2. PART II
Translations

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The Autobiography of Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq

(809–873 or 877)

Introduction

Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq was a Nestorian Christian from the Iraqi town of al-Ḥīra. He traveled to Baghdad to seek a career in medicine but quarreled with his teacher and left the city. Several years later he returned, having learned classical Greek so well that even his former teacher came to rely on him for translations of Greek medical texts. Ḥunayn may have learned his Greek in Alexandria or Constantinople; he was also proficient in Arabic, Syriac, and possibly Persian. Muslim as well as Christian scholars sought his services as a translator, and he reportedly enjoyed the patronage of the ‘Abbāsid caliphs. Working from older Syriac translations of the classical texts or (as he preferred) the original Greek, Ḥunayn rendered into Arabic works by Plato, Aristotle, Hippocrates, and Galen, in addition to composing more than seventy scientific treatises of his own. As a translator, he broke with the older practice of word-by-word rendition, and his translations are remarkable even today for their clarity and precision. He and his successors created a new scientific vocabulary for Arabic and made possible the successful appropriation and naturalization of Greek thought into the intellectual life of the Islamic world.

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As the autobiography ascribed to him explains, however, his fame provoked his rivals to plot against him. The text of the autobiography appears in a biographical entry on Ḥunayn compiled by Ibn Abī Uṣaybi‘a (d. 1270), a historian of medicine. After bemoaning the treachery of his fellow Christians and describing their envy of his superior abilities, Ḥunayn tells the tale of how his coreligionist and fellow physician Jibrīl ibn Bakhtīshū‘ tricked him into spitting on an icon in the presence of the caliph al-Mutawakkil. Such an offense made Ḥunayn an iconoclast, and the head of the Nestorian church recommended that the caliph punish him. Ḥunayn was accordingly flogged and imprisoned. His rivals then pressed the caliph to execute him. The sovereign was reportedly on the verge of doing so when a miraculous intervention persuaded him to relent.

Ḥunayn's epistle on his trials and tribulations resembles, to some degree, the Greek genre of apologetic autobiography, but it is also highly reminiscent of the biblical/Qur’ānic story of Joseph. Both Ḥunayn and Joseph are betrayed by their “brothers” (coreligionists in the case of Ḥunayn), falsely accused and imprisoned, and finally released, absolved, and rewarded as a result of a ruler's dream. The epistle thus presents a fascinating amalgam of Greek and biblical elements in an Arabic literary form. The conspicuously literary character of the text—as manifested, for example, in the narration of conversations Ḥunayn cannot possibly have overheard—has led some scholars to doubt its authenticity. Gotthard Strohmaier, for example, concludes that one of Ḥunayn's disciples composed it to defend his teacher against charges of iconoclasm. Indeed, Ḥunayn's iconoclastic opinions are attested in several other sources, although none of these is entirely trustworthy either. In any event, the epistle remains one of the earliest prose works in Arabic in the autobiographical mode. If it was in fact composed by another hand, it is remarkable that this later author should have chosen such an innovative and, at the time, virtually unknown form of Arabic writing when seeking to clear Ḥunayn of the accusations brought against him by the Church.

Bibliography

Cooperson, Michael. “The Purported Autobiography of Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq.” Edebiyât: Special Issue—Arabic Autobiography, N.S. 7, no. 2 (1997): 235–49.

Gutas, Dimitri. Greek Thought and Arabic Culture: The Graeco-ArabicTranslation Movement in Baghdad and Early ‘Abbāsid Society (2nd–4th/8th–10thCenturies). London: Routledge, 1998.

Ibn Abī Uṣaybi‘a. ‘Uyūn al-anbā’ fī ṭabaqāt al-aṭibbā’. Ed. Nizār Riḍā. 2 vols. Beirut: Dār Maktabat al-Ḥayāt, 1965. 257–74.

Rosenthal, Franz. “Die arabische Autobiographie.” Studia Arabica 1 (1937): 15–19.

Salama-Carr, Myriam. La traduction à l'époque abbaside: L'école de Hunayn ibn Ishaq et son importance pour la traduction. Paris: Didier, 1990.

Strohmaier, Gotthard. “Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq und die Bilder.” Klio 43–45 (1965): 525–33.

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Epistle on the Trials and Tribulations Which Befell Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq
[‘Uyūn, pp. 257–74]

Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq writes:

My enemies so tormented me that I was no longer able to sleep. I would lie awake at night, and during the day I was too distracted to work. My persecutors felt neither remorse for their cruelty nor gratitude for all the favors I had bestowed upon them in the past. They attacked me and wronged me because they envied my learning and resented the preeminence that God Almighty had granted me over my contemporaries. Most of my tormentors were members of my own family; in fact, it is with them that my trials and sufferings began. Those I favored over other members of the profession came next. I trained them, directed their studies, advanced their careers, treated them well, and introduced them to [the works of] Galen, but they repaid my kindness with a malice compelled by their natures.

They slandered me in the ugliest possible ways, spreading the most sordid kind of rumors about me and keeping important confidences from me, until suspicions were aroused and opinion turned against me. Everywhere I found prying eyes. I was observed so closely that my very words were cataloged and used against me. On the basis of malicious insinuations, meanings I had not intended were painstakingly extracted from my words and accusations against me multiplied. My enemies stirred up hatred for me among peoples of all sects, not just the members of my own denomination. Councils were convened on my account where people offered invidious interpretations of my behavior. Every time I learned of such things, I praised God anew, and bore with fortitude what I could not change.

The situation eventually reached the point where I found myself utterly ruined and heartbroken, in prison, and reduced to the narrowest of circumstances. During that time I was unable to obtain even the smallest amount of gold or silver, a book, or even a single sheet of paper to peruse.

Then God Almighty cast His glance of mercy upon me and restored His favor to me, restoring His bounty, which I had once known so well. The restoration of my wealth was due to a certain person who had been especially zealous in his hatred. This aptly illustrates Galen's remark that “the best people are those who can turn the animosity of evil men to advantage.”^[1] This person turned out to be the best enemy I ever had!

Now I shall recount what happened to me in the incidents I have just described:

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How could it have been otherwise? How could I not have provoked such animosity, stirred up so much envy, and set the councils of the great abuzz with slander and abuse? Money was paid to have me killed, those who insulted me were honored, and those who treated me generously were humiliated. And yet all this happened, not because I had offended or ill-treated a single one of them, but because I had risen above them and surpassed them in learning and in labor, and transmitted to them precious knowledge from languages that they knew poorly, that they would not have been led to on their own, or of which they knew nothing. All this I did with the greatest possible eloquence and felicity of expression, without fault or flaw, without sectarian tendentiousness, and without obscurantism or vulgarity. This is attested by the Arab rhetoricians, specialists in syntax and rare expressions. My readers never stumbled over a solecism, a wrongly voweled word, or a poorly expressed thought. I used the most elegant and yet the easiest phrases. A lay reader who knew nothing of philosophical methods and belonged to no Christian sect would still appreciate my work and realize its importance. In fact, such people spend a great deal of money on works I have translated, preferring them to works translated by all others before me. Furthermore, let me say without fear of contradiction that all men of culture—regardless of religious affiliation—befriend me and take my part, treat me with honor, receive what I teach them with gratitude, and reward me with many favors. But as for those Christian physicians, most of whom themselves learned from me, and whom I watched grow up, it is they who cry for my blood, even though they could never manage without me.

Sometimes they would say: “Who is Ḥunayn, after all? Just a man who translates books for a fee—no more than a tradesman; at least, we can't see any difference. A knight can pay a smith a dinar to forge a replica of his sword, and the smith might make one hundred dinars a month. Ḥunayn only services our tools, but he does not work with them himself, just as a swordsmith is no good at handling swords, no matter how skilled he may be in making them. Imagine a swordsmith trying to take the field with knights! That's Ḥunayn for you. What does he know about medicine, having never diagnosed a disease in his life? All he wants is to be like us, so people will call him `Ḥunayn the physician' instead of `Ḥunayn the translator.' The best thing would have been for him to stick to his own profession and keep his nose out of ours. He would get more money out of us, and we would treat him better, if only he would stop holding consultations, peering at bottles, and prescribing drugs.” Or they would say: “Ḥunayn cannot enter anyone's house, high or low, without them mocking him and tittering to one another as he leaves the room.”

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Every time I heard things like this I would feel a tightness in my chest, and I would contemplate killing myself out of anger and frustration. There was nothing I, a lone man standing against a horde of enemies, could do to stop them. Yet I knew in my own mind that it was their envy that drove them to do what they were doing, although even they realized how ugly it appeared. Malicious envy is a perennial human failing. As anyone with any idea of religion knows, the first act of envy was Cain's murder of his brother Abel after God refused Cain's sacrifice and accepted Abel's. Since envy has always existed, it is hardly surprising that I too should have been one of its victims. As they say: “Envy is punishment enough for him who feels it,” and, “The envious one punishes himself more than he punishes his rival.” Arabic poetry has much to say about malicious envy, for example:

They may envy me, but I do not reproach them. Many virtuous men before me have been envied.

I shall remain as I am—they shall continue to feel as they feel; Indignant and resentful are most of us buried.

I am the one they resent, but I shall not change. I lie heavy on their hearts while my own is unworried.

What this and other poets have said on this subject would take a long time to relate without adding much to the point.

Ironically, many of the same people, when baffled by a difficult case, would make their way to me and ask me to confirm their own diagnoses or have me prescribe medicines and treatments. The soundness of my recommendations was confirmed again and again. But the ones who came to seek my opinion were at the same time my most vituperative enemies; I shall do nothing more for them until the time comes when I have God to judge between them and me. I said nothing at the time, however, for I was not dealing with one or two rivals, but with fifty-six, all Nestorians like myself, and all in much greater need of me than I of them. Furthermore, as so many of them were in the service of the caliph, their influence was great. They were virtually in charge of the kingdom. My position was weaker than theirs in two respects: first, I was alone, and second, those people who had my interests at heart depended on my rivals' patron, the caliph.

The whole time, I complained to no one of my sufferings, great as they were. Instead, I would express my gratitude toward my persecutors on every public occasion and in the presence of high-ranking persons. When it was pointed out to me that they were deriding me and slandering me in their assemblies, I dismissed the notion. Affecting disbelief, I would say that we—my rivals and I—were as one, bound by the ties of faith, birthplace, and profession, and that I could not imagine that such people could speak ill of anyone, much less of me. When my remarks reached them, they would say: “He's trying to allay his fears by pretending not to hear.” The more they slandered me, the more I praised them.

I shall now tell of the final trap they set for me (not counting what happened before with the Banū Mūsā, the Galenites, and the Hippocratics regarding the matter of the first accusation).^[2] Here then, is the story of my last tribulation:

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Bakhtīshū‘ the physician^[3] succeeded in setting in motion a plot against me by which he was able to place me in his power. This he did by means of an icon depicting the Madonna holding Our Lord in her lap and surrounded by angels. It was beautifully worked and most accurately painted, and had cost Bakhtīshū‘ a great deal of money. He had it carried to the court of the caliph al-Mutawakkil,^[4] where he positioned himself to receive the icon as it was brought in, and to present it personally to the caliph, who was extremely impressed with it. Bakhtīshū‘, still in the caliph's presence, began kissing the icon repeatedly.

“Why are you kissing it?” asked Mutawakkil.

“If I do not kiss the image of the Mistress of Heaven and Earth, your Majesty, then whose image should I kiss?”

“Do all the Christians do this?” asked Mutawakkil.

“Yes, your Majesty,” replied Bakhtīshū‘, “and more properly than I do now, because I am restraining myself in your presence. But in spite of the preferential treatment granted the Christians, I know of one Christian in your service who enjoys your bounty and your favors, but who has no regard for this image and spits on it. He is a heretic and an atheist who believes neither in the oneness of God nor in the Afterlife. He hides behind a mask of Christianity, but in fact denies God's attributes and repudiates the prophets.”

“Who is this person you are describing?”

“Ḥunayn the translator,” said Bakhtīshū‘.

“I'll have him sent for,” said Mutawakkil, “and if what you say turns out to be true, I'll make an example of him. I'll drop him in a dungeon and throw away the key; but not before I've made his life miserable and ordered him tortured over and over until he repents.”

Bakhtīshū‘ said, “With your Majesty's permission, might his summons be delayed until such time as I return?” Mutawakkil assented to his request.

Bakhtīshū‘ left the palace and came to see me.

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“My dear Ḥunayn,” he said, “you should know that someone has presented the caliph with an icon. He's quite taken with it and thinks it's of Syrian origin. He keeps saying how marvelous it is. If we let him keep it, and praise it in his presence, he'll never stop dangling it in front of us and saying, `Look! It's a picture of your god and his mother!' He has already said to me, `Look at this wonderful image! What do you think of it?' I told him, `It's a picture like the ones they paint on the walls of bathhouses and churches or use in decorations; it is not the kind of thing we are concerned about or pay any attention to at all.' He said, `So it means nothing to you?' `That's right,' I said. `Spit on it, then, and we shall see if you are telling the truth,' he said. So I spat on it and left him there laughing up a storm. Of course I did this just so he would get rid of it and stop provoking us with it and making us feel different from everyone else. If someone gives him the idea of using it against us, the situation can only get worse. So, if he calls for you and asks you questions like the ones he asked me, the best thing to do is to do what I did. I have spread the word among the rest of our friends who might see him, and told them to do the same.”

I fell for this stupid trick and agreed to follow his advice. Barely an hour after he left, the caliph's messenger arrived to summon me. When I entered the caliph's presence, I saw the icon before him.

“Isn't this a wonderful picture, Ḥunayn?”

“Just as you say, your Majesty.”

“What do you think of it? Isn't it the image of your god and his mother?”

“God forbid, your Majesty! Is God Almighty an image, can He be depicted? This is a picture like any other.”

“So this image has no power at all, either to help or to harm?”

“That's right, your Majesty.”

“If it's as you say, spit on it.”

I spat on it, and he immediately ordered me thrown in prison.

Then he sent for Theodosius, the head of the Nestorian church.^[5] The moment he saw the icon, he fell upon it without even saluting the caliph and held it close, kissing it and weeping at length. A retainer moved to stop him, but the caliph ordered him away. Finally, Theodosius—after much weeping—took the icon in his hand, stood up, and pronounced a long benediction on the caliph. The caliph answered the greeting and ordered him to take his seat. Theodosius sat down holding the icon in his lap.

Mutawakkil said, “What do you think you are doing taking something from in front of me and putting it in your lap without permission?”

“Your Majesty,” said Theodosius, “I have more right to it. Of course the caliph—may God grant him long life!—has precedence over us all, but my faith does not allow me to leave an image of the Holy Family lying on the ground, in a place where its sanctity is unrecognized, or even in a place where its sanctity might not be recognized. It deserves to be placed where it will be treated as it deserves, with the finest of oils and most fragrant incense burning before it continually.”

The caliph said, “Then you may leave it in your lap for now.”

“I ask your Majesty to bestow it as a gift to me, and to deem it equivalent to an annual income of a hundred thousand dinars, until I can discharge the debt I owe your Majesty. Your Majesty will find me ready to grant any request he may make of me in the future.”

“I give you the image,” said the caliph. “But I want you to tell me how you deal with someone who spits on it.”

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Theodosius replied, “If he is a Muslim, then there is no punishment, since he does not recognize its sanctity. Nevertheless, he should be made aware of it, reprimanded, and reproached—in accordance with the severity of the offense—so that he never does it again. If he is a Christian and ignorant, people are to reproach and rebuke him, and threaten him with awful punishments, and condemn him, until he repents. At any rate, only someone totally ignorant of religion would commit such an act. But should someone in full command of his own mind spit on this image, he spits on Mary the Mother of God and on Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

“And how must you deal with such a person?”

“I, your Majesty, can do nothing, having no authority to punish with whip or rod, nor do I have a deep dungeon to imprison him in. But I can excommunicate him and forbid him to enter the church and to partake in Communion, and I can prohibit Christians from intercourse or conversation with him, and I can make life a severe trial for him. He would remain an outcast among us until he repents and recants. Then he must move through the community and disburse a part of his wealth in alms to the poor and the downtrodden, and observe all the prayers and fasts. At that point we invoke our Scripture—`If ye forgive not the sinners, your own sins will not be forgiven you'—and lift the ban of excommunication on the offender, and all would be as it was before.”

Then the caliph ordered Theodosius to take the icon, and told him to do as he liked with it, and gave him a hundred dirhams, telling him to spend it on his icon. After he had left, the caliph sat a while marveling at him and his love and adoration for his god.

“This is a truly amazing thing,” said the caliph, and then ordered me brought in. He called for the ropes and the whip, and ordered me stripped and spread before him. I was struck a hundred lashes. Then the caliph ordered that I be confined and tortured, and that all my furnishings, riding animals, books, and the like be carried off. My houses were destroyed and the wreckage was dumped in the river. I remained confined in the palace for six months under conditions so appalling that I was transformed into an object of pity for those who saw me. The beatings and the tortures were repeated every few days.

I remained thus until the fifth day of the fourth month of my imprisonment, when the caliph fell ill. He became so ill that he was unable to move or stand: everyone, including him, gave up any hope of his recovery. Nevertheless, my enemies the physicians were at his bedside day and night to attend to him and administer his medicines. All the while, they would continue to bring up my case to him: “If your Majesty would only rid us of that heretical atheist, he would be ridding the world of a great menace to religion.”

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They continued pressing him to do something about me, accusing me of all sorts of vile things in his presence, until finally he said, “So what would you have me do with him?” “Get rid of him once and for all,” they replied. In the meantime, whenever one of my friends came to ask about me or tried to intercede for me, Bakhtīshū‘ would say, “That, your Majesty, is one of Ḥunayn's disciples; he holds the same opinions as his master.” Thus, the number of people who could help me diminished whereas the number of people plotting against me increased, and I despaired of my life. At last, in the face of their persistent demands, the caliph said, “I'll kill him first thing tomorrow morning and spare you any more trouble on his account.” The whole lot of them were greatly relieved and returned cheerfully to their own affairs.

A palace functionary informed me that I had been condemned. With distraught mind and aching heart, in terror of what was to befall me on the morrow, innocent, having done nothing to deserve such a punishment, nor committed any offense other than falling victim to a plot and playing into the hands of my enemies, I beseeched God Almighty to vouchsafe me such providence as He had shown me in the past. I prayed: “Dear God, You know I am innocent, and You are the one to save me.” At last my anxiety gave way to sleep.

Then I felt someone shaking me, and heard a voice say, “Rise and praise God, for He has delivered you from the power of your enemies. He will cure the caliph at your hands so put your heart at rest.”

I awoke terrified. “Since I invoked Him while awake,” I thought, “why deny having seen Him in my sleep?” And so I prayed continuously until the break of day.

When the eunuch arrived and opened my door earlier than usual, I thought, “The time is all wrong—they are going ahead with it after all. My enemies' triumph is at hand.” I begged God for His help.

The eunuch had been sitting only a moment when his page arrived accompanied by a barber. “Come, fortunate one,” said the eunuch, “and have your hair cut.” After the haircut, he took me to the bath and had me washed and cleaned and perfumed on the caliph's orders. When I emerged from the bath the eunuch put splendid clothes on me and left me in his booth, where I waited until the rest of the physicians arrived. Each took his appointed place. The caliph called out, “Bring in Ḥunayn!”

Those assembled had no doubt that he was calling me in to have me executed. Seeing me, he had me approach closer and closer until I at last sat directly before him. He said, “I have gratified a well-wisher of yours and forgiven you your crimes. Give thanks to God for your life, then treat me as you see fit, for I have been ill too long.”

I took his pulse and prescribed cassia pods, handpicked off the stalk, and manna, which were the obvious things to prescribe for his constipation.^[6]

“God help you, your Majesty, if you take his medicine,” clamored my rivals, “it can only make your condition much worse.”

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“Do not try and argue with me—I have been commanded to take whatever he prescribes,” said the caliph. He ordered the drug prepared and took it at once.

Then he said, “Ḥunayn, acquit me of all I have done to you. The one who interceded for you is powerful indeed.”

“His Majesty is blameless in his power over me. But how is it that he spared my life?”

The caliph spoke up: “Everyone must hear what I am about to say.” They gave him their full attention and he said:

As all of you know, you left last night under the impression that I was going to execute Ḥunayn this morning, as I had promised. Last night, I was in too much pain to fall asleep. About midnight, I dropped off, and dreamed that I was trapped in a narrow place, and you my physicians, along with my entire retinue, were far off in the distance. I kept saying, ‘Damn you, why are you staring at me? Where am I? Is this a place fit for me?!' But you sat silent, ignoring my cries. Suddenly a great light shone upon me as I lay there, a light that terrified me. And there stood before me a man with a radiant face, and behind him another man dressed in sumptuous clothes. The man before me said, `Peace be with you,' and I answered his greeting. `Do you recognize me?' he asked.

`No,' I said.

`I am Jesus Christ,' he said.

I trembled and shuddered in terror and asked, `Who is that with you?'

`Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq.'

I said, `Forgive me—I cannot rise to greet you.'

He said, `Pardon Ḥunayn, and absolve him of his crime, for God has forgiven him. Take what he prescribes for you and you will recover.'

“I awoke unable to stop thinking about what Ḥunayn had suffered at my hands, and marveling at the power of his intercessor. Now it is my duty to restore to him what was rightfully his. You are all dismissed; it is he who shall attend me. Every one of you who asked me to take his life shall bring me ten thousand dirhams as blood-price. Those who were not present need pay nothing. Whoever fails to bring this amount will lose his head.”

Then he spoke to me: “You may take your appointed seat.”

The group dispersed and each member returned with the ten thousand dirhams. When all they had brought had been collected, the caliph ordered that a like amount be added from his own treasury, for a total of more than two hundred thousand dirhams, and ordered it handed over to me.

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By the end of the day, the medicine had moved his bowels three times, and he felt the onset of recovery. “All you wish, Ḥunayn, is yours,” he said, “for your standing is much enhanced in my eyes, and you are far more important to me than ever before. I shall restore your losses many times over, reduce your rivals to abject dependence upon you, and elevate you above all of your colleagues.”

Then he commanded that three houses belonging to him personally be renovated. They were houses the likes of which I had never occupied in all my days, nor known any of my fellow physicians to own. Everything I needed—furniture, bedding, utensils, books, and the like—was delivered as soon as the houses were made over to me. This was confirmed in the presence of notaries in view of the substantial value of the houses—a figure in the thousands of dinars. In this way, the caliph, out of concern and affection for me, wanted to ensure that the houses would belong to me and my children without anyone being able to contest our right to them.

When all his instructions regarding the transport of the property to the houses had been carried out, including the installation of curtains and hangings, and there remained only the matter of actually moving in, the caliph ordered the money due me, multiplied many times over, brought before me. He then had me conveyed in a train of five of his best mules, with all their trappings. He also gave me three Greek retainers, and granted me a monthly stipend of fifteen thousand dirhams, which, in addition to my accumulated back pay from my time in prison, added up to a substantial sum. Furthermore, his servants, the women of the harem, and the rest of his family and retainers, contributed countless moneys, robes of honor, and parcels of land. In addition, the services I used to perform outside the caliphal residence were transferred, in my case, to the interior of the residence. I became the leading representative of the physicians—my allies as well as the others. This crowned my good fortune; this is what the enmity of evildoers wrought. As Galen said, “The best of people are those who can turn the animosity of evil men to advantage.”

It is certainly true that Galen suffered great tribulations, but they were never as bad as mine.^[7]

I can indeed tell you that, time and again, the first people to scurry to my door and to ask me to intercede for them with the caliph, or to consult me on an illness that had baffled them, were the same rivals who had inflicted upon me the miseries I have already described to you. And I swear by the God I worship, the First Cause, that I would show them goodwill, and hasten to do favors for them. I bore no grudges against them, nor did I ever avenge myself on them for what they did to me. Everyone marveled at the goodwill with which I performed services for my rivals, especially when people heard what my rivals were saying about me behind my back, and in the presence of my master, the caliph. I would also translate books for them on request, without profit or reward, whereas in the old days I used to earn the weight of the translated work in gold dirhams.^[8]

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I have recounted all this for no other reason than to remind the wise man that trials may befall the wise and the foolish, the strong and the weak, the great and the small. Those trials, although they respect no differences of degree, must never give him cause to despair of that Divine Providence which shall deliver him from his affliction. Rather, he must trust, and trust well, in his Creator, praising and glorifying Him all the more. Praise the Lord, then, Who granted me a new life, and victory over my oppressors, and Who raised me above them in rank and prosperity. Praise Him ever anew and always.

This is Ḥunayn's entire statement as given in his own words.

Notes

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The Autobiography of al-Ḥakīm al-Tirmidhī

(b. before 830, d. between 905 and 910)

Introduction

The account of ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad ibn ‘Alī, known as al-Ḥakīm al-Tirmidhī (“the Sage of Tirmidh”) is one of the earliest surviving spiritual autobiographies in the Arabic tradition. The author was born between 820 and 830 in Tirmidh, in what is today southern Uzbekistan. He studied the religious sciences of his day but became aware of his mystical calling only while performing the pilgrimage rites in Mecca. Thereafter, he embarked on a rigorous program of prayer, austerity, and meditation, culminating in a vividly described experience of closeness to God. Unfortunately, his expressions of devotion provoked accusations of heresy similar to those leveled against his mystical contemporaries. Eventually, however, al-Tirmidhī's charisma won him a devoted following. He died sometime between 905 and 910, leaving behind a number of works that offer mystical interpretations of ḥadīth and religious law.

One of al-Tirmidhī's works, Khatm al-awliyā’ (The Seal of the Saints), helps to clarify some of the unusual features of his autobiography. In the Khatm, he explains that the soul or the self must begin by suppressing its desires and concentrating on the fulfillment of religious duties. Neither good deeds nor a reputation for piety will succeed in bringing one closer to God. Rather, the sincere seeker must attain an exemplary degree of self-control and resist all engagement with the transient world. Eventually, the seeker will find himself in a “wasteland of perplexity” and cry out to God in despair. Should He respond by carrying off the seeker's heart to a place near Him in heaven, the seeker will become a walī Allāh, an “ally” or a “friend” of God.

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In keeping with al-Tirmidhī's emphasis on spiritual development rather than scholarly work or worldly rank, his autobiography passes quickly over his youth and religious training, as well as his travails at the hands of his rivals and detractors, and focuses instead on a series of dreams and visions that he construes as indicators of his spiritual status. Although he evidently believed himself to be a walī Allāh, he was reluctant to say so explicitly, preferring to let the dream-visions speak for him.^[1] Indeed, he attributes the most powerful of these visions to others, including several male companions as well as his wife. The visions are narrated in the text exactly as they were related to al-Tirmidhī, necessitating abrupt shifts from the autobiographical “I” to the first-person “I's” of the other dreamers. The increasing importance of dreams in the text leads ultimately to al-Tirmidhī's surrender of the narrative to other voices.

The most important of these voices is that of his wife, who is given no other name. Many of her dream-visions affirm her husband's high standing; others, however, deal exclusively with her own spiritual journey. In one vision, a visiting angel hands her a branch of myrtle and tells her that her husband is not yet ready to receive such a gift. In another, she is granted knowledge of the names of God. These dreams are narrated in a mixture of Arabic and Persian, the latter being the couple's native language and probably the only one al-Timidhī's wife could speak. Although al-Tirmidhī does not say so, his wife's ascent to the highest spiritual state affirms the contention that formal education is not a prerequisite for attaining mystical knowledge. It is she who reports to him that a mysterious figure called “the prince” has identified him as the leading walī of his time. And it is she who has the last word: in a series of waking visions, she learns the meaning of the sacred names of God. At this point, having given her the floor, al-Tirmidhī the narrator—if not al-Tirmidhī the man—is overshadowed by his wife and her mystical experiences.^[2]

Bibliography

Radtke, Bernd, and John O'Kane. The Concept of Sainthood in Early Islamic Mysticism: Two Works by al-Ḥakīm al-Tirmidhī. Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press, 1996.

Abū ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad al-Tirmidhī. “Buduww sha’n Abī ‘Abd Allāh.” In Khatm al-awliyā’, ed. ‘Uthmān Yaḥyā. Buḥūth wa-dirāsāt bi-idārat ma‘had al-ādāb al-sharqiyya fī Bayrūt, 19. Beirut: al-Maṭba‘a al-Kāthūlīkiyya, 1965. 14–32.

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The Beginning of the Career of Abī ‘Abd Allāh [the Sage of Tirmidh]
[Khatm al-awliyā’, pp. 14–32]

My career began because God favored me with a father^[3]—God rest his soul—who pressed me to take up the pursuit of knowledge. When I was eight years old, he began to instruct me and to encourage me to study. This he did with unvarying vigor both when I was disposed to heed him and when I was not, until study became a habit for me and took the place of the games and play of childhood. He thus acquainted me, still a youth, with the sciences of ḥadīth and legal reasoning.

When I reached the age of twenty-seven, or thereabouts, I suddenly felt the need to make the pilgrimage. Fortunately, the means to do so became available to me, and I set off, stopping for a time in Iraq to collect ḥadīth. I then traveled to Basra and from there I left for Mecca in the month of Rajab, arriving toward the end of Sha‘bān. God provided me with the means to remain in Mecca until pilgrimage time. I came, by God's grace, to pray at the multazam [the area near the door of the Ka‘ba where all prayers are said to be answered], every morning at the first light of dawn. There I was truly converted in my heart, and made to see past the clash of questions great and small. I performed the pilgrimage and returned, having effected in myself a change of heart.

At those times when I prayed at the multazam, I would ask God to make me righteous, inspire me with an aversion for the things of the world, and grant me the ability to know His Book by heart. At that time, this was all I felt the need to ask for.

I set off for home, God having instilled in me the desire to memorize the Qur’ān while on the road. I learned a good portion of it while traveling, and, after I had returned home, God by His grace eased my task, and I succeeded in memorizing all of it. I would stay up late reading, but I never wearied of the Qur’ān, even when I had been up all night, and I discovered the sweetness of it.

---

I began reading books of the praises of God—blessed be His name—and collecting phrases with which to admonish myself and to inspire thoughts of the Hereafter. Meanwhile, I was searching the nearby towns, but could find no one to guide me along the path, or preach to me and strengthen my resolve. I was confused; I did not know what God wished for me. Nevertheless, I pursued my fasting and my prayer, until at last the words of a man of [mystical] knowledge reached my ears. I came across the book of al-Anṭākī and examined it, and was thus guided to some knowledge of the discipline of the soul. I took up this practice and God helped me. Inspired to deny myself my desires, I found that I could train myself to do one thing after another, even to the point of denying myself cool water. I would refrain from drinking from the river, thinking, “Perhaps this water had flowed here wrongfully.” So I would drink from a well or from a big watercourse.

I became enamored of solitude at home and of walking in the wilderness. I took to wandering amid the ruins and the cemeteries on the outskirts of town. I sought for trustworthy friends to support me, but could find none, and so I withdrew to those ruins and lonely places.

While in this state, I dreamt that the Prophet—God bless him and grant him peace—entered the Friday mosque in our town. I followed him inside. He continued walking until he reached the enclosed area with me close behind him, almost touching his back, and placing my feet exactly where he had placed his, until I too reached the enclosed area. The Prophet ascended the pulpit, and I followed behind him, step for step. He reached the top step and sat down, and I sat on the next step down. To my right was the Prophet, in front of me were the doors that open onto the market, and to my left was the congregation. I then woke up while I was still in that state.

One night, a little time later, I was praying and felt sleepy, so I put my head down on the prayer rug next to my bed. I saw an enormous stretch of desert, in some place I did not know, and I saw an enormous court, with a place prepared at the head, and a tent or booth set up there, made of cloths and curtains I cannot describe. Then I seemed to hear someone saying, “You are being taken to your Lord.” I entered the tent. I could see no one at all, no shape or figure, but I was terrified as I passed behind the curtains. I was certain, even as I slept, that I was standing in His presence. Soon after, I saw myself emerging from the tent, standing near the outermost curtain, and saying, “He has forgiven me” [or: “May He forgive me!”]. I found that I had stopped breathing, I was so terrified.

I continued in my practice of self-denial, pushing aside my desires, staying at home to be away from people, and constantly addressing myself to God in supplication. In this way, one thing after another was opened up to me. I discovered strength and awareness in myself, and I sought out those who could help me. We would meet at night, practicing the remembrance of God, praying, and abasing ourselves in supplication at the first light of dawn.

---

At this time I fell into trouble on account of slander and baseless rumors about me. Certain persons, of the sort who pretend to knowledge, made themselves heard at my expense. They slandered and persecuted me, accusing me of freethinking and heresy. Rumors spread, but I was indifferent. I remained on my own course, day and night, never changing, always the same. But matters took a turn for the worse: I was denounced to the governor at Balkh, who sent someone to investigate. “Here,” it was reported to the governor, “is someone who talks of Love [al-ḥubb], corrupts the people, preaches heresy, and claims to be a prophet,” and other things that I had never even thought, much less said. Finally, I went to Balkh, where I was forbidden by the governor to speak of Love.

