn Khaldun’s 

Teachers” includes the subheadings “Al-Alibi,” “Madrasas,” “Ibn Khaldun and 

Education,” “Other Early Teachers,” “Between Scholarship and Politics,” “Orphaned 

by the Plague,” and “The Plague” (p. 44–56). 

But these are minor points. More central issues have to do with Fromherz’s 

thesis that Ibn Khaldun should be studied as a son of his age. For instance, he 

states in Chapter 1 that “perhaps the best way of approaching Ibn Khaldun’s biography 

and his thought is to abandon the tempting adjective ‘modern’ when describing 

him” (p. 5). This comment effectively positions Fromherz in relation to 

previous scholarship on Ibn Khaldun. Indeed, Fromherz is not the first scholar 

to contextualize the man: Heinrich Simon and Walter Fischel have both worked 

extensively on Ibn Khaldun’s life (see for instance Heinrich Simon, Ibn Khalduns 

Wissenschaft von der menschlichen Kultur [Leipzig, 1959]). In particular, Fromherz 

alludes to many studies on Ibn Khaldun that have, in his words, “orphaned” 

him and completely dissociated him from the environment that produced him. 

Every age has its own modernism, so to speak, namely, avant-garde thinkers who 

break away from traditional modes of thought and create their own. Fromherz’s 

strong emphasis on Ibn Khaldun’s age threatens to take from Ibn Khaldun his individual 

talent vis-à-vis the tradition he grew up in. It is helpful to contextualize 

Ibn Khaldun’s thought, but it is important to remember that he nonetheless had 

an extraordinary mind that did ultimately differentiate him from his peers. It is 

not convincing or productive to hack away at existing scholarship on Ibn Khaldun, 

especially when these previous studies have indeed informed and guided 

Fromherz’s own study (as his endnotes indicate). On the topic of Fromherz’s 

source material, I must mention that it would behoove the author to acknowledge 

Arabic-language scholarship and not to rely only on works written in, or translated 

into, European languages. Useful studies on ibn Khaldun from a biographical 

point of view include Mu1ammad Jabir al-Ansarī’s Liqa# al-tarikh bi-l-âsr, 

da^wa li-badhr al-khalduniyya fi wa^y al-sha^b ta#sisan li-thaqafat al-âql (Beirut: 

al-Mu#assasa al-‘Arabiyya li-l-Dirasat wa-l-Nashr, 2006) and Sa^\d al-Ghanīmī’s 

al-Âsabiyya wa-l-hikma, qira#a fi falsafat al-tarikh înda ibn Khaldun (Beirut: al- 

Mu#assasa al-‘Arabiyya li-l-Dirasat wa-al-Nashr, 2006). 

Without a doubt, Fromherz’s book is a rich and valuable contribution to 

understandings of Ibn Khaldun and his work within the context of his social and

Reviews 207 

historical environment. If there are scholars who believe that it is impossible to 

write an “interesting biography of Ibn Khaldun” (p. 39), Fromherz has triumphantly 

proved them wrong. Ibn Khaldun, Life and Times is not just interesting, 

but also thorough and hugely informative. Fromherz is very prolific, and his future 

work will no doubt continue to advance and enrich Islamic and Middle Eastern 

Studies. 

Mohammad Salama: San Francisco, mrsalama@sfsu.edu 

Andreas Görke and Gregor Schoeler, Die ältesten Berichte über das Leben 

Muhammads: Das Korpus Ûrwa ibn az-Zubair (Studies in Late Antiquity and Early 

Islam, 24). Princeton 2008: Darwin Press, XII + 318 pp. ISBN 978-0-87850-172-4. 

This is an important book that represents the culmination of more than a decade’s 

worth of collaborative and independent work by these two authors on the early 

history of the sira traditions. The roots of the project reach back at least as far 

as Schoeler’s 1996 monograph Charakter und Authentie der muslimischen Überlieferung 

über das Leben Mohammeds, which focused particularly on the traditions 

of Mu1ammad’s prophetic call and the Â#isha scandal, two traditions that 

here again come into focus as part of a larger corpus of traditions that the authors 

assign to the early traditionist Ûrwa b. al-Zubayr (d. 713). Indeed, in many ways 

the book under review should be understood as an extension of this earlier work, 

whose conclusions it seeks to amplify by identifying a number of other traditions 

that the authors would assign to Ûrwa. Their larger goal in this is “to find a way 

out of the present research ‘crisis’ concerning research on the life of Mu1ammad” 

(p. 281). The “crisis” that Görke and Schoeler have in mind is the highly 

problematic nature of the sources that we possess for understanding the life 

of Mu1ammad and the earliest history of Islam. As is well known, the earliest 

sources for the beginnings of Islam were very late in forming, being compiled over 

a century after the events in question, and to make matters worse, these earliest 

collections do not themselves survive but are known only as they have been reworked 

by later authors of the ninth, tenth, and later centuries. 

Görke and Schoeler aim to circumvent this problem by assigning accounts 

of eight key events from Mu1ammad’s life to Ûrwa’s authorship, thereby securing 

this foundational core of Mu1ammad’s biography to the end of the first Islamic 

century. Accordingly, they maintain, we may take some confidence that 

this skeleton of events accurately reports actual events from the beginnings of 

Islam, a point that is regularly underscored, both in this work and in previous

208 Reviews 

publications, by appeals to the personal relationship between Ûrwa and Â#isha, 

who was his aunt. It is worth noting, however, that such a project was seemingly 

first conceived and implemented by Joachim von Stülpnagel in a 1957 Tübingen 

dissertation supervised by Rudi Paret, a study that often has not received sufficient 

credit for initially developing this approach. Nevertheless, Görke and 

Schoeler’s study is markedly different from von Stülpnagel’s (as well as others 

before them) in its methodology. Görke and Schoeler operate largely according 

to the principles of isnad criticism in the tradition of Schacht, Juynboll, and – 

most especially – Motzki, attempting to mine these transmission histories for information 

that could potentially date the matns to which they are attached. Using 

this method, they generally argue that traditions in which Ûrwa appears as the 

common link may with a high degree of confidence be ascribed to him, and furthermore, 

in light of his relationship with Â#isha, the information in these traditions 

is likely to be historically accurate. 

Whether or not Görke and Schoeler succeed in this effort to surpass the 

limitations of the early Islamic historical tradition and recover authentic information 

from the life of Mu1ammad depends very much on the amount of confidence 

that one is willing to place in the accuracy of isnads, particularly with regard 

to the earliest transmitters that are named. As one might expect, Görke and 

Schoeler are rather optimistic in this regard. My own views, by contrast, are 

rather skeptical, as readers of this journal will know well from a recently published 

article in which I offer an extended critique of Görke and Schoeler’s project 

as it stood immediately prior to the publication of this most recent book (Der 

Islam 85.2 (2009–11): 257–344). There I explain at some length the reasons for my 

skepticism regarding the early sira traditions in general, as well as the reliability 

of their alleged early transmitters, and, more specifically, the efforts by Görke 

and Schoeler to demonstrate the authenticity of several traditions primarily on 

the basis of their isnads. 

On the whole, the argument that a significant amount of material can be persuasively 

assigned to al-Zuhr\ at the beginning of the second Islamic century is 

convincing, and the authors are to be commended for having demonstrated this. 

Had they stopped at this point, there would be much less to quibble with in this 

book and their other related publications as well. But in general the reach beyond 

al-Zuhr\ to Ûrwa is not persuasive. In most instances there simply is not a sufficiently 

complex pattern of transmission at the earliest levels to ensure that these 

traditions did indeed originate with Ûrwa, and there are a number of reasons 

(which I explain in my article) for supposing that the attribution to Ûrwa may 

have been added at a later point. As even the authors themselves remark, “it must 

be assumed that due to Ûrwa’s reputation later scholars falsely ascribed traditions 

to him” (p. 282). Yet this book proposes to separate a handful of auth-

Reviews 209 

entically Ûrwan traditions from among the “some 10,000 traditions ascribed to 

Ûrwa” (p. 282). 

The ensuing effort to winnow the wheat from the chaff using isnads generally 

does not reveal patterns of transmission that are sufficiently dense at the 

earliest stages to confidently identify Ûrwa as the author of the traditions in 

question. Moreover, in the few instances where the isnads could plausibly indicate 

a likelihood of Ûrwan authorship, it is worth noting that these traditions 

fail to reveal anything particularly “new” about the historical Mu1ammad that 

could not already be determined using much simpler approaches. This is particularly 

the case when we pare down each of the traditions in question to those 

elements that are actually supported by all of the various transmissions. There 

is, for instance, little doubt that the earliest Muslims must have believed that 

Mu1ammad claimed to have received prophetic visions and voices, and the 

tradition of a “flight” by Mu1ammad seems to be an early tradition. The tradition 

that Â#isha was accused of adultery also is likely to be quite early, inasmuch as 

such a tradition is unlikely to have arisen once she came to be revered as the 

“mother of the faithful.” 

With respect then to the four traditions analyzed in my article (the beginnings 

of revelation, the hijra, al-0udaybiya, and the Â#isha scandal), there is nothing 

new in this book that would lead me to change any of my previous conclusions. 

As for the remaining four traditions that are ascribed to Ûrwa in this monograph 

(the battles of Badr, U1ud, the Trench, and the conquest of Mecca), each of 

these traditions is even less persuasively assigned to Ûrwa. Indeed, Görke and 

Schoeler both concede this point in the conclusion to their own study, judging 

the attribution to Ûrwa more questionable in each case (256–57, 286). Accordingly, 

it remains yet to be seen what this arduous method of isnad-cum-matn criticism 

has to offer in terms of potentially dating biographical traditions to the first 

Islamic century. 

My suspicion is that, given the relatively sparse transmissions of these biographical 

traditions at the earliest stages, this method will fail to attain much 

success in breaking through the barriers that we face at the beginning of the second 

Islamic century. And even in the case that we might someday find greater 

success in dating a handful of traditions to within seventy or so years after 

Mu1ammad’s death, the optimism that Görke and Schoeler frequently express 

about the accuracy of traditions compiled at such a distance from the life of 

Mu1ammad seems unwarranted. To the contrary, scholars of Islamic origins 

would do well, I think, to look to the models afforded by early Christianity and its 

study in order to recognize just how quickly an eschatological movement rooted 

in the Abrahamic traditions can radically transform its memory of the time of origins 

over a relatively short period of time. Simply reducing the elapsed interval

210 Reviews 

by a few decades, from roughly one-hundred years to seventy years, using this or 

some other method certainly will not guarantee the “authenticity” of a particular 

tradition. 

Stephen J. Shoemaker: Eugene, OR, sshoemak@uoregon.edu 

Christiane Gruber und Frederick Colby (Hrsg.), The Prophet’s Ascension. Cross- 

Cultural Encounters with the Islamic Mi^raj Tales. Bloomington and Indianapolis 

2010: Indiana University Press, IX + 389 S. ISBN 978-0-25335361-0. 

Das Thema ist nicht neu. Vor 15 Jahren hat M. A. Amir-Moezzi es mit einem französisch 

verfassten Sammelband hoffähig gemacht: Le Voyage initiatique en terre 

d’Islam. Ascensions célestes et itinéraires spirituels (Louvain 1996). Jetzt wird auf 

englisch bzw. amerikanisch nachgekartet, mit anderer Akzentsetzung, „crosscultural“ 

und eher von der Peripherie ausgehend. Die beiden Herausgeber haben 

über das Thema promoviert und sind sichtlich noch nicht am Ende ihrer Karriere: 

Christiane Gruber, The Prophet Muhammad’s Ascension (Mi^raj) in Islamic 

Art and Literature, ca. 1300–1600 (Univ. of Pennsylvania 2005) und Frederick 

Colby, Constructing an Islamic Ascension Narrative. The Interplay of Official and 

Popular Culture in Pseudo-Ibn Âbbas (Duke University 2002). Diesen Prüfungsschriften 

sind Sekundärpublikationen gefolgt, in denen die beiden Autoren ihre 

Forschungsergebnisse ergänzt oder einem breiteren Leserkreis zur Kenntnis 

gebracht haben. Vor allem aber haben sie im Jahr 2006 in den Jahresversammlungen 

der American Academy of Religion und der Middle Eastern Studies Association 

jeweils ein Panel zum Thema organisiert; so ist der vorliegende Band zustande 

gekommen. Die Autoren sind also Spezialisten geblieben, haben aber für 

ein sicherndes „Netzwerk“ gesorgt. Das ist ein heute geläufiges Modell der Wissenschaftsverbreitung. 

Dem interessierten (und nicht spezialisierten) Leser ist 

deswegen wohl am besten gedient, wenn zuerst einmal die einzelnen Beiträge 

dürr und unkommentiert aufgezählt werden: 

S. 11–26 Roberto Tottoli (Univ. Neapel), Tours of Hell and Punishments of Sinners 

in Mi^raj Narratives. Use and Meaning of Eschatology in Muhammad’s Ascension; 

S. 27–49 Christiane Gruber (Indiana University Bloomington), The Ilkhanid 

Mi^rajnama as an Illustrated Sunni Prayer Manual; S. 50–77 Maria E. Subtelny 

(Univ.of Toronto), The Jews at the Edge of the World in a Timurid-Era Mi^rajnama. 

The Islamic Ascension Narrative as Missionary Text; S. 78–96 Max Scherberger 

(Univ. Freiburg), The Chaghatay Mi^rajnama Attributed to Hakim Süleyman Ata. A 

Missionary Text from the Twelfth or Thirteenth Century Preserved in Modern Manu-

Reviews 211 

scripts; S. 97–137 Heather M. Coffey (Indiana Univ. Bloomington), Contesting the 

Eschaton in Medieval Iberia. The Polemical Intersection of Beatus of Liébana’s 

Commentary on the Apocalypse and the Prophet’s Mi^rajnama; S. 141–156 Frederick 

Colby (Univ. of Oregon), The Early Imami Shiî Narratives and Contestation over 

Intimate Colloquy Scenes in Muhammad’s Mi^raj; S. 157–171 Elizabeth R. Alexandrin 

(Univ. of Manitoba), Prophetic Ascent and the Initiatory Ascent in Qadi al- 

Nu^man’s Asas al-Ta#wil; S. 172–191 Aaron W. Hughes (Univ. of Buffalo), Mi^raj 

and the Language of Legitimation in the Medieval Islamic and Jewish Philosophical 

Traditions. A Study of Avicenna and Abraham ibn Ezra; S. 192–205 Selim S. Kuru 

(Univ. of Washington, Seattle), Pious Journeys, Sacred Desire. Observations on the 

Mi^raj in Early Anatolian Turkish Verse Narratives; S. 206–224 Gottfried Hagen 

(Univ. of Michigan), Skepticism and Forgiveness. The Mi^rac in Veysi’s Dürretü 

t-tac; S. 225–251 Ayesha Irani (Univ. of Pennsylvania), Mystical Love, Prophetic 

Compassion, and Ethics. An Ascension Narrative in the Medieval Bengali Nabivam´sa 

of Saiyad Sultan; S. 252–268 Ali Boozari, Persian Illustrated Lithographed 

Books on the Mi^raj. Improving Children’s Shiî Beliefs in the Qajar Period; 

S. 271–296 Özgen Felek (Univ. of Michigan), Reading the Mi^raj Account as a Theatrical 

Performance. The Case of Maârij al-Nubuwwa; S. 297–312 Phokion K. Kotzageorgis 

(Univ. Thessaloniki), Reworking the Ascension in Ottoman Lands. An 

Eighteenth-Century Mi^rajnama in Greek from Epirus; S. 313–329 Amelia Gallagher 

(Niagara Univ.), Shah Ismaîl Safevi and the Mi^raj. Äata#i’s Vision of the Sacred 

Assembly; S. 330–343 Vernon Schubel (Kenyon College), When the Prophet 

Went on the Miraç He Saw a Lion on the Road. The Miraç in the Alevi-Bekta¸si Tradition. 

Das Ergebnis ist, wie bei Sammelbänden kaum anders zu erwarten, etwas 

atomistisch; dem Buch fehlt eine gemeinsame These. Die Herausgeber haben drei 

Zwischenüberschriften eingezogen, um ein wenig Ordnung zu schaffen: Part 1 (= 

Nr. 1–5) The Formation of Mi^raj Narratives as Missionary Texts, Part 2 (= Nr. 6–12) 

The Adaptation of Mi^raj Narratives in Esoteric and Literary Contexts und Part 3 (= 

Nr. 13–16) The Mi^raj as Performance and Ritual. Aber das sagt bei aller rhetorischen 

Geschmeidigkeit nur wenig aus. Vielleicht sollte man zuerst einmal nur 

nüchtern feststellen, dass im Gegensatz zu dem Band von Amir-Moezzi, der im 

wesentlichen von arabischen (und in geringerem Maße auch von persischen) 

Texten handelt, das neue Produkt Zentralasien und die Zeit zwischen dem Mongoleneinfall 

und den Safaviden in den Mittelpunkt stellt, also eben jene Epoche 

zwischen 1300 und 1600, auf die schon Frau Gruber sich in ihrer Dissertation 

konzentrierte. Die arabischen Grundtexte werden nur bei Tottoli (S. 11ff.) und, 

in ihrer schiitischen Umformung, bei Colby (S. 141ff.) und Alexandrin (S. 157ff.) 

berücksichtigt; Tottoli verfolgt sie bis zu dem K. al-Mi^rap al-kabir des Napmadd\n 

al-Gai©\ (gest.1576). Geographisch ist mit dem Beitrag von Irani

212 Reviews 

(S. 225ff.) auch Indien einbezogen. Von Spanien und der dortigen jüdischen Philosophie 

handelt A. W. Hughes (S. 172ff.); bei Ibn Ezra kommt dabei dessen Hay 

ben Meqitz ins Spiel, das man schon einmal als Vorbild für Dantes Göttliche 

Komödie gehandelt hat (vgl. G. Strohmaier in: Deutsches Dante-Jahrbuch 

55–56/1980–81/191ff., auch ib. 68–69/1993–94/183ff.). Dieselbe These ist bekanntlich 

ebenso für das Liber scale Machometi des Bonaventura da Siena aufgestellt 

worden. Dieses Buch wurde bereits bei Amir-Moezzi traktiert (Beitrag von 

J.-P. Guillaume, dort S. 83ff.) und kommt nun am Rande erneut ins Gespräch (bei 

H. M. Coffey, S. 97ff.: Referat einer offenbar von Frau Gruber an der Indiana 

University angeregten Dissertation), wobei sich der Blick aber vor allem auf die 

vorhergehende christliche Tradition illustrierter Apokalypsen richtet. Der Akzent 

verschiebt sich dabei von der Philologie auf die Kunstgeschichte. Dieser Tatsache 

sind dann u.a. die hinter S. 137 reproduzierten prachtvollen 32 Tafeln zu verdanken 

(wo als Nr. 31 eine Reklame für Liebig’s Fleisch-Extrakt aus dem Jahre 1928 

hervorsticht, in der ein spärlich bekleideter und etwas jugendstiliger Erzengel 

Gabriel den unverschleierten Propheten dem Himmel entgegenführt, wo ihn anscheinend 

eben diese Delikatesse erwartet). 

Aber nicht nur wegen solcher Extras ist das Buch bemerkenswert. Es ist üppig 

ausgestattet und schön gedruckt. Selbst philologisch ist verhältnismäßig wenig 

auszusetzen. Inhaltliche Versehen oder Missverständnisse sind selten. Wenn allerdings 

auf S. 198 in einem türkischen Text aus der Mitte des 15. Jh. die persische 

und die arabische Vorstellung von Mu1ammads Himmelfahrt einander gegenübergestellt 

werden, so ist der springende Punkt nicht der, dass der anatolische 

Autor im Gegensatz zu den Iranern das jenseitige Ereignis als „corporeal experience“ 

des Propheten interpretiert, sondern dass er ebenso wie die frühen arabischen 

Berichte eine optische Gottesschau (ru#ya bil-absar) annimmt, „Auge in 

Auge“ (göze göz), wie es auf S. 200 heißt. Die Perser dachten demgegenüber, wie 

der Text ausdrücklich sagt, nur an eine Schau mit dem Auge des Herzens (gönül 

göziyle). Da konnte ihnen dann manchmal das gesamte mi^raj-Erlebnis zu einer 

bloßen geistigen Erfahrung des Propheten werden; so hat sich z.B. Zama3ˇsar\ 

in seinem Korankommentar entschieden (vgl. S. 213, im folgenden Beitrag). Aber 

diese völlige Spiritualisierung ist nur eine unter mehreren Varianten der Interpretation. 

In keinem Fall ist an eine „union with God“ (S. 200) oder „unification with 

God“ (S. 203) zu denken. Zentrum des Geschehens ist vielmehr ein Zwiegespräch 

zwischen Gott und dem Propheten (munapat; vgl. S. 192, wo falsch münacaât 

steht); mit einer unio mystica wäre das unvereinbar. Die Alawiten machten sich 

später Gedanken darüber, wie viele Worte dabei wohl gewechselt worden seien; 

90.000 sollen es gewesen sein, von denen aber nur 30.000 das religiöse Gesetz 

betrafen (S. 336). Wenn Gott eine solche Audienz önden sonra niemandem gewährt 

hat (S. 196), so heißt dies doch wohl nicht „not to anyone before or af-

Reviews 213 

ter you“, sondern „niemandem mehr nach dem Anfang (der Schöpfung)“. Ich 

möchte annehmen, dass Mu1ammad hier als der „vollkommene Mensch“ (al-insan 

al-kamil) gesehen wird, der in der Präexistenz vor Gott tritt. 