Sorrow purifies the heart, and thus did God—blessed be His name—provide me with the means to purify myself. I recalled the saying of David— God bless him and grant him peace: “O Lord, Thou hast commanded me to purify my body by fasting and prayer, but how do I purify my heart?” God said: “With trouble and sorrow, David!” [cf. II Samuel 16]. Troubles came upon me from all sides, but I finally found in them the path to the mortification of my soul. In the past, I had tried to mortify my soul in various ways: I had ridden a donkey through the marketplace, walked barefoot through the streets, worn shabby clothes, and carried burdens like a poor man or a slave; but my soul would recoil and refuse to submit. This was upsetting to me, but when these slanders came to afflict me, the perversity of my soul disappeared. My soul bore all these things and was humbled, and obeyed me; and at last, I experienced in my heart the sweetness of humility.

One night during this time, a group of us gathered for the remembrance of God, on the occasion of a visit by one of our brethren. After some part of the night had passed, I left to return home. On the road, my heart opened up in a manner I cannot describe: as if something had touched my heart, something which cheered and delighted my soul. I was so happy that, as I walked, I feared nothing in my path: the dogs barked at me and I treasured their barking, because of some delight I felt in my heart. It even seemed to me that the sky with its moon and all its stars had drawn near the earth. All the while, I was invoking God, and I felt as if something had been set firmly within my heart. As I experienced this sweetness, my stomach wriggled and twisted and turned over on itself, and contracted, so powerful was this delight. The sweetness spread down my spine and through my veins. It seemed to me as if I were as close to God as His throne.

Every night I would stay awake until morning, unable to sleep, and I grew to bear this easily. I was still perplexed, however; I did not know what this experience was, but I grew stronger and more assiduous in my activities.

At that time an insurrection occurred in the area and civil strife ensued. All those who were persecuting and defaming me in the nearby towns fled. They suffered in the conflict and were forced into exile, and the country was rid of them.

It was during this period that my wife said to me:

---

I dreamt I saw someone walking in the air, coming out of our house and walking above the path. He looked like a young man with curly hair, dressed in white, wearing sandals. He was calling to me from the air, and I was opposite him on the bench. He said, “Where is your husband?” “He has gone out,” I replied. He said, “Tell him the Prince commands him to act justly.” Then he was gone.

A short while later, a large number of people, including the elders of the town, gathered at my doorstep. I did not realize they were there until they started banging on the door. I went out and found them asking me to teach and hold assemblies for them on a regular basis. These people were the very same ones who had been spreading nasty rumors about me among the population, rumors so malicious that I had come to think of these people—or most of them in any case—as a sort of infectious disease. They had cast aspersions on my way of life and accused me of heretical beliefs that I had never held or even imagined holding.

Now here they were asking me to do this for them. Eventually, I gave in. When I spoke to them, it was as if the words came to me like ladlefuls of water from the sea and captivated their hearts. More and more people gathered round me. They filled the house and formed crowds in the street and the mosque. Finally, they carried me off to the mosque and it was as if all those lies and falsehoods about me had never been. Then the conversions began and disciples appeared and leadership, with all of its trials, fell to me as a Divine tribulation.

When the aforementioned slanderers returned from exile, they found that I had become a powerful man with many students and followers. In the past, they had turned the government and the people against me so effectively that I did not dare show my face in public, but God saw to it that their plots came to nothing. Now it was clear that they had acted out of malice and envy, and that no one was listening to them any more, so they gave up hope of harming me further.

In the meantime, my wife continued to have visions. They always came before dawn, and they came one after the other, like a Divine message. They were always so clear and so obvious in their meaning that they need no interpretation. One of these visions went like this:

---

I saw a big pool, in a place I had never been before. The water in the pool was as clear as spring water. Where the water was flowing into the pool, we saw bunches of grapes, all white. My two sisters and I were sitting at the head of the pool eating the grapes, with our legs in the water, but floating without sinking or disappearing from sight. I said to my little sister, “Here we are eating grapes, but who do you think is sending them to us?”

Suddenly a man appeared, curly haired, dressed in white, with a white turban on his head and his hair hanging loose behind him. He asked me, “Who would have a pool like this or grapes like these?”

Then he took my hand and helped me to my feet, and, leading me away from my sisters, said: “Tell [your husband] Muḥammad ibn ‘Alī [al-Tirmidhī] to stop reading the verse, ‘We have placed the balanced scales for the Day of Resurrection . . .'” [Q 21:47] and so on to the end of the verse. “Those scales are not for flour nor for bread; they weigh the speech that comes from here”—pointing to his tongue—“and the deeds that come from here and here”—pointing to his hands and feet. “You do not know that an excess of words, like the drinking of wine, produces a kind of intoxication.”

I asked him: “Who are you?”

He replied: “I am an angel. We roam the earth, and we reside in the Holy Temple at Jerusalem.” In his right hand, I saw a sprig of fresh green myrtle, and in his other hand, sweet basil. He was holding these as he spoke to me.

“We walk the earth,” he said, “and seek out the servants of God. We place this basil on the hearts of the servants of God, that they arise to serve and worship Him. And we place the myrtle on the hearts of the True and Certain Ones, that they may know sincerity. Sweet basil is green even in summer, and the myrtle never changes, no matter what the season. So ask [your husband] Muḥammad ibn ‘Alī, ‘Would you not be happy to have these?'—pointing to the myrtle and the basil. God can increase the piety of the God-fearing to the point that they need fear no longer, but He places these on their hearts to teach them piety first.”

Then he continued, “Tell him to purify his home.”

I replied, “I have small children and it is hard to keep the house clean.”

He answered, “I don't mean free of urine. I mean this”—pointing to his tongue.

“Why don't you tell him all this yourself?” I asked him.

“I will not tell him myself,” he said, “because the matter is not important enough for that, at least, not for other people. When he transgresses, though, it is important. Why does he trangress, then? Because this”—he gestured with the myrtle—“is still a long way off for him.”

Then he pulled off some of the myrtle from the bunch in his hand and gave it to me.

“Should I keep this for myself, or give it to him?” I asked.

He laughed and his teeth sparkled like pearls. “Take it,” he said, “and I'll bring the rest to him myself. What you have is for both of you—the two of you are of equal rank. And tell him, `Let this be my last exhortation to you.' Peace be with you.” But then he added, “God will give you, you and your sisters, a garden, but not because of your fasting and prayer; rather, because of the goodness of your hearts, and because you love good and shun evil”—or, in Persian, “You do not accept evil and you love the good.”

“Why didn't you say this in front of my sisters?” I asked him.

“Because neither of them measures up to you.” Then he said, “Peace be with you,” and was gone, and I woke up.

Another time she dreamt that she was in the big room of our house:

---

In the room were couches upholstered with silk. One of these big couches was next to the prayer room. I looked and behind the couch I saw a tree growing out of the qibla end of the prayer room [the wall facing Mecca]. The tree grew as high as the height of a man, and then stopped. It was dry and shriveled up, with branches like a palm tree, looking like tent-pegs or shavings. Then fresh green branches, about five in number, sprouted from the trunk. When the new branches started growing about halfway up the trunk, the tree suddenly shot up into the air, about three times as high as a man, carrying the new sprouts up with it. Then bunches of fresh dates appeared on the branches.

I said to myself in my sleep, “This tree is mine. No one in the world, even in Mecca, has a tree like this.” I stepped closer to it, and I heard a voice coming out of the trunk of the tree. I could see no one, so I looked at the trunk of the tree, and I noticed that it was growing out of a rock. It was a big rock and it filled half the room, with the tree growing out of the center of it. Next to this rock was another one, hollowed out like a basin. Water was flowing from the trunk of the tree into the hollow rock. This water was utterly clear and pure, like sap.

Then I heard a voice calling to me from somewhere near the tree: “Do you promise to watch over this tree and to make sure that no one touches it? For this tree is yours. Once it grew in sandy soil, and so many hands touched it that its fruit drooped and withered, but we placed a rock around it and sent a bird to watch over its fruit. Look!”

I looked and I saw a green bird the size of a dove on one of the branches of the tree, not on one of the fresh shoots that had sprouted from the trunk, but on one of the withered limbs just above. The bird flew from branch to branch, working its way upward. Whenever it landed on one of the dry branches that looked like pegs, the branch would turn green and fresh, and sprout bunches of dates.

The voice said, “Guard this tree until the bird reaches the top and makes the whole tree green or else it will have to stop there in the middle.”

“I will guard it,” I said, not seeing who I was speaking to. The bird went up the tree branch by branch, and each one turned green. When the bird reached the top of the tree, I said in wonder, “There is no god but God! Where is everybody? Don't they see this tree? Don't they know where it is?”

From the top of the tree the bird cried, “There is no god but God!”

I wanted to pull a date from the tree, but the voice said, “Not yet! Wait until they ripen.” Then I woke up.

Then another time she dreamt she was sleeping next to me on the roof:

I heard voices from the garden. I cried aloud in dismay, “We've neglected our guests! I'd better go and give them something to eat.” I walked over to the edge of the roof to find my way down, and then the whole side of the house simply lowered itself and left me standing upright on the ground.

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― 127 ―

Two men were sitting there, awe-inspiring in their dignity. I approached them and apologized, but they smiled back. One of them said, “Ask your husband why he is so preoccupied with this furuzd, meaning 'grass.'^[4] Your duty is to succor the weak, and be a support to them. And tell him, `You are one of the pegs [that hold up] the earth, and a large segment of mankind is in your care.'”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I am the Prophet Muḥammad Aḥmad,^[5] and this is Jesus.” Then he said, “Tell him: `When you say—O King! O Holiness! Have mercy on us!—you bring holiness upon yourself. Every land you bless will grow strong and mighty, and every land you do not bless will grow weak and feeble.' And tell him: ‘We have given you a dwelling place and the frequented house [Q 52:4—a reference to the Ka‘ba in Mecca], so treat them well.'” Then I woke up.

Then, on the twenty-fourth night of the month of Ramadan, she dreamt that she heard my voice from afar

. . . but sounding like no voice I had ever heard. I followed the sound and came to the door of a palace full of light. I went in. The prayer room was raised up, higher than the congregation and higher than the building around it. There you were, in something that resembled a prayer niche, standing and facing Mecca. You were praying, with the light shining all around you. I thought, “His voice is enough to save the people, but he keeps himself from them.”

Abū Dawūd the tailor dreamt he saw people gathering around a stairway, or ladder, set in a wall that rose to the skies:

I approached and found a crowd of people at the base of the ladder. I wanted to climb up, but a voice said, “You shall not ascend until you obtain permission.” I looked up and there was a man standing in my way.

I thought to myself, “How am I supposed to obtain permission?” Then I noticed a piece of paper in my hand. I showed it to the man, and he stepped aside. I climbed the high wall. At the top, I saw only a few other people. Beyond the wall was a sea, and beyond the sea was an enormous, dizzying expanse of emptiness. I said to the others at the top of the wall, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“On the other side of the sea,” they said, “in that great space, is Muḥammad ibn ‘Alī [al-Tirmidhī].” I stared as if staring at the crescent moon, until at last I saw you a great distance away. Again and again I rubbed my eyes and stared. I noticed the people with me were keeping away from the sea. I threw myself into it and almost immediately found myself on the other side. I walked until I found you, and there you were, sitting in that emptiness with your hood wrapped around your head. I wondered how I had come to find you in this place. Then I woke up.

Then Aḥmad ibn Jibrīl the whole-cloth dealer told me that he had dreamt of me as well:

---

I saw you walking around the Holy Ka‘ba. Something like a shelf, or a wing, had come out of the walls, about two cubits below the roof. You were making your circumambulations on this shelf, with the top of the wall just higher than your waist. Then you rose up into the air until you were higher than the roof, and you kept on walking around the Ka‘ba, up in the air like that. Then, astonished, I woke up.

And Muḥammad ibn Najm the lumber dealer had a dream:

I saw the Prophet—may God bless and grant him peace—surrounded by light and praying with Muḥammad ibn ‘Alī [al-Tirmidhī] right behind him, praying along with him.

At one point during those years, I became much occupied with computing the declinations and learning to calculate using the zodiac and the astrolabe, and had become immersed in these matters. Then Muḥammad ibn Najm told me of a dream he had had:

I heard a voice say, “Tell Muḥammad ibn ‘Alī [al-Tirmidhī], `These things you are doing are not part of your calling or your way, so avoid them!'” I was terror-stricken by the awful splendor of the man who spoke these words. He appeared to me as an old man with white hair and beard, sweet smelling, handsome, and I imagined somehow that he was an angel.

Then he said, “Tell Muḥammad ibn ‘Alī to cast those things aside, for I suspect they will become a veil between him and the Lord of Majesty. Remember to fear God in this world—you are not a base wretch, you are merely distracted [?]. Tell him this and do not neglect to pass on God's counsel to His creatures.”

Then my wife dreamt that the two of us were sleeping in one bed and the Prophet of God—may God bless him and grant him peace—entered and lay down in our bed with us. Another time she dreamt that he came to our house. She said:

I was overjoyed and bent to kiss his feet, but he stopped me. He gave me his hand and I kissed it. I was trying to think of what to ask him for. I used to suffer from an inflammation in one of my eyes, so I said, “O Prophet of God, sometimes my eye becomes inflamed.” He replied, “Whenever that happens, put your hand over your eye and say, `There is no god but God, alone, without partner; His is the power and His is the praise. He brings life and death. Goodness is in His hands, for He is All-Powerful.'” Then I woke up. After that, whenever my eye became inflamed, I would say these words and the inflammation would subside.

Then my wife dreamt that she was on Sakiba Street, looking at the cemetery, a long way off:

---

Then suddenly I could see even farther—as far as Dawdabad, it seemed—and I saw an uncountable number of people, as if the world had suddenly become crowded with people, even clinging to walls and treetops, like birds. I thought, “What is all this?”

A voice said, “The prince has invaded without warning. No one knew he was coming. For twelve days his armies were advancing upon us, and we sensed nothing, and now they have covered the earth.”

I looked at all the people. They were pale-faced and speechless with terror. Then I saw you coming into the room. You undressed, asked for water, and then washed yourself with water from the brass ewer. You put on a waist-wrapper and a cloak. You were wearing sandals. I asked you, “What are you doing?” You replied, “What a marvel! Do you know what this prince wants?”

The people had fallen into a stunned and terror-stricken silence. It was as if they no longer knew one another—as if, in their fear, they had all become strangers. But you were calm and fearless. You were saying to me, “What a marvel! The prince will choose, from all the people on the earth, forty souls to speak to.”

I said, “Why aren't you going?”

“God's will be done,” you replied.

The whole world was watching you (this she said in Persian). The people were saying, “Unless Muḥammad ibn ‘Alī comes to our rescue we shall all perish. He must find these forty people, wherever they are, and if he does not take his place among them, then all these people will be destroyed.”

She said that forty people were to be found, from all over the world, and if I was not among them, then all these people would go to ruin. But how would the prince know me and when would he find me? At any rate, it seemed I was needed to complete the forty myself, for there was still one missing. The story was that the prince had come with Turkish troops to search out these people. She said that I put on a white shirt and cowl, and sandals, and went out:

It seemed to me in my dream—she said—that when you reached the prince, you found the people jostling to get away from the Turks, but the Turks were not beating anyone, and the people's fear seemed to have disappeared. I called out, as I stood at the end of the street, “Are you one of the forty?”

Someone said, “By those forty we shall be saved.”

“Muḥammad ibn ‘Alī will save us,” said someone else. I started to weep. “What are you weeping about? He's the one who is going to save us,” they said. “Not because something bad is going to happen to him,” I said, “but because of his kind heart. How can he bear to look at the sword?” I was thinking that the forty would be executed, so I wept.

Then I went back to the house. I felt that somehow a whole day had passed. When I reached the front door, I turned and I saw you there. “Thank God!” I said. “How were you spared?”

You gestured as if to say, “If only I had been!” Then, “Just wait until you hear the whole story.”

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― 130 ―

You seemed to be covered in white, and you seemed twice your normal height. Your cheeks were flushed and shining, and your forehead and eyebrows were covered with something that looked like dust. I looked more closely and saw that there was no dust, only the traces of your terror. “How were you spared?” I asked again.

“Don't you realize? I am the first of the forty. It was me he recognized and me he chose. He touched me here”—you pointed to your chest—“and he shook me so hard I thought my whole body was going to be torn apart. Then he said to me in Persian, `You are a great lord. . . .You are at the head of the world.'”

“You saw the prince? You actually saw him?!”

“No. I got as far as the pavilion, where there was an enclosure set up before his door, and the prince put his hand out—or so it seemed—and he touched me, and shook me, and spoke to me. Then we went out into the courtyard, which looked like the festival enclosure they set up in the cemetery. The prince said, ‘Take these forty souls out to the courtyard, and hold them there. Keep them standing, do not let them sit.'”

“So I went out with the others into the courtyard. The prince said to the others, `Send this one'—meaning me—`out to pray.' So I entered with them and then I was sent out to pray. It was as if we had been chosen from all the souls on earth. I walked on past the prince's troops and past the Turks, and no one laid a hand on me. I realized then that the prince thought well of me, and that he had assembled all those people for my sake. He had sought out those forty souls only because I would be among them.”

“Now you can rest,” I said.

“I am saved from myself,” you said, and went up to the mosque. I watched you move away, borne above the heads of the people. Then I woke up.

Later she had another dream, this time in Persian.^[6] At the end she said, “Then I woke up.” Then she was seized by an ardent desire to listen to sermons and to exact obedience from her soul. The first validation of her visions came on the twenty-seventh of the month of Dhū al-Qa‘da, five or six days after her last vision. While sitting in the garden, she heard in her heart the words, “O Light and Guidance to all things! O You Whose light cleaves the darkness!”

She said:

I felt as if something had entered my breast and wrapped itself about my heart. My chest and throat were full, so full that I felt near to choking, full of something hot that scorched my heart. All things seemed beautiful to me. Everything I looked at—the earth, the sky, the creatures—had taken on a new and different shape, a shape lovely, glorious and sweet. There came to me then words in Persian: “We have given you a seal-ring.” I was filled with joy, contentment and cheer.

She told me of this experience and the next day she told me of another:

---

I heard the words, “We have given you three things —in Persian—”My glory, My greatness, and My majesty. A light appeared above me, and remained there above my head, as I had seen once before in a dream. And in the light appeared the mark of glory, the mark of greatness, and the light of majesty. Of this glory, I saw a house that moved [in Persian] with something in it, with all of mankind moving along in it, and the greatness of the kingdom and of all things, and the majesty of all things, and their grandeur, were in it. I saw clearly a flame spreading through the heavens and then downwards.

Then on the third day she heard in her heart: “I have bestowed upon you the knowledge of those who have gone before and those who are to come.” And in this state, she spoke the knowledge of the [99] Names of God. Every day, names were revealed to her. A light would shine upon her heart and reveal the hidden meaning of the Names to her. This continued until, on Friday, the tenth of the month, she attended our gathering and told us that God's Beneficent [100th] Name had been revealed to her.

Notes

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The Autobiography of al-Mu’ayyad fī al-Dīn Hibat Allāh al-Shīrāzī

(ca. 1000–1077)

Introduction

Al-Mu’ayyad fī al-Dīn Hibat Allāh al-Shīrāzī was born in the city of Shiraz in southern Iran. During his lifetime the rivalry between various Sunnī and Shi‘ite sects of Islam took the form of competing political states as well as competing religious doctrines. He, like his father before him, became a “missionary” [dā‘ī] for a sect of Shi‘ite Islam known as Ismā‘īlism, most notably championed by the Fatimid dynasty of Egypt from the tenth through the twelfth century. As a dā‘ī, al-Mu’ayyad acted equally as a local religious leader and as an agent provocateur for the Fatimids in their struggles with rival states in Syria and Iran. Al-Mu’ayyad held many different posts during his career: religious teacher, political agitator, missionary, senior court official, and military commander. The language of his writing reveals him to be a highly educated and accomplished rhetorician, and certainly bilingual in Arabic and Persian. He was also a poet. Al-Mu’ayyad's autobiography is a gripping story of high-stakes political intrigue, military adventure, and espionage.

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Al-Mu’ayyad's account of his life proceeds chronologically, with occasional flashbacks and foreshadowing, and focuses on three main periods of his career. The first section details his activities in Shiraz, his attempts to win the sultan Abū Kālījār over to Ismā‘īlism, and the enmity he provoked among the local clergy who on one occasion forced him to flee for his life in disguise in a dramatic escape from the city. Later sections of the autobiography recount al-Mu’ayyad's tenure at the Fatimid court in Cairo, providing a valuable depiction of the functioning of the court during the reign of al-Mustanṣir (r. 1036–94), and offer a detailed account of his military expedition against the Seljuq Turks and the brief capture of Baghdad by a fragile coalition he had forged among Arab tribes and Turkic mercenaries in 1058.

In the excerpts translated here, taken from the first section of the text, al-Mu’ayyad is in residence in the city of Shiraz, then governed by the Būyid sultan Abū Kālījār (d. 1048).^[1] When we enter the story, he has already converted many soldiers from the region of Daylam in north-central Iran (who constituted a major part of the sultan's army) to Ismā‘īlism. Al-Mu’ayyad is thus engaged in activities just short of outright sedition but has sufficient popular support to make him both dangerous and difficult to eliminate openly. The story opens at the end of Ramadan, 1037, as al-Mu’ayyad and his converted followers are about to break the monthlong fast two days earlier than the Sunnī majority because of their different method of calculating the lunar month, an incident that leads to civil unrest. In the first excerpt, al-Mu’ayyad manages to avoid both being assassinated and being exiled through his astute political instincts and powerful eloquence. His dramatic escape from Shiraz in the second excerpt is but the first of many such adventures recounted in the remainder of the text.

Al-Mu’ayyad's prose style is ornate, rhymed, and filled with parallelisms, a common embellishment in Arabic and Persian prose: “. . . their determination and resolve to oppose and prohibit my activities. . .” or “People in the marketplaces began to whisper, and in their gatherings and households they began to talk.” Although such doubled phrases can be awkward in English, many of them have been retained in the current translation to communicate something of the feel of the original. Another important element of his style lies in the rhetorical dimension, particularly the way in which he attributes to himself lengthy and flowery argumentation whenever he is speaking publicly, while his opponents are either left anonymous and silent or depicted as giving only terse, simple responses. Despite the brash rhetoric of his speeches, al-Mu’ayyad often confides to the reader his deep fear and even terror during his adventures, typically at moments when he is alone, such as at home at night or cowering in hiding.

Bibliography

Daftary, Farhad. The Ismailis: Their History and Doctrines. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990, 213–15, and index, 779, s.v. al-Mu’ayyad fī al-Dīn al-Shīrāzī.

Klemm, Verena. Die Mission des faṭimidischen Agenten al-Mu’ayyad fī d-dīn in Širaz. Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1989.

al-Mu’ayyad al-Shīrāzī. Sīrat al-Mu’ayyad fī al-Dīn dā‘ī al-du‘āt . Ed. M. K. Ḥusayn. Cairo: Dār al-Kutub, 1949.

Muscati, J., and K. Moulvi. The Life and Lectures of the Grand Missionary Al-Mu’ayyad-fid-din Al-Shirazi. Karachi: Ismailia Association of West Pakistan, 1950 [contains long paraphrased passages from the Sīra].

Poonawalla, Ismail. “Al-Mu’aiyad fī ’l-dīn al-Shīrāzī.” EI² 5:270.

The End of Ramadan
[Sīrat al-Mu’ayyad, pp. 5–11]

On the day before the feast at the end of Ramadan 428 A.H. [1037 [C.E.], I was preparing for the holiday by obtaining carpets, furnishings, and the rugs necessary for the worshipers to pray on. News spread that I was gathering a great crowd the following day for the prayer and sermon and was setting up tents and pavilions in the courtyard of my house in an overt display of defiance and provocation. An extremely dim view was taken of this [by the authorities], which led to their determination and resolve to oppose and prohibit my activities. Talk of this spread quickly through town. People in the marketplaces began to whisper, and in their gatherings and households they began to talk. This soon reached the ears of Shi‘ites even in the farthest reaches of the city. Every so often, one of them would rush over to my house to reassure himself about my safety and to inquire whether anything had happened to me, only to find me safe and sound and still in one piece.

The next day, which was the holiday, a great mass of people from Daylam gathered together to pray and I led them in prayer. When I had finished, I addressed them vigorously in my sermon with admonitions and warnings, saying: “As must be clear to you, times are tense, and our enemies are showing themselves openly and in great numbers. They aim to besmirch our good works and attribute great sins to us, even though we are the ones who are diligent in bearing the charge of worship and the performance of prescribed religious duties and time-worn rites! You must rein yourselves in, make an effort to see the good in their deeds, and fear God as is His due! Take care that not one of you is linked to any form of transgression—let no loose tongue find room to fault you. Patience! Prayer! God is with the steadfast!”

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In the evening of that same day, the Sunnīs sought the crescent moon in accordance with their custom [i.e., by visual sighting], but it was hidden from them for a while.^[2] So they rejoiced thinking that having fasted for twenty-nine days they would complete the fast on the next day, the thirtieth. They lashed out at us with words and deeds for breaking the fast two days before them, so that this might be more damning and more effective in venting their anger on us. But shortly thereafter the moon appeared and their tongues dried up in their mouths and their hearts died in their bodies from the intensity of their rage and wrath. The next day they went to their place of worship, prayed, and returned. They were filled with talk against us and schemes to ensnare us, but nothing happened that day.

The following day, however, I was summoned by the minister of state, Bahrām ibn Māfina ibn Shahl, who had been given the title “the Just”—may God have mercy upon him—to his court. A man of great intelligence, of noteworthy erudition, conciliatory in all situations, and refined in words and deeds, he bade me approach and draw near, and then he welcomed me. He disliked having to address me with such harshness, knowing that it was not proper to do so, nor even the necessary place to do so, but he was acting under orders from a master whose commands could not be disobeyed and whose decrees could not be opposed [i.e., the sultan].

“You know,” he began, “of my deep regard and fondness for you, and that I would not ask you to do something were it not in your own best interest, but I am of the view that your activities have crossed over the boundary of wrongdoing and reached their limit. Yesterday, the sultan, on his way riding through the street from his palace to the mosque and back again, spoke of you the whole time, filled with wrath against you. He said, in short, that if you do not take your leave of this country and depart, he will order someone to do such-and-such to you, indicating that you would be killed, though he avoided saying so outright. So consider whether there is any point or sense in remaining here after that. Moreover, this morning, the chief judge was here and said that the religious storytellers and other mosque officials had come to him to say that they were losing patience with what that person—meaning you—was doing to spread heresy and the rejection of the Prophet's sunna [and saying]: “We should gather en masse and head for the sultan's gate to seek assistance with this situation, and demand some sort of permission so that we can attack his house, tear it down, burn it, kill him, and cause whatever other damage we can.”

The minister continued, “I responded by telling him that this would be no simple matter, since it would confirm the suspicions of the Daylamī soldiers [Mu’ayyad's staunchest supporters] and should anything rouse them from their current peaceful state, it would surely lead to sedition, bloodshed, rape, and terrible deeds. The judge answered me,” said the minister, “that if al-Mu’ayyad turns to them for help—meaning the Daylamīs—then their enemies will turn to others—meaning the Turks.”

Then the minister said to me, “Setting aside for the moment the sultan's enmity, which is in any case neither settled nor fixed, if there were nothing to this talk but the talk of the masses and their unrest, then our assumption about you, with your understanding, would be that you do not choose to be a source of sedition and unrest. But it is better that you seek guidance from Almighty God and leave the country immediately. I can send a number of riders with you to protect you as far as whichever lands you choose as your destination.”

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I answered, “This is yours to command for it is your kingdom. To every statement there is a reply except to him who in his own house says, `Leave my house!' To him there is no reply. But as I think about your telling me, `Leave our lands!' I do not know whether you should be saying this or I, whether it is your right or mine. For I do not see that I am any toil or trouble as far as you are concerned: I receive no share of your generosity, no mention of me appears in your register of royal gifts, nor have I received any kindnesses from you under any circumstances. And yet I see that all who creep and crawl—judges and jurists and scholars and scribes, people from every walk of life—gain entry into your hall and your council meetings, and are well rewarded by you either with what they receive directly as presents or indirectly as a living allowance or some other favor by means of your signature. My page is bare of such things. Moreover, you know better than anybody how your judges and notaries and the religious scholars of your mosques are marked by deficiencies and marred by shortcomings and objectionable faults; and you know that I am not marked with the characteristics of their deficiencies, nor am I marred by any of their shortcomings or defects. On the contrary, I remain a paragon of propriety and thoughtful integrity, and am the foremost of those known for their piety and their fear of God. Were it not for my open display of Shi‘ism, the masses would take the dust from my sandals as medicine for their eyes and the water from my ablutions as a cure for their ailments!”

“Furthermore, your officials seek nothing but to acquire property, to procure income, and to add dirham to dirham; but the person has yet to meet me whom I have troubled for anything or to whom I have begrudged a day of my life. Indeed, worldly goods have always been insignificant in my eyes—my desire for them ceased long ago. So, is your expulsion of someone whose conduct is such, without having proven that any fault blemishes him or that the trouble of supporting him burdens you, what I deserve (when I am blameless of either of these faults) or what you deserve? Nay, you do not merit my presence here! It is well known that, because I require no such support, every destination would welcome me and every land tolerate me. I only reside among you out of my passion for the religion with which I worship God and in order to protect it from an infirmity which afflicts it. If not for that, then the one agitating most for departure from among you would be myself, and the voice calling loudest for leaving you would be that of my own heart, so that I could have a rest from this constant humiliation. Especially since, as is known, I have my own master [i.e., the Fatimid caliph of Egypt]. Whenever a messenger seeks him out with a few lines of my composition or dictation, [the caliph] lavishes him with handsome accommodations and relieves him of worldly cares. If I sought him out myself, would he do less for me or make my share less than that of those who seek him out with my missives?”

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“Departure does not frighten me. Indeed, nothing save what I have mentioned [about my religious devotion] keeps me from leaving. I shall, God willing, do everything in my power to relieve you of the burden of my presence and turn my back on those favors due me in your lands, so that your hearts are not weighed down.”

“As for the chief judge and his resolve to wage war on us, would that I were speaking to him and to the masses with whom he tries to frighten us. Then he would see a wonder or two. But the sultan's intervention weakens his power, and his intention undermines the pillars of stability and solidarity. And the chief judge, if he does not fear for his ample property, his fabulous estates, and his own combativeness, though his religion be to him a blindness^[3]—why do none of those who own not a handful of this world, and have only miserable scraps and tatters actually support him while he is in full view of his Lord?^[4] Would that you had left us at each other so that each of us could try his luck. Peace be upon you!”

With that I stood up, left the meeting, and returned to my house, intent on rectifying this state of affairs. I searched high and low for a possible destination, but the escape routes were all laden with enemies—especially should the fact that I was fleeing as a result of the sultan's hatred and scheme become known. I spent a sleepless night trying to think of how to further my cause and whither to take my affairs, but no reliable course of action occurred to me, nor any good ideas upon which I could act.

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The next day I returned for an audience at the ministry, knowing neither why I had returned to him nor what I would say. Thus it was through God's inspiration—praise be unto Him—that when I met the minister I said, “I have returned to tell you of something that suggested itself to me after I left yesterday. Namely, you enjoined me to leave the country once and for all and I replied that I would try. Then I thought about the consequences of my leaving, and concluded that it would propel me toward something worse and even more injurious than what I am fleeing and would put me into a vile situation from which I fear an ignominious end. I am, after all, fleeing from the sultan's threat against me—he exalted and in a position of great power—and from nothing else. Yet I am not safe from the occurrence of that same thing at the hands of the most humble and obscure of persons. Accordingly, if I stay in place and hold my ground against the inevitable, that is better; I will at least know my killer. People will say, `So-and-so has been killed unjustly,' and `So-and-so has killed him wrongly,' and each of us will gain, respectively for better and for worse, a lasting reputation. Thus, I shall stay where I am, neither departing nor leaving the known for the unknown. But if expelled I must be, then you are certainly able to put me in fetters, bind me with chains, set me upon a riding beast and let it carry me away so that I will be blameless in my own eyes. As for leaving on my own two feet, I will not, unless, by God, you grant me a postponement of several days to return home and put my affairs in order, sell my home, gain some small sum for the journey, and then depart, secretly, safe from any situation that might confront me, until I leave your lands and cross your borders.”

The minister lowered his head in thought, stared at the ground for a while, then replied, “I grant you approval to leave in this manner. So return and organize your affairs as you see fit, but you may stay no more than one week.” I replied, “I hear and obey. I will do as has been described and strive to make ready to depart. Still, there is one issue that I cannot fail to mention, and which I must raise.” He asked, “What is that?” I said, “The good relations and close ties between the Daylamīs and myself are well known. If one of them has an argument with his wife in the evening, he comes to me with the problem in the morning, laying out the whole matter in all of its details. There is no doubt that, if they knew the truth of this affair, they would clamor and shout, and become greatly agitated. Let that not be attributed to me, nor be reckoned against me as my crime.” “You must prevent them from seeing you for the period of your stay,” he said, “and you must interpose between them and yourself the excuse that you have been prescribed medical treatment for a week.” I said, “They have never known me to conceal myself from them for an hour of the day, nor even to cut myself off from them for a shorter period of time, but I shall do as you decree, God willing.”

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I left to do as he had described and to prepare to depart. I locked the door behind me, forbade the people from seeing me, and spared myself in neither supplication nor prayer to God to remove this calamity. But talk of the situation I faced erupted and spread, and the hearts of the Daylamīs grew heavy. They could not meet for any funeral or festivity without whispering among themselves about annoyance after annoyance that came their way. Things reached a point where they were constrained in the exercise of their religion and forbidden from holding fast to their creed, even though the Christians and the Jews were kept neither from practicing their religion nor from their churches and synagogues. They determined to gather because of their miserable state. A great number of them congregated in the livestock market in Shiraz—that being where they usually went when agitated—and selected delegates to carry their messages and lodge their grievances. The delegates went to one of the minister's deputies and delivered their message. They painted a grim picture, mixing sweet words with bitter, gentle words with forceful. They claimed that if things continued thus, all hope would be lost and they would be forced to protect themselves from having to suffer being abased and stigmatized due to their weakness and their small number. News of this spread everywhere and it became known that uncontrollable evil would result and sparks would fly. So the sultan decreed that the minister should settle the matter and extinguish the flames. It was due to the minister's good grace, excellent administration, and fine patience that he sought to remedy the situation and set things right.

On the day of the large gathering in the square, the minister arrived before the Daylamīs and spoke of rectifying the situation. He ordered that the judges, the religious storytellers, and the Sufi mystics be brought to him, every last one of them. They arrived, cutting through the ranks of the Daylamīs right and left. The Daylamīs' tongues lashed out at them, uttering all manner of foul speech and revilement right to their faces, until they had entered the building, frightened to death by what they had just suffered at the hands of the Daylamīs and by what had caused them to be summoned to the sultan's palace.

When they stood before the minister's court, they were set upon with every kind of reproach, chiding and reprimand [by the minister]: “You have squandered our grace, and our gifts have made you ungrateful for the protective shade of security and justice that has been extended over you. You have become bent on stirring up sedition, and your talk has become an incitement to riot between the Shi‘ites and the Sunnīs. If it reaches me that any of you entertains mention of this or that it even crosses the tongues in your mouths, you will have brought death and destruction upon yourselves. And whoever survives thereafter will have his property confiscated and be dragged off in chains. So be heedful and watch where you tread. Peace be upon you!” Thus they [the judges, storytellers, and Sufis] departed heavyhearted after having entered lighthearted.^[5]

Then the Daylamīs were asked what had gathered them, young and old, in the square. He ordered that they select a number of them to enter and to represent the rest. They were chosen, they entered, and the minister then asked them the reason for their gathering. They responded that the Daylamīs held to a faith whose truth had settled firmly in their souls and that the religious obligations of this faith were incumbent upon them due to the oaths and convenants they had accepted. Morever, they had adopted that man [= al-Mu’ayyad] to be in charge of this faith, as a father unto them, and as a brother and a friend, a repository for every secret, a refuge in good times and bad.

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[They said:] “Yet for days he has been locked in! It is rumored that he is to be exiled from the country, mistreated, and is being plotted against! That is what has brought us together and moved us to action!” “No mention of exile in any form has occurred—God forbid!” replied the minister. “He is too greatly esteemed and too modest and decent for such a thing to befall him. Rather I have asked him to stay in his house and to prohibit people from meeting with him for a few days because of the unrest which has occurred among the masses on his account, until I can untangle the knot and douse the flames. This very hour I have summoned the chief instigators and agitators responsible for this misguidedness and given them a taste of their own medicine. I warned them of a terrible punishment if they begin once again to do as has been forbidden them, namely to speak of [the schism between] Shi‘ism and Sunnism and to foment sedition. So you should now return to your dwellings and breathe a sigh of relief. You need no longer worry about your friend.”

They left pleased and thankful. A day or two later the minister wrote me a letter in which he granted me permission to open my door and to return to things as they had been before, and hold my sessions as usual. So I opened it, rejoicing in God's benevolence—may He be exalted!—for what He had saved me from in the short term and fearful of the doubled wrath toward which He was propelling me in the long term. I said:

	God has been generous in all that has passed,
	May He continue to be generous in that which comes.

Fleeing Shiraz [pp. 68–72] sometime between 1042 and 1044/45:

The king [= Sultan Abū Kālījār] was on the point of traveling to Ahwaz with his troops. I concluded that if I remained in Shiraz, I would not be safe from whatever trickery or subterfuge might be used to fulfill the desires of [my enemies]. Accordingly, I told myself that it would be most prudent to remain with the group and not to separate from the collective.^[6] Thus, I sought permission to travel with them but was refused. This refusal only increased my forebodings. I continued to send written requests for permission, but I met with no approval, and in spite of more urgent requests, I met with nothing but more obstinate refusal. I therefore undertook the difficult course of clandestine flight. It had not occurred to me, and certainly not to anyone else, that I was capable of such a thing. I gave my followers and companions in Shiraz to understand that I had received approval for my request to join the troops but would be traveling in the entourage incognito, while I gave those traveling in the entourage to understand that I would be remaining in Shiraz, in hiding, but that I would be sending along with them some of my baggage, riding beasts, and servants. I then donned a disguise and assumed an unfamiliar demeanor, wearing old and ragged clothes. I acquired two new servants, unknown to anyone, and set off on back roads, hiring at each way station an ass to ride, or a camel, or a steer, as circumstances dictated.

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The travails of journeying that I endured during that time—descending into ravines and mires, bearing the freezing cold, alighting in filthy places—was something for which, had it been a disease, death would have seemed a cure! The most difficult thing I had to bear was that every time I hired an ass to ride, I wanted to go down the road alone so no one would see me. Its owner, however, would want to accompany us to keep an eye on his animals, squarely defeating the entire purpose. He would ask what caused me to prefer traveling alone when the custom among travelers was to prefer the opposite, namely, that they would ask to be accompanied. I was tongue-tied, unable to give a reasonable excuse for this. Along the way I would alight with people from the countryside and backcountry. I listened as they mentioned me in very unflattering terms and I realized that if they recognized me, they would have performed ritual ablutions in my blood and gone to prayer! May you never have to go down such roads and hear with your own ears such horrible things about yourself!

Among the places in which I wished neither to be, nor to be apprehended, and in which my safety was preserved only through the subtle graces of Almighty God, was a place called Jannāba. [ . . . ] I felt this way because I arrived there on a rainy day, and my search for some shelter from the rain led me to the congregational mosque. The town market was next to it, and someone came in to pray who knew my name, ancestry, and everything else about me. When his gaze fell upon me, he came closer, approaching as you would approach someone who enjoys an elevated station in life. Then he saw my demeanor, my state, my clothes and what I was doing, and he realized right away that I was fleeing. He offered himself and his money to me, saying, “If there is anything you need, I can help you, or, if you need a little extra money to take with you, I have some and cannot think of a better use for it than you.” “God bless you and your money,” I replied. “I have no need more pressing than that you have not seen me, nor I you.”

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Then a second person came over to me, an ‘Alid [i.e., a Shi‘ite], and asked one of my servants about me. My servant replied that I was a sharīf [i.e., a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad through ‘Alī and the Prophet's daughter, Fāṭima] traveling from Kirman to Baghdad. He said that this was not what people were saying about me. He approached and greeted me, and I greeted him politely and welcomed him. He said, “It seems as if I know you, sir—may God protect you.” “Perhaps that is the case,” I said. He said, “I met you in Ahwaz.” I replied, “I have indeed been there.” “In the place known as the Palace of al-Ma’mūn, I remember that you were building a building there,” and in saying this alluded to the shrine that was the cause of the current misery afflicting me.^[7] “I do not know that place; I have only gone to Ahwaz when passing through. Anyway, where would I get the means to build something? I am too busy looking out for myself to pay attention to such a thing.” “Well, what have I been doing trying to cover for you then? They said you were so-and-so and spoke of you with terms of great honor and respect.” “I have on occasion heard of that man,” I said. “He is a man of important affairs, the leader of the Daylamīs, a powerful position. Still I have never seen him, but some people resemble others and perhaps someone would liken me to him.” He continued, “Some people said to the local governor, `You should take him into custody, perhaps he is fleeing the sultan. If you capture him you may gain favor with the court.' He was about to detain you until I pointed out to him that he should really ignore that sort of talk completely. I said to him, `You are neither commanded nor required to do so. He may be the man they mean and he may not. If he is the one they mean, exposing yourself to his enmity together with the enmity of all of the Daylamīs would outweigh whatever reward you might earn by seizing him. And if he is someone else, then you have frightened a stranger, detained him on his way to some place or another, and earned yourself the embarrassment of it.' `You are right,' replied the governor, and he accepted my counsel regarding you. But now I would like for you to take as much money from me as you want and let it help you along your way. You would both honor me and favor me by doing so.” I thanked him profusely.

Then a third person approached me carrying himself differently than had the other two. He greeted me, came up to me, and said, “There has been much talk of you in this town. Some say that you are Ẓahīr al-Dīn, lord of Basra, escaped from prison and making your way back to Basra. Another says you are so-and-so,” and he called me by a name which only a passionate and ardent devotee would use, showing himself to be a fervent adherent of Shi‘ism and its doctrines. I said, “Sir, I am neither the one nor the other of these two men, but rather merely an ‘Alid passing through.” The man replied, “Then I would ask something of you.” “What is it?” I asked. “That you write for me, in your own hand, a prayer from which I might receive some blessing.” “As for writing the prayer,” I replied, “there is nothing which could keep me from doing that, but as for your taking it as a blessing because it is written in the hand of the man to whom you referred, I am not he, and there is no blessing in my hand or in his, in my opinion and according to my creed.” “That would be fine,” he said, “please write it.” I said to him, “Then I have a favor to ask of you, too, so please do it, one favor for another.” “What is that?” he inquired. “I would like you to rent a riding ass for me, so that I can leave this place.” “I hear and obey,” he replied.

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So the man left in search of a riding ass to rent, and I busied myself with writing what he had asked for. He returned after a while with the muleteer, having agreed with him on a price, and so he was paid. I said, “Where is the ass for me to ride so that we can travel?” “I will bring it to you shortly,” he said, “it is in an outlying village.” He then left me while it was still morning. The time came for the first afternoon prayer and he had not yet returned. Dusk approached and he had still not returned. I had no doubt that I had been delayed by the local governor and that he would arrest me, having forbidden the muleteer from returning and sent spies to follow me if I left the place. I was in no position to run and escape my pursuers had I wished to flee. This gave me a fright of apocalyptic proportions, so I sent for the man who had brought the muleteer and said to him, “That man has left me high and dry, for he has not returned, despite the fact that it was settled that he would do so within a short time. So, if you please, could you track him down and bring him back with the riding ass? If you would, it would be most kind and I would not be able to thank you enough.” “I hear and obey,” he said. He set off at once, and suddenly there he was approaching with the muleteer and the ass, shortly before sunset. So we set off, I not believing that I had escaped from that predicament, and looking back to see if anyone was following us. We traveled and stopped overnight in a ruined palace on the riverside. It was in fact haunted by demons, but when I entered it, I felt as though I had been plucked out of Hellfire and dropped into Heaven.

When we awoke, we traveled wherever God in His munificence led us. Such was my wont for an entire month, experiencing all of life's hardships, wrapped in the garments of terror, undergoing every genus and type of torment and travail, until I entered my home in Ahwaz one evening, prior to the sultan's return. For he had remained en route between Shiraz and Ahwaz for some time, engaged in diversions and pastimes, until he encamped for a month in a town called Sābūr, three days' march from Shiraz. During his stay there, a letter from the intelligence network reached him informing him that I had disappeared, and that, since the time his entourage had departed, no trace of me had been seen, but that there was a rumor that I was traveling in his company in disguise. He was shaken by these rumors and I heard that he placed spies and agents in the tents of the Daylamīs and in their camps to ascertain my whereabouts. He stepped up his efforts to narrow the search, examining the cavalry and the infantry man by man, and in a number of cases laid bare the faces of some who had disguised themselves. But all that was lost effort, for I was tucked away in my hiding place and not among them, kept safe by God in His mercy.

Notes

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The Autobiography of al-‘Imād al-Dīn al-Kātib al-Iṣfahānī

(1125–1201)

Introduction

‘Imād al-Dīn's memoirs of his life with Saladin are titled The Syrian Thunderbolt (al-Barq al-shāmī), which refers to the brief but glorious reigns of Nūr al-Dīn and Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn [ = Saladin] that saw the unification of Syria, Palestine, and Egypt into a single kingdom and the recapture of Jerusalem from the hands of the Crusaders who had held it for eighty-eight years (1099–1187). After Saladin's death, the kingdom was divided among his three sons and one of his brothers, who soon began to vie with one another for control of the region, leading rapidly to a period of political instability.

Although ‘Imād al-Dīn's work is framed as a life of Saladin, the narrative focus slips away again and again to highlight the role of ‘Imad al-Dīn himself, so much so that later Arab autobiographers such as al-Suyūṭī and al-Sha‘rānī regarded the work as autobiographical, one in which the author had “portrayed himself” (tarjama nafsah). Reading ‘Imād al-Dīn's work, one might well wonder whether a single work can portray two lives and therefore function simultaneously as both biography and autobiography. The text could in any case easily be titled “My Life with Saladin.” We view Saladin's reign and his deeds through the eyes and opinions of his faithful, though none too modest, personal secretary and assistant, ‘Imād al-Dīn. One of the constant motifs within the narrative is the contrast between “the pen” and “the sword” and the interdependence of the men who wield them. This is a relationship that is depicted as being complementary and necessary to both groups.

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‘Imād al-Dīn gives us a wonderfully detailed account of the day-to-day activities of a high-ranking administrative secretary: drafting reports, writing elaborately euphuistic proclamations, composing verses to be used as embellishments in the ruler's personal correspondence, buying books, attending public readings of poetry and lectures on religious topics, and even helping the ruler to organize public disputations over religious law in celebration of the holy month of Ramadan. The following selected passages demonstrate two of the author's favorite themes: his personal role during the reign of Saladin and his own social commentaries regarding the “men of the pen” and the “men of the sword.” The final passage translated here constitutes one of ‘Imād al-Dīn's true moments of personal glory, when he is selected by Saladin to draft the official proclamations sent out to all the cities of the realm announcing the reconquest of Jerusalem from the Crusaders. Only two volumes of ‘Imād al-Dīn's original work have survived, but an abridgment by al-Bundarī, Sanā al-barq al-shāmī, gives a sense of the whole. The following passages are translated from al-Bundarī (as marked).

Bibliography

Missing

The Pen and the Sword

Prologue
[Sanā al-barq, pp. 13–14]

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Thoughtful is the person who recognizes the value, and acknowledges the generosity, of the one who fostered and promoted him. If he is appointed to the service of a master, he should return this benevolence by praising him even after his death. As for me, the one who provided me with my livelihood and selected me as his secretary during his lifetime, then left me to write his praises after his death, was the Victorious King Ṣalāḥ al-Dunyā wa-l-Dīn Abū Muִzaffar Yūsuf ibn Ayyūb [= Saladin]—may God's mercy be bestowed upon him. I worked alongside him and found him to be the best of company. Now that his epoch and his life have ended, I fear lest his memory fade, so I am writing this book and endowing it with the finest of rhyming prose. After pondering and considering the completed work, I decided to call it The Syrian Thunderbolt [al-Barq al-shāmī], because I arrived in Damascus in the month of Sha‘bān 562 [1166 C.E.], during the reign of the Just King Nūr al-Dīn Maḥmūd ibn Zankī—may God bless his era with the best of mercy—and I found the state well structured and stable, its reputation strong, and its leadership benevolent under his rule and likewise during the reign of Saladin up until the twenty-seventh of the month of Safar in 589 [March 3, 1193—the date of Saladin's death]. I then saw that regime vanish as if in a sudden flash or the blink of an eye. All was over. Gone were the days, the nights, the months, and the years as if they had all been nothing but a dream.

In this book I present some recollections of my days with Sultan Saladin. I start by reporting how and when I first met him and by describing my service to him. I describe the beginning of his rule and the circumstances of his arrival in Syria where I joined his administration. Then I chronicle every year of his reign and list all of his good deeds.

My pen accompanied his sword and helped his dominion: the former providing endorsement, the latter causing death; the former sustaining security, the latter inducing fear. The sultan depended upon my penmanship and used to say, “Thank God, for He did not cause me to be disappointed by al-‘Imād and He coupled my success with his.” Then, after his passing, I showed my loyalty's endurance and sang his praise in my writing. I revived his memory with my accounts and immortalized his deeds in my books. I have in truth offered him a second life after his death. After the Almighty chose to call him to His side, and his kingdom was divided between his sons, I told myself they would follow their father's example and acknowledge my value and elevate my rank further and grant me my due. But instead, they withheld my salary and caused me such distress that I had to write a lengthy letter to the master al-Qāḍī al-Fāḍil to complain.

How I arrived in Damascus [pp. 17–21]

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I left Baghdad and came to Damascus not because I aspired to join the service of any of its nobility, but because I felt alienated in Baghdad after the death of my patron the vizier ‘Awn al-Dīn Yaḥyā b. Muḥammad b. Habira. He had favored me, selected me for his service, and appointed me his deputy in Basra and Wasit many times, so that I became known as his client. After his death in 560 [1164], I stayed in Baghdad where all those who were associated with him were oppressed. I was not directly targeted and was left to go about on my own. I started frequenting the circles of scholars and jurists, learning from them and debating with them. One of these scholars was from Damascus and always extolled his city's excellence and described the beauty of its orchards, the purity of its air, and the scarcity of its illnesses. I enjoyed his company and was enticed by his description of his city, so I decided to go to Damascus as a distraction from my malaise. He escorted me until we got close to Damascus. Then suddenly he changed his friendly attitude and left me there. Alone, disappointed, and frustrated, I told my companions, “Pitch my tent here and let us wait, maybe someone will help us.” By that time, one of the Sufis who recognized me had gone to the judge of Damascus, Kamāl al-Dīn Muḥammad b. ‘Abd Allāh b. al-Qāsim al-Shahrazūrī, and informed him of my presence in the vicinity of the city.

Soon afterward, still wallowing in incertitude, we were surprised by the arrival of a group of the judge's pages, deputies, and servants who offered me his apologies for not being able to come personally and extended his invitation to lodge anywhere I chose. I opted for the madrasa [college of law] of which I am now the rector. I started to visit the judge regularly and to attend his sessions and lessons. I distinguished myself by participating in the discussions and by quoting from original sources in my debates in both basic and advanced fields of learning. At that time, news of my arrival reached Prince Najm al-Dīn who was curious to meet me because of his prior acquaintance with my uncle. He came personally to my home to show me his respect and to satisfy my expectations. I welcomed him and hurried to offer him reverence. At the end of the month of Shawwāl 562 [1167], I composed a poem in his honor in which I extolled his virtues and predicted the conquest of Egypt at the hands of his brother Asad al-Dīn and his son, Saladin, who had gone there on campaign for the second time.

When Asad al-Dīn came back to Damascus, he was informed of my presence. He used to sit every night with the notables, so I went to him to pay him homage. He received me with all the signs of respect and friendship. He spent a long time with me remembering my uncle al-‘Azīz and praising his memory, and showered me with generous offers and gifts. I, in return, presented him with a panegyric poem on the night of Friday, the twenty-seventh of the month of Dhū al-Qa‘da 562 [Sept. 14, 1167]. I also met Saladin and we soon became close friends. He often asked me to offer him some of my poetry or my prose.

How I entered the service of Nūr al-Dīn and changed the secretariat [pp. 22–23]

The judge Kamāl al-Dīn al-Shahrazūrī told me, “It would be in your interest to write a poem praising Nūr al-Dīn; we hope you will attain a good position in his administration.” So I composed a poem which was delivered to Nūr al-Dīn by the judge, of which these are the opening verses:

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	If she had kept her oaths on the day of departure,     her promises of meeting would not have delayed our meeting.
	What [wrongs] have my heart committed that it,     in burning fire, must ever yearn for you?
	I have not forgotten how her tears were scattered     o'er her cheeks, like the pearls of her necklace unstrung.
	As she drew near to bid me farewell,     in her closeness her distance grew clear.
	As when the archer pulls his arrow tight,     drawing near was but the first step of her flight.

Then Nūr al-Dīn appointed me to his secretariat as a scribe in the beginning of the year 563 [1167]. Soon afterward he left for the city of Ḥimṣ where he stayed for a few days to review a number of matters and solve a few problems. I went after him and then followed him to the city of Ḥamāh where I was lodged by Asad al-Dīn Shirkuh in a tent next to his own tent. Early every day, I used to go to work engrossed in my worries about my performance in a job to which I was unaccustomed. I thought that the other secretaries and scribes looked down on me and considered my talents lacking. I also thought a career in the secretariat a difficult one, especially with regard to the redaction of reports, until I read the notes and letters which came in from different regions and provinces and found them very weak in language and style.

I felt strong enough to undertake the task of changing the mediocre state of affairs and introduced a new style of writing that was unknown to my colleagues. In it I fulfilled the requirements of high prose and eliminated the distortion of language that dominated the old style. I wrote in this new style to the provinces while the other scribes mocked and slandered me. I ignored them and all the while I tried to show them the right way and did my best to advise them. Soon afterward, my pen spoke for the excellence of my style and my knowledge elevated my status. My colleagues gathered around me and acknowledged my skills. My prestige rose constantly and Nūr al-Dīn endowed me with further honor by appointing me to a position closer to him. I, in return, improved the quality of his statements by my prose. Nūr al-Dīn liked me all the more and rewarded me correspondingly.

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When Nūr al-Dīn decided to go to Aleppo, Asad al-Dīn was sent a few days ahead of him. Before leaving, he entrusted me to his nephew, Saladin, and left me the tent that he had ordered pitched for me with all its accoutrements. I stayed behind and spent the time in the company of Saladin day and night until Nūr al-Dīn ordered us to proceed to Aleppo. There he resided in the citadel throughout the winter and I stayed in the madrasa of Ibn al-‘Ajamī. That winter was very cold and gray and I used to visit Saladin frequently in his home. He asked me to compose a few verses for him on yearning so that he could insert them in his letters to those he missed and was longing to see.

[ . . . ] On Monday the fourth of the month of Ramadan [569/1174], Nūr al-Dīn went on horseback for his tour as usual. We [the scribes] were left in his office to do our work. Someone came and informed me that Nūr al-Dīn had visited the madrasa of which I was in charge, spread his carpet, and prayed in its qibla. I immediately went there and met Nūr al-Dīn in its vestibule when he was leaving. He stopped when he saw me and I said, “You have honored this place with your presence, but have you noticed how it was affected by the last earthquake?” [June 29, 1170] “We shall restore it to its original form,” he replied. I then sent him sweet confections, an item of clothing, some incense, and some camphor, and to accompany them composed three verses:

	For Solomon with all his might     a present from an ant sufficed.
	Kings are no greater than a small nuisance     for you, and they always hope for your goodness.
	I am a slave to our master, all I own is his,     my heart is filled with gratitude toward him.

He noticed that the prayer niche of the madrasa was not covered with gold mosaics, so he sent for gilded tesserae and gold, but he died before the mosaic could be applied. I then traveled to Mosul, where he appeared to me in my sleep. In the dream he said to me, “The madrasa needs what belongs to it.” I explained to him, “I have appointed someone to take care of it for me.” He retorted, “The prayer [niche]!” And when I woke up, I understood his reference to the prayer niche and that it was now in a ruinous state. So I wrote to the jurist who had taken my place and who had the gold in storage with him, and told him to use it immediately for the finishing of the prayer niche. When I came back to Damascus in the days of Saladin, I entered the city on the day of the completion of the prayer niche's gilding and thus fulfilled the wish of my late patron.

How I departed from Damascus and returned to Cairo [pp. 114–18]

Saladin decided to leave Damascus and go back to Cairo. He left in the morning of Friday the fourth of the month of Rabī‘ al-Awwal. I waited until I performed the Friday prayer and then headed toward the royal encampment, reaching it after nightfall. I missed my family dreadfully and expressed my feelings in verse at every stop on the road.

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After we arrived in Cairo, I was assigned the editing of the letters sent to Syria, which did not take up all of my time, so I was able to take the opportunity to spend my free time attending poetry readings in Giza and al-Jazīra [Rawḍa island], participating in sessions in the madrasas and study circles, and investigating literary and legal topics. At night, I used to go to the sultan [Saladin] for consultation and for study, for literary discussions and ascetic readings. The sultan used to spend some time with me after evening prayers whenever he needed to send some communications or to consult me on some state secret. He would dictate what he wanted to me. I would then go back home to compose the letters and come back to him early in the morning to show him the final drafts and add whatever corrections he deemed necessary.

[ . . . ] Book sales used to be held in the Fatimid palace twice weekly. Books were sold for very low prices. I did like everyone else and took advantage of the situation by buying a number of precious books. When I informed the sultan of what I had bought, he granted me their price as a gift and added to it by giving me more books from the palace's shelves than I had selected. I once entered into his presence and found him examining a large number of folios from the palace's collection. He asked me, “Aren't some of these among the books you have selected?” “All of them,” I replied, “and I would not let go of a single one.” So he ordered a porter to carry them all to my house. This was but one example of his generosity; it was his custom to give without making one ask for what one needed.

[ . . . ] We suggested to the judge Ḍiyā’ al-Dīn al-Shahrazūrī that he take us to the pyramids and his face lit up in appreciation. He owned the island of al-Dhahab on the the way to the pyramids, so we crossed over to it and spent the night there in the best of company with all the pleasant things necessary for a party.

The next day, we crossed to Giza and passed by a number of people seated in circles and dressed in mantles like those of our Syrian or Iraqi jurists. When we approached them, they fled the place in a hurry. I thought they were students, but I was told that they were drinkers of ale. I said, “Why are they wrapped in mantles?” I was told, “This is the habit in this country. You cannot expect people to be alike everywhere.”

When we finally got to the pyramids, we were greeted by our slaves, who had preceded us and prepared the tents for us. We circled around the pyramids a few times. The scene left us in utter awe. We were intensely dazzled by the Sphinx, and we were at a loss for words to describe our impressions. We spent the evening in conversation about the monumentality of these pyramids and their builders and how they eclipse everything else in their grandeur.

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How I was saved from the Battle of Ramla [p. 128]

On the evening of Friday the third of the month of Jumāda al-’Ūlā [573/1177], Saladin left Cairo with the intention of going on campaign against Gaza, Asqalan, and Ramla. I accompanied the army and it was announced that people should procure provisions for at least ten days. I was feeling uneasy about this campaign and told my servant, “I think I should go back to Cairo. I am a man of the pen, not of the sword, and I have an ominous feeling about this campaign. The road is long, the dangers are many, and the route is all in sandy desert. My beasts cannot endure such an ordeal. This is a task for fighters, not for writers, and everyone should focus on his work without infringing on the other's duties. Besides, all the other scribes and secretaries have requested the sultan's permission to go back.” I informed al-Qāḍī al-Fāḍil of my worries and my desire, but he kept them secret to protect me.

The sultan, though, was willing to let me do what I chose. He asked me, “Are you coming along or would you rather go back?” I said, “The choice is my lord's, whatever you decide for me shall be.” He replied, “You had better go back and pray for us so that God may grant us victory.” I had already written a few verses to the master al-Fāḍil as a joke:

	I was asked to go on campaign     Tell me, what would my efforts at jihād achieve?
	I do not feel audacious amidst men of the army,     My bow is not tight enough to loose arrows.

This was the only time I failed to accompany the sultan on his campaigns, and God thus saved me from being present at the defeat [at the Battle of Ramla, November 25, 1177].

How I avoided wielding the Sword [pp. 155–56]

A group of Frankish Crusaders and their wolfish infidel allies [eastern Christians] had been raiding the environs of the city of Ḥamāh for some time. Prince Nāṣir al-Dīn Mankurus, the governor of the city, attacked them with a hundred of his warriors and defeated them. He captured great numbers of infidels and brought them to the camp of the sultan.

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On the morning of the eleventh of the month of Rabī‘ al-Ākhir [574/1178], the sultan was mounted on his horse with all the army around him when Prince Mankurus approached him, came down from his horse, kissed the ground, greeted the sultan, and kissed his right hand after having pressed his forehead to his foot. He had the captives—“who looked drunk without having drunk anything” [Q 22:2]—brought before the sultan who ordered that they be beheaded by men of religion. Al-Ḍiyā’ al-Ṭabarī was the first to execute a captive, followed by Shaykh Sulaymān al-Dīrī al-Maghribī, and then many others. Prince Aqtafan b. Yarūq was present and he also executed an enemy of God.

At this moment I was summoned into the presence of Saladin, and I thought I was needed for something important that could not be carried out by anyone else. Instead, when I presented myself, the sultan asked me to draw my sword and to kill one of the infidels. I told him, “I am a man of the pen and do not compete with swords. I announce victories but do not cause deaths. Please grant me this boy as a slave and let some warrior kill the captive you have designated for me.” The sultan laughed and released me from the task and said, “We will use this boy in exchange for one of the Muslim captives held by the Franks. Instead, we will give you a slave from among the prisoners brought in by the Egyptian fleet.”

I instantly took advantage of the sultan's offer and brought my pen and inkwell and asked the prince ‘Aḍud al-Dīn Murhaf b. Mu’ayyad al-Dawla Usāma b. Munqidh [son of the autobiographer Usāma ibn Munqidh] to write me a decree. He then asked the sultan for his signature on it. Later I drafted a letter to the master al-Fāḍil asking him for what the sultan had granted me. I described the slave I wanted and exaggerated somewhat the qualities I was seeking. Al-Fāḍil sent me a hundred dinars instead of a slave and wrote, “I realized that what you are requesting is impossible to find, and the slaves brought in by the fleet are of inferior quality. The best among them is not worth more than thirty dinars. Therefore, I decided to send you these hundred dinars as compensation. I have taken from the state purse fifty dinars instead of the slave, added to it thirty from the privy purse of al-‘Ādil [Saladin's brother], and twenty from my own.”

My heart was delighted by this turn of events. After my sword had turned against killing, I did not lose anything by my decision not to spill blood. I turned from that deed for fear the company would laugh at me as they had at the others.

A successful debate and how I came to have a residence in Damascus [pp. 286–88]

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The sultan decided to distribute turbans and robes to the preachers and Qur’ān-reciters during the month of Ramadan [582/1186]. He spent the first two weeks of the month listening to preachers in the citadel and giving away turbans. When he had done enough, I told him, “We have satisfied the reciters, preachers, and poets. There remain only the jurists to invite for disputations and to reward, for they are the bearers of law and the interpreters of rules.” He replied, “I fear their polemics and the results of their debates, which usually end in quarrels.” I said, “I personally shall guarantee their behavior and shall invite only those known for their patience and good manners.” He said, “You promote them because of your respect for them; if you bring them, do not allow them to indulge in fights.”

So it happened, and the first day of disputation a number of the most famous jurists were present. A brilliant discourse and a beneficial argument took place. Then the sultan asked Burhān al-Dīn Mas‘ūd, the Ḥanafī law professor of the Madrasa al-Nūriyya, to argue a case and deduce the conclusion. He hesitated and was about to refuse for fear of abusive reactions. I told him to begin without fear for he was the most persuasive of the discussants. He said, “If you are going to object, I will acquiesce to your judgment.” I appeased him and assured him of my support. He started his presentation, furnished his argument, and satisfied the questions of all those present.

The sultan next chose me to develop the counterargument. I started by presenting my view and refuting the argument, correcting the mistakes and misinterpretations, providing the evidence, and solving the problem. I pressed Burhān al-Dīn to carry the debate further and he responded well and provided a good argument. The session ended up being very beneficial for all present. The same was repeated the next day, and the day after, until the holidays. The sultan sat through all the sessions and before the Feast he ordered the preparation of robes of honor to be distributed to the jurists. There were more than two hundred jurists, and the sultan offered them all robes and turbans. I accompanied the jurists in my robe of honor when they all entered the hall on the first day of the Feast.

In that year, 582 [1186–87], I also built my house in Damascus across from the citadel. The sultan was usually on the move to check on his dominions, wage war against the enemy, or force the client kings to do his bidding. So when he decided to spend most of this year in Damascus residing in the citadel, I decided to build my house near his residence so that I could attend him whenever he needed me and return home whenever I left him. This house is now my dwelling and my resting place. In it my children reside and in it I compose my poetry and prose.

How I wrote the proclamations of the reconquest of Jerusalem [pp. 305, 313]

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I had left the sultan when the army was besieging Beirut because of an illness that could not be cured there and for which I needed to go back to Damascus. When the sultan wanted to write a pledge of safe passage for the besieged, he asked for me, but I asked to be excused from this task because of my illness. The sultan brought all the other scribes and asked each of them to draft the document. He was dissatisfied with all of them and realized my talents and my superiority in composition. An envoy came to me and saw me in pain. He said, “Write this pledge of safe passage, for you are the best of scribes.” I replied, “I do not feel well and I doubt I will be able to comply.” Then I asked that God guide me to write the appropriate text and I did. I left for Damascus afterward and rejoined the sultan after the conquest of Jerusalem.

I arrived in Jerusalem on Saturday, the second day after the conquest [October 3, 1187]. The sultan's companions were pressuring him to order letters of proclamation to be carried to all the regions to announce the conquest. The sultan was reluctant to do so and told them, “For this task there is but one person; if only he could join us now that we need his writing talents.” His scribes had gathered together to compose a letter, and were busy drafting it when I arrived. They all greeted me enthusiastically, especially the sultan, who said, “Your arrival today is another proof of the good omen of this conquest. This is your day! Prepare your pens and paper and draft me all the letters of proclamation, for all the provinces and regions are awaiting this great news!” In the course of that day I penned seventy letters, each more intricate and ornate than the last. Then I followed them that night with a number of letters in which I included all the details of the conquest, and I prefaced each with great praise for the conquest and the conqueror.