Wenn es S. 90 heißt, Fa3radd\n ar-Raz\ sei „ca. 1209“ gestorben, so hat die 

Autorin zwar etwas läuten gehört (dass nämlich dem früher üblicherweise gegebenen 

Datum 606/1209 nicht zu trauen sei), aber falsch reagiert. Letzteres war 

nämlich nur falsch umgerechnet; richtig ist 606/1210, ohne „ca.“. – Die Prophetenbiographie 

des Ibn Is1aq bzw. Ibn Hiˇsam sollte man nicht als „Sirat al-Nabi“ 

zitieren (S. 103); sie begegnet als sira nabawiya, heißt aber später eher Sirat rasul 

Allah (vgl. S. 131, Anm. 59, wo allerdings „Ibn Ishaq“ zu lesen ist statt „Ishaq“). – 

S. 148 ist in dem bekannten 1ad\© statt „I saw my Lord in the best form“ zu übersetzen 

„[…] in seiner schönsten Gestalt“. – S. 218: Der „indische Stil“ heißt nicht 

sabq-i hindi, sondern sebk-i hindi (vgl. auch S. 223, Anm. 66). – Ist S. 254 das Muätarnama 

tatsächlich ein „Book of Mukhtar“ und nicht eine Sammlung „ausgewählter“ 

Poesie? Bei Âttar enthält das Muätarnama bekanntlich die ruba^\yat des 

Dichters. – Auf S. 259 dürfte „sarloh“ ohne diakritische Zeichen den meisten Lesern 

unverständlich bleiben. Gemeint ist sar-loh = sar-lauh, das „Titelblatt“ oder 

die „Vignette“. – S. 155, Anm. 28 lies in dem Buchtitel des Suyut\ La#ali statt „Lali“ 

und fi l-ahadith statt „fi ahadith“. – S. 291 sind die „attahiyyat“, „a prayer recited 

in the last sitting of every prayer“, besser als al-tahiyyat zu transkribieren. – 

S. 318: Warum ist Salman al-Faris\, der Perser unter den Prophetengenossen, der 

„legendary hero of the Abbasid revolution“? – Sind die merkwürdig vokalisierten 

„ehl-i ârifane“ (S. 324) in Wirklichkeit ehl-i îrfan? – S. 342: „La illaha ilallah“ ist 

ein wenig schräg. Es handelt sich auch nicht um die „bismallah“ (S. 336), sondern 

um die basmala. 

Manche Druck- bzw. Lesefehler sind vertraute Bekannte. S. 157 und 168, 

Anm. 6 lies tarbiya statt „tarbiyya“, S. 151 Muâwiya statt „Muâwiyya“, S. 157 hawiya 

statt „hawiyya“. B\run\s „Chronology“ heißt al-A©ar al-baqiya ân al-qurun 

al-äaliya, nicht „al-A©ar al-baqiyya […] khaliyya“ (S. 252). S. 274 lies âwamm statt 

„âwam“. S. 102 lies im Lateinischen lupanar statt „lunapar“ und luminosus statt 

„luminosis“. Auch den Namen von Ilse Lichtenstädter wird man unter dem 

„Lichtendstâdter“ (S. 130, Anm. 26) schnell entdecken. Mit „A. Alföndi“ (S. 128, 

Anm. 7) ist wohl András Alföldi gemeint. Das alles hätte sich zwar bei ein bisschen 

mehr Professionalität leicht vermeiden lassen; aber der Leser kann sich im 

allgemeinen selber helfen. Viel wichtiger ist die Frage, ob Sammelbände dieser 

Art in der mittlerweile erreichten Fülle wirklich der Wissenschaft zuträglich sind. 

Natürlich wird in ihnen Material zusammengeschaufelt, und sie geben Gelegenheit, 

auf work in progress oder bisher versteckt dahinschlummernde Meisterstücke 

hinzuweisen. Die Beiträge der beiden Herausgeber sind, was man leicht verstehen 

wird, Resümees oder Weiterführungen ihrer kürzlich in gedruckter und

214 Reviews 

vermutlich umgearbeiteter Form erschienenen Dissertation (Gruber, The Ilkhanid 

Book of Ascension. A Persian-Sunni Devotional Tale, London 2009, bzw. Colby, 

Narrating Muhammad’s Night Journey. Tracing the Development of the Ibn Âbbas 

Ascension Discourse, Albany 2008). Der Leser muss dann selber herausfinden, ob 

es sich lohnt, neben diesen Büchern auch den jetzt publizierten Aufsatz noch zu 

zitieren. Wiederholungen sind ganz allgemein nicht zu vermeiden. Jeder Beiträger 

fängt auf seine Weise neu an, und man verliert auf die Dauer ein wenig die 

Lust, in der ungeformten Masse weiter herumzustochern. Wo sind die Zeiten hin, 

als der Nahostsoziologe C. A. O. van Nieuwenhuijze in solchen Fällen von einem 

„non-book“ sprach? Man sollte vielleicht noch einmal über das Kosten-Nutzen- 

Verhältnis derartiger Unternehmen nachdenken. Allerdings ist über das jeweilige 

„Netzwerk“ hinaus ohnehin kaum noch Aufmerksamkeit zu gewinnen, und was 

den Leser angeht, so ist er, sofern er nur etwas Geduld und kritischen Sinn mitbringt, 

hier trotz allem gut bedient. 

Josef van Ess: Tübingen, josef.van-ess@uni-tuebingen.de 

Denis Hermann and Sabrina Mervin (eds.), Shiî Trends and Dynamics in Modern 

Times (XVIII th–XX th centuries) / Courants et dymamiques chiites à l’époque 

moderne (XVIII e–XX e siècles) (Beiruter Texte und Studien 115 – Institut Français de 

Recherche en Iran, Bibliothèque Iranienne 72), Beirut and Würzburg 2010: Ergon, 

180 pp. ISBN 978-2-909961-48-4. 

Due to the consequences the 1978–79 Islamic revolution in Iran had on politicizing 

Shiite communities in general (notably in Iraq, Lebanon, and in more recent times 

Bahrain and Saudi Arabia), Shiite studies have emerged from their relative marginalization 

as a kind of bizarre Islamic oddity in Western scholarship, and 

rapidly attracted the interest of an ever increasing number of scholars. The growing 

attention on the doctrines and history of Shiite Islam has no doubt greatly 

benefited from much needed publishing activity, mainly sponsored by the Iranian 

government and institutions. As an intellectual manifestation of political activism, 

it has resulted in the (re-)editing of many fundamental texts of the Shiite heritage, 

including a great amount of hitherto unpublished material. It is only natural, 

then, to say that we know much more about Shiism as a religious, political, cultural, 

and social phenomenon now than we did “only” thirty years ago. Of course, 

this does not mean that we may decide gently to close “the gate of ijtihad” – which 

would not be in line with an established Shiite attitude – and content ourselves 

with what we know. If nothing else, the present-day vivacity of Shiite studies has

Reviews 215 

generated new questions, inspired the search for different approaches, or simply 

made clear how much more needs to be done to improve our understanding of the 

composite realities and dynamics, past and present, of the Shiite world. 

Every new effort in the field is therefore welcome including this volume, published 

jointly by the German Orient Institut in Beirut and the French Research Institute 

in Iran. It brings together nine contributions, in English and French (5 and 

4 articles respectively) that address specific themes properly pertaining to the 

field of Shiite studies. Acknowledging that “des parts entiers de l’histoire intellectuelle, 

politique et sociale du chiisme restent à mettre au jour” (p. 9), the two editors, 

Sabrina Mervin and Denis Hermann, set about to do that. By focusing on 

the late 18 th to the early 20 th centuries, a period which they rightly call a very rich 

and dynamic phase in the history of Shiism, they reject the old cliché about the alleged 

intellectual decline and stagnation of the Shiite (and Islamic) world at the 

time. The editors’ claim that not much research has been done on the period so 

far sounds nonetheless a little exaggerated, as there is certainly no shortage of 

studies on Shaykhism, for instance, or the Constitutional Revolution, which are 

also among the topics addressed in the volume. 

The editors’ apparent neglect of traditionally important Shiite areas like Lebanon 

and Bahrain may be explained by the severe intellectual and economic decline 

that both regions underwent in the 19 th century. In both cases adverse political 

conditions greatly affected the ability of local Shiite communities to maintain 

and preserve the high scholarly standards of the previous centuries. So their 

choice to focus mainly, although not entirely, on Iran is not without good reason. 

They argue convincingly that despite the emergence of a seemingly stable political 

power, the Qajar dynasty, the history of Iran from the late 18 th to the end of the 

19 th century is marked by political instability, social turmoil, and heated intellectual 

debates. The various “Shiîte trends” each reacted in its own way, adapted to 

new sensibilities and demands, negotiated, redefined, remodeled or simply reaffirmed 

traditional ideas and notions, and sometimes provided original syntheses. 

The contributions to the present volume confirm this argument through scrupulous, 

methodologically sound research. 

The volume is comprised of three sections that, according to the editors, 

best serve the purpose of representing the variety and wealth of Shiism in the 

period referred to: “Diversity and Change in Philosophy and Mystic” (pp. 17–92); 

“Shiî Jurisprudence” (pp. 93–127); “Doctrinal Debates and Political Theories” 

(pp. 129–180). 

The first section opens with the contribution by Todd Lawson of the University 

of Toronto; entitled “Shaykh A1mad al-A1sa#\ and the World of Images” 

(pp. 19–31), it is dedicated to one of the most prominent, complex, and controversial 

personalities in the history of Shiism. His teachings, considered by Lawson

216 Reviews 

as a revival of “an archaic pre-classical religiosity” (p. 20), formed the basis for a 

new theological school within Imam\ Shiism, the Shaykhiyya, which was named 

after him (but not established or founded by him as incorrectly claimed elsewhere 

in the volume, p. 10, 56). Although much opposed by mainstream usuli Shiism 

and confined to minority status, the Shaykhiyya exercised a major influence 

which is still significantly felt today, as witnessed by an actual revival in publications 

and studies on the master’s thought and that of his followers. 

More specifically, Lawson addresses a most fascinating theme in Shiite theosophical 

thought to which al-A1sa#\ devoted special attention, the âlam al-mithal 

(“World of images”), the reality of which “has remained a theological, philosophical 

and mystical commonplace” (p. 20). The interpretation given by 

al-A1sa#\ is analyzed against the theoretical framework provided by a member of 

the so-called “School of Isfahan”, Fayd al-Kashan\ (d. 1090/1680). According to 

Lawson, although “for both men the world of images functions as bridge between 

reason and revelation” (p. 21), the different treatment of the subject by the two 

authors shows the originality of al-A1sa#\’s thought and his strongly critical attitude 

towards the theosophists. 

In the second contribution to the section, Oliver Scharbrodt of the University 

College of Cork, addresses another major subject of debate in post medieval 

Shiite and mystic circles. Under the title “The Qutb as Special Representative of 

the Hidden Imam: The Conflation of Shiî and Sufi Vilayat in the Ni^matullah\ 

Order” (pp. 33–49), his essay illustrates the relationship between two concepts, 

that of sainthood in Sufism on the one hand, and that of the representation, both 

political and religious, of the Hidden Imam in Shiism, as defined by two sufi 

masters of the Ni^mat Allahiyya order, Nur Âl\ Shah (d. 1212/1797) and Mu|affar 

Âl\ Shah (d. 1216/1800) on the other. According to the Ni^mat Allahiyya “the qutb 

(mystic pole), the spiritual and secular leader of the order, is in contact with the 

Hidden Imam and receives direct communication from him” (p. 35). The idea of 

the qutb being the sole representative of the Hidden Imam is not new (Mu1ammad 

Nurbakhsh, among many others, did have something to say on the matter, to 

the point of believing to be the Mahd\), and it is not something that Usulism, 

which had its own notion of charismatic authority based on collective deputyship, 

was happy to hear. However, this is just what makes the Ni^mat Allahiyya a true 

example of what one might logically expect a specifically Shiite Sufi order to be. 

The influence of Safavid theosophy (hikmat) in the Qajar era is the subject of 

the following contribution entitled “Hikma mutaâliya in Qajar Iran: 0ajj Mulla 

Had\ Sabzavar\ and the School of Mulla Sadra” (pp. 51–70). By investigating the 

life and works of a follower of the celebrated Mulla Sadra, its author, Sajjad H. 

Rizvi of the University of Exeter, rightly emphasizes Sabzavar\’s decisive role in 

creating a lasting place for a rather simplified version of Mulla Sadra’s thought in

Reviews 217 

hitherto not too receptive legal circles. Although “in his thought there is little that 

is either original or unique” (p. 70), it was Sabzavar\’s “training in the revived 

philosophical tradition of Mulla Sadra (d. c. 1045/1635) […] that established the intellectual 

hegemony of the philosophical system known as hikma mutaâliya that 

dominates the hawza (at least in Iran) to this day” (pp. 52–53,). Rizvi assesses the 

crucial role played by Sabzavar\’s students, such as the prominent marja^ Murtada 

Ansar\ (d. 1281/1864), in propagating the Sadrian tradition. It is through 

them, concludes Rizvi, that Sabzavar\ influenced “the metaphysical shift […] 

noticeable in the procedural principles in jurisprudence (usul âmaliyya)”, thus 

making “the teaching of philosophy more acceptable in Najaf, a centre of learning 

traditionally hostile to philosophy” (p. 63, brackets are the reviewer’s). 

Established by M\rza Mahd\ Isfahan\ (d. 1365/1946) and Sayyid Musa Zarabad\ 

(d. 1353/1932) in the first half of the 20 th century, the Maktab-i Tafkik (“The 

School of Separation”) has been considered a sort of modern version of the 

Akhbariyya legal school. In his contribution titled “Continuity and Originality in 

Shiî Thought: the Relationship between the Akhbariyya and the Maktab-i Tafkik” 

(pp. 71–92), Robert Gleave, also of the University of Exeter, describes the Maktab-i 

Tafkik as “an interesting example of a reform school which claims a version 

of Shiî heritage in which the sciences of philosophy (falsafa), mysticism (tasawwuf), 

or more precisely, philosophical informed mystical contemplation (îrfan) 

are subjected to an enforced separation (tafkik) from any exploration of religious 

truths” (p. 71). The Maktab, according to Gleave, is not hostile to philosophy and 

mysticism as such, but maintains “that the three means to gain knowledge (philosophy, 

intuition and revelation) are quite distinct (or separate, tafkik). Any attempt 

to mix them […] is fundamentally misguided” (p. 74). 

Gleave then debates whether the Maktab can be seen as a continuation of 

Akhbarism and offers a brilliant analysis of specific points of doctrine. Despite 

clear similarities between the two schools, he argues for the implausibility of a direct 

and conscious connection: Akhbarism was above all concerned with jurisprudential 

matters (i.e. rejection of ijtihad) whereas the Maktab, which adheres to 

the usuli definition of ijtihad, is best described as a theological movement. 

The second section opens with Sabrina Mervin’s “La quête du savoir à Najaf. 

Les études religieuses chez le chiites imamites de la fin du 19è siècle à 1960” 

(pp. 95–112). The various aspects of the Najaf-based hawza education system 

before the period of political and cultural transformations that were to impact 

heavily on its organization are here examined. Mervin vividly describes the peculiar 

lifestyle of students and teachers, illustrates the different stages of scholarly 

training, and lists the fundamental texts which formed the core of religious learning. 

Rightly pointing out the hawza’s state-independent, accessfree character and 

typical informality, she concludes that “Najaf diffère radicalement des grandes

218 Reviews 

centres d’enseignement Sunnites auxquels on la compare: al-Azhar au Caire, al- 

Qarawiyy\n à Fez ou al-Zaytuna à Tunis. Ces derniers sont des institutions rigides 

avec bureaucratie, fonctionnariat, organisation pyramidale oligarchique. Alors 

que Najaf est une institution qui s’incarne en ses mujtahid” (p. 112). 

The second, and last, contribution in this section is entitled “Fiqh et soufisme 

à la période qajare: quelques notes sur l’oeuvre juridique des maîtres ni^matullah\ 

gunabad\” (pp. 113–127). Its author, Shahram Pazouki of the Iranian Institute 

of Philosophy in Tehran, returns to the Sufi circles and themes of the previous 

section, this time to provide a picture of the solid legal (read usuli) training of 

the Ni^mat Allah\ Sufi masters. In particular, Pazouki describes the life and 

works of two qutbs of the Gunabadiyya branch, Sultan Âl\ Shah Gunabad\ 

(d. 1327/1909–10) and his son and successor Nur Âl\ Shah Gunabad\ (d. 1337/ 

1918). Rach acknowledged as mujtahid and held in high respect in usuli circles, 

they produced what the author calls a marginal – with respect to their prevailing 

mystic interests – but interesting legal literature. Pazouki convincingly illustrates 

how, in the context of a “hiérarchisation croissante du clergé usuli sur la 

base des compétences en matière de droit et la formation, sur ce principe, de la 

marjaîyya” (p. 118), these Sufi masters combined the usuli approach to religious 

law with a mystic outlook. Observance of the Shar\â, then, is meaningless if separated 

from the mystic path under the guide of a “friend of God” (wali). This 

allows for an idea of the law that is at the same time unchanging in its spiritual 

principles and outwardly adaptable to the state of spiritual and moral accomplishment 

of the individual, a concept which only the initiate can fully comprehend. 

In this perspective, the two Ni‘mat Allah\ masters expressed their views on 

topics of importance at the time in the form of legal rulings (fatwas). Probably 

intended for their disciples only, these rulings are hardly conventional. The two 

masters prohibited slavery, regarded as an archaic and therefore illicit institution, 

and opium smoking because of its damages on the minds and behavior of the 

faithful; they also discouraged polygamy and divorce to the point of proscription, 

and rejected the notion of intrinsic impurity of the ahl al-kitab. 

The third section touches on the ever important themes of Sunni-Shiite polemic, 

and the impact of modern constitutional ideas on the Shiite ûlama# and 

their reactions to them. 

The anti-Shiite polemical literature in Indian Sunnite milieu is discussed by 

Sajida Sultana Alvi of McGill University, Montreal, in “Sunni Ulama’s Discourses 

on Shiîsm in Northern India during the Eighteenth and the Nineteenth Centuries: 

An Overview” (pp. 131–151). Approaching the subject from “the perspective of the 

intellectual history rather than that of the law (p. 133)”, Alvi discusses the polemical 

works of four Sunni Naqshband\-affiliated ûlama#, among whom are 

A1mad Sirhind\ (d. 1023/1632) and the celebrated Shah Wal\ Allah (d. 1175/1762).

Reviews 219 

What is of interest about this polemical debate is not its content as such: as 

usual, the accusations leveled at the Shia pertain to issues of political theory and 

the ritual practices of cursing the first three caliphs, Â#isha and the companions 

of the prophet, while at the same time the love for and attachment to the House of 

the Prophet and his progeny is reaffirmed unequivocally by all four Naqhsband\ 

ûlama#. Alvi argues that these works represent a strong and concerned ideological 

response to the formation of a powerful Shiite state in Awadh, which included 

and exercised political authority and cultural influence and attraction over a 

large Sunnite (and also non-Muslim) population. If “sectarian identity was not a 

major issue in Mughal administration” (p. 132), this was not the case by the 18 th 

century: for these authors the answer to the “sense of insecurity amongst the 

Sunni ulama caused by the rapid spread of Shiism in the absence of a Sunni Muslim 

political power” (p. 133) consisted in an ideologically conscious effort to rally 

the allegedly confused ranks of Sunnism. 

In his “Système parlementaire et consultation selon le Thiqat al-Islam-i 

Tabr\z\: légitimation religieuse et justification historique” (pp. 155–170), Denis 

Hermann of CNRS, Paris, investigates the religious and historical validations for 

the legitimacy of the parliamentary system in the writings of the Shaykh\ leader of 

Tabriz. A popular preacher and mujtahid in his own right, Thiqat al-Islam-i Tabr\z\ 

(d. 1330/1911) produced a number of treatises in support of political reformism 

and Islamic reconciliation, seen as the only means to save Iran from tyranny and 

the pressure of European powers. Not concerned with Shiite legal categorizations 

of government (legitimate/illegitimate, just/unjust), Tabr\z\’s arguments rely 

mainly on (i) the Islamic principle of consultation, a practice, he argues, sanctioned 

by the Prophet himself, and (ii) the very nature of Iranian history. According 

to Hermann, it is this specific character of Tabr\z\’s theorizing that makes him 

an original thinker among the various trends of the constitutionalist movement. 