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The Autobiography of ‘Abd al-Laṭīf al-Baghdādī

(1162–1231)

Introduction

Muwaffaq al-Dīn Abū Muḥammad ‘Abd al-Laṭīf ibn Yūsuf al-Baghdādī was a man of great learning who became well known for his expertise in many fields: grammar, lexicography, law, natural sciences, alchemy, philosophy, and, most notably, medicine. He was born in Baghdad in 1162 and died there in 1231 after an absence of forty-five years during which he traveled widely in the Islamic world. He had a succession of patrons and came into contact with a number of prominent military leaders, scholars, philosophers, and physicians, including Saladin, Maimonides, ‘Imād al-Dīn al-Kātib al-Iṣfahānī (Saladin's personal secretary and a fellow autobiographer), and Ibn Sanā’ al-Mulk.^[1]

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The sīra, or life narrative, of ‘Abd al-Laṭīf seems to have formed part of a larger work, no longer extant, entitled simply ta’rīkh (history or diary), which he wrote for his son.^[2] Although it does not seem to have survived in toto, the sīra was used by Ibn Abī Uṣaybi‘a (d. 1270) in compiling his biographical dictionary of physicians. Similar to the autobiography of Ibn al- ‘Adīm as recorded by Yāqūt, the autobiography of ‘Abd al-Laṭīf survives as a composite of first-person extracts from his original text, interwoven with paraphrases and additional firsthand knowledge supplied by Ibn Abī Uṣaybi‘a, for ‘Abd al-Laṭīf was a close friend of his grandfather and a teacher of both his father and paternal uncle. In spite of conforming somewhat to the standard curriculum vitae model, it is clear from these fragments and those preserved in other works that ‘Abd al-Laṭīf's sīra was replete with insights and judgments about the places he lived and visited, the people he encountered, and the intellectual currents of his day. He notes, for example, that many of the best scholars of his era, including himself, were unduly preoccupied with alchemy (which he finally denounces toward the end of his autobiography); that were it not for the ineptitude of the attending physician, Saladin's death might have been averted; and that Maimonides, though extremely knowledgeable, was misguided and overly concerned about currying favor with his “worldly lords.”

‘Abd al-Laṭīf is a towering figure in the intellectual and scientific history of the Islamic Middle Ages. His autobiography, besides providing glimpses into the ingredients that make a scholar, is a record of the triumph of knowledge and learning even in times of turmoil, upheaval, and shifting alliances. The translation below contains most of the first-person passages preserved in the entry on ‘Abd al-Laṭīf in Ibn Abī Uṣaybi‘a's compendium.

Bibliography

Missing

Selections from the Autograph Notes of ‘Abd al-Laṭīf al-Baghdādī
[‘Uyūn, pp. 683–96]

 

[Ibn Abī Uṣaybi‘a writes]:

The learned master Muwaffaq al-Dīn Abū Muḥammad ‘Abd al-Laṭīf ibn Yūsuf ibn Muḥammad ibn ‘Alī ibn Abī Sa‘d, known as Ibn Labbād. Town of family origin: Mosul. Birthplace: Baghdad.

Renowned for his polymathy and blessed with moral excellence, he was eloquent and prolific. He was distinguished in grammar and lexicography, and very knowledgeable in speculative theology and medicine. He devoted a great deal of attention to the craft of medicine when he was in Damascus and became famous as a result of this. A group of students and student physicians used to visit him frequently in order to study medical texts under his direction.

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[Here follows a passage by Ibn Abī Uṣaybi‘a on ‘Abd al-Laṭīf's father and paternal uncle, their education, and their writings.]

He was a friend of my grandfather's: a strong friendship had developed between them when we lived in Egypt. My father and my uncle both studied the literary arts under his direction. My uncle also studied the books of Aristotle with him. ‘Abd al-Laṭīf himself was much interested in the works of Aristotle and their import. He came to Damascus from Egypt and stayed there for some time; his students learned a great deal from him. I saw him when he was living in Damascus the last time he was there: a thin, elderly man, of medium height, sweet voiced and expressive, whose writing was more eloquent than his tongue. Perhaps it was because he thought so highly of himself that he said inappropriate things—may God show him mercy! He found the men of learning of his time, and those of earlier times too, deficient in their scholarship, and he greatly disparaged many of the Persian scholars and their works, especially the Master, Avicenna, and others of his caliber.

I have copied the following verbatim from a manuscript, in his own hand, of the autobiography [sīra] he composed.

I was born in 557 [1162 [C.E.] in a house that belonged to my grandfather on Falūdhaj Lane, and was raised and instructed under the care of Shaykh Abū al-Najīb. I knew neither pleasure nor leisure, and spent most of my time learning ḥadīth. Certificates of ḥadīth audition were obtained for me from professors in Baghdad, Khurasan, Syria, and Egypt. One day my father [proudly] declared: “I have given you the opportunity to learn ḥadīth directly from the top scholars of Baghdad and I have even had you included in the chains of transmission of the older Masters.” I was learning calligraphic writing at that time and also memorizing the Qur’ān, the Faṣīḥ [a treatise on Arabic linguistics by Tha‘lab, d. 904], the Maqāmāt [picaresque tales by al-Ḥarīrī, d. 1122], the collected poems of al-Mutanabbī, an epitome on jurisprudence, another on grammar, and other works of this kind.

When I was old enough, my father took me to Kamāl al-Dīn ‘Abd al-Raḥmān al-Anbārī, who was, in those days, the Master of Masters in Baghdad. He was an old classmate of my father's from their days at the Niִzāmiyya law college, where they had studied law together. It was under his direction that I was to study the introduction to the Faṣīḥ, but I couldn't understand one bit of his continuous and considerable jabbering, even though his students seem pleased enough with it. So he said, “I avoid teaching younger boys and instead pass them on to my protégé al-Wajīh al-Wāsiṭī to study under his direction. If and when their situation improves, I then allow them to study with me.”

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Al-Wajīh, a blind man from a wealthy and virtuous family, was employed by some of the children of the Chief Master.^[3] He welcomed me with open arms and taught me all day long, showing me kindness in many ways. I attended his study circle at the Ẓafariyya mosque, and he would teach me the commentaries and discuss them with me. Then he would read my lesson and favor me with his own comments. We would then leave the mosque and he would even help me memorize on the road home. When we reached his house, he would take out the books he himself was studying and I would memorize with him and help him memorize as well. We would then go to Kamāl al-Dīn, to whom he would recite and who would then comment on the lesson, while I listened. I trained in this way until I surpassed al-Wajīh in both memorization and comprehension, for I used to spend most of the night memorizing and reviewing. We continued in this way for a long time, with me affiliated to both the Master and the Master's Master. My memorizing got better, my recall improved, my understanding grew, my insights became more acute, and my mind became keener and more reliable.

The first thing I memorized was the Luma‘ [a grammar by Ibn Jinnī, d. 1002], which I completed in eight months. I listened to a commentary on most of it, read by another, every day, and returned home to peruse the commentaries of al-Thamānīnī, al-Sharīf ‘Umar ibn Ḥamza, Ibn Barhān, and any others I could find. I explained the Luma‘ to those pupils who preferred my instruction till I reached the point where I began to use up a whole notebook on each chapter without even completing a fraction of what I had to say.

 

[Here follows a description of ‘Abd al-Laṭīf's studies including references to more than twenty specific works, the time it took to memorize each, and the teacher with whom he studied that work, as well as more general references to various authors and disciplines.]

In the year 585 [1189], when there no longer remained in Baghdad anyone to win my heart or to satisfy my desires, or to help me resolve what was perplexing me, I went on to Mosul. I was disappointed there, but I did chance upon al-Kamāl Ibn Yūnus, who was an expert in mathematics and law, but only partially learned in the remaining fields of science. His love of alchemy and its practice had so drowned his intellect and his time that he dismissed and disdained everything else.

Large numbers of students flocked to me, and a number of teaching posts were offered to me. I chose the second-story law college of Ibn Muhājir and the Dār al-Ḥadīth located beneath it. I remained in Mosul for a year in continuous and uninterrupted independent study, day and night. The people of Mosul claimed they had never seen anyone before with such an expansive and rapid memory and possessed of such grave demeanor. [ . . .]

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When I got to Damascus I came upon a large group of scholars, gathered together through the generous patronage of Saladin, consisting of notables of Baghdad and the whole region. Among them were Jamāl al-Dīn ‘Abd al-Laṭīf, son of my former teacher Abū al-Najīb; a group from the Chief Master's family; Ibn Ṭalḥa, the secretary; members of the house of Ibn Juhayr; Ibn al-‘Aṭṭār, the vizier who was later executed; and Ibn Hubayra, the vizier. I also met al-Kindī al-Baghdādī, the grammarian, with whom I had many debates. He was an intelligent, sharp-witted, and wealthy professor, with a certain amount of influence, but who was quite taken with himself and offensive to his company. We had many debates and God—may He be exalted—permitted me to surpass him on many topics. I soon left his side, and my neglect offended him, even more so than people were offended by him!

In Damascus I produced a number of works. [Here follows an annotated list of six works with brief descriptions.]

In Damascus I again came across Professor ‘Abd Allāh Ibn Nā’ilī who had taken up residence at the western minaret. Gathered round him was a group of followers obsessed with him. People were divided into two camps, one for him and one against. Al-Khaṭīb al-Dawla‘ī, a notable of standing and principle, was against him. It was not long, however, before Ibn Nā’ilī had himself in quite a mess, at which time his enemies prevailed. He would lecture defending alchemy and philosophy, and talk against him soon increased. I used to get together with him and he would ask me to describe certain procedures so that he could record them, procedures I thought contemptible and trivial, but to which he attached great importance and to which he gave himself over completely. I saw through him, though. He was not at all what I had expected. I was thoroughly unimpressed by him and his methods. When I debated science with him, I found that he only had scraps of knowledge. One day I said to him, “If you had devoted the time you have wasted in the pursuit of the Craft to some of the Islamic or rational sciences, you would today be without equal, waited on hand and foot. This alchemy nonsense simply does not have the answers you seek.”

I learned from his example and kept my distance from the evils of what befell him: “Contented is he who learns from others.” So I pulled myself away, but not entirely. He set off to see Saladin on the outskirts of Acre to complain about al-Dawla‘ī. He returned sick and was taken to hospital, where he then died. Al-Mu‘tamid, [Saladin's] marshal of Damascus, who was himself infatuated with alchemy, confiscated his books.

Then I myself set off on a journey, first to Jerusalem and then to the outskirts of Acre to see Saladin. I also met Bahā’ al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād, [Saladin's] military judge at the time. My fame had reached him in Mosul, so he was most pleased to meet me and was quite attentive. “Let's go and meet ‘Imād al-Dīn al-Kātib,” he suggested, so we did. His tent was near Bahā’ al-Dīn's.

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‘Imād al-Dīn was writing a letter to the chancery of al-‘Azīz in [the ornate] thuluth script, without so much as a rough draft! “This is a letter to your hometown,” he said, and then proceeded to test me on some matters of speculative theology. Then he said: “Come with us to see al-Qāḍī al-Fāḍil,” so we entered his presence. What I saw was a slight man, all skin and bones, simultaneously writing and dictating, the various shapes of the words playing upon his face and lips, mouthed from the force of his effort to produce them, as if he were writing with his whole body. Al-Qāḍī al-Fāḍil interrogated me about some of the Almighty's words: “Where is the apodosis of the particle `when/if' in the Qur’ānic verse—`Until, when they arrive there, its gates will be opened and its keepers will say . . .' [Q 39:71]? And where is the apodosis of `if' in the verse—`If there were a Qur’ān with which mountains were moved . . .[Q 13:31]?'” He asked me about many other matters and yet, in spite of this, never once interrupted the flow of his writing or of his dictation. “Return to Damascus,” he said, “and you will be provided for.” I said that I preferred Egypt, upon which he replied: “The sultan is anxious about the Franks' capture of Acre and the slaying of Muslims there. . .” “But it simply must be Egypt,” I insisted, so he wrote me a short note to his agent there.

When I entered Cairo, I was met by his agent, Ibn Sanā’ al-Mulk. He was a most honorable man, of lofty status, powerful, whose commands were obeyed. He secured a renovated house for me, the defects all repaired, and supplied me with money and with a grain allowance. He then called in some government officials and introduced me as the guest of al-Qāḍī al-Fāḍil. I received gifts and kindnesses from people in every quarter. Every ten days or so a memorandum would come to the Egyptian chancery from al-Qāḍī al-Fāḍil outlining the requirements of state. In it would be a paragraph certifying the stipend earmarked for me. I taught and was resident at the mosque of the Chamberlain Lu’lu’—may he rest in peace.

My purpose in going to Egypt was to seek out three people: Yāsīn `the Magician,' Maimonides the Jew, and Abū al-Qāsim al-Shāri‘ī. As it turned out, all three came to me. Yāsīn I found to be absurd, a liar, and a conjuring cheat. He swore to al-Shāqānī's expertise in alchemy just as al-Shāqānī would swear to his. It was said of him that he could do things even the Prophet Moses was unable to do, that he could produce minted gold whenever he wished, of any quantity he wished, and of any minting he wished, and that he could turn the waters of the Nile into a tent in which he would then sit with his friends. He was most churlish.

When Maimonides came to see me, I found him to be tremendously learned, but overcome with the love of leadership and of service to worldly lords. One of his works was on medicine, based on the sixteen books of Galen and on five books by others. He took it upon himself not to alter a single word unless it was an “and” or a “so,” and, in point of fact, copied sections in their entirety. He also wrote a work for the Jews titled Kitāb al-Dalāla [Guide for the Perplexed] and cursed anyone who transcribed it into anything but Hebrew script.^[4] I looked through it and found it to be an evil book that corrupted the articles of Law and Faith with elements he thought would reform them.

One day, when I was in the mosque with a number of people gathered around me, a master in ragged clothing entered. His face shone and his appearance was pleasing. The people in the gathering were in awe of him and showed him reverence. I finished what I had to say, and when the lecture was over, the imam of the mosque came up to me and said, “Do you know this master? This is Abū al-Qāsim al-Shāri‘ī.” I embraced him and said, “It is you I seek!” I took him to my house where we had food and spoke at length. I found him to be as excellent as one could wish and a sight to behold. His conduct was that of the wise and learned, his bearing likewise. He took little pleasure from the world, not involving himself with anything that would distract him from moral excellence. He became my constant companion and I found him to be learned in the books of the Ancients and of Abū Naṣr al-Fārābī. I did not trust any of those authors because I used to think that Avicenna had gained access to all philosophy and stuffed it all into his own books! When we engaged in debate, I would surpass him in disputation and the use of language, and he would surpass me in producing proofs and in the strength of his arguments. I was inflexible in not submitting to his enticements and did not abandon my stubborn and passionate resistance to his theorizing. But he began to present me with work after work by al-Fārābī and by Alexander Themistius to tame my aversions and to soften the tenor of my intransigence, until I began to incline toward him, hesitant, unsure which step to take next.

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News spread that Saladin had concluded a treaty with the Franks and had returned to Jerusalem. I was driven by a need to see him, so I took what I could carry of the books of the Ancients and headed for Jerusalem. There I saw a great sovereign, generous, affectionate, and awesome to behold, who filled the hearts of those near and far with love. The members of his entourage emulated him, competing for acknowledgment. As the Almighty says: “And we shall remove from their hearts any lurking sense of injury” [Q 7:43]. The first night I entered his presence I found an assembly filled with men of learning, discussing numerous fields of knowledge. He listened attentively, contributed his opinion, and discussed how to build walls and dig trenches. He was well versed in this, and suggested innovations for every scheme. He was concerned about the rebuilding of Jerusalem's walls and about the digging of its trenches. He took this upon himself and personally carried stones on his shoulders. The majority of the populace, rich and poor, strong and weak alike, even ‘Imād al-Kātib and al-Qāḍī al-Fāḍil, followed his example. He devoted himself to this from before sunrise to noon, then he returned to his tent, had his meal and rested. He would carry stones all afternoon and return in the evening, then spend most of the night planning what he would do the next day. Saladin granted me a stipend of thirty dinars a month from the Friday mosque treasury and his sons gave me stipends, as well, so that my monthly income amounted to one hundred dinars.

I returned to Damascus and devoted myself eagerly to my studies and my lecturing in the Friday mosque. The more assiduously I studied the books of the Ancients the more my desire for them increased, whereas my desire for the books of Avicenna waned. I came to realize the falsity of alchemy and to know the truth of the matter with regard to its concoctions, its lying inventors, the falsehoods they spread, and their deluding motivations. I was thus saved from two great, terribly ruinous and humiliating errors. My thanks to the Almighty for this redoubled, for many have been destroyed by the books of Avicenna and by alchemy!

Saladin entered Damascus, accompanied the pilgrimage caravan out of the city to bid it farewell, returned, and contracted a fever. He was bled by a man without any skill, so his strength gave out and he died before the fourteenth. Upon his body people found such signs as are found on prophets. I have never seen a ruler whose death so saddened the people. This was because he was loved by pious and profligate alike, by Muslim and non-Muslim.

His sons and associates scattered to the four winds and tore the realm to bits. Most of them left for Egypt, because of its great fertility and the sheer extent of its dominion. I stayed in Damascus, which was then under the rule of al-Malik al-Afḍal, Saladin's oldest son, until al-Malik al-‘Azīz beseiged him with the help of the Egyptian army. But al-‘Azīz was unable to get what he wanted from his brother, al-Afḍal. He was late leaving for Marj al-Ṣafar because of a colic that had overcome him. I went to see him after he had gotten over it and he allowed me to travel with him, providing for my needs, and more besides, from the treasury.

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I stayed with Abū Qāsim [al-Shāri‘ī]; we were inseparable morning till night, until he passed away. When his illness grew worse, and his head cold turned to pneumonia, I advised him to take medication, but he recited the following:

	I do not chase away the birds from trees
	whose fruit I know from experience is bitter.

Then I asked him about his pain and he said:

	More pain cannot be caused
	than that of the wound of a dying man.

My daily routine at that time was as follows: I taught Islamic sciences in the al-Azhar mosque from the break of day until the fourth hour. Midday, those who wished to study medicine and other subjects would come to me. And then at the end of the day, I would return to the al-Azhar mosque and teach other students. At night I would do my own studying. I did this until the death of al-Malik al-‘Azīz. He was a generous young man, valorous, modest, and unable to say no. And he was, in spite of the tenderness of his years and being in the prime of his youth, wholly abstinent from worldly possessions and women.

[Ibn Abī Uṣaybi‘a completes his entry on ‘Abd al-Laṭīf al-Baghdādī in his own voice with the exception of one short passage that gives the precise dates for some of ‘Abd al-Laṭīf's travels. He notes that throughout these remaining years ‘Abd al-Laṭīf stayed in contact with Ibn Abī Uṣaybi‘a, sending him copies of each of his new books.

According to Ibn Abī ‘Uṣaybi‘, ‘Abd al-Laṭīf al-Baghdādī remained in Egypt until it was struck by a plague the likes of which he had never seen and about which he then wrote a book. In the political turmoil that ensued after Saladin's death, he left for Jerusalem, where he resided, taught, and wrote a number of books. He later traveled to Damascus, where he practiced as a physician and wrote his most famous books on medicine. Previous to this, Ibn Abī Uṣaybi‘a informs us, he had been known primarily as a grammarian. He then traveled to Aleppo and to Turkey, where he enjoyed the patronage of King ‘Alā’ al-Dīn Dāwūd ibn Bahrām of Erzinjān for a number of years. He traveled for several months in central Turkey, returned one last time to Aleppo, and finally died in Baghdad after an absence of forty-five years and was buried in his father's grave.]

Notes

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The Autobiography of Ibn al-‘Adīm

(1192/93–1262)

Introduction

When Yāqūt—the most prolific compiler of biographies of his age—set out to write the biographical notice for his close friend Ibn al-‘Adīm, he first asked Ibn al-‘Adīm to write out a history of his family and of himself. Ibn al-‘Adīm assented to his friend's request and in the space of a week wrote a book of ten fascicles; it is probable that he drew on other previously written texts as sources for this work. The final section of this family history was an account of his own life. Yāqūt read the book written for him by Ibn al-‘Adīm and questioned him further on several points in person. He also gathered supplementary material from various members of the family and other persons in Aleppo. After drafting his “biography” of Ibn al-‘Adīm—using many verbatim passages from Ibn al-‘Adīm's autobiography—he had Ibn al-‘Adīm review the text personally and give his explicit approval of the final product.

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The text as it has come down to us is thus an autobiography by Ibn al- ‘Adīm as told to Yāqūt, with a mixture of many different voices, the result of an active collaboration between autobiographer and biographer. It is a complex text but one that is fascinating not only for the life that is portrayed therein but also for the light it sheds on the processes of biography and autobiography at the eve of the Mongol invasions. Both Yāqūt the biographer and Ibn al-‘Adīm the autobiographer demonstrate clear concern with establishing the historical facts and documenting the authority by which those facts have been transmitted. Although Ibn al-‘Adīm's own writing forms the foundation of the text, Yāqūt seeks out and quotes external sources for critical points, such as the statement that every male in Ibn al-‘Adīm's family for many generations had memorized the entire Qur’ān. Ibn al-‘Adīm reports this on the authority of his paternal uncle, who reported it from his father (Ibn al-‘Adīm's grandfather), who reported it from his own father (Ibn al-‘Adīm's great-grandfather); Yāqūt then verifies this claim by checking various reputable sources in Aleppo, one of whom he then quotes. Ibn al-‘Adīm shows equal concern with historical accuracy and authority when, for example, he carefully cites two slightly different accounts of how the family originally came to move from Basra to Aleppo.

Yāqūt also seeks out sources for material that Ibn al-‘Adīm was not in a position to report. Thus we are presented with portions of an oral interview conducted with the tutor of Ibn al-‘Adīm's children who had also been a close companion of Ibn al-‘Adīm's deceased father. It is through his voice that we hear of the tragic early death of Ibn al-‘Adīm's brother, of the dramatic cemetery scene in which the father—driven nearly mad with grief—digs up the grave of his son with his bare hands in an attempt to hold the boy's body in his arms one final time, and, finally, of the vision that foretells the birth of Ibn al-‘Adīm and his future success.

Reflections of the uncertain fate of young children are found at several points in the text: the early death of Ibn al-‘Adīm's brother, the father's statement that at first he was not attached to Ibn al-‘Adīm because he was so skinny (i.e., not likely to survive), and the teacher's conditional prediction about Ibn al-‘Adīm on his first day at school (“If this child lives, no one will be able to compete with his [calligraphic] writing”).

Ibn al-‘Adīm eventually achieved the success foretold in his father's vision. He became a well-known historian and wrote not only a history of Aleppo but also a forty-volume biographical dictionary of people associated with Aleppo. (Both Ibn al-‘Adīm and Yāqūt were historians, biographers, and autobiographers, though Yāqūt's autobiography has not survived.) Ibn al-‘Adīm also rose to become a ranking diplomat and served as an emissary to the ‘Abbāsid court in Baghdad in 1257, one year before it was sacked by the Mongols, and then to the Mamluk court in Cairo to seek help in fending off the Mongol invasion that then threatened Aleppo. Following the Mamluk defeat of the Mongol forces at ‘Ayn Jālūt in 1260, he visited Aleppo one last time and composed a long poem describing its devastation. Unable to bear living among the wasted ruins of his hometown, he moved to Egypt, where he died a year later, in 1262. These intellectual and diplomatic achievements, however, are not found in Yāqūt's text, for it was written when Ibn al-‘Adīm was only thirty-one years old and Yāqūt died before Ibn al-‘Adīm achieved his most prominent accomplishments. Ibn al-‘Adīm is therefore portrayed here primarily as a promising young scholar from a prestigious family, a prolific author, and an accomplished calligrapher.^[1]

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Several points of personal detail in the autobiographical passages com- municate a more intimate tone than most of the biographical entries in Yāqūt's compendium; the childhood memories of school, the story of how Ibn al-‘Adīm's father offered him money to memorize more books, the portrayal of his close relationship with his father, and the reference to his failed first marriage all would probably not have been included in a purely biographical entry. Otherwise, however, the account of his youth reflects standard educational practices of the day, a childhood devoted to memorizing works and reciting them back to reputable teachers, an adolescence spent furthering his education and his skill in calligraphic writing [khaṭṭ], and a young adulthood spent producing his first publications. At the close of the entry, Yāqūt shifts to his own voice to recount Ibn al-‘Adīm's appointment to the Shādhbakht academy at a surprisingly young age, to list Ibn al- ‘Adīm's writings, and finally to cite a poem by Ibn al-‘Adīm followed by a responding poem by himself praising his friend. It is this final poem that indicates that Ibn al-‘Adīm was thirty-one years old at the time this entry was being compiled.

Along with intimate details of Ibn al-‘Adīm's life, Yāqūt includes a number of poems composed by Ibn al-‘Adīm that shed additional light on his life and personality. These poems, the contents of which evolve over the course of the text from externalized referents to ones of a more personal and emotional nature, imbue the auto/biography with additional psychological impact. The interplay between the two roots N-‘-M (blessings, bounty) and ‘-D-M (destitution, deprivation) is a motif that recurs in both the poetry and the prose of the text, demonstrating that the poetry is integral to the text as a whole. It is also closely tied to Yāqūt's curious opening question regarding the family's name, the Banū ‘Adīm (Sons of the Destitute). Ibn al-‘Adīm's denial that the name was ancestral makes clear that the issue carried immediate and personal import; indeed, it seems clear that there was no Banū ‘Adīm family, as modern scholars have assumed, but rather a single Ibn al-‘Adīm (Son of the Destitute). The text lingers over Ibn al-‘Adīm's father and in many ways is devoted to the psychological portrayal of a son determined to rise above the tribulations and trials suffered by his father (the losses of the judgeship of Aleppo and of his firstborn son) and to continue the older, more august strain of the family's history.

In this translation, all passages reported in Ibn al-‘Adīm's voice appear in boldface. The text opens with a list of the generations of Ibn al-‘Adīm's family back to ‘Adnān, legendary progenitor of the northern Arabs. The following chart shows the fourteen most recent generations of Ibn al-‘Adīm's family.

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Bibliography

Missing

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‘Umar ibn Aḥmad ibn Abī Jarāda, known as Ibn al-‘Adīm
[Irshād, pp. 18–46]

From the ‘Uqaylī tribe. His agnomen is Abū al-Qāsim and his surname is Kamāl al-Dīn. He is one of the notables and elite of Aleppo. His full name is ‘Umar, son of Aḥmad, son of Hibat Allāh, son of Muḥammad, son of Hibat Allāh, son of Aḥmad, son of Yaḥyā, son of Zuhayr, son of Hārūn, son of Mūsā, son of ‘Īsā, son of ‘Abū Allāh, son of Muḥammad, son of Abū Jarāda, one of the companions of the caliph ‘Alī ibn Abī Ṭālib—may God's blessings be upon him. Abū Jarāda's full name was ‘Āmir, son of Rabī‘a, son of Khuwaylid, son of ‘Awf, son of ‘Āmir, son of ‘Uqayl (father of the tribe of the Ibn Ka‘b), son of ‘Āmir, son of Ṣa‘ṣa‘a, son of Mu‘āwiya, son of Bakr, son of Hawāzin, son of Manṣūr, son of ‘Ikrima, son of Ḥafsa, son of Qays, son of ‘Aylān Muḍar, son of Nizār, son of Ma‘add, son of ‘Adnān.

The Banū Jarāda house is a famous Aleppan family of literati, poets, jurists, pious worshipers, and judges who inherit nobility and virtue from earlier generations and pass them on to later ones. Before I begin my account of Ibn al-‘Adīm, I will first report on the history of his family and some of its most famous members, after which I will give an account of him, copying the information from a book Ibn al-‘Adīm composed—may God extend his life—that he titled al-Akhbār al-mustafāda fī dhikr Banī Jarāda [A Useful History of the Banī Jarāda Family]. I have read this [account of his life] back to him and he has approved it.

First I asked him: Why is your family called the Banū al-‘Adīm [lit. “Sons of the Destitute”]?

Ibn al-‘Adīm replied: I have inquired among my family about that and they do not know. It is a recent name, not an ancestral one. My best guess is that my great-grandfather, the judge Abū al-Faḍl Hibat Allāh, son of Aḥmad, son of Yaḥyā, son of Zuhayr, son of Abū Jarāda, though he had great wealth and lived in complete contentment [ni‘ma shāmila, often spoke of destitution [Ar. ‘adam and complained of the tribulations of time in his poetry, and so was named accordingly. I can think of no reason other than this.^[2]

Ibn al-‘Adīm said to me: My uncle Jamāl al-Dīn Abū Ghānim Muḥammad, son of Hibat Allāh, told me, “When I had memorized the Qur’ān, my father—may he rest in peace—kissed me between the eyes, wept, and said, `Thanks be to God, my son. This is exactly what I had hoped for and expected from you. Your grandfather told me that among our forefathers, going all the way back to the Prophet—upon whom be peace—there was no one among us who did not memorize the entire Qur’ān.'”

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The author [Yāqūt] says: This is an honorable trait the like of which I do not know of among other men. I inquired about its veracity among the people of Aleppo and they assured me that it is true. Zayn al-Dīn Muḥammad, son of ‘Abd al-Qāhir al-Niṣṣībī, told me: “Forget about the past and look to the present for proof. For I can count for you each living member of the Banū Jarāda family, and there is not one among them who has not completely memorized the Qur’ān.” He started listing them one by one, and not a single one among them broke this rule.

Ibn al-‘Adīm—may God extend his life—told me: The descendants of the Banū Abī Jarāda used to live in Basra, in the Banū ‘Uqayl quarter there. The first [of our family] to move away from Basra was Mūsā, son of ‘Īsā, son of ‘Abd Allāh, son of Muḥammad son of ‘Āmir, who, after the year 200 [815], came to Aleppo for trade.

Ibn al-‘Adīm told me: My uncle Abū Ghānim Muḥammad, son of Hibat Allāh, son of Muḥammad, descendant of Abū Jarāda, also told me, “I heard my father mention, based on information he received from his forefathers, that our ancestor had come from Basra to Syria on business and settled in Aleppo.” [My uncle also] said, “I heard my father say that he heard that when Basra was visited by the plague, a group of the Banū ‘Uqayl left it and went to Syria, and our ancestor settled in Aleppo.” [My uncle also] said, “The sons of Mūsā^[3] wereMuḥammad, Hārūn and ‘Abd Allāh. Muḥammad had a son named ‘Abd Allāh, and I do not know whether or not this ‘Abd Allāh had any progeny. Those who are alive today are the descendants ofHārūn, our own ancestor, and of ‘Abd Allāh, and these latter are our uncles.”

[Here follow several pages on the individual descendants of both ‘Abd Allāh and Hārūn, all extracted from Ibn al-‘Adīm's Useful History. Yāqūt closes the account of the family with a notice on the life of Ibn al-‘Adīm's father and then turns his attention to Ibn al-‘Adīm himself.]^[4]

This is what I [Yāqūt] copied in summary form from the book I mentioned earlier, and these are but a sampling of this family's many virtues. Now I will mention my subject, Kamāl al-Dīn Abū al-Qāsim ‘Umar, son of the Judge Abū al-Ḥasan Aḥmad, son of the Judge Abū al-Faḍl Hibat Allāh, son of the Judge Abū Ghānim Muḥammad, son of the Judge Abū Sa‘īd Hibat Allāh, son of the Judge Abū al-Ḥasan Aḥmad descendant of Abū Jarāda. All of these ancestors of his were judges of the Ḥanafī school of law in Aleppo and its dependencies, and he is our current subject.

[Passage in rhymed prose praising Ibn al-‘Adīm]^[5]

I asked Ibn al-‘Adīm—may God preserve his exalted state—about his birth and he told me: I was born in the month of Dhū al-Ḥijja in the year 588 [ = December 1192]. When I was seven years old I was taken to [Qur’ān] school and seated in front of the teacher who began instructing me as one would instruct a little child, drawing a line and placing three [letter] S's upon it. I took the pen from him and, having seen him write the word bism and extend it, I did the same so that my writing resembled his own.^[6]Surprised, the teacher turned to those around him and said, “If this child lives, no one will be able to compete with his writing.”

[Yāqūt notes]: By my life, the teacher's prophecy has come true, for his writing is certainly better than that of all those who came before him as far back as Ibn al-Bawwāb.^[7]

Ibn al-‘Adīm said: I finished memorizing the Qur’ān when I was nine years old, and could recite the Qur’ān in all ten variant readings when I was ten.Penmanship and calligraphy [khaṭṭ] appealed to me and my father encouraged me to pursue this.

The teacher of Ibn al-‘Adīm's son, Shaykh Yūsuf, son of ‘Alī, son of Zayd al-Zuhrī al-Maghribī al-Adīb, told me in Ibn al-‘Adīm's presence: This man's father (and he pointed to Ibn al-‘Adīm) told me, “A number of girls had been born to me, but I had only one son. This son was extremely good-looking, handsome, intelligent, and bright, and he had memorized a good portion of the Qur’ān by the time he was five. One day I happened to be sitting in a room of ours that overlooked the street when a funeral procession passed by. That child watched the procession, then turned to me and said: `Father, if I were to die, what would you cover my coffin with?' I scolded him, but felt extremely worried about him at that moment.”