In “Remarques sur la pensée politiques de l’ayatollah Lar\ durant le mouvement 

constitutionnel” (pp. 171–180), Mohammed Baqer Vosuqi, of the University 

of Tehran, focuses on Lar\’s (d. 1342/1923–24) vehement anti-monarchical feelings 

and activities; a political position that the chief religious personality of Laristan 

at the time – and a former student of the great marja^ M\rza 0asan Shiraz\ – 

repeatedly advocated in his writings. For Lar\ monarchy had no place in Islam 

and was tantamount to absolutism and tyranny, an evil system to be rejected by 

the true faithful. At the same time, he envisaged a constitutional order in total 

agreement with the Shar\â, since, “toute opinion, toute assemblé, tout idée ou 

scrutin contraire aux fondements et aux lois de la religion musulmane sont des 

absurdités d’inspiration démoniaque” (p. 175). Inevitably, he was calling for a 

leading role for the religious establishment within the constitutionalist movement 

and for a “pro-théocratique” parliamentary system under the direct super-

220 Reviews 

vision of a just mujtahid. For all this, according to Vosuqi, “on peut considérer 

le modèle proposé par l’ayatollah Lar\ comme les prémices de celui qui fut développé 

plus tard par l’ayatollah Khomeiny” (p. 180). 

As a concluding remark, it has to be said that the volume shows a clear predilection 

for the mystical/spiritual and theo-philosophical dimension of and in 

Shiism. This is not bad in itself, as it certainly is a peculiar feature of the period. 

However, it seems to have become detrimental to the second section (Shiî Jurisprudence) 

which, quite surprisingly, is underrepresented, and not only in the 

number of pages. Of its two contributions, the first (Mervin’s “La quête du savoir 

à Najaf”) is a revised version of a previously published article (Studia Islamica, 

1995) and tackles the more general subject of religious education in Najaf rather 

than discuss specific fiqh issues. In the second one (Pazouki’s “Fiqh et soufisme 

à la période qajare”), fiqh figures as a sort of by-product, however original, of the 

much more relevant mystical activities of the Ni^mat Allah\ masters. References to 

fiqh and usul al-fiqh are certainly found in several other contributions, as the intertwining 

of mysticism, theosophy, jurisprudence, and political discourse was, 

after all, typical of the time. A clear-cut division between them, then, would not 

do justice to the period’s complexity and intellectual vitality. Still, the volume 

would have benefited from more attention to specifically fiqh-related subjects; all 

the more so, when we read in the in the introduction that “en matière de droit 

islamique usuli quelques traités composés pendant cette période on marqué un 

tournant, voire l’apogée de la discipline” (p. 10, emphasis mine). 

This personal remark aside, the volume makes for enjoyable and engaging 

reading by tackling subjects and themes on which the specialist of late modern 

and early contemporary Shiism will find interesting perspectives and approaches, 

and valuable insights. 

Marco Salati: Venice, salati@unive.it 

William Lancaster and Fidelity Lancaster, Honour is in Contentment: 

Life Before Oil in Ras al-Khaimah (UAE) and Some Neighboring Regions (Studien 

zur Geschichte und Kultur des islamischen Orients). Berlin and New York 2011: 

De Gruyter, 607 pp. ISBN 978-3-11-022339-2. 

The first thing that needs to be said about William and Fidelity Lancaster’s Honour 

is in Contentment: Life Before Oil in Ras al-Khaimah (UAE) and Some Neighboring 

Regions is that everyone interested in the tribal society of the Arabian Gulf 

should have a copy of it on their shelf. Rich in depth and texture, no one has

Reviews 221 

delved into this level of detail with the people of the western 0ajar Mountains 

themselves and then re-presented their words and thoughts in English. 

The book was based on an archive assembled by the authors for His Highness 

Shaykh Sultan b. Saqr al-Qasim\, deputy ruler of the emirate of Ra#s al-Khaima in 

the United Arab Emirates (UAE) between October 1997 and April 2005. Well over 

500 pages in length, it is organized partially by geography and partially by 

broader political or economic subjects. An introductory chapter lays out notions 

of tribe, identity and space and is then followed by four chapters on specific regions 

and the associated methods of living prior to the era of oil in the western 

0ajar Mountains and adjacent locales in the UAE and Oman’s Musandam Peninsula. 

Subsequent chapters address specific political and social issues, such as the 

commercial economy, notions of rulership, and the social impact of economic development 

and urbanization accompanying the signing of oil concessions. These 

are key to understanding the complex histories and social terrains of the modern 

nation-states of the UAE and Oman. 

In terms of the social history of the UAE, texts similar in content would include 

Frauke Heard-Bey’s From Trucial States to United Arab Emirates: A Society 

in Transition, originally published in 1996, 1 although the ethnographic depth of 

Honour is in Contentment is unrivaled and based on primary research, rather than 

Heard-Bey’s references to older texts like John Gordon Lorimer’s Gazetteer of 

the Persian Gulf 2 first published in 1907. Aqil Kazim 3 and Christopher Davidson 4 

have written histories of the UAE that touch on the tribal formations described by 

the Lancasters. Jane Bristol-Rhys recently wrote Emirati Women: Generations 

of Change, 5 which goes over some of the same issues, albeit from a gender-specific 

perspective, and Mohammed Al Fahim’s From Rags to Riches 6 provides an insider’s 

anecdotal account of life in Abu Dhabi prior to the era of oil concessions. 

However, none approaches Honour is in Contentment in terms of ambition, scope 

and scale. 

1 Frauke Heard-Bay, From Trucial States to United Arab Emirates: A Society in Transition, Dubai: 

Motivate Publishing, 2005. 

2 J. G. Lorimer, The Gazetteer of the Persian Gulf, Oman and Central Arabia: Volumes 1–9. London: 

Archive Editions, 1994. 

3 Aqil Kazim, The United Arab Emirates A.D. 600 to the Present: A Socio-Discursive Transformation 

in the Arabian Gulf, Dubai: Gulf Book Centre, 2000. 

4 Christopher M. Davidson, The United Arab Emirates: A Study in Survival, Boulder, Co.: Lynne 

Reinner, 2005. 

5 Jane Bristol-Rhys, Emirati Women: Generations of Change, London: C. Hurst and Company, 

2010. 

6 Mohammed Al Fahim, From Rags to Riches: A Story of Abu Dhabi. London: The Centre of Arab 

Studies, 1995.

222 Reviews 

This is not to say that the book is without problems. Some of these relate more 

to the design, structure and presentation of the book than to the content. For 

example, the illustrations are left to the back pages rather than integrated into the 

text. The location of the maps next to the sometimes-bewildering array of place 

names and tribes and sub-tribes would help even the most knowledgeable reader 

better understand the geographic context and significance of the Lancasters’ 

descriptions. The e-book version furthermore contains 30 photographs missing in 

the hard copy – a disappointing if not shocking omission. 

While acknowledging the difficulty of organizing such an unwieldy body 

of information, the narrative structure verges on a tedious repetition that overshadows 

the bold colors the Lancasters paint in: “An elderly man recalled […]” 

(p.230); “A Ka’abi in Wadi al-Qawr commented […]“ (p.232); “A Dhahuri from 

Wadi Sha’am whose family owned a garden at Kilwa […] recalled“ (p.241). The 

nameless roll of tribal informants seems both unnecessary given the precision of 

some of the descriptors employed and an anachronistic anthropological methodological 

approach. 

This anonymity connects to the larger, even more problematic issues of voice, 

authority and representation, something present in William Lancaster’s 1981 

work, The Rwala Bedouin Today, 7 and remarked on by Emanuel Marx, who commented 

on how the “[…] author likes to see himself as an insider who presents the 

Rwala’s own viewpoints.” 8 While the issue of naming of informants is somewhat 

vaguely dealt with in the preface, it is done so only in reference to “the task of 

getting correct information.” (p.VI) The Lancasters note “people viewed the 

archive [of the Lancasters’ field notes to be deposited at the National Museum 

of Ra#s al-Khaima] as a potential public good and were willing to contribute by 

carefully describing and explaining their former activities.” (p.VI) While this is 

intended to legitimize the answers translated and repeated in the Lancasters’ 

text, the anonymity of the “informants” sets up the authors as informed intermediaries 

between “us”, the readers and “them”, the represented. It’s disappointing 

to see that their only references in this approach are to their own earlier 

work in Jordan, Saudi Arabia, and Oman. Current anthropological method, as 

cogently summarized by Paul Atkinson and Martyn Hammersly 9 among many 

others, tends to engage critically in these issues of voice, representation, par- 

7 William Lancaster, The Rwala Bedouin Today, Long Grove, Illinois: Waveland Press, 1997. 

8 Emmanuel Marx, “The Rwala Bedouin Today by William Lancaster, Review,” Man, Vol.18, No.1 

(March 1983), p. 222. 

9 Paul Atkinson and Martyn Hammersly, “Ethnography and Participant Observation,” in 

Norman K. Denzin and Yvonne S. Lincoln (eds.), Handbook of Qualitative Research, Los Angeles: 

Sage Publications, 1994, pp. 248–261.

Reviews 223 

ticipation, and authority. Particularly when tribal politics have such a direct influence 

on both identity and status, as they do in the Gulf, it strikes me that the 

absence of this critical engagement in Honour is in Contentment is somewhat of a 

missed opportunity. 

The Lancasters describe an incredibly complex social and physical landscape 

in Honour is in Contentment. In the end, it is impossible to get the information 

irreproachably exact. On page 3, they write that Wad\ Shaâm is the territory 

of the Shutayr Shi1u1 and yet, according to one of my former students at 

Zayed University in Dubai, 0al\ma al-Sha11\, who resides in Shaâm, there are 

clusters of Banu Hadiyya and Dhahuriyy\n in the wad\ as well. The latter is even 

cited by the Lancasters themselves in one of the quotes above. While this may 

seem like a small and easily over-looked detail and maybe down to the final editing, 

it is significant in the over-all social jigsaw the Lancasters have taken such 

strides to describe. While each wad\, each cluster of gardens along the alluvial fan 

and each port vividly and emphatically emerges in the Lancasters descriptions 

as individually distinct, the complex economic network that ties the region together 

is woven through the location, movement and inter-actions of each social 

group in relation to one another. The Lancasters have laid a solid foundation for 

others to build on here in exploring the nuances of these connections. 

The presence of English-medium universities in the region has grown exponentially 

since the fieldwork was initiated. There is an emerging class of young 

scholars fluent in both Arabic and English with an unprecedented cultural understanding 

given their own social position, sense of trust within the communities, 

and ability with English, Modern Standard Arabic, and the various vernacular 

languages and dialects spoken throughout the Gulf. It will be interesting to see 

their response to the Lancasters’ text. If anything, Honour is in Contentment provides 

the first salvo in what should become a vibrant exchange within the larger 

discourse of Arabian studies where more of these details can be explored and explained 

from a number of different perspectives, including those of the people 

who have until recently served primarily only as the object of study. 

Ronald Hawker: Calgary, rnhwkr@gmail.com

224 Reviews 

Astrid Meier, Johannes Pahlitzsch und Lucian Reinfandt (Hrsg.), Islamische 

Stiftungen zwischen juristischer Norm und sozialer Praxis, Berlin 2009: Akademie 

Verlag, 279 S. ISBN 978-3-05-004612-9. 

Komparatistisches Arbeiten, so reich dessen Erträge auch immer sein mögen, 

stellt seine Befürworter in der Regel vor das grundlegende Problem, den Bereich 

des Vergleichbaren sinnvoll einzuschränken, um der Beliebigkeit des Vergleiches 

– und damit letzlich der hieraus gezogenen Schlussfolgerungen – vorzubeugen. 

Der hier zur Disposition stehende fünfte Band der vom Berliner 

Mediävisten Michael Borgolte herausgegebenen „Stiftungsgeschichten“ unterscheidet 

sich diesbezüglich in erfreulicher Weise von seinem Vorgängerband. 

Dies mag insbesondere dem Umstand geschuldet sein, dass hier, anders als im 

von Borgolte selbst herausgegebenen vierten Band zu „Stiftungen in Christentum, 

Judentum und Islam vor der Moderne“, 1 ein durch einen gemeinsamen 

normativen Bezugspunkt konstituierter Rahmen gegeben ist, der einen komparatistischen 

Ansatz durchaus sinnvoll erscheinen lässt. Die Begrenzung des 

vorliegenden Bandes auf fromme Stiftungen in islamisch geprägten Zusammenhängen 

leistet deshalb – anders als sein Vorgängerband – tatsächlich einen 

sinnvollen Beitrag, um „die Interdependenz sozialer, religiöser, ökonomischer, 

rechtlicher und kultureller Faktoren im weitesten Sinne zu erkennen, gleichgültig 

ob er sich auf die Synchronie des Stiftungsaktes mit den Vorgängen seines 

Umfeldes selbst oder die Diachronie der Stiftungsgeschichte im Wandel der Gesellschaften 

konzentriert“. 2 

Der von Astrid Meier, Johannes Pahlitzsch und Lucian Reinfandt herausgegebene 

Band folgt in gewisser Weise konsistent einer ersten Sammlung von 

Aufsätzen zum Gegenstand, die 2003 auf Initiative von Florian Schwarz und 

Christoph Werner in Der Islam erschienen sind. 3 Bereits dort wurde die Sinnhaftigkeit 

eines komparatistischen Ansatzes zu rechtfertigen gesucht, um ein besseres 

Verständnis des komplexen Verhältnisses von rechtlicher Norm und sozialer 

Praxis in unterschiedlichen islamisch geprägten Gesellschaften zwischen dem 13. 

und 19. Jahrhundert zu erlangen: Schließlich habe, so Schwarz und Werner, das 

„Stiftungswesen […] die Entwicklung islamischer Gesellschaften fundamental 

geprägt und entscheidend zu ihrer Diversifizierung beigetragen“ und sei nicht 

zuletzt deshalb „eine der Kernkomponenten bei der Suche nach spezifisch islami- 

1 Siehe meine kritische Besprechung dieses Bandes in: sehepunkte 6:12 (2006), URL: 

www.sehepunkte.de/2006/12/10734.html. 

2 Michael Borgolte, „Einleitung“. In: Idem (Hrsg.). Stiftungen und Stiftungswirklichkeiten: 

Vom Mittelalter bis zur Gegenwart, Berlin, Akademie Verlag 2009, S. 8. 

3 Der Islam 80:1 (2003), S. 30–109.

Reviews 225 

schen Formen von Wirtschaftsorganisation, sozialen Einrichtungen und religiösen 

Ausdrucksformen“. 4 Die Einsicht in eine solch herausragende Bedeutung der 

frommen Stiftung (waqf oder habs) für eine Sozial- und Wirtschafts-, aber auch 

Kulturgeschichtsschreibung der islamisch geprägten Welt rechtfertigt deshalb 

eine fortgesetzte intensive Diskussion über, und Beschäftigung mit dem Gegenstand 

auch in der deutschsprachigen islamgeschichtlichen Forschung, deren 

neuere Ergebnisse nun im vorliegenden Band präsentiert werden. Dabei muss 

den Herausgeber positiv zugutegehalten werden, dass auch hier der Schwerpunkt 

auf Einzelstudien gelegt wurde, ohne eine übergreifende Synthese auch 

nur ansatzweise zu versuchen (S. 17), wie dies – reichlich verfrüht – etwa der 1982 

verstorbene israelische Sozialhistoriker Gabriel Baer unternommen hat. 5 

Von unschätzbarem Wert ist die Berücksichtigung der unterschiedlichen 

religiösen, sozialen und administrativ-politischen Kontexte, in denen sich ein islamisches 

Stiftungswesen herausgebildet hat. So untersuchen die Beiträge von 

Maria Macuch (S. 19–38) und Johannes Pahlitzsch (S. 39–54) das Spannungsverhältnis 

zwischen dem gerade im Entstehen begriffenen islamischen Stiftungsrecht 

mit den Stiftungspraxen der Sassaniden im Osten und der syrischen Christen 

im Westen des noch jungen islamisch geprägten Raumes, und werfen damit 

ein Licht auf Brüche mit und Kontinuitäten von vorislamischen Praxen. 

Den Großteil des Bandes nehmen jedoch Fallstudien zu verschiedenen regionalen 

und zeitlichen Kontexten ein: So diskutiert Stefan Heidemann die immense 

Dynamik der Stiftungspraxis im zunehmend urbanen Nordmesopotamien 

des 12. nachchristlichen Jahrhunderts (S. 61–77), Lucian Reinfandt analysiert 

ein mamlukisches Stiftungsdokument aus dem 15. Jahrhundert, dessen Edition 

seinem Beitrag im Anhang beigefügt ist (S. 117–52). Renate Jacobi untersucht 

anhand des zwölften Bandes von Mu1ammad b. Âbd ar-Ra1man as-Sa3aw\s 

Dau# al-lami^ li-ahl al-qarn at-tasi^, dem sogenannten ‚Frauenlexikon‘, die Rolle 

von Frauen im Stiftungswesen der Mamlukenzeit (S. 153–66), Christoph Werner 

das Zusammenwirken von Stiftungswesen und Wallfahrtsbetrieb im Iran der Safaviden, 

Afˇsariden und Qaparen am Beispiel des Schreinkomplexes Astan-i quds-i 

ra˙zavi in Maˇshad (S. 167–89). Astrid Meier beleuchtet in ihrem Beitrag die Flexibilität 

von vermeintlich unveränderlichen Rechtsnormen im osmanischen Stif- 

4 Florian Schwarz und Christoph Werner, „Waqf als soziale, rechtliche und religiöse Institution 

der Islamischen Welt“, Der Islam 80:1 (2003), S. 30. 

5 Siehe Gabriel Baer, „The Muslim Waqf and Similar Institutions in Other Civilizations“ (hrsg. 

von Miriam Hoexter). In: Michael Borgolte (Hrsg.). Stiftungen in Christentum, Judentum und 

Islam vor der Moderne: Auf der Suche nach ihren Gemeinsamkeiten und Unterschieden in religiösen 

Grundlagen, praktischen Zwecken und historischen Transformationen, Berlin: Akademie 

Vlg. 2005, S. 257–280.

226 Reviews 

tungswesen des 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts (S. 191–212), Stefan Knost Aleppiner 

Stadtviertelstiftungen im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert (S. 213–32) und Franz Kogelmann 

schließlich postkoloniale Entwicklungen des Stiftungswesens in Ägypten 

und dem Magreb (S. 233–63). 

Zwei Aufsätze stechen inhaltlich aus dem Ensemble ein wenig heraus: Derjenige 

von Doris Behrens-Abuseif behandelt eher allgemeinere rechtstheoretische 

Probleme (S. 55–60), während der von Gerhard Wedel (S. 79–116), der die Leserschaft 

am Beispiel von Ibn 2allikans Wafayat al-a^yan in die Möglichkeiten der 

computergestützten Auswertung digitalisierter arabischer Texte einführt, wohl 

eher als methodologischer Beitrag gelten muss. 

Die Platzierung dieser beiden Artikel, die inhaltlich etwas aus dem Rahmen 

des Bandes herausfallen, verweist schließlich auf ein kleines, wenn auch möglicherweise 

nicht unerhebliches Manko des in jedem Fall empfehlenswerten Bandes: 

Es hätte die Benutzerfreundlichkeit des Bandes noch um Einiges erhöhen 

können, wenn die HerausgeberInnen dessen Binnenstruktur – die wohl in erster 

Linie zeitlich begründet ist – deutlicher herausgestellt hätten, sei es durch die 

Schaffung formaler Gliederungsebenen, oder auch nur durch eine klarere Darlegung 

des Aufbaues in der Einleitung. So aber erscheint der Band – im übrigen 

ähnlich den Beiträgen in der erwähnten Ausgabe von Der Islam – auf den ersten 

Blick eher wie eine recht heterogene Ansammlung einzelner Beiträge zum Großkomplex 

‚islamisches Stiftungswesen‘. Die erwähnten Beiträge von Behrens- 

Abuseif und Wedel wären in einer eigenen Rubrik vermutlich zu besserer Geltung 

gekommen. Nichtsdestotrotz haben die HerausgeberInnen eine nützliche 

Materialsammlung vorgelegt, die in jedem etwaigen Versuch einer größeren Synthese 

ihre gebührende Berücksichtigung finden sollte und wird. 

Jan-Peter Hartung: London, jh74@soas.ac.uk 

Sabrina Mervin (Hrsg.), The Shiâ Worlds and Iran. London und Beirut 2010: 

Saqi / IFPO, 359 S. ISBN: 978-0-86356-406-2. 

Der Begriff der „Shiâ Worlds“, den der Titel des vorliegenden, von Sabrina Mervin 

herausgegebenen Sammelbandes „The Shiâ Worlds and Iran“ anspricht, 

weist auf die gegenwärtige Vielfältigkeit hin, die den schiitischen Islam heute 

auszeichnet. Die schiitischen Welten bestehen aus verschiedenen „local cultures” 

und „sociolinguistic spheres” (S. 9), sie zeichnen sich aber auch durch historische 

und aktuelle Vergleichbarkeiten aus. Diese Umstände sind vor allem als 

historisch gewachsen zu betrachten: lokale und religiöse Differenzen bei gleich-

Reviews 227 

zeitiger transregional bedingter Koexistenz und Austausch sind Charakteristika, 

die die Entwicklung der Schia seit Jahrhunderten begleiten. 

Der Titel des Buches suggeriert jedoch auch eine Gewichtung: Nicht die 

schiitischen Welten in ihren verschiedenen Dimensionen in der Gegenwart 

und ihr Austausch sind das alleinige Thema des Sammelbandes, sondern ihre 

gleichzeitige Beziehung zum Iran und dieser thematische Fokus weist auf eine 

faktisch bestehende Hierarchie in der gegenwärtigen Aktualität des schiitischen 

Islam hin: Seit der Islamischen Revolution 1979 und der Etablierung der 

Islamischen Republik Iran kreisen die schiitischen Welten vor allem um das auf 

dem schiitischen Klerus basierende Staatsgebilde. Die vielfältigen Arten und 

Weisen, durch die sich dieses Kreisen auszeichnet sowie die Spannungen und 

Differenzen, die sie hervorrufen, sind das Thema des vorliegenden Sammelbandes. 

Mit seiner Herausgabe hat Sabrina Mervin eine Forschungslücke gefüllt: 

eine umfassende Bestandsaufnahme der diversen Beziehungen der verschiedenen 

schiitischen Regionen und Gemeinschaften zur Islamischen Republik dreißig 

Jahre nach deren Gründung ist bisher ausgeblieben. Die Notwendigkeit 

einer solchen Bestandsaufnahme ist in den letzten Jahren deutlich geworden, 

wie Mervin in der Einleitung des Sammelbandes aufzeigt: Einerseits ist vor allem 

seit der US-amerikanischen Invasion des Iraks 2003 eine verstärkte, nahezu 

globale Sichtbarkeit des schiitischen Islam zu beobachten, die auch zu sich verschärfenden 

Konflikten mit den Sunniten führt, andererseits zeigt sich seit Beginn 

der Präsidentschaft Ma1mud A1mad\-Ne}ads im Jahre 2005 auch ein steigender 

politischer Hegemonialanspruchs der Islamischen Republik, der vor 

allem durch starke millenaristische Agitation und provokant revolutionäres 

Auftreten geäußert wird. Entwicklungen im letzten Jahr wie die vornehmlich 

schiitische Protestbewegung in Bahrain, die gegenwärtig an Schärfe zunehmende 

Konfrontation zwischen dem Iran und den USA sowie der Vormachtsanspruch, 

den die Islamische Republik versucht, in den arabischen Umsturzbestrebungen 

zu erheben, machen die wachsende schiitische Sichtbarkeit 

deutlich. 

Das Buch ist in drei Teile, bzw. in der bereits 2007 erschienenen französischen 

Ausgabe „Le mondes chiites et l’Iran“ in vier Teile aufgeteilt, die den thematischen 

Schwerpunkten des Bandes entsprechen. Die Aufsätze des ersten Teils 

(‚The Export of the Revolution and National Integrations’) widmen sich der Frage 

nach der Spannung zwischen nationaler Integration auf der einen Seite und schiitischem 

Transregionalismus bzw. iranischer Hegemonie auf der anderen Seite. 

Teil zwei (‚Constructing Shiîsm’) legt den Fokus auf Prozesse schiitischer Identitätsbildung 

in der Moderne und stellt in diesem Kontext wiederum die Frage nach 

der Rolle des Iran in diesen Identitätsbildungsprozessen. Der dritte Teil des Sammelbandes 

(‚Which Iranian Model’) beschäftigt sich mit schiitischen theoreti-

228 Reviews 

schen Debatten sowie mit neuen Formen des politischen und religiösen Aktivismus 

im gegenwärtigen schiitischen Islam. Die französische Ausgabe beinhaltet 

einen vierten Teil (‚L’Iran des débats’), der sich ausgewählten iranischen Intellektuellen 

der Gegenwart widmet. 

Die Beiträge beschäftigen sich vor allem mit der Frage nach der politischreligiösen 

Entwicklung schiitischer Gemeinschaften sowie in diesem Kontext 

mit der Transformation des transnationalen Moments der 12er-Schia, das sich 

durch jahrehundertelange Wanderbewegungen und Migration innerhalb der 

Regionen mit schiitischer Bevölkerung manifestierte. Zentrale Bestandteile und 

Grund dieses Transregionalismus sind die hierarchische Strukturierung der 

ûlama# sowie das damit verbundene Konzept der marpaîya und die traditionell 

theologische Ausbildungsstruktur der hauza als Stätte schiitischer Gelehrsamkeit. 

Diese Strukturmerkmale verkörpern und ermöglichen eine Art dezentralen 

Transnationalismus, der ein hohes Maß an religiöser, kultureller und zunehmend 

auch politischer Integration mit einer relativ flexiblen und vielschichtigen Struktur 

verbindet. Diese Kombination führte auch zur Entstehung und Entwicklung 

der politischen Schia, deren Debatten und theoretische Ausarbeitungen wiederum 

im Staatsgebilde der Islamischen Republik mündeten. Der Sammelband 

stellt die Frage nach der Weiterentwicklung und dem Weiterbestehen des schiitischen 

Transregionalismus innerhalb dieser zunehmend politisierten, modernisierten 

und – durch das Bestehen der Islamischen Republik – zentralisierten Paradigmen. 

Anhand verschiedener Fallbeispiele zeigt der erste Teil die Versuche und Probleme 

des Exports der Islamischen Revolution nach 1979 bis heute auf. Während 

der Versuch der Islamischen Republik, das von ihr postulierte politische Modell 

der velayat-e faqih außerhalb des Irans durchzusetzen, in einem anfänglichen 

Schwung auf recht fruchtbaren Boden fiel, mündeten diese Versuche aber vor 

allem ab Ende der 80er Jahre in verstärkten Tendenzen der Autonomisierung der 

schiitischen Bewegungen außerhalb des Irans. Gleichzeitig wird aber auch deutlich, 

dass die Aushandlungsprozesse um die Frage der Identifikation mit und 

gleichzeitige Distanzierung vom Iran sowie um politische und religiöse Positionen 

weiter bestehen und bis heute ständig im Wandel begriffen sind. 

In einer allgemeinen Bestandsaufnahme postuliert Olivier Roy in seinem Aufsatz 

(S. 29–44) das Scheitern des Exports der Revolution. Dieses Scheitern zeigt 

sich vor allem darin, dass die Revolution kein panislamisches Moment hervorrufen 

konnte, sondern sich die Kluft zwischen Sunniten und Schiiten in den letzten 

dreißig Jahren vergrößert hat. Zudem hat es die revolutionär-politische Ideologie 

auch nicht geschafft, innerhalb der 12er-Schia eine dominante Stellung einzunehmen. 

Sie kann zwar als Ausdruck einer umfassenden Politisierung der Schia im 

Laufe des 20. Jahrhundert betrachtet werden, schaffte es aber nicht, sich als ein-

Reviews 229 

zige Deutungs- und Aktivierungsform durchzusetzen. Im Laufe der 80er Jahre 

führten diese Entwicklungen zu einer zunehmenden Polarisierung innerhalb der 

schiitischen Welten, die sich in pro-iranische und anti-iranische Strömungen aufteilten. 

Die Politik der Islamischen Republik wich gleichzeitig pragmatischeren 

Politikzielen. Roy negiert dennoch nicht die Wichtigkeit, die der Iran trotz diesem 

Scheitern immer noch auf die schiitischen Regionen hat und betont auch die Fortsetzung 

der Aushandlung des Einflusses, die heute vor allem im Zuge der Präsidentschaft 

A1mad\-Ne}ads sowie gegenwärtigen Entwicklungen und ständig 

wechselnden Allianzen in globalen Politikkonstellationen wieder zunimmt. 

Vier weitere Aufsätze widmen sich der Thematik des Exports anhand unterschiedlicher 

Fallbeispiele: In allen diesen Beispielen lösen sich anfängliche Tendenzen 

einer Identifizierung mit der Islamischen Republik und ihrer politischideologischen 

Agenda etwa ab Ende der 80er Jahre zugunsten einer zunehmenden 

Autonomisierung und Lokalisierung auf. Das iranische Revolutionsmodell 

diente daher oft als Vehikel oder Katalysator für eine Politisierung, die aber später 

zunehmend pragmatischeren, lokal ausgerichteten Politikausrichtungen weichen 

musste. Alagha (S. 89–114) und Chaib (S. 115–135) beobachten diese Entwicklungen 

beide an unterschiedlichen Aspekten der politischen Ausrichtung 

der libanesischen 0izbullah, oft als politisches Ziehkind der Islamischen Republik 

betrachtet. Alagha geht hier vor allem der politisch-ideologischen Positionierung 

der schiitisch-libanesischen Partei im Hinblick auf die Verwirklichung 

eines islamischen Staates im Libanon nach und beobachtet eine zunehmende 

„Libanisierung“ der 0izbullah etwa ab 1992, in deren Folge der islamische Staat 

zunehmend kein Teil des politischen Programms mehr darstellt. Das teilweise 

ambivalente Zusammenspiel aus iranischem Einfluss auf die 0izbullah und der 

gleichzeitigen Verortung im innerstaatlichem libanesischen Politikmodell zeigt 

Chaib in ihrem Artikel anhand der von der 0izbullah produzierten Ikonographie 

im Libanon. 

Eine andere Ausgangslage präsentiert Monsutti in seinem Aufsatz 

(S. 45–62), der die Politisierung der schiitischen Gruppe der isolierten und marginalisierten 

Hazara in Afghanistan behandelt. Die Hazara formierten sich politisch 

Anfang der 80er Jahre durch die 0ezb-e Wa1dat, die anfänglich vor allem 

auf iranische Unterstützung baute und sich dann zunehmend einer pragmatischen, 

ethnisch ausgerichteten Politik zuwandte. Auch in den Golfstaaten (Kuwait, 

Bahrain, Saudi-Arabien) beschreibt Louer (S. 63–88) eine pragmatische 

Wende Ende der 80er Jahre, in denen die oft in enger religiöser und ethnischer 

Verbindung zum Iran suggerierten schiitischen Gruppen zunehmend versuchten, 

ihren Platz der politischen Gestaltung in den nationalstaatlichen politischen 

Arenen zu finden, auch wenn der iranische Einfluss immer wieder eine 

entscheidende Rolle spielt.

230 Reviews 

Die Aufsätze im zweiten Teil des Sammelbandes gehen weniger der Frage 

nach direkten politischen Verbindungen zwischen der Islamischen Republik und 

schiitischen Gemeinschaften außerhalb des Irans nach, sondern suchen eher die 

Verortung dieser Gemeinschaften innerhalb nationaler Identitätskonstruktionen 

und fragen nach dem Einfluss, den der Iran auf diese Identitätskonstruktionen 

hat. Geographisch geht es hier vor allem um Regionen, in denen sich die schiitische 

Identität durch politische Transformation oder Bevölkerungswanderungen 

innerhalb der letzten Jahrzehnte verändert hat. 

Bayram Balci und Boris Petric gehen in ihren Artikeln der Frage nach der 

Rolle der Schia in den postsowjetischen Republiken Zentralasiens nach. Balci 

beschäftigt sich mit der mehrheitlich schiitischen Bevölkerung Aserbaidschans 

(S. 167–192), während sich Petric mit der schiitischen Minderheit der „Ironis“ 

in Usbekistan auseinandersetzt (S. 193–214). Beide Gruppierungen sind seit den 

90er Jahren verstärkt im öffentlichen Raum zu sehen und versuchen, sich im 

neuen nationalen Diskurs zu verorten. Die schiitische Gemeinschaft Aserbaidschans, 

die die dortige Bevölkerungsmehrheit bildet, hat hier jedoch mehr Möglichkeiten, 

während den „Ironis“ in Usbekistan zwischen einer zunehmenden 

Sunnitisierung, Usbekisierung sowie einer anti-religiösen Einstellung der Regierung 

die Behauptung einer schiitischen Identität schwerer fällt. Beide Gruppierungen 

sind iranischem Einfluss ausgesetzt, der aber einen weniger dominanten 

Platz einnimmt. 

Auch Thierry Zarcone behandelt in seinem Aufsatz (S. 139–166) schiitische 

Identitäten im sunnitischen und gleichzeitig säkularen Kontext der Türkischen 

Republik. Diese schiitische Identität formiert sich bisher vor allem zwischen einer 

ethnischen Zugehörigkeit als Adaris und einer religiösen Identifikation als Schiiten 

und muss in diesem Kontext betrachtet werden. 

Ähnlich unterforscht wie die schiitische Gemeinschaft der Türkei ist auch der 

schiitische Islam in Afrika. Mara A. Leichtman beschäftigt sich in ihrem Aufsatz 

(S. 215–250) mit der libanesisch-schiitischen Diaspora im Senegal sowie schiitisch 

senegalesischen Konvertiten. Obwohl sie eine steigende Schiitisierung der libanesischen 

Migranten sowie der senegalesischen Konvertiten beschreibt, in der 

auch der Einfluss der Islamischen Republik eine Rolle spielt, betont Leichtman 

dennoch, dass es zu keiner Vermischung beider Gruppen kommt. Vielmehr seien 

beide als eigenständige ethnische wie sozioökonomische Entitäten zu betrachten. 

Die politischen Entwicklungen und identitären Transformationen innerhalb 

der schiitischen Welten in den letzten Jahrzehnten sind begleitet von vielschichtigen 

theoretischen Debatten, die diese Transformationen wiederum entscheidend 

beeinflussen und auch zu der Entstehung neuer politischer Bewegungen 

führte. Mit diesen neuen Trends beschäftigt sich der dritte Teil des Sammelbands.

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In zwei Aufsätzen beschäftigen sich Pierre-Jean Luizard (S. 255–280) sowie Peter 

Harling und Hamid Yassin Nasser (S. 281–302) mit der seit 2003 im Irak aufgekommenen 

und an Einfluss gewinnenden Bewegung um Muqtada as-Sadr. 

In beiden Aufsätzen werden die Neuartigkeit und gleichzeitige Polysemie des 

‚sadristischen Trends‘ betont, der sich im irakisch-nationalen und im schiitischen 

Kontext formiert. Während Luizard eher den politischen Integrations- und 

Strategieprozess der Sadristen im Irak untersucht, versuchen Harling und Nasser 

die Bewegung in einem theologischen, gesellschaftlichen und transregionalen 

Kontext zu verorten, in dem ihre aktivistische Motivation als Fortsetzung 

einer schiitischen theologischen Debatte betrachtet wird, und ihre Mobilisierungskräfte 

innerhalb der sozialen Klassenstruktur des Iraks analysiert werden. 

In beiden Aufsätzen wird ein gewisser Annäherungsprozess zwischen den Sadristen 

und dem Iran beobachtet, dessen Ausmaß aber noch nicht abschließend 

geklärt werden kann. Die Entstehung einer neuen transnationalen schiitischen 

Elite und neuer Netzwerke beobachtet Mariam Abou Zahab (S. 303–320) anhand 

schiitischer madrasas für Frauen in Pakistan, in denen der iranische Einfluss 

zwar sichtbar ist, aber nicht mehr auf den Export des iranischen Revolutionsmodells, 

sondern eher auf die Entstehung eines transnationalen Netzwerks ausgerichtet 

ist. 

In ihrem Aufsatz „Transnational Intellectual Debates“ (S. 321–346) geht Sabrina 

Mervin auf gegenwärtige Debatten innerhalb des schiitischen Klerus und 

religiösen Intellektuellen im transnationalen Rahmen ein. Obwohl eine klare Verortung 

der verschiedenen „currents and tendencies“ schwierig ist (S. 322), sieht 

Mervin dennoch auf der einen Seite einen ideologisch-modernistischen Diskurs 

vieler Kleriker, der sich vor allem gegen westlichen Einfluss und Politik wendet, 

während sich auf der anderen Seite eine humanistisch und transnational ausgerichtete, 

„neue“ Theologie formiert, deren Fokus vor allem auf einer Annäherung 

sowohl an moderne Fragestellungen als auch moderne Methoden liegt. 

Gegenwärtige Vertreter dieser neuen Theologie im Iran werden im vierten 

Teil des Sammelbandes behandelt, der in der englischen Ausgabe nicht enthalten 

ist. Sara Shariâti, Mohsen Mottaghi, Sabrina Mervin und Christian Yahya 

Bonaud beschäftigen sich mit Vertretern moderner iranischer Diskurse wie Âl\ 

Åar\ât\ (S. 327–346), 0asan Yusof\ Eˇskevar\ (S. 347–356), Âbdolkar\m Soruˇs 

(S. 357–380), Mo1sen Kad\var (S. 417–430) und Mostafa Malekiyan (S. 431–456), 

wobei es sich hierbei zu einem großen Teil um Interviews handelt. Ashk P. Dahlén 

beschäftigt sich in seinem Aufsatz wiederum allgemeiner (S. 381–416) mit den 

gegenwärtigen kontroversen Debatten und der religiösen Pluralität unter den iranischen 

Intellektuellen. 

Der vorliegende Sammelband fällt in erster Linie dadurch auf, dass er eine 

lang fällige Bestandsaufnahme der verschiedenen schiitischen Welten und ihrer

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komplexen Beziehung zum Iran vornimmt, die durch ihren umfassenden Charakter 

besticht. Es gelingt der Herausgeberin sowie den einzelnen Autoren, trotz 

einer enormen thematischen Vielfalt sowie geographischen Reichweite ein kohärentes 

Bild der schiitischen Welten zu zeichnen, in dem dennoch die individuelle 

Vielfalt der einzelnen Gemeinschaften als auch ihre ständig fortlaufenden identitären 

Aushandlungsprozesse deutlich werden. Bisher unzureichend erforschte 

Phänomene wie die irakischen Sadristen als auch quasi unbekannte schiitische 

Gemeinschaften wie die 12er-Schia in der Türkei, finden in dem Sammelband eine 

zum Teil erste, umfassende Analyse. 

Während häufig der Anschein erweckt wird, dass sich die schiitischen Welten 

vor allem um und mit einer Islamischen Republik entwickeln, und damit 

Tendenzen in Richtung Islamismus, Millenarismus und Zentralismus zunehmen, 

zeigt der Sammelband einerseits zwar, wie aktuell der Einfluss der IR immer noch 

ist, andererseits aber auch, wie sich die schiitischen Welten in ihren verschiedenen 

Bezugsrahmen immer wieder neu formieren und definieren. Der Sammelband 

ist dadurch nicht nur als deskriptive und analytische Bestandsaufnahme 

zu betrachten, sondern gibt wichtige Impulse für anschließende weiterführende 

Forschung in diesem Bereich. 

Miriam Younes: Basel, miriam.younes@unibas.ch 

Arnd-Michael Nohl und Barbara Pusch (Hrsg.), Bildung und gesellschaftlicher 

Wandel in der Türkei: Historische und aktuelle Aspekte (Istanbuler Texte und 

Studien, 26). Würzburg 2011: Ergon. 308 S. ISBN 978-3-89913-867-2. 

Der Titel des Bandes weckt Erwartungen, die der allgemein gehaltene Untertitel 

sogleich relativiert. Ähnlich gemischt ist auch der Gesamteindruck nach der Lektüre. 

Unter den Autorinnen und Autoren sind fünf disziplinär im Bereich der Pädagogik 

oder Erziehungsforschung zuhause, die übrigen sieben sind im Rahmen 

soziologischer, anthropologischer oder historischer Studien in dieses Themenfeld 

gekommen. Mehr als die Hälfte der zwölf haben türkische Wurzeln. 

Der Band basiert auf Beiträgen des Symposiums „Bildung und sozialer Wandel 

– Historische und aktuelle Aspekte“, das im Mai 2009 in Istanbul stattfand. 

Das Herausgeberduo hat für die Publikation nur eine Auswahl der Tagungsbeiträge 

ausarbeiten lassen und weitere Beiträge eingeworben. Verschiedene 

Übersetzerinnen und Übersetzer haben etliche der Texte aus dem Türkischen (in 

einem Fall dem Französischen) ins Deutsche (in einem Fall ins Englische) übersetzen 

lassen.

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Inhaltlich gegliedert ist der Band nach vier grossen Themenbereichen, auf 

die ich im Folgenden eingehe. Als Klammer dienen zwei Beiträge von Arnd-Michael 

Nohl. In dieser herausgeberischen Klammer liegt ein wesentlicher Wert 

des Bandes. Sie macht die Einteilung der inneren Teile plausibel und führt deren 

Inhalt auf eine höhere Reflexionsebene. Eingelöst wird so der freilich bescheidene 

Anspruch der Herausgeber, der „‘immanenten Ordnung des Wandels’ (Elias 

2006: 200) im türkischen Bildungssystem nachzuspüren“ (S. 11). Gesellschaftlicher 

Wandel kann dabei nach dem Credo der Herausgeber „nicht als intendiert 

herbeigeführter Prozess gedacht werden“, sondern „ergibt sich vielmehr, so 

Elias, aus der ‘Konsequenz der Verflechtungen von Aktionen vieler interdependenter 

Menschen’“ (ebd.). 