“No more than a few days passed before he fell ill and passed on to God's mercy and joined his Lord. I was stricken with grief over his death as no father has ever been stricken for the death of a child. I stopped eating and drinking, and sat in a darkened room enjoining myself to be steadfast, but I could not endure his loss. In my extreme grief, I went to his grave and dug it up myself, and I intended to take him out and console myself by seeing him again. It was due to God's will and His kindness, to either the child or to me—lest I see what I would not like—that I encountered a large rock that I could not remove no matter how hard I tried despite the strength for which I was well known. When I noted that moving the rock was beyond me, I realized that this was from God's pity on the child or on me. So I chided myself and, after returning his grave to its previous state, I went home filled with feelings of loss and longing.”

---

“Afterward I saw the child in a dream, and he was saying, `Father, let my mother know that I want to come to you.' I awoke startled and informed his mother of what I had seen. We cried and invoked God's mercy and said, `We are God's and to Him we shall return.' Then, in my sleep, I had a vision of a [shaft of] light that appeared to come out of my male member and hang above our houses and the entire quarter, rising up to a great height. When I woke up, I had the vision interpreted and I was told, `Rejoice, for this is news of a newborn who will be of prodigious worth and great importance, whose renown will be as great among people as the greatness of the light that appeared to you.' So I rejoiced in God, Almighty and Exalted, and I invoked and thanked Him. I fortified myself after my despair, for I had exceeded the age of forty.”

“A short time later, the mother of this boy—my son (and he pointed to Ibn al-‘Adīm—may God always support him)—completed her term and gave birth to him on the aforementioned date. But he was at first not as sweet to my heart as my first son had been, for he was very skinny. As he grew older, however, he grew in stature and worth, and I invoked God many times regarding him. I asked God for many things for him, and—thanks be to God—I have seen most of these requests realized in him.”

[The teacher added]: One day in my presence a man said to [Ibn al-‘Adīm's father], as people are wont to say, “May God give you the pleasure of seeing him a judge like his forefathers before him!” He said, “I do not want that for him. My desire is that he should become a teacher.” [Yāqūt notes]: God fulfilled that wish after his [i.e., Ibn al-‘Adīm's father's] death.

[Yāqūt, summarizing from the Useful History, writes:] He heard ḥadīth from a number of people in Aleppo, some who are settled there and others who were passing through. He also heard much from al-Shaykh al-Sharīf Iftikhār al-Dīn ‘Abd al-Muṭṭalib al-Hāshimī. Twice, in 603 [1206/7] and 608 [1211/12], his father took him to Jerusalem, where he met a number of shaykhs, and he also met shaykhs in Damascus. On both trips he read much of what one now hears from him with Tāj al-Dīn Abī al-Yumn.

Ibn al-‘Adīm—may God preserve his high worth—told me: My father told me, “If you memorize the Luma‘,I will give you such and such.” I memorized it and read it to the Aleppan shaykh of the day who was al-Ḍiyā’ ibn Duhn al-Ḥaṣā. Then he told me, “If you memorize al-Qudūrī, I will give you a good amount of money as well.” I memorized it quickly.^[8]

During that time I used to practice calligraphic writing. My father—may he rest in peace—used to encourage me in that, polishing the paper for me himself. I remember one time when we were out at a village of ours and he ordered me to write, whereby I said, “There is no good paper here.” So he took some low-quality paper that we had and some ceruse mixture we had with us, and polished the paper with it himself, saying to me, “Write!” His own handwriting was not particularly good, but heknew the principles of calligraphy and used to tell me, “This is good, and this is bad.”

He had samples in the hand of Ibn Bawwāb in his possession and used to point out its principles and rules to me until I perfected it to my satisfaction. I did not study calligraphic writing with any renowned teacher, but Tāj al-Dīn Muḥammad, son of Aḥmad, son of al-Birfatī al-Baghdādī, came to visit us in Aleppo and I wrote under his direction for a few days, but got no additional benefit from him.

Later on, my father—may he rest in peace—got me engaged and married me to a woman from the elite of Aleppo, and he took the family the gifts customary on such occasions. But things happened between us [i.e., the woman and Ibn al-‘Adīm] that caused constraint to my heart. So my father let them keep those gifts and I got divorced. After that, he got me married to the daughter of the great shaykh Bahā’ al-Dīn Abū al-Qāsim ‘Abd al-Majīd, son of al-Ḥasan, son of ‘Abd Allāh, known as al-‘Ajamī [“the Persian”],who is the head of the Shafi‘ite community and among the wealthiest, most prestigious, and highest-ranking people in Aleppo. My father sent them the bridal gift and was exceedingly generous and kind.

My father—may he rest in peace—was extremely kind and generous to me. He enjoyed nothing more in the world than seeing to my affairs, and he used to say, “My wish is [to live long enough] to see you with a son and to see him [old enough to] walk.” My son Aḥmad was born and my father saw him. My father lived to a ripe old age and then fell ill with his final illness. The day he died, the child walked [for the first time] and fell upon his breast, and then my father died, on the aforementioned date.

Al-Malik al-Ẓāhir Ghāzī, son of Saladin, ruler of Aleppo—may he rest in peace—used to show me great honor. Whenever I was at his court, he never treated anyone better than he treated me, despite my youth.

In the year 618 [1220/21], I happened to fall ill, and people despaired for my life. But during that illness it occurred to me that God Almighty would no doubt restore my health, for I had confidence in the vision my father had seen; I would say, “I have not yet achieved a position that would fulfill that vision.” When God—thanks be to Him—generously restored my health, I forgot all about those imaginings, and I no longer think about them, for God's blessings enfold me and His hand continuously supports my rights.

[At this point there appears to be a conflation between Yāqūt's voice and that of Ibn al-‘Adīm, perhaps as a result of summarizing from the autobiographical section of the Useful History; the passage starts in the first-person voice but soon shifts to the third person, possibly so that Yāqūt could add the passages of praise that could not, for modesty's sake, be included in Ibn al-‘Adīm's own voice.]

---

I say: Some time after my father died, the Shādhbakht academy's professor of law passed away as well, the Shādhbakht being the most esteemed and important of Aleppo's academies. He [i.e., Ibn al-‘Adīm] was then appointed professor there in the month of Dhū al-Ḥijja 615 [1219], at the age of twenty-eight. Even though Aleppo was teeming with jurists, scholars, shaykhs, and other learned persons, he alone was considered capable enough and deserving enough of that position. He achieved prominence and lectured with a strong heart and sharp tongue, and he mesmerized the audience and pleased them.

Despite his youth, he has written many books, among which is the Kitāb al-Darārī fī dhikr al-dharārī [The Book of Pearls on the Mentioning of Offspring] that he compiled for [the above-mentioned ruler] al-Malik al-Ẓāhir and which he presented to him on the day his son, al-Malik al-‘Azīz, Aleppo's current sultan, was born. He had also compiled the KitābḌaw’ al-ṣabāḥ fī al-ḥathth ‘alā al-samāḥ [The Book of Morning Light on Provoking Generosity] for al-Malik al-Ashraf who had sent for him from Harran; after he saw a sample of Ibn al-‘Adīm's writing, he desired to meet him. Ibn al-‘Adīm went to him and al-Malik al-Ashraf treated him well and honored him, and bestowed a robe of honor upon him.

He also compiled the al-Akhbār al-mustafāda fī dhikr Banī Jarāda [Useful History of the Abī Jarāda Family]. I asked him to do this, and in the space of a week he did so. It is ten fascicles in length. He also has a book on calligraphy concerning its principles, requirements, rules, pens and papers, as well as the ḥadīth and bons mots that have been said about it. It is still incomplete at this time.

[Also] Kitāb Ta’rīkh Ḥalab [History of Aleppo], a history of Aleppo's kings and rulers, its founding, and an account of the scholars who lived in it and those scholars of ḥadīth and religious knowledge who came to it, as well as its kings, princes, and authors.

[Here follows a passage in rhymed prose by Yāqūt in praise of Ibn al-‘Adīm and his writing, followed by his account of the monetary worth of the latter.]

He became renowned throughout the land, and his calligraphy was famed among those near and far. It became a gift among kings, like precious pearls strung on strings. In his own lifetime he is considered an exemplar, an ideal for all his contemporaries.

One reason people seek samples of his calligraphic writing is that one day he bought a single sheet of Ibn al-Bawwāb's writing for forty dirhams. He copied it on a piece of antique paper and gave it as a gift to [the bookseller] Ḥaydar al-Kutubī, who claimed that it was in the hand of Ibn al-Bawwāb himself and later sold it for sixty dirhams, twenty dirhams more than the price of the authentic sample of Ibn al-Bawwāb!

---

Ibn al-‘Adīm wrote this text for me in his own hand, and contemporary scribes have offered me an Egyptian dinar for it, knowing that it is in his hand, but I cannot bring myself to sell it. He also wrote a piece in thirteen columns for me that he had copied from a sample by Ibn al-Bawwāb. I was offered forty Nāṣirī dirhams for it—the equivalent of four gold dinars—but I did not sell it. I know for a fact that Ibn al-Bawwāb's writing was never so highly valued during his own lifetime, nor did anyone pay such prices for it.

Here follows another section concerning Ibn al-‘Adīm's calligraphic writing, followed by several samples of his poetry translated below.]

[Yāqūt writes]: [Ibn al-‘Adīm]—may God cause his high status to endure—recited for me a love poem in which he used a curious motif:

	Slender and honey-lipped, I imagined that     in his cheeks was a press [‘āṣir] for wine,
	That causes the most delicious of wines to flow to his mouth,     a nectar that over years [a‘āṣir] has been aged.
	From this his figure grows drunk and unsteady,     he sways haughtily, with languid eyes,
	As if the prince of sleep were lowering his eyelids,     when he attempts to raise them, his eyes decline.
	I was alone with him after all his people had retired,     the stars of Gemini slipped away and the night protected us.
	My palm was his pillow and he slept in my embrace,     until the morning's pure light first appeared.
	Then he arose, casting off the night's chill, untouched,     and I rose as well, having given no cause for rebuke.
	This is the sweetest form of love, for its ending was     blameless, a tryst unsullied by guilt.

[Ibn al-‘Adīm] himself recited for me in his home in Aleppo [these verses] in the month of Dhū al-Ḥijja, 619 [1222], and he dictated [them to me]:

---

	She of bewitching eyes and honeyed deep-red lips,     Her mouth bestows a cure for every thirst.
	She arched her brows at me and loosed     arrows from her eyes into my soul.
	A wonder is her [sweet] saliva, so pure     and permitted, yet now it is forbidden to me.
	If it were wine, what wine could possess its color     and its flavor? Though I have never tasted either.
	She has a residence in the district of my heart, its place     is well-guarded there, ever since she made it her own.
	Her love's course is the flow of my life, intermixed     is her love with my soul, my flesh, and my blood.
	“How long will you live so unhappy,” she says to me,     “content in not becoming whole, resigned?
	Go seek your fortune in God's [wide] lands,     perchance you will find a rescuer if you wish, or, if you wish, an accuser.”
	I said to her, “He who created Mankind     has graciously blessed and secured for me sustenance.
	It does me no harm to be lord only of virtues     and knowledge, strong-willed, free and respected.
	If I am made destitute [‘udimat kifāya] of wealth and fortune,     my soul is safeguarded from humiliation and deprivation.
	I have not dedicated my life to serving knowledge     in order to serve those I meet, but in order to be served.”

[Yāqūt comments:] Whoever reads these lines should not be deluded into thinking that the author of these verses is of poor or modest means; quite the reverse, for he—may God protect him!—is the owner of extensive villages and many estates; he possesses great wealth, many slaves and serving women, horses and livestock, fine clothes and robes. Take for example the fact that following his father's death he paid thirty thousand dirhams for a house that had once belonged to his family. But he is expansive of spirit and a man with high ambitions; verily, the desires of this world are in proportion to those who crave them, and the yearnings for them are in proportion to those who seek them. [Ibn al-‘Adīm] also recited for me at his home on the same date [the following verses]:

	Beware your paternal cousin, for he is [as two-faced] as a book [muṣaḥḥaf]     and your close relative, for he is as crooked [aḥraf] as letters [uḥruf].
	The letter qaf is for the grave [qabr] he digs for you,     the letter rā’ is the death [radā] he plots for you.
	The letter yā’ is your perpetual despair [ya’s] that any good might come of him,     the letter bā’ is the ever-present hatred [baghd] you get from him.
	Accept this advice as a gift from me,     for when it comes to cousins, I know best![9]

[Ibn al-‘Adīm] also recited for me in his home, emulating others of his relatives in their family pride:

---

	I shall force myself to pardon all wrongs committed against me     and shall forgive them as an act of nobility and generosity.
	I shall use my wealth, as well as my honor, as a protective safeguard,     even if this does not leave me with a single dirham.
	I shall follow the paths of the most righteous, those who earned their high rank     and attained it from whomsoever approached through their good deeds.
	These are my people, great benefactors, men of power,     the Banū ‘Āmir—so ask about them so that you may learn [of them].
	Whenever they are called during times of trouble, when the situation is grim,     with their speech they cast light upon what was in darkness.
	Whenever they sit in the gathering to make judgment they are like     full moons in the darkness and the others around them like stars.
	Whenever they ascend the pulpit to deliver a sermon,     they are more eloquent than any who ever in preaching spoke.
	Whenever they pick up their pens to write,     they are better than any who ever ornamented a page.
	Their words clarify their excellence     and their judgments have made the religious law secure.
	Their invocations [to God] remove tribulations when they occur,     and bring down drops of water from the heavens' horizons.
	A woman [wife?] says to me: “O Ibn al-‘Adīm [Son of the Destitute] how long     shall you be so generous with all you possess? You'll be destitute [mu‘dam]!”
	So I said to her: “Leave me be!     for I believe that the best of people are the generous [mun‘im].
	I reject meanness, [for] I am of noble origin, from a family     of the ‘Uqayla tribe, who radiate with generosity and munificence.”

Ibn al-‘Adīm recited to me the following verses that he had composed when he noted his first gray hairs, at the age of thirty-one:

	Dawn on the horizon is but a sign or mark     of the passage of night and its period of dark,
	So also does youthful growth come close to dryness     when in its [dark] field there first appears brightness.

One day I went to [Ibn al-‘Adīm] and he said to me, “Do you not see, I am now but thirty-one years old, and I have just found some white hairs in my beard.” So I said of him:

	Congratulations, [Ibn al-‘Adīm], for a virtue that you like     and a blessing of which no one before you has received the like,
	Your forehead is busy its youth to assure     while the attainment of noble goals remains your cynosure,
	At this decade of your life you have become complete     in glory with which your elders cannot compete,
	When with wisdom and understanding you matured     your beneficence was perfected with white hair, premature.[10]

Notes

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The Autobiography of Abū Shāma

(1203–1268)

Introduction

Abū Shāma was born in 1203 in Damascus to a family of religious scholars. He is best known today as the author of The Book of the Two Gardens on the History of the Two Reigns (Kitāb al-Rawḍatayn fī akhbār al-dawlatayn), a chronologically arranged history of the reigns of Nūr al-Dīn Zangī (d. 1174) and Saladin (d. 1193), regarded as one of the most important Arabic sources for the period of the Crusades.^[1] Abū Shāma's autobiography is found listed under the year of his birth in his continuation of the original work, the Sequel to the Book of the Two Gardens (Dhayl kitāb al-rawḍatayn), which covers the years from Saladin's death to Abū Shāma's. The Sequel is also arranged chronologically and includes biographical notices of prominent figures listed under the years of their deaths. The final scene of the Sequel, in fact, describes how the author was beaten up by thugs, an incident that apparently led to his death soon afterward.

---

Although Abū Shāma is today remembered primarily as a historian, his self-portrayal in his autobiography, translated here in full, shows that he considered himself first and foremost a scholar of Islamic religious sciences, particularly of Islamic law. His account of his life begins with a list of his forebears—all men distinguished by their religious learning—and then sketches the broad outlines of his education. The turning point in Abū Shāma's life is depicted as the year 624 (1227), when he traveled to Jerusalem with his most important teacher and his hair suddenly turned gray though he was only twenty-five years old. He interprets this event, in conjunction with the trip to Jerusalem and some dreams from that same year, to mean that he had “arrived” as a mature religious scholar. As he puts it in the short poem that appears in his autobiography—a poem he conventionally attributes to “some good person or other” but which he himself wrote—God marked him with the outward signs of intellectual maturity to reflect his inner intellectual growth.

Abū Shāma's autobiography poses some intriguing problems concerning the nature and function of the self-tarjama in the Arabic tradition. Throughout the larger historical text, the Sequel, Abū Shāma refers to himself exclusively in the first person, which communicates to the reader a clear sense of the author as a person beyond the text. In addition, in the larger text, he provides information of a rather personal nature (at least, in the modern sense), noting, for example, his reactions to the tragic deaths of several of his children (e.g., Dhayl, 176), expressing his love and affection for his wife in a lengthy poem (Dhayl, 196–98), and giving other intimate details of his life. He intermingles many of these with the major historical occurrences of the realm, thus placing the events of his own life on par with those of the kingdoms and reigns he chronicled:

In this year Ibn Abī Firās led the people from Iraq on the pilgrimage, and Sharaf al-Dīn, the ruler of Sarkas, those from Syria.

Also in this year, my mother passed away—May God have mercy on her! I buried her in the foothills on the road near al-Imāj and al-Maghar, next to the wadi. I hope to be buried next to her. Her death occurred on Saturday, the sixth of the month of Rajab. She was pious and virtuous—May God be pleased with her!

Also in this year, the Amīr Mubāriz al-Dīn Sunqur of Aleppo died, one of Saladin's contingent. (Dhayl, 134)

Because of the many references to Abū Shāma's own life that are woven into the larger historical flow, some scholars have suggested that the overall work should be considered a memoir.^[2] In any case, in his work of history, Abū Shāma inserts the kind of information a modern reader might expect to find in an autobiography.

In the autobiography itself, however, Abū Shāma curiously shifts to the third person and changes the tone of his self-representation drastically. Here, little of Abū Shāma's “personal” life (again, in modern terms) is portrayed, while materials such as dreams and visions occupy a prominent place alongside details of Abū Shāma's education and career. Although the critical historical facts of Abū Shāma's life are presented here, the sense of “person” that is communicated interstitially in his historical writing is replaced with an entirely different self-representation.

---

By Abū Shāma's time there were a substantial number of first-person autobiographical texts in wide circulation, several of them written by famous figures of the period of Saladin's reign and therefore almost certainly known to him. Yet Abū Shāma chose to present information about his life in the standard third-person format of scholarly biography; he probably composed it specifically as a “camera-ready” text to be quoted by later historians and biographers. Arabic autobiographers clearly had a choice between first-person and third-person portrayal; Abū Shāma, however, is the only Arabic autobiographer to have couched a third-person autobiography in a larger framing text in the first person (cf. the texts by ‘Imād al-Dīn al-Kātib al-Iṣfahānī, ‘Abd al-Laṭīf al-Baghdādī, and Ibn al-‘Adīm, all translated in this volume, as well as the famous autobiographies of ‘Umāra al-Ḥakamī al-Yamanī and Usāma ibn Munqidh, available in French and English translations respectively). In some sense, a complete reading of Abū Shāma's text can only be accomplished alongside the numerous passages of the Sequel to the Two Gardens that provide other autobiographical glimpses of the author.

Abū Shāma does not fully subordinate his account to the scholarly tarjama genre, however; he includes dimensions not commonly found in those texts, such as a large number of dream narratives (cf. al-Tirmidhī, translated in this volume), and his account of his hair turning gray (cf. Ibn al-‘Adīm, translated in this volume), marking this event even further with the inclusion of a poem (the only one in the text). His text is also lacking many of the standard components of the scholarly tarjama, such as a detailed list of his teachers and writings and extracts from his poetry. Abū Shāma's text shares much with other Arabic autobiographies and differs significantly from standard scholarly biographies. In fact, a later hand, probably that of one of his students, has attempted to rectify this situation by adding a list of teachers, some information about his writings, and a collection of extracts from his poetry.

If Abū Shāma wrote this text to be cited by later writers, his strategy failed. None of his main biographers quote it, although Ibn Kathīr (d. 1373) at least mentions its existence. On the other hand, al-Sakhāwī (d. 1497) notes Abū Shāma's sharp tongue and makes reference to his high opinion of himself,^[3] despite the approbative tone of other biographies of Abū Shāma; this may in fact be a veiled reference to Abū Shāma's autobiography, for Abū Shāma's text was cited as a respectable precedent for writing an autobiography by al-Sakhāwī's chief rival, Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūṭī (d. 1505).

Bibliography

Abū Shāma. al-Dhayl ‘alā al-rawḍatayn. Ed. M Kawtharī [under the title Tarājim rijāl al-qarnayn al-sādis wa-l-sābi‘]. Cairo: al-Ḥusaynī, 1948. 37–39.

Barbier de Meynard, C. Recueil des historiens des Croisades, historiensorientaux. Paris: Imprimerie National, 1872–1906. Vol. 5:207–16. [Arabic text and French translation of Abū Shāma's autobiography]

Gabrieli, F. Arab Historians of the Crusades. Trans. E. J. Costello. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1969.

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Ibn Kathīr, Ismā‘īl ibn ‘Umar. al-Bidāya wa-l-nihāya. 14 vols. Cairo: al-Maṭba‘a al-Salafiyya, 1932. Vol. 8: 250–51.

Lowry, Joseph E. “Time, Form, and Self: The Autobiography of Abū Shāma.” Edebiyât:Special Issue—Arabic Autobiography, N.S. 7, no. 2 (1997): 313–25.

Pouzet, Louis. “Maִzāhir al-sīra al-dhātiyya fī kitāb Tarājimal-qarnayn al-sādis wa-l-sābi‘ li-Shihāb al-Dīn Abī Shāma al-Maqdisī al-Dimashqī [Autobiographical Passages in the Biographies of the Sixthand Seventh Centuries by Shihāb al-Dīn Abū Shāma al-Maqdisī al-Dimashqī].” Annales de Départment des Lettres Arabes,Institut de Lettres Orientales, Université Saint-Joseph 1 (1981): 25–35.

Rosenthal, Franz. A History of Muslim Historiography. 2d rev. ed. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1968.

al-Sakhāwī, Shams al-Dīn Muḥammad. I‘lān bi-l-tawbīkh li-man dhamma al-ta’rīkh. Damascus: al-Qudsī, 1930.

The Life of Abū Shāma [al-Dhayl, pp. 37–39]

Also in the year 599 [1203 C.E.], the compiler of this book was born, God's supplicant, ‘Abd al-Raḥmān ibn Ismā‘īl ibn Ibrāhīm ibn ‘Uthmān ibn Abī Bakr ibn Ibrāhīm ibn Muḥammad of Jerusalem, of the Shafi‘ite school of law, on the evening of Friday, the twenty-third of the month of Rabī‘ II—may God pardon him. He was known as Abū Shāma, “possessor of the mole,” due to a large mole over his right eyebrow; he was also named Abū al-Qāsim Muḥammad. He was born in this year at the head of al-Fawākhīr Street in Damascus, just inside the city's East Gate.

His distant ancestor Abū Bakr was originally from Jerusalem and Abū Bakr's father, Ibrāhīm, was a notable there. Perhaps Muḥammad, which is as far back as the family tree goes, was Abū Bakr Muḥammad ibn Aḥmad ibn Abī al-Qāsim ‘Alī of the city of Ṭūs, a Qur’ān reciter and Sufi, as well as Imam of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem. This Muḥammad is mentioned by the scholar Abū al-Qāsim in his History of Damascus.^[4] Ibn al-Akfānī^[5] relates as follows: “The Franks—may God forsake them—killed Muḥammad when they entered Jerusalem in the month of Sha‘bān, 492 [1099]. He is one of the martyrs whose heads are in the cave people visit in the cemetery of Mamella in Noble Jerusalem.”^[6]

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His descendant Abū Bakr later moved to Damascus and resided there where there were born to him two sons, ‘Uthmān and ‘Abd al-Raḥmān; the latter was a teacher near the Damascus Mosque Gate—his story will be told below.^[7] God increased their progeny in Damascus, and their dwellings in the districts around the East Gate, and, by and by, ‘Uthmān fathered Ibrāhīm, the author's grandfather, who passed away in the month of Sha‘bān in 575 [1180], and was buried in the cemetery at Paradise Gate.^[8] Ibrāhīm sired two sons, Abū al-Qāsim, who passed away on Friday, the ninth of Ramaḍān, in 604 [1208] and was buried in a cemetery between the East Gate and the Gate of Thomas, and Ismā‘īl, who passed away on the thirteenth of the month of Rabī‘ I in 638 [1240]. Ismā‘īl also had two sons, Ibrāhīm, whose birthday was on the night of Monday, the twenty-fifth of the month of Muḥarram 591 [1194], and the compiler of this book, ‘Abd al-Raḥmān.^[9]

God—may He be exalted—instilled in him even in his youth a love for memorizing the Precious Scripture and for the pursuit of knowledge, making that his ambition. He did not let his father know of this until he said to him, “I have finished memorizing the Qur’ān!” Then he took up the study of the seven variant readings of the Qur’ān, law, Arabic grammar, the ḥadīth of the Prophet, history, the biographies of the transmitters of the Prophet's ḥadīth and other fields, and he wrote many works on these subjects that will be mentioned below [ = later in the book, not in the autobiography]. He made the pilgrimage to Mecca with his father in the year 621 [1224–25], and then again in the following year. He visited Jerusalem in 624 [1226–27] and Egypt in 628 [1230–31], studying in various places in Egypt, then in Cairo, Damietta, and Alexandria. Thereafter, he continued to reside in Damascus, engaged in the task at hand, namely, his pursuit of knowledge. He assembled it in his writings and in the legal opinions he issued on the the rules of law and other such matters.

In his youth he used to recite the Qur’ān in the Damascus mosque while observing the learned professors such as Fakhr al-Dīn Abū Manṣūr Ibn ‘Asākir.^[10] He noted how the latter related his legal methodology and conclusions when giving legal opinions for Muslims, how people sought him out and studied the Prophet's ḥadīth with him all while he made his way from the maqṣūra [the enclosed area in a mosque] named after the Prophet's Companions beneath the Eagle Dome, where he taught ḥadīth, to the Taqwiyya law school where he gave lectures in jurisprudence. He noted how people turned to him and resorted to him time and again, as well as his good reputation and his moderation in dress. He found that he liked these ways of Ibn ‘Asākir, and therefore desired to attain the same rank in learning, to be equally well known, and to have people derive benefit from his own legal opinions. God granted him this beyond his most fervent hopes. Gray appeared in his beard and in his hair when he was but twenty-five years old. God—may He be exalted—brought old age to him prematurely, both in outward appearance and in inward demeanor. About this, some good person or other has composed the following:

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	If he grew gray upon reaching his twenty-fifth year,     still, the grayness in him was not uncouth.
	People knew not the full maturity of his learning,     though his lights shone bright even in his youth.
	God illuminated the very heart of him;     truly he embodied guidance for those unsure of truth.
	A shaykh in the true meaning; grayness came early to him,     dignifying him above his fellow youths.
	He comprised excellence as a boy and old man;     a station near to God and a fair resting place are his both.[11]

People had auspicious visions in their sleep which foretold of the good fortune in learning that was to come his way, and of the good things for which he had hoped. For example, while he was still quite young, going to and from grammar school, and his father was marveling at his enthusiasm for school and his ardor in reading, contrary to the fashion of most young boys, his mother—may God rest her soul—told his father: “You shouldn't be surprised! For when I was pregnant, I dreamt that I was at the very highest spot on a minaret, at the crescent moon on its top, and I was giving the call to prayer. I later recounted this to a dream-interpreter who said, ‘You will give birth to a boy whose fame in learning and goodness will spread throughout the earth.'”

He himself [ = Abū Shāma], in the month of Ṣafar 624 [1227], dreamt that ‘Umar ibn al-Khattāb [the second caliph, renowned for his piety and righteousness]—may God rest his soul—had come to Syria to aid its people against the Franks—may God abandon them. He had a special relationship with ‘Umar such that ‘Umar would delegate things to him and talk with him concerning the affairs of Muslims while he walked at ‘Umar's side, touching his shoulder. This continued until people began to ask him about ‘Umar and what ‘Umar intended to do. He would inform them and it was as though he were the medium between ‘Umar and the people.

In this year, he also dreamt that he and the legal scholar ‘Abd al-‘Azīz ibn ‘Abd al-Salām^[12]—may God grant him peace—were inside the Gate of Mercy in Jerusalem. He wanted to open it, but there was someone preventing him from doing so, pushing on it so that it stayed closed. The two of them, however, continued to apply themselves to the matter until they opened its two halves completely, such that each half of the door ended up leaning against the wall behind it.

He also dreamt in the month of Jumādā II of that year that some Muslims were performing their Friday prayers in severe heat. He grew afraid that they might become dehydrated since there was no water there, so far as anyone knew. Then he saw an ancient well near him and a trough, and it occurred to him to draw water from the well and to pour it into the trough so people could drink from it when they finished their prayers. Someone in front of him whom he did not know drew a bucket or two, then he took the bucket from him and drew a great number of buckets, so many he could not count them all, pouring them into the basin.

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Then al-Muhtār Hilāl ibn Māzin ibn al-Ḥarrābī dreamt that he saw Abū Shāma bearing the weight of a great edifice and al-Muhtār exclaimed: “See how so-and-so assumes the burden of the Word of God!”

An old woman dreamt that a group of the pious had gathered in the mosque of the village of Bayt Sawā, one of the villages in Ghūṭa, outside Damascus. They were asked what they were doing and replied, “We are waiting for the Prophet—may God bless him and grant him peace—to pray with us.” She said that he—that is, the author of this book—arrived and prayed with them.

Also, there was once a man who had come seeking a legal opinion while he was in the great lecture area reserved for books, in the uppermost part of the lecture hall in the ‘Ādiliyya law college—this is the place where he sits most of the time giving out legal opinions and so on—and at that point [Abū Shāma] passed by on his way to pray in the law college. The man was astonished and was asked, “What do you find so astonishing?” “I have never seen this place before,” he said, “but I dreamt in my sleep that I was in this, the ‘Ādiliyya law college, and there was a huge group of people in it. Someone said to the people, `Stand aside, for the Prophet—may God bless him and grant him peace—is passing by.' So I looked up and he came out to us from the great lecture area reserved for books and passed by, exactly as [Abū Shāma] just did, on his way to the prayer niche.”

Also, al-Ṣalāḥ the Sufi dreamt, on the first night of the month of Jumādā II in 665 [1267], that the compiler of this book was setting out on the pilgrimage so well outfitted that he had provisions for everything that he could possibly need, such that the one dreaming was astonished.

Ḥasan al-Ḥijāzī, in the month of Ramaḍān 657 [1259], dreamt that someone from the occult world, unseen by him, but whose voice he could hear, said, “Shaykh Abū Shāma is the Prophet of this era,” or something to that effect. He also said that he saw him another time on a lofty bridge and under the bridge was abundant wheat.

Among these auspicious dreams were those of his brother, Shaykh Burhān al-Dīn Abū Isḥāq Ibrāhīm ibn Ismā‘īl, older than him by about nine years and one of the pious. He dreamt that their father—may God rest his soul—was saying to him, “Occupy yourself with learning; look at the station of your brother.” So he looked up and suddenly his brother was on top of a mountain and his father and the one dreaming were walking at its base. He also dreamt in the month of Ṣafar in 657 [1258] that the author was holding fast to a rope that was hanging down from the heavens, leading up to them. So he asked someone in the dream about that and suddenly there appeared to the two of them the Dome of the Rock and the Aqsa mosque [of Jerusalem], whereupon that person asked, “Who built that mosque?”

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“Solomon, son of David,” he replied.

“Your brother has been given the like of that which Solomon was given,” he said.

“How is that?”

“Was not Solomon brought so many things that he had no need of anyone thereafter? Was he not given this and that and brought a great number of different types of things?”

“Indeed, yes he was.”

“And so too your brother has been brought many different kinds of knowledge,” or something to that effect.

Also, al-Sharaf al-Ṣarkhadī dreamt that the author was above the roof of an isolated house giving the call to prayer, and that he then recited from the Qur’ān: “And listen for the Day when the Caller will call out from a place quite near . . .”^[13] He also dreamt that the Day of Resurrection had come and that the author of this book was riding a donkey, making great haste. He was asked about this and replied, “I am seeking out the Prophet—may God bless him and grant him peace—for the sake of the pool from which his people will be given to drink.”^[14]

And finally, al-Sharaf ibn Ra’īs also dreamt that he saw the Day of Resurrection and described some of it terrors. He said, “I saw so-and-so—that is, the compiler of this book—and so I asked how he was, saying to him, `How were you met?' `I was well met,' he replied.”

But these dreams and other things have only been recorded here to testify to the grace of God—may He be exalted—just as He commended in His words—may He be exalted: “And as for the bounty of your Lord, speak!” [Q 93:11]. Moreover, the Prophet said—may God bless him and grant him peace—“All that will remain of the glad tidings is a true vision which the faithful person will view, or which will be shown to him.”