Diese Sicht bietet zugleich einen Ausweg aus dem scheinbar unversöhnlichen 

Gegensatz der beiden klassischen analytischen Sichtweisen auf Bildung: 

Die eine schreibt ihr vor allem eine reproduktive Funktion für die Gesellschaft zu, 

die andere eine transformative. Von diesen beiden analytischen Paradigmata ist 

in den Einzelbeiträgen vor allem das zweite stark vertreten, insbesondere unter 

den Autorinnen und Autoren mit türkischem Hintergrund. Gerade bei ihnen ist 

damit häufig ein spürbarer normativer Impuls verbunden, was zwar verständlich, 

der analytischen Schärfe aber abträglich ist. Im Folgenden seien deshalb 

speziell diejenigen Beiträge erwähnt, die zum erwähnten Ziel des Bandes Substantielles 

beisteuern. 

In der Einführung (S. 17–41) zeigt Arnd-Michael Nohl, wie aus dem wesentlich 

religiös geprägten osmanischen Bildungswesen in mehreren Schritten das heutige 

weitgehend säkulare türkische Bildungssystem wurde. Die Initiative ging stets 

vom Staat aus, jedoch als Reaktion auf jeweils unterschiedliche Faktoren. Dienten 

die religiös geprägten Schulen bis Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts der Vorbildung künftiger 

Beamter, so verschoben die militärischen Niederlagen jener Zeit die Prioritäten. 

Die Militärmedizinschule (1827) und die Militärakademie (1834) stehen für 

den Wunsch, auf machtpolitisch relevanten Gebieten mit dem überlegenen Ausland 

wieder gleichzuziehen und auch dessen effiziente Organisationsstruktur zu 

übernehmen. Um die geeigneten Beamten neuen Typs zu rekrutieren, wurde folgerichtig 

schon damals eine (minimale) Grundschulpflicht für Knaben eingeführt, 

wenngleich erst im 20. Jahrhundert auch durchgesetzt (S. 21). Da die Vorbildung 

der Anfänger in den Fachschulen sich jedoch als ungenügend erwies, wurden im 

zweiten und dritten Drittel des 19. Jahrhunderts Schulen der Sekundar- und Tertiärstufe 

eingerichtet, zur Leitung des ganzen Systems aber auch 1857 das Ministerium 

für öffentliche Erziehung. Liefen religiöse und säkulare Bildungswege in den 

ersten Jahrzehnten noch parallel, wenn auch mit zunehmender Konkurrenz, so 

wurde mit dem Aufstieg der Jungtürken und vollends mit dem Sieg der Kemalisten 

der säkulare Weg die Norm. Die radikalen Maßnahmen der 1920er Jahre (Schlie-

234 Reviews 

ßung der Medresen, Schriftreform etc.) erlaubten es schließlich, „die Religion dem 

Staat und das Religiöse der sonstigen Lebensführung unterzuordnen“ (S. 27). „Die 

Säkularisierung der Gesellschaft war aber nicht annähernd so erfolgreich wie die 

Laizisierung des Bildungssystems“, hält Nohl fest, um überzuleiten zu jenen 

Schritten, mit denen die Regierung dem Islam sunnitischer Prägung im nach wie 

vor laizistischen Bildungssystem wieder mehr Gewicht einräumte: Imam-Hatip- 

Schulen seit 1951, Zulassung von Frauen darin, Zulassung der Imam-Hatip-Absolventen 

an Universitäten, Einführung von Religion als Wahlfach in säkularen Schulen. 

Ebenfalls in der zweiten Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts erlebt die Türkei eine 

starke Industrialisierung und Binnenmigration. Nohl illustriert diese Entwicklungen 

wie auch den Ausbau des Schulsystems mit Zahlen, um dann aber lediglich 

festzustellen, die Schulen hätten „keine Chance [gehabt], mit dem rasanten Bevölkerungswachstum 

mitzuhalten“ (S. 37). An diesem Punkt wären zwei, drei Absätze 

willkommen gewesen, die skizzieren, inwieweit der soziale Wandel mit der verstärkten 

Präsenz der Religion im Bildungssystem zu tun hat und welche Folge die 

Überforderung des Schulsystems für die Gesellschaft hat. 

Unter den fünf Beiträgen des Kapitels „Bildung, Reform und Wandel“ sind 

zwei interessant. Müge Ayan Ceyhan (S. 79–93) berichtet aus einer Primarschule 

in Ankara (von ihr Bakık-Schule genannt), an der sie 2002 bis 2004 als Verantwortliche 

für Forschung und Entwicklung tätig war. Hier wurde eine so genannte 

schülerzentrierte Pädagogik erprobt, bevor die regierende AKP ab 2004 erst in 

Pilotprojekten, dann landesweit eine Reform mit demselben Etikett durchführte. 

Die Autorin arbeitet nicht nur anschaulich die Unterschiede zwischen der 

Pädagogik der Bakık-Schule und herkömmlichen Schulen heraus. Sie reflektiert 

anhand zweier Szenen eines Schulausflugs auch das Grundproblem jeglicher 

Reformpädagogik: Wie kann eine Lehrerschaft, die noch in einem alten System 

geprägt wurde, der jungen Generation glaubhaft einen neuen Weg weisen? Der 

Beitrag von Annegret Warth (S. 121–143) verlässt das Bildungssystem im engeren 

Sinn und widmet sich dem „freiwilligen Engagement in der ausserschulischen Jugendarbeit“ 

(so der Titel). Dieser Bereich ist zahlenmässig noch verschwindend 

klein, die Aktivitäten darin angestossen durch Impulse von außen (Europarat, 

EU, UNO-Organisationen, private Stiftungen). Anhand von Interviews mit 

Jugendlichen in Samsun und Istanbul kann die Autorin jedoch zeigen, dass Jugendorganisationen 

einen wichtigen alternativen Sozialisationsort neben den 

üblichen bieten: „Räume mit Ressourcen, in denen sie eigeninitiativ und tendenziell 

selbstbestimmt Bereiche ihres Aufwachsens mitgestalten und aktiv Verantwortung 

übernehmen können“ (S. 140). 

Im Kapitel „Bildung und Islam“ bietet Bekim Agai (S. 177–196) über weite 

Strecken eine Zweitverwertung seiner Dissertation Zwischen Netzwerk und Diskurs: 

Das Bildungsnetzwerk um Fethullah Gülen (2004). Schön arbeitet er heraus,

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warum das Gülen-Netzwerk sich so erfolgreich ausbreiten konnte: Weil seine 

„Träger ihre Motivation aus der Religion heraus beziehen, aber eben […] keine 

Bildung anbieten, die man inhaltlich als islamisch begreifen kann“ (S. 192). Dies 

ergab sich, weil „der Kemalismus selbst, mit seiner Zurückdrängung der Religion 

ins Private, dafür sorgte, dass neue Formen religiöser Organisationsweise und 

neue Ideen vom Gehalt religiöser Aktivitäten entstanden“ (S. 193). Dies erklärt zugleich, 

warum die Gülen-Bewegung in stärker islamisch geprägten Staaten bei 

weitem nicht ebenso erfolgreich war wie in säkularen. 

Das Kapitel „Bildung und Minderheiten“ umfasst zwei historische Aufsätze. 

Mustafa Çapar (S. 199–224) untersucht die Entwicklung der „Us-Them Question“, 

wie er es im Titel dieses einzigen englischen Artikels nennt. Neu sind nicht die 

Fakten und zahlreichen Zitate zum Umgang der türkischen Machteliten mit den 

Minderheiten von Atatürk bis heute, sondern der Fokus auf den Folgen für das 

Bildungswesen. Çapar vermag zu zeigen, wie sich die grundlegende Ambivalenz 

der türkischen Staatsdoktrin von der Gründungszeit bis heute erhalten hat: Die 

religiösen Minderheiten der Juden, Armenier und Griechen gehören einerseits als 

Bürger „dazu“, anderseits auch wieder nicht, da sie nicht Muslime sind – im Gegensatz 

zu Lasen, Kurden und Tscherkessen. Soll die Prämisse unangetastet bleiben, 

wonach die Türkei aus einer einzigen Nation, der türkischen, besteht, so 

bleibt nur die Option, das Unklare anzueignen, zu turkifizieren, gerade auch 

durch die Schule. Schon früh stellten allerdings manche politischen Stimmen in 

Frage, dass die Minderheiten überhaupt turkifizierbar seien. Mehr noch: Auch 

Staatsvertreter und staatliche Maßnahmen sprachen und sprechen eine andere 

Sprache als die Verfassung. So zeichnen Schulgeschichtsbücher die Minderheiten 

in spätosmanischer Zeit als fünfte Kolonne, und unkritische Bildungsforscher 

handeln Schulen der Minderheiten teils bis in die jüngste Zeit in der selben Kategorie 

ab wie ausländische Schulen. Çapars Fazit: „Despite the constitutions’s 

emphasis on the inclusion of minorities through such terms as ‘our [citizens]’ the 

real practice is one of exclusion from the dominant group […]“ (S. 221). Im zweiten 

Aufsatz des Kapitels zeichnet Barbara Pusch (S. 225–239) nach, wie die deutsche 

Schule in Istanbul im Lauf der Zeit als Reaktion auf gesetzliche Vorgaben ihr 

Bildungsangebot immer wieder umstrukturieren musste. Der Bezug zum gesellschaftlichen 

Wandel, im Titel des Beitrags prominent gesetzt, wird leider bloß 

durch eine dürre Tabelle mit Schülerzahlen und eine unlesbare Grafik hergestellt 

und bleibt somit unzureichend. 

Eher gelingt dieser Bezug in den beiden Beiträgen des Kapitels „Bildung und 

Ungleichheit“. Lesenswert ist insbesondere R. Nazlı Somels Aufsatz über „Soziologische 

Dimensionen des Zusammenhangs von Ethnizität und Bildung in der Türkei“ 

(S. 243–263). Zugrunde liegen vier Monate aufmerksamen Beobachtens an einer 

Istanbuler Primarschule. Nach knapp zwanzig Seiten liegen die vielfältigen

236 Reviews 

Mechanismen der Diskriminierung offen, am eindrücklichsten sichtbar beim Einteilen 

der Klassen: Ein Schulleitungsmitglied mit langjähriger Kenntnis der Nachbarschaft 

teilt die Schulanfänger i. W. nach sozioökonomischen Merkmalen in 

weitgehend homogene Klassen ein; Wohnadresse, Dialekt, Kleidung und Auftreten 

der Eltern verraten alles nötige. Die Kinder aus besser gestellten Schichten erhalten 

die engagierten Lehrer, während deren übrige Kollegen die Sprösslinge 

aus den gecekondus bekommen. Ungleichheiten werden so reproduziert und verstärkt. 

Die Lehrer rechtfertigen diese Praxis damit, dass den ärmeren Kindern, womöglich 

solchen nichttürkischer Muttersprache, ohnehin nicht zu helfen sei. 

Mit fataler Folgerichtigkeit lasten sie schulisches Versagen der sozioökonomisch 

Schwachen dem einzelnen Kind, nicht den Strukturen an. Fatma Gök (S. 265–286) 

geht das Thema Ungleichheit demgegenüber quantitativ an und belegt mit Zahlen, 

dass Klasse und Geschlecht darüber entscheiden, welche Kinder und Jugendlichen 

das Recht auf Bildung einlösen können, bei der Einschulung, aber auch 

beim Übertritt in eine höhere Schulstufe. Das Wie dieser unsichtbaren Beschränkungen 

kommt über den vielen Tabellen zu kurz. Immerhin stützen die Zahlen 

Göks düsteres Bild von den jüngsten Entwicklungen: Kürzungen im Bildungsetat 

lassen die Klassen wachsen, die staatlichen Schulen werden zu „Bildungsghettos“ 

(S. 284). Wer es sich halbwegs leisten kann, kauft für sein Kind auf dem wachsenden 

Bildungsmarkt Nachhilfeunterricht oder einen Platz in einer Privatschule ein. 

An solchen Tendenzen und der Suche nach den politisch Schuldigen halten 

sich etliche der hier nicht resümierten Beiträge auf, überdies ohne klare wissenschaftliche 

Fragestellung – die Ergebnisse sind entsprechend dünn. Die Übersetzungen, 

selbst wenn sie sprachlich in Ordnung sind, können das nicht ändern. 

Substantiell und analytisch äußerst anregend wird es dafür noch einmal in 

den „Nachwörtlichen Überlegungen zu Prozessstrukturen des Wandels von Bildung 

und Gesellschaft“ (S. 289–304). In zehn Punkten versucht Arnd-Michael 

Nohl das Verhältnis von „Innovation und Problembewältigung als Circulus 

Transformationis“ (S. 291) zu fassen. Er selber deklariert diese Skizze als „im Entstehen 

begriffene Arbeit“ (S. 289). Sie integriert sowohl die Generationenfolge 

und das oben genannte Grundproblem jeglicher Reformpädagogik als auch retardierende 

und beschleunigende Effekte, die Unterscheidung zwischen sanfter Reform 

und radikalem Ersatz ganzer Institutionen und verschiede Motoren (Utopie, 

Macht, Konkurrenz). 

Ein Schwachpunkt des Modells wie auch des ganzen Bandes ist noch zu nennen: 

Übermächtig im Vordergrund stehen stets die Bildungsinstitutionen, -akteure 

und -politiken. Die Verknüpfung mit den Etappen sozialen Wandels jenseits von 

Bildungsparametern bleibt dürftig, fehlt oft ganz. So kommt zwar die Alphabetisierung 

punktuell in den Blick, die Binnenmigration jedoch nur als knappes Faktum 

(bei Somel), die Arbeitsemigration oder die sozialen Folgen der Industrialisierung

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überhaupt nicht. Von den Forderungen und Anforderungen „der Wirtschaft“ und 

den Maßnahmen der Politik ist hier und da die Rede, doch wird dann in keiner 

Fallstudie durchdekliniert, wie sich dies in Biographien oder den Strukturen einer 

Stadt oder Region niederschlägt und so wiederum auf die Bildung wirkt. 

Fazit: Das Bildungswesen der türkischen Republik und der spätosmanischen 

Zeit in den Kerngebieten des Reiches ist in diesem Band in einer Vielfalt der 

Ansätze und Themen bearbeitet und insbesondere durch Arnd-Michael Nohls 

Klammerbeiträge erschlossen und analytisch durchdrungen worden. Entgegen 

dem Buchtitel wird Bildung selten konsequent mit sozialem Wandel verknüpft. 

Für dieses Manko entschädigen einzelne lesenswerte Studien. 

Andreas Tunger-Zanetti: Luzern, andreas.tunger@unilu.ch 

Peter E. Pormann (ed.), Epidemics in Context. Greek Commentaries on Hippocrates 

in the Arabic Tradition (Scientia Graeco-Arabica Band 8). Berlin und New 

York 2012: De Gruyter, VI + 334 S. ISBN 978-3-11-025979-7. 

Die hier zu besprechende Sammlung von Aufsätzen renommierter Fachleute für 

die griechisch-orientalische Medizintradition steht in engem Zusammenhang mit 

einer Edition von Teilen der arabischen Übersetzung von Galens Epidemienkommentar. 

Das Projekt wurde von P.E. Pormann und S. Swain initiiert, vom Wellcome 

Trust gefördert und ist an der University of Warwick angesiedelt. In diesem 

Rahmen haben B. Hallum und U. Vagelpohl den Kommentar zu Buch I und II 

der #Epidhm›ai ediert und ins Englische übersetzt. Beide Bände sollen in naher 

Zukunft im „Supplementum Orientale“ des altehrwürdigen „Corpus Medicorum 

Graecorum“ (CMG) erscheinen. Ende 2010 wurde eine hochkarätig besetzte Konferenz 

in London abgehalten, aus der der vorliegende Sammelband hervorging. 

Auf Basis einer Rohfassung der Edition sollte der größere Kontext erörtert werden, 

in dem dieses Werk Galens zu sehen ist. Besonderes Augenmerk hat man naturgemäß 

auf den Tafsir zu Buch I und II gelegt. 

Das Ergebnis dieser Bemühungen ist ein vielschichtiges Konvolut von wichtigen 

Artikeln unterschiedlichster Ausrichtung. Das Spektrum reicht von Detailfragen 

der handschriftlichen Überlieferung, den Absichten Galens und der Technik 

der Übersetzer bis hin zur arabischen Rezeption dieses und vergleichbarer 

Bücher. Trotz der heterogenen Ansätze ist man doch stets einem roten Faden gefolgt. 

Somit wurde kein kunterbunt zusammengewürfeltes „Horn der Amalthea“ 

vorgelegt, sondern eine in sich stimmige, sehr gelungene Zusammenstellung 

neuester Erkenntnisse zum Epidemienkommentar und seinem Kontext.

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Die Epidemien sind eine Sammlung von Aufzeichnungen mehrerer Ärzte aus 

der Frühphase der griechischen Medizin über den Verlauf von Seuchen und individuellen 

Erkrankungen. Dass die überlieferten sieben Bücher nicht von einem einzigen 

Autor stammen können, war schon in der Antike bekannt. Galen kommentierte 

daher nur die Bücher I bis III und VI, jeweils in mehreren volumina. Aufgrund 

der schwierigen Diktion der Epidemien und des kaum elaborierten theoretischen 

Überbaus fühlten sich schon vor ihm viele zur Exegese veranlasst. Galens Erklärung 

verfolgte aber keineswegs nur philologische Zielsetzungen. In seinem Artikel 

kann Ph.J. van der Eijk zeigen, wie sich jener bemühte, Thesen anderer Schriften 

des hippokratischen Corpus darin zu erkennen, aber auch eigene Theorien in die 

dürren Krankenakten hinein zu interpretieren. Der allzeit streitbare Galen holte 

auch zur Polemik gegen ältere Interpretationen aus, wie die des Empirikers Quintus. 

Seine Beweisziele sind auch Thema des Aufsatzes von Brooke Holmes. Sie arbeitet 

heraus, wie er sein Konzept der sympˇùeia auf die hippokratische Schrift zu 

übertragen suchte. Nach Galens Ansicht ist für dieses Ausstrahlen bestimmter Erkrankungen 

auf andere Organe oft eine anatomische Ursache anzunehmen. Dies 

war seiner Vorlage aber fremd, in der nicht einmal der Terminus erschien. 

Auch nach Galen waren die Epidemien bis in die Spätantike noch Gegenstand 

von Bearbeitungen. Einer damit zusammenhängenden schwierigen Frage 

der syrischen Überlieferung von Galens Werk widmet sich G. Kessel. Er untersucht 

eine – von ihm etwas missverständlich als „Syriac Epidemics“ bezeichnete 

– hauptsächlich durch A. Vööbus bekannt gewordene Handschrift, die sich 

heute in Damaskus (Syrisch-Orthodoxes Patriarchat 12/25) befindet. Bislang gingen 

die Identifikationen und Datierungen des Ms. stark auseinander. Kessel 

kann schlüssig darlegen, dass es sich nicht einfach um die syrische Version Aiyub 

ar-Ruhaw\s von Galens In Hipp. Epid. VI comment. handelt. Vielmehr beweist er, 

dass ein Superkommentar vorliegt, der Ansätze der alexandrinischen Tradition 

zeigt. Kessel stellt dann die These auf, dass es sich um eine Übersetzung des zwar 

bezeugten, aber im Griechischen vollständig verlorenen Kommentars des Gessios 

von Petra handelt. Tatsächlich wird dieser spätantike Autor im Ms. zitiert (S. 115), 

weshalb er sicher als eine der Quellen dieses Textes gelten muss. Trotz der Parallelen 

zwischen Johannes Alexandrinus 1 und dem syrischen Befund reichen diese 

Hinweise nach Erachten des Rez. nicht aus, um das Ms. im Brustton der Überzeugung 

als Übersetzung des Gessios-Kommentars anzusprechen (S. 120). Weitere 

1 Dessen Abhängigkeit von Gessios ist allerdings nicht wirklich bewiesen. Auf S. 114 zitiert 

Kessel aber aus der lateinischen Johannes-Übersetzung eine Parallele zum syrischen Text, 

die mit „triseudemon sophista“ eingeführt wird. Tatsächlich ist triseyda›mvn ein belegtes 

Epitheton für Gessios (vgl. E. Watts: The Enduring Legacy of the Iatrosophist Gessius, in: Greek, 

Roman, and Byzantine Studies 49 [2009], S. 123).

Reviews 239 

diesem Autor zugeschriebene Fragmente in einem Londoner Palimpsest, die hier 

nicht näher untersucht wurden (S. 115, Anm. 91f.), sprechen dafür, dass das Werk 

ins Syrische übertragen worden war. Daher können das Zitat und die Parallelen 

auch Zutaten der syrischen Tradition sein. Vorerst kann also nicht entschieden 

werden, ob das Vööbus-Ms. nicht doch eine Bearbeitung von Aiyubs verlorener 

Galen-Version ist. Da also nicht gewiss ist, ob überhaupt eine unabhängige Übersetzung 

aus dem Griechischen vorliegt, bleibt eine Zuschreibung an Sergios spekulativ. 

Sie mag teils auf der unsicheren Frühdatierung der Handschrift vor 705 

n. Chr. beruhen (S. 97). 

Der griechische Text Galens ist äußerst schlecht und lückenhaft überliefert – 

Buch II fehlt z.B. vollständig. Die bekannten Handschriften gehen auf einen 

einzigen Archetyp zurück, der um Jahrhunderte jünger ist, als die arabische 

Version 0unains. 2 Dass diese wichtige Dienste für die Kritik des Originaltextes 

leisten kann, erkannte schon E. Wenkebach, der das Werk Anfang des 20. Jh. für 

das CMG herausgab. F. Pfaff erarbeitete hierfür nach den Vorarbeiten von M. Simon 

eine deutsche Übersetzung. Die ebenfalls geplante Edition des arabischen 

Textes fiel den Krisen der Zwischenkriegszeit zum Opfer. Das Warwick-Projekt 

hat sich nun zum Ziel gesetzt, diese Lücke zumindest teilweise zu schließen und 

eine zuverlässigere Übersetzung vorzulegen. U. Vagelpohl erklärt in einem 

der Aufsätze diese Vorgeschichte und zeigt erste Ergebnisse seiner Ausgabe des 

Kommentars zu Epid. I auf, insbesondere hinsichtlich der Sprache der Übersetzung. 

3 B. Hallum et al. berichten über eine bislang unbekannte Handschrift der 

zweiten Hälfte des Textes von Buch II (Ayasofya 3592), die N.P. Joosse unlängst 

entdeckte. Die Beiträge, die sie für die Edition leisten kann, werden anhand einer 

Kostprobe dargestellt. Dass die arabische Galen-Version sogar für die Kritik des 

Hippokrates-Textes wichtig ist, weist R. Alessi nach. Der Pergamener hatte beispielsweise 

ältere Lesarten der Vorlage diskutiert, die in der handschriftlichen 

Überlieferung fehlen, welche allein von der Ausgabe des Artemidorus Capito 

(1. Jh. n. Chr.) abhängt. Der griechische Text der Lemmata bei Galen wurde aber 

mit dem des Grundwerks kontaminiert, weshalb 0unains Übertragung der einzige 

wirklich unabhängige Zeuge für dessen ursprüngliche Gestalt ist. 

2 Vgl. zu dieser auch F. Käs: Eine neue Handschrift von 0unain ibn Is1aqs Galenbibliographie, 

in: Zeitschrift für Geschichte der arabisch-islamischen Wissenschaften 19 (2010–2011), S. 175, 

Nr. 95 (mit weiterer Literatur). 

3 U.a. vergleicht er den Epidemienkommentar statistisch mit anderen Werken 0unains und 

solchen aus dem Umkreis al-Kind\s. Zur Übersetzung der hierzu gezählten aristotelischen Tierbücher 

durch Eustathios und ihrem Bezug zu Teilen der Eth. nic. kann nunmehr auf M. Ullmann 

verwiesen werden: Die Nikomachische Ethik des Aristoteles in arabischer Übersetzung. Teil 2. 

Überlieferung, Textkritik, Grammatik, Wiesbaden 2012, bes. S. 16ff.

240 Reviews 

Der Übersetzungstechnik 0unains ist ein Aufsatz von O. Overwien gewidmet, 

der darlegt, dass es dessen Hauptziel war, einen Text herzustellen, der 

für den damaligen Leser – nicht aber den heutigen Philologen – nützlich war. 

Hierzu griff er bisweilen in den Text ein und emendierte Korruptelen und Lücken 

sinngemäß. Auch fügte er häufig erläuternde Glossen ein. Galen macht oft Querverweise 

auf andere seiner Werke oder zitiert sich selbst. In solchen Fällen griff 

0unain nachweislich auf bereits existierende Übersetzungen zurück, weshalb 

solche Passagen einen identischen Wortlaut haben können, selbst wenn sie von 

verschiedenen Übersetzern stammen. G. Strohmaier geht auf die Frage ein, wie 

die Übersetzer mit Stellen umgingen, die mit dem antiken Heidentum in Verbindung 

stehen. Beispielsweise werden aus griechischen Göttern in manchen Übersetzungen 

Engel. Er kann aber auch nachweisen, dass einige dieser Umdeutungen 

von späteren Kopisten der Handschriften herrühren. Schließlich schlägt er 

noch eine Neuinterpretation einer Stelle im Tafsir vor. Ein dort erwähnter Scherz 

von Lukian hätte demnach nicht auf die Grammatiker (nahwiyin) abgezielt, sondern 

auf die beiden Glaubensrichtungen (nahwain), d.h. Juden und Christen. 

Ein weiterer Abschnitt des Sammelbandes befasst sich mit der arabischen Rezeption 

ausgewählter hippokratischer Werke. Den Anfang macht B. Hallum mit 

Untersuchungen zum Nachleben von Galens Epidemienkommentar. Mit großem 

Fleiß hat er hierbei herausgearbeitet, welche Bearbeitungen existierten und welche 

Autoren dieses Werk zitierten. Angesichts der schieren Menge der erhaltenen arabischen 

medizinischen Literatur ist dabei natürlich nie ein absolut erschöpfendes 

Ergebnis zu erzielen. Der Rez. möchte daher im Folgenden noch einige Handschriften 

und Werke vorstellen, die dem Verf. nicht zugänglich oder unbekannt waren. 

Von 0unain sind biographisch und handschriftlich mehrere Epidemien-Bearbeitungen 

bekannt. Hierzu gehört Ms. 313 der Universitätsbibliothek in Mumbai. 4 

Das Opusculum ist in Form von Frage und Antwort abgefasst und könnte daher 

tatsächlich mit 0unains ®imar zu Galens Kommentar gleichzusetzen sein (Hallum 

S. 187 Nr. a). Ein stringentes inhaltliches Konzept ist nicht zu erkennen, vielmehr 

folgen die „Lesefrüchte“ offenbar der Anordnung der Vorlage. Manchmal 

werden etwa einzelne Krankenjournale fortlaufend unter gänzlich verschiedenen 

Aspekten betrachtet. Die in GAS III 35 verzeichneten Zitate aus 0unains Masa#il 

4 Vgl. F. Sezgin: Geschichte des arabischen Schrifttums, 9 Bde., Leiden 1967–1984, Bd. V 

S. 406. Umfang: 29 Folia à 21 Zeilen (ca. 9./15. Jh.) – Beginn: ®amaratu Kitabi Buqrata fi l-Amradi 

l-wafidati mimmaâmilahuHunainu bnu Ishaqa. âlamatu l-humma l-muhriqati: hiya humma 

yakunu maâhaâtafun da#imun wa-hararatun mu#üiyatun mutbiqatun wa-tawalluduha min 

mararin yaˇgtamiû fi l-ûruqi llati fi l-mi^dati wa-kabdi […] – Ende: […] wa-üalika mimma yadullu fi 

ak©ari l-halati âla anna fi l-hiˇgabi waraman. Neben Hippokrates werden im Text Gˇal\nus (fol. 

19r,6; 25v,12) und 0unain (fol. 25v,12–14) erwähnt.

Reviews 241 

Abiüimiya stammen nicht aus diesem Werk. 5 Die meisten davon kommen wohl 

aus den ebenfalls bei Ibn Ab\ Usaibiâ erwähnten Masa#il fi l-baul (Hallum S. 187 

Nr. c). Die anderen mögen aus den Gˇawami^ (S. 188 Nr. d) stammen, die teilweise 

in Ms. Mailand, Ambrosiana B 135 (fol. 119–144) erhalten sind. Bei ar-Raz\ wird 

nämlich angegeben, aus welchem Buch des Werks die Zitate stammen, was nur 

dem Typus der Mailänder Bearbeitung zu entnehmen ist. 

Die Handschrift aus Bombay hat keinesfalls etwas mit einem Kommentar Ibn 

at-Taiyibs zu tun. Letztlich ist nicht einmal klar, ob jener ein solches Werk überhaupt 

verfasst hat. Bekanntermaßen blieben viele der von P. Sbath 6 in Privatsammlungen 

in Aleppo angeblich gefundenen Werke Phantome. In den beiden 

bekannten Redaktionen von Ibn at-Taiyibs K. an-Nukat wa-l-a©mar (Nuruosmaniye 

3610 und Escorial 888) konnte der Rez. keine direkten Bezüge zu Galens Epidemienkommentar 

feststellen. Weitere Zitate aus diesem Werk Galens finden sich 

aber in einer Schrift über den Husten, die sicher zu Recht Ibn al-Gˇazzar zugeschrieben 

wird: K. âla Ra#y Abuqrat wa-Gˇalinus fi s-suâl wa-asbabihi wa-tara#iq îlaˇgihi, 

Ms. Oxford, Bodleian Library, Marsh 215 (fol. 34v-49v), fol. 35v,6; 39r,5; 40r,4. 7 

P.E. Pormann und N.P. Joosse gehen auf die arabische Rezeption der Aphorismen 

ein, eines weiteren fundamentalen Hippokrates-Werkes. Sie haben über 

ein Dutzend Bearbeitungen untersucht, darunter auch die der Geistesgrößen 

Maimonides und Avempace. Anhand des Aphorismus VI 23, der chronische 

Angstzustände als von der schwarzen Galle herrührend definiert, werden die verschiedenen 

Ansätze dargestellt, die die Araber in ihren Kommentaren verfolgten. 

Trotz aufwändiger Handschriftenstudien blieben den Verf. einige weitere Werke 

unzugänglich (S. 247). Der Rez. konnte zumindest eines davon einsehen, das hier 

kurz charakterisiert sei. Naˇgm ad-D\n A1mad b. Asâd b. al-Minfa3 (st. 652/1254) 

verfasste einen kleinen Traktat, in dem er zu Einwänden Stellung bezog, die gegen 

manche der Aphorismen erhoben worden waren. Der erwähnte Titel Ris. fi 

Radd al-i^tiradat âla K. al-Fusul findet sich übrigens weder auf der einzigen bekannten 

Handschrift, Istanbul, Hekimo>lu 574, fol. 125v-155v (datiert 698/1298), 

noch bei Ibn Ab\ Usaibiâ (ed. Müller II 266). Trotz des geringen Umfangs scheint 

5 Zu der oben zitierten ersten Aussage des Buches existieren tatsächlich Parallelen bei Abu 

Bakr ar-Raz\: K. al-Hawi fit-tibb, 23 Bde., 0aidarabad 1955–1970, Bd. XV S. 122,8; 134,13. Der 

Wortlaut dieser Zitate aus Masa#il Abiüimiya I bzw. II unterscheidet sich aber stark davon. 

6 Die Handschrift steht entgegen der Angabe des Verf. sehr wohl bei Sbath, aber in folgendem 

Werk: Al-Fihris (Catalogue de manuscrits arabes), 3 Bde., Le Caire 1938–1940, Bd. I S. 24, 

Nr. 154. Dort lautet der Titel: Tafsir K. Abidimiya li-Abuqrat (vgl. GAS III 35, Nr. 5a). 

7 Siehe Emilie Savage-Smith: A New Catalogue of Arabic Manuscripts in the Bodleian Library, 

University of Oxford. Volume I: Medicine, Oxford 2011, Nr. 145, S. 539ff., wo nur Pal\nus, nicht 

aber der Buchtitel, genannt wird.

242 Reviews 

der Text vollständig vorzuliegen, da Aphorismen aus allen sieben Abschnitten 

behandelt werden. Vom sechsten Abschnitt werden nur Aph. VI 9, 37 und 47 besprochen 

– nicht aber VI 23. Bei den jeweiligen Einträgen wird zuerst das Lemma 

angegeben (qala Abuqrat), sodann der Einwand (aˇs-ˇsakk) paraphrasiert, zuletzt 

folgt die Entkräftung durch den Autor (al-ˇgawab). Beispielsweise sollen nach 

Aph. VI 9 (Littré IV 566,1) ausgedehnte Exantheme nicht jucken. Ibn al-Minfa3 

(fol. 154v,14) entkräftet den Einwand, dass der Ausschlag (ˇsaran) sehr wohl juckt, 

indem er das Jucken in diesem Fall als Akzidens definiert, das von einer sekundär 

hinzukommenden Komplexion herrührt. Quellen werden nur in Ausnahmefällen 

namentlich angeführt. 8 Bisweilen werden auch ˇsukuk ausdrücklich auf ar-Raz\ 

zurückgeführt (fol. 134r,11; 128v,4,9). Möglicherweise wird hier also gegen dessen 

verlorenen Aphorismenkommentar polemisiert, in dem nach Pormann/Joosse 

S. 220 durchaus kritisch mit der Vorlage umgegangen worden war. 

Joosse bereitet eine Edition von Âbd al-Lat\f al-Bagdad\s Kommentar zum 

Prognostikon vor. Zusammen mit Pormann untersucht er in einem weiteren 

Artikel die arabischen Bearbeitungen dieses hippokratischen Buches über die 

Voraussage von Krankheitsverläufen. Besonders berücksichtigt wird natürlich 

das Werk Âbd al-Lat\fs, von dem eine längere Passage vorab abgedruckt wird. 

Außergewöhnlich ist der Umstand, dass dieser im Bemühen um ein korrektes 

Verständnis der Vorlage in vielen Fällen 0unains Übersetzung mit einer anderen 

verglichen hat (S. 264f., S. 255), die unter Umständen von al-Bitr\q gestammt haben 

könnte (S. 12). 

Den Abschluss der Sammlung bildet ein Beitrag von Leigh Chipman, die der 

Hippokrates-Rezeption in der arabischen Pharmazeutik nachgehen wollte. Das 

Ergebnis war jedoch recht ernüchternd: in dieser Literaturgattung gibt es kaum 

Einflüsse des Koers. Letztlich verwundert dies auch nicht, da die graeco-arabische 

Tradition hier ganz andere Wege genommen hatte und Komposita im eigentlichen 

Sinne im Corpus Hippocraticum rar sind. Unter den von der Verf. angeführten 

Therapien aus Buch II des Epidemienkommentars (S. 286ff.) findet sich z.B. 

gerade einmal ein einziges echtes Rezept. Trotz dieses Negativergebnisses kann 

der Leser doch Gewinn aus dem Artikel ziehen, da auch auf die allgemeine Überlieferungsgeschichte 

der arabischen Dispensatorien eingegangen wird. Hierzu 

gehören etwa nützliche Erkenntnisse über Ibn Sarabiyuns Aqrabaüin sagir. 

Jeder, der an philologischen Fragestellungen Interesse hat, wird an dem 

besprochenen Band seine Freude haben. Hier wird auf engem Raum aufgezeigt, 

was bei der Überlieferung von Texten über die Jahrtausende alles geschehen 

8 Ar-Raz\: fol. 127v,18 133r,14; b.a. Sadiq: 128r,2, 133r,19; Pal\nus: 145v,8, 148r,5, 150r,-2, 

152v,ff., 155r,2.

Reviews 243 

kann. Die einen Kommentatoren instrumentalisieren ihre Vorlage für eigene Zwecke, 

andere arbeiten mit Mitteln, die schon die moderne Textkritik vorwegnehmen. 

Kommentare werden mit dem Grundtext kontaminiert und umgekehrt. 

Frühmittelalterliche Übersetzer greifen in den Text ein, um ein für die Leser 

gefälliges Produkt herzustellen und frühe Humanisten erfinden aus demselben 

Grund ganze Passagen ihrer Editionen selbst. Der Rez. findet dies alles spannender 

als so manchen Kriminalroman und ist erfreut, dass er mit dieser Ansicht 

noch nicht allein ist. 9 

Fabian Käs: Biburg, F.Kaes@gmx.de 

John Renard (ed.): Tales of God’s Friends. Islamic Hagiography in Translation. 

Berkeley, Los Angeles and London 2009: University of California Press, XV + 

413S. ISBN 978-0-520-25896-9, $ 24.95. 

This anthology was designed as a companion volume to the editor’s other book 

on Islamic saints, Friends of God. 1 The editor writes, “The present anthology seeks 

to provide through primary sources a sense of the multiple facets and expansive 

dimensions of Islamic hagiography” (p. xi). The book contains twenty-seven 

chapters, each of which contains a translated hagiographic text with a bibliographical 

introduction and provides an overview of the complex reality of Islamic 

hagiography. 

The anthology deals with the hagiography of different regions, from Morocco 

to China; its chapters are ordered geographically, from East to West, and are arranged 

in six parts. (Part 1: The Arab Middle East and North Africa, Part 2: Iran 

and Afghanistan, Part 3: Turkey and Central Asia, Part 4: Africa: West and East, 

Part 5: South Asia, and Part 6: Southeast Asia and East Asia.) Naturally, the languages 

of original texts, of which there are seventeen, are quite diverse: Arabic, 

Persian, Kurdish, Pashtu, Chaghatay Turkic, Turkish, Wolof, Fulfulde (Fulani), 

Hausa, Swahili, Siraiki, Gujarati, Urdu, Bengali, Malay, Indonesian and Chinese. 

The saints covered in these chapters include some who are known to almost 

9 Errata: S. 15,8 statt 805] lies 804; S. 65,15 peÜma] pneÜma; 167,3 ] ; 180,21 hrvbh] 

Xrvbh; 180,-6 êlyono©] êlyonim; 256,19 empiricists] methodics. Die englischen Zitate S. 30 und 

40 stimmen nicht bzw. nicht ganz mit dem arabischen Text überein. 

1 John Renard, Friends of God. Islamic Images of Piety, Commitment, and Servanthood. Berkeley, 

Los Angeles and London 2008.

244 Reviews 

everyone in this academic field: Abu Bakr, Abu al-Qasim al-Junayd, Yunus Emre, 

Usuman dan Fodio, A1mad Sirhind\, and Sunan Ampel; however, more localized 

saints, such as Shaykh Uways ibn Muhammad of Somalia, and fictional figures, 

including Bonb\b\ and Manik P\r of South Asia, and the pre-Islamic prophet Job 

receive reasonable attention. The styles of texts are also multiform, ranging over 

biographical prose (manaqib, tabaqat, tadhkira, malfuzat, makbubat, and various 

local types), hadith, fatwa, fada’il, modern novels, modern autobiography, 

poems (lyric and epic), and oral tradition. 

Generally speaking, the editor and the authors succeed in giving the readers 

a sense of the raw sources of hagiography, derived from so many genres and languages; 

this undertaking is too vast for one person to attempt alone. In cases where 

I was able to consult original texts, I found the translations accurate and fluent. 

If this anthology is used as a supplementary class reader, it would be remarkably 

beneficial to undergraduate students who cannot read the languages of the Muslim 

world. Moreover, some chapters will attract student interest, since they contain 

exciting stories, among which I recommend the hagiography of Sarı Saltık, 

a legendary warrior-saint who contributed to the Islamization of the Balkans 

(ch. 10). The hagiography of Job and his wife, written on the Swahili coast (ch. 15), 

and of Bonb\b\ and Manik P\r, composed in Bengal, can be likewise enjoyed (ch. 23 

and 24). One can adequately appreciate the beauty of poems dedicated to saints. 

Those of Shaykh Abbass of Senegal for his precursors of the Tijan\ya (ch. 13); of 

Nana Asma’u, daughter of Usuman dan Fodio of Nigeria (ch. 14); and of Khwaja 

Ghulam Far\d of India (ch. 19) are fair examples. Presently, university students 

tend to pay most attention to politicized Islam. It would be desirable for them to 

learn more about Sufism and saint veneration in order to develop a well-balanced 

image of Islam. Tales of God’s Friends could serve as a good tool for that aim. 

However, I am obliged to point out that there are four slightly unsatisfactory 

points of this book. To begin with, the chapters are about ten pages long, and 

the shortest contains just four pages. Consequently, the translated documents 

of many chapters are fragments and sometimes fail to show their full charm to 

readers. Basic information on the saints and their hagiographies are too scanty, 

particularly for students. It would have been a good idea to reduce the number of 

chapters by half and double the length of those that remain, an editorial choice 

that would permit authors to develop their analyses and interpretations of translated 

hagiographies; this way, readers could understand how to read hagiographical 

texts and what each can teach. The editor may consider fifteen chapters 

insufficient to reveal the diversity of Islamic hagiography, but twenty-seven seem 

excessive. 

I also have reservations about the overall structure of the anthology which is 

explained by the author in his Introduction: “I suggest ways of understanding the

Reviews 245 

diversity and breadth of materials collected in this anthology through the filters 

of geography and culture, chronology and history, and languages and literatures 

of origin” (p. 2). The arrangement by six regions, each including relatively old and 

newer texts, is carefully considered; however, a certain deviation and ambiguity 

mar this organizational formula. For example, it is not clear why Part 5 (South 

Asia) has eight chapters, double that of the other parts of the book, whereas Part 6 

has only three chapters and appears rather meager. Furthermore, only one of 

the four chapters of Part 3 (Turkey and Central Asia) is allotted to Central Asian 

saints, which appears inadequate, since the study of hagiography is very developed 

in this region. If it were not for the “Comparative/Synoptic Chart Listed by 

Order in Table of Contents” (pp. 372–376), it would be very difficult to grasp the 

overall content of the book. From it, we easily notice that the hagiographies of 

pre-modern saints are dominant in its first half (ch. 1–3), and those of more recent 

ones, in its latter half (ch. 4–6). This division is partly explained by the fact that 

the regions covered in the latter section were islamized later, but I am afraid that 

this internal division may give the fault impression that saint veneration in the 

Middle East has relatively declined today. 