O God, give us thanks that we might thank You for these blessings, seal them with goodness, protect us in this life and in the next, help us to have faith in Your well-conceived plan, and let us not forget Your mention.^[15]

Notes

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The Autobiography of ‘Alā’ al-Dawla al-Simnānī

(1261–1336)

Introduction

Abū al-Makārim Rukn al-Dīn Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad ibn Aḥmad ‘Alā’ al-Dawla al-Biyābānakī al-Simnānī was an important Sufi master and writer under the Mongol Īlkhānid dynasty that ruled Iran from 1256 to 1335. Born into a family of wealthy landlords in Simnān, in north central Iran, al-Simnānī joined his father in the service of the Īlkhānid prince Arghūn. Arghūn, like others of his dynasty, displayed great tolerance toward Christianity but is himself said to have a been a follower of Buddhism; Buddhist priests were in any case among his closest advisers. Al-Simnānī was raised for a life at court: both his mother's and his father's lineages included courtiers of the Khwārazmshāhs, the dynasty that had come to an end with the arrival of the Īlkhānids; his maternal uncle served as chief judge under the Īlkhānids until his execution in 1301; his paternal uncle rose to the rank of chief minister of Iran before falling from favor and being executed in 1299; and his father served intermittently as master of the guards, master of the treasury of Iraq, and governor of Baghdad until his execution in 1295/96. Al-Simnānī served as a companion of Prince Arghūn, who was six to ten years older, from the time they were both children.

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Al-Simnānī appears to have been increasingly dissatisfied with court life as he entered young adulthood and began to be drawn to a mystical career, but he was strongly dissuaded by his family from giving up royal service. Following a dramatic mystical experience on the battlefield, however, al-Simnānī abruptly left the court in 1286 and thereafter devoted himself to a life of seclusion in his hometown, Biyābānak. He devoted himself entirely to mystical endeavors and experienced a great deal of success; by the time of his death in 1336, he had become one of the most respected religious scholars of the Īlkhānid empire. He used his considerable wealth to construct a large Sufi complex called Ṣūfiyābād-i Khudādād, where he instructed a large group of disciples including several Īlkhānid princes and courtiers.

Al-Simnānī had a keen sense of the narratability of his life and wrote several autobiographical tracts, some of which constitute complete treatises; others take the form of subsections in larger works. The bulk of his autobiographical writings are in Persian, but a number of Arabic texts exist that range from highly structured apologiae pro vita sua to detailed anecdotes of his life at court and the process by which he secured permission to retire to Simnān and devote himself to Sufism. The selection translated here is taken from one of his two most important works, al-‘Urwa li-ahl al-khalwa wa-l-jalwa (The Bond for the People of Reclusion and Unveiling), written in 1320–21, which contains the longest of his Arabic autobiographical writings. This selection describes al-Simnānī's conversion experience, his establishment of a large endowment to support Sufi teaching establishments—khānqāhs—and a confrontation with Satan in which al-Simnānī is almost tempted to abandon his ascetic life and return to the pursuit of wealth and position.

There are several references in the text to the creation and preservation of charitable endowments (sing. waqf, pl. awqāf). This singular development of Islamic culture allowed a benefactor to endow an institution, such as a school or a hospital, with the income from a specific source, such as a parcel of land or the rent from a building, in perpetuity. Such endowments often included provisions for the salary of one or more employees: the endowment's executor, teachers, bookkeeper, cleaning staff, and the like. In al-Simnānī's time, these salaries were often transformed into sinecures from which family members or descendants of the benefactor could derive a tax-free income, and were even bought and sold, though this was a clear abuse of their original purpose. The detailed account al-Simnānī gives of the care with which he set up his religious endowments, prohibiting relatives, descendants, and political figures from being involved and preventing the executorship of the endowment from passing down within one family, contrasts sharply with the young al-Simnānī he describes earlier whose only concern was the accumulation of wealth and power. His chagrin at the hereditary executorship of religious endowments in his day perhaps echoes his wealthy landowning roots and an alienation from his family.

By his own account, al-Simnānī's many short autobiographical pieces are intended to serve the didactic function of illustrating his teachings through examples from his personal experience and demonstrating the way to the True Path: “for it [is] impossible for anyone to understand [how I came to know the True Path] without hearing the account of my life from beginning to end.”^[1]

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Bibliography

Al-‘Urwa li-ahl al-khalwa wa-l-jalwa. Ed. Najīb Māyil-i Hirāwī. Teheran: Mawla, 1983. 396–400.

Elias, Jamal J. The Throne Carrier of God: The Life and Thought of ‘Alā’ al-Dawla al-Simnānī. Albany: SUNY Press, 1995.

Finding the Straight Path
[al-‘Urwa, pp. 396–400]

On how I came to know the Straight Path from among the various paths, and the group deserving of salvation from among the various schismatic sects, it being impossible for anyone to understand this without hearing the account of my life from beginning to end

O eager student and traveler on the right path! If you have acquired a new awareness and possess a receptive heart and if you seek hidden knowledge and guidance to the Righteous Path, then know that from childhood to adulthood I sought privileges, thinking little of other matters, loving only noble things and despising the trivial, such that I could not content myself with being the companion of anyone other than the sultan of my time [i.e., Arghūn], and I was not satisfied until I had displaced all of my contemporaries in the role of his servant and companion. I served him for ten years after leaving the madrasa when I was a boy of fifteen, trained in the arts and letters, but completely ignorant of the rational and religious sciences. I surpassed all other youths of my kind in my service to him, and he favored me and kept me by his side to the point that I became the object of envy for the highest princes and ministers in his state because I served him in love and companionship. He was proverbial in his generosity and unanimously acclaimed for it everywhere. My purpose in serving him was only companionship and the desire to please him, not wealth and property. I ignored offering my prayers and was so engrossed in his company and occupied in his service that I did not have time for study or the subtleties of what I had read and memorized until I entered my twenty-fourth year.

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Then a rebuking Voice summoned me during the combat that transpired between Arghūn and the army of his uncle, Sultan Aḥmad, just below Qazvīn in the year 683 [1284]. The moment I uttered the phrase “God is Most Great!” and attacked the enemy, the veils were lifted by the strength of this Rebuker and I saw the Afterlife and all that is in it, just as it is mentioned in the Qur’ān and the sayings of the Prophet. This powerful condition stayed with me all that night until the next morning. When I sat down to eat, the condition subsided, but its effect remained in my soul. In my heart there arose a beckoning to withdraw from humanity and, at the same time, a command to make up for all of my forfeited prayers. However, I was unable to leave the sultan's service. I did not seek any companionship after that experience, and I forced myself to offer ten days' worth of prayers every night and to memorize five verses of the Praiseworthy Qur’ān, for until then I did not know any of it by heart save the five short chapters, the four which begin with the command “Recite!” [al-qalāqil], and the Opening Chapter.

Matters remained thus until the middle of the month of Sha‘bān in the year 685 [October 1286], when I was struck by a malady so grave that the sultan's physicians proved incapable of finding a cure. I therefore asked his permission to return to Simnān for treatment. I departed Tabriz on the sixteenth of Sha‘bān 685 [October 7, 1286] heading toward Simnān. When I reached Ūjān in the region of Arrān, I realized that I had been restored to perfect health without any medication, and I understood that this was because of the blessing of abandoning the court's company, turning away from wrongdoers and their wrongful deeds, and moving toward truth and its devotees. My desire to abandon the world, to strive in obedience to God, and to eliminate any pretext for falling short in the service of my Lord and Creator, all increased while I sought forgiveness for having spent time in the service of one who worshiped idols.^[2]

When I reached Simnān, in the month of Ramadan, I occupied myself with learning what I had to of religious obligations, for I knew nothing at all of them, nor, in fact, anything of the legal sciences. I worked hard and succeeded in learning what I had to that winter. I established my spiritual practice on the basis of what is written in the book Food for Hearts [Qūt al-qulūb] of Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī—may God sanctify his secret. I yearned to dissociate myself from the world, so I distributed my wealth, freed my slaves, provided my wife with her due, and gave my son more than my father had given me. Then I began to live at the khānqāh [Sufi lodge] named after the great master al-Ḥasan al-Sakkākī al-Simnānī, who was an associate of Shaykh Abū Sa‘īd ibn Abī al-Khayr and Shaykh al-Ḥasan al-Kharaqānī and the Shaykh of Shaykhs Abū ‘Abd Allāh al-Dāstānī from whom many chains of authoritative transmission derive. He was a disciple of Shaykh Abū al-Ḥasan al-Bustī who was his master, and Shaykh Muḥammad al-Ḥamawī al-Juwaynī, and had studied with and benefited from the great Shaykh Abū al-‘Abbās al-Qaṣṣāb al-Āmulī—may God sanctify their spirits. Shaykh al-Ḥasan al-Sakkākī was honorable and diligent, devoted to and accepted by the saints of his age, standing firmly in body, words, and deeds upon the path of the Prophet, his heart illuminated by the light of mysteries of the pure path attributed to the Sufis.

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I constructed other khānqāhs and conferred upon them waqf endowments of my remaining property, double what I had given to my son and his mother. I stipulated that my descendants not serve as executors, employees, or supervisors of the endowments I created. I composed a registered endowment document and forbade the sultan's judges, scholars, and courtiers from being appointed to manage the endowments, audit their expenses, record them into the registers, or enter them for the purpose of residing, seeking temporary lodging, or eating at the table of our disciples. May God destroy them, for they are the vilest of men in character, lowest in resolve, most loathsome in beliefs, most repulsive in character, most disgusting as companions, and most vulgar in speech.

I entrusted the position of executor after me to one of my disciples who had traveled the Sufi path to the point of becoming a mystical guide, expansive by nature, generous, mindful of being neither prodigal nor miserly, possessing patience, fortitude, and benificence, pure of heart and body, of complete reliance on God, sincerely repentant and just in word and deed in all matters. And I entrusted the position after him to one like him from among the disciples, not to one of his children. I forbade executorship, supervision, and employment to the children of any executor, supervisor, or employee, even if they be ascetic, worshiping mystics, lest they confuse it with their inheritance. For we have seen in this age the making of hereditary charitable endowments and the appointment of heirs as executors, supervisors, and employees, thereby mixing up property. God will repay these people for coveting these properties—great is His power! Strangest of all is that the owners of charities like to buy them, despite being fully cognizant of the fact that they are charitable endowments! May God guide them away from this heedless behavior!

Satan came whispering in my breast and tempted my soul, saying: “You have chosen a momentous thing arbitrarily, without being certain. A sensible person cannot just abandon the delights of the world—the highest of which is being close to the sultan and the clearest of which is the fulfillment of the soul's desire and heart's delight in keeping to one's goal from the days of his youth—without giving it any serious consideration. There is nothing more delightful than being alive and the best part of a person's life is passing one's youth without a care in whatever one's soul desires. You are ruining the joy in your life by wearing coarse cloth, eating chaff, keeping constant night vigils, eating too little, and fasting all the time. If perchance after a while you realize the futility of your behavior, and wish to return to what you once had, then even if it were easy for you to reacquire all the money and property you have given away, and simple for you to again grow close to the sultan, how will you regain the lost days of your youth? Remorse over the loss of your sweet, fresh life will only gain you weariness and sorrow!”

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But I said that all the prophets and saints have urged people to abandon the world and turn away form their base desires toward obedience to God— may He be exalted—and toward building a place for themselves in the Afterlife. He said, “How do you know that what they said is true in the specific context of lifting the mystical veil [kashf al-ḥijāb]?” I replied, “Indeed, I sought the world and its delights and I attained its highest stations; but then my soul turned away from it and its devotees in revulsion. I abandoned it voluntarily, not because I had to. I will not return to what I have abandoned out of weariness, boredom, or complacency. Indeed, from these practices and acts of worship I find such nonwearying delights that in each hour I long to experience what I had in the previous hour. True delight is that which does not tire the one who has it.”

He said: “These are rhetorical and persuasive words, but a seeker of truth must not heed that which is not demonstratively proven. Do we not hear how God—may He be exalted—commands His prophet to demand proof from his adversary in His Book: `Say: Bring forth your argument!' [Q 27:64].” His words stirred my soul, even though it was not disposed to heed them, being occupied with delightful religious exercises and acts of worship, striving to change its despicable characteristics and past habits into noble and praiseworthy attributes. So my soul cried out to God and said beseechingly: “O Lord! You have spoken and Your words are true: `Or, who listens to the distressed when he calls on Him' [Q 27:62], and You have commanded us to pray with Your words: `Call on me. I will answer your prayer' [Q. 40:60]. I am calling on You with the prayer of the destitute and requesting You as one who has no recourse but to beseech You, certain that he has no way out except Your door! So hear my request, answer my prayers even if You do not fulfill my desires, and reveal to me a retort to my enemies so that Satan and his arguments will be silenced by incontrovertible proof!”

An unseen voice called to me: “Do not be in haste! Follow in the footsteps of the Beloved of God and persevere in the worship of God. He will open unto you the gates to that which you seek!”

After this I strove to establish a daily regimen of meditation and prayer, as stipulated in the Food for Hearts, and of Qur’ānic recitation. I was careful that not a single breath be wasted in something that did not assist me in my faith. And my time became completely consumed in my religious exercises so that not a moment was left for me to spend on any of my associates.

Notes

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The Autobiography of Fray Anselmo Turmeda, ‘Abd Allāh al-Turjumān

(1352–1432?)

Introduction

Conversion narratives constitute a significant subcategory of autobiographical writing in both the Arabo-Islamic and European traditions. Among Arabic texts we find conversions to Islam from Christianity (Turmeda), from Judaism (Samaw’al al-Maghribī), from a less committed sense of Islam to a more pious lifestyle (al-Tirmidhī), and from more traditionalist versions of Islam to Islamic mysticism via rational study (al-Ghazālī) or through visionary experience (al-Simnānī). Many of these texts are attached to polemical works that reaffirm in different rhetorical terms the transformation undergone by the author in the conversion narrative itself. Conversion autobiographies have a very intimate engagement both with convincing the reader that the story told is true and with persuading the reader that the path taken is the path of truth.

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The autobiography of Fray Anselmo Turmeda/‘Abd Allāh al-Turjumān (lit. ‘Abd Allāh “the Interpreter”) constitutes the first chapter in a work that is aimed at refuting Christianity's claim to be the true faith and convincing other Christians to convert to Islam as did the author in approximately 1387. A native of Mallorca, ‘Abd Allāh recounts a straightforward chronological narrative of his early life and religious studies. Perhaps most striking are his recollections of the unusual characteristics of the cities in which he lived and studied. Of Mallorca, he notes the prodigious local production of olives and figs; concerning Lérida, Spain, he tells of the gold dust found in the nearby river and of how the inhabitants preserved fruits and vegetables by drying them so they could be stored through the winter; of Bologna, Italy, he tells us about the municipal system for overseeing the quality of local brick production. Why are these curious details in his story at all? In part, they may be substantiating evidence that he did indeed live in these regions, evidence that would lend credence to his narrative of sincere conversion to Islam; but they also reflect a world of trading networks in a time when the popularity of travel literature was experiencing dramatic growth in Islamic domains as well as in Europe. ‘Abd Allāh al-Turjumān lived within a century of both the most famous western traveler, Marco Polo (1254–1323), and the most renowned Muslim traveler, Ibn Baṭṭūṭa (1304–77), of the late Middle Ages.

Most fascinating, however, is his forthright account of confusion over the figure of the Paraclete in the New Testament, at best an ambiguous figure in Christian thought. This is the figure whom Jesus promises God will send after him (John 16:07) to teach the world all things (14:26), who will be another counselor and testify about Jesus (15:26), but whom the world will not accept (14:16–17). When the young priest Anselmo Turmeda in his confusion turns to his teacher and mentor, the older priest confesses surprisingly that the Paraclete is none other than the Prophet Muhammad and advises his young student to flee to Muslim lands and save his soul! This ‘Abd Allāh does, and at the age of thirty-five he stands before the sultan of Tunis and a crowd of Christian merchants and gives public witness that Islam is the True Faith and that Muhammad is God's Messenger. We know little of ‘Abd Allāh's later life, but his autobiography leaves him happily married, the father of a young son, and enjoying the personal favor and blessing of the sultan.

Bibliography

‘Abd Allāh al-Turjumān. Tuḥfat al-adīb fī al-radd ‘alā ahl al-ṣalīb. Ed. Maḥmūd ‘Alī Ḥamāya. Cairo: Dār al-Thaqāfa li-l- Ṭibā‘a wa-l-Nashr, 1983. 27–39.

Calvet, Agustín. Fray Anselmo Turmeda: Heterodoxo español (1352–1423–32?). Barcelona: Casa Editorial Estudio, 1914.

de Epalza, Miguel. Fray Anselm Turmeda(‘Abdallah al-Taryuman) y su polémica islámo-cristiana: Edición, traducción y estudio de la Tuhfa. 2d ed. Madrid: Hiperion, 1994.

———. “Nuevas aportaciones a la biografía de Fray Anselmo Turmeda (Abdallah al-Tarchumān).” Analecta Sacra Tarraconensia: Revista deCiencias Histórico-Eclesiásticas 38 (1965): 87–158.

Samsó, Julio. “Turmediana: I. Trasfondo cultural islámico en la obra catalana de Anselmo Turmeda; II. En torno a la “Tuḥfa” y al Libre de bons amonestaments.” Boletín de la Real Academia de Buenas Letras de Barcelona 34 (1971–72): 51–85.

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A Unique Find for the Intelligent Mind
[Tuhfat al-adīb, pp. 27–39]

A Treatise of Riposte to the People of the Cross

Chapter One

Know then—may God have mercy on you—that I am originally from the city of Mallorca (may God Almighty return her to Islam!), a large city on the coast that lies in a small valley between two mountains. It is a city of commerce with two harbors where large ships dock carrying splendid merchandise. The city is known by the name of the island, Mallorca, and its most important agricultural products are olives and figs. In a good year, more than twenty thousand barrels of olive oil are shipped from there to the cities of Cairo and Alexandria. In addition, the island of Mallorca has more than one hundred twenty well-populated walled towns, and many springs of water which emerge in all directions and flow to the sea. My father was considered one of the important people of the city of Mallorca. I was his only son, so when I reached six years of age he sent me to a priest who became my teacher and with whom I studied the Gospels until, in the space of two years, I had memorized more than half of them. I then began a six-year course of study in the language of the Gospels and the science of Logic.

I then left my homeland of Mallorca for the city of Lérida [on the mainland] in the land of Catalonia, the center of learning for Christians in that region, which has a large valley that cuts through it. There I saw gold dust mixed with the valley's sands, but since it is well known among the people of that region that the cost of extracting it is not matched by the price it brings, it is simply ignored. In this city there is a great abundance of fruit, and I have seen the peasants there split peaches, as well as squash and carrots, into quarters and place them in the sun [to dry]; during the winter, whenever they wish to eat these, they place them in water overnight and then cook them as if they were fresh. Christian students seeking knowledge gather in this city and number one thousand or even one thousand five hundred, and no one is in charge of them other than the priest with whom they are studying. The most common plant in its hinterlands is saffron. I studied the natural sciences and astrology there for six years. Then I was charged with teaching the Gospels and the language of the Gospels for four years.

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I later traveled to the city of Bologna in the land of Lombardy, a very large city whose buildings are of strong red baked brick due to the lack of stone quarries in the region. Each master brickmaker has a stamp with which all of his bricks are imprinted and there is a supervisor who oversees the quality of the clay in the bricks and of the baking. If any should crack or crumble, the brickmaker is forced to pay the cost and is punished with a beating. This city is known as a city of learning among all the people of that region, and each year more than a thousand men gather there seeking knowledge. They wear nothing but a simple wrap which is the vestment of God [ṣibāgh Allāh]; even if a student is a king [sulṭān] or the son of a king, they all wear nothing but this, so the students are easily distinguishable from all other [residents of the city]. And no one is in charge of them but the priest with whom they are studying. I lived in that city [for quite a while].

There is a church there with an old priest who was of very high rank, by the name of Nicola Martello. His status among them in knowledge, observance, and asceticism was very high. He was peerless in these characteristics in his time among all the people of Christendom. Questions, particularly those concerning religion, would be brought to him from distant regions from kings and others, accompanied by great gifts which was the point of the matter for they wished to acquire his blessings by doing this. When their gifts were accepted, they deemed themselves greatly honored. With this priest I studied the principles [uṣūl] and the details [aḥkām] of the Christian religion. I grew closer and closer to him by serving him and taking care of many of his errands until he eventually made me the closest of his retinue, to the point that I ended up being given the keys to his house and his storerooms. I had access to everything with the sole exception of the key to a small room within his house where he would retire by himself that was apparently his storeroom for all the wealth that had been given to him, but God only knows.

I studied with him there and served him, as I have recounted above, for ten years. Then one day he unexpectedly took ill and did not attend his seminar. The students of his class waited for him and passed the time discussing various problems of knowledge. Eventually, their discussion turned to the words of God Almighty as expressed by the Prophet Jesus (upon whom be peace!): “There will come after me a prophet whose name shall be the Paraclete [Bāraqlīṭ: cf. John 14:15, 26; 15:26; 16:7–15],” and they began to discuss the identity of this prophet: Which was he among the Prophets? Each one spoke according to his own knowledge and understanding. Their discussion was lengthy and they debated a great deal, but they left without having reached any conclusion regarding this matter.

---

I went to the residence of the teacher of the aforementioned class, and he asked me, “What studying did you do today while I was absent?” So I told him of the disagreement among the students concerning the identity of the Paraclete. I reported that so-and-so had answered thus, and so-and-so had answered in this manner, and thus I narrated to him all of their answers. Then he asked me, “And how did you answer?” “I responded with the answer given by such-and-such a religious scholar in his exegesis of the Gospels.” He said to me, “Well, that was a good try and you did get close; but so-and-so is mistaken and so-and-so almost got it right, but the truth is not any of these, because the explanation of this holy name is known only by scholars of extraordinary learning, and as of yet, you [students] have achieved only a small amount of knowledge.” So I rushed forward to kiss his feet and said to him, “Master, you know that I have come to you from a far-off land and have served you now for ten years. During this time I have received from you an amount of knowledge which I cannot reckon, but could you find it possible, out of your great beneficence, to supplement this with knowledge of this holy name?” The priest then began to weep and said to me, “My son, God knows that you are very dear to me because of your service and devotion to me. Knowledge of this holy name is indeed a great benefit, but I fear that if this knowledge were revealed to you that the Christian masses would kill you immediately.” I said to him, “Master, by God Almighty, by the Truth of the Gospels and He Who brought them, I shall never speak of anything you confide to me in secret except at your command!”

Then he said to me, “My son, when you first came to me I asked you about your country: whether it was close to the Muslims and whether your countries raid each other, in order to determine what aversion you might have for Islam. Know, then, my son, that the Paraclete is one of the names of our Prophet Muhammad (may God bless and preserve him!), to whom was revealed the Fourth Book which is mentioned by Daniel (upon whom be peace!) who says that this book shall be revealed, its religion shall be the True Religion, and its followers the True Community [lit. “white community,” al-milla al-bayḍā’, Dan. 12:10] mentioned in the Gospels.” I responded, “But, Master, what then do you say of the religion of the Christians?” He replied, “My son, if the Christians had persisted in the original religion of Jesus, they would indeed belong to the religion of God, for the religion of Jesus and all of the Prophets is that of God.”

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“But what then is one to do in this matter?” I asked. He said, “My son, enter into the religion of Islam!” I asked, “Does whoever enter Islam achieve salvation?” He responded, “Yes, he is saved in this world and in the Hereafter.” I said to him, “Master, an intelligent man chooses for himself the very best of what he knows, so if you know that the religion of Islam is superior, what then keeps you from it?” He said, “My son, God Almighty only revealed to me the truth of what I have disclosed to you about the superiority of Islam and the holiness of the Prophet of Islam in my old age and after the decrepitude of my body—(There is, however, no excuse for him, for the proof of God is clear to all!)—but if God had guided me to this while I was still your age, I would have left everything and entered the True Religion. Love of the material world is at the heart of all sins. You can see my status among the Christians, the dignity I am accorded, the wealth, the honor, and my reputation in this world. If I were to demonstrate any leanings toward the religion of Islam, the masses would kill me at the earliest possible opportunity. Even if I were able to save myself from them and make my way to the Muslims and say to them, `I have come to you to become a Muslim,' they would say to me, `You have done yourself a great benefit by entering into the True Religion, but you do not bestow upon us any favor with your entrance into a religion by which you have saved yourself from the punishment of God.' I would remain among them a poor old man, ninety years of age, where I don't understand their language and they do not know my worth, and I would end up dying of starvation. So I remain, thank God, of the religion of Jesus and of Him who brought it. God knows this of me.”

So I said to him, “Master, are you indicating to me that I should go to the lands of the Muslims and enter into their religion?” He responded, “If you are intelligent and seek salvation, then rush to do this, thereby gaining for yourself both this world and the next! But, my son, this is a matter which no one is here to witness and which you must conceal to the utmost of your ability, for if any of it were to become known, the masses would kill you instantly, and I would not be able to help you. Nor would it help you to trace this back to me, for I would deny it, and my word about you would be believed, but your statements against me would not be believed. I am innocent of your blood should you utter a word of this.”

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So I said to him, “Master, I hope to God that I would never even imagine doing such a thing!” I therefore pledged to him [my secrecy] as he desired. Then I began to make provisions for the journey. I said farewell to him and he asked God to protect me and gave me fifty gold dinars. I traveled by sea, heading for my homeland, the city of Mallorca. I remained there for six months, then I traveled on to Sicily and stayed there five months waiting for a ship heading to the lands of the Muslims. Finally a ship came that was heading to the city of Tunis, so I departed Sicily on it. We set sail at dusk and spotted the port of Tunis around noon. When I landed at the customshouse of Tunis, and the Christian men of religion who were there learned of my presence, they came with a boat and took me to their homes. Some of the merchants resident there in Tunis also befriended me. I stayed there as their guest living the most comfortable of lives for four months. After that I asked them if there were anyone in the household of the sultan who spoke the language of the Christians. The sultan at that time was our Lord Abū al-‘Abbās Aḥmad (may God have mercy on him!). They told me that there was in the household of the aforementioned sultan a good man, one of the highest-ranking servants, by the name of Yūsuf the physician, for the sultan's physician was part of his personal entourage. I rejoiced at this news. I asked about this man's residence and was given directions to it. I met with him and I explained my position: that I had come in order to embrace the religion of Islam. He was overjoyed at this and decided that this news should be delivered [to the sultan] by his own hands.

I mounted his horse with him and he took me to the house of the sultan, entered, and informed the sultan of what I had said. He asked permission for me to enter, and I was granted permission. Thus I appeared before the sultan. He first asked me my age and I told him that I was thirty-five years old. Then he asked me as well what sciences I had studied and I told him. He told me that I had arrived in the most auspicious manner possible and that he wished God Almighty's blessings upon me. Then I said to the translator, that is, the aformentioned physician, “Say to Our Lord the Sultan, that no man leaves his religion without causing his people to speak against him and to slander him, so I ask you in your beneficence to summon the Christian merchants and their men of religion, ask them about me and hear what they have to say of me in my absence, and then, God willing, I will convert to Islam.” He replied to me via the translator, “You have requested [from me] what ‘Abd Allāh ibn Salām requested of the Prophet himself (May God Bless and Preserve him!) when he converted to Islam!”^[1]

The sultan sent for the Christian men of religion and some of the merchants and he put me in a room near his council chamber. When the Christians entered, he asked them, “What do you have to say about this new priest who arrived on that boat?” They said, “He is a very learned man in our religion and our priests have said, `We have seen none higher than him in knowledge or faith in our religion.'” Then he said to them, “And what would you say of him if he were to convert to Islam?” They said, “We seek refuge in God from that possibility! He would never do such a thing!”

When he had heard what the Christians had to say, he sent for me and I approached him and gave witness to the true credo in the presence of the Christians and they prostrated themselves and called out, “Nothing but a desire to get married could have driven him to this, for priests of our religion cannot marry!” They left distressed and sorrowful. The sultan—may God have mercy on him!—bestowed on me a salary of four dinars per diem, granted me lodging among his retinue, and married me to the daughter of the Ḥājj Muḥammad al-Ṣaffār.

When I resolved to consummate the marriage, he gave me one hundred gold dinars and a complete new set of clothing. I consummated the union with her and she bore me a son, whom I named Muḥammad by way of a blessing, after Our Prophet Muhammad—may God bless and preserve him!

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Notes

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The Autobiography of Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūṭī

(1445–1505)

Introduction

Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūṭī was born in Cairo in 1445. Judge, legal scholar, and prolific writer, his bibliography of published works, included in his autobiography, lists hundreds of treatises, books, pamphlets, and monographs on subjects ranging from grammar to legal opinions to ḥadīth to a history of his hometown of Asyut (al-Suyūṭ). His personality did not make him a popular man among his peers. He himself records in detail a number of the public clashes he got into with contemporaries over various legal questions and interpretations. The editor of his autobiography, Elizabeth Sartain, describes him as “the most controversial figure of his time” (1:72) because of his immodest claim to be the most important religious scholar of his century. His remarkable faith in his own judgments, his mocking rebuttals, and his personal attacks on those who disagreed with him all earned him the ire of his fellow scholars. Sometime after composing the autobiography, al-Suyūṭī retired from public life, embittered at the lack of public recognition he received from the very colleagues he so often disparaged. He died in Cairo in 1505.

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His autobiography is organized into thematic chapters rather than into a chronological narrative. Although the larger text is not structured as a single narrative, smaller narratives, such as the one translated here, occur within the chapters, and the entire text is ultimately structured so as to present the author as the “Renewer of the Faith” for the tenth Islamic century. It is clear from contemporary references that al-Suyūṭī wrote several versions of his life; by far the lengthiest, and the only one currently available, is Speaking of God's Bounty. Al-Suyūṭī apparently did not finish the work, for the single surviving manuscript contains a number of blank spaces and incomplete sections. Even in this form, at two hundred fifty printed pages, it is one of the longest of all premodern Arabic autobiographies.

This short excerpt from chapter 17, “On How God Blessed Me by Setting Enemies Against Me to Harm Me and Tested Me with the False Accusations of an Ignoramus, as Has Also Happened to our Forefathers,” recounts one of a series of incidents that pitted al-Suyūṭī against the anonymous “ignoramus” (al-jāhil), a fellow religious scholar in Cairo. The term itself is reminiscent of the “father of ignorance” (Abū Jahl) found in the biography of the Prophet Muhammad—a troublesome man who plagued the Prophet, but whose misdeeds were patiently tolerated by Muhammad as a trial sent by God—and, in addition, can carry the connotation of something or someone un-Islamic since the pre-Islamic period as a whole is referred to in Arabic to as the Age of Ignorance (al-jāhiliyya). Al-Suyūṭī construes the insults and troubles he endures from the “ignoramus” as a parallel to those endured by Muhammad and other righteous figures in early Islamic history. This particular incident involves a “house of ill repute,” a building in which sexual licentiousness, drinking, and music are said to take place, and whether the law allowed such an establishment to be destroyed if these activities did not cease. Al-Suyūṭī, of course, portrays himself as the winner in this battle, but the final resolution comes about in a somewhat surprising and even rather unsatisfying manner.

Bibliography

Brustad, Kristen. “Imposing Order: Reading the Conventions of Representation in al-Suyūṭī's Autobiography.” Edebiyât: Special Issue—Arabic Autobiography, N.S. 7, no. 2 (1997): 327–44.

Sartain, E. M. Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūṭīvol. 1: Biography andBackground; vol. 2: al-Taḥadduth bi-ni‘mat Allāh. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975. 175– 80.

Chapter 17

On How God Blessed Me by Setting Enemies Against Me to Harm Me and Tested Me with the False Accusations of an Ignoramus, as Has Also Happened to Our Forefathers

The Incident of the House of Ill Repute
[Jalāl al-Dīn, 2:175–80]

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In the month of Ramadan in the year 886 [1481 [C.E.], the aforementioned ignoramus stirred up another controversy involving me over the question of the destruction of property. The story is this: For some years there had been in our quarter a house belonging to a man named Qāsim al-Ḥabbāk, next to which there was a mosque that had a caretaker named Ḥasan al-Masīrī. Now this Ḥasan used to come to see me to complain about the residents of the aforementioned house, saying that men would gather there to engage in such debauchery as adultery, sodomy, drinking, playing musical instruments, and so forth. He told me that this activity had increased and become well known, such that this house was sought out by people from far-off places. Large numbers of people would gather there, so many that one group would enter and begin to engage in adultery and sodomy while another group waited their turn at the door. Some would stand in the street and others would sit at the door of the mosque. It was even said that a man was seen inside that mosque with a youth with whom he was engaged in sodomy. This incident became public knowledge in the quarter and in this way the place became famous for such activities and was sought out by people from far and wide.

The aforementioned Ḥasan would say to me, “What can I do? Shall I complain to the palace guard about them? Shall I complain to the military police about them? Shall I have the place raided?” I would reply, “It is more humane to be gentle in disapproval; limit yourself to verbal threats and take no action.”

Now it turned out that the aforementioned ignoramus was among the residents of that house, but by God, I had no inkling of that until after the occurrence of the incident that I will now relate.