My third concern centers on the lack of a common theme. Most of the 

chapters have their own themes, and some of them are quite rewarding for the 

readers. Nevertheless, the anthology lacks thematic unity, except for the fact 

that all the chapters are dealing with hagiography. Therefore, we cannot identify 

any logical development in hagiographic study in reading the book from beginning 

to end, a rather vexing task. It is recommendable to avoid reading the entire 

text in favor of selecting interesting chapters, without concern for their sequential 

order. 

Finally, I am dissatisfied with the selection of some of the saints. In most 

cases, the choice of saints and hagiographical stories seems reasonable, but in a 

few cases, I felt that other saints could have been chosen, particularly, if the book 

should be used in undergraduate seminars. For example, I would have selected 

Abu Madyan instead of Abu Ya‘za Yallanur (popularly known as Mulay Bu ‘Azza) 

and Hacı Bektak Veli instead of Sarı Ismail. Abu Madyan, a disciple of Abu Ya‘za, 

and Hacı Bektak Veli, a master of Sarı Ismail, are representative saints in Maghreb 

and Turkey. I do not mean to imply that the anthology should take up only the 

famous saints. In fact, the hagiography of local saints without vast followings is 

often thought-provoking. What I mean is that, although Abu Ya‘za and Sarı Ismail 

are popular saints in their regions, Abu Madyan and Hacı Bektak Veli are more favored 

and have richer hagiographies, and may be worth showing to students. Although 

it may sound trivial, I was a little disappointed that no chapters are devoted 

to Ahmad-i Jam and Eyüp Ansari (Eyüp Sultan), whose full-page-sized 

beautiful miniatures were used as the cover illustration and the frontispiece.

246 Reviews 

Even with these imperfections, Tales of God’s Friends surely deserves attention. 

As the first comprehensive study of hagiography, this anthology is sufficiently 

informative and useful. I approve the encouragement of hagiographic 

study mainly on two grounds: First, hagiography has not been fully utilized in the 

study of Islamic history, mainly because historians have considered this genre as 

fiction; however, as we see in this anthology, hagiography offers much useful information 

to historians. Second, hagiography is a fruitful approach to the study 

on Sufism and saint veneration, which, as I wrote above, require notice today, 

when so much attention is paid to Islamism or fundamentalism. 

More specifically, I point out the urgent need of an extensive work to cover the 

study of saint veneration in Islam. For the last fifteen years, my colleague Yasushi 

TONAGA at Kyoto University and I have conducted a joint research on Sufism and 

saint veneration in cooperation with some French colleagues at the CNRS. In our 

research group, we understand that Sufism and saint veneration are distinct phenomena 

that are very easily combined in history. Following this understanding, we 

have been troubled by the lack of a comprehensive, solid work on saint veneration, 

something of the quality of Les voies d’Allah (1996) on Sufi thought and tariqas. 2 In 

studies on Sufism, we can count extensive general works from the classical one 

of TRIMINGHAM to the newest one of ABUN-NASR. 3 The editor of Tales of God’s 

Friends himself has published the Historical Dictionary of Sufism, 4 which has been a 

reference source on my desk since its publication. We need a similar kind of general 

work on saint veneration, and this anthology is a good step in that direction. 

In general, certain concepts and the framework of this anthology gave me 

pause for thought. For example, the term “Friend of God” deserves comment. It is 

used instead of the term “saint” and comes from the Arabic expression waliyullah 

(wali Allah). I know that some problems arise from the use of the term “saint” as 

an equivalent to wali and that the expression “Friend of God,” which is sometimes 

used by Muslims themselves, is not an invention of the editor. However, this expression 

is employed to refer to Abraham in the Old Testament and in the Qur’an; 

thus, “Friend of God” is not free from the influence of Christian thought. If we 

consider the original meaning of waliyullah as a “person who stands close to 

God,” “Friend of God” itself is merely a conventional translation. Moreover, 

waliyullah is not so commonly utilized in the daily life of ordinary Muslims. They 

use various local terms, such as pir, faqi, and ishan. By that, I do not mean to re- 

2 Alexandre Popovic et Gille Veinstein (ed.), Les voies d’Allah: Les ordres mystiques dans le 

monde musulman des origines à aujourd’hui. Paris 1996. 

3 J. Spencer Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam. Oxford 1971; Jamil M. Abun-Nasr, Muslim 

Communities of Grace: The Sufi Brotherhoods in Islamic Religious Life. New York 2007. 

4 John Renard, Historical Dictionary of Sufism. Lanham, Toronto, and London 2005.

Reviews 247 

pudiate the use of the term “Friend of God.” It is, in fact, a very nice title for this 

anthology. What I wish to say is that there is no need to avoid the word “saint” so 

thoroughly in this book. 

I would also like to call attention to the definition of “hagiography”. I completely 

agree with the editor that hagiography should be understood in a wider 

sense than previously usual. It should include small pamphlets, videos, and websites 

distributed widely among Muslims today. However, I consider hagiography 

a form of narrative that does not embrace all works for the sake of saints. Jamal J. 

Elias writes in Chapter 19, “Far\d’s poetry is not overtly hagiographic, in that 

the subject is not a prophet or specific holy person. However, his poetry (and that 

of other vernacular Sufi poets from the Indus valley) functions hagiographically 

at several levels, both textually and performatively” (p. 250). This view seems an 

excessive expansion of the definition of hagiography, which, if adopted, would 

embrace prayers, litanies, music, songs, and bodily actions dedicated to saints. 

To use hagiography as an effective analytical term, an unlimited expansion of its 

meaning should be avoided. 

Notwithstanding these minor points of critisism, the editor has achieved 

considerable success in producing this pioneering work. As he himself says, 

“A deeper and more thorough survey would, of course, require many volumes 

like this” (p. xi). I look forward to seeing how he develops the subjects and themes 

presented in Tales of God’s Friends and Friends of Gods. 

Mayasuki Akahori: Tokio, akahori@sophia.ac.jp 

Georges Tamer (Hrsg.), Humor in der arabischen Kultur / Humor in Arabic Culture. 

Berlin und New York 2009: De Gruyter, XX + 387 S. ISBN 978-3-11-019825-6. 

Der Islam ist eine strenge Gesetzesreligion, die auf das tägliche Leben ihrer Anhänger 

einen derart massiven Einfluss ausübt, dass dem Individuum wenig Zeit 

für Mußestunden und diverse Formen der Unterhaltung bleibt, denen die Theologen 

misstrauisch gegenüberstehen und die in den üamm al-malahi-Schriften 

ausgiebig gescholten werden. Kein Wunder also, dass nur recht wenige arabische 

Werke existieren, die sich ausschließlich den mannigfachen Ausprägungen des 

literarischen Humors widmen. Die arabischen wie die europäischen Gelehrten 

der Neuzeit haben, da Wissenschaft ja bekanntlich auch eine ernste Sache ist, 

sich kaum für diese literarische Sparte interessiert und so hat es bis zur zweiten 

Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts gedauert, bis durch Pioniere wie F. Rosenthal (Humor 

in Early Islam. Leiden 1956) oder durch die Edition der umfangreichsten klas-

248 Reviews 

sisch-arabischen Sammlung von Witzen, nämlich des Na©r ad-durr von al-Ab\ in 

den Jahren 1980 bis 1990 die Aufmerksamkeit der Arabisten auf humoristisches 

Schrifttum in arabischer Sprache gelenkt wurde. 

Das Interesse der Forscher hat nun seinen Niederschlag in einem Kongress 

gefunden, der an der Freien Universität Berlin im Juli 2007 stattfand. Die aus diesem 

Anlass gehaltenen Vorträge bilden den größten Teil des hier anzuzeigenden 

Sammelbandes, der die Beiträge vier Sektionen zuordnet. Nach einleitenden Worten 

umreißt der Herausgeber Tamer kurz die Schwierigkeit, ‚Humor‘ zu definieren, 

weist darauf hin, dass, je nachdem ob ein Psychologe, ein Philosoph, ein Soziologe 

oder ein Sprach- oder Literaturwissenschaftler den Begriff definiert, die 

jeweiligen Sichtweisen stark differieren, liefert eine knappe Inhaltsangabe jedes 

Beitrags und eröffnet dann die Sektion 1: Religion and Humor mit seiner eigenen 

Untersuchung zum Koran, der seiner Ansicht nach „a particular form of humor 

which can be called Islamic“ (S. 28) enthält. – B. Krawietz stellt die traditionelle 

Haltung der Åar\â gegenüber Scherzen und Späßen vor, wobei sie sich in der 

Hauptsache mit dem Aufsatz von Âbdalgan\ Abu Gudda: al-Muzah fi l-Islam. In: 

Mapallat aˇs-Sˇariâ wa-l-ûlum al-islamiya 20 (Kuwait 1426/2005), S. 195–273 auseinandersetzt. 

– B. Radtke, der qabd (Beklommenheit) und bast (Gelöstheit) als 

Grundeinstellungen islamischer Mystik benennt, kommt zu dem Schluss, dass 

der Sufi Humorigem abhold ist, da „das persönliche Verhältnis der Seele zu Gott“ 

(S. 55) eine sehr ernste Sache sei. – T. Ilan sucht nach den Ursprüngen des jüdischen 

Witzes, den er nicht in der hebräischen Bibel, sondern vor allem im Babylonischen 

Talmud nachweist. – M. Bongardt beschreibt die Funktion von Humor 

in der christlichen Religion in der Sichtweise von Sören Kierkegaard. 

Sektion 2: Cross-Cultural Humor wird von G. Strohmaier eröffnet, der das 

Fortleben einiger Witze des Philogelos in der römischen und arabischen Literatur 

anhand weniger Beispiele deutlich macht. – Der folgende Beitrag von O. Overwien 

geht sehr viel intensiver auf Nachweise von aus der Antike bekannten Witzen 

im klassisch-arabischen Schrifttum ein. – P. Marciniak führt uns in den Humor 

der Byzantiner ein und J. Sadan ediert und übersetzt erstmalig einige lustige 

kurze Geschichten und Witze nach einem Fragment der Genizah als Beispiele 

volkstümlichen jüdisch-arabischen Humors, die eindeutige Verbindungen zur 

adab-Literatur erkennen lassen. 

Sektion 3: Humor in Medieval Arabic Literature bildet das Kernstück der 

Sammlung, die U. Marzolph mit dem Versuch eröffnet, die Grenzen auszuloten, 

die den arabischen Witzen durch die Religion gesetzt sind, denn über Allah oder 

seine Einzigkeit zu lachen, den Koran oder den Propheten zu verspotten, Scherze 

über die arkan al-Islam zu machen, dies alles ist natürlich tabu. Erlaubt und gängige 

Praxis hingegen ist es, Koranverse quasi als Requisiten zu verwenden und 

Witze über Einfältige zu reißen, die sie falsch zitieren bzw. missverstehen, oder

Reviews 249 

die nicht einmal die ˇsahada hocharabisch korrekt aussprechen können. – R. Jacobi 

und W. Heinrichs sind dem Humor bei dem Liebesdichter Ûmar b. Ab\ 

Rab\â bzw. dem Meister der Naturdichtung as-Sanaubar\ auf der Spur. – J. E. 

Montgomery zeigt anhand der Risala fi l-pidd wa l-hazl von al-Pa1i| auf, wie eng 

Ernst und Scherz miteinander verflochten sind. – A. Neuwirth macht die spielerische 

Überschreitung von Sozialnormen am Beispiel der Maqama ramliya von al- 

0ar\r\ deutlich. – C. Ott führt einige lustige Passagen aus Tausendundeine Nacht 

vor und S. Leder schließlich beschreibt die satirische Darstellung der Gesellschaft 

seiner Zeit durch Ibn Ârabˇsah in seinem literarischen Fürstenspiegel Fakihat 

al-äulafa# wa-mufakahat az-zurafa#. 

Sektion 4: Humor in Modern Arabic Literature enthält Beiträge von P. Dové 

über den syrischen Journalisten und Schriftsteller Zakar\ya Tāmir, der in seinen 

sozialkritischen Werken mit einer gehörigen Portion schwarzen Humors die arabische 

Gesellschaft karikiert, Sh. Abou El Naga über Satire als politische Waffe 

in modernen ägyptischen Theaterstücken im Kampf gegen Zensur, S. Binay über 

zeitgenössische politische Witze im Libanon, R. Spiller über den 2007 verstorbenen 

marokkanischen Autor Driss Chraïbi [Idr\s aˇs-Sˇarāyibī], der in seinem 

Kurzroman La civilisation, ma mère! die Emanzipation einer analphabetischen 

Mutter im Marokko der dreißiger Jahre schildert, die sich zu einer politisch aktiven 

Frau entwickelt und ins Exil nach Frankreich geht, dabei jedoch ihren Humor 

und ihre Kreativität nie verliert, D. Ruhe über den algerischen Cartoonisten Slim 

[d.i. Menouar Merabtene, im Original ], der in seinen Comicstrips die 

postkoloniale Gesellschaft Algeriens aufs Korn nimmt (eine Kurzfassung davon in 

der NZZ vom 22. Juni 2009), und A. Pflitsch über Raˇs\d ad. -D. a^īf: Âudat al-almani 

ila ruˇsdihi („Wie der Deutsche wieder zur Vernunft kommt“) und seine Debatte 

zumeist über Sexualmoral mit dem deutschen Literaten Joachim Helfer. – 

Beschlossen wird der Band durch eine Liste der Autoren und einen kumulativen 

Personen- und Sachindex, der sehr sorgfältig gearbeitet ist. 

Der Rez. hat den Band, dessen Beiträge mit geringen Ausnahmen von hoher 

oder höchster Qualität sind, mit großem Interesse und ebensolchem Gewinn gelesen. 

Es versteht sich von selbst, dass ihm als Arabisten die Sektion 3 am besten 

gefallen hat, da sie ausschließlich dem Humor in der klassisch-arabischen Literatur 

gewidmet ist. Dagegen haben meines Erachtens die Artikel über rabbinischen 

oder byzantinischen Humor oder gar über Sören Kierkegaard in diesem Band 

nichts zu suchen; problematisch scheint mir auch die Aufnahme der bezeichnenderweise 

von zwei Romanisten verfassten Studien über Chraïbi und Slim zu 

sein. Kann man etwa Slim, der ganz in der Tradition der französischen bandes 

dessinées steht, nur auf Französisch schreibt und sich vieler Anspielungen auf 

Elemente der französischen Popkultur bedient, guten Gewissens zu den Protagonisten 

des arabischen Humors zählen? Wohl schwerlich, doch soll hier nicht die

250 Reviews 

Aufnahme von Marginalem beklagt werden, sondern die Tatsache, dass sich leider 

keine Autoren fanden, die sich mit den Klassikern des arabischen Humors befassen 

wollten: Ich denke hier an Werke wie Ibn Ab\ Âuns Sammlung von schlagfertigen 

Antworten, die großen Kompendien wie der bereits erwähnte Na©r 

ad-durr, at-Tau1\d\s al-Basa#ir wa-ü-üaäa#ir, oder die Werke Ibn al-Pauz\s über 

Dumme, Kluge, Geistreiche und Spötter, um nur einige zu nennen, Monographien 

über bekannte Witzfiguren wie Pu1a, Muzabbid, Pummain usw., oder über die 

Schildbürgerwitze, die man über die Bürger von 0ims machte und die heute noch 

vielfach fortleben und weiter gesponnen werden. Es bleibt also, obwohl die Forschung 

gerade in den letzten beiden Jahrzehnten in den unterschiedlichsten Bereichen 

des arabischen Humors nicht untätig war, wie es die dankenswerte Zusammenstellung 

der Arbeiten durch C. Gilliot in seiner Rezension in Arabica 

57/4 (2010), S. 499–505 deutlich macht, noch viel zu tun. Einem neuen Kongress, 

der wieder die so zahlreichen Facetten des arabischen Humors beleuchtet, sollte 

daher nichts im Wege stehen. 

Reinhard Weipert: München, weipert-uni-muenchen-sem@t-online.de 

Luke Treadwell, Craftsmen and Coins: Signed Dies in the Iranian World 

(third to fifth centuries AH) (Denkschriften der philosophisch-historischen 

Klasse, Bd. 423 – Veröffentlichungen zur Iranistik, Bd. 67 – Veröffentlichungen 

der Numismatischen Kommission, Bd. 54). Vienna 2011: Verlag der Österreichischen 

Akademie, 124 S. ISBN 978-3-7001-6959-8. 

The monograph documents and analyzes the signing of dies in the Iranian world 

in the 3 rd–5 th centuries AH / 10 th–11 th centuries CE. This extraordinary practice 

consists of the inscription by the engraver of his name on coin dies. The inscription 

appears in miniscule on the struck coins. Best known from ancient coinage of 

Syracuse and its neighbors, the practice was adopted by a small number of craftsmen 

for dirhams and d\nars under the Samanids, Buyids and Kakawayhids of 

Iran and Afghanistan. 

The phenomenon begs an explanation. As the author notes, the images and 

legends on a coin were designed to call attention to the ruler’s authority and 

status, not the humble artisan. Yet, the signatures of at least three different engravers 

appear at more than a dozen mints between 905 and the early 1000s CE. 

Moreover, while signatures of renowned artisans enhanced the prestige of coinage 

in the ancient world, those of the Islamic world were deliberately inconspicuous 

and even surreptitious.

Reviews 251 

The monograph identifies several factors behind their introduction and use. 

The first of these is the elimination of cadres of die engravers in the eastern provinces 

due to the expansion and standardization of caliphal coin production under 

the Umayyads and Âbbasids. These dynasties established central workshops in 

Iraq to ensure uniform die engraving. The workshops produced dies for Iraqi as 

well as provincial mints. When coin output increased under the Âbbasids, however, 

the eastern mints often faced shortages. The workshops were not always 

able to meet their demand. This is evident from their use of worn or ‘ring-struck’ 

dies, or the recut dies of other mints. 

A second factor was the rise and secession of states in northern and eastern Iran 

in the 9 th and 10 th centuries CE. This allowed mints to recruit local die engravers 

without the approval of the caliphal government in Iraq. As the Samanids, Buyids 

and Kakawayhids asserted their autonomy, new mints were opened and new coin 

types, introduced. Local artisans who worked with metalware, ceramics or stone 

began to prepare the dies for these mints. Some of them also signed their dies. 

The monograph focuses on the careers of three engravers: Muj\b (al-0arith) 

(Chapter 4–5); al-0asan b. Mu1ammad (Chapter 6–7); and Mu1ammad (Chapter 8). 

These are so far the only reliably identified engravers to have signed dies. The chronological 

and geographical scope of their activity is gauged as best as possible based 

both on signed dies and on unsigned dies that can be attributed to them by analysis 

of style. In addition, the volume of work undertaken by each engraver is judged 

based on an estimate of annual die production at the mints where he worked. 

The first of these engravers, Muj\b, owed his employment to the Samanid 

conquest of Khurasan in the late 9 th and early 10 th centuries CE. He was initially 

active at mints in the vicinity of Panjh\r where he may have been hired specifically 

to engrave the dies of a revised dirham type introduced in 293 AH/905 CE. 

He probably also produced most of the unsigned dies at these mints. His service, 

however, ended in approximately 302 AH/914 CE. 

The signature of al-0arith, which appears on dinars and occasional dirhams 

of N\shapur between 313 AH/925 CE and 339 AH/950 CE, may also belong to Muj\b. 

A lone dirham is known from this mint dated 314 AH (926 CE) bearing his name. 

Al-0arith’s signature occurs in four different forms. In addition to N\shapur, it is 

found on the coinage of a small number of nearby mints. 

The name of al-0asan b. Mu1ammad appears following the Buyid conquest 

of Jibal in northern Iran in 335 AH/946 CE. The career of this engraver is divided 

into two phases. Between 335 AH/946 CE to 352 AH/963 CE, he engraved d\nar 

and dirham dies intermittently at al-Mu1ammadiyya, Hamadan, Amul and other 

Jibal\ mints. He expanded his signature during this time from a single letter to his 

full name. From 352 AH/963 CE until the mid 360s AH/970s CE, he also worked in 

Tabaristan and Arajan.

252 Reviews 

During the second phase of his career, he experimented with his signature. 

The formula, “The work of al-0asan b. Mu1ammad” appears on the coins of some 

smaller mints. However, after its introduction at the important mint of al-Mu1ammadiyya, 

al-0asan’s signatures cease to be inscribed. An effaced signature on 

seven surviving dirhams suggests that the mint deliberately ended the practice. 

In addition to regular issues of d\nars and dirhams, the dies and casts for special 

issues may also be attributed to al-0asan. 

The last engraver to sign his name, known only as Mu1ammad, engraved 

dies for the Kakawayhid mint of Isfahan and a couple of minor mints between 

413 AH/1022 CE and 421 AH/1030 CE. The consistent design and fine epigraphy 

of the coins of this mint suggests that Mu1ammad alone engraved its dies. In the 

opinion of the author, they are among the best executed dies of the 5 th century 

AH. 