Matters continued in this same vein for some years, until Ḥasan mentioned to me at the beginning of the present year [886/1481] that the place was finally rid of all that, and for that I thanked God profusely. But then during the month of Ramadan, he came to see me in a terrible state and said, “This calamity has returned to the way it was!” “How so?” I asked. He told me that a commander named Qānṣūh al-Sharafī had been one of those who used to frequent the place, and that he had gone away on a military detail in the company of the ruler. News had come of the detachment's approach, and a group of people who used to accompany him in his activities had rented the place from Qāsim the owner and had begun to repair it and prepare it so that they could gather there after the commander's return and resume their activities. I told Ḥasan to go to Qāsim and tell him that I said he must not rent to these people, and that if he did, I would issue a legal ruling to have the place razed. I meant this to frighten him so that he would turn them away at the outset, which would be much easier than moving them out once they had taken up residence.

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The owner then went to the aforementioned ignoramus and told him the whole story. He said, “That's not the law. What is his legal basis for saying that?” A man then came to me and asked about the legal basis for my threat, and I said, “Many things, which I will mention in a separate publication.” He replied, “Mention one of them now.” I said, “The story of the al-Ḍirār mosque.” So he went back to the ignoramus and reported this to him. The latter responded, “How is that relevant? That was a mosque built by hypocrites.” The first man returned to ask me again, and I recited to him the Prophet's words: “I decided to call [the people] to prayer and have them gather to do so, then to command a man to lead the people in prayer, then to set out with men carrying bundles of firewood to find those people who were not observing the prayer and to burn down their houses.”

He returned to the other and reported this and the latter responded, “This man doesn't grasp the matter at all. People have disagreed about praying in a group. Some hold that it is a collective obligation, while others claim that is an individual obligation. The people who believe the latter use that saying of the Prophet as evidence; but they do not use it as evidence to prove that house of ill repute should be razed.” When this was reported to me, I realized that these were the words of an ignoramus, and that arguing with the ignorant is a waste of time, so I issued no reply.

After that, this ignoramus went to seek legal rulings from some local scholars and they ruled against razing the building. Shaykh al-Bānī,^[1] as was his habit, added that whosoever ruled in favor of razing the building would be subject to punishment. I would like to say to that so-called legal scholar: Master, the judgment to raze the building is correct, according to reports transmitted from ‘Umar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb, ‘Uthmān ibn ‘Affān, Ibn Mas‘ūd, ‘Abd Allāh ibn Zubayr, ‘Abd Allāh ibn ‘Abbās, and ‘Umar ibn ‘Abd al-‘Azīz.^[2] The leaders of the three legal schools—Ḥanafī, Malikī, and Ḥanbalī—have all stipulated it, and the two Shāfi‘ī jurists al-Ghazālī and al-Kawāshī have also suggested this interpretation. So who exactly among those great leaders should be subjected to punishment? If you feared your Lord, you would carefully verify what you say. If you recall that your ruling will be held up to you on the Day of Judgment and you will be asked about it letter by letter, then you would pay more attention to what you write! It is as if you had never heard the words:

Do not write with your own hand anything except     that which you will be pleased to see on Judgment Day.

I do not deny your knowledge or your schooling, but our situation is like that of Shaykh ‘Abd Allāh al-Minūfī who said to one of his teachers after the latter had spoken rudely against one of his own students: `You are an educated man, Master, but knowledge has not taught you manners!'

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The aforementioned ignoramus returned overjoyed with al-Bānī's ruling in hand, and sat in his market shop calling out in his loudest voice: “So-and-so has broken the unanimous agreement of jurists with his ruling! This man is speaking recklessly about God's religion! He is a such-and-such!” and so forth, and he began to curse and use foul language. He went to the residents of that house and told them, “Have no fear! They have decided that he is to be punished; he can no longer confront you.” The residents lifted their heads up and puffed out their cheeks, while those who disapproved were humiliated and defeated. The former group prepared to resume their debauchery under the protection of Shaykh Shams al-Dīn al-Bānī.

Ḥasan the caretaker, who had tried to stop them, came to see me in utter humiliation and disappointment, barely able to speak. I said, “Hold on, I am in the right. God says, `So lose not heart, fall not into despair; for you shall overcome, if you are true believers' [Q 3:138]. I swear by God that if they resume their previous debauchery I will inform the caliph and show him the transmitted opinions of the great Muslim jurists in favor of razing, even if a thousand al-Bānī's rule otherwise.”

Then God in His Grace decreed that Qānṣūh, whose arrival they were all awaiting, was instead sent by the ruler to Tripoli. The group disbanded and not one of them was heard from after that. The place became free of debauchery, stood empty and closed up, thanks be to God! I wrote something about this problem and titled it: Raising the Minaret of Religion and Razing the House of Dissipation. It is also called, Bringing the Wineshop Down on the Builder [ = al-Bānī]. As for the aforementioned ignoramus, he flew off on the wings of confoundment, donned the womanly robes of cowardice, and escaped by the skin of his teeth.^[3]

They wish to straighten his crookedness;     But can people straighten what God Himself has made bent?

I composed [these verses] about the incident:

	Marvel [O reader!] at the builder [al-Bānī] of a house of ill repute,     who is master in all types of immorality.
	We forbade sodomy and hashish,     and he called our ruling on it ignorant and unseemly.

I also composed the following:

	The house of ill repute says, “No Muslim,     due to what I am prepared for, approves of me.
	No one of intelligence can fail to see     the measure of my deficiency.
	If someone sees my scales tilting to one side     it is because a lame sodomite is weighing me.”
	I said, “If the house is not emptied of its contents,     The law stipulates razing this wineshop.”
	Al-Bānī was asked and he ruled that     the one who rules this way is guilty.
― 207 ―
	O people, listen to what is steady and true,     and is neither wavering nor shaky,
	Who more justly should be accused of a crime,     whether by friend or by enemy?
	The one who razes a house built to disobey God in,     or the one who has built it: al-Bānī?

Notes

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The Autobiography of al-‘Aydarūs

(1570–1628)

Introduction

‘Abd al-Qādir ibn ‘Abd Allāh al-‘Aydarūs was a member of a prominent South Arabian family that claimed descent from the Prophet Muhammad. Al-‘Aydarūs's father moved from South Arabia to Gujarat, India, after which it became customary for members of the family to live or at least travel there. The family's reputation for piety and scholarship appears to have ingratiated them with the ruling families of Gujarat. Ministers and ladies of the court march in and out of al-‘Aydarūs's autobiography, and “princes and merchants” study Sufism under his supervision. Other members of the family held high positions at Indian courts and continued the family tradition of Sufi teaching and writing. One descendant, Ḥusayn al-‘Aydarūs (d. 1798), is revered as a saint in Indonesia.

The author's account of his childhood reveals how his father's attentions instilled self-esteem and boundless optimism in the son. Al-‘Aydarūs's father, unlike al-Tirmidhī's, is not shown urging his son to study; rather, he simply predicts his son's greatness, “using allusions and allegories,” as in the dream-tale at the beginning of the autobiography. The author seems never to have doubted that he was destined for a bright future. He nevertheless claims to have been surprised when his books became famous, saying that God then “blessed me with something completely unexpected.” In context, this remark appears to signal the author's conviction that salvation after death is sufficient reward for his pious efforts and that good fortune on earth is an unexpected bonus. However, none of this prevents al- ‘Aydarūs from recounting the virtues of his own books, or relating the praises colleagues lavished on him.

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Al-‘Aydarūs's compilation of character recommendations and positive book reviews may, in its fulsomeness and complacency, irritate the modern reader. However, the text, by its very placement, reveals a certain modesty just as characteristic of the author's milieu as of his pride. The autobiography appears under the year 1570, the year of al-‘Aydarūs's birth, in his biographical and historical catalog of the sixteenth century. He tells his life story, therefore, in the entry corresponding to the year of his birth and not at the beginning or end of his work. The entry also mentions other noteworthy events of 1570, such as: “In this year the reservoirs of Ahmadabad overflowed and then emptied out completely. Also in this year, blood was seen in some of the reservoirs of Ahmadabad.”

Al-‘Aydarūs's brief autobiographical entry gives his date of birth and mentions poetry composed in honor of the event. He explains how he was named after spiritual figures who appeared to his father in a dream, and recounts the various signs of his father's confidence in his future greatness. He describes his mother, giving the circumstances of how she entered his father's household, and briefly describes her character. Next comes an account of his education, his rise to fame, and his numerous students. He lists his books and compositions, with accompanying self-congratulatory remarks. His citations of his own poetry are striking: only here does he speak of such matters as sorrow, pain, and love. The verses attest to the nearness of God and the vivid presence of the Islamic past. They also express emotions that appear to have arisen in the course of one or more erotic encounters, including one with a man whose eloquence and slim figure captivated his sentiments. Certain lines, particularly the one in which he declares himself free of any law but love, seem scandalous. Yet al- ‘Aydarūs's colleagues found nothing reprehensible in his conduct: as he is careful to tell us, they praised his works and composed poems in his honor.

He concludes by justifying his work in conventional fashion, citing the Qur’ānic injunction to speak of the blessings of God and listing earlier scholars who had written autobiographies. Short and succinct, al-‘Aydarūs's text brings together motifs that distinguish many medieval Arabic autobiographies, such as a more intimate view of childhood and parent-child relations than is typically offered in biographical writings, as well as a glimpse of inner passions expressed in verse rather than in narrative. Evidently, Arabic autobiographical texts and their conventions were well known in seventeenth-century Muslim India.

Bibliography

Missing

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The Life of al‘Aydarūs
[al-Nūr, pp. 334–43]

On the evening of Thursday, the twentieth of the month of Rabī‘ I, 978 [1570 C.E.], the author of this book was born. May God help him achieve the good things he hopes for and bring all his labors to a happy conclusion.

Here follows five lines of mnemonic verse composed by the author's father citing the date of the author's birth and a list of family friends who composed similar poems.]

About two weeks before I was born, my father—may God rest his soul—saw in a dream a number of the “friends of God,” including ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī and Abū Bakr al-‘Aydarūs.^[1] ‘Abd al-Qādir had appeared in order to ask something of my father. Because of the dream, my father, convinced that I would become a person of importance, decided to name me ‘Abd al-Qādir Muḥyī al-Dīn after al-Jīlānī and Abū Bakr after al-‘Aydarūs.

None of my father's children had grown up healthy in India, and none of them survived except me. My father loved me very much. Once he said to me, “When your time comes, you may do whatever you want.” He would very often hint at things to come, using allusions and allegories which I cannot fully express in words, and which at this point it is better not to try and reproduce. I pray that God bring my father's predictions to fruition

A reliable source told me the following story: “A certain prominent minister visited your father to ask him to pray for them concerning some business or other. You were very young at the time. You were sitting in front of your father, and at that moment you happened to recite the verse, `Here is another [blessing] dear to you; a God-given victory and speedy success [Q 61:13].' Your father said to him, `There is your good omen for you—it is practically a revelation from God!' And, by the leave of God, they got what they wished for.”

My mother was an Indian slave given to my father by a charitable woman of the royal family famous for her generosity and the kindness and deference she bore toward my father. This lady gave my mother all the household items and furniture she needed, and placed a number of slave women at her disposal. She regarded my mother as one of her own daughters and used to visit her several times a month.

My mother was a virgin when she entered my father's house, and she bore him no children except me. She was a worthy woman, humble, kind, upright, and generous. She died before noon on Friday, the twentieth of the month of Ramadan, 1010 [1602]. Her last words were, “There is no god but God.” Her grave is next to my father's, just outside his mausoleum. May God rest her soul!

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I studied the Qur’ān with a pious holy man, and finished memorizing the whole text while my father was still alive. After memorizing the Qur’ān, I took up other studies, and read a number of standard introductory texts with prominent scholars. I devoted myself to teaching and—by God's grace—kept company in learned circles, so that I could learn and benefit from scholarly men. I applied myself to finding out what made them great, and I revered them, showing deference to them in my speech and endeavoring to imitate their behavior, striving to gain their affection.

I explored various disciplines and gave myself over entirely to the useful branches of learning, for the sake of God. I resolved to acquire good books, and I traveled far and wide to find them. These, combined with the books I received from my father, added up to a large collection.

When I found out that my ancestor, ‘Abd Allāh al-‘Aydarūs, had said: “Whoever obtains the Revival of the Religious Sciences and makes a fair copy of it in forty volumes is guaranteed a place in heaven,” I went ahead and—praise the Lord—copied it with that aim in mind.^[2]

I devoted myself to hearing lectures on the Prophetic traditions, and I spent my time studying them diligently. With God's help, I read a great many books. I picked up many strange and recondite things in these books, and in the lectures of the outstanding authorities and prominent erudites of the day. By the grace of God Almighty, I was able to catch all the mystical allusions and understand all the scholarly debates and literary references I came across. Nevertheless, I feigned ignorance of these matters. No one should speak of mystical allegories and states of mystical consciousness unless he has understood and experienced them himself. Even then, he should only discuss them with people who already know about them, because these are matters of felt experience which neither tongue nor pen can truly tell. As for literary matters, it does not befit a man of intellect to appear to know too much about them.

I ask God to make my learning a means of approaching Him more closely, and a force that will draw me inexorably nearer to Him. I ask Him to make my happiness complete by letting me die well and enter the Best Place and remain there with my parents, my dear friends, my teachers, my students, and my children. He is the One best asked: He is near and He answers, none guides to success but He. I place my trust entirely in Him and turn to Him repentantly.

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Then God blessed me with something unexpected—Glory be to the Bounteous, Most Generous, and Giving One, the Bestower of Gifts! My associates spread knowledge of my writings, and scholars far and wide spoke highly of my work. I thus gained the affection and prayers of many a spiritual guide and exemplar. Learned men east and west made much of me. Dignitaries deferred to me, some willingly and others not. Rulers of distant places wrote to me and sent me stupendous gifts and emoluments. Praises reached me from the ends of the earth, including Egypt, remote Yemen, and other distant lands. More than one notable scholar studied with me, and many people learned from me.

Among the prominent men whom I inducted into Sufism were Jamāl al-Dīn Muḥammad ibn Yaḥyā al-Shāmī al-Makkī, the learned Badr al-Dīn Ḥasan ibn Dāwūd al-Hindī, Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad ibn ‘Abd al-Raḥīm Bā Jābir al-Ḥaḍramī, Shihāb al-Dīn Aḥmad b. Rabī‘ b. al-Shaykh al-Kabīr b. Aḥmad b. ‘Abd al-Ḥaqq al-Sinbāṭī al-Makkī al-Miṣrī, and others. The number of princes, merchants, and people of other classes whom I inducted into Sufism is so great that I cannot possibly enumerate them.

I have written a number of well-loved and appreciated books. These have been greeted with unanimous acclaim, practically the only dissenters being enemies or jealous rivals of mine. My books constitute the most conspicuous testimony of the blessings with which God has favored me.

[Here follows an annotated list of twenty-four books by the author, including biographies of the Prophet, an account of the martyrs at the battle of Badr, expositions on the fundamentals of the Islamic faith and Sufi practice, a commentary on a Qur’ānic verse, commentaries on poems, his work on history (“this book here”), and a collection of his own poetry from which he cites the following nine short examples.]

[The power of prayer]

	In my darkest nights of sorrow
	I recall the martyrs of Badr-day,
	God will heed my supplication
	if in their name I pray.

[A conceit]

	With the beauty of his figure
	And the figures of his speech,
	His tropes have all enslaved me
	With the secrets that they teach.
	His logic made me languish
	And his waistline made me pine,
	When I sentenced us to parting
	I saw his heart decline.

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[A punning poem in praise of Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal, the founder of the author's school of law]

	Aḥmad is a Shāfi‘ī, that is, my intercessor,
	Before Mālikī, that is, my Lord and All-Possessor,
	God my sins will surely pardon, just for Aḥmad's sake,
	And lift my soul to Paradise when I from death awake![3]

[The law of love]

	Who would berate me, rebuke me no more;
	The sweet pain of passion is what I adore,
	The only law I obey is the scripture of love
	Which I bear like a prophet sent down from above.

[A request]

	Go and seek my love
	Pass by his abode
	Speak my name in passing
	And tell him of my woe

[Advice to a seeker]

	Searching for thy Master, thou cam'st to me,
	But the One you seek is nearer to thee!
	Leave me, and upon thyself reflect!
	The Lord is no further than the vein in thy neck.

[On the Prophet]

	True, my love was born to a noble line,
	But he reached a perfection they could not know:
	He brought the last revelation from God above
	And ennobled, at last, the world below.

[Parting]

	“You can part with beauty,” he said.
	I cried, “I cannot, I cannot!”

[On being a “Shi‘ite”]

	I love the Prophet Muhammad and his family:
	If that makes me a Shi‘ite, that's fine with me.

The majority of these books have met with the approval of learned and upright men whose fame is such that they have no need of further praise from me.

Here follows a list of four scholars, cited with all of their honorific titles, who complimented the author's work.]

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The last of these, Jamāl al-Dīn al-Maghribī, traveled to Yemen and visited ‘Abd al-Malik al-Yamanī. While looking at one of ‘Abd al-Malik's books, Jamāl al-Dīn came across something I had written and was much impressed. “This writer,” he said, “has no living rival! I pray for his long life, so he can keep producing these wonderfully useful compositions, which are so much help to those fortunate people whom God wishes to guide aright.”

Important men copied my books in their own handwriting. My brother ‘Abd Allāh, the great holy man and famous theosophist, delighted in them to no end, and spared no effort in acquiring them. He used to insist that I send him every new book I wrote, and would tell me how much he liked their style, and how no one was as good a stylist as I was. I saw in a letter of his to his servant Sālim ibn ‘Alī Bā Mawja some remarks about me, among them that he thought me of the same rank as my father.

Muḥammad ibn ‘Abd al-Raḥīm Bā Jābir wrote to me asking a favor which entailed some difficulty. “Don't think this is too hard for you, Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qādir. You are one of those people who can exert their will freely in this world, and to whom, by God's will, all things respond.”

[Here follows a twenty-three verse poem by the jurist ‘Abd al-Malik al-Yamanī expressing his longing to meet the author and praising his scholarship and noble descent.]

I mention these things only as a way of speaking of God's bounty [Q 93: 11]. I have cited men of piety and integrity in order to gain blessings from their words. At any rate, I have said much less than I could have, and the number of kindnesses they have shown me that I have mentioned here is much less than the number I have passed over in silence. May God reward them on my behalf with the best reward that a master can obtain on account of his disciple! Other than making me a Muslim and a descendant of the Prophet, God has conferred upon me no blessing which I treasure more than this [i.e., the approbation of his teachers]. This is why I have mentioned it in this book. I believe that this memory should remain with me, my descendants, and my students until the last day of recorded time. Countless exemplary scholars have preceded me in this, among them Ibn Ḥajar al-‘Asqalānī, al-Sakhāwī, al-Suyūṭī, Sharaf al-Dīn Ismā‘īl al-Muqrī al-Yamanī (author of the Irshād), al-Dayba‘, al-Fāsī, Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, and others.

Notes

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The Autobiography of Yūsuf al-Baḥrānī

(1696–1772)

Introduction

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Given his background and scholarly education, Yūsuf ibn Aḥmad al-Baḥrānī might well have lived a quiet, uneventful life; he came from a wealthy merchant family, and his grandfather engaged in  Bahrain's  most important area of commerce, the pearl trade. Instead, he was destined to live in turbulent times in a region and era often ignored by western scholarship on Middle Eastern history. As his name indicates, he was born on the island of  Bahrain  in the Persian Gulf, in a Shi‘ite community at the very edges of the waning Persian Safavid dynasty's effective political control. When he was five, the region was shaken by tribal wars. Soon afterward,  Bahrain  was besieged three times by the Omani Ya‘riba dynasty. At the conclusion of the final siege,  Bahrain  fell and came under Omani control. A counterattack by the Safavids failed, but eventually they regained  Bahrain  through negotiations and the payment of a large sum to the Omanis. Next the Huwala Arab tribes again attacked from the west and captured  Bahrain . The region was thrown into further disorder by the fall of the Safavid dynasty that had ruled from 1501 to 1722. Fleeing these troubles, al-Baḥrānī traveled to Qaṭīf in what is now eastern Saudi Arabia, then across the Arabian peninsula to Mecca. He returned for a time to Qaṭīf and  Bahrain  but finally fled to southern Iran. There, however, his luck was no better: in Shiraz he got caught up in a local rebellion and left for Fasā, only to have that region be struck by an unspecified disaster. Finally, in his old age he sought refuge in Karbalā’ in southern Iraq, the site of the martyrdom of the Imam Ḥusayn, grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, one of the defining moments of history for Shi‘ite Islam. Here the turmoil that had followed al-Baḥrānī his whole life suddenly ceased. His financial situation improved, and he became respected as both a scholar and a teacher. Composing this account of his life in 1768 at the age of seventy-two, he wrote from the perspective of a secure and peaceful dotage.

The author's autobiography constitutes the final section of his biographical dictionary of Sh‘ite scholars titled The Pearl of  Bahrain  (Lu’lu’at al-Baḥrayn). He wrote the work as a scholarly legacy to his two nephews and framed the entire opus as an ijāza, or certificate of study, for them in which he detailed his links with earlier generations of Shi‘ite scholars. The ijāza was a document that transferred the authority to teach a given work or a given body of knowledge, similar to the role of the university degree in modern times. The extension of the ijāza from a simple signed statement into a larger document at times involved, as here, the recording of the transmission of that authority back through the teacher to his own teachers, their teachers, and so forth. The Pearl of  Bahrain  is thus a scholarly biographical compendium, on the one hand, and a family-oriented document, on the other, for in it al-Baḥrānī presents the Shi‘ite tradition of the study of law and ḥadīth, establishes his own place within that tradition, justifies his own authority, and formally passes on the tradition to his two nephews, the recipients of this ijāza.

One striking feature of this short autobiographical section is al-Baḥrānī's repeated mentions of his financial state, debts, losses, and taxes and the abundant use of metaphors of commerce and acquisition such as in this verse of poetry quoted by the author:

Your nearness is my wealth, despite a lack of riches,     and your distance my poverty, despite abundant wealth.

If we understand the autobiographical act as an attempt to evaluate one's life by searching for its central or enduring meaning, we may read al-Baḥrānī's text as a literal stock-taking. The central metaphor for his life is accumulation, and through this metaphor he describes his life as a double quest: on the one hand, to acquire material and worldly property, including money, land, date palms, wives, and dependents, and, on the other, to accumulate religious knowledge as embodied in certificates of study, books, and treatises.

Bibliography

Missing

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An Account of the Life of the Author and the Events That Have Befallen Him
[Lu’lu’at al-Baḥrayn, pp. 442–49]

Let us now fulfill the promise we made above that we would relate the conditions of this miserable wretch, who is guilty of many sins and shortcomings, the author of this ijāza. So I say:

I was born in the year 1107 [1695–96 [C.E.].^[1] My brother, Shaykh Muḥammad—may God prolong his presence [in this world]—was born in 1112 [1700–1] in the village of Māḥūz, for our father was residing there in order to attend the lessons of his teacher Shaykh Sulaymān, who has been mentioned above. I was about five years old then and in that year the battle between the Huwala and ‘Utūb tribes took place.^[2] The ‘Utūb had been causing great havoc in  Bahrain  and the [Safavid] ruler [Shah Sulṭān Ḥusayn] could do nothing to stop them. So the Shaykh al-Islām, Shaykh Muḥammad ibn ‘Abd Allāh ibn Mājid, wrote to the Huwala entreating them to oppose the ‘Utūb. A large force from the Huwala tribe came and there was a great battle. The land was ravaged right up to the fortress, affecting everyone, notables and commoners, until God finally caused the ‘Utūb to be defeated. My father—may God have mercy on him—wrote some verses describing and dating this battle, but I only remember the last line, which includes the date and reads as follows:

The year of the battle of the tormented tribe     is “they scattered it” [shattatūhā], so reckon the sum.[3]

I was raised in the lap of my grandfather, the late Shaykh Ibrāhīm—may God bless his soul. He was involved in pearling and the pearl trade. He was noble, pious, generous, and merciful, and would spend all of his income on his guests, relatives, and petitioners. He neither hoarded nor jealously guarded anything from others. Since my father had not had any sons before me, my grandfather took me in and raised me. He had a teacher come to the house to teach me the Qur’ān, and he himself taught me how to write. His script and that of my father were extremely fine and beautiful. After this, I attended the lessons of my father—may God bless his soul—but at the time I had no great desire to study for I was still overcome by the ignorance of youth.

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Under my father's supervision I read Drops of Dew [a work on basic Arabic syntax],^[4] most of The Son of the Versifier[an intermediate commentary on Arabic syntax],^[5] most of al-Niִzām on morphology,^[6] and the beginning of al-Quṭbī [on logic]^[7] until the Khārijites [the Omani Ya‘riba dynasty] came to seize the land of  Bahrain .^[8] The earth shook and everything came to a standstill while preparations were made to do battle with these vile men. The first year they came to seize it they returned disappointed, for they were unable to do so. Nor were they able to succeed the second time a year later, despite the help they received from all of the Bedouin and outlaws. The third time, however, they were able to surround  Bahrain  by controlling the sea, for  Bahrain  is an island. In this way they eventually weakened its inhabitants and then took it by force. It was a horrific battle and a terrible catastrophe, for all the killing, plunder, pillage, and bloodshed that took place.

After the Khārijites had conquered it and granted the inhabitants safe passage, the people—especially the notables—fled to al-Qaṭīf and other regions. Among them was my father—God have mercy upon him—accompanied by his dependents [i.e., wives] and children, who traveled with them to al-Qaṭīf. But he left me in  Bahrain  in the house we owned in al-Shākhūra because some chests filled with bundles of our possessions, including books, gold coins, and clothes, were hidden there. He had taken a large portion of our possessions up to the fortress in which everyone had planned to [take refuge] when we were besieged, but he had left some behind in the house, stored in hiding places. Everything in the fortress was lost after the Khārijites took it by force, and we all left the fortress with nothing but the clothes on our backs. So when my father left for al-Qaṭīf, I remained in  Bahrain ; he had ordered me to gather whatever books remained in the fortress and save them from the hands of the Khārijites. I did manage to save a number of books that I found there along with some that were left in the house, which I sent to him a few at a time. These years passed in an utter lack of prosperity.

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I then traveled to al-Qaṭīf to visit my father and stayed there two or three months, but my father grew fed up with sitting in al-Qaṭīf because of the large number of dependents he had with him, the miserable conditions, and his lack of money, so he grew determined to return to  Bahrain  even though it was in the hands of the Khārijites. Fate, however, intervened between him and his plans, for the Persian army, along with a large number of Bedouins, arrived at that time to liberate  Bahrain  from the hands of the Khārijites. We followed the events closely and waited to see the outcome of these disasters; eventually the wheel of fortune turned against the Persians, they were all killed, and  Bahrain  was burned. Our house in the village [of al-Shākhūra] was among those burned. My father's anguish—may God have mercy on him—increased further with this. He had spent a considerable sum to have it built and its loss was the death of him. He fell ill and the illness lasted for two months. He died on the date mentioned above [January 14, 1719, at the age of forty-seven]. When death approached, he summoned me and said, “I will never forgive you if you should ever sit down to eat even once without your brothers and sisters around you.” This was because my siblings were from other mothers and most of them were small children whose mothers had died and who had no one else to turn to. I had no choice but to allow myself to be saddled with dependents and the burden of all these siblings, both the smaller ones and the older ones.^[9]

I stayed thus in al-Qaṭīf for about two years after the death of my father—may God have mercy on him—studying with Shaykh Ḥusayn al-Māḥūzī, mentioned above. Under him I read some of al-Quṭbī and a great deal from the beginning of the Old Commentary on al-Tajrīd.^[10] During this time, I was traveling back and forth to  Bahrain  in order to take care of the date palms we owned there and gather the harvest, then returning to al-Qaṭīf to study. [This continued] until  Bahrain  was taken from the hands of the Khārijites by treaty, after a great sum had been paid to their commander, because of the Persian king's weakness and impotence, and his empire's decline through bad administration. I returned to  Bahrain  and stayed there five or six years engaged in my studies both in group lessons and individually with our peerless, most accomplished professor Shaykh Aḥmad ibn ‘Abd Allāh al-Bilādī, who is mentioned above, and then, after his death, with Shaykh ‘Abd Allāh ibn ‘Alī.

During that period I traveled to perform the pilgrimage to God's Sacred House, and I gained the honor of visiting the Prophet Muhammad and his noble descendants—may the blessings of God the Omniscient Ruler be upon them. I then traveled to al-Qaṭīf again to study the traditions of the Imams in detail with our professor, Shaykh Ḥusayn mentioned above, since he had remained in al-Qaṭīf and had not returned to  Bahrain  with the others. I studied with him, reading some of the Tahdhīb [Revision; of Muḥammad ibn al-Ḥasan al-Ṭūsī, d. 1067] and checking for errors with the texts of other students. Then I returned to  Bahrain  and matters grew very difficult for me as a result of the many debts I incurred which burdened and worried me because of my numerous dependents and my general lack of funds.

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It then happened that  Bahrain  was ruined by the Huwala Bedouin who conquered it and became its rulers—for reasons it would take too long to explain—after the Afghanis had conquered the kingdom of the [Safavid] Shah Sulṭān Ḥusayn [r. 1694–1722] and killed him. I fled to Iran and stayed for a while in Kirmān. I then came back as far as Shiraz, and God—glory be to Him—granted us success and blessings, and caused the heart of its governor at that time, Mīrzā Muḥammad Taqiyy, who subsequently rose in rank until he became Taqiyy Khān, to have sympathy for us. He was most noble and generous toward us—may God reward him generously. I stayed for a while in the protection of his rule, teaching in his college of law and serving as the Friday prayer leader for the town. During that time I wrote a number of treatises and many responsa to legal questions. I was free to study until the storms of time, which allow neither rest nor rest themselves, swept through the region, shattered its society, scattered its inhabitants, plundered its wealth, and dishonored its women.^[11] Time wreaked havoc with its conditions, and I left that region to go to a village, settling in the township of Fasā, after I had sent my dependents back to  Bahrain. I then acquired new dependents [i.e., got married] in that village and stayed there engaged in study. I wrote the book al-Ḥadā’iq al-nāḍira [The Priceless Gardens] up to the chapter on ablutions there, while at the same time engaging in farming to earn a living and to avoid becoming indebted to others. The administrator in charge of the region, Mīrzā Muḥammad ‘Alī—may God have mercy on him—was extremely friendly toward me, very attentive and generous. He did not impose any land tax on me during my stay.

[This continued] until the town was struck by fateful events which scattered its inhabitants to other regions and killed its administrator, Mīrzā Muḥammad ‘Alī. The book I just mentioned [i.e., al-Ḥadā’iq al-nāḍira] remained untouched and the spiders of forgetfulness spun their webs over it. The disasters that befell me because of this destruction caused most of my books and a great deal of my property to be lost. I fled to al-Iṣṭihbānāt and remained there, striving to recover from bitter times and awaiting the opportunity to travel to the High Threshholds [the Shi‘ite shrines of Iraq] and to settle in the vicinity of the Imams descended from the Prophet, until God—glory be to Him—granted me success in drinking the nectar from this cup. I went to Iraq and stayed in Karbalā’ the Blessed—may God the Exalted bless him who is buried there, his forebears and his descendants—intending to stay until my death, without regret for what I had lost after having gained the honor of arriving there and patiently to endure the easy and difficult times brought on by fate, as has been said:

Your nearness is my wealth, despite a lack of riches,     and your distance my poverty, despite abundant wealth.

God—glory be to Him—granted, through His extreme generosity and all-encompassing bounty, and His continual gifts to His sinning, wrong-doing servant, the opening of the doors of providence toward every horizon, and—praise be to God—I became well-to-do and without worries.

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I engaged in research, teaching, and writing, and began to finish my book al-Ḥadā’iq al-nāḍira mentioned above. The volumes which I have already completed are the section on ritual purity, in two volumes, the section on prayer, in two volumes, the section on alms and the section on fasting, in one volume, and the section on pilgrimage, in one volume. Praise and glory be to God! No book like this has ever been written among the Twelver Shi‘ites, nor has anyone written anything of its kind, for it contains all the scriptural texts related to each legal question, all the opinions of earlier scholars, and all of the subsidiary issues relating to each question except those I may have overlooked inadvertently. This method is followed in the parts I wrote in Karbalā’, but the first part, which I wrote in Iran, though it presents the legal questions fully and provides the necessary evidence, does not include all of the ḥadīth, though it mentions them collectively, and the same may be said for the opinions of earlier scholars. On the whole, our aim is that the reader not need to consult any other traditions or works of legal derivation [kutub istidlāl]. Therefore, it has become a large work, as extensive as a sea filled with elegant pearls. While writing it, I also wrote a number of treatises in answer to questions, which will all be mentioned below, in addition to^[12] the work, Salāsil al-ḥadīd fī taqyīd Ibn Abī Ḥadīd [Iron Chains to Fetter Ibn Abī Ḥadīd].^[13]

I shall conclude by mentioning the works I have completed from long ago and recently.

[Al-Baḥrānī here lists thirty additional works.]

Notes

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The Autobiography of ‘Alī Mubārak

(1824–1893)

Introduction

‘Alī Mubārak was born in a small village in northern Egypt in 1824. In the opening passages of his autobiography, he recounts a childhood so filled with misadventures that he might well be termed an Egyptian Tom Sawyer. He leaves his teachers when they beat him, frustrates all of his father's efforts to educate him at home, works at five different occupations, runs away from home and from various employers, is brought home against his will several times, lies to his parents and employers alike, lands in prison once, is placed under “house arrest” by his parents, and, finally, against the will of his entire family, enrolls in a government elementary school and is selected to become a student at one of the new European-style secondary schools in Cairo—all by the age of twelve!^[1]

Eventually he was sent to France as part of an educational delegation that included two sons of the Egyptian ruler Muḥammad ‘Alī and studied there for five years (1844–50), first in Paris and then in Metz. On his return to Egypt he embarked on a tempestuous political career during which he fell in and out of favor with members of the royal family and, over several decades, held the posts of minister of public works, minister of education, and minister of charitable foundations for various periods. He was an ardent reformer and modernizer who personally helped to redesign Egypt's central irrigation system, railway system, and institutions of higher education. His two best-known literary works are his encyclopedic historical and geographic description of Egypt in twenty volumes, al-Khiṭaṭ al-Tawfīqiyya, and his four-volume didactic novel, ‘Alam al-Dīn, neither of which is available in translation.

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Mubārak's autobiography appears in his Khiṭaṭ—a genre of geographic description that originated in the Middle Ages in which the author describes cities and villages, arranged alphabetically, and cites their major monuments and characteristics, important historical events that occurred there, and the biographies of famous persons who were born, resided, or died there. The whole is thus a combination of geographic, historical, and biographical knowledge and is one of several genres that reflect the universalist encyclopedic impulse typical of medieval Islamic scholarship.

Mubārak includes his own life story precisely where it should be found: under the entry for his natal village, al-Birinbāl al-Jadīda (New Birinbāl). He opens his account quite modestly by stating that since he has listed all other persons of note under their appropriate headings, he shall therefore proceed to include his own life story under that of his birthplace. The account is rather lengthy and is recounted in the first person. Mubārak's writing is rather modern in taste regarding which aspects of his childhood he chooses to recount to his readers and at the same rather traditional in literary style. It is almost ironic that this distinctly modern autobiography, which presages much of what was to happen in that genre of Arabic literature over the next century, came into being within the framework of one of the last examples of the khiṭaṭ genre. The only subsequent example of the khiṭaṭ genre of real significance has been Khiṭaṭ al-Shām (The Description of Syria), by Muḥammad Kurd ‘Alī (1876–1953). Following the example of Mubārak, he included a short autobiography in his Khiṭaṭ, published in 1928, but later produced a greatly expanded, more modern version titled Mudhakkirāt (Memoirs) in four volumes published between 1948 and 1951. Selections of this later work have appeared in an English translation by Khalil Totah.

In his autobiography, ‘Alī Mubārak never allows the latter part of his life to be foreshadowed in the chronological unfolding of his narrative. The reader is always left in suspense about how various trials and tribulations will be resolved. Mubārak is also liberal in his portrayal of feelings. At one point when he is lying sick in the hospital and thinks that he might die, he portrays his father's leave-taking as follows: ℌHe looked at me and I looked at him, he kissed me and I kissed him, he wept and I wept, and finally he said farewell and went on his way, him sighing and me crying. Our state was like that described in the verse:

	Could perhaps the sorrows which now beset me
	Conceal behind them approaching release?

Each hardship he endures, however, leads him (at least in his autobiography) to derive some positive lesson from what he has undergone and to face the future even more resolutely.

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‘Alī Mubārak's autobiography provides a fascinating account not only of the internal politics of Egypt during a dramatically eventful period but also of an exuberant personality whose early poverty and simple origins fostered a deep desire to provide basic education and modern technological advances to the masses.

Bibliography

Missing

The Childhood of ‘Alī Mubārak
[al-Khiṭaṭ, vol. 9, pp. 37–42]

In describing each village we have taken it upon ourself to mention, to the best of our ability, those who were born or raised there and those who died or are buried there from among the famous or those renowned for some important matter (good or otherwise). We have also mentioned those who have obtained high rank or an honored position from His Highness the khedive as well as others from the family and forebears of Muḥammad [‘Alī]. It is therefore appropriate that we should make mention here of our own biography and the stages of our life that they may become known—and perhaps they shall not be without some value:

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New Birinbāl [Birinbāl al-Jadīda, located in the Nile Delta] was my birthplace and where I grew up. I was born in the year 1239 [1824] according to what I have been told by my father and my late elder brother, al-Ḥājj Muḥammad, who died in the month of Ramadan 1293 [1876]. My father's name was Mubārak ibn Mubārak ibn Sulaymān ibn Ibrāhīm al-Rūjī. My brother told me that our distant forefather was from the area of al-Kūm wa-l- Khalīj, a village on the “sea” of Ṭanāḥ, and that because of an economic crisis which occurred there, our family scattered to different villages. The Baḥālṣa [branch of the] family went to live in the region of Damūh and some of the others went to the region of al-Mawāmana. There are none left in the original village except the descendants of Ghayṭās.

My great-great-grandfather, Ibrāhīm al-Rūjī, went to live in the region of New Birinbāl where he was respected and venerated. He was the prayer leader of the village, its preacher, and its judge. After his death, his son Sulaymān succeeded him in that position, and after Sulaymān, his son Mubārak. When my grandfather Mubārak was blessed with the birth of my father, he named him after himself, and bequeathed to him the position of his forefathers. So it was with most members of the family. The family is known in that village even now as the family of the shaykhs [religious leaders]. The family had so many branches that the village had an entire neighborhood of them containing nearly two hundred souls. They were judges, preachers, prayer leaders, officiators at marriages, and the weighers and measurers of the village harvests. They had income but no landholdings, so they did not suffer any of the fiscal obligations levied upon the peasants, nor did they have any affiliation with the local authorities.

They remained thus until the villagers could no longer farm the land. Then the tax system was reorganized and the authorities forced upon our family liability for some farmlands and then demanded the taxes which [they claimed] were due.^[2] The authorities fined them and threatened them with imprisonment and beatings just like the peasants. They spent what money they had and sold their livestock and household furnishings. Overwhelmed by the situation, and unaccustomed to such abuse, they saw no alternative but to flee. So they left the village and dispersed to various other villages. My father settled in the village of Ḥammādiyyīn in Sharqiyya province.

I was at that time about six years old. Before our departure I had begun to learn to read and write from a blind man in Birinbāl whose name was Abū ‘Asr, but he then passed away. Due to the lack of hospitality in the region of Ḥammādiyyīn our stay there was not pleasant and we did not remain long. We then traveled to the Samā‘na Arabs, also in Sharqiyya province. They were tent-dwelling Bedouin with no men learned in religion among them, so they received my father with generosity and hospitality. They benefited from him and he in turn benefited from them a great deal. They began to consult him in all religious matters, for he was a righteous man, pious, well schooled in religious law, and well mannered. Their affection for him increased tremendously, so much so that they built a mosque and appointed him prayer leader.

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When he was thus comforted and relieved of his troubles, he turned his attention to my education and at first taught me himself. He then turned me over to a teacher by the name of Shaykh Aḥmad Abū Khaḍir who was originally from the area of Kurdī, a village near Birinbāl. At that time he was living in a small village near the camps of these Arabs and my father sent me an allowance for my upkeep at the shaykh's home. I returned home only on Fridays and out of fear of the shaykh I never returned [to him] empty-handed. I stayed on with him for about two years, and to begin with I completed my memorization of the Qur’ān. Then, because of the many beatings he gave me, I left and refused to go back to him. So I began to study again with my father, but due to the large amount of work he had, and all the various distractions which diverted his attention from me, I took to playing and neglecting my studies and forgot what I had memorized. My father feared what might come of all this and was about to force me to return to that teacher, but I refused and resolved to run away from home if he did not relent.

I had seven sisters, but my mother had no male children other than myself, though I did have half brothers through women other than my mother. When my parents understood that I indeed intended to run away, they grew concerned and more sympathetic toward me, and asked me what I wished to do regarding my education. It would not do for someone from a learned family to remain without an education. I chose at that time not to become a religious scholar but rather to become a civil servant, for I had noticed the fine appearance of the civil servants, their status, and their close relations with the authorities. My father had a friend who was a civil servant, so he entrusted me to him. He was a district secretary and lived in the region of Akhaywa. I found him to be a man of fine appearance, well dressed, and who wrote in a beautiful hand, so I stayed with him for a while. I had an allowance from my father that sufficed for my upkeep, so I lived with him in his home and settled in among his children. It turned out, however, that although he appeared quite well-off, he was in fact in dire domestic straits. He had three wives, and more children than food, which meant that I went to sleep starving with hunger most of my days there. Most of his instruction, what little there was of it, took place in the house in front of the women. He rarely went out to work, and when he did go out he would take me along as company, from which I did not benefit at all but rather was of service to him. On top of all that, he used to torment me constantly, until one day when we were in the village of Manājāt, he asked me in front of the school principal and others what one times one is. When I answered two he struck me with a coffee-roasting pan and split my head open. Those present rebuked him. I went to my father to complain, but I obtained nothing from him but further pain.

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That day was the festival of Our Master Aḥmad al-Badawī [a Sufi saint], so I ran away with all the people heading toward Maṭariyya near Manzila intending to catch up with an aunt of mine there, but on the way, I took ill with cholera in the village of Ṣān al-Ḥajar. One of the inhabitants of the village whom I did not know took me in and I lay ill in his home for forty days. They asked about my family, but I told them I was an orphan, completely alone in the world. During this time, my father and one of my brothers had been searching for me throughout the villages. My brother was eventually guided to where I was in Ṣān, but I caught sight of him from a distance and ran away. I stayed in Minyat Ṭarīf where a Bedouin man took me in, but I only stayed with him a short while. I left and happened to come across a brother of mine in our home village of Birinbāl to which he had returned. A few days later, the brother who had been searching for me found us; he tricked me and took me back to my father.

My situation was becoming a real problem for them. They had done everything they could as far as providing an education was concerned, and they began to suggest Qur’ānic reciters and Qur’ān school, but I wouldn't agree to this. I told them that I had received nothing from teachers except beatings. The civil servant had been of no use to me except as wasted time and torment; indeed, he had been the one who benefited from using me as a servant. Then it was suggested to my father that he send me to a friend of his who was a surveyor and this idea pleased me.

When I got to know him I grew to like him, and by accompanying him I earned some of the money which he took in payment from people. I stayed with him three months, but because of my youth and lack of knowledge about what is good for one and what is harmful, I revealed his secrets and divulged what he took in payment from people on the side. For this, he threw me out and I ended up living at home again, studying with my father.

My father used to take me along with him when collecting the government levies imposed upon the Bedouin and with which he was entrusted. I also used to handle the writing of the accounts and some of the calculations.

Then, after about a year, he made me an assistant to a civil servant in the district office of [the town of] Abū Kabīr at a salary of fifty piasters. I would write out fair copies of the notebooks for him. I stayed with this civil servant about three months. All my clothes were worn out and I was soon in very dire straits indeed, for I had not yet received any of my salary except for the food I ate in his house. Then one day he entrusted me to collect the revenues of Abū Kabīr. I collected them, took out the amount due me as my salary, and wrote him a note as a receipt and placed it in the money sack. When he found it he grew angry with me, but kept it to himself. The commissioner in Abū Kabīr at that time was ‘Abd al-‘Āl Abū Sālim from Minyat al-Namrūṭ, and he informed the commissioner of this incident.

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It happened that the commissioner's office was required to send a person to the armed forces, so they tricked me into it. They agreed to send me to the military service to meet this requirement. They called for me when I was completely unsuspecting and the commissioner ordered me to go to the prison to write up the names of the prisoners. He sent a man from the commissioner's guards to accompany me. When I entered the prison, they brought an iron fetter and placed it on my neck and I was left a prisoner there. I was overcome with the greatest fear. For twenty days or so I was kept in the filth and refuse of the prisoners. I began to weep and wail so much that the guard took pity on me due to my young age and moved me closer to the door. I gave him a small amount of the money which had been the reason for my imprisonment and through him sent news to my father.

My father went to His Highness the khedive who was in the area of Minyat al-Qamḥ where he presented my story in detail in a formal written petition. The khedive then ordered my release. My father had the order in his hand, but before he reached me, a friend of the guard's from the service of the commissioner of cotton production in the area of Abū Kabīr came to him and informed him that the commissioner needed a salaried secretary to work for him. The guard, taking pity on me, pointed me out to him, described my outstanding qualities and fine penmanship, and told him of my miserable situation. The servant approached me and asked me to write something on a piece of paper so that the commissioner could see my handwriting. I wrote a petition and took great care in doing it, and handed it to the servant with a gold piece worth twenty piasters and promised him more than that as well if he would but open a path for me to his master

He took it and after a short while came back with an order for my release and took me to the commissioner, a man by the name of ‘Anbar Effendi. I looked at him: he was black, an Abyssinian—like a slave! But he was magnanimous, noble, and dignified. I saw the shaykhs and the governors of towns standing before him as he addressed his instructions to them, so I waited until they withdrew, then entered and kissed his hand. He spoke to me in fine, eloquent Arabic, saying, “Do you wish to be a secretary in my service? You will receive your daily food and a monthly salary of seventy-five piasters.” I said yes, then withdrew from his presence and sat with the servants.

Because of the shaykhs who presented themselves to him, I came to know a number of the most famous men of that area, men possessed of riches, servants, entourages, and slaves. I was greatly surprised to see them standing before him and obeying his orders. I had never seen such a thing before, nor had I heard of its like. I had thought rather that the authorities were chosen exclusively from the Turks, as was the practice in those days, and I was both amazed and confused about the reason which would cause eminent men to remain standing in front of a slave and to kiss his hand. I grew intent on discovering the reason for this; it was one of my main motives for remaining with him.

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The next day my father arrived with the order from His Highness the khedive and I greeted him and ushered him into the presence of the commissioner and introduced him. ‘Anbar Effendi smiled cheerfully at my father, asked him to be seated, and made him feel welcome. My father was handsome, fair-complexioned, eloquent, gracious, with all the signs of righteousness and piety. My father asked about me and the commissioner answered, “I have chosen him to be with me and have granted him a salary. If you are in agreement, then it will be so.” My father thanked him and agreed that I should remain with him. He told the commissioner about our origins and our current conditions, then left the audience with the commissioner quite content.

When I sat with my father that night I turned the conversation to the subject of the commissioner and said, “The commissioner cannot be a Turk for he is black.” He answered me that it was possible he was an emancipated slave. “Could a slave then become a governor when even the most powerful men of this region are not governors, let alone the slaves?” I asked. His answers did not convince me. He said that perhaps the reason for this was the commissioner's fine manners and education. “But,” I said, “what knowledge does he have?” “Perhaps he lived at the al-Azhar university and studied there,” he answered. “And does learning in al-Azhar lead to a governorship? Who leaves al-Azhar a governor?” I asked. “We are all slaves of God,” my father replied, “and God, may He be glorified, raises up whomsoever He desires.” “Agreed,” I said, “but there must be reasons for all of this.” Then he began to preach to me and tell me stories and recite poems which did not convince me at all, and finally he advised me to stay in the commissioner's service and to obey his orders.

Two days later my father departed and left me there. Then another idea occurred to me. Writing accounts and drawing a salary were the reason for my imprisonment and being forced to wear neck-irons, I said to myself, and the commissioner had indeed delivered me from that; but what if the commissioner in turn dealt with me as the secretary had? Who would deliver me then? These ideas remained in my mind and my concern was to be done with all of this and everything like it. I wanted a position which did not mean suffering indignities and which would not bring with it constant fear of ruin.

In the meantime, I grew friendly with a servant of the commissioner's and began to gather information about his master and the reason for his high rank. I gleaned enough information from him that I could piece it all together.

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The servant told me that his master, the commissioner, had been bought by a generous woman of noble rank and that his mistress had enrolled him in the Qaṣr al-‘Aynī school when the khedive Muḥammad ‘Alī had opened the schools and had had boys enrolled. He told me that they studied calligraphy, mathematics, Turkish, and other things there, and that the government authorities were selected from these schools. At that moment I resolved to enter such a school. I asked him whether any peasants ever made it into these schools, and he told me that only those who have “connections” enter them. This made me think even more about the idea. After that my interest never abated. I asked about Qaṣr al-‘Aynī, the way there, and what life there was like. He told me about all of this. He spoke highly of the fine living conditions, the food, the uniforms, and the hospitality. My desire to go increased. I wrote down everything he told me about the way to the school, the distance, and the names of the towns along the way.

The idea eventually occurred to me simply to escape and make my own way to the school, so I asked for permission to visit my family and was given fifteen days' leave.

I traveled until, on Saturday, I arrived at Banī ‘Iyād, a village on my route. There I came upon a group of children led by a tailor, each of whom had an inkstand and pens. I sat with them beneath a tree and we talked. It turned out that they were pupils from the elementary school at Minyat al- ‘Azz. This seemed to me a good sign. When they saw my penmanship, they found it to be finer than their own, and some of them said to the others, “If he were to join the elementary school, he would be a chāwīsh.” “That would be easy for him,” the tailor said. “Even the penmanship of our bashchāwīsh does not equal his.”

So I asked them what a chāwīsh and a bashchāwīsh were.^[3] They explained to me that they were the best pupils in the elementary school. I began to ask for information about the elementary school and what it was like, and the tailor began to describe it in glowing terms, enticing me to join it. He explained to me that the outstanding students from the elementary schools continued on to the secondary schools even if they did not have “connections.” This was my most ardent hope, so I wasted no time in going with them and entering the elementary school.

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As it turned out, the principal was an acquaintance of my father's and wished to prevent me from becoming one of the pupils. He went to great lengths to dissuade me in order to please my father, but I would not listen to him and stayed on at the elementary school for fifteen days. The principal sent for my father. When he arrived, the principal explained the situation to him and showed him that I was very determined, having even said to the principal that if he did not enroll me I would file a complaint against him. But he and my father devised a trick to seize me when the other pupils and I would be caught unawares. My father waited till I went out for a walk at lunchtime; then he abducted me, took me back to our village, and there imprisoned me in the house for about ten days. All the while my mother cried—for me and because of me—and implored me to refrain from anything which would cause me to leave them again. She asked me to swear that I would not attempt to leave again, so I promised her that I would refrain from this for her sake and they then released me.

We had some sheep and I was charged with taking them out to graze. My parents thus thought to keep me far from a writing career which might mean me leaving them again. I remained thus for some time until their concerns were calmed and they came to believe that I had given up my plan, despite the fact that it never left me. I was only concealing it until I could take advantage of an opportunity to escape. One night I waited till they were all asleep and, taking my inkstand and other things, I left, fearful of being caught. I headed toward Minyat al-‘Azz. That was the last time I lived with my parents.

It was a moonlit night so I walked till it grew light and entered Minyat al-‘Azz around midmorning. The principal did not see me until I was in the midst of all the children in the Qur’ān school. I was forced to avoid leaving by day or night for fear of being abducted again. Later my father came and used every possible means of persuading me, he and the principal both, but to no avail. Eventually he went home without achieving his goal, but he continued to visit frequently hoping to take me from the Qur’ān school until ‘Iṣmat Effendi, the principal of the maktab al-khānqāh, came to select the best students for the Qaṣr al-‘Aynī school: I was among those chosen. My father went and complained to ‘Iṣmat Effendi, but he said to him, “Here is your son before you; it is his choice.” They gave me the choice and I chose the school. At this my father wept greatly and a group of teachers and others implored me to change my mind, but I did not listen to them. It was decreed by God, and there is no escape from what He has decreed.

I entered the Qaṣr al-‘Aynī school in the year 1251 [1835–36] and at that time I was just entering adolescence.^[4] I was placed in the class of Bur‘ī Effendi, but I found the school to be not at all what I had imagined. In fact, because of its recent establishment, the areas of responsibility were unclear, and teaching and education were of little concern. Instead, the major concern was with teaching military marching drills, which were held in the dormitories every morning and noon and after meals. All those who supervised the students tormented them with beatings, different types of abuse, and countless insults. There was no end to the favoritism and they neglected their duties in matters such as providing food and other essentials. The furnishings of the barracks consisted only of grass floormats and blankets of heavy wool made in Bulaq. I hated the food given us so much that I ate only cheese and olives. Bur‘ī Effendi looked after me more than he did the others, so the small amount of money I had, I placed in his care.

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When I saw what conditions were like, I was unable to bear it and felt that I had done myself wrong by entering schools which were in this state. Then, due to the change in climate from that to which I was accustomed, and the great number of thoughts and misgivings which beset me, I fell ill with mange rashes all over my body. I was therefore placed in the infirmary where I came down with even more illnesses. They began to despair for my life, but God preserved me.

At this point my father came and asked to see me, but they would not allow him in. So he offered one of the attendants fifty gold pieces if he would secretly bring me out of the infirmary and save me from the condition I was in. I knew nothing of this until one of the attendants broke the iron window in the room I was in and informed me of my father's wishes and that he was waiting for me outside the school grounds. The attendant wanted to lower me down to him from the window so he could get his reward. At first I was inclined to comply, to go with my father and leave the school. I had seen such great hardship there and almost no teaching, and I had experienced such hunger in the infirmary that I had even sucked the bones others had finished with. But then I thought of the punishment for running away, and the fact that they used to chase down the students who ran away and arrest their families and lock them up and abuse them, so I restrained myself from going with him.

He tried several ploys to make the matter easier for me, but I refused. “Let me be patient with God's decree,” I said, “for I am the one who has wronged myself.” To the attendant I said, “Give my father my greetings and ask him to pray for me and to give my mother greetings from me.” But then my father bribed his way into where I was. He looked at me and I looked at him, he kissed me and I kissed him, he wept and I wept, and finally he said farewell and went on his way, him sighing and me crying. Our state was like that described in the verse:

	Could perhaps the sorrows which now beset me
	Conceal behind them approaching release?

Later I recovered, returned to the school, and worked hard at my studies. I never fell ill again.

Toward the end of the year 1252 [1837] they transferred me to the school of Abū Za‘bal and they turned Qaṣr al-‘Aynī into a private medical school which it still is today. The school administration at Abū Za‘bal was the same as that at Qasr al-‘Aynī except that they did have some small concern for teaching because the directorship had been given to the late Ibrāhīm Bey Ra’fat.

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The heaviest and most difficult subjects for me were geometry, arithmetic, and grammar. I regarded these subjects as talismanic charms and everything the teachers said about them as incomprehensible as magical spells. I remained thus for some time until the late Ibrāhīm Bey Ra’fat gathered together the slow students at the end of the third year after our transfer and made them into a separate class. I was one of them, in fact, the last of them. He appointed himself teacher for this class and in the very first lesson he gave us he explained the aims of geometry with complete clarity and concision. He explained the importance of boundaries and the designations placed at the beginnings of the diagrams, and explained that the letters were used like names for the shapes and their parts just as we use names for people; and how just as a person may choose for his son any name he wishes, whoever analyzes the diagrams may choose whichever letters he wishes.

The excellence of his explanations unlocked my mind and I understood everything he said. His method of teaching was what opened the door for me. I did not leave that first lesson without having learned something, and this was true of all of his lessons—quite the contrary from the other teachers, for they did not possess his methods. Their persistence in their approach was the obstacle which had prevented me from understanding all along!

Within the first year I had completed all of geometry and arithmetic and had become the best in my class. In grammar I became an outstanding student because I did not have to change teachers and was not subjected to the bad teaching methods of the others. Ra’fat Bey began to cite me as an example and to use my success at his hands as an indication of the poor teaching of the other teachers, showing that poor teaching was indeed the cause of the lack of progress among the students.

In that year, 1255 [1839–40], they selected from among us those students who would go on to the School of Engineering in Būlāq, and I was among the ones they chose. I stayed there five years and took all of the courses offered. I was always first and at the head of my class.

There I studied elementary algebra with the late Ṭā’il Effendi, as well as mechanics, dynamics, and mechanical design. I studied advanced algebra with him and with the late Muḥammad Abū Sinn; differential calculus and astronomy with the late Maḥmūd Pasha al-Falakī; hydraulics with the late Daqla Effendi; topography and hydrography with the late Ibrāhīm Effendi Ramaḍān; chemistry, physics, mineralogy, geology, and mechanical engineering with the late Aḥmad Bey Fā’id; descriptive geometry, sectioning, and sampling technologies for wood and stone, and surveying^[5] in part with Ibrāhīm Effendi Ramaḍān, and in part with the late Salāma Pasha, as well as the essentials of cosmography.

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Due to the lack of printed books on these and other subjects at that time, the students used to copy their lessons from the teachers in notebooks, each one according to his ability to take down what the teachers said. At that time the teachers put forth their greatest efforts in teaching, but it was rare for any one student to have taken down everything that had been presented in his notebook, especially all the figures and diagrams. For that reason, after some time had passed or when the students left the school, it was difficult for them to recall what they had studied, and they lost much of what they learned.

Toward the end of my period at the School of Engineering they began publishing some books in lithographs, and the students made use of them and benefited from them. Later, little by little, books grew more plentiful, so that now all of the proofs are printed with their figures and diagrams and it has become easy to deal with them and to recall what is in them.

Then in the year '60 [1844], His Highness the khedive decided to send his noble sons to the kingdom of France to study. An order was issued to select a group from among the best of the advanced students in the schools to accompany them. The late Sulaymān Pasha [ = Joseph Sève] the Frenchman came to the School of Engineering to select a group of its students, and I was among them. The headmaster at that time was Lambert Bey. He wished to keep me at the School of Engineering to become a teacher there. But I explained to Sulaymān Pasha that I wished to travel with the others. The headmaster tried to persuade me and turned me over to the teachers to keep me from leaving. “If you remain here,” they said, “you will receive a salary immediately and be given an allowance, but if you travel you will still be a student and you will miss this opportunity.” My opinion, however, was that traveling with the sons of Muḥammad ‘Alī would bring me honor, status, and knowledge. So I insisted on traveling, despite the fact that I knew that my family was poor, and that they would have benefited from my teacher's salary, and were even counting on this. But I felt that “An abundance delayed is worth more than a pittance today.” It all happened just as I wished, praise be to God, and we did indeed travel to that country.

My monthly salary was, like my companions, two hundred fifty piasters, and I set aside half of it for my family to be paid to them in Egypt each month. This had been my habit with them ever since I entered school.

We lived in Paris for two years in a single house reserved for us. The teachers for all of our lessons, as well as the prefect and overseer, were sent from the French War Ministry because our mission was of a military nature. We studied military science every day.

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A point worth mentioning here is that the background knowledge of each of the members of our mission was quite different: some of us had knowledge only of military matters, such as those who had been taken from the artillery, cavalry, or infantry; and some had knowledge of mathematics but did not know French, such as those who had been taken from the Polytechnical School like myself; and others knew French—some of these were even teachers of French in the schools of Egypt. The overseer chose to lump together in one group those who were advanced in mathematics and those advanced in French, a group in which I was included. He ordered the teachers to give everyone lessons in French without differentiating between those who understood that language and those who did not. They did this and turned over those who did not understand to those who did, so that they could learn from them after the presentation of the lessons. But the ones who knew French were sparing about giving us lessons so that they might be the only ones to make progress. For a while we simply did not understand the lessons, until we began to fear that we would fall far behind, at which point we began to complain and ask that the system be changed and that we be taught in a language we could understand. The overseer, however, would not listen to our complaints, so we stopped attending class for several days.

As a result, they locked us up and wrote a report about us to His Highness, Muḥammad ‘Alī, who then issued an order that we be told to obey and that whoever did not obey would be sent back in irons to Egypt. We feared the outcome of all of this, so I directed my efforts and focused my thoughts in a way which brought me quite good results as well as knowledge of the French language: I asked about books for children and they told me of one so I purchased it and strove to memorize it. I got to work memorizing and studying, staying awake at night, scarcely lying down to rest, and sleeping but a short while. This has remained a habit of mine until now. I learned the book by heart along with its meaning, and then I memorized a large portion of a history book with its meaning as well. I also memorized the names of the geometric shapes along with the terminology, all of this in the first three months.

It was customary that the examination be at the beginning of each three-month period. I now turned to the lessons which were given by the teachers. My memorization produced great results for me. I became the best student in the entire delegation, switching places on and off with Ḥammād Bey and ‘Alī Pasha Ibrāhīm. When the late Ibrāhīm Pasha, the general of all of Egypt, came to Paris, he and the French general attended our examinations, along with the son of their king, and the nobles of France, as well as a group of the wives of the most important men. They praised us all lavishly and then distributed prizes amongst us three. The late Ibrāhīm Pasha handed me my prize himself, it was the second prize, a book of geography by the Frenchman Malte-Brun along with the accompanying atlas as a gift from him. We were invited to eat with our general, Ibrāhīm Pasha, and when he returned to Egypt he praised us to His Highness [Muḥammad ‘Alī] and to others.

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After exactly two years, the top three from our delegation, that is myself, Ḥammād Bey, and ‘Alī Pasha Ibrāhīm, were appointed to the school of artillery and military engineering which was located near Metz also in the kingdom of France. In addition, we were awarded the rank of second lieutenant. We stayed in that city for two years. There we studied light and heavy fortifications, civil and military marine and terrestial construction, explosives, military strategy, and all that goes along with that, including a review of all that we had previously learned, summarized concisely by our new teachers. Our examinations there took place after two years and I placed fifteenth among approximately seventy-five students.

We were then assigned to different regiments. I was in the Third Regiment of Military Engineers but stayed there less than a year. The late Ibrāhīm Pasha wished us to remain in the military until we had exhausted its benefits and then travel throughout the European countries so that we might see what we could discover, by thus applying both knowledge and practice, about the actual conditions, situations, and customs of these nations. This was the intended plan, but God desired other than what the Pasha desired, for he then passed into the mercy of Almighty God. In the year '66 [1849–50], the late ‘Abbās Pasha was appointed to head the government of Egypt and the three of us were asked to return to Egypt.^[6]

This section of ‘Alī Mubārak's autobiography covering his birth to his return to Egypt at the age of twenty-six constitutes approximately one-fifth of the text. In the remainder of the text, he describes the vicissitudes of his political career and his role as reformer in Egyptian public life. He fared well during the reign of ‘Abbās I, holding a number of key government posts in education and public works, but was removed from his various positions during the reign of Sa‘īd through the intervention of jealous rivals whose actions he sums up in a quoted verse of poetry: “Like the second wives of a beautiful first wife, they say of her face / Out of envy and spite, that it is unlovely.” He provides a dramatic description of his forced departure from the school where he had served as rector: students and colleagues line the riverbank as he boards the ferryboat “weeping and mourning as if they were sons mourning the death of their father, so much so that I too began to cry!” Yet as he surveys the ranks of students, he is proud of the work he has done.

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During this period, Mubārak was sent abroad for two years in government service—in virtual exile—to the Crimea, Constantinople, and finally Anatolia. He sums up the experience with typical aplomb by noting, after a vivid description of the hardships he endured, that he had at least learned Turkish, seen new places, and met new people. With the establishment of a new administration under the khedive Ismā‘īl he rose to the pinnacle of his political career, at one point being in charge of Egypt's railroads, government schools, public works, and charitable foundations, in addition to being chief engineer in charge of the Nile Barrages. He then lost all but one of these posts in a clash with his rival, the finance minister Ismā‘īl Ṣiddīq. He later managed to regain some of his political status when the khedive Ismā‘īl was ousted and replaced by Tawfīq I and even, though to a lesser degree, remained a key political figure during and after the ‘Urābī rebellion.

Mubārak describes himself most enthusiastically as a reformer and a civil engineer. Long passages are devoted to his plans, some successful and some not, for reforming the school system, improving Egypt's waterways and irrigation system, creating new boulevards and neighborhoods in Cairo complete with gas streetlights and modern sewers, and implementing new textbooks he wrote for teaching mathematics and engineering more effectively, as well as for effecting the financial reform of his ministries, establishing new printing presses, creating a national library, building slaughterhouses and bridges, revitalizing agriculture in the Fayyoum oasis, and other undertakings.

In between these projects, which he describes in loving detail, we catch glimpses of his private life. He marries the orphaned and impoverished daughter of a former teacher out of regard for the education he had received from her father. He tells of his first visit back to his home village after his return from France; in the middle of the night he reaches his family home and has a tearful reunion with his mother, whom he has not seen for fourteen years. At the death of his first wife, he marries another woman, also an orphan, whose rightful inheritance had been seized by her stepmother, and describes in great detail the legal proceedings and the political maneuvering in the highest social circles that occurred subsequent to his attempt to reclaim her inheritance—an affair that reached almost scandalous proportions for that period. At times he grows so frustrated with government service that he vows to return to his village and farm for the rest of his life, but each time some new opportunity arises. He falls deeply in debt several times and tries out a number of private business ventures.

Toward the end of his narrative, the momentous historical events in Egypt during the period from the 1860s to the 1880s begin to dominate his story. He helps to survey the land to be leased to the new Suez Canal Company and at the inauguration of the Suez Canal was placed in charge of the transportation and well-being of the foreign guests, for which he received medals from the governments of Egypt, France, Prussia, and Austria. Thereupon quickly follow the extended financial crises of Ismā‘īl's later reign, various desperate attempts to reorganize the ministries on more financially sound principles, the increasing political and military presence of foreign powers, and finally the ‘Urābī rebellion, the arrival of British and French warships in Alexandria, and the disastrous military defeat of the Egyptian forces. Mubārak's autobiography ends in 1888, with the author once again serving in the Ministry of Education in the newly formed government of Muṣṭafā Riyāḍ, and Egypt fully under England's colonial control.]

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Notes