In its conclusion, the monograph notes the significance of the signatures of 

Muj\b (al-0arith), al-0asan b. Mu1ammad and Mu1ammad in documenting the 

transition of die engraving from mass production to local craft. The demise of a 

centralized die production and the rise of local and regional workshops during 

the late 9 th and 10 th centuries CE created demand for the skilled labor of local artisans 

but this demand did not allow employment for more than a few months out 

of each year. As a result, the engravers continued to earn their main livelihood 

working with metalware, ceramic or stone. The signing of their dies seems to have 

been intended to prove their skill to potential clients outside the mint. Its discrete 

and episodic character, however, indicates that the practice was normally discouraged 

or prohibited. 

The challenges to the discussion of this subject are significant. Although 

signed dies have been previously studied, no corpus exists that can easily be consulted. 

In addition to their minute size, the signatures appear erratically on the 

coins of a large number of mints over many years. Stylistic differences are difficult 

not only to discern but to discuss due to the limitations of language. 

The monograph aptly meets these challenges. The work identifies many more 

examples of signed dies than was ever previously known, including specimens from 

the Lundberg collection. These are illustrated in over two hundred high-quality figures, 

plates and detailed drawings. The figures consist of photographs of coins or 

parts of coins, many of which are enlarged. Both the figures and drawings accompany 

the text allowing for easy reference. In combination, they are especially useful 

in verifying readings of signatures and stylistic judgments about die engravers. 

The work draws extensively on published and unpublished sources. The bibliography 

is comprehensive. In addition, unpublished studies of G. Rispling and 

H. Lundberg are mentioned in the introduction. Much of this scholarship is integrated 

into the discussion or referred to in footnotes.

Reviews 253 

The appendices and plates at the end of the monograph provide important 

additional resources. The first appendix explains how the work calculated its estimates 

of die production including much of the author’s raw data and advanced 

statistical analysis. It follows formulas published by W. Esty (“How to estimate 

the original number of dies and the coverage of the sample,” Numismatic Chronicle 

166 (2006), pp. 359–64). The second appendix gives the provenance of all 

coins illustrated in the text’s figures. Thirty-one Umayyad and Âbbasid dirhams 

are also illustrated on three plates offering a representative sample of the range of 

styles and types during these periods. 

Although extensive, the documentation might have gone further. For example, 

the assemblage of the signed specimens, the product of immense effort, could have 

also been organized in a catalogue for easy reference for future researchers. As it is, 

the specimens must be located by combing Appendix 2 and footnotes. 

One is also curious about the nature and status of the unpublished sources. 

The reader wonders, for example, what Rispling’s and Lundberg’s unpublished 

studies consist of, whether citations of specimens or analyses in manuscript, and 

whether and where these may be accessible. 

The discussion of epigraphic style is exemplary. The introduction includes a 

glossary of technical terms, which often escape even experienced numismatists. 

The author carefully describes different engraving techniques and, within the 

limitations of language, differences between the styles of each engraver. The 

plates serve as excellent illustrations. 

The monograph sets out to make an object-led approach to Islamic material 

culture. This is perhaps its most significant contribution. It combines close examination 

of epigraphic detail, exacting quantitative analysis of dies and a strong 

command of literary sources to delineate administrative and economic relationships 

that are otherwise insufficiently documented. Although estimates of coin 

output from die studies remain controversial, the thrust of the author’s analysis is 

based on the much more reliable estimate of the quantities of dies produced. 

The work demonstrates in greater detail than ever before the professional life 

of medieval engravers. It shows, for example, that the engravers who signed dies 

were usually employed on a temporary basis and often traveled great distances to 

practice their craft while continuing to work outside the mint. The act of signing, 

in fact, may highlight the precarious and competitive nature of their work. These 

are valuable insights in reconstructing how mints operated in the ninth-tenth 

centuries CE and may offer a model for other places and periods in Middle East 

history where mint organization was also decentralized. 

Stuart Sears: Norton, MA, stuart@arabiclanguageassociates.com

254 Reviews 

Étienne de La Vaissière, Samarcande et Samarra. Élites d’Asie central dans l’empire 

abbaside (Studia Iranica, Cahier 35). Paris 2007: Association pour l’avancement 

des études iraniennes, 310 pp. ISBN 978-2-910640-21-7. 

This is a study of the Âbbasids’ military in the ninth century c.e. It falls into two 

main parts. The first examines military institutions in Transoxania before the Âbbasids 

began to use it as a principal recruiting ground. Before the Arab conquests, 

Sogdian trade was oriented toward the powerful Turkish tribes that dominated 

the steppe rather than the Sasanian empire to the south. De la Vaissière presents 

evidence of cultural synthesis between pre-Islamic Sogdian sedentaries and Turkish 

nomads. After the Arab conquest, there was some conversion to Islam and 

intermarriage with Arabs. However, the revolt of al-Rafi^ b. Layth at Samarqand 

from 190/805–6 to 194/809–10 shows how limited was the integration of Transoxania 

even fifty years after Abu Muslim and a century after Qutayba b. Sa^\d had 

supposedly subdued the territory. It was al-Ma#mun’s policy to turn Sogdian 

kings into vassals and set them against non-Muslims to the north. The Fourth 

Civil War was the first occasion of large-scale coöperation between the élites of 

Khurasan and Transoxania. 

As for military organization, de la Vaissière admits that the term čakar does 

not occur in extant Sogdian texts, but he supposes that ghulam in Arabic documents 

corresponds to čakar in Sogdian. He also points out apparent Chinese parallels. 

He proposes that it designates élite troops in the service of great nobles, 

bound to them by fictive adoption. Armoured Turkish archers also fought as mercenaries. 

They do not seem to have been organized tribally. They might be paid 

by tribute from specified villages, a precedent for the institution of iqta^ in ninthcentury 

Iraq. The great puzzle is why the Âbbasids drew their troops mainly 

from the periphery, not the old Byzantine/Sasanian lands. De la Vaissière associates 

especially with Patricia Crone the thesis that this came of the illegitimacy 

of the Âbbasids in the eyes of both quietist Sunn\ ûlama# and Âlid-loyalist 

Sh\â. De la Vaissière thinks her thesis depends too much on the agreement 

of social élites everywhere with the ûlama# of Baghdad. His preferred alternative 

is that the decay of the Sasanian nobility’s military power, begun by Chosroes’ 

reforms, was completed by the Arab conquest, so that the Âbbasids could easily 

summon up an army only by drawing on areas poorly controlled by both the 

Sasanians and their Muslim successors. Only khawarij and âyyarun were left in 

Iran. 

The second part of de la Vaissière’s study treats the Turks in ninth-century 

Iraq. Against Matthew Gordon, he stresses that they first entered the scene with 

al-Ma#mun and the first siege of Baghdad, not only with al-Mu^tasim’s campaign 

in Egypt. On the whole, however, he is highly respectful of Gordon’s work. Those

Reviews 255 

with whom he strongly, expressly disagrees are David Ayalon, Daniel Pipes, and 

Patricia Crone. Against them, he maintains that there was no system of importing 

youthful slaves and training them up as soldiers, the Mamluk system most familiar 

from Egypt in the Later Middle Ages, until the last quarter of the ninth century. 

For most of the century, rather, the Turks were in Iraq (especially the garrison 

city of Samarra) as a mercenary corps. Some were commanded by nobles on 

the basis of customary authority. Military captives, hence slaves, might be turned 

around as soldiers for their captors. De la Vaissière points for comparison to a 

corps of maghariba evidently made up of captives from the Egyptian rebellion 

of 829–32. But they were already capable soldiers when captured, not trained de 

novo in Iraq. “The Samarra of Mu^tasim does not constitute the beginning of the 

Mamluk era but the apogee of the Sogdo-Turkish nobility and Central Asian mercenaries. 

The caliph’s policy is entirely explicable by resort to pre-existing noble 

networks of Central Asia and to recruitment completed by Central Asian captives 

of war integrated into structures of nobility” (237). 

On the basis of archaeological and literary evidence from Iraq and patterns of 

mortality from pre-modern Western Europe, de la Vaissière reckons that there 

were around 8,000 Turks in Samarra at the end of al-Mu^tasim’s caliphate in 

227/842, rising to a peak of almost 12,000 at the assassination of al-Mutawakkil 

in 247/861, declining to a little under 10,000 at the end of the ensuing decade of 

troubles. The 50-percent increase from the early ’forties to the early ’sixties he 

attributes entirely to natural increase, the Samarra Turks having been provided 

with wives, partly to avoid trouble between them and the civilian populace. (Presumably 

some system of training youths, the sons of existing soldiers, was developed 

at this time.) 

There is definite evidence of Turkish slave soldiers, not freedmen, hence a 

Mamluk system, under al-Mu^tadid (r. 279–89/892–901). De la Vaissière guesses 

that such a system was established under his father, the shadow-caliph al-Muwaffaq, 

in the previous decade. Distance from Central Asia and the corrupting influence 

of riches had made it difficult to maintain the Transoxanian social hierarchy 

on which the old system had depended. The new troops were evidently 

supplied by independent slave traders, not a system of tribute. 

De la Vaissière cites an impressive range of evidence – Chinese, Persian, and 

Arabic texts, art history, and archaeology – to compensate for its paucity. On the 

whole, I find his case impressive. Perhaps he is open to criticism on the ground of 

developing Central Asian influence on the Iraqi centre but never Iraqi influence on 

Central Asia. A proper refutation of the Crone thesis would at least take into account 

the culture and movements of Transoxanian civilian élites (I think of al-Bukhar\). 

There is also nothing here on the apparent fecklessness of al-Muwaffaq’s 

Turks, who did not manage to defeat the Zanj for a decade. There is only a little

256 Reviews 

here on Tahirid and Saffarid military organization. Still, de la Vaissière’s dating 

of the Mamluk phenomenon herewith becomes the conventional wisdom. Transliteration 

is usually good but every now and then a computer program has been 

ceded too much authority; for example, the sign for âyn occasionally reversed to 

signify hamza instead (e.g. p. 261, n. 291, “iqta#”), and three dots (unspaced) to 

mark an ellipsis without a fourth to mark the end of a sentence (e.g. p. 275, l. 12). 

Christopher Melchert: Oxford, christopher.melchert@orinst.ox.ac.uk 

Lukas Wick, Islam und Verfassungsstaat. Theologische Versöhnung mit der politischen 

Moderne? (Kultur, Recht und Politik in muslimischen Gesellschaften, 

Bd. 12), Würzburg 2009: Ergon, 196 S. ISBN 978-3-89913-674-6. 

Bei Drucklegung dieses Bandes konnte der Verf. noch nicht wissen, dass der sog. 

Arabische Frühling das behandelte Thema in einer Weise aktualisieren würde, 

die bisherige Erfahrungswerte in Bezug auf politische, rechtliche und auch theologische 

Diskurse in der arabischen Welt übertrifft. Vielleicht ist es aber auch gerade 

dieser Zeitverzug, der das Buch von L. W. zu einer überaus spannenden und 

gleichsam kritikwürdigen Lektüre macht, denn die besonders auf Ägypten ausgerichtete 

Studie endet mit einem Zweifel an der Adaptierfähigkeit der islamischen 

Theologie (S. 182). Diese Einschätzung versucht der Autor in den vorangehenden 

Abschnitten zu untermauern. Er tut dies in vergleichender Analyse mit der christlichen 

Theologie und ihrem Verhältnis zum Konstitutionalismus, kann aber bei 

aller passim geäußerten Zurückhaltung vor Pauschalurteilen gegenüber der islamischen 

Religion nicht verhehlen, dass die europäisch-nordamerikanische, 

christlich-theologische Bewältigung gesellschaftlicher Umbrüche für ihn Maßstab 

und Richtwert ist. Aus dieser Position heraus will er sich insbesondere 

den Auffassungen der „etablierten“ (S. 15) muslimischen Religionsgelehrten 

(ûlama#) widmen, ist sich aber selbst darüber im Klaren, dass eine parallele Betrachtung 

zur christlichen Theologie an der Spezifik des Islams vorbeiführt und 

vielmehr die ˇsariâ, das islamische Gesetz, in die Betrachtungen einfließen muss 

(vgl. S. 90ff.). Daher findet sich in den Islam-relevanten Darstellungen des Buches 

vor allem eine Bezugnahme auf normative Fragen, weniger auf theologische 

Auseinandersetzungen, obgleich dies der Untertitel des Bandes ankündigt. 

Die insgesamt 183 Textseiten gliedern sich in sieben Kapitel (einschließlich 

einer kurzen Einleitung und einiger Schlussbetrachtungen). Der Stand der islamwissenschaftlichen 

Forschung, wie ihn der Autor auf den Seiten 12–14 aufzeigt, 

berücksichtigt kaum die in der islamischen Welt erschienene Literatur muslimi-

Reviews 257 

scher Intellektueller (S. 15), obwohl sich L. W. im Gegensatz dazu den Protagonisten 

der europäischen Aufklärung sehr eingehend widmet und deren Einfluss 

auf den theologischen Diskurs um Säkularisierung, Verfassungsstaatlichkeit und 

Menschenrechte vollkommen zu Recht herausstellt. Es drängt sich die Vermutung 

auf, dass der Verf. – bewusst oder unbewusst – auf eine Ausgangsthese rekurriert, 

die ihm wenig Spielraum für die Würdigung von kleinen Schritten lässt, 

obgleich er doch den politischen (vgl. S. 171–172) und religiösen Rahmen für die 

Veröffentlichung von „neuen“ Gedanken im islamischen Kontext kennt. 

Das zweite Kapitel des Buches (S. 17–54) umreißt die historische Herausbildung 

des europäischen Konstitutionalismus und seine Einbindung in die christlich-theologische 

Ideengeschichte. Diese Ausführungen zeigen die Konflikte um 

die Säkularisierung und die Garantierung von Menschenrechten in der christlichen 

Welt bis in die Moderne. „Im Prozess der Aussöhnung von Theologie und 

Verfassung im Christentum“ seien zwei Bedingungen erkennbar: 1. Dass der 

Staat im Bereich der Religion als unzuständig und die Religion als nichtzuständig 

für die Regelung der weltlichen Ordnung befunden werde sowie 2. Dass Säkularisierung 

zwingend eine Kategorie politisch-rechtlicher Neubestimmung bleiben 

müsse (S. 52–53). 

Das Kapitel „Konstitutionalismus im Islam“ (S. 55–76) beschreibt zunächst 

die aufgrund des europäischen Einflusses Ende des 19. Jh. entstandenen Verfassungsdokumente 

bzw. Grundgesetze (Tunesien, Ägypten, Osmanisches Reich). L. 

W. hebt dabei auch die Eindrücke und Gedanken von arabischen Gelehrten hervor, 

die vor allem in Frankreich die europäische Säkularisierung kennen lernten. 

Auf den Seiten 65–66 erwähnt er die Theorien von Âl\ Âbd ar-Raziq, der in seiner 

Schrift „Der Islam und die Grundlagen der Herrschaft“ eine Trennung von Religion 

und Staat in der islamischen Geschichte konstatiert hatte. Dass „die weitere 

Beschäftigung mit Aspekten der abendländisch-konstitutionellen Ordnung […] 

seither […] einfach nicht mehr an islamischen Lehranstalten debattiert“ werde 

(S. 66), lässt sich in dieser apodiktischen Form nicht nachvollziehen, auch wenn 

ein solches Thema nicht unmittelbar zum Lehrplan der Azhar-Universität von 

Kairo gehört. Selbstverständlich ist dem Verf. zuzustimmen, wenn er den Konstitutionalismus 

als eine Realität in der islamischen Welt erkennt (S. 75). Er will 

jedoch herausfinden, „ob der Islam qua Theologie wesenhaft mit den Inhalten 

eines liberalen Verfassungsstaates inkompatibel ist“ (S. 75). 

Dazu wendet er sich im folgenden Kapitel zunächst der „Theologie im Islam“ 

(S. 77–112) zu. Viel Neues erfährt der Leser allerdings nicht. Die Ausführungen 

konzentrieren sich auf einige Kerngedanken theologischen Denkens im Islam, 

wobei er „das gespannte Verhältnis rationalistisch veranlagter Philosophen und 

eher fideistisch-mystisch veranlagter ûlama# seit dem 12. Jh. [als] ein bestimmendes 

Element der islamischen Geistesgeschichte darstellt“ (S. 88–89). Er vermisst

258 Reviews 

im Gegensatz zum Christentum die philosophische Beweisführung in der islamischen 

Theologie (S. 88). Damit hat er sicher Recht. Jedoch ist zu fragen, ob ein solcher 

linearer Vergleich angesichts der besonderen Rolle der ˇsariâ – wie das auch 

auf S. 94 zum Ausdruck kommt – zielführend sein kann. Dass der Westen und die 

westliche Orientalistik die ûlama# und ihre Institutionen oft „stiefmütterlich“ behandeln 

(S. 109), lässt sich anhand der diesbezüglichen Veröffentlichungen bestätigen. 

Ob diese ûlama# aber tatsächlich „die öffentliche Debatte prägen und 

die islamische Normativität definieren“ (S. 109), ist wohl von Land zu Land unterschiedlich 

zu bewerten. Der Fokus auf Ägypten und die Azhar verzerrt möglicherweise 

das Bild. 

Das Kapitel „Die politische Moderne im islamisch-theologischen Diskurs“ 

(S. 113–136) untersucht auf den Seiten 114 bis 118 die Säkularisierungsdebatte. 

Es folgt die Auseinandersetzung mit dem Konstitutionalismus (S. 118ff.). „Die 

faktische Trennung von Religion und Polit[i]k war jedoch das Resultat äußerer 

Umstände und keineswegs Ausdruck theoretischer Überlegungen.“ (S. 119) 

Dies gilt wohl auch für das christliche Europa, ohne die doktrinären und machtpolitischen 

Unterschiede zu verkennen. Der naturrechtlichen Begründung der 

Rechtssubjektivität des Menschen und der daraus ableitbaren Folgen für den säkularen 

Rechtsstaat setzt der Autor die islamische Konzeption der fitra entgegen, 

„eine universelle, ursprüngliche Natur […] [, die] islamisch ist“ (S. 128). Dieser 

prinzipielle Unterschied ist für ihn der Ausgangspunkt für die theologische Fundamentierung 

religiöser und geschlechterspezifischer Unterschiede im Islam 

(S. 129; vgl. auch S. 175). L. W. kann diese Einschränkungen in der rechtlichen 

und gesellschaftlichen Praxis der islamischen Welt an vielen Beispielen unter 

Beweis stellen. Eine Neuinterpretation der fitra (vgl. Koran 30:30) im Sinne eines 

daraus ableitbaren Gleichheitsgrundsatzes zwischen den Menschen scheint der 

Verf. nicht in Erwägung zu ziehen, Beispiele für Neuansätze würdigt er kaum 

(vgl. S. 132). 

Im sechsten Kapitel seines Buches (S. 137–177) analysiert L. W. die Auffassungen 

von vier prominenten Gelehrten des 20. Jh. zum Verhältnis von Islam und 

Säkularisierung bzw. Konstitutionalismus. Er beginnt mit M. Åaltut (gest. 1963), 

dem Åai3 al-Azhar in der Nasser-Zeit (S. 139–149). Die Reihe setzt sich fort mit M. 

al-B. al-Ibrah\m\ (gest. 1965, S. 144–149; „algerischer Salafist“ – S. 148), mit M. A. 

2alaf Allah (gest. 1998, S. 150–160), einem Anhänger der Lehre von Â. Â. ar-Raziq, 

und mit dem Azhar-Åai3 M. S. Tantaw\ (gest. 2010, S. 160–164). Abgesehen 

davon, dass subjektive Vermutungen und Einschätzungen des Autors über diese 

Gelehrten an einigen Stellen (S. 141, S. 149, S. 154, S. 162) eher deplatziert wirken, 

gelangt er zur streitbaren Schlussfolgerung, dass „das Andere und Fremde […] in 

den Augen dieser ûlama# keinen Eigenwert [habe]“ (S. 166). Zudem würden sich 

die Gelehrten wenig an der Realität orientieren (S. 168).

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In den Schlussbetrachtungen (S. 179–183) fasst der Autor die Ergebnisse seiner 

Studien zusammen. Er attestiert den Muslimen zwar grundsätzlich die Fähigkeit, 

eine konstitutionelle Ordnung politisch um- oder durchzusetzen, zweifelt 

aber an der theologischen Legitimierung einer solchen Lehre (S. 181). Gleichzeitig 

räumt er aber ein, dass „die normative Kraft des Faktischen […] unter Umständen 

auch die islamische Theologie zu einem Wandel beflügeln [könnte]“ (S. 180). 

Es ist dem Verf. positiv anzurechnen, dass er seine Gedanken, die möglicherweise 

bei einigen Muslimen wenig populär sind, ohne Rücksicht auf solche Befindlichkeiten 

entwickelt. Die kritischen Bemerkungen in dieser Rezension sollen 

nicht den Eindruck erzeugen, dass die Lektüre Buches nicht empfehlenswert 

sei. Im Gegenteil. Eine Auseinandersetzung mit den vorgetragenen Auffassungen 

lohnt sich und dürfte den Diskurs darüber anregen – zum Nutzen der Wissenschaft 

und der politischen Praxis innerhalb und außerhalb der islamischen Welt. 

Hans-Georg Ebert: Leipzig, hgebert@rz.uni-leipzig.de

0021-1818_islam_98-1-2-i-259

